Beware (11 page)

“Get a chair!” he yelled.

Lacey dashed across the room, grabbed a straightbacked chair from beneath the table, and ran with it to Scott. He braced it under the knob.

An instant later, the door thundered. An ax head burst through it, high up, throwing out a shower of splinters.

“You’re mine!” a man’s voice cried out. “Mine, cunt!”

The ax crashed again through the door, this time lower, smashing the chair down from the knob. The door flew open.

Gunfire shocked Lacey’s ears, and she gazed at Scott. He was crouched and snarling, the automatic bucking in his grip as he fired shot after shot at the doorway.

Lacey covered her ears against the gun’s endless roar.

The ax lunged forward, jerking in midair, and dropped to the floor.

“Spray him,” Scott snapped as he braced the door shut.

Kneeling, Lacey aimed the paint can toward the ax. She pressed down the nozzle. A fine, silvery cloud sprayed out and drifted down, spreading into a layer half a foot above the carpet. As she moved the can back and forth, the surface took on features. She saw the heavily muscled, jutting slopes of shoulder blades, and realized she must be kneeling at his head. She gave it a quick blast. The paint misted his thick hair and sprayed cool against her own thighs. With a quick sweep to the right, she coated one of his arms. Then she sprayed the other. Its thick hand still gripped the haft of the ax.

Scott crouched and pried the fingers loose. He held the wrist. “Still has a pulse,” he muttered. “Hit lower, let’s find the wounds.”

Lacey sprayed down the long, tapering expanse of his back. She hesitated at his waist, but only for a moment. Invisibility was his greatest weapon: painting him was like cutting Samson’s hair. The hell with modesty. She sprayed his buttocks.

Then she took her finger off the nozzle and stared at his shiny back, at its three gaping, ragged wounds. Looking into them, she saw the green carpet several inches down. Clear, silverdusted fluid overflowed the holes.

At the shoulder, she saw the crater of a healed gunshot wound. Near the center of his back was a narrow, inch-long ridge. The knife wound from Wednesday night? She touched it, feeling an edge of hardness. A scab? Her finger came away wet with paint. As she wiped it on her shorts, the fire alarm stopped blaring.

She looked at Scott. He shrugged.

In the quiet, she heard distant voices.

“Maybe it’s out,” Scott said, his voice sounding odd in the stillness.

His hands moved from wound to wound. “I missed the heart, thank God. Not much flow. If I didn’t hit a major vessel…” He took off his shirt, and ripped its sleeves off. Folding one of the sleeves into a thick pad, he pressed it tightly to a wound near the side of the back. “Hold it there,” he said. “Hard.”

While Lacey kept the pad in place, he folded his other sleeve and pressed it to a second wound, lower down. Lacey held that one for him. He tore his shirt up the back, and used one of the halves to make another compress. He pushed it against the final wound.

“Right back,” he said. He hurried away and returned seconds later, holding a suitcase. He dropped
it to the floor and threw it open. Crouching, he rummaged through it. He flung out a pair of panty hose, a half slip, several pairs of briefs. “Those’ll do,” he muttered. He took out a leather case, jerked open its zipper, and upended it. Out fell scissors, a plastic container of rubber bands and safety pins, a tiny sewing kit, a tube of Krazy Glue, a Swiss Army knife, and a roll of adhesive tape. “Fantastic!” he blurted. He snapped open the metal canister of tape.

Tearing off a strip, he tried to secure one of the bandages in place. The tape slid on the wet paint. Scott cursed under his breath, then grabbed the torn remnant of his shirt from the floor and swabbed the man’s back, clearing off excess paint around the compresses until each was surrounded by no more than a vague, translucent stain. He tested the tape: it held.

Working together, Scott and Lacey quickly secured the pads to his back.

“Let’s turn him.”

They rolled him onto his back.

“Don’t paint him yet. I’ll work by touch.” He picked up a pair of nylon briefs, scowled, and tossed them aside. Then he pulled a cotton blouse from the suitcase and started to tear off its sleeves. As he folded them into pads, Lacey gazed down at the strange, sprawled shape of the man.

He looked like a legless, one-sided sculpture molded of aluminum foil. Circles of carpet were visible around his bandages. The unreality of the sight made Lacey ner vous. “I want to spray him,” she said. “I’ll stay away from the chest.”

Scott nodded. He bent over, a compress in one hand, reaching down with his other hand like a mime pretending to examine a make-believe patient.

Lacey aimed the paint can at the silver half-shell of the man’s nearest arm, and sprayed. The paint wrapped over it, and the arm was suddenly human. Crawling past Scott, she sprayed the other arm. Then she scurried alongside the body. Using the concave globes of his rump as a guide, she sprayed the tops of both legs. Then she lifted them at the ankles and coated their undersides.

Scott was busy applying the final compress as Lacey shot spray from hip to hip, spreading a silver layer over the man’s groin.

She stared at his penis. It lay to one side. Even flaccid, it looked thick and heavy, much larger than others she’d seen. No wonder it had felt so enormous inside her—ramming painfully, stretching her, making her bleed.

Disgusted, she looked away.

Scott met her eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Down the hall, someone knocked roughly on wood. “Fire’s out,” called a strong voice.

“Quick,” Scott said. “Get the ax.”

Lacey picked it up. Scott grabbed the man’s hands and raised his back off the floor. He dragged him away from the door. He pulled him around a corner of the room, and let him down alongside a wall. Then he took the ax from Lacey. He lifted a corner of the mattress, and hid the ax beneath it.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go see.”

“Just…leave him here?”

“Come on.” Scott slid his automatic under the bed, and hurried to the door. As they stepped into the smoky corridor, a policeman came out of the first room—Hamlin’s room. He pivoted, bringing up his ser vice revolver.

“Thank God you’re h ere,” Scott blurted. “Some maniac…”

“I know.” The cop holstered his pistol.

A fireman with a smudged face stepped out of the room.

“Came after us with a goddam ax,” Scott said. “We were over by the elevators, and…Christ, did you see what he did to those people? He came after us—my wife and I…” Scott put an arm around Lacey. “We barely got away. He tried to bash our door down.”

“What did he look like? Couldn’t get a decent description from the others.”

The fireman walked past them, past their broken door, and knocked on the next door down. “Fire’s out,” he called. “Anybody here?”

“Describe him,” the cop said. Glancing at the fireman, he called, “Don’t go in there without me.”

“Tall, maybe sixtwo. Long dark hair.”

“Caucasian?” the cop asked, writing on his notepad.

“Yes. Maybe thirty years old. He was wearing pajamas. Striped pajamas. Blue and white. I’m not sure, but I think he went out there.” Scott pointed at the fire door across from Hamlin’s room. “Didn’t see
him, but the door made a metal sound, you know, like it was closing.”

“ID?”

“Ours?” Scott asked.

“Please.”

Scott slipped a wallet from his hip pocket. He pulled out the driver’s license and handed it to the officer.

“Name?”

“Scott Bradley.”

“This is your current address?”

“Yes.”

He copied the information, then returned the license. “Thank you, Mr. Bradley, missus. Now you two go on downstairs, see one of the officers in the lobby.”

“Can we get some things from the room?”

“Go ahead.” The policeman stepped past them.

Scott and Lacey entered the room. Scott shut the door.

“Now what?” Lacey asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve got to think. They’re clearing the building. We have to get him out of here, somehow.”

“Why don’t we turn him over to the police?”

“Now? Are you joking? I’ve got to have a few hours alone with him.”

“But…”

“We could make a million bucks off the guy. Nobody’s going to get a crack at him till I’ve had a chance to get his story.”

“If he dies…”

“Bite your tongue,” Scott said.

They stepped around the corner and Lacey looked down at the man. His chest and face were still unpainted. The chest bandages seemed to hang in space above his silver back.

“Okay,” Scott said. “Let’s leave him. We’ll come back and pick him up later.”

Together, they pushed the body under the nearest bed. Scott retrieved his automatic. He shoved it into a front pocket, but the grips protruded. In the suitcase by the door, he found a pink bathrobe. He put it on and belted it. “How do I look?”

The robe was much too small, his shoulders straining the fabric, the sleeves reaching only halfway down his forearms.

“Pink’s your color,” Lacey said.

“We’d better make sure we get back here before the lady,” he muttered, and turned off the lights.

Dukane brought his Cessna Bonanza in for a landing in Tucson, rented an Oldsmobile from Hertz, then sped toward the city.

He pressed a switch to lower the window, and put an arm out to catch the air. The night felt warm and dry.

Tuning in a country music station, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor. A straight, deserted road like this, no reason he shouldn’t get it up to eighty. Cut off a few extra minutes. Might mean the difference to Scott.

Up against an invisible man? The more he thought about it, the crazier it sounded.

How the hell do you make a man invisible?

Even better, how do you nail him?

We shall see, Dukane thought, and began to sing along with Tom T. Hall.

When he reached downtown Tucson, he knew there was too much commotion for 3 a.m. He swung the Olds onto Garfield Street. A block ahead of him, a fire truck and a dozen police cars filled the road. Their spinning domes flung red and blue lights over the crowd of onlookers, splashed their
colors against walls and store windows. Most of the crowd’s attention was focused on the hotel. The Desert Wind. Peering up through the windshield, Dukane saw no trace of fire or smoke. Except for a few broken windows, the hotel looked fine. Whatever had happened was over.

That explained why there was only a single fire truck. The others had already left. This one remained for the mop-up. Its crew might stay for a few hours, checking around, making sure the fire wasn’t still burning secretly inside a wall, ready to blaze up the minute they took off.

But why all the police cars?

Easy. Because more must’ve happened than a fire.

He hadn’t been in time to prevent it. From the look of things, what ever happened must’ve been an hour ago. At least. No way he could’ve arrived in time to help. Christ, he just hoped Scott was all right.

He turned the corner, and found an empty stretch of curb. He pulled over, took his attaché case from the backseat, and walked back to Garfield Street. Crossing to the left side, he made his way through the crowd. Many of the people were dressed in nightclothes, obviously hotel guests who’d been evacuated.

“What happened here?” he asked a man in a bathrobe.

“
Some
excitement, huh? Fire. And I hear some nut went after folks with an ax. Panicked, I guess. Killed half a dozen folks. I saw’em cart out the bodies.”

“How long ago?”

“Seems like hours. All over, now. You should’ve got here sooner. Brought’em out in body bags, just like in the news. All over, now. Hope they’re gonna let us in pretty soon. Got a conference at nine. Can’t very well go dressed like this, can I?”

Dukane shook his head, and moved on.

A hand clapped his shoulder from behind. He whirled around and looked into the haggard, boyish face of Scott.

“Glad you made it,” Scott said.

“Glad
you
did.”

“Dukane, this is Lacey Allen.”

She nodded a greeting. Her hair was mussed, her face dirty or bruised, the tail of her tank top half untucked.

“Let’s go to my car,” he said. “We can talk there.”

“So he’s still in that room,” Scott finished, “unless he walked off.”

“Or the police found him,” said Dukane.

“If they did, they haven’t brought him out.”

“Not that we saw,” Lacey added, and stubbed out her cigarette in the car’s ashtray.

“What’ll we do?” Scott asked.

“If you’re so determined to get his life story, I suppose we’ll have to go up there and bring him out. Lacey, you’d better wait here. They’ll have found the editor’s body in your room. They’ll be looking for you, and we can’t have you pulled in for questioning just now. Scott, take off that silly robe.”

“But my Colt…”

“Leave it with Lacey.”

In the hotel lobby, Dukane showed a false FBI credential to the officer in charge, explaining he needed to retrieve paperwork from his room. He and Scott were allowed to pass.

As they stepped into an elevator, two men in plain clothes joined them. Dukane pushed a button for the fifth floor.

“Which floor?” he asked the men.

“Same.”

The door closed, and the elevator started upward.

“Are you gentlemen guests of the hotel?” asked the taller of the two. He was about forty, with neatly trimmed black hair and the weary, cynical eyes common to cops. He appeared in better shape than his younger buddy. From the thickness of his neck, Dukane guessed that he worked out with weights.

“We’re on official business,” Dukane said.

“ID?”

Dukane showed it.

“FBI, huh? I’m impressed. Aren’t we impressed, Arthur?”

“I know I am,” said Arthur.

“What about you?” he asked Scott.

“Me?” Grinning, Scott scratched his bare chest. “I’m impressed, too.”

The man didn’t look amused. “Got an ID?”

“He’s with me,” said Dukane.

The doors opened, and all four left the elevator.
A uniformed cop nodded to the other pair. He glanced at Dukane and Scott.

“Let them pass,” said the tall one. “FBI.” He pointed to a dark pool of blood. “Try not to step in it.”

“We’ll be careful,” Dukane said.

Scott nodded to the left.

“Hope you catch him,” Dukane told the men, and started away.

“We’re not the FBI, but we sometimes do get our man.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Come along, Arthur.” The pair turned to the right and started up the corridor.

Dukane and Scott walked the other way. As they reached the corner, Dukane glanced back. The uniformed cop was still near the elevator bank. The two in plain clothes had nearly arrived at the far end of the corridor.

“Lucky they didn’t come with us,” Scott said.

“We’re not out of here yet.”

Halfway up the short hall, Dukane spotted the battered door. He entered first, stepping over the strewn contents of a suitcase. Women’s clothing.

Scott pointed to the first bed.

They crouched beside it. Dukane lifted the draping edge of the coverlet. In the space below the bed, he saw a naked, silverskinned man. He grabbed an arm, and dragged the man out.

“Good Christ,” Dukane muttered, staring at the empty face, at the bandages suspended over the hollow chest cavity. He laid a hand on the chest. He
felt the texture and warmth of skin where none was visible, felt the slow rise and fall of breathing. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I never would’ve believed it.”

“Thought I was kidding you?”

“Not exactly. Just figured you were mistaken, somehow. But he’s invisible, all right.”

“How’ll we get him out of here?”

“Won’t be easy. Especially the way he looks.” Dukane swiped a finger over the paint. It was dry. “Got any turpentine?”

Scott made a feeble laugh.

“Too bad he’s not completely invisible when it would do us some good. Where’s your room?”

“Third floor.”

“You still have the key?”

“Sure.”

“Go downstairs and bring up your luggage. You have extra clothes?”

Scott nodded.

“They’ll be a tight fit on this guy, but we can’t haul him out of here looking like this.”

“What about his face?”

“I don’t know. Go get your stuff, though. Take the stairs. I don’t want you running in to more cops.”

Scott stood up. He started to turn away, but hesitated. “You know, Matt…those cops. The plain clothes guys? They looked familiar Tome. I can’t quite place them, but…” He chewed his lower lip. “They worry me.”

“Think about it. In the meantime, get your stuff up here.”

“Right.”

While Scott was gone, Dukane searched the suitcase of the room’s occupant. He found no make up, so he checked the bathroom. There, on a shelf above the sink, was a blue canvas satchel. He unsnapped it, folded it open, and studied the contents neatly arranged inside clear plastic pockets: Q-tips, skin moisturizer, fingernail polish and remover, blush-on, mascara, lipstick, an eyebrow pencil, and a tiny tan bottle of make up base. He took out the bottle of base, dabbed a bit of the fluid onto his fingertip, and tapped it on the mirror. The smudge was opaque, and nearly flesh-colored. A bit too dark, with a reddish tinge, but close enough.

He took the bottle into the bedroom. Kneeling down, he poured the beige fluid onto the man’s face and spread it evenly. The face took form under his fingers. He saw the broad forehead, the prominent cheekbones, the hollow cheeks, the long narrow nose. As he progressed, he wished he had shaved the man. The make up clung to his heavy eyebrows, gave his whiskers the look of spiky, mutated skin.

At the sound of footsteps, Dukane drew his automatic from its shoulder holster. Scott came in, swinging his suitcase and attaché case onto the bed.

“Any trouble?” Dukane asked.

“Didn’t meet a soul. But I remembered about the cops. I saw them at dinner to night.”

“Where?”

“At Carmen’s, a couple of miles from here. They sat at a table across from us. Maybe it’s just a coincidence…”

“A surveillance team.”

“Why would cops be watching Lacey and me?”

“Good question.”

Scott opened his suitcase. He tossed a sport coat, shirt, and a pair of trousers to the floor.

“Sunglasses?”

“Yeah.”

“We could use a hat.”

“He’d better not lose it,” Scott said, and removed a battered, tan fedora from his suitcase. He took out a shirt for himself. “You did a nice job on his face.”

“If those cops were watching you, they might be showing up. Better watch the door. I’ll dress our friend.”

Scott left.

Dukane slid the brown trousers up the man’s legs, tugging to get them over his buttocks. They were a tight fit, but he managed to hook the waist shut. The bulky, silver privates still hung outside the fly. Dukane hesitated, reluctant to touch them. Holding his breath as if he were handling excrement, he tucked the scrotum into the pants, then pushed the penis inside. As he started to withdraw his hand, silver fingers grabbed it and pressed it to the soft flesh.

Dukane jerked his hand away.

The man chuckled.

Backing off, Dukane drew the automatic from his shoulder holster.

“You don’t need that,” said a quiet, raspy voice. “I’m going with you guys.”

“Explain.”

“I been listening. Don’t know who you are, but
you’re not with The Group. You get me out of here, protect me, I won’t give you no trouble. I’ll do whatever you want. You name it. Just don’t let the others take me.”

“A deal,” he said, but didn’t lower the gun. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got the shit kicked out of me. I been shot before, only not this bad.”

“Those wounds should’ve killed you.”

“Not me, man. I’m Sammy Hoffman, Wonder Man. Takes more than a few fuckin’ bullets to switch me off.”

“Can you sit up?”

Grimacing, he pushed himself off the floor. He raised his arms in front of his face, and turned them. “Fuck, man, I look like the Tin Woodsman.”

“Put on this shirt.”

He took it. “Where’s my pal, Lacey?”

“Waiting outside.”

“She going with us?”

“Yes.”

“Oh good.” He drew the shirt taut across his chest and buttoned it. Dukane gave him the sport coat. “You guys gonna try and walk me out of here?”

“That’s the idea.” He found a pair of socks in Scott’s suitcase, and tossed them to Hoffman.

“Those bastards from the Group’ll give us trouble.”

“We’ll handle it.”

“Man, you better. They want my ass.” He finished putting on the socks.

“Put your hands on top of your head.”

“Hey, come on.”

“Do it,” Dukane said, and tugged handcuffs out of his rear pocket. He stepped behind Hoffman, pulled one arm down behind him, cuffed it, then brought down the other arm and snapped the second bracelet around its wrist.

He put the sunglasses on Hoffman’s face, concealing the empty eye sockets. Then he placed Scott’s old fedora on the man’s head. “Okay, on your feet.”

Hoffman stood up.

Dukane led him to the door, where Scott was crouched and peering through the ax holes.

“Any sign of our friends?”

“Looks clear.” Scott turned, glanced at Hoffman, and wrinkled his nose. “He doesn’t look like much.”

“It’s the best I can do. He’ll pass, as long as nobody gets a close look.”

“Long as they’re a mile off.”

“Better leave your luggage here.”

“Gotta bring my galleys. And recorder.” He hurried away, and returned a few seconds later with his attaché case.

They left the room, Dukane holding Hoffman’s right arm, Scott his left. Dukane shoved open the fire door.

Two revolvers pointed at his chest. Two men grinned.

“Greetings,” said the taller one. “Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there.”

They stepped onto the landing.

“Well Arthur, looks like the FBI got their man—
our
man. Tough rocks, Sammy. That
is
you, I take it.”

“Go fuck yourself, Trankus.”

“You’re not an easy guy to catch. I must thank you fellows, and of course Miss Allen, for being of such invaluable assistance.”

“Glad to help,” Dukane said. He glanced at Scott. “Don’t try anything.”

Scott nodded.

Arthur frisked him, taking his knife. Then he took away Dukane’s automatic and switchblade.

“Very good,” said Trankus.

“Glad to cooperate with the police.”

“Now, let me lay out our alternatives. Arthur and I are, of course, bona fide members of the Tucson Police Department. As such, we’ll be able to walk you three gentlemen out of the hotel, no questions asked. We will then transport you to the destination of our choice.”

“Not the police station, I assume.”

“True. You’re a bright fellow, probably not FBI at all.”

“Just a regular guy.”

“Valuable catches, all three of you. Wonderful bonuses for us, if we deliver you intact. On the other hand, Sammy is top priority. You two are quite expendable, whoever you are. Therefore, if you make any attempt to resist us, we shall cheerfully expend you. Right now, if you prefer.”

“We won’t resist,” Dukane said.

“Excellent. You two hold onto Sammy, and precede us down the stairs. When we reach the lobby, we’ll leave by the main door.”