Beware (12 page)

“What ever you say.”

Keeping their grips on Hoffman, they started down the stairs.

“You fuckers aren’t gonna let these guys have me?” he whispered.

“We don’t have much choice.”

“You’re nuts. You don’t know what they’ll do to you. You never been questioned by The Group, man. They’ll stick an electric wire up your dick…”

“Knock it off,” Trankus said.

“You guys are better off shot dead here on the stairs. I’m telling you…”

“Where there’s life, there’s hope,” said Trankus.

“Not if they get you to the compound.”

“Compound?” asked Dukane. “What’s that?”

“Get me out of here, and I’ll take you. A guided fuckin’ tour.”

“You always did have stupid ideas,” Trankus said. “That’s what got you into this mess. How could you have
imagined
you’d get away with it?”

“Done all right, till now.”

“Certainly. Our people have been following your progress, Sammy. For an invisible man, you left a wonderfully visible trail. A word of advice, though it’s a bit late—always conduct your affairs in such a way as to stay out of the news.”

“Thanks.”

They reached the door to the lobby. “Stop,” Trankus said. He stepped past them, and pushed open the door.

They drew curious glances as they crossed the lobby. “Looters,” Trankus explained. That seemed to satisfy the other cops.

In seconds, they were outside.

“What about Lacey?” Dukane asked.

“For Christsake!” Scott snapped.

“Oh, we wouldn’t forget Miss Allen.” When they reached the side street, Trankus said, “This way.” Apparently, he knew just where to find the car.

They walked up the center of the deserted street.

As they neared the car, Dukane saw Lacey watching through a window. He raised a hand as if to scratch his belly, made a fist with his forefinger protruding and worked his thumb up and down.

They reached the car.

“Miss Allen, would you care to join us?” Trankus pressed the muzzle of his revolver against Dukane’s ear.

Dukane nodded.

Lacey swung open the driver’s door. She held Scott’s automatic at her waist.

Dukane threw his arm up, knocking Trankus’s pistol back. The blast deafened him, scorched the nape of his neck. A second blast, from the car, caught Trankus in the chest.

Arthur crouched and aimed at Lacey.

Hoffman started to run.

Scott swung his attaché case, smashing aside Arthur’s pistol.

Dukane tripped Hoffman. As the man tumbled to the street, Scott drove two fingers into Arthur’s eyes, then chopped his throat. Grabbing Trankus’s gun off the pavement, Dukane put a bullet into Arthur’s head.

They retrieved the other weapons.

Then they dragged Hoffman to the car and flung him into the backseat. Dukane climbed in on top of him. Scott shoved Lacey into the passenger seat, and the car sped away.

Lacey sat huddled against the passenger door, shaking as her mind replayed the kick of the pistol, the stunned look on the man’s face when her bullet slammed into him, the way he flopped backward with his hands groping the air. She told herself it was necessary, she
had
to shoot him. That didn’t help. She felt cold and sick.

At first, the car hurled up the street, skidded around a corner, then around another corner. Lacey held tightly to the door handle as the momentum tugged at her.

Then the car slowed to a moderate speed.

“Looks all right behind,” Dukane said.

“Where to?”

“The desert?”

“Which way?”

“This way’s fine. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

Scott nodded, then looked over at Lacey. “How are you doing?”

“Rotten.”

“You did great.”

“Who…who were they?”

“Apparently from some group that’s after Hoffman.”

“Hoffman?”

“Our invisible friend,” Scott said. “His name is Samuel Hoffman.”

“Elsie’s son?”

“That’s right,” Hoffman muttered.

“My God! He did that…butchered her that way? His own mother?”

“She was a cunt,” came the rough voice from the backseat. “Same as you.”

“Shut up,” snapped Dukane.

Turning, Lacey looked around at the man beside Dukane. The hat was gone. So were the sunglasses. The eyeless blur of face looked grotesque and unfamiliar, more like a death’s head than the face of Sammy Hoffman. She quickly turned away.

She hadn’t seen Sammy in nearly ten years, not since the day he attacked Miss Jones. But she remembered the way he always stared at her. Sometimes, he even followed her.

Then came the night in her bedroom. She always liked to open the curtains, after getting into her nightgown, so the sun would fill her room in the morning. This time, when she opened them, she found a monster staring up at her, its nose and cheek mashed crooked against the window screen. She screamed. The hideous face lurched back, its features returning to normal, and she recognized Sammy. “You creep!” she shrieked as he dashed away. “You goddamn creep!”

Her father phoned Sammy’s parents, that night.

They were furious, said they would make Sammy wish he’d never been born. They must have carried out their threat, too; the next morning, Sammy showed up in class with a black eye and welts on his arms.

That was the day he attacked Miss Jones. Lacey never heard for sure, but rumor claimed that he raped the young teacher. Afterward, Lacey felt sick when she thought about it. Had she been to blame, somehow? It only made her feel worse to realize how glad she was that Sammy had chosen the teacher to rape, not her.

Well, he’d got her at last. Over and over again. She pressed her thighs tightly together, as if to prevent him from getting between them once more.

Looking out the windshield, she saw that they had left the city behind. The desert road was dark except for a half-moon and the bright tunnel of the headlights. Off to the sides, the terrain looked bleak and rugged. Saguaro cacti stood in the distance like lonely, disfigured men watching them pass. Occasionally, she saw a house. They were few and dark.

She wished she were home and safe, and Sammy Hoffman far away, locked up where he could never get at her again. Locked up or dead.

“Make a left here,” Dukane said.

Slowing the car, Scott turned onto a narrow, two-lane road.

“We’ll find a place to hole up, get your friend’s story.”

“Gonna write me up?” Hoffman asked.

“Lacey and I,” Scott said, “want to write a book
about you. We want to get your whole story on tape.”

“Don’t waste your time. Laveda, she’ll see you never live to do it.”

“Laveda?” Dukane asked, sounding shocked. “She’s mixed up in this?”

“Mixed up? Hell, she’s it. She’s behind the whole fuckin’ thing. And you’re all on her list, now. They know you’ve been with me. They’ve gotta shut you up. Too bad, huh Lacey? I hate to see good quiff get wasted.”

Lacey heard Hoffman grunt.

“Just pointing out the facts of life.”

Scott glanced at Lacey. “You’ll be okay. We’ll take care of you.”

“Is he right, though? Will they try to kill us?”

“They won’t get us,” Dukane said.

“What’s to stop them?”

“Me and Scott.”

“I’m glad
you’re
so confident,” Lacey said.

“If necessary, we’ll set ourselves up with new identities.”

“I don’t think I’d like that,” she said, and stared out the window. A new identity. No more Lacey Allen, no more Oasis. Life in a strange town, always afraid the truth will be uncovered and the hunters will come. On the other hand, she no longer had strong ties to Oasis. After her parents were killed in a car crash, she’d simply stayed on because the town was familiar and comfortable. Most of her childhood friends had moved on. The job at the
Tribune
was pleasant and secure, but she’d often felt restless,
had thought of heading out for a more challenging job in LA, or San Francisco. Only inertia held her back. Why abandon the safe, routine life of Oasis for the unknown? Someday, maybe. Someday she would just up and leave. Alone, if she had to. But she always imagined a man would come along, one day, and take her hand, and lead her into a new life.

The man, apparently, was Sammy Hoffman. But he didn’t lead her into a new life, he dragged her screaming.

She wished for the old security, the peace she’d known before he came along. But it was gone forever. She’d been terrorized, beaten and raped, she’d seen people butchered, she’d killed a man herself, and now she was faced with a life of hiding.

She suddenly realized, with a mixture of regret and excitement, that she had already lost Lacey Allen. Lacey had died, had been reborn into a new and horrible world. No longer the same person, she deserved a new name.

A natural step, when the rest of your identity has changed so completely. Maybe the new Lacey, whatever her name might be, would make a better life for herself. The old one hadn’t done so well, not really. This was a chance to abandon her old ways, to seek out what she had missed.

“Might not be so bad,” she said.

“What?” Scott asked.

“Starting over.”

“Better than the alternative,” said Dukane.

“Don’t worry about it, Lacey.”

“She better worry about it,” Hoffman said. “You all better. Only way I stayed alive, this long, is’cause I’m invisible.”

“There is another solution,” Dukane said.

“Yeah? I’d like to hear it.”

“Kill Laveda.”

Hoffman made a single, husky laugh. “Sure thing. You saw how easy it is to kill me? All those fuckin’ bullets and here I am, like nothing happened? Well, Laveda made me that way. And next to her, I’m nothing. I bet I don’t have a tenth of her powers. You’re crazy if you think you can kill…”

“Damn,” Dukane muttered. “There’s a car behind us. No headlights. About half a mile back.”

“How long’s it been there?”

“I just spotted it. The moon caught its windshield, I think. Could’ve been on our tail since Tucson.”

“I thought you said we were clear.”

“Thought we were.”

Looking over her shoulder, Lacey glanced at the grotesque, eyeless face of Hoffman and felt the back of her neck prickle. She quickly turned her attention to the rear window. She saw the red glow of their own taillights, the pale moonlit strip of road, but no other car. “I don’t see it,” she said.

“It’s there.”

“Police?” Scott asked.

“Cops wouldn’t run blind.”

“You guys gotta do something,” Hoffman said. He sounded scared. “They got us spotted, they’ll start coming out of the fuckin’ woodwork.”

“Not much woodwork around here,” Dukane said.

“You got no idea, man. No idea. You think we’ve got guys in the cops, we’ve got’em
everywhere.
Every fuckin’ corner of the country. Man, I’m top priority. There ain’t nothing they won’t do to nail my ass. They’ll swarm us. We’ll be dead meat in an hour.”

“Calm down.”

“You gotta get this
paint
off me!”

“Shut up. Scott, cut the lights as we round this bend, then swing off the road. See if we can’t lose’em.”

As the headlights died, Lacey faced front and grabbed her door handle. The car swerved to the left and sped off the road, lurching over the rough ground, slamming down a cactus that stood in the way like a man with upraised arms, bounding over hillocks and landing hard, finally careening down the steep side of a gully. Lacey threw a hand against the dash as the car slid to a stop.

“Watch Hoffman,” Dukane said, and leapt from the car.

“I ain’t going nowhere.”

Lacey saw Dukane scramble to the top of the gully and sprawl flat. She opened the glove compartment. With trembling hands, she took out a cigarette and lit it. She inhaled deeply, held the smoke inside, and slowly blew it out.

Hoffman coughed. “Bad for your health,” he said. Then he laughed softly. “Not that it matters. None of us gonna live long enough for cancer.”

“Shut up,” Scott said.

She was nearly down to the filter by the time Dukane returned.

“It went by,” he said through the window.

“It’ll be back,” said Hoffman. “The fuckers are psychic.”

Ignoring him, Dukane stepped to the front of the car and crouched down. “Oh shit,” he muttered. “I thought so. Broken axle.”

“What’ll we do?” Scott asked.

“Walk.”

They traveled parallel to the road, well away from it so they wouldn’t be spotted if a car should pass. They only saw the road, themselves, when they sometimes reached higher ground.

Scott carried both attaché cases. Dukane, pistol in hand, walked behind Hoffman. Lacey stayed close to Scott, her eyes on the rough ground.

A long time had passed since Lacey’s last hike in the desert. She remembered that time clearly. She was with Brian. They left his car by the road, and walked for nearly an hour in the fresh warmth of early morning. He took photos with his Polaroid: of cacti, of wildflowers, of lizards, of Lacey. They drank wine and ate cheese. The heat and alcohol made her tipsy. When she got tipsy, she got horny. They stripped and took pictures of each other, and that turned her on even more, and finally they spread their clothes on the burning ground and made love.

She looked at Scott, walking slightly ahead and to her right. His shirt clung to his back with sweat. His wallet made a bulge over his left buttock. She remembered the feel of him during those seconds
when they embraced in the hotel room. If only they hadn’t been interrupted…

Three years, now, since she’d taken a man in her arms, into her body.

Except for Hoffman.

He doesn’t count.

She felt his hardness plundering her, and her excitement turned into an icy knot of revulsion. She watched him walking beside Dukane, the back of his head silver in the moonlight, his hands cuffed behind him. He looked undamaged. Why hadn’t the bullets killed him, damn it? She should’ve grabbed Scott’s gun, when they had him down, and pumped a few rounds into his head.

Maybe she still could.

But that would end Scott’s dream of a best seller.

Besides, she didn’t know if she could kill another person—even Hoffman. The look on that man’s face when her bullet hit him…

A dead saguaro lay at her feet like a rotting corpse. She stepped over it.

“Ah ha!” Dukane said, and pointed.

On a distant rise of land stood a small house. Its windows were dark, its stone walls pale. A pickup truck stood in front of it.

“The gods are smiling on us,” Scott said.

Lacey guessed the house was half a mile away, and set far back from the road—far enough, she hoped, so that it hadn’t been noticed by those in the other car. Of course, they must’ve seen its entry drive. Maybe they’d already checked the place and moved on.

The house vanished as she made her way down the side of a gully.

Hoffman grunted. He stumbled, fell headlong, and tumbled to the bottom. “Shit!” he snapped, rolling onto his back. “Fuckin’ handcuffs!”

Dukane pulled him to his feet.

“Get these things off me,’fore I kill myself.”

“That’s hardly likely.”

“Damn it, take’em off! What do you think I’ll do, run for it? Where’ll I go? I’m with you guys, now. You’re my only chance. I wouldn’t break for it if I could, not with The Group on our fuckin’ tails. I’m yours. Get me someplace safe. Man, those bastards are gonna roast me. Just let me have my hands so I don’t bust my damn neck. That asking too much? I ain’t gonna be any good to you guys with a busted neck.”

Dukane took a key from his pocket.

“Don’t,” Lacey warned.

“We’ll cuff him in front.”

“No! For Christsake, he’ll get loose!”

“It’s risky,” Scott said. “He’s stronger than you’d think.”

“Okay. I’ll lay down. How’s that?” Hoffman asked, dropping to his knees. “Can’t run if I’m lying down, right?” He fell forward, landing on his side, and rolled to his belly. “Just put the cuffs in front. That’ll be okay. You oughta try walking in this fuckin’ desert with your hands behind your back, see how you like it.”

Dukane crouched over him.

“Wait!” Lacey said. “Maybe he tripped on purpose.
Just so he’d have an excuse for you to take off the cuffs.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hoffman snapped.

“He didn’t have much trouble before. Now, when we’re in easy shot of a pickup truck, he suddenly can’t stay on his feet.”

“Stupid cunt.”

“Lacey’s right,” Scott said.

“Yeah. Okay, up.”

“Up
yours.
I’m not taking one more step till you change the cuffs. You want to drag me? Go ahead. Have fun.”

“What happened to your spirit of cooperation?” Dukane asked.

“You can fuckin’ carry me.”

“Is that your last word on the subject?”

“Damn right.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Dukane stepped close to Hoffman’s head.

“Are we gonna carry him?” Scott asked.

“I think he’ll decide to walk.”

“Think again, asshole.”

Dukane stomped on his head, smashing his face into the gravel floor of the gully. Lacey cringed, shocked by the sudden violence. As she turned away, Scott took her into his arms. She pressed her face to his chest. Behind her, Hoffman’s yell of pain became hysterical gasping.

“You…you…oh you bastard! I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you!”

“You’ll walk with us,” Dukane said, his voice quiet and calm.

“I’ll tear out your heart, you motherfuckin’…”

Lacey heard a thud, a grunt.

“You…!”

“Time to go,” Dukane said. “You won’t like it, if I lose my patience.”

“It’s all right,” Scott whispered. He eased Lacey away, and she saw Dukane jerking the man to his feet.

“My
f a c e
!”

“Not much loss, Hoffman. Nobody can see it, anyway.”

Hoffman turned to Lacey. She stared at his moonlit face, its eyeless sockets, its snarling mouth, gaps in its forehead and left cheek where the makeup or skin had been scraped off, a few patches of tinted flesh hanging like torn cloth. “Your fault,” he told her. “I’ll get you for this.”

“You’ll get no one,” Dukane said, and shoved him toward the slope.

They climbed out of the gully. The house seemed no closer than before. Lacey wondered if its occupants had heard Hoffman’s outcries. Noise carries far in the desert, just as it does over water. But the windows were still dark. Perhaps the walls of the gully had contained most of the sound. Or maybe those in the house were heavy sleepers.

Lacey hoped the house was deserted. That seemed unlikely, though, with a pickup parked in front.

Along the way, Hoffman fell several more times as if to prove his point. Each time, he cursed the handcuffs that stopped him from catching himself. But he didn’t stay long on the ground. He struggled quickly to his feet, looking around at Dukane.

Finally, they made their way up the low hill to the house. They took a path through the cactus garden at its side.

“Give me your shirt, Scott.”

Without hesitation, Scott took off his shirt and handed it over. Dukane draped it over Hoffman’s head and used his own belt to cinch it around the neck.

“Want me to go around back?” Scott asked.

Dukane shook his head. “Let’s play it straight.” Holstering his pistol, he took Hoffman’s elbow and led the way to the front door. He pressed the doorbell. From inside the house came a quiet ring of chimes.

They waited.

He rang again.

A light came on above the door.

“State your business,” called a voice from inside—the voice of a young woman.

“Our car broke down,” Dukane said. “We’d like to use your phone.”

“I don’t have one. Go on, get out of here.”

“We’re worn out,” Lacey said. “At least let us have some water. We’ve been walking a long time.”

“Use the tap by the garden,” she called. “You’re not getting in here. I saw you coming. You’ve got guns.”

“We’re FBI, ma’am,” Dukane told her.

“Sure. And I’m John Edgar Hoover.”

“She hasn’t got a phone anyway,” Lacey whispered.

“Okay, Scott. Get over there and hotwire the pickup.”

With a nod, Scott turned away.

“All right, lady,” Dukane said. “We’ll leave.”

“That’s just fine.”

Lacey turned to follow Scott, and grabbed his arm as a woman with a double-barreled shotgun lurched upright in the pickup’s bed.

“No you
don’t
!” yelled the woman.