Till the Butchers Cut Him Down (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  I could hear footfalls on the stairs now.

  Blood roared in my ears. My leg throbbed. Fear clogged my throat, threatening to burst forth as sound. I clamped my lips together, held my breath.

  My pursuer stopped. Moved onto the deck. Stopped again, briefly, then walked more quietly toward its perimeter.

  I remained still, my back hurting from the bowed position, my leg throbbing harder now. The terrain sloped steeply here; I had to lean backward and dig in my heels to keep from sliding. My eyes had adjusted to the blackness; I thrust my head forward turtlelike and peered around. Support beams, a drainage pipe, coils of what looked to be sprinkler tubing. And there, by the outermost supports—

  A chain-link fence.

  Trapped.

  He was still moving around overhead. A man—I could tell by the way he walked. Coming back toward me. Coming closer. Tap. Tap. Tap …

  Directly overhead now. Stopping.

  Don’t breathe.

  He breathed. Softly.

  Don’t move.

  He moved. Purposefully.

  Don’t look up.

  He was looking around. Carefully.

  I couldn’t hold my breath much longer. My balance felt shaky; at any second I might slip, give myself away. I wanted to look up, try to identify him. Couldn’t risk it.

  The man began moving again.

  Across the deck. Pause. Turn.

  Back toward me.

  Over my head and toward the stairway.

  Stop. Go.

  And then he stepped off the planking onto the slope. Heading toward the place where I’d gone under.

  Slowly I turned my head. Saw a pair of feet shod in athletic shoes. Legs clad in jeans.

  He was big, if foot size was any indication.

  Armed?

  Impossible to tell.

  Dammit, why don’t I have my gun!

  A sports car’s engine raced on the road above; the car turned into the driveway. The owner of the house coming home?

  My pursuer’s feet pivoted. He was looking up the slope.

  The car stopped in the driveway. A garage door began going up.

  The man turned again and moved downhill fast. I glimpsed a formless dark figure that blended into the shadows by the chain-link fence. He glided along toward the far boundary—quiet, controlled. He’d done this kind of thing before—and that made him all the more frightening.

  The sports car drove into the garage. The garage door shut again. Silence.

  Moments later another engine started up on the road—my pursuer’s car. I heard it turn and drive downhill. Sedately.

  I tried to leave my cramped hiding place, but my legs had begun to shake—delayed reaction, like you have when you’ve barely missed a collision on the freeway. My foot slipped on the rocky earth and I went down on my ass. Pounded my fists on the hard-packed earth and cursed the man who had forced me to cower here.

  After a moment I reined in my rage and, for safety’s sake, sat quietly under the deck, hugging myself against the chill for five minutes. Then I eased over to its edge and checked out the house. Dark, except for faint lights on its upper story; the exterior spots were off. Keeping close to the pyracanthas, I dragged myself uphill to my MG.

  The night was tranquil once more. In Nate Evans’s house only the entry light shone. Chances were, the architect hadn’t taken much notice of the earlier wailing of tires and clashing of gears. Had probably put it off to rowdy teenagers.

  Unless he was the one who had alerted my pursuer to the fact I’d be here on this lonely, dangerous curve tonight. Evans had seemed straightforward enough, but I’d long ago learned not to take anyone involved in my investigations at face value.

  I locked the MG’s doors and sat behind the wheel until I felt fit to drive. It took longer than I expected—and that made me all the more angry.

  Twenty

  Before I pulled into my driveway, I circled the block a couple of times, looking for cars that resembled the one that had nearly run me down. I spotted a few low-slung, light-colored models, but none were close enough to allow an occupant to easily watch my house. Still, I tucked the MG safely into the garage and hurried inside, turning on lights and looking for signs of an intruder. No one was there, not even Mick. Before I could decide whether his absence was cause for a different kind of concern, the phone rang. I hurried to pick up, thinking it would be Gage Renshaw returning the call I’d earlier placed from my car phone to the emergency number at RKI’s La Jolla headquarters.

  Chuck Westerkamp’s voice said, “Thanks for the tip on the redial button.”

  It was a few seconds before I realized what he was talking about. “You got inside Brenda Walker’s house?”

  “Uh-huh. Not exactly legal, but turns out the end justifies the means. I recorded the dial tones, ran them by one of my deputies who’s got an ear for that sort of thing. Number was in your area code. I talked to Pacific Bell, and guess what? Belongs to your client.”

  Not good. “Which number is it?”

  Westerkamp recited it. “Address is on the Embarcadero in your town.”

  “His condominium. Walker couldn’t have talked with him, though. He wasn’t there—hasn’t been for some time.”

  “Well, she tried to get him, anyway.”

  “Maybe right before she and Leon took off. I don’t suppose there’s been any sign of them since we last spoke?”

  “No, but we’re doing our damnedest to find them.”

  During the next ten minutes I packed my briefcase and replaced the dirty clothes in my bag with clean ones. Took my .38 from its lockbox in the linen closet and put it in my purse. Mick still hadn’t returned; his absence both annoyed me and made me edgy. I went to the guest room and threw some things into a bag for him, too. Allie appeared, saw the bag, and slunk out to her pet door. Both cats hated suitcases more than anything else, even the neighbors’ Rottweiler; the appearance of baggage signaled lonely times ahead.

  The phone rang, and this time it was Gage Renshaw. “If you’re looking for Ripinsky,” he said, “he’s back at the ranch.”

  “I know. It’s you I want to talk with. I need a couple of favors.”

  “I told you last spring that if you need anything, it’s yours. The offer stands. Will continue to stand.”

  I pictured Renshaw pacing around wherever he was calling from: tall, thin body restless as usual; longish black hair disheveled, its startling white forelock hanging in his eyes. He’d be wearing hopelessly rumpled clothing, and the glasses that perched on his Abe Lincoln nose would more likely than not be repaired with tape or wire in at least two places. “Thanks, Gage,” I said. “At one point either you or Dan mentioned that you’ve got a hospitality suite here in the city for clients with security problems.”

  “Right. Top floor of our building on Green Street.”

  “Is it in use now?”

  “I don’t know, but I can check. I take it you want to stash someone there?”

  “I want to stash me.”

  “Sharon, Sharon. What kind of scrape have you gotten yourself into now?” He sounded amused.

  “Nothing very serious, but I need to keep a low profile for a few days.”

  “Starting off your career as an independent operative with fireworks, are you?”

  “Nothing too explosive.” I hope.

  “Well, let me get back to you.”

  “Thanks,” I said again, listening to a key turn in the front door lock. I replaced the receiver in its base unit as Mick came down the hall. “Where have you been?” I demanded.

  “Returning your rental car.”

  I looked at my watch. “It took you five hours?”

  “No, I was with a woman friend. I met somebody, okay?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Last month.”

  “You never mentioned her.”

  “You never asked. You’ve been kind of … preoccupied.”

  Come to think of it, except when I was giving him orders or he was
giving me computer lessons, I had been ignoring him. Now I was beginning to understand why he’d made a play for attention by following up on the Blessing lead.

  I started to ask what the friend was like, but as Mick came closer I caught the scent of wine on his breath. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “A glass of wine with dinner; no more than I have at home. Maggie cooked me dinner at her condo.”

  “Her condo? How old is Maggie, anyway?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “What?”

  He smiled slyly. “Gotcha. She’s nineteen. And it’s actually her folks’ condo; they’ve retired to Palm Springs and are letting her use it.” He hesitated, seemed to be gearing up for something. “Shar, I’m moving in with her as soon as her roommate can find a new place.”

  “You’re …?”

  He nodded, serious again. “I know you don’t want me at the agency or in your life any more, but I’m not going home. Living in a place where I’m generally considered a fuckup and where they’re watching me all the time to see what hideous thing I’ll do next isn’t going to help me learn, as you put it, to exercise better judgment.”

  “And you think living with a woman will?”

  He smiled again. “You’re starting to sound like Grandma. I bet it was all you could do not to say ‘living in sin.’”

  “But you’re only seventeen.”

  “How old were you when you and the captain of the swim team—”

  “Okay! You’ve made your point. How’d you know about that, anyway?”

  “It’s kind of a family legend.”

  “Oh, no! Still, Mick, are you prepared—”

  “You don’t have to give me The Talk,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “I’ve been sexually active and prepared since I was fifteen.”

  “Oh.”

  “And to get back to your question—yes, living with someone I care about, getting a job and contributing my share, maybe going to school part-time will help me learn to exercise better judgement, because it’ll help me get my life together.”

  Suddenly I was so proud of him that I could have kissed him, but I didn’t because it would have embarrassed both of us. Instead I said, “You’re starting to sound like a pretty mature seventeen. And you don’t have to get a job yet; for the moment, you still have one with me.”

  He blinked and looked down to cover his relief and pleasure. “Thanks, Shar.” Then he nudged my travel bag with his foot. “So what’s happening?”

  “Plenty, and I don’t have time to explain. We’re getting out of here tonight.”

  “Why? To go where?”

  “Somebody’s been … following me; I don’t think it’s safe for either of us to stay here. You’re going to All Souls. Camp out in the office or sleep in Jack Stuart’s old room, if you like.”

  “I can stay at Maggie’s—”

  “Mick, in this business you don’t jeopardize people you care about. Ever. Remember that.”

  He nodded—filing it away, I thought.

  I went on, “I’m going to make it look as if I’m going out of town; you can come over here to feed the cats, bring in the mail, check the answering machine, just the way Ted does when I’m really away.”

  Mick’s face had grown concerned. He sat down on the couch. “Shar, did this person try to hurt you?”

  I hesitated, then sat down too. He had a right to know. Briefly I explained what had happened in Woodside, concluding, “It’s the same M.O. as in the Blessing murder—isolated place, run the victim down with a car. I doubt he’ll try that again, at least not in a congested area, but you never know. Anyway, I don’t want to put you in danger, and I can’t operate with him watching me.”

  “So where’re you going?”

  “I’m trying to get the loan of a secure place, one where he won’t know to look for me.”

  “Shouldn’t I go with you? I can help—”

  “No, I need you in the office. There’s something I want you to do—”

  The phone rang again. Renshaw. “It’s okay for the suite,” he said. “See the guard in the lobby; he’ll give you a visitor’s badge and a key card that operates the doors and the parking-garage gate. Combination’s changed every day, so you’ll find a new card under your door in the morning. You mentioned you need a couple of favors; what’s the other?”

  “Is there a possibility of one of your operatives running some computer checks for me?” I glanced at Mick; he was sitting up straighter, very interested. “No,” I told him.

  “What?” Renshaw asked.

  “Sorry, I was talking to someone else.”

  “Well, no problem about the checks. See Charlotte Keim on the second floor; she’ll arrange for it.”

  “I owe you, Gage.”

  “No, you don’t—not yet. But someday you will.”

  When I hung up, Mick was frowning. “That was Gage Renshaw, the guy from RKI?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’re you dealing with him?” Mick had heard enough about my brief history with the security firm to know how strongly I disliked their methods.

  “Because he has access to what I need, and he’s indebted to me.”

  “These checks you want done—it’s wrong for us to run them ourselves, but it’s okay to ask RKI to do it? I don’t get you.”

  “It’s not okay, but it’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Aren’t you being kind of hypocritical?”

  I sighed and sat back down. “In some ways, I am. That’s what this business, any business … hell, it’s what life does to you.”

  “But does it have to?”

  I hesitated, unwilling to trample his youthful ideals, but also unwilling to lie. “Yes and no. I guess what we have to do is set limits. Decide when and how far to bend the rules—our own as well as society’s—and try not to exceed that.” Unfortunately, as the years passed I’d found my own ethical boundaries expanding at an alarming rate.

  Mick thought for a moment, looking somewhat deflated. Then he asked, “Okay, what was it that you were going to ask me to do right before the phone rang?”

  “I need a current photo of Suits. Call GGL and see if they have one; if not, there’s probably one on file at one of the newspapers. We’ll meet someplace tomorrow after you get hold of it. Otherwise, just keep on with the routine work. And remember—I’m out of town to everybody. You don’t know where I went.”

  “What if Gordon calls? What do I tell him?”

  “If I know Suits, he won’t. But on the off chance he does, try to find out where he is or get him to come in to the office and keep him there. Use force if you have to.” I picked up a scratch pad and wrote down RKI’s city number. “This is where I’ll be, in case.”

  Mick pocketed the paper, still looking down.

  “Maybe you don’t like the business as much as you thought you did?” I suggested.

  He shrugged, forced a grin. “Like you said, that’s what life does to you.”

  * * *

  I made no effort to conceal my movements as I drove south toward SFO, left the MG at the Park ‘n’ Fly lot on the frontage road, and took the shuttle bus to the American Airlines terminal. As I crossed from the island where the bus dropped me, I kept alert for a low-slung light-colored car. There were at least three, none in a position to do me damage, and the glare of their headlights concealed their drivers’ faces. Of course, the man didn’t necessarily have to be following me now, but I suspected he was. He’d need to keep tabs on me, watch and wait for another opportunity.

  Well, I thought as I stepped through the automatic door to the lobby, good luck, buddy. First you’ll have to find a place to leave your car in the white zone.

  I hurried across the lobby as if I were going to the security checkpoint, then veered to the right into the book-and-gift shop. Brushed past browsers at a table of hardcovers, my bag catching on a postcard rack and sending it spinning. Exited again and doubled back to the escalator to the baggage-claim area. I ran down it two steps at
a time, across the lower lobby, and outside to the taxi stand. This time of night there was no line; I jumped into the first waiting cab and gave its startled driver RKI’s address on Green Street.

  I hoped I’d been tailed to the airport. I hoped my tail was now searching the departure gates for me. I hoped that when he got back to his car he’d find a ticket.

  * * *

  RKI’s building was a renovated warehouse at the foot of Telegraph Hill near the Embarcadero. Its exterior—dark brick, ironwork, tall arched windows, and projecting cornices—was merely a shell for a stark modern interior that had been stripped for efficiency. An armed guard in a gray business suit sat inside the lobby door at a console equipped with TV monitors. He buzzed me in, checked my I.D., and consulted a clipboard. Then he took my purse, bag, and briefcase, and had me walk through a security gate—something new since the last time I’d been there.

  “You’ll have to check the gun with me, ma’am,” he said after going through my belongings. I noticed he didn’t ask if I had a carry permit for it; RKI wasn’t interested in legal formalities.

  “Okay with me,” I said.

  Next the guard gave me a key card, took an instant photograph of me, and laminated it onto my visitor’s badge with a device that looked like a flat waffle iron. The photo badge was another innovation.

  “Careful, it’s hot,” he told me, handing me the badge. “Your key card operates the elevator; we’ve put you in suite C on the third floor, end of the hall. You have a car?”

  “Not till tomorrow.”

  “Mr. Renshaw says if there’s anything you want, you’re to have it.”

  I thanked him and went to the elevator.

  Suite C was pretty damned luxurious, but I’d expected no less. RKI did everything on a grand scale: state-of-the-art computers; mobile units with the latest in surveillance gear; offices in forty-six U.S. and foreign cities—although some of those were rumored to be little more than mail drops. Their specialty was corporate contingency services, with the emphasis on hostage recovery and counterterrorism; their operatives were tough, some with CIA and FBI backgrounds, and many, including Renshaw and his partner Dan Kessell, had a murky past. They were high-tech and unscrupulous all the way, with many illegal and useful connections—some of which I’d take full advantage of in the morning.