Blind Pursuit (24 page)

“When the police found Lincoln, he had the gun in his hand; I’d wedged it into his fingers with the muzzle under his chin, or where his chin used to be. Next to him, there was the body of a boy my age, wearing my clothes, with my wallet. His hair was brown, not blond like mine, but the shotgun blast had scattered most of it, and I’d gathered up the rest and fed it to the creek.

“Lydia’s hospitalization ensured that she was in no condition to view the body. The only people who looked at it were cops, coroners, and morticians, none of whom had known me.”

“So you got away with it.”

“Well, there was one thing that had me worried for a while. One of the papers reported that the police were trying to find a boy named Harold, last seen with me.”

“You must have anticipated that.”

“Not entirely. People entered and left the camp all the time. Nobody kept track of anyone. There was no organization, no one in charge. As it turned out, that’s what saved me. The kids interviewed by the police knew nothing about the missing boy except his first name. They couldn’t agree on his description, and they didn’t even know he was from Oregon; I was the only one he’d talked to at any length. The cops had nothing to go on; there were a million long-haired teenagers named Harold. I was safe.”

“Safe,” Erin echoed softly.

“And free. Free of Lincoln. Free of the past.”

But she knew he had never emancipated himself from his father or his childhood. And at some level, she was certain, he knew it, too.

“Gund had an Oregon driver’s license,” he went on quietly. “No photo on it, fortunately; that particular innovation postdates the sixties. There was only a typed inventory of physical characteristics. The one serious discrepancy between his appearance and mine was hair color, as I mentioned. When I got a new license eventually, I passed that off as a clerical error.”

“Where did you go?”

“New Mexico, Colorado, Nevada ... all over. I hitchhiked, did odd jobs, got hassled by local cops. The transient’s life. Not as glamorous as it looks in the movies. Eventually I got sick of all that. I settled in Wisconsin, found myself a janitor’s job at a university. Worked there for twenty years. You’ve read the clippings. You know what I did on the side.”

“What made you relocate to Arizona?”

“You and Annie. I was looking for you.”

Stalking us, she corrected silently. “After all that time? But ... you never even knew us.”

“Maybe I wanted to.”

“Why?”

No answer.

Let it go, she told herself. She knew his reason. She had no need to hear him say it.

Except she wasn’t sure. The pieces didn’t quite fit.

And she had to know.

“What is it you feel for us, Oliver?” she asked, leaning forward.

“Feel? Nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

“You ask me questions, and you won’t accept my answers.”

“Because the answers are incomplete. You went to a lot of trouble to bring me here.”

“For help. For therapy.”

“There are other therapists. Why me? Why a member of the family?” No response. “You took a risk working for Annie. There was at least a slight chance she would identify you. People don’t do things—difficult things, dangerous things—without a motive. What’s yours? What do we mean to you?”

“Nothing,” he said again. “You mean
nothing
.”

She could see the denial in his face, in the twisted pose of his body.

“You want to believe that,” she breathed, “but I don’t think you do.”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe.”

She would not be deterred by his hostility. She was on the trail of something important, something hidden from her and from Oliver himself; regardless of the consequences, she had to uncover it, had to bring it into the light.

“Annie and I were born in 1966,” she said slowly, “when you were still living at home. Did you ever see us as babies? Did our parents bring us to the ranch?”

“No, never.”

That surprised her. “Maureen never visited Lydia?”

“Not after you were born.”

“How about before then?”

A shrug. “Once.”

“Was she pregnant?”

“No. She wasn’t even married yet.” He shifted in his seat, and his blue eyes flashed. “None of this is relevant to anything.”

It was, though. She knew it was, though she couldn’t see how or why.

“You remember her visit,” she said. “She must have made some sort of impression on you.”

“Not really.”

“Did you talk with her? Spend time with her?”

“Of course not. I was just a kid.”

“She was an attractive woman. Maybe you had a crush on her.”

“There was nothing ... nothing like that.”

He seemed less sure of himself. Erin felt confident she was circling closer to the truth.

“Maureen looked like me in some ways,” she said tentatively. “Do I remind you of her?”

“No.”

“Does Annie?”

“No, goddammit.”

He was lying. She was certain of it.

“You did feel something for her,” Erin whispered, “didn’t you, Oliver?”

He shook his head without answering.

“And what you felt for Maureen—you feel it for us, too. For Annie and me.”

“No.”

“You look at us, and you think of her.”

“No.”

“You see Maureen in us. Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Don’t you, Oliver?”

“I ... no, I ... it’s not ...” He averted his face from her. Tremors shook his body. “It isn’t ... isn’t ... oh, Jesus. Oh, my God.”

A change came over him then. His eyes widened in surprise, his gaze focusing inward, and Erin knew he was doing something rare and astonishing; he was looking inside himself, seeing the truth that had been long concealed from his conscious awareness.

And suddenly she was afraid. She had pushed him recklessly, almost forgetting the risk, carried away by the sheer exhilaration of an intellectual challenge.

Now she wondered how his new perspective on himself—whatever it might be—would upset his precarious equilibrium.

“My God,” he said again, numbly. “My God.”

“Oliver?”

“I never knew. I never even knew.”

“Oliver, talk to me.”

“All these years”—he spoke in a robot’s monotone—“and I never knew.”

His gaze shifted its focus. Suddenly he was looking at her. Seeing her with new eyes.

“You’ve been right all along, Doc.” He nodded slowly, mechanically. “And I’ve been deceiving myself. Afraid to face the truth. I’ve been blind. For years ... for twenty years ... so goddamned blind.”

“Oliver, I want to know how you’re feeling right now. I want to know—”

“Feeling?” A catch in his voice. “How I’m feeling?”

He stood, and once again she was aware of how big he was and how very dangerous. She drew back in her chair, scared now, heart pounding.

“I’ll show you how I feel,” he breathed, the words gathering force as he squeezed them through gritted teeth. “I’ll show you, you goddamned whore.
I’ll show you!
”

He seized her by the shoulders, wrenched her upright, the pinch of his fingers painful and startling.

Her involuntary cry was stifled by his mouth on hers. A hot, searing pressure, mashing her lips, stifling breath, smothering her.

She stood rigid in his arms, every muscle locked against the instinctive impulse to twist free.

He broke away. Gasping, she stared at him, at the confusion of emotions shredding the smooth mask of his face—desire and revulsion, hatred and need.

“That’s how I feel,” he croaked. “How I feel. How I feel.”

For some unmeasurable stretch of time they watched each other, their gazes locked.

Then a ripple of muscle spasms danced lightly over his shoulders. His body jerked toward the door.

Slam, and she was alone.

She heard the rattle of the key, the softer jangle of the chain lock, the hasty retreat of his footsteps up the stairs.

Trembling, she waited, afraid of his return, until she heard the muffled growl of the van’s engine. She didn’t relax until the motor noise had faded into silence.

Then slowly she sank back into the chair, wiping her mouth with her hand, trying to erase the lingering residue of his kiss. Head lowered, she fought off vertiginous waves of nausea.

Going to rape her. Christ, she’d been sure he was going to rape her.

Unquestionably he was capable of it. With his psychosis, his violent tendencies, his background of parental abuse ...

Parental abuse.

She blinked, then blinked again, and there it was, the puzzle’s final piece.

“Of course,” she murmured.

Oddly, she felt no surprise. She had known already. Known without knowing. Without wanting to know.

Her analysis of his psychology had approached the truth. But at its core it had been wrong. Utterly, devastatingly wrong.

She saw that now. And something else.

The next time he visited her, she would die.

His feelings for her, liberated now after years of ruthless repression, were too intense. They cut fatally close to the heart of his insanity. They would drive him inexorably to kill.

To kill her ... and Annie, too.

46

Frantic.

Gund stamped the gas pedal to the floor, careening north. He didn’t look at the speedometer needle, didn’t want to see it pinned to the far right of the dial.

He had no idea where he was going. All that mattered was to put distance between himself and the ranch. If he returned to it tonight, Erin would die.

Leaving her unharmed had exhausted nearly the last reserves of his willpower. Even now he wasn’t sure he could hold out against the ugly impulses churning inside him, wasn’t sure he could resist the urge to turn the van around.

Gasoline in the rear compartment. Two cans. More than enough to do the job.

He didn’t want to think about that. But it was hard not to, agonizingly hard.

His fingers tingled and itched. His neck burned. In his ears was a faraway chiming, elusive and mysterious.

All day long he’d been on edge. And after what he’d done with Erin—the meeting of their lips, the pressure of his mouth on hers—

Until the moment when he’d pulled her close, he had never known what he wanted from her, wanted and desperately needed. He’d been blind to his true nature, blind to the origins of his compulsion ... willfully blind, afraid to face the ugly reality of what he was. Although he had tracked down Erin and Annie Reilly, although he had become part of their lives, he’d never admitted the full reason for their hold on him.

The burnings had been bad, but the twisted needs that lay at the root of his crimes were still worse.

Better to splash his victims with gas and toss a lighted match than to ... to ...

“Fuck,” he whispered, testing the word, a word he had not used—not once—since he was fifteen years old.

The muttered obscenity drew the muscles of his groin tighter. He shifted in the driver’s seat.

Turn around. He had to turn around, go back, fuck her. Fuck her and then burn her,
burn her
—

“I won’t,” he murmured, his eyes misting. “I won’t do it. I
won’t
.”

Tension racked his body. He couldn’t fight himself much longer.

But perhaps he didn’t have to.

There might be a way out. A way to find relief.

His photo. His special picture.

Yes. Go home. Remove the photograph from its hiding place. And then ...

He knew what he would do.

Would it be enough? He wasn’t sure. But it was his last hope.

As he swung off Houghton Road onto 22nd Street, he glanced at the dashboard clock: 8:15.

His apartment was only fifteen minutes away—ten, if he maintained this reckless speed.

And if a traffic cop should pull him over ...

He fingered the shotgun mounted under the dash, then lightly touched the handgun in his pocket.

Any cop who tried to ticket him would be dead. Anyone who interfered with him tonight, anyone who
fucked
with him ...

Dead.

47

Annie had trouble finding a parking space in Gund’s neighborhood. Finally she pulled into a curbside slot on a side street, outside a used-car lot protected by a security fence and a restless Doberman. Her dashboard clock glowed 8:05 when she killed the engine.

The guard dog growled at her through the fence as she walked swiftly to the corner. She turned east and hurried past a dreary row of brick houses, their sandy lots bordered by chain-link fencing. Graffiti clung to walls and utility poles like patches of black fungus. From some homes the drone of a television or radio was audible, the voices on the broadcasts always in Spanish.

Gund’s apartment was a ground-floor unit at the front corner of a two-story stucco building. His windows were dark, his curtains drawn.

No fence around the place—that was one obstacle she wouldn’t have to contend with, anyway—but covering the front windows were iron security bars.

Impossible to get in that way, and she lacked the skills to pick the lock on the door. Maybe she would find some means of access at the side of the unit.

A narrow passageway ran between the apartment building and the house next door. Through the wall of the house bled the loud, insistent blare of Mexican music. Shadows of human figures flitted across the lowered window shades like drifting clouds of smoke.

Annie crept down the passage, past a wheeled trash bin and another barred window, then stopped at what must be Gund’s bathroom window. It was a slender rectangle of frosted glass, five feet off the ground, sealed shut, and unbarred.

She studied the window, uncertain if it was wide enough for her to squeeze through. She thought it was—just barely.

For a moment she hesitated. Was she really going to do this?

Then her resolve stiffened. For Erin she would. For Erin.

The music from next door ought to cover the sound of breaking glass. All she needed was a way to smash the window. Should have brought the jack from the trunk of her car, but she hadn’t thought of it.

She’d make a lousy burglar, she decided. She wasn’t even dressed right.

A black jumpsuit would have been the appropriate attire. She was still wearing her clothes from work—a brightly colored cotton skirt and a floral-print blouse. The blouse would look good in the mug shot, at least.

The small joke made her frown. There wasn’t going to be any mug shot. Everything would be fine, and there was no reason, absolutely none, for her hands to be trembling.

They trembled anyway as she rummaged through the trash bin and found someone’s gooseneck lamp, the cord badly frayed. She hefted the lamp experimentally. It seemed sturdy enough to do the job.

Leaning against the bin, drawing a slow breath to compose herself, she felt a hand on her arm.

“
Jesus.”

She swung around, instinctively raising the lamp as a weapon, and saw two green eyes staring at her from a foot away.

Cat’s eyes. An alley cat, that’s all it was, just an alley cat that had climbed atop the bin and touched her with its paw.

“Oh, God, puss, you scared me.”

The cat sniffed her clothes, unafraid. Annie realized the scent of her own house cat must have drawn the stray’s attention.

“His name is Stink,” she whispered. “He’s got green eyes like yours—and mine. Maybe the three of us are related.”

The cat appeared unimpressed with this hypothesis.

“Okay now, scoot. Scoot.”

Gently she brushed the cat away. It bounded off the bin and meandered a few yards down the passageway, then stood watching, a silent spectator.

Her conversation with the cat, one-sided though it had been, had calmed her somewhat. She always felt soothed in the presence of a feline, whether Stink or this mangy stray. Cats were good for the soul. Maybe if Harold had a cat, he wouldn’t—

A new worry froze her. How did she know he didn’t own a cat? Or worse, far worse, a dog? A guard dog, even, like that Doberman at the auto lot?

She might enter the apartment only to find herself pinned to a wall, fangs at her throat.

Then she shook her head firmly. “That won’t happen. Come on, girl. No more procrastination.”

A quick breath of courage, and she turned to face the window. Holding the lamp by its base, she jabbed the glass. The window cracked on her first attempt, crumbled to shards with a second, stronger thrust. Both sounds were largely swallowed by the wail of mariachi horns next door.

Carefully she swept the frame clear, using the metal neck of the lamp, then rolled the Dumpster under the window and climbed onto the lid.

A glance at the far end of the passageway revealed two green eyes still burning against the dark.

“Wish me luck,” she whispered to the cat.

Its answering meow heartened her.

Gingerly she inserted one leg through the window, then the other. Inch by inch she wriggled in, holding fast to the sill, her feet probing until they found a smooth, sturdy surface. Resting on it, she was able to release her grip on the sill and draw her upper body, her arms, and finally her head inside.

She found herself squatting on the porcelain lid of the toilet tank. For several breathless seconds she waited tensely, until she felt reasonably confident that no German shepherd was about to charge out of the dark and savage her throat.

Then she stepped cautiously onto the seat of the commode and hopped to the floor.

She was in.

It was a strange feeling to be alone in the dark in an unfamiliar home—uninvited, an intruder, a trespasser.

She listened for sounds of movement elsewhere in the apartment. Heard nothing but the Mexican music and, overhead, a creak of restless footsteps.

Had Gund’s upstairs neighbor heard the window shatter or glimpsed her sneaking in? Dialed 911? Reports of a prowler were given top priority; response time would be short.

The footsteps continued, back and forth, back and forth, registering no urgency. Annie decided the tenant was merely pacing.

It must drive Harold crazy to hear that all night, she reflected, before reminding herself that he might be crazy anyway.

Okay. Search the place. Fast.

She was in a hurry to get out. The apartment, closed up all day, was hot and stuffy; she found it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was fear that shut her throat. Suddenly her certainty that Gund would not return for hours seemed baseless, mere wishful thinking. For all she knew, he was on his way home right now. Might be outside the front door, inserting his key in the lock—

“Quit it,” she whispered harshly. “Get to work.”

Her hand on the wall switch, she hesitated.

Turn on the lights? It seemed dangerous. If Gund did return, he would see the lighted windows from the street.

But not this window. Only those in front.

She decided on a compromise. She would use the lights only in rooms facing the building next door. And she would turn off the light as she left each room.

She flipped the switch, and a ceiling lamp winked on, dazzling after the minutes she’d spent in darkness.

The bathroom seemed ordinary enough. Not as clean as it could be, some unpleasant smells. Towels on dented metal racks. Shampoo in the shower. Bar of soap in a porcelain dish on the Formica counter. Mirror over the sink, her reflection gazing back at her with frightened eyes.

Near the mirror, a medicine cabinet. Quickly she surveyed its shelves, looking for Erin’s Tegretol. If Gund had it, the bottle would tie him to her disappearance. Even Walker couldn’t dispute that.

There was no Tegretol. No medication of any kind except aspirin and antacids.

She switched off the bathroom light and emerged into a narrow hallway. Darkness in both directions. She turned left, groping along the wall until she found a door.

Pushing it open, she entered a bedroom in the front corner of the apartment. The glow of a streetlight through the curtains provided sufficient illumination as she explored the room.

Cheap bed with creaky mattress springs. Bedside alarm clock, the dial luminous: 8:20. Clothes in the closet, but none of Erin’s things. Her suitcase wasn’t there, either.

Nothing suspicious so far. She returned to the hall and found a doorway to the living room. Even in darkness she could see that the place was sparsely furnished—battered sofa, a single floor lamp, an ancient television set resting on an apple crate, a dining table flanked by unmatched garage-sale chairs.

The room was most remarkable for what it did not contain. There were no books, no record albums, no paintings, no family photographs, no souvenirs from excursions to the Grand Canyon or San Diego. There was nothing.

“Harold,” she whispered. “Poor Harold.”

For a moment she forgot to be afraid of him. He was just a lonely man without a life.

Unless he was something worse.

Searching the living room was the work of a minute; there was nothing to see. She moved on to the kitchen, in the northwest corner of the apartment, far enough from any windows to make it safe to turn on a light.

The overhead fluorescent cast a pale, glareless glow on soiled countertops and peeling linoleum tiles. Dirty dishes crowded the sink; the water had drained away. A beetle scurried behind the refrigerator, black carapace gleaming.

She checked the silverware drawers, thinking vaguely she might find some obvious weapon—a bloodstained knife perhaps. There was only ordinary cutlery, inadequately cleaned, particles of dried food sticking to tines and blades.

In a lower drawer there was a miscellany of household hardware. Cigarette lighters, manual can openers, a corkscrew, scissors of various sizes, and, lying carelessly atop the pile, a ring of keys.

The ring was tagged with a piece of masking tape marked SPARES.

Spare keys to the apartment? Or to whatever secret place Gund had been headed earlier tonight?

She examined the key ring more closely. Six keys in all, each with a bit of tape inked in the same careful hand.

FRONT DOOR. BARN. STAIRS. CELLAR.

And two smaller keys, probably for padlocks: GATE, REAR DOOR.

Not for this place, obviously. These were the keys to a farm or ranch with a barn, a cellar, and a padlocked gate.

There were ranches in the desert southeast of town, where she had lost Gund’s trail. Perhaps he was at one of them at this moment, with the original set of keys.

Perhaps Erin was there, too.

Annie hesitated, then slipped the keys into the pocket of her skirt, supplementing her original crime of illegal entry with a new offense, burglary.

Shutting off the fluorescent, she retraced her steps to the hall. The hall closet, overlooked earlier, was opposite the bathroom. A bare bulb illuminated shelves of cardboard cartons, apparently stuff from Wisconsin that Gund had never unpacked.

Nearly all of the apartment had been covered by now. There remained only the far end of the hall.

She slipped past the bathroom and found an open door to a small study—desk and swivel chair, file cabinet, wastebasket. The window faced the building across the passageway—safe to use a light. She fumbled for the desk lamp’s pull chain, and the bulb snapped on.

Erin’s stationery was not in the desk drawers. Disappointed, Annie knelt by the file cabinet, trying the lower drawer first. She thumbed through a row of manila folders, scanning the gummed labels.

TAXES. BILLS. AUTO. MEDICAL.

All marked with years ranging from 1985 to 1991. Old records, of no interest now.

Standing, she opened the upper drawer. It contained the same sorts of records, but from more recent years, with the current files foremost in line.

Nothing there, either.

Well, what had she expected to find? A file marked REILLY KIDNAPPING? Containing a helpful map to the site of Erin’s imprisonment?

Angrily she shook her head. This whole venture had been a waste of time.

Her hand was pushing the drawer shut when she noticed a slim folder at the extreme rear of the cabinet, the only one that was unlabeled.

Funny how it was stuffed all the way in the back, unmarked, as if hidden.

She reached for the folder, opened it.

Its entire contents consisted of a single sheet of heavy, unlined paper, approximately eight by ten inches.

As she lifted the paper into the light, she realized that what she held was a glossy color photo, its back to her.

She turned it over, and suddenly she was shaking, shaking uncontrollably, her heart racing in her chest.

“How?” she whispered to the room, to the night. “How can he have
this
?”

Two smiling faces. Green eyes and gray. Red hair lustrous on bare shoulders.

The eight-by-ten studio portrait of Erin and herself.