Rage Factor (37 page)

“Everything. Tables, chairs, a television. Amy, I think he must be planning to take you guys out to eat.”

“Oh. Then I’ll bring … some flowers. A house always looks brighter with fresh flowers.”

Brenda’s house appeared dark, except for the single gaslight in the front yard and a floodlight illuminating the driveway. But the garage door was up, and Miles, Brenda’s Miata, was parked inside.

Dixie wanted to be ticked off at Brenda for sounding so mysterious, but after her success with Hap Eggert, she felt too damn good to be angry at anybody. The fact that Brenda finally wanted to talk was all that mattered.

Leaving the Porsche at the curb, Dixie strolled up the driveway toward the back of the house, expecting to see a light in the kitchen window. Her heartbeat cranked up a notch when she found the rear of the house as dark as the front.

Behind her in the trees, Dixie heard a noise, like footsteps.

“Brenda?”

No answer. Just trees rustling, maybe.

With her eyes trained on the space behind her, Dixie approached the back door and tapped with her cane. No sound stirred inside the house.

She opened the outer storm door and rapped hard on the wood door frame while peering through the glass insets. The door moved inward. Unlocked.

Instantly, Dixie stepped away from the house and strode back to her car. She lifted the trunk lid, removed the .45 from its case. Snapped the safety off. Placing her cell phone on silent, she crossed the lawn to check the front door. Locked.

A car started up somewhere in the darkness.

Circling again to the back, she ducked beneath windows that appeared secure, at least from a glance. She eased open the storm door, listening for sounds inside. Nothing.

Pushing the inner door flat against the wall, she stepped swiftly inside—she’d be a standing duck silhouetted against the moonlight. Listened. Silence, except for a cricket chirping in the depths of the darkened house.

A nagging part of Dixie’s mind said forget caution, find Brenda, she may be hurt—
why would she ask you to meet and not be here? How long ago did you talk to her? Miles parked right there where he should be—Brenda’s okay, just in a hurry to get to the goddamn bathroom or something
—

But an ache in Dixie’s gut said it was too late. Something bad had already gone down.

In those few seconds her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she saw the door frame—splintered. Someone had kicked the back door in.

A bar stool lay on its side in the kitchen walkway. Cabinet doors hung open. A yellow box of plastic leaf bags had spilled out on the floor.

From the direction of Brenda’s bedroom, a single faint light seeped down the hallway. Total blackness in between.

Dixie didn’t like that blackness. Wide-open room, potted plants thick as a forest—ficus, palm, something bushy, dozens
of goddamn places to hide. Couldn’t skim along the wall for all the goddamn plants. Go straight through the door and her back would be wide open.

Still no sound.

Brenda could be lying hurt inside that bedroom, or the bathroom, if she rushed to take a pee and maybe fell. Sixty percent of home accidents happen in the bath. That would explain not closing the garage … assailant already inside—

Wouldn’t Brenda have noticed the busted door?

Someone
followed
her inside, then. Brenda rushes in, turns the thumb bolt to lock the door, habit, hurries to the bathroom—

Dixie crouched low and padded lightly, quickly past the kitchen bar, .45 following her line of vision—squeezed past the bar stool—
watch the goddamn clumsy cast.
Back against the door frame, she scanned right, willing her eyes to sense any tiny movement, any shadow that didn’t look like a palm or a ficus … scanned left….

Nothing.

Going in low and fast, she crossed the open room. Nothing to shield her until she reached the hallway.

Stopping, she searched for movement in the faint light. Nothing.

Smarter to search each room she passed, but no time if Brenda was in that bedroom, hurt. Back against the wall, past Gail’s closed bedroom door, no light under it.

Scan. Then fast around the corner—

Now she could see the lighted room, Brenda’s bedroom.

Crouched low, Dixie sidled to the doorway, bobbed a look, then back for cover. Bright inside. More signs of a struggle. Lamp overturned, slipper chair knocked against the bed, bureau drawers pulled out, clothing tossed—

Searching for something?

No sound, except the damn cricket. No movement.

Perfume in the air, strong. Shalimar, Brenda’s scent.

The door was open to the master bath, light on inside. Dixie scanned as she moved. Nothing. Softly, swiftly on the
carpet, she crossed to the open bathroom. Slid a glance around the door.

No one there.

Movement
—

Her trigger finger tightened.

A cricket hopped on the tile floor.

Dixie took a steadying breath and studied the mess. Bathroom drawers tossed, cabinet doors open, cosmetics knocked into the sink, perfume bottle shattered on the floor. Shalimar leaked between the tiles, cloying in the still air.

Beside the toilet, as if flung there—during a struggle?—lay a glossy black wig and a plastic mask, the translucent face of a woman.

Dixie made a quick search of the remainder of the house, including Gail’s bedroom, bath, and huge walk-in closet. Nothing appeared out of place. When she felt certain the house was empty, she began turning on lights, scouring each area, moving back toward the kitchen. No sign of Brenda or Gail. A few more indications of a struggle—plants knocked over, a vase broken beside the sofa.

Someone had been waiting, had forced the door after Brenda entered. They fought. Wherever she was now, Brenda hadn’t wanted to go.

The footstep Dixie’d heard outside—the car starting—

Damn!
Had she been that close behind them?

Returning to the master bedroom, she looked for anything that might indicate who’d been here. No clue. In the bathroom, she stooped to examine the mask and wig, not touching them. They lay beside a drawer that had been jerked from the cabinet. Spilling from the same drawer was a bundle of dark clothing, a black knitted cap, a blousy print dress with an apron attached. A set of keys lay partially buried under the black hair. Dixie nudged the hair aside with a fingertip and recognized the police whistle Brenda carried on her key ring, house and car keys fanned around it.

Flipping open her cell phone, Dixie dialed 911 as she retraced her steps through the house. She gave the location
and reported what she’d found when arriving to meet her friend, not voicing any suspicions. She told the 911 operator she’d wait in her car. In this part of town, police would arrive quickly. To avoid answering questions about the .45, she stowed it back in the trunk.

Waiting in the driveway, she dialed Parker’s pager again, again got no answer, and dialed his office to leave a message. Listening to the ring, she studied Brenda’s Miata. Light rays from the overhead floodlight spread into the garage, falling on a slender splash of yellow hanging from the passenger door.

Parker’s machine answered.

Slender splash of
—

Dixie’s chest tightened.

Splash of yellow
—

A thin shiver walked down her spine.

Yellow-blond. Yellow-blond hair.

Slender splash of yellow hair.

Staring at the spill of blond locks, she heard the tone signaling to record a message.

She felt welded in place.

There was an explanation, some silly, simple explanation. Another wig, a blond wig
—

“I’m at Brenda’s,” she told the machine.

She had to look.

“Something’s happened … maybe you shouldn’t count on me … tonight.”

Oh, Jesus.
She didn’t trust her legs to walk the distance. Only fifteen, maybe twenty feet. But her legs felt like rubber, soft, limp, the leaden cast heavier than it had been all day.

She had to look.

Dixie closed her eyes. Swallowed the bile that climbed her esophagus.

As she raised her lids, flickering lights approached in the distance. Police. Let
them
look.

Yellow-blond hair. Mellow yellow.

Maybe Brenda was alive. Hurt but alive.

Dixie had stood there only seconds, but
too long. Move!

She jogged to the passenger side, tinted windows obscuring what was inside, and jerked the door open. The interior light flicked on.

Dixie gulped a steadying breath.

Brenda lay on the seat, legs bent against the opposite door, one shoe off, gray skirt and white blouse twisted, shoulders and head trailing off the seat to the carpet, yellow hair hanging over the door frame, spilling to the concrete.

Then, as she saw Brenda’s face, Dixie’s breath seeped out with a thin moan. Dark, bloated with blood. The ugly bruise like an obscene necklace beneath a twisted silk scarf.

Dixie touched the impossibly still wrist. The skin was warm.

Moving her thumb, she pressed harder. The pulse had to be there. If
had to be there.

A police car rumbled into the driveway, red and blue lights flickering across Dixie’s vision, bouncing off Miles’ shiny white paint and Brenda’s yellow hair.

There was no pulse.

Parker Dann toweled his hair, then wrapped the blue-striped terry cloth around his waist before venturing into the bedroom. No curtains yet. The way he figured it, the only windows that needed covering were in rooms where he was likely to be naked. Otherwise, why spend all that money for an ocean view?

Why spend another chunk on a sailboat? He’d been wrestling with that question for days. Wanted something he and Dixie could enjoy together besides the ten o’clock news. Maybe distract her from the work she did that he hated.

He pulled on a T-shirt still warm from the clothes dryer. Smelled fresh. The new shower worked fine, too. Steaming hot, with an adjustable spray that had massaged his stiff muscles back to life. Stiff from taking a nap on the carpet. After making sandwiches to eat aboard the boat later, he’d stretched out with Mud for a nap. Killing time. Wasn’t due to meet Dixie until ten. And he’d been up since before
dawn, the drive from Richmond to Clear Lake taking nearly two hours, once traffic got heavy. By leaving early, he’d cut that in half.

Mud padded in and stood watching him dress.

“Patience, fellow. We’re almost there.”

He patted the dog’s ugly head before turning on the hair dryer. Mud had surprised him, liking to sail. Truth was, Mud liked just about anything these days except staying at the Richmond house alone. Dixie refused to notice.

The dog trotted alongside as Parker loaded the picnic basket, a cooler of drinks, and a thermos of coffee into the Cadillac. When Mud clamped the yellow Frisbee between his big jaws and carried it to the car, Parker loaded that, too. But he wondered if it was better to disappoint the dog now or later. Couldn’t play Frisbee on a sailboat.

Pausing to take a mental inventory of what else they might need, he threw in two extra blankets. It’d be cold on the water. Dixie probably wouldn’t think to dress warm enough. Then he remembered the heart-shaped box of chocolates he’d bought weeks ago, hidden on the top kitchen shelf, too high for Dixie to see without a stool. He retrieved it and buried it under the blankets.

As he scooped up his wallet and pocket change, he noticed the message from Dixie on his pager. Probably phoned while he was in the shower. He dialed her cellular number and got a busy signal. Then her pager.

“Three to one she’s calling to say she’ll be late,” he told Mud. “So what’s new, right?”

He phoned the weather bureau for an update: cold and clear.

Mud nudged his hand, wanting to be scratched. Parker obliged.

“Perfect night, with that big full moon out there. All those stars. Be a shame to waste it.”

He tried her number again, got another busy signal.

“Okay, fellow, let’s move it out.” Locking the door, he admired
the new brass knocker in the yellow glow of the porch light, then bounded down the steps behind Mud. Galveston beach houses, he’d learned, were built twelve feet off the ground to allow for storm floods.

“What about wind damage?” he’d asked the architects. “What do we do to keep the house from blowing away in a hurricane?”

“Build it in Arizona.” They’d laughed hard before showing him the structural enhancements they’d made for storm protection.

Twenty minutes later, he and Mud reached the Clear Lake sales office and stopped to pick up the keys to the boat. His message light was blinking. He punched the speaker button. The first message was from Dixie.

“Hey, guys, I
may be a few minutes late, but don’t give up on me. Say, what are we eating out there?
I’m
starved!”

“What’d I tell you?” he asked Mud. The dog yawned and sat down as another message queued up.

“I’m
at Brenda’s … something’s happened … maybe you shouldn’t count on me … tonight.”

“Dammit, Dixie!” Parker threw the keys across the desk.

Mud whined and sniffed at the answering machine.

“Sorry, boy. Looks like we’ve been stood up.”

Mud looked at Parker and barked, then whined at the machine again. Parker rewound the tape.

“What’s up? You’ve heard Dixie on the speaker before.”

Mud continued to nose nervously around the answering machine, a high thin note issuing from his muzzle.

“Want to hear it again? Is that it?” Parker punched the
REPLAY
button.

Mud watched the speaker intently while Dixie told them again not to count on her. When Parker reached to rewind, Mud barked.

“What the hell, Mud-” Then he heard it, a thin moan.

He rewound the tape and turned up the volume. After
Dixie finished talking, he heard a long pause followed by a gasp, a metallic creak, and that awful moan.

Mud barked and turned to stand beside Parker.

Muffled noises … nothing recognizable … then a loud clatter, as if the phone had dropped. The buzz of a dead line.