by Dean Koontz
Rachael went to the middle of the three doors, deactivated the alarm, and used another key to disengage the lock.
When Ben went through the door behind her and eased it shut, he discovered that it was enormously heavy and would have been immovable if it had not been hung in perfect balance on cunningly designed ball-bearing hinges.
She led him along a series of dark and silent corridors, through additional doors to Eric’s private suite. There she required one more code for a final alarm box.
Inside the sanctum sanctorum at last, she quickly crossed a vast expanse of antique Chinese carpet in rose and beige to Eric’s massive desk. It was as ultramodern as that of the company’s front-lounge receptionist but even more stunning and expensive, constructed of rare gold-veined marble and polished malachite.
The bright but narrowly focused lance of the flashlight beam revealed only the middle of the big room as Rachael advanced through it, so Ben had only glimpses and shadowy impressions of the decor. It seemed even more determinedly modern than Eric Leben’s other haunts, downright futuristic.
She put her purse and pistol on the desk as she passed it, went to the wall behind, where Ben joined her. She played the flashlight over a four-foot-square painting: broad bands of sombrous yellow and a particularly depressing gray separated by a thin swath of blood-dark maroon.
“Another Rothko?” Ben asked.
“Yeah. And with an important function besides just being a piece of art.”
She slipped her fingers under the burnished steel frame, feeling along the bottom. A latch clicked, and the big painting swung away from the wall, to which it had been firmly fixed rather than hung on wire. Behind the hinged Rothko was a large wall safe with a circular door about two feet in diameter. The steel face, dial, and handle gleamed.
“Trite,” Ben said.
“Not really. Not your ordinary wall safe. Four-inch-thick steel casing, six-inch face and door. Not just set in the wall but actually welded to the steel beams of the building itself. Requires not one but two combinations, the first forward, the second reverse. Fireproof and virtually blastproof, too.”
“What’s he keep in there—the meaning of life?”
“Some money, I guess, like in the safe at the house,” she said, handing Ben the flashlight. She turned the dial and began to put in the first combination. “Important papers.”
He aimed the light at the safe door. “Okay, so what’re we after exactly? The cash?”
“No. A file folder. Maybe a ring-binder notebook.”
“What’s in it?”
“The essentials of an important research project. More or less an abstract of the developments to date, including copies of Morgan Lewis’s regular reports to Eric. Lewis is the project head. And with any luck, Eric’s personal project diary is in here, too. All of his practical and philosophical thoughts on the subject.”
Ben was surprised that she had answered. Was she finally prepared to let him in on at least some of her secrets?
“What subject?” he asked. “What’s this particular research project all about?”
She did not respond but blotted her sweat-damp fingers on her blouse before easing the safe’s dial backward toward the first number of the second combination.
“Concerning what?” he pressed.
“I have to concentrate, Benny,” she said. “If I overshoot one of these numbers, then I’ll have to start all over and put the first set in again.”
He had gotten all he was going to get, the one little scrap about the file. But, not caring to stand idly by, having nothing else to do but pressure her, he said, “There must be hundreds of research files on scores of projects, so if he keeps just one of them here, it’s got to involve the most important thing Geneplan’s currently working on.”
Squinting, and with her tongue poked out between her teeth, she brought all of her attention to bear on the dial.
“Something big,” he said.
She said nothing.
He said, “Or it’s research they’re doing for the government, the military. Something extremely sensitive.”
Rachael put in the final number, twisted the handle, opened the small steel door, and said, “Oh, damn.”
The safe was empty.
“They got here before us,” she said.
“Who?” Ben demanded.
“They must’ve suspected that I knew.”
“Who suspected?”
“Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been so quick to get rid of the file,” she said.
“Who?” Ben said.
“Surprise,” said a man behind them.
As Rachael gasped, Ben was already turning, seeking the intruder. The flashlight beam caught a tall, bald man in a tan leisure suit and a green-and-white-striped shirt. His head was so completely hairless that he must have shaved it. He had a square face, wide mouth, proud nose, Slavic cheekbones, and gray eyes the shade of dirty ice. He was standing on the other side of the desk. He resembled the late Otto Preminger, the film director. Sophisticated in spite of his leisure suit. Obviously intelligent. Potentially dangerous. He had confiscated the pistol that Rachael had put down with her purse when she had come into the office.
Worse, the guy was holding a Smith & Wesson Model 19 Combat Magnum. Ben was familiar with—and deeply respected—that revolver. Meticulously constructed, it had a four-inch barrel, was chambered for the .357 Magnum cartridge, weighed a moderate thirty-five ounces, and was so accurate and so powerful that it could even be used for deer hunting. Loaded with hollow-point expanding cartridges or with armor-piercing rounds, it was as deadly a handgun as any in the world, deadlier than most.
In the beam of the Eveready, the intruder’s gray eyes glistened strangely.
“Lights on,” the bald man said, raising his voice slightly, and immediately the room’s overhead lights blinked to life, evidently engaged by a voice-activated switch, a trick that suited Eric Leben’s preference for ultramodern design.
Rachael said, “Vincent, put the gun away.”
“Not possible, I’m afraid,” the bald man said. Though his head was quite naked, the back of his big hand had plenty of hair, almost like a pelt, and it even bristled on his fingers between the knuckles.
“There’s no need for violence,” Rachael said.
Vincent’s smile was sour, imparting a cold viciousness to his broad face. “Indeed? No need for violence? I suppose that’s why you brought a pistol,” he said, holding up the thirty-two that he had snatched off the desk.
Ben knew the S&W Combat Magnum had twice the recoil of a forty-five, which was why it featured large hand-filling stocks. In spite of the superb accuracy built into it, the weapon could be wildly inaccurate in the hands of an inexperienced shooter unprepared for the hard kick it delivered. If the bald man did not appreciate the tremendous power of the gun, if he were inexperienced, he would almost certainly fire the first couple of shots high into the wall, over their heads, which might give Ben time to reach him and take him out.
“We didn’t really believe Eric would’ve been reckless enough to tell you about Wildcard,” Vincent said. “But apparently he did, the poor damn fool, or you wouldn’t be here, rummaging in his office safe. No matter how badly he treated you, Rachael, he still had a weakness for you.”
“He was too proud,” she said. “Always was. He liked to brag about his accomplishments.”
“Ninety-five percent of Geneplan’s staff is in the dark about the Wildcard Project,” Vincent said. “It’s that sensitive. Believe me, no matter how much you may have hated him, he thought you were special, and he wouldn’t have bragged about it to anyone else.”
“I didn’t hate him,” she said. “I pity him. Especially now. Vincent, did you know he’d broken the cardinal rule?”
Vincent shook his head. “Not until … tonight. It was a mad thing to do.”
Intently watching the bald man, Ben reluctantly decided that the guy was experienced with the Combat Magnum and would not be startled
by its recoil. His grip on it was not at all casual; his right hand was clenched tightly. His aim was not casual, either; his right arm was extended, stiff and straight, elbow locked, with the muzzle lined up between Rachael and Ben. He would only have to swing it a couple of inches in either direction to blow one or both of them away.
Unaware that Ben could be of more use in such a situation than he’d ever given her reason to believe, Rachael said, “Forget the damn gun, Vincent. We don’t need guns. We’re all in this together now.”
“No,” Vincent said. “No, as far as the rest of us are concerned, you’re not in this. Never should’ve been. We simply don’t trust you, Rachael. And this friend of yours …”
The dirty-gray eyes shifted focus from Rachael to Ben. His gaze was piercing, disconcerting. Although his eyes lingered on Ben only a second or two, there was an iciness in them that was transmitted to Ben, sending a chill along his spine.
Then, having failed to detect that he was dealing with someone far less innocent than appearances indicated, Vincent looked away from Ben, back at Rachael, and said, “He’s a complete outsider. If we don’t want you in this, then we certainly aren’t about to make room for him.”
To Ben, that statement sounded ominously like a death sentence, and at last he moved with a sinuosity and lightning speed worthy of a striking snake. Taking a big chance that the second command to the voice-activated switch would be as simple as the first, he said, “Lights off!” The room instantly went dark as he simultaneously threw the flashlight at Vincent’s head, but, Jesus, the guy was already turning to fire at him, and Rachael was screaming—Ben hoped she was diving for the floor—and the sudden darkness was cast into confusion by the whipping beam of the tumbling Eveready, which he hoped would be enough to give him the edge, an edge he badly needed because, just a fraction of a second after the lights went out and the flashlight left his hand, he was already pitching forward, onto the malachite desk in a sliding belly flop that ought to carry him across and into Vincent, committed to action, no turning back now, all of this like a film run at twice its normal speed, yet with an eerie objective time sense so slowed down that each second seemed like a minute, which was just the old program taking control of his brain, the fighting animal taking charge of the body. In the next single second a hell of a lot happened all at once: Rachael was still screaming shrilly, and Ben was sliding, and the flashlight was tumbling, and the muzzle of the Magnum flashed blue-white, and Ben sensed a slug passing over him so close it might have singed his hair, heard the whine of its passage even above the thunderous roar of the shot itself—skeeeeeeeen—felt the coldness of the polished malachite through his shirt, and the flashlight struck Vincent as the shot exploded and as Ben was crossing the desk, Vincent grunted from the blow, the flash rebounded and fell to the floor, its lance of light coming to rest on a six-foot piece of abstract bronze sculpture, and Ben was off the desk by then, colliding with his adversary, both of them going down hard. The gun fired again. The shot went into the ceiling. Ben was sprawled on top of Vincent in the darkness, but with a perfect intuitive sense of the relationship of their bodies, which made it possible for him to bring a knee up between the man’s thighs, smashing it into the unprotected crotch, and Vincent screamed louder than Rachael, so Ben rammed his knee up again, showing no mercy, daring no mercy, chopped him in the throat, too, which cut off the scream, then hit him along the right temple, hit him again, hard, harder, and a third shot rang out, deafening, so Ben chopped him once more, harder still, then the gun fell out of Vincent’s suddenly limp hand, and gaspingly Ben said, “Lights on!”
Instantly the room brightened.
Vincent was out cold, making a slight wet rattling noise as slow inhalations and exhalations passed through his injured throat.
The air stank of gunpowder and hot metal.
Ben rolled off the unconscious man and crawled to the Combat Magnum, taking possession of it with more than a little relief.
Rachael had ventured from behind the desk. Stooping, she picked up her thirty-two pistol, which Vincent had also dropped. The look she gave Ben was part shock, part astonishment, part disbelief.
He crawled back to Vincent and examined him. Thumbed up one eyelid and then the other, checking for the uneven dilation that might indicate a severe concussion or other brain injury. Gently inspected the man’s right temple, where two edge-of-the-hand chops had landed. Felt his throat. Made sure his breathing, though hampered, was not too badly obstructed. Took his wrist, located his pulse, timed it.
He sighed and said, “He won’t die, thank God. Sometimes it’s hard to judge how much force is enough … or too much. But he won’t die. He’ll be out for a while, and when he comes around he’ll need medical attention, but he’ll be able to get to a doctor on his own.”
Speechless, Rachael stared at him.
He took a cushion from a chair and used it to prop up Vincent’s head, which would help keep the trachea open if there was some bleeding in the throat.
He quickly searched Vincent but did not find the Wildcard file. “He must have come here with others. They opened the safe, took the contents, while he stayed behind to wait for us.”
She put a hand on his shoulder, and he raised his head to meet her eyes. She said, “Benny, for God’s sake, you’re just a real-estate salesman.”
“Yeah,” he said, as if he didn’t understand the implied question, “and I’m a damn good one, too.”
“But … the way you handled him … the way you … so fast … violent … so sure of yourself …”
With satisfaction so intense it almost hurt, he watched her as she grappled with the realization that she was not the only one with secrets.
Showing her no more mercy than she’d thus far shown him, letting her stew in her curiosity, he said, “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here before someone else shows up. I’m good at these nasty little games, but I don’t particularly enjoy them.”
8
DUMPSTER
When an old wino in soiled pants and a ragged Hawaiian shirt wandered into the alley, stacked some crates, and climbed up to search in the garbage dumpster for God knows what treasures, two rats had leaped from the bin, startling him. He had fallen off his makeshift ladder—just as he’d caught a glimpse of the dead woman sprawled in the garbage. She wore a cream-colored summer dress with a blue belt.
The wino’s name was Percy. He couldn’t remember his last name. “Not really sure I ever had one,” he said when Verdad and Hagerstrom questioned him in the alley a short while later. “For a fact, I ain’t used a last name since I can remember. Guess maybe I did have one sometime, but my memory ain’t what it used to be on account of the damn cheap wine, barf brew, which is the only rot I can pay for.”
“You think this slimeball killed her?” Hagerstrom asked Verdad, as if the alky couldn’t hear them unless they spoke directly to him.
Studying Percy with extreme distaste, Verdad replied in the same tone of voice. “Not likely.”
“Yeah. And even if he saw anything important, he wouldn’t know what it meant, and he won’t remember it anyway.”
Lieutenant Verdad said nothing. As an immigrant born and raised in a far less fortunate and less just country than that to which he now willingly pledged his allegiance, he had little patience and no understanding for lost cases like Percy. Born with the priceless advantage of United States citizenship, how could a man turn from all the opportunities around him and choose degradation and squalor? Julio knew he ought to have more compassion for self-made outcasts like Percy. He knew this ruined man might have suffered, might have endured tragedy, been broken by fate or by cruel parents. A graduate of the police department’s awareness programs, Julio was well versed in the psychology and sociology of the outcast-as-victim philosophy. But he would have had less trouble understanding the alien thought processes of a man from Mars than he had trying to get a handle on wasted men like this one. He just sighed wearily, tugged on the cuffs of his white silk shirt,
and adjusted his pearl cuff links, first the right one, then the left.
Hagerstrom said, “You know, sometimes it seems like a law of nature that any potential witness to a homicide in this town has got to be drunk and about three weeks away from his last bath.”
“If the job was easy,” Verdad said, “we wouldn’t like it so much, would we?”
“I would. Jesus, this guy stinks.”
As they talked about him, Percy did, in fact, seem oblivious. He picked at an unidentifiable piece of crud that had crusted to one of the sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt, and after a deep rumbling burp, he returned to the subject of his burnt-out cerebellum. “Cheap hootch fuzzies up your brain. I swear Christ, I think my brain’s shrinkin’ a little bit more every day, and the empty spaces is fillin’ up with hairballs and old wet newspapers. I think a cat sneaks up on me and spits the hairballs in my ears when I’m asleep.” He sounded entirely serious, even a bit afraid of such a bold and invasive feline.
Although he wasn’t able to remember his last name or much of anything else, Percy had enough brain tissue left—in there among the hairballs and old wet newspapers—to know that the proper thing to do upon finding a corpse was to call the police. And though he was not exactly a pillar of the community with much respect for the law or any sense of common decency, he had hurried immediately in search of the authorities. He thought that reporting the body in the dumpster might earn him a reward.