Low Pressure (23 page)

So much for trying to be a nice guy. He speared a sausage link, taking his anger out on it. “Howard Lyston’s dying words, and they’re about me. I’m flattered.”

“It wasn’t only about you. He asked me to do something for him.”

“Pick out his burial suit?”

She glared at him.

“It’s gotta be something that urgent or you’d still be down there.”

She fumed for several more seconds, then turned her head away and looked through the window out across the parking lot of the restaurant. When she came back to him, she said, “Before he dies, Daddy wants to know for certain that Allen Strickland was the man who killed Susan.”

Reading his startled expression, she said, “Yes, you heard right.” She then recounted the conversation with her father.

When she finished, Dent frowned. “He’s had doubts about Strickland’s guilt all these years?”

“It seems so.”

“And he raises the question now?
Now
. When he’s on his deathbed? Jesus!” Frankly, he thought laying this burden on Bellamy at this particular time was a shitty thing for her father to do, but he edited the way he expressed his opinion. “He’s given you an awfully tall order. Does he realize that?”

“He said I needed to know the truth, too. Basically, when you think about it, he’s only asked me to do what I was already doing.”

Yes, but failing herself was one thing. Failing her dying father was quite another. Dent didn’t express that opinion at all, because he was certain Bellamy had already thought of it. That would explain why she looked like she’d been beaten with the chain that she was now using to tow the weight of the world.

He tried to wash down his resentment toward Howard Lyston with a sip of ice water. “Okay, what’s your next move?”

With a weary gesture, she pushed back a strand of hair. “Daddy suggested I talk with Dale Moody.”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing with him about anything, but Moody’s a good choice.”

“I have to find him first. I wanted to interview him for my book. He couldn’t be found.”

“I’ll help.”

She looked at him uneasily. “Dent, I can’t keep asking you to—”

“You didn’t ask.” His gaze narrowed on her. “Oh, wait. I’m untrustworthy.”

“I don’t think that.”

“No? Then why are you looking at me like you’re trying to see past a disguise?”

“I know you want to clear your name.”

He waited for more, and when she didn’t proceed, he leaned forward. “But?”

“But is that your only motive for sticking around?”

“What does Daddy think? You listen to him and respect his opinion. Why does he think I’m hanging around?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Liar. What did he tell you?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, right.” He continued to try to stare the answer out of her, but her lips stayed stubbornly compressed. “Fine,” he said. “Truth is, I don’t give a damn what your daddy thinks about me. But I’ll be perfectly candid with you as to why I’d like a tête-à-tête with Moody: Payback.”

“Is that supposed to relieve my concern? You can’t—”

“Relax. I won’t do anything physical.” After a beat, he added, “Probably.” He gestured to her plate. “Finished?” When she nodded, he slid out of the booth.

She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. He told her he’d settle the bill and bring the car around.

The night air was thick and cloying, which didn’t improve his mood. Contrary to what he’d told her, he
did
care what her old man had said about him. Not that he gave a shit about his opinion, but he did care about Bellamy’s. It was directly after her visit with her father that she’d become aloof and untouchable, so he’d said or done something that had raised red flags of caution against Dent Carter.

Feeling truculent, he made his way across the parking lot, which, at this time of night, was only about a quarter full. He pulled his keys from his jeans pocket and had nearly reached his car when he sensed a shift in the sultry air, a sudden motion behind him.

Even before he fully registered these sensations, he was propelled against the side of his Vette, where he landed hard. A strong hand clamped the back of his head, banging his face down onto the roof of the car with enough force to split skin.

Hot breath filled his ear. “She’s some high-toned pussy, isn’t she, flyboy? Too bad she’s gonna die.”

Dent tried to raise his head, tried to dislodge his attacker, but he was as solid as a bale of hay. And even as Dent assessed the situation and realized that he was in real trouble, he felt the prick of a sharp blade at the base of his spine. He ceased struggling.

“Good thinking. That’s eight inches of double-edged, razor-sharp steel. You might hear the pop when it punctures your spine. Probably be the last thing you hear.”

“What do you want?” Dent asked, trying to buy time while he figured out a way to break the man’s hold.

“Is she good? Slippery and tight?” Leaning forward, he licked the side of Dent’s face from chin to eyebrow. “Never can tell about these rich girls, can you? One thing I know, she’s gonna die bloody.”

Dent, fueled by rage and disgust, kicked backward and caught the guy’s kneecap with the heel of his boot. He grunted and fell back, but only a step. Dent took advantage. He spun around and jabbed his elbow into the guy’s face, then landed a blow to his gut. But it was like hitting a slab of beef and only served to enrage the man, who swiped at him with the blade.

Dent saved himself from being eviscerated by spinning around at the last possible second. The knife cut a wide arc across the small of his back. Instinctually, he reached back. The knife bit into the back of his hand and sliced into his knuckles.

“Dent!”

He heard Bellamy’s shout, heard her footsteps as she ran toward them. “No!” he shouted. “Stay away.”

But she kept coming and, when she reached him, he pushed her hard to the ground. “He’s got a knife.”

“He’s gone.” She came quickly to her feet and closed the distance between them. “You’re bleeding!”

“Hey! What’s going on?”

“I saw him. That asshole shoved the woman to the ground.”

Diners, having noticed the commotion from inside, were pouring out of the exit and rushing toward them. Dent looked around, but his attacker had vanished. “Get us the hell out of here,” he said to Bellamy, straining the words through gritted teeth.

God bless her. She didn’t do that female thing. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand an explanation, didn’t scream or screech or upbraid him for putting her in this situation. No, she just placed her arm around his bloody waist and half carried him to the passenger side of the Vette. She opened the door and helped him into the seat.

Then she grabbed the ignition key from him, slammed the door, and ran around the hood. She called out to the well-meaning bystanders. “I’m okay. A misunderstanding. That’s all.” Then she got into the driver’s seat and started the motor.

“Can you drive a six-speed?”

By way of answer, she wheeled out of the parking lot and by the time she fishtailed into traffic, she was already in third gear.

“Did you see him?” Dent asked.

“Only a blur as he ran away. Was he robbing you?”

“No.” He craned his neck around to look out the back window. “Do you see a pickup in the rearview mirror?”

She glanced into it. “I can’t tell. Only headlights. Would he be following us?”

“I don’t know. Drive in circles.”

“I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“No.”

She whipped her head around and looked at him. “But you’re bleeding. All over.”

“Yeah, onto my leather upholstery. What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“I pushed you down. I was—”

“I know. You wanted me out of the way of him. Scraped palms, but otherwise I’m okay. Better than you.”

Unleashing a stream of profanity, Dent popped all the buttons on his shirt and used the tail of it to scrub the side of his face, which was still damp with saliva.

“Where should we go?” Bellamy asked.

“For now, just drive.”

She did, with concentration and surprising skill, weaving in and out of traffic adroitly but not recklessly enough to attract the notice of a traffic cop. After ten minutes and a switch from one freeway to another, she whipped across two lanes of traffic to make an exit, and when she brought the car to a jarring stop at the bottom of the ramp, they were the only car in sight.

With her hands keeping a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, she turned her head and looked at him, her question clear although unspoken.

“I think I was introduced to our redneck friend with the souped-up truck.”

Ray was furious.

His ears echoed with a sound as irritating as a buzz saw. Maybe he was hearing his blood as it surged through his veins. His heart was pumping hard and fast with fury and frustration.

He’d come this close to opening up Dent Carter’s belly.
This close
. The charmed bastard had narrowly escaped, thanks to her and her cry of alarm, which had drawn the attention of people inside the restaurant.

Carter had been bleeding, but not enough to kill him. Ray could’ve finished him off. But he hadn’t waited this long to get revenge for his brother only to mess up in the final moments.

So he’d run before anyone could get a good look at him. He’d run the two blocks to where he’d left his truck, then he’d gotten the hell out of the vicinity. Not out of cowardice, mind you, but from caution.

“Know when to fish and when to cut bait,” Allen had told him.

But the night’s efforts weren’t entirely wasted. He’d drawn blood. He’d left the pair of them with a lot to think about, and that was satisfying. They’d be worried now, wouldn’t they? He liked imagining them puzzling over who he was and living in dread of when he would strike again.

For weeks, he’d been trailing her like a glorified bloodhound. Sick of that, he’d decided earlier today to attack at the very next opportunity. But he’d lost track of them. All day he’d driven back and forth between her place and Carter’s, but they hadn’t surfaced.

But sooner or later, Carter always wound up at that crappy airfield, so, around dark, Ray had positioned his truck where it couldn’t be seen from the highway and had watched the road leading off it to the airstrip.

Was he smart or what? Because, sure enough, around ten o’clock, the red Corvette had come speeding up to the highway. Keeping a safe distance from it, Ray had followed it to the IHOP. Through the windows he’d watched them eat. And, forty minutes later, when Dent came out alone, Ray, disbelieving his good luck, had seized the opportunity.

No, Carter wasn’t dead. But Ray had gotten his message across. As of tonight, he hadn’t just changed the rules of play. He’d changed the whole fucking game.

I
t’s a dump.”

Dent went into his apartment ahead of Bellamy, switched on the overhead light, then moved immediately to the bed and pulled the bedspread up over the rumpled sheets and pillows.

Two pillows, she noted. Each bearing the imprint of a head.

“I’m going to shower off the blood so we can see what’s what. Make yourself at home.” He grabbed a pair of shorts from a chest of drawers, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.

On the way here, they had stopped at a convenience store. Its stock of first-aid items had been limited, but she’d bought one of everything, not knowing what she would need to tend his wounds.

Now she placed the sack of purchases on the dining table in the kitchen alcove and sat down in one of the two chairs, then took a look around. He hadn’t exaggerated. The apartment was a dump. Being one large room, the areas of it were distinguished only by the flooring. The sleeping area had a different color carpet from the living area. The patch of kitchen was covered in vinyl tiles. Only the bathroom was separated by a door.

Except for the unmade bed, it was basically neat. But the meager furnishings looked like cheap rental pieces with chipped veneers and stringy upholstery. The faucet in the kitchen sink dripped with loud and regular
ploinks
, and the fabric panels that passed for draperies hung limply on crooked rods. There were no pictures on the walls. No books, or even shelves in which to place books or keepsakes.

It was a sad place, indicative of a solitary life.

Even sadder was that the only difference between this place and her condo in New York was the quality of the furnishings. Hers had been purchased through a decorator and had been costly. They were tasteful and pleasing to the eye.

But they held no memories or sentiment for her. Anyone could have owned them. They didn’t represent a home. They were as lacking in personality as the chair in which she sat here in Dent’s dismal kitchen.

The comparison made her feel even more despondent than she already was.

He came out of the bathroom wearing only the boxers he’d taken in with him. He was drying his wet hair with one towel and pressing another to the small of his back. There were two places on his face where the skin was split. Those cuts had been left to bleed. He’d wrapped a washcloth around his injured hand.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked.