Static!

  He pressed harder, drawing the paper across the glass. The twisted curve of a leg protruded between his fingers. He dropped the paper and shrank back as if he had been burned. He grabbed the wad and threw it into the trash can after the first. Then the rest of the magazines, still in their disorderly heap.

  He heard them thud on the bottom of the can, a strangely hollow, echoing sound. His headache was back.

  He looked at the clock.

  A little after five.

  He couldn’t finish the job right now, that was sure. Tomorrow. After he had a chance to talk everything through with Cathy.

  He started from the kitchen. Still barefoot, he skidded on a damp spot just under the door. He didn’t fall but the change in balance was enough to throw him against the doorjamb.

  His hip struck the wood, then his shoulder. His fingers wrenched as he tried to stabilize himself. And then the danger was over. He was fully balanced again. But the side of his body ached as if it were on fire.

  He took another shower, a lingering warm one, then dressed in slacks and sport shirt and lay down on his bed. Just for a moment.

  Just to relax.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Payne woke with a start. The hands on the electric clock in the bedroom said 7:23.

  He jerked himself out of bed and almost stumbled when he put his weight full on his right side. The shoulder felt inflamed, the hip joint so bruised that he had trouble standing straight. And he was late. He wasn’t sure if Cathy would put up with one more piece of strange behavior from him. He would have to hurry.

  He limped to his dresser and opened two drawers, pulling out clean white socks and a pair of undershorts—noting absently that one pair was lying haphazardly on top of the others rather than being neatly folded and stacked as was his wont. He opened his T-shirt drawer and took out one that had faded from pristine white to ivory over the years. There was a tear along the right arm, but he pulled it on anyway, wincing when his shoulder registered pain.

  His old jeans were hanging in the closet where he had put them after washing them. He struggled into them, hampered both by the tightness of the denim and by the pain in his leg. When he finally got them on, his limp was accentuated by the tautness of the material on his hips. He experimented walking up and down the hall a few times, trying to eliminate the lurching imbalance as much as possible. The pain had lessened. He ambled into the kitchen to swallow a couple more Excedrin.

  He was standing at the front door, his hand just touching the brass knob and his body reflected distortedly in its smooth surface, when he realized that he had forgotten where he was going. He thought for a moment. Stupid, of course he knew, it was important, he was going to...to....

  His ears buzzed lightly but enough to distract him from his thinking.

  Hold on, concentrate, I’m going to see...see…see her.

  He breathed his relief.

  Her.

  He was going to see her and talk to her and they would understand each other perfectly and they would become one and live forever after....

  Her.

  Cathy Litton. The woman he loved.

  He gripped the knob with his hand. His head ached again, suddenly and insistently. He opened the door and stepped out. He was on his way to see....

  Who?

  He thought about taking another couple of Excedrin but decided against it. The cool evening air should help. He would open the windows of the car and let the cool air rush over his face. He would close his eyes to receive its gentle touch on his cheeks, breath in its fragile fragrance through his nostrils.

  And then he was in the car, the engine roaring as he depressed the accelerator and pulled away from the house. The setting sun reflected in a quick, solitary wink from the attic window.

  The evening traffic was light. At least lighter than he had expected.

  He decided to avoid the freeway. After all there must be hundreds of other ways to get there. He might see some place new and different and enjoyable.

  He settled into the seat and drove, barely noticing street signs and angles and directions. His mind settled into a numbing rhythm.

  Shift, clutch, shift, brake, shift, clutch. Mechanical. Mindless. unthinking.

  A dim part of himself, almost buried beneath the rubble of collapsing consciousness cried out a single word: Cathy!

  Payne sat up straight, startled to see his car hurtling through a red light on a street he did not recognize. For an instant he considered pulling over to the curb and getting his bearings. The meeting with Cathy was too important to take any chances on getting lost. He twisted in his seat, trying to get more comfortable, then it registered with a shock like an electrical current that he was not wearing his slacks and sport shirt. The jeans were the tight ones that he had intended to throw out; the T-shirt, a hopeless wreck that was more holes and thin patches than shirt and was only waiting for one more good rip before it found its way into the rag bin. His feet were snug inside tennis shoes instead of the roomier polished loafers he had set out at the side of his bed earlier that evening.

  “What...?” he began.

  He pulled the steering wheel sharply to the right, barely bothering to check in the rear view mirror for on-coming traffic. The car swerved into the parking lane of a three-lane boulevard, bouncing off the low concrete curb with a wrench that sent a lance of pain up his arm. He twisted the wheel back to the left, not even bothering to check this time, but luck was with him and there were no cars following so closely that they couldn’t swerve and miss him.

  He steadied into the middle lane, heading up toward the foothills just beneath the HOLLYWOOD sign. As soon as he pulled away from the curb, the pain subsided.

  He kept driving, aimlessly following street after street.

  Maybe ten minutes later, his shoulder knotted up suddenly from tension and from the wrong angle of the seat. He fingered the lever at the side of the seat and the back gave an inch or two. That felt better. He lowered the seat another inch. Ahhh, much better. He settled into the depths of the seat, letting his free hand rest lightly on his thigh.

  As the car began climbing the first steep hills, his fingers tightened and curled until they touched his palms.

  By now it was dark. The streets were unrecognizable. Most of them were lined with dark apartments characterized by drawn shades and closed doors. Only the intersections were lit, with a flurry of stoplights and pedestrian-crossing lights and overflow lights from businesses on the busier cross-streets. He passed three such streets, not bothering to check the names, then on the fourth he veered right and turned.

  This part of L.A. looked familiar. Not in specifics—he still didn’t know what street he was on; but in general it felt familiar. Right.

  He kept driving.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Leigh pushed raggedly long blond hair out of eyes that seemed as hollow as tombs, spectral as well as sepulchral beneath the harsh glare of the neon lights overhead. It was twilight; the evening was just beginning and the traffic on Sunset was picking up like it always did. Cars rolled by, slowly the first time, even slower the second; by the third time, the drivers made little pretense of wanting to get anywhere. They cruised more or less openly, twisting their heads to see through the windows, squinting against the glare. Most of the time, especially when they leaned forward to talk with the drivers, Leigh and the others were reduced to little more than silhouettes.

  The evening breeze rose slightly, drifting up from the valley floor to nuzzle the foothills. Even at that, though, it was warm, hot almost beneath the lights, and Leigh hoped that the right one would come along soon. The new boots that had been in a Kirby’s window front only four hours before pinched—nothing serious, just enough to let the owner know that they were new and to make standing around like meat on a rack that much more miserable.

  But what else was there to do?

  Leigh needed money; the drivers needed...companionship.

  Two needs satisfied with one simple exch
ange.

  A couple of cars drifted past, but Leigh didn’t try to catch the drivers’ attention. Two were middle-aged men, too old for Leigh’s taste, and for a while yet Leigh could allow taste to dictate over necessity. Last night’s work had been good; the economic crunch was not critical yet.

  Leigh yawned hugely, and then surreptitiously (as if surreptitiousness were necessary) undid the top two buttons on a vividly printed top that would have been more at home amid the bikinis and beach towels at Zuma. Deeply tanned flesh glinted in the neon light.

  Leigh imagined the effect and leaned back, satisfied.

  A red light blinked to green a block away. In a few seconds the next shift of drivers rolled past. Leigh watched closely without seeming to—eyes narrowed against the light but not enough to crease at the corners or furrow the brow. That would eventually be fatal. Leigh was still young in a city and in a market that placed its highest premium on youth—or at least the illusion of youth. But there was no use taking stupid risks.

  Three cars passed without slowing down. One was filled with kids, hubby driving and wifey nagging him as they went. They were lost or something. Leigh heard enough to know that she was yammering at him for misreading the map. The kids watched the passing lights with eyes that glittered as brilliantly as did the neon lights that attracted them. One of the kids—Leigh couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl but it had longish hair and an androgynously round face and smiled sweetly—waved as they passed. Leigh raised a hand and waved back. Mums must have seen the gesture because she whirled around and slapped the kid’s hand. The car disappeared before Leigh heard the kid crying.

  By then, the clock on the bank building across the block had announced that it was fifteen minutes into prime time. Leigh leaned against the peeling wooden frame of a garishly lit window and undid another button. More tanned skin glowed. More provocative shadows curved beneath the neon lights.

  For a moment, there was an unusual pause in traffic, then…wait, isn’t that the same car that went by just a couple of minutes ago—long enough for it to turn at the next intersection, follow the block around, and pass by right here, right now. Leigh knew to the millisecond the time it would take. There was no mistake. Yeah, the car was a repeat all right.

  From what Leigh could see of him, the driver looked okay, although Leigh was experienced to know that looks meant nothing in this business. Mr. Clean could be carrying any number of foul diseases, and Mr. Hot-to-Trot could have a blade in his pocket that would cool anyone’s action. Still, this guy seemed a likely prospect.

  Leigh settled down for the waiting game. By the clock on the bank, three minutes and forty-seven seconds elapsed before the car passed again. The time was a bit faster than usual but still possible, assuming that the driver took the alley half a block south of Sunset and drove faster than was strictly safe.

  The car began slowing nearly a block before it approached Leigh’s spot; by the time the license was visible, it couldn’t have been going over five miles an hour.

  Okay, this is it, Leigh decided in a breath and stepped to the edge of the curb.

  The car slowed to a quiet stop. Leigh waited. After a long pause, the driver leaned over and rolled the passenger window down.

  “Hi,” he said. He sounded nervous.

  “Got the time?” Leigh said, twisting a naked wrist up to prove that there was no watch there and to create the illusion that there was a good and proper reason for this particular car being at this particular spot.

  “Yeah.” The driver glanced at his arm, turning his watch face until it caught the light.

  As he read the time, Leigh glanced over the top of the car at the bank. The guy’s watch was three minutes slow but Leigh didn’t feel it necessary to let him in on that little secret.

  “Thanks,” Leigh said when the guy finished and dropped his hand back onto the steering wheel.

  “Late for an appointment?” the guy asked. His voice was higher pitched than Leigh might have expected, but rough, harsh, as if he had a touch of laryngitis.

  “Naw,” Leigh said slowly. “Just wondering. Nice night, isn’t it?”

  The bait was out. Now it was time to play the fish and see if it bit.

  Careful not to move too quickly, not to say too much.

  The guy had to make the first move. Leigh knew enough about police entrapment to stick by that cardinal rule of the trade.

  “Nice.” The guy was sweating. Either he was just a driver who happened to slow down at the wrong time or he was new to the area. Leigh decided to give him a little more line—enough to set the hook if the fish wanted to be reeled in, but not enough to rebound and give the angler a sharp crack across the cheek.

  “New car?” Leigh slid one hand along the door, careful to keep it in sight of the driver. The fingers were long and sensuous, the movement provocative without being explicit. It had worked often enough. It worked this time, too.

  “Yeah, got it a couple of weeks ago,” the guy said, still almost whispering in that eerie high-pitched voice. Leigh thought for a second about cutting bait and running, but the guy continued. “Like to try ’er out? Take a spin?”

  “Sure.” The words had barely died away before Leigh was settled in the passenger side of the car—it wasn’t anything special, just a fairly inexpensive foreign job, but what the hell. A guy’s car was usually his pride and his weakness, no matter how much of a clunker it might be. This buggy was okay. Nothing special, just okay.

  The driver pulled away from the curb, being ostentatiously careful to check the rear-view mirror for on-coming traffic. Leigh smiled. They were like that a lot of the time, so intent on what they were going to do (or fantasized that they were going to do) that they drove extra carefully—no use taking chances and having to explain someone like Leigh to cops or, worse, to wives.

  They followed Sunset for at least a mile without the guy saying a word.

  “Smooth ride,” Leigh said finally, continuing the pretense that the car was the focus of attention. “Good shocks.”

  The driver still wouldn’t say anything. The car turned just before Sunset crossed over the Hollywood Freeway. They paralleled the freeway for half a dozen blocks. The guy hadn’t said a word.

  “Look...,” Leigh began.

  “I’m not very good at this,” the guy said abruptly.

  Still Leigh glanced over. The bright light of a pedestrian crossing revealed that the guy was wearing a worn T-shirt that stretched tightly across a nicely muscled chest. His pants were tight, too, and his legs were as well defined as his arms and shoulders. Not body-building bulging biceps or anything that obvious, just good and solid body tone. Leigh liked them that way.

  But the light also revealed that the guy was trembling. His shoulders twitched and his chest heaved as if he were drowning and struggling for breath. Beneath the roar of the engine, Leigh heard the man’s breath, ragged and shallow.

  “Hey,” Leigh said, “it’s okay. Nothing to worry about.”

  Leigh’s fingers pressed reassuringly against the back of the guy’s hand.

  But only for a second.

  The guy’s hand felt like a claw. The fingers were knotted and twisted and tight and curved. They felt deformed. The skin was icy as well. Leigh didn’t like the feeling that transmitted itself through that single touch. Now the guy was trembling even more, like he was going to throw an epileptic fit.

  One of Leigh’s friends had pitched a fit right in the middle of the locker room after gym class in high school. It had looked just like this.

  “Hey, are you all right. Not sick or anything?” Leigh asked but at the same time shifted nearer the door just in case. The lock-pin was up and in this slow traffic it would be safe enough to bolt if things got really weird. Sometimes business could edge into danger. Not often, though. Leigh was pretty careful. But this pick-up looked like it might turn into one of those few times.

  The guy didn’t answer. He gripped the wheel so hard with his left hand that the knuckles gleam
ed like polished bone; his other hand began rubbing up and down the taut jeans, his elbow almost touching Leigh’s as it moved.

  “Come on,” Leigh insisted, “are you okay or what?”

  “Yeah,” the voice came out unconvincing, even higher pitched, almost like an old woman’s. “I’m fine. Relax.”

  They cut over the freeway and drove for ten or fifteen minutes into the northern-western portions of the L.A. basin. Leigh wasn’t that familiar with the area, especially when the guy began following unlit residential streets that blended into each other like long, dark dreams. Leigh tried to catch a glimpse of at least one street sign, maybe one that named the town as well as the street, but they were too dark and too high.

  With one hand on the door handle just in case, Leigh settled back and watched the driver. He was good-looking enough, fairly young. But the more Leigh studied him, the less there was to feel comfortable with. The guy was too stiff. It felt to Leigh like more than just normal nervousness, even if this was the guy’s first time. But he seemed too much in control for it to be the first. The set of the neck, the angle of shoulders, and above all the incessant, irritating scrape of nails against denim felt all wrong.

  Leigh was about to ask for the guy to pullover—and failing that to catapult from the car the next time it slowed for a stop sign or light—when the guy suddenly pulled toward the curb and stopped. He killed the engine.

  “This is it,” he said, twisting in his seat and pointing across Leigh’s chest toward an old house set well back from the street. But Leigh paid more attention to the claw-like hand than to the shadowy house. The tendons and ligaments strained and bulged against the backdrop of muscle and bone; the knuckles were so swollen that the skin was as tight as a bladder and ready to burst.

  It was an old man’s hand, gnarled and twisted with decades of arthritic damage.

  But this guy was young.

  The hand rose and one of the fingers ran down the line of Leigh’s jaw. Leigh shivered. Teeth clamped convulsively and painfully down on teeth. It was a feeling that Leigh was not used to.