Authors: Richard Laymon
Lacey was awakened by maids giggling and chattering in the hallway. They spoke Spanish, a language she had picked up as a child in Oasis. She grinned as she listened.
Two of the women had gone on a double-date to the drive-in, last night. Infuriated by their drunken boyfriends, they’d insisted on sitting together. The boyfriends climbed out of the car and went stumbling away, at which point the girls grandly drove off.
Lacey wondered who owned the car.
She flung the sheet aside, and groaned as she sat up. All over her body, her muscles ached with stiffness. She felt better than before, though. Waking up in the hotel room yesterday morning, she’d felt like the loser in a scrimmage with the Dallas Cowboys. Today, by comparison, was great.
Getting off the bed, she hobbled into the bathroom. She studied herself in the full-length mirror. Though her hair was a mess, her face had lost its haggard, haunted look. The bruises mottling her body had turned a sickly, greenish yellow. Hard ridges of scab had formed on her scratches.
“Won’t be posing for a centerfold,” she muttered. “But not bad.”
She took a shower in the huge, glass-sided stall, then dried herself and got dressed in the same baggy clothes Alfred had bought on Thursday.
This was Saturday.
Escape day. Thursday and Friday, she’d been afraid to leave her room. She’d sat around reading paperbacks from the hotel gift shop, watching television, smoking, indulging herself in incredibly expensive food and wine from room ser vice. After two days of it, she was ready to get out. More than ready.
She intended to buy several items, but the sun felt wonderful so she left her car in the hotel parking lot and walked. Three blocks away, in a sporting goods store just off Stone, she found most of what she wanted: a web belt to hold up her corduroys, a tank top and gym shorts, a one-piece bathing suit, suntan oil, a pocket knife, and a sheath knife with a sixinch blade. After purchasing the items, she shut herself into a dressing room and changed into the shorts and top.
She wandered the downtown area, enjoying the feel of the sun, pleased but slightly nervous with the stares of passing men.
Near noon, she entered a hardware store. She bought a spray can of “aluminum”-colored paint. She ate lunch at a McDonald’s, then returned to her hotel.
She put on the swimsuit. With its high neckline, it concealed the worst of her injuries. Scratches and
bruises showed on her thighs, her shoulders, her arms. But that couldn’t be helped. She was determined to use the pool, no matter how she looked. Turning, she studied her back. The suit left it bare almost to the rump. Her back, at least, looked reasonably unmarred.
She emptied her handbag on the bed, and filled it with what she needed: suntan oil, an Ed McBain paperback, the can of spray paint and her sheath knife. With a bath towel draping her shoulders, she left the room.
The pool, in the hotel’s center courtyard, was nearly deserted: a young man was swimming lengths in a steady crawl; a deeply tanned woman lay facedown on a lounge with the top of her black bikini untied; and a middle-aged couple sat beneath an umbrella, sipping Bloody Marys. Lacey spread her towel on a lounge far from the others, and sat down.
She slicked herself with coconut oil, breathing deeply of its aroma, a rich sweet fragrance that reminded her of other, better times.
Of Will Rogers State Park, near Pacific Palisades where she stayed with Tom and his family that week in spring, six years ago. Her se nior year at Stanford. They spent every day at the beach, swimming far out, body surfing, walking the shoreline, or just stretching out on their towels. Tom would trickle coconut oil onto her back. His hands would glide over her, sometimes slipping down between her legs.
Brian used to do that, too, but she never loved Brian. Never loved anyone after Tom. But Brian came along at a time when she needed a man, and
she’d never had such sex; Brian cared about nothing else.
Lying back, Lacey sighed and remembered those times by his pool when she lay on her back with her eyes shut and the sun on her naked body—the sun, the oil, and Brian’s sliding, searching hands.
Now, she wondered if she could ever allow another man to have her. She knew her desire was strong: it always had been. But could she let herself be touched without recoiling, entered without shuddering in revulsion?
Sprawled on the bathroom floor. The rug against her
face. Fingers clamping her shoulders. Erection ramming her.
Hurt by the sudden shock of memory, she opened her eyes, groped inside her handbag, and took out the book. She struggled to read, but her mind soon strayed from the words. She saw herself tied to the bed and she heard the scratchy voice—“I oughta kill you”—and felt him jerk her legs apart, felt his mouth. She shut the book.
The pool was deserted. The man who’d been swimming lengths now lay on the concrete, dripping, hands folded under his head. Lacey took off her sunglasses. She got up from the lounge and stepped to the pool’s edge.
She dived in, jerking rigid at the cold blast of water, gliding through its silence and finally curving upward to the surface. She swam to the far end, turned, and swam back with all her might. Then she turned again and raced to the other end and back. She sidestroked two lengths, then breast-stroked
two lengths, then climbed exhausted from the pool. She lowered the back of her lounge and flopped on it facedown, gasping.
She heard the slap of footsteps.
“You’re quite a swimmer.”
Raising her head, she looked up at the man—the one who’d been in the pool before her. “Thanks,” she told him.
“I’m Scott.”
“Hi.”
He was slim and muscular and tanned. His tight bikini trunks covered little of him, and concealed less. He sat on the concrete beside Lacey, facing her. “Do you have a name?” he asked.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Oooh. Touchy.”
“Sorry. I’m just not in the mood for company.”
“That’s the time when you
need
company the most.”
“Wrong.” She lowered her head, and shut her eyes.
“Can’t get rid of me that easily. Nothing I enjoy more than a challenge.”
“Climb a mountain.”
“Too rough. I prefer smoother terrain.”
“Leave me alone, all right?”
“Your back will burn. Would you like me to apply a dab of oil?”
“I wouldn’t. I’d like to be left alone. Why don’t you go try someone else?”
“Because you’re beautiful and lonely.”
Lacey sighed. “I really don’t need this. If you won’t leave, I will.”
“Ah, say no more. I can take a hint.”
She opened one eye enough to see him stand. Scott smiled and waved as he backed away.
Resting her head on her crossed arms, Lacey tried to sleep. Her mind replayed the encounter. The guy had been arrogant and pushy. But, damn it, she could’ve at least been polite. She’d acted like a bitch. She felt herself blushing at the memory.
Well, what’s done is done.
She tried not to think about it.
She lay motionless, concentrating on the hot pressure of the sun.
“A libation for the lady.”
Lifting her head, she saw Scott above her, a Bloody Mary in each hand. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“That’s why I seldom fail.”
Lacey turned over, stared at the grinning man, and finally sat up. “I’m Lacey,” she said. “And I apologize for acting creepy.”
“Creepy is a fair first-line of defense,” he said, sitting down on the concrete. “Only fair, though. Total complacency works better. It reduces the woman’s guilt factor. Much more difficult to penetrate.”
“You’ve studied the subject.”
“Women fascinate me.” He took the dripping celery stalk from his drink and licked it.
Intentional symbolism? More than likely. Holding back a smile, Lacey removed her own stalk and tapped off its drops on the rim of her glass. She set it down beside her lounge. Scott placed his beside it.
“ To our fortunate encounter,” he said.
“Okay.”
He clinked his glass against hers, and they both drank. Her Bloody Mary was hot with Tabasco. It made her eyes water, her nose start to run. She sniffed.
“So tell me, Lacey, what is a lovely young lady doing alone at this fashionable resort hotel?”
“What makes you think I’m alone?”
“I have an unerring nose for such things.”
“Unerring?” she asked, somewhat surprised that he had used the correct pronunciation—err as in purr.
“
Seldom
erring. But it’s hit the mark this time, hasn’t it?”
“Isn’t ‘mark’ a con man term for a sucker?”
“Do you see yourself as a sucker?”
“Do you see yourself as a con man?”
He grinned—a boyish, disarming grin. Lacey wondered how much time he spent at mirrors, practicing it. “A confidence man? Of course. Here I am, trying to win your confidence.”
“When’s the pitch?”
“Later. I haven’t won yet, have I?”
“Far from it.”
“Are you always this distrustful?”
“Only of strangers who approach me uninvited.”
“Ah. You assume I have mischief on my mind.”
“Do you?”
“That would be telling.”
If I told you that, you’d know.
The low, rough voice. She suddenly trembled as if a cloud had smothered the sun, an icy wind blown across her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Hey, I was only joking about the mischief.”
“I know.”
“Are you all right?”
“I just…what you said, it reminded me of something.”
“Must’ve been something unpleasant.”
“It was.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“A chance like this doesn’t come along every day, you know: a friendly, willing ear, the sunlight beating down, a Bloody Mary in your hand. Besides, I might be able to help.”
“How could you help?”
“How will I know unless you tell me your problem? Let me guess, though: it involves a man.”
She took a drink, and stared at the glistening pool.
“He did something to you.”
The bantering tone was gone from Scott’s voice. Lacey glanced at him. He was staring at his drink, his face solemn.
“Yes,” she said.
“He didn’t jilt you, nothing like that. What ever he did, you’re frightened of him. He hurt you, didn’t he? Beat you up.”
“You’re very observant,” Lacey muttered, glancing down at her bruises and scratches.
“You came here to get away from him. You’re hiding out, probably even registered under a fake name in case he comes looking for you.”
“I couldn’t,” she said. “I had to use a credit card to get the room.”
“But the rest is right?”
“Close enough.” Lacey sipped her drink and set the glass on her belly. Its cold wetness soaked through her damp swimsuit. It felt good.
“Husband, boyfriend, or stranger?”
“Stranger.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“He got away.”
“And you’re afraid he’ll come after you?”
“He’ll kill me, if he can.”
“We won’t let him.”
“We?”
He winked. “You and me, kid.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want anyone else involved in this. Besides, I don’t think he’ll find me here.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to find someone hiding out at a major hotel—particularly if she’s using her real name.”
“Thanks.”
“How long have you been here?”
“This is the third day. I got in Thursday afternoon.”
“Then you’ve been here much too long. You’re lucky he hasn’t already shown up.”
“He doesn’t even know what city I’m in, Scott.”
“You’re not from Tucson?”
“No.”
“But I’ll wager this is the nearest large city, and the place he’ll look first.”
“I guess so,” she admitted.
“If I were you, I’d get out of here today and check into a different hotel. Better still, head for another town.”
“It’s past checkout time. Besides, I don’t want to. I like this one.”
Scott shrugged. “In that case, I think you should allow me to act as your escort.”
“No. Really, Scott…”
“I’d be happy to do it. After all, you’re a beautiful woman, and we’re both alone in the city. How could I spend my time better than by keeping company with a creature like you?”
“A creature?” she asked, smiling.
“A damsel in distress.”
“It might be dangerous.”
“I’m good with my dukes. Besides, I pack heat.”
“A gun?”
“A Colt.45 automatic. Never go anywhere without it. Except, of course, to the swimming pool.”
“What are you, a bank robber?”
“You ever hear of Charlie Dane?”
“
San Francisco Hit, Manhattan Mayhem
…?”
“
Tucson Death Squad.
That’s to be his latest battle against the forces of evil. The galleys are up in my suite this very moment.”
Lacey stared at him, frowning. “But those are written by Max Carter.”
“Otherwise known as Scott Bradley.”
“You.”
“Me.”
“That still doesn’t explain the gun.”
“Max keeps the rod at his side when he sits at the old typewriter. It puts him in touch with Charlie Dane.”
Lacey grinned. “Does Max also wear Charlie’s trench coat?”
“Too hot. But he does don the battered fedora.”
“Not while he’s escorting me, I hope.”
“I’ll leave Max in the room, and borrow his piece.”
“He won’t mind?”
“He’s always eager to please.”
Carl grabbed the phone before its second ring. “
Tri-
bune.
”
“Carl?”
His heart began to hammer. “How’s it going, Lace?”
“So far, so good. He hasn’t found me yet. Any activity on your end?”
“Nope. There haven’t been any incidents since you left.”
“Damn. I almost wish…At least I’d know he’s still there.”
“Well, maybe he’s just lying low. Or maybe your knife did the trick.”
“Don’t I wish.”
“So, how are you feeling?”
“Scared. Other than that, I guess I’m all right. Recuperating.”
“That’s good. Look, you’d better let me know where you’re staying. If something breaks, up this way, I’ll want to let you know.”
“Sure. I’m at the Desert Wind, room three sixtytwo.”
Carl wrote it down.
“I meant to call you yesterday, but…couldn’t get myself to do anything. Felt like crawling under a rock.”
“That’s all right, Lace. Perfectly understandable.”
“Anyway, I’m better now.”
“Glad to hear it. Look, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Just keep me posted, is all.”
“Sure thing. Take care of yourself, now.”
“I’ll try. So long, Carl.”
He hung up. Across the room, one of his reporters hunched over a typewriter working on the lead story for tomorrow’s edition. Otherwise, the office was deserted. “Jack?”
The reporter looked up, raising his eyebrows.
“See if you can’t hunt down Chief Barrett. Try to talk him into letting us release the details of the Hoffman and Peterson murders.”
“He’s already refused, Carl.”
“Try him again. Tell him a blow by blow description would be in the public interest, make them more aware of the danger. Maybe he’ll go for it.”
“Okay,” Jack said, sounding reluctant. He pushed his chair back, stood up, and stretched. Then he headed for the door.
The moment he was gone, Carl dialed the telephone.
“Spiritual Development Foundation.”
He gave his name, number and level.
“Very good, Mr. Williams.”
“Let me talk to Farris. It’s urgent.”
Farris’s voice came over the phone. “We’ve been waiting for your call,” he said.
“Sorry. I just received the information. Miss Allen’s at the Desert Wind Hotel in Tucson. Room number three six two.”
“Excellent. I’ll notify our personnel in the area. Your next step is to join her.”
“Right.”
“Do that at once.”
“I’ll leave right away.”
As he hung up, a voice from behind asked, “What was that all about?”
Carl swiveled around. Alfred, standing in front of the restroom door, looked at him with suspicion. “You told where Lacey is. Who’d you tell?”
“Chief Barrett.”
“What’d you want to do that for?”
“She asked me to.” Turning back to his desk, Carl pulled open the top drawer and removed a letter opener. “Bring me Jack’s story,” he said.
Alfred walked toward Jack’s desk, his head low and shaking. “I don’t think you should’ve done that,” he said.
“You’re not paid to think.”
“Well…” He gathered two pages from the desktop, and walked slowly back toward Carl.
Carl got up from his chair. With the letter opener behind his back, he reached out his left hand for the papers.
“Here they…”
Carl grabbed Alfred’s wrist, jerked him forward, and plunged the slim blade into his belly.