Sweet Jesus.
Please. He didn't want to be done like Hickey.
His arms were pinned against his chest but his fingers, still clutching his throat, were free. Bunce made the sign of the cross. Then he stretched his fingers to the sides of his mouth. They traced the cuts which he knew were coming. His lips formed the words Please . . . and don't. He begged with his eyes.
They dulled, mercifully, before the knife moved again.
Felix heard muffled voices inside. And he heard the clink of dishes from what must have been the kitchen.
He moved to the window. The last two slats of the blinds were slightly askew. He could see into the room. Two heads, both women, their backs to him. A man stood near the stove pouring hot water into mugs. Felix saw that the window was not locked. He tested it with the blade of his tanto knife. It rose, silently, unseen, half an inch.
The younger of the two women, reddish hair, was unzipping the front of a windbreaker. The scene suggested that the women had just arrived. Felix wondered where they'd come from.
“My manners . . .” said the man with the tea, uncomfortably. “I'm George Benedict. Carla's father.”
”I am Elena Brugg.” She extended her hand.
“You're one of Carla's . . .? I mean, you don't seem like…”
”I am not. But I'm Carla's friend. I've come from Zurich to be what comfort I can.”
Felix smiled under his mask. Carla was the redhead.
She was the one who had Mr. Marek so spooked. Elena must be the other one. He could take them both. Finish it here. Mr. Marek would be happy, Bunce would be happy, they could go home.
“That man in Burbank.” Benedict was talking to the daughter but looking at the floor. “There's no doubt he's the one?”
“He had her things.”
Benedict set a mug in front of her. His hand was trembling. “But it was not you who . . . avenged her?”
”A friend did. Has anyone else called, by the way?”
“No.”
“Nothing from Claude? That friend of Lisa's?”
He shook his head absently. ”I would have killed that man myself,” said the father, softly. ”I really think I could have.”
“It must run in the family,” the daughter said. The other woman glared at her. The daughter changed the subject. “It's been quiet outside? No cars cruising by?”
“No. Only yours.”
The daughter's mug passed short of her lips. “When was this?”
“Ten minutes. Just before you came in through the . . .” He straightened. He seemed confused. “Two people in it,” he said, blinking. “Not three. It drove by twice.”
The woman, Elena, shifted her purse.
Felix thought he understood. That school. They must have hid their car behind it and used that path he saw. Must have just missed each other.
He tried to puzzle out what the father meant by three. Maybe the two women had a driver, still with the car.
“The lights,” said the daughter. Elena reached for the switch. The kitchen went dark.
Sumner Dommerich had found the school. And he saw the path.
“Tell her to come the back way,'' her father had said. This had to be it. There was a car hidden back by the dumpster. Its hood was still warm to the touch.
He knew this was crazy. He could be five miles away by now, looking for a public phone, calling Carla to tell her about the man down the street.
But he wasn't even sure Carla was there. And what if that man wasn't alone? He wasn't alone at Hickey's. Also, how come he's not driving the Lexus this time? Not that Dommerich cared except that the Lexus had a car phone. He could have called from there.
No, that's stupid.
He didn't even know if you dialed them like regular phones. Besides, lights were going on in too many houses. And that man was still making bubbles.
He'd driven away slowly, no headlights, coasting by Carla's father's house, noting that the lights were on there as well. It looked peaceful enough. But a voice told him to make sure. Go look for the back way.
Having found it, he parked his Volkswagen on a street just down from the school and took the sign from his roof. He checked himself for bloodstains. Not much. Just on his cuffs. He made his way to the path.
Felix had stayed at the window of the darkened kitchen, listening. “Get down on the floor,” he heard the daughter say. “I'll be right back.”
“You'll stay where you are,” the father demanded. “I'll go look myself.”
Footsteps. The light snapped back on. Angry whispers. Felix put his eye to the window.
The father had left the kitchen. He moved toward the front door. The other woman, Elena, was following, a gun in her hand, pointed down, as if ready to cover him. Carla doused the light again. She hurried through the house, dousing others. Felix crept toward the front.
The father was outside, on the front walk, peering in both directions. Felix understood. The father was thinking police. He had nothing to fear from them.
The father spotted the car, some five houses down.
Felix could see Bunce's head. The father stood for a long moment, hands on his hips. Then walked toward it.
Felix saw an opportunity. Both women would be watching the father. Their backs would be to him if he came in through the rear. The sky was almost the color of cigarette ashes but the house, blinds drawn, was dark enough for the work he was good at.
Billy McHugh saw the figure in black.
He had watched, not moving, from a spot several feet into the path, deeply shaded by foliage. He had settled there after seeing the women through the patio door. He could watch them from there, he could see passing cars, he could protect their rear. And afterward, he would put Carla over his knee. There was nothing wrong with her father.
But that thought left him when he saw a shadow move. It broke off from a hedge on the property line and blended into another at the side of the house. He eased a pistol from his belt and lowered himself to one knee.
A sliver of light gashed the shadow's head. Light from inside. Must have opened the window a crack. Was looking through it.
That wasn't smart, thought Billy. You lose your night vision. He was tempted to move on him but the shadow was a good sixty feet away across open lawn. He wished that John Waldo had come instead. Waldo could have done it. Waldo could walk through tin cans and not be heard.
The sliver winked off. Then on again. New lights. Carla's father moving through the house, turning them on, Elena behind him, with a gun out, Carla flipping the lights off again. The front door opened and closed.
The shadow eased toward the street, watching whatever was happening there. Billy braced himself to move forward, cut the distance, but now the shadow was coming back. He waited, watching, as it flowed to the rear of the house and flattened against the stucco, one arm held out, a knife in it. It now moved toward the patio door. Good, he thought. Go right in. He raised himself to follow.
Almost too late, a part of his brain sensed movement behind him. His momentum was already forward but he managed a sidestep and a dip. Something flashed where his throat had been. Billy crossed his arms as he struggled for balance. The knife flashed again, backhanded. The blade missed but its spiked pommel smashed the wrist of his gun hand. The hand went numb. The pistol dangled, hooked on one finger. He was falling.
But his mind was fully focused on the knife and on killing the man who held it. He slammed to the packed dirt of the path, face up, hands and feet ready, willing to take a cut if it would bring his attacker within reach. But the attacker hesitated. Now he was scrambling, crablike from side to side as if looking for an opening but fearful of taking it. He backed away, making odd noises through his nose. Whining sounds. He snatched a broken piece of vine and flailed at Billy's shoes with it as if in panic. Then he threw it, harmlessly. He began backing away. Billy rolled to his feet. Now he had him. He would catch him in that path.
A distant shout. More like a wail.
It c
ame from behind Billy. Loud but far away.
“Oh, Jesus, God . . . Oh, Jesus.”
It was coming from up the street. Then a loud crash. Much closer. Billy's attacker squealed in rage. Then he turned and ran. Billy could not give chase. That crash had come from the house. The shadow was inside.
Elena had reached George Benedict.
He was on his knees, gripping the bumper of the car he'd approached, losing what little was in his stomach.
She had to ignore him. Her pistol low but ready in both hands, she kept her attention on the figure inside the car. She approached it from the passenger side window. She saw the man, now upright behind the wheel. It seemed that the lower third of his face had been cut away. His eyes stared ahead. The passenger seat was awash in blood not yet congealed. Keys still in the ignition. She heard George Benedict gagging, too loudly.
“Be still,” she hissed. “Get home.”
He began to groan again. “Jesus, God.”
Elena knew that he must be seeing his daughter. But there was no time to indulge him. She stepped to the front of the car and slapped him.
“Get home,” she ordered as he blinked up at her. “Walk quietly. Do not run. Open your garage.”
The Mexican made no sound as he entered. He stepped quickly to one side, then crouched, waiting as his eyes adjusted. He could see one of the women clearly. The one called Elena. She was lit by the small glass panes that framed the front door. He searched the darkness for the other one, and listened.
The noise came from behind him. A whipping of branches. Grunts. High-pitched. The daughter, he thought, must have gone out the back. He peered into the trees but could see nothing.
“Looking for me, fuck face?”
He spun, the tanto ready, but the blow had already arched up from the floor. It struck his elbow, shattering it. The knife tumbled through the air. He staggered backward into a plant stand. A large ceramic pot crashed to the carpet. Agony, white hot, seared through his brain. He gulped air for a scream. A scream came, but from a distance.
He saw the daughter now. She held, in both hands, a heavy Spanish candlestick, readying a blow that was aimed at his face. But she hesitated, her eyes suddenly questioning.
Carla had heard her father's voice. The front door had opened. Elena was rushing to the sound.
The Mexican kicked at her, catching her full in the chest. She tumbled backward and rolled. He lunged for the sliding door and jumped onto the patio, stepping into a webbed aluminum lounge chair and tumbling with it, tangled. He scrambled to his feet to see a man, very large, coming fast from the trees.
“Kill him,” the woman said. “No noise.”
The man had a gun. He was belting it. Felix seized the chance. He measured the distance and aimed a spinning kick. The big man dodged it, almost casually, pushing the foot as it passed his face. The push sent Felix tumbling. He recovered and, with a karate shout, tried a flying kick. The big man stepped inside it. One hand gripped his throat, the other his crotch. He was high in the air. He pumped his legs, searching for leverage. It did no good. The man carried him, easily, to the sharp edge of the patio brick work, then paused.
“You sure?” he whispered toward the house.
“Wait.” Carla heard the sound of the garage door opening. A car engine, racing. Her father stumbled through the kitchen door, hands to his face. “No,” she said, “we'll talk to that one.” f
Billy dropped him into a choke hold. The Mexican kicked once, feebly, then went limp. Billy noticed the flaccid elbow. A knee, he decided, would be all the better. He stretched one black leg across the bricks.
Elena, gritting her teeth against her own revulsion, had pushed Harry Bunce back onto his side and driven his car to the Benedict garage. Carla backed her father's car out to make room.
There had been too much noise. She could only hope that no neighbor had called the police. But if they had, the police might now come and go. There would be no circus of lights and cameras.
Ten minutes later, no police had come. There was only a call from a neighbor asking if George Benedict was all right. He had gathered himself somewhat. And Carla had coached him. He said that he'd been behaving badly, apologized for the noise, he was better now, he had family with him. Carla urged that he wait in the kitchen. He did not object.
Elena was not surprised to see a second man, dressed in black, being carried into the garage across the shoulder of Billy McHugh. Carla had anticipated him. She had stayed to deal with him.
Carla stood now, flashlight in hand, examining the man who was once one Harold J. Bunce. His wallet lay open on the hood. The man in black, unconscious on the concrete floor, carried no identification.
Carla's lips were drawn tight. It was clear to Elena that she, too, was struggling to crowd the image of her sister from her mind. Elena had seen no compassion for the dead man. No revulsion. Carla was too far beyond such feelings. But Elena did see a sense of wonder. A slow shaking of the head.
“Did your friend do this, you think?” asked Elena.
Carla could only shrug.
“That guy,” Billy asked, “is he a fruit? About so big?” He held a hand to the level of his chest.
“I've never seen him. And don't call him a fruit.”
Billy grunted. He sucked at his wrist where the spiked pommel had punctured it.
The truth dawned on Carla. “You saw him? Here?”
Billy displayed the wrist and gestured toward Harry Bunce. “Tried to do me like that. Back in that path. Started jumping around like some girl when he missed.”
“I'm a fucking girl, Billy.”
Elena looked skyward. Perhaps, he thought aloud, the issues of sexism and homophobia might be saved for another time.
”A twinkletoes and a Mexican Ninja.” Billy couldn't let it go. “It's a first for me.”
“So is being taken by a fruit, you asshole. You couldn't even . . .”
Elena clapped her hands sharply. Carla folded her arms.
“The question,” said Elena, “is who sent these two and why.”
“I'll ask him.” He pried back the Mexican's eyelid. ”A few more minutes. Meantime, we ought to call Paul.”
Carla reached into the car. She grabbed Bunce's shoulder and pulled him upright. “Stick him in here,” she told Billy. “Let him wake up to a smile.”
Elena could only sigh.
The telephone rang in the kitchen. She heard George Benedict's footsteps on the tile. Moments later he came to the door. He called for Carla without looking in.
“It's that young man, Claude,” he said. “He seems very upset.”
42
“Nellie? Were you using the phone?”
Weinberg, returning to the room with Barbara, saw the directory open on the bed.
“Yes. Why didn't you, by the way?”
“Because some phones are safer than others. Whom did you call?”
“Young Dr. Feldman. I was worried about Harland. He has a big mouth, you know. I asked Dr. Mike to look in on the members.’
Weinberg groaned inwardly. He tried to remember what he'd read under that name. Ah, yes. Father, Marcus, a psychiatrist. Genuine, though corrupt. Son, apparently from the baby farm but a decent sort, according to Nellie.
“Did you tell him where you are?”
“He didn't even believe who I am. He's never heard me speak. It took a lot of convincing.”
“Please answer me, Nellie,” he pressed. “Does Dr. Feldman know that you're here with us?”
“I'm crazy, Alan. Not stupid.”
“Forgive me.”
“But he already knew. That I left with you, I mean.”
“How?”
“Young Carleton told him. He seemed to think that Carleton has flown the coop as well.”
“But why would he call Dr. Feldman?”
“Same as me. To make sure the members are cared for. Dr. Mike said he's going to get all of them. Take them someplace nicer.”
“How will he do that?�
�
“Ambulances, I suppose. Perhaps a bus.”
“Yes, but, wouldn't the guards prevent it?”
”I asked. He said, ‘Not this time, Nellie. It's over.’ ”
“She's fine. Don't worry.''
Lesko heard Katz in his head.
“I'd know if she was dead. I think·''
Swell.
Katz, who won't even admit he's dead, is all of a sudden wired into who is and who isn't. That's very comforting. Shit head.
Bannerman, for the third time now, is listening to Molly's tape of her call from this DiDi Fenerty. The third time does not look like it's making him any smarter. Well, maybe a little. Lesko had never seen Bannerman look dumber than when he heard, ”I am Axel Streicher. S-t-r-e-i-c-h-e-r.”
Lesko had asked Molly who he is. She said, after Bannerman nodded okay, that this Streicher “is like Paul, sort of.'' And the wife he mentioned is like Carla, “only taller.”
Sheds a lot of light.
“She took a walk, Lesko. ” Katz again. “You never just went for a walk?''
Leave me alone.
“The sneaky guy.. Waldo? He even sent Bannerman's Doberman to baby-sit. McHugh's worse than you. Guy eats people's noses.''
Ears.
“What?”
He ate an ear once.
“Whatever.”
Bannerman had switched off the recorder. Lesko switched off Katz.
“That phone,” Bannerman said to Molly. ”I have to know if it's wired.”
She frowned. ”I didn't pack for that.”
He gestured toward the yellow pages. “Pick a store. Tell John what you need. When he gets it, go down there by taxi.”
Nice, thought Lesko as she scribbled her list. Midnight shopping. Your local Radio Shack. There was a time when he'd have been making an arrest right about now.
Bannerman seemed to read his mind. ''Lesko? I'll be making some decisions. You may not want to know.”
“I'll stick for a while.”
“So will I,” said Susan.
Bannerman shook his head. ”I want you out of here. No arguments.”
Bannerman's Law Page 34