Little things like wax weren't important, though. Not when I looked at the picture. It was really a beautiful thing, and it wasn't as bad as I'd feared it might be. It was Hallie, for sure, and she looked even better than in the painting; not that any painting or picture could do her justice.
The photograph was in black and white, but even that way I could recognize her violet eyes and the perfect, bright-red lips. Her hair, which I was used to seeing loose around her shoulders, was in a carefully fashioned upsweep, and I made up my mind she'd have to fix her hair like that for me.
And she was as naked as she could get.
She was looking just to your right, and her lips were lifted a little in a half-smile. Her body was wet and glistening and little drops of water clustered on her smooth shoulders.
The background was a little out of focus and hazy, but there was nothing hazy about Hallie. Every feature was sharp; you could even see the individual drops of water. She was in perfect focus—better focus than my eyes after a few seconds of looking. At her feet was a crumpled towel, loose on the floor.
I said, "Hallie, looks like you just jumped out of the shower. What the devil? Could Brane have been in here? In the house?"
"He never was."
"How about outside? But what— Could you have been answering the phone or something?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe. The phone's right there." She nodded toward the front of the room, where a French phone sat on a little stand beside an armchair. "If I was in the shower and the phone rang, I'd have wrapped a towel around me before I came out. Even if the place was empty. That's just one of the things a girl naturally does."
"Yeah?" I grinned at her.
"Yeah," she said, making a face.
"Looks like this towel was a little loose."
"Doesn't it?" She smiled.
I stared at the photo till Hallie said, "What are you trying to do? Memorize it?"
"Uh-huh," I told her seriously. "Every line."
We got our heads together over the picture for a while, trying to figure out just where the thing could have been snapped from. I was thinking if Brane wandered around peeking in windows or climbing balconies, he'd sure covered a lot of territory. And, come to think of it, he'd likely been enjoying his little game. Until he got his throat operated on. The more I learned about Brane, the better the idea of cutting his throat seemed.
I was beginning to feel uneasy. We'd done about all we could here and it was high time we took off for more populous areas. At least, different areas.
"Hallie," I asked, "you don't happen to have a gun around the house, do you? I'd feel better if I had one."
"No. I'm afraid of the things."
I was still standing by the big front window and just about to tell her we'd better get on our horse when I heard the faint squeak of brakes and saw a car pull up in front and turn off its lights.
I pressed the switch at the side of the door, doused the house lights, and looked out at the car. I could see the blobs that the forms of two men made in the near darkness. They got out of the car and I heard the doors shut as the driver came around the front of the car and joined the one on this side. They stood on the sidewalk for a moment.
I turned to Hallie. "This looks like it might be trouble, honey. Beat it out back, and when you hear noises in here, fly out to the Cad and take off. Keys are in the car."
"No."
The two guys had started slowly up the walk leading to the porch in front of the house. I couldn't make out their features or tell for sure who they were. I couldn't tell, either, if they were carrying any artillery. But I had my own ideas about both counts.
And here was this gal saying no to me.
"Damn it, Hallie, beat it." I spoke rapidly, my eyes on the two men as they got closer. "Do what I say. No sense both of us getting in trouble—and if you're clear I can get in touch. Maybe you can help me."
She shook her head, her eyes worried. "Shell, I don't want—"
I wheeled around, faced her, and grabbed her by the arms. "Damn it to hell! You beat it." I fumbled in my pants pockets and dug out a ring of keys. "Here. If you get away you can go to my apartment. Wait there for me. You can play with the fish."
I was damn serious and she knew it.
"I—" she started, but I pressed the keys into her hand and gave her a shove. She faded toward the back of the house just as I heard the steps of the two guys on the porch, only a few feet from the door.
Hallie would be at the back now if she'd done as I told her. Maybe she was even outside. If she was, she'd need only a few seconds to get away in the Cadillac. And I was sure of one thing: I didn't want any holes shot in that luscious body.
I stood at the side of the door, my hand on the knob, and found I was still holding the picture. I tossed it aside. I waited to see if whoever it was outside would just walk in or knock or ring. I was going to feel silly as hell if I jumped a couple of traveling salesmen. But I'd rather feel a little silly than sorry.
I could hear the low voices outside and it wasn't any traveling salesmen. It was my old pals, Dutch and Flem, come calling. Automatically my right hand strayed up to the empty holster, then I swore silently and reached back and grabbed the doorknob.
I heard the whispered words and one of them said, "Let's go," and I knew they were coming in.
I beat them to it. They knew somebody was inside, and maybe they even thought it was me, but they sure as hell didn't know I was coming out the door right in their faces like I was Citation in the stretch.
I swung open the door and hurtled through with my head low but my eyes wide open and staring and my arms spread out at the sides of my body. I slammed into one of them and sent him spinning backward, slipping off balance and down on his back. My right arm wound itself around the other's waist. I grabbed. I grabbed the guy on my right and I squeezed him to me like this was my first passion, and I carried him with me in the suddenness of my jump. My feet were driving and I managed to carry the guy with me till we were over the kicking body on the floor of the porch.
I held on, squeezed the guy with both arms, and threw my legs off the floor and in front of me. I lit on top of the man on the floor, my arms still wrapped around the twisting middle of the other, and for a couple of seconds there were arms and legs in a tangled mass like eels. I heard the grind of the Cad's starter as something hard glanced along the side of my head.
The Cad pulled away from the curb. No matter what happened now, Hallie was on her way. We were still all on the floor of the porch and I was swinging with my arms and knees and feet and hoping I'd get somebody or something where it would hurt the most. My hand grazed skin in a wild swing I made as I scrambled up to my knees, and I brought my elbow back hard and grinned as it landed and somebody yelped.
The guy's face swayed close enough so I could make out the blank, ugly features of Dutch, and the heat of the fight and my suppressed rage at him bubbled up in me and all I could see was the son that had messed up my office and given me an all-around bad time.
I reached for him, and I got him around the neck with both hands, and I slammed his head down on the porch. His head landed hard and I pinned him down with my left and drew my fist back and slammed it into his face. I could feel something break and grind under my knuckles and I pulled back my fist to do it some more. I was going to fix this bastard but good.
It couldn't last. Maybe you shouldn't hit a guy when he's down. Not when there's another guy behind you, anyway. I did finish what I'd started. I slammed my fist down again into the thing under me that was starting to get a little pulpy, but the jar of my fist was the last thing of any major importance for a while.
Like I said, it couldn't last. For the second time this perfectly delightful day, everything went.
I got chummy again, momentarily, with the constellations. Then the darkness floated up and grabbed me.
Chapter Seventeen
I WAS BACK on that rocket ship, and the moon was coming at me
again and it looked like I'd make it for sure this time; at least I was trying. We kept spinning end over end and the moon would flash by closer and closer and the ship was bucking like an untamed bronc. We were having engine trouble and the atoms weren't busting right at all. The crate kept jerking and bobbing and rattling my spine as if I were in a car on a bumpy road.
Finally it filtered. I was in a car on a bumpy road.
I suddenly remembered everything through the shrieking pain in my head, including what was probably in store for me, and I lay quietly playing possum. Or opossum. Anyway, I played dead, and the way I felt, it was easy.
I kept my eyes closed and figured it out, being real smart and cagey, and I developed a foolproof plan.
All of a sudden I'd let out a horrible yowl, leap up, and grab whoever was in the car and grind them together like hamburger. I figured it in my mind that there'd be one driving and the other one in the back with me, and all I had to do was be quick as Mercury and strong as Goliath and I could mingle their heads together like old eggplants. Then I'd leave them lying on the floor of the car and I'd swing off through the trees giving the cry of the bull ape.
At least it was worth a try. There was very little percentage in just sitting.
Here's the way it goes, I said to myself. First I peek and see what's what. Second I pick them up and shake them together. Third I leave them dying and swing off. Brother, was I having a pipe dream! It started out O.K.; I peeked and I'd figured it pretty well. There were three of us including me. Flem was driving and out of the squinted corner of my eye I could see the other—Dutch, it had to be—sitting on the back seat at my left. I said to myself, Scott, old duck, you'd better do this right the first time.
Then I took a deep, quiet breath, thought, Here goes nothing, and took a great big flying leap to the floor of the car.
My head banged up against the back of the front seat and I got a beautiful burn as my face skidded down the upholstery, but it was nothing compared with the burn inside me. The bastards had my hands tied and my legs tied and I was sure going to have one hell of a time bashing heads together.
I landed on my fanny, and I heard Dutch laugh harshly. Then his hand came swishing across the space between us and slapped into my mouth. I could feel my lips puffing and I tasted blood against my tongue. I sat on the back floor of the car and swore at Dutch and Flem indiscriminately until Dutch clipped me again. Only this time he doubled up his hand and used the fist. It jarred me and I shut up. My brain was in bad enough shape already.
But Dutch was in bad shape, too. In the light reflected from the dash I could see his face, and there was no doubt he was the boy I'd been mashing on the floor of Hallie's porch. His eyes still looked like snails, but one of them was swollen almost shut and there were still traces of blood under his nose. His lips had swelled up like a Ubangi's, and when he opened his mouth and said something to me I could see a row of snapped and jagged teeth.
I didn't get as much pleasure out of the sight as I might have, because what he said was, "I'm gonna kill you, Mr. Scott. You'll have to excuse me, but I gotta kill you." The words came out thick and blurred through his swollen lips, but not blurred enough to suit me.
I didn't get to answer him. Flem cleared his throat nervously in the front seat and said, "Dutch, the boss didn't say to kill the guy. He just said to get him."
"Shut up!" Dutch snapped at him. "You do like I say, now. The boss said to get him, sure. Well, I'm not very bright, see? I thought he meant kill him when he said get him. No trouble. It makes sense, see?"
I didn't like this boy at all. Maybe it did make sense in a way, and it looked like I wasn't going to be around to dispute Dutch's word. It didn't look like I was going to be around, period. Dutch had made up his mind he was going to kill me, and with my hands and feet tied I didn't figure to do much discouraging.
I said to Dutch, "You mind if I get up?"
He laughed. "Sure. Get comfortable. Only first say please."
"You go straight to—"
I got the back of his hand again. Pretty soon, if I didn't keep my big yap shut, it was going to be bigger. It was going to look like Dutch's.
Dutch said politely, too politely, "Excuse me, Mr. Scott. Don't make me do that."
I kept my voice down and said, "Do I just sit here, or do I get up?"
"Go ahead, get up," he said in his flat, gritty voice. "But don't make me hit you no more. This is supposed to look like suicide."
"Suicide? What the hell do you mean, suicide?"
He grinned, showing his jagged teeth. "It's like this, Scott. I got your gun in the car. Not this one; this is the one you thought you'd take away from me." He wiggled his right hand and light gleamed on the pearl-handled .45 automatic that had once been in my desk drawer. "You do get it, don't you, sweetheart? You understand I'm gonna kill you? Personally?"
It must have hurt him to stretch those raw lips in a grin, but he was having so much fun he couldn't help it. He was having a real kick.
"I figure I shoot you with your own gun," he said. "But if you make me beat you all up it won't look like suicide, now, will it?"
That was one of those questions you don't answer. And I knew he was needling me. The ropes around my wrists and ankles were fairly tight and well knotted, but I could move my palms apart and wiggle my fingers, and I could move my feet. I wasn't going to be dancing, but at least I could move them.
I got my hands on the seat and my feet under me, and started sliding up onto the back seat of the car.
"Don't get cute," Dutch snarled. "If you was to make me, I'd have to change my plans. I'd have to shoot you with my own sweet little gun here." He stuck the sweet little gun under my nose. "So you be careful."
He didn't have to tell me to be careful, though maybe it wouldn't make much difference in the long run. The only good thing about this mess was that my hands were tied in front of me. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized I considered that a good thing. But at least it was better than having them twisted behind my back. Maybe the boys had been in a hurry.
My head ached like hell, but my thinking was clear, as clear as it ever gets, and this little ride I was taking had started sinking in all the way. I wanted up on the seat primarily so I could get an idea where we were, but I hadn't yet figured out what good it was going to do me. Not with a torpedo holding a gun on me and my hands and feet tied together. And they weren't just taking me to the boss; this party was for keeps.
I'd been in plenty of spots before, but never one quite like this. I said, "Dutch, it isn't going to make Mace happy if you knock me off."
"It'll make me happy. And I can take care of Mace."
I had to chuckle. I'd had one chance already to take care of Mace and I knew damn well this punk couldn't do it. This punk was taking pretty good care of me, though.
He leaned closer to me. "What's so funny? I just gave up the suicide idea. I'll still use your own popgun, but I think I'll use it on your face first."
I said, "You had to see Mace to get my gun. Did he say you should knock me off?"
"He said I should get you, Scott. And I told you sometimes I don't get things just right. Far as I'm concerned, I'm doing just like he says." He leaned closer. "See this?" He spread his lips and pointed at his broken teeth. "I'm gonna pay you back for that. I always pay guys back. And when I get through with you, you're gonna be awful."
I couldn't help wincing a little. It looked like the boys at the morgue were going to hate to see me wheeled in.
I said, "You're a great one to pay guys back, aren't you? You have a lot of fun tearing up my office?"
"Haven't had so much fun since Grandma got caught in the wringer," he gurgled. "You'll learn, Scott; I'm no guy to mess with."
"Of course not," I admitted. "Not a big cop like you."
He slapped me again and I'd have given my teeth to get my hands on the guy for two minutes. But I kept quiet, leaned back against the cushions, and looked around. It was dark outside, the moo
n still hidden most of the time behind thickening clouds, but in the glow of the headlights I caught a couple of landmarks and knew we were on Benedict Canyon Drive, getting up into the hills. I'd driven here several times before—in happier days—and I knew almost all the road. It was hilly along here and there were steep clifflike drops and sloping ones. Maybe Dutch would let me jump off a cliff. Suicide. I strained at the rope on my wrists, but it was tight.
"Hold still," Dutch said.
"The damn rope's cutting off circulation."
He chuckled. "He's worrying about circulation. I'm awful sorry, Scott. In just a little while I'll fix that."
I shut up. I still couldn't enjoy his conversation.
Dutch added one parting shot. "I've heard about you, Scott. I hear you've talked yourself out of some spots before this. Well, sweetheart, this is one spot you don't talk yourself out of."
I believed him. I honestly and truly believed him. And if I could talk my way out, the only way out was to do something. What, though, wasn't even on the tip of my tongue.
Finally I got it. I wasn't going to get out of it. The bastards were simply going to take me up in the hills and shoot me. Kneel me down, put a gun behind my ear, and blow my brains over the landscape like a prisoner of war in a war with no rules. I was on the wrong side of no man's land.
Then I wondered. We were up in the hills, but up in the hills where? I took another peek around and remembered this stretch of road. We were beyond most of the big estates now, and I recalled driving up here before, only with a six-foot blonde who'd called me "Bully Boy." Up ahead about a mile, I remembered, was a little dirt plot about the size of a parking space where we'd pulled off the road and sat and talked about something or other. Schopenhauer, probably. Beyond the dirt plot, the hillside fell off pretty sharply, then slanted steeply down to an abrupt edge with a fifty-foot drop to the earth below. I remembered being very careful to put the car in reverse, that night with the blonde, and pulling the brake on full. Then damned if she hadn't kicked the brake off.
Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 12