Stealing Faces

by Michael Prescott

  Elizabeth didn’t know, had no time to think about it.

  “It’s okay, thanks,” she said meaninglessly, and again she was running for her room.

  She reached it and found her key and flung open the door. Crossing the threshold, she realized distantly that the shredded newspaper was still in her hand. She dropped it on the floor and found this morning’s outfit scattered on two armchairs and a table—skirt, blouse, jacket.

  Quickly she scooped up all three items and ran to the big suitcase on the folding stand. She thrust the clothes inside.

  Maybe it was stupid to take the time to salvage her things. Maybe she would be better off just running now, leaving everything behind.

  But she had almost no money left. How could she replace her wardrobe? She didn’t have much as it was. She had to save what she could. She—

  A presence.

  Behind her.

  She sensed it, felt it.

  Detective Shepherd—he was here, he was in the room with her, and she’d lost her last chance, she was finished, she could never get away.

  Slowly Elizabeth turned, dread numbing her, and she saw the man in the doorway, limned in the afternoon glare.

  Not a detective.

  Detectives wore suits and were neatly groomed and said things like Don’t move, you’re under arrest.

  This man was clad in khaki trousers and a lime-green shirt, and there were deep sweat stains under his armpits, and he wasn’t saying anything at all.

  A tall man, as the maid had said. A man who, like Shepherd, had come looking for her.

  Elizabeth stood frozen, staring at him, uncertain what to think or what to do.

  “Kaylie,” the man whispered.

  The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she knew him suddenly. She remembered.

  He was one of Cray’s patients—yes—the one who was a permanent fixture at the hospital. He’d entered her room—her cell—several times to change the bedding, while she huddled in a corner, watching, hoping he wouldn’t notice the marks of tampering on the grille of the air duct.

  Walter. That was his name. She used it now, in the feeble hope of establishing a connection with him.

  “Walter,” she said. “Hello.”

  He took a step forward.

  Somewhere an impatient voice was screaming at her that she had no time for this, because the policeman would be coming, might be on his way already.

  She ignored it.

  The policeman was not her biggest problem at the moment.

  Walter was.

  Walter, who held her pinned in his unblinking stare. Walter, who was so tall, so powerfully built, whose large hands hung at his sides, the fingers slowly curling and uncurling.

  “Kill her,” Walter said, his tone quite normal, the words stated casually and calmly. “Break her neck.”

  Then with astonishing speed he closed the gap between them, his big hands rising, and she ducked and pivoted away from him, grasping the first object within reach, the large suitcase, and swung it at him, the lid still open, clothes and toiletries spilling everywhere as the heavy canvas case struck him solidly in the gut.

  He grunted, grasped the suitcase in both hands, yanked it away, tossed it on the bed.

  “Kill her,” he said again. “Break her neck.”

  He lunged. She stumbled backward. The bathroom door was behind her, and she pushed it open and darted inside, then shut the door and fumbled for the lock, but there was no lock, damn it, the door didn’t have a lock and now Walter was pressing hard against the other side, his weight and his strength overpowering her, forcing her back, the door easing open and nowhere to run, the room so small and no window and no exit.

  “Kill her. Break her neck.”

  Stop saying that! she wanted to shout. Just shut up and stop saying it and go away!

  He was in the bathroom with her, no expression on his face, no light in his eyes, a huge man who was an automaton in the grip of a trance, and he swiped at her, clutching at her hair, loose strands whisking through his fingers as she spun away from him, trying to maneuver in the tight confines of the room.

  Flash of action, his left arm streaking toward her face. She whipped sideways, the blow connecting only with the mirror above the sink, silvered glass fracturing, and she had time to think I’m okay before pain walloped her hard on the back of her head—his right hand, delivering a palm heel strike—and in a plunge of dizziness she staggered through the doorway and collapsed on the floor between the bed and the TV stand.

  She was aware of numbness alternating with jolts of pain, and of the feeble clawing movements of her hands on the short-nap carpet, and of bubbles of nausea popping in her throat and leaving a sour taste.

  Aware of all this, but not really, because there was no person to register these separate facts. There was no Elizabeth or Kaylie or whoever she thought she was. There was only pain and desperation and then, strangely, one lucid thought.

  This is what Cray does to them.

  To his victims. That was what she meant.

  He’d told her how he liked to strip them to their essence. She hadn’t understood. She did now.

  Then the pain was gone, replaced by a cold anger that cleared her mind.

  She wouldn’t let him win. Had to get up, run, run now.

  But her body wouldn’t obey. Her arms and legs trembled with weakness. She could not find the strength to stand.

  Blinking, she turned her head. Walter was still in the bathroom, wrapping his left arm in a small hand towel. He’d cut himself on the mirror’s shards.

  He tied the towel in place, then looked benignly at her. He seemed to be in no particular hurry, and of course he wasn’t, because he was a schizophrenic and time did not exist for him.

  “Kill her,” he said, as if reminding himself. “Break her neck.”

  She was getting tired of hearing that.

  * * *

  “You remember her?” Shepherd said, keeping his voice calm.

  The manager shrugged. “Sure do. Maybe nine-thirty, she comes sashaying in here, asking for a room. So I think she’s a hooker, right? And I don’t want hookers. My husband and me, we run this place, and it’s not the Hilton, I grant you, but it’s respectable.”

  “Did you give her a room or not?”

  “Room thirty-seven. Left side of the building, first floor. Sort of close by, so I could walk past now and again and check on it. Any noise, any funny business, and she’d be out of here. But it’s been quiet all day. What’d she do?”

  “Never mind that. I need a spare key.”

  “You bust up the place, you pay for it.”

  “I’m not going to bust up anything.” Shepherd took his cell phone from his pocket and used the speed dialer to call Alvarez at his desk. As the phone rang at the other end of the line, Shepherd asked, “What name did she register under?”

  “No name. No registration. She paid cash up front. That’s another reason I pegged her for a whore. Now, seeing how you’re after her, I’m guessing maybe she’s something a whole lot worse.”

  Shepherd heard a click as the phone was picked up, then a snap of chewing gum and a laconic voice saying, “Alvarez.”

  “I found her.”

  “What took you so long?”

  “That’s funny. I need you and a patrol unit right away.”

  “I’ll bring Galston and Bane, the ones who I.D.’d her. They’re still here filling out the report. It’ll be a nice little reunion for Miss McMillan, don’t you think?”

  Shepherd nodded. “She’ll be thrilled.”

  33

  Walter came out of the bathroom.

  Elizabeth twisted onto her side, making one last effort to stand, knowing it was hopeless.

  “Kill her,” Walter said.

  Where was Detective Shepherd anyway? For the first time in twelve years, arrest was not her greatest fear.

  Walter bent over her. His hands, so huge, loomed like figments of a nightmare.

  “Break
her neck.”

  She drew up both legs and delivered a double kick to his midsection, aiming for his groin.

  He only blinked, perfunctorily acknowledging the blow.

  She scooted back, banging her head on the base of the TV table—another shimmer of pain—but fleeting, insignificant, as Walter stooped lower, closing for the kill.

  Nowhere to retreat. Behind her, only the table and the wall and a tangle of insulated wires—the power cord and cable connection for the color TV.

  She grabbed the wires with her right hand, not knowing why. They couldn’t help her, not when Walter was reaching out, his eyes level with hers, his bald head gleaming like a bullet.

  Her grip on the wires tightened, and she pulled, straining, the muscles of her arm and shoulder bursting with sudden, desperate exertion.

  The wires were screwed into the back of the TV, and the TV was bolted to the tabletop, and the table was tall and narrow and just a bit unsteady, and she felt it move.

  Hands on her throat.

  Walter on top of her, foul breath in her face, pressure shutting off her windpipe.

  “Kill her. Break her—”

  The table rocked, tilting back, banging the wall.

  Walter glanced up.

  The table swayed forward, top-heavy with the weight of the TV, and Elizabeth tore free of the hands that held her and gave the taut cords a final, violent yank.

  She heard Walter make a small noise, something midway between a grunt and a groan—a scared, childish noise that made her feel almost sorry for him.

  Then the table pitched forward, the TV cracking free of its bolts, and the picture tube exploded around Walter’s head in a brief, sizzling fury of sparks and smoke.

  He slumped, maybe unconscious, maybe dead.

  Elizabeth was pinned beneath him. She thrashed and flailed, fighting to wriggle free. The man was two hundred pounds of dead weight, with the table and the ruined TV fixing him in place.

  He stirred.

  Alive.

  Regaining consciousness.

  And she was still stuck beneath him, his heavy midsection and legs draping hers.

  She had to liberate herself, and do it now.

  Gasping, she twisted onto her side and dug her fingers into the short carpet fibers and clawed until she had a secure handhold, then dragged herself forward an inch at a time.

  Walter murmured, his face showing a flicker of animation before going slack again.

  She got one leg free, then planted her shoe against his shoulder and used the leverage to pry loose her other foot.

  Now get out. Get out now.

  She tried to stand, but at first the effort overwhelmed her, and she fell on one knee.

  Walter moaned.

  On her second try she stood without falling. Some blind reflex guided her to her purse, which she had dropped on the counter when she was packing her suitcase in a rush.

  There was no time to salvage her belongings now. Half of them lay scattered across the bed and the floor.

  The purse was all she could take with her, all she had left.

  She sprinted for the door, then heard a clatter of wood and glass behind her, and turned instinctively to look back.

  Walter was on his feet. He’d come fully alert, swept clear of the table and the smashed television set, lurched upright. And he had done all this in less time than she had taken to cross ten feet of carpet.

  Run.

  Outside, into the glare and heat, fishing her car keys from her purse and stumbling, her shoes pounding asphalt, heart vibrating like a plucked wire, currents of dizziness all around her.

  Then she was at her car, thrusting the key at the keyhole of the door on the driver’s side, and Walter was loping toward her in a coltish, loose-limbed gait, covering ground with deceptive speed.

  The key turned, the door unlocked, and she was behind the wheel, trying to find the ignition slot, missing it, missing again.

  Her hand was shaking wildly, and strands of hair had fallen in hectic disarray across her face.

  Finally she got the damn key in the slot, and she cranked the ignition and heard the motor rev and fail.

  It wouldn’t start, the damn car wouldn’t start.

  This had happened before. The Chevette was old. It had been used hard for many years. Sometimes she had to nurse the engine to get it to turn over.

  Walter was ten feet away.

  “Come on, Kaylie,” she whispered, “do this right.”

  Distantly she realized that she had just called herself by her true name for the first time in a dozen years.

  She took a long, slow breath and forced herself to turn the key slowly while gently, gently depressing the gas pedal.

  A feeble growl, the motor coming alive, then a cough and a rattle and silence.

  Slap of a hand on the windshield, Walter’s left hand, leaking blood from the cuts on his arm, leaving long pink smears on the glass.

  Elizabeth pumped the accelerator slowly, slowly.

  The door shook. Walter had grabbed the handle, but miraculously she had locked it after entering, though she had no recollection of doing so.

  She pumped again, in a careful rhythm, the way she had taught herself. No panic. Panic would kill her.

  Walter snarled.

  His face had been empty of expression before, but there was rage stamped on it now, a crazed fury born of years of frustration, of being unable to follow directions or answer simple questions or understand what other people were talking about, and now even in the simple task he had set for himself—kill her, break her neck—he had failed, he had once again been humbled by the world, and he hated her for it.

  Elizabeth keyed the ignition. The motor struggled. Wavered.

  Walter smacked the driver’s-side window with his fist, and a loose mosaic of hairline cracks shivered through the safety glass.

  Another blow would open the window, and his hands would plunge inside and tear her apart.

  The motor caught.

  She slammed the gear selector into reverse, and the Chevette squealed backward, her foot flooring the gas.

  * * *

  Through a fog of tears Walter watched the red car drive away.

  He tasted defeat, a familiar flavor. He had been defeated at nearly everything, and now this too. But this time the sting of defeat was worse. On past occasions when he had disappointed himself, he had known only shame. This time there was fear also.

  He had ventured well beyond the narrow boundaries Dr. Cray had circumscribed. He had taken a risk and had lost.

  Dr. Cray would be angry.

  The thought started Walter running in a clumsy, loose-limbed trot. He had no particular destination in mind. He merely had need of speed and exertion, so he ran across the parking lot, finally reaching the curb, where he found himself at the side street where he had parked.

  His car, the car Dr. Cray in his kindness had purchased for him, waited a few yards away.

  Walter hoped Dr. Cray would not take back the car. He hoped Dr. Cray would not be too terribly upset.

  Most of all, he hoped Dr. Cray would not take matters into his own hands, would not attempt to track down the dangerous Kaylie McMillan all by himself.

  “She’s vicious,” Walter said, finding the exotic word somewhere in the lower reaches of his memory. “She’s a vicious, vicious person. She could hurt Dr. Cray.”

  Maybe she was on her way to Dr. Cray’s office right this very moment. Maybe she meant to kill him.

  With that thought, all concern for himself vanished from Walter’s mind, and he hurried to his car, eager to return to Hawk Ridge and protect Dr. Cray, protect him from Kaylie McMillan, protect him at any cost.

  34

  “We’re on our way,” Alvarez said. “ETA in fifteen.”

  Shepherd ended the call and pocketed the phone. The manager handed him a passkey.

  “Like I said, room thirty-seven.”

  “Left side of the building?”

  “Yeah. You’
re not going in alone, are you?”

  “I’m not that much of a hero. Think I’ll just walk past her room, see if I hear any activity inside.”

  “She’s been quiet all day. You plan on telling me what she’s wanted for?”

  Shepherd remembered the phone conversation he’d interrupted. “Illegal gambling,” he said, keeping the smile off his face. “Placing bets with a bookie. We’re really cracking down on that.”

  The manager frowned, unsure whether to believe him. Shepherd left her to think about it.

  Outside, he took a moment to readjust to the glare and open space. Then casually he started walking toward room 37, where a woman who’d been a fugitive for twelve years was about to end her run.

  Room numbers glided past on his left. 42 ... 41 ...

  He turned a corner.

  Her room was three doors down.

  39.

  He could see her door now.

  38.

  Her open door.

  “Shit,” Shepherd breathed, and he knew right then that he’d lost her.

  He turned, his gaze sweeping the parking lot for any sign of a blonde woman. There was no one.

  Slowly he approached the open door. His gun was in his hand, its weight reassuring. He had slipped it free of his armpit holster without conscious intention.

  At the door he called loudly, “Police.”

  No answer.

  She could be inside, could be hiding, could even be lying in ambush. The prudent thing was to wait for Alvarez and the two street cops.

  Hell. He knew she was gone. Call it intuition.

  He entered the room, the pistol high and leading him, and saw an overturned table, a smashed television set, a suitcase flung open on the bed, clothes and sundries strewn over the floor.

  Distantly he recalled the manager telling him not to bust up the place. He hadn’t planned to, but Kaylie seemed to have had other ideas.

  Shepherd searched the room with swift efficiency and determined that Kaylie was not hiding anywhere. He noted the broken mirror in the bathroom, the rust-colored dabs of blood on the carpet.

  “She had a party, all right,” he murmured grimly. He thought of the Lexus vandalized in Cray’s garage. The pattern here was similar.