She set Lance onto his feet and turned him around to face her. Holding him by the sides, she crouched and said, “Everything’s all right, Lance. Everything’s fine.”
He gazed with wide eyes up the stairwell behind Dana. He was gasping and shaking.
“Nothing’s up there,” she said.
“Oh yes it is.”
Keeping hold of him, Dana checked him out from head to foot.
His pale blue T-shirt was dark with sweat. It felt hot and damp under her hands.
Lance didn’t seem to be injured.
She turned him around.
No damage that...
“Don’t you ever do that again! Do you hear me! Don’t you EVER! You scared the daylights out of me!”
“I was just...”
Smack!
He flinched in Dana’s hands.
She stood up fast. “Hey!”
He started crying.
“Don’t you hit him,” Dana snapped.
“I’ll hit him if I want.” As if to demonstrate, Lance’s mother hauled back for another swing at his face.
“No!” Dana caught her wrist.
“Let go of me!”
“Don’t hit the kid,” Dana said. “It isn’t nice to hit little kids.”
The mother spit at her.
The gob of saliva landed on Dana’s uniform blouse just above her left breast.
“Lady,” Dana said.
Then Janey kicked the woman in the leg.
“Ow! You little twat!” Her left hand darted at Janey.
As the girl leaped away, Dana jerked the woman’s right arm and swung her around and slammed her against the wall.
“That’s enough!” Dana shouted in her face.
The woman blinked.
The spit had soaked through Dana’s shirt. She felt its cool wetness against her skin.
With both hands, she clutched the front of the woman white T-shirt. “Calm down!”
“Let go of me!”
“You cannot go around hitting people,” Dana said.
Or spitting on them, she thought.
And she smelled the woman’s spit on her shirt. Felt it against her skin, and smelled it. It smelled like jasmine. It smelled like sneeze.
She suddenly gagged.
“Let go of me, or I’ll...”
Dana felt it suddenly coming. She had time to turn away. But she chose not to. She kept her grip on the mother’s T-shirt and lurched forward and threw up in her face.
For lunch, she’d had a Red-Hot Beastie Weenie, Beastly Chili Fries with cheese, and a strawberry flavored milkshake called a “Bucket of Blood.”
Chapter Thirty-three
SANDY’S STORY—July,1992
The sight of Terry’s badge seemed to freeze Sandy’s mind.
She gaped at it.
For God’s sake, don’t faint! Don’t scream and run! Just act normal.
Sure thing.
Keeping her eyes on the badge, she tried to sound like Cagney as she said, “So, you’re a copper?”
“Right. Fort Platt Municipal Police Department.”
“I’m supposed to believe that?”
“If I’m not a cop, I’ve got a mighty fine shield and i.d. Look at that photo. That’s me, rights
She stared at the i.d. photo. “Yep.”
“So I’m either a real cop or a really slick bad guy. But that isn’t the point.” He flipped the police i.d. over. Underneath it was his driver’s license. “Look. See the address there? Fourteen Beach Drive? That’s my cottage. If you follow me over, you can check the address before you even get out of your truck. If they don’t match up, you can just drive on.”
“I guess I could do that,” Sandy said.
She felt numb.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
“Great!”
She smiled and nodded and resumed her grocery shopping.
Dazed.
Oh, my God. Oh, God. A cop. He’s a cop. What’m I gonna do?
Go over to his place and kill him?
No, no, no. Can’t do that. He’s a nice guy. I like him.
I can’t kill him.
Can’t?
Okay. I could.
But even if I wanted to, all these people are seeing us together. I’d never get away with it.
Just play along. See what happens.
In the checkout line, a couple of customers greeted Terry and he responded as if they were his good friends. The cashier knew him, too. Her name tag read, MARGE. She said, “Hey there, Ter. Whatcha up to?”
“No good, as usual.”
“Haw!”
As Marge slid the groceries across the scanner, Sandy said to her, “Is this guy really a cop?”
“Oh, I’ll say. He’s a regular terror. Ain’t you, Ter?”
“That’s me.”
“You gonna handcuff her?” Marge asked him.
“Gonna try.”
A few minutes later, he beat Sandy to the shopping cart.
She decided not to fight him for it. Outside, she walked beside him. “You’re a popular guy around here,” she said.
“For a serial killer.”
“Well, I guess you aren’t one of those.”
“They do impersonate cops, sometimes. You can’t be too careful.”
“Well, I’m convinced.”
When they reached her pickup truck, Terry unloaded the shopping cart for her. He even put the milk, butter, eggs and meat into the ice chest she’d brought along to keep them cold during the long trip home. After thanking him, she said, “You lead the way.”
“You won’t ditch me, will you?”
“If I do, I guess you can just run a make on my plates or something, huh?”
“I could. But I wouldn’t. I probably wouldn’t.”
“See you in a while,” she said. Then she climbed into her pickup, started the engine, and waited. After Terry’s car went by, she backed out of her space and followed it.
A cop. He’s a cop.
What if he does run the license?
He would find out that the vehicle was registered to Harry Matthews. And the computer would give him Harry’s address—Sandy’s address.
She had that covered, at least. During the past few years, she had managed to acquire the paperwork to back up four different false identities—including Ashley Matthews.
A girl named Ashley Matthews, born two years before Sandy, had died in an apartment fire at the age of nine.
Ralph had dug up her name—and the others. He did such things for a living, and he was good at it.
Thank God for private eyes, she thought as she turned left and followed Terry’s car onto Fort Platt Boulevard.
And thank God for Blaze. If not for the large amounts of money coming in from the paintings, she never would’ve been able to afford Ralph’s services.
So if Terry does check on me, she thought, I shouldn’t have any trouble. No reason for him to think I’m not Harry’s niece.
If he asks about Harry, I’ll say he’s on a trip.
Everything’ll be fine, she told herself.
Unless he comes over for a visit.
I can’t let that happen.
How can I stop it?
Ahead of her, Terry’s turn signal began to flash. He slowed down, then swung to the right.
I could just keep on going, Sandy thought.
But he’ll know where to find me.
We’d have to get our stuff together and leave. Right away.
Today. And find ourselves a new place to live.
Move in with Blaze?
Shaking her head, she made the turn and closed in on Terry’s car. It had slowed down to wait for her. As she approached, it picked up speed and led her onto Beach Drive.
The quiet, one-lane road ran parallel to the ocean. Along both sides were wood frame cottages and house trailers. One of the trailers had a swing set on its side yard. A boy in a swimsuit was standing on the middle swing, making it sway from side to side. A G
erman shepherd wearing a red bandana around its neck was roaming down the side of the road. A woman was squatting down, planting flowers in front of her cottage.
An elderly couple sat on lawn chairs, one reading a newspaper, the other a paperback. A teenaged boy was busy with a hose and sponge, washing an old green Pontiac.
It looked like a nice place to live.
A lot nicer than a hideout in the woods.
Sandy felt a pull of regret.
Can’t have everything, she told herself. Be happy with what you’ve got.
Just ahead of her, Terry slowed down and turned left onto a gravel driveway. It seemed plenty long enough for her car to fit in behind his. As she made the turn, she glanced at the mailbox: 14 Beach Drive.
It was Terry’s place, all right.
She parked, climbed out of her pickup and walked toward him. “I won’t be able to stay long,” she said.
“Long enough to come in and have a drink?”
“Not sure I’d better come in.”
“That’ll be fine. We can relax out back on the sun deck.”
Sandy followed him around the side of the car port. About a hundred yards ahead, the ocean rolled into Shore. The beach stretched all the way to the rear of the cottage.
She pulled off her shoes and carried them. The dry, hot sand shifted under her feet.
At the bottom of the deck stairs, she stopped and watched Terry climb. He had fine, golden hair on the backs of his legs, and curly down just above his belt. His wallet made the left seat pocket of his shorts bulge. The other side of his shorts curved nicely against his buttock.
She felt a little funny about staring at his rear.
Normally, she wasn’t much interested in such things.
She wondered what he was wearing under his shorts.
Get a grip, she told herself. The guy’s a cop. I can’t have anything to do with him.
Then what am I doing here?
“Coming up?” he asked.
“Sure.” She climbed the stairs. The sundeck had a redwood railing on three sides. On the fourth side, the deck joined the cottage. Which seemed to be made mostly of glass. Draperies were shut, however, so she couldn’t see inside. The deck was furnished with a round glass table, a few folding chairs, two loungers with fabric pads, a couple of TV trays, and a barbeque grill.
“What can I get you?” Terry asked.
“I’ll have to drive home pretty soon.”
“I have soft drinks. Or you might try a beer. One or two beers shouldn’t impair you much.”
“A beer sounds good,” she said.
“I’ll have to go in through the front.” He headed for the stairs.
Sandy glanced at the two sliding glass doors. “You can’t get in from here?”
“They only lock from the inside. This’ll just take a minute, though. Make yourself at home.”
“I’ll come with you,” Sandy told him.
“Fine.”
As they retraced their route to the front of the cottage, Terry smiled and said, “I thought you didn’t want to go in.”
“I was just being cautious.”
“And now you’re not?”
“Maybe I was being overly cautious. I mean, you are a cop, right?”
“Right.”
When they reached the front door, he unlocked and opened it.
Sandy followed him inside. The living room had a hardwood floor and several rugs. There were bookshelves, a stone fireplace, a television, an easy chair, and an old sofa with a coffee table in front and lamp tables at each end. On one wall was a seascape of the ocean at sunset. On another wall hung The Sleeper.
By Blaze O. Glory.
One of his more recent paintings.
It showed Sandy sprawled on a bed, eyes shut, her hair spread across the pillow, sunlight slanting down on her from a nearby window. She looked as if she’d tossed and turned during the night. By morning, the single sheet over her body was a twisted disarray. Her entire left leg had come out from under it. The sheet covered her right leg, then swept upward across her body at an angle, draping her belly and her left breast and shoulder, but leaving her right breast naked.
Sandy gaped at it. Then she turned to Terry.
His smiled turned crooked and he blushed.
Sandy’s heart thudded wildly. Her face felt hot. “That’s me,” she said, her voice coming out no louder than a whisper.
“I know,” he whispered back at her.
“My God.”
What’s going on? she wondered. She felt very strange: confused, embarrassed, deceived and betrayed, frightened, flattered, vulnerable and excited. All at the same time.
“The painting’s beautiful,” Terry said. “You’re beautiful.”
“So...this morning wasn’t an accident. You didn’t just stumble onto us.”
“I had a spy in the camp.”
“Blaze?”
Terry nodded.
“That...”
“He meant well. He thought you and I might get along.”
“He set me up.”
“All he really did was tell me where you’d be.”
“Then he made sure I was half-naked for the encounter.”
Smiling, Terry said, “Well, he probably did that for artistic reasons.”
“Oh, sure.”
“He was just trying to help. He thinks you need someone...a friend. And he knew how much I wanted to meet you.”
“Because of that?” She nodded toward the painting.
“That. And others.”
“You have more?”
“No. Just the one. It’s all I’ve been able to afford. But I’ve seen a few of the others. I wish I had them all.”
Staring into his eyes, she asked, “Why?”
“Because they’re of you.”
“They don’t even look like me.”
“Sure they do. I mean, none of them looks exactly like you. Blaze doesn’t get every feature just right. But all of them have...I don’t know.” His blush deepened. “Your beauty. Your magic. I wish he’d paint one that really looks like you.”
“He’s not supposed to,” Sandy explained. “I don’t want everybody knowing it’s me when they see these things.”
“Couldn’t be anyone else,” Terry said. “Not if they know you.”
“I’d better make Blaze give me a bigger nose or something.”
Laughing softly, Terry shook his head. “Don’t do that. He should make them look exactly like you. In the ways they’re different, they lose.”
She gazed at him.
“Sony,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t? Then how come you brought me in here? Did you think I wouldn’t notice the painting?”
“I guess I wanted you to notice it.”
“So you intended to scare me away?”
“You’re still here.”
“Hanging on by the fingernails.”
“How about that beer?”
“Maybe I’d better get the hell out of here. This is a little...strange.”
“How about if you get the hell out to the back deck?”
Staring into his eyes, she wasn’t sure what she saw. A look of urgent hope?
Maybe that’s lust.
What she didn’t find in his eyes was any trace of malice.
“I guess the deck’ll be okay,” she said.
He led her toward one of the sliding doors. “How about the beer?” he asked.
“Make it a vodka, okay? If you have any. I’m beyond beer right now.”
“How about a vodka and tonic?”
“That’d be just right.”
He unlatched the door and rolled it open for her. Then he skidded the screen door out of the way.
“I’ll be along in a minute,” he said.
Sandy stepped across the deck. Bending over slightly, she clutched the top of the redwood railing with both hands and gazed out over the beach. Not many people were in sight. Those that she could see we
re far away. There were a lot more seagulls than people. They swooped and flapped and squealed.
The sun felt hot, but a cool breeze blew into Sandy’s face and ruffled her shirt.
This is so great, she thought.
And so horrible.
God, the guy is head-over-heels for me.
Not for me. For the gal in the paintings.
But she is me.
What am I gonna do?
Drink my drink and leave, she told herself. And avoid him from now on.
But what if he won’t avoid me?
This sucks so bad.
But if it sucks so bad, she wondered, why do I feel so great?
I don’t.
Don’t lie. You do, too.
Okay. Great but miserable.
Hearing footsteps on the wood of the deck, she turned around. Terry set down a serving tray on top of the glass table.
It had two vodka tonics on it. There was also a basket loaded with potato chips.
“Cocktails are served, ma’am,” he said, and pulled out a chair for Sandy.
“Thanks,” she said. She sat down.
“And thank you for sticking around. A lesser person might’ve fled the scene.”
“I will have to leave pretty soon. Mom and Eric...” She shrugged. “I don’t like to be away too long.”
“Any time you’re ready to go, just holler.” Terry sat down and raised his glass. “Here’s how,” he said.
“Here’s how.”
They clinked their glasses together, then drank.
“Ahhh,” Sandy said. “This sure hits the spot.”
“Glad you like it. You know, you’re really being a good sport about this.”
“Are we playing a game?”
“I just mean, I’m awfully glad you haven’t flipped out and run away.”
“The urge exists. I’m holding it at bay.”
“I did think about hiding the picture. You know, this morning before I set out for the rendezvous. But that would’ve been like assuming in advance that I’d get you here, and I didn’t want to do anything that might jinx the operation.” Laughing softly, he took another drink. “Stupid, huh?”
“Not entirely.”
“Anyway, it seemed sort of stupid to me, but it’s why I didn’t hide the picture. Then I thought, well, if I do get you into the house, it’ll be a good time for you to see it. I didn’t much care for the subterfuge.”
Smiling, Sandy set down her glass. “Why the subterfuge in the first place?”
The Midnight Tour Page 35