Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis (33 page)

A gust of cool air blew into the window, smelling faintly like too-sweet perfume. Okay, it had to be the same guy. And he was close. She put down both front windows to get a cross-breeze going.

The van inched forward. Her backpack lay on the seat next to her and she pulled it close. If she saw him, she’d use her industrial strength pepper spray on him first, and then call Bobby. Except her cell phone had just been squashed. Damn. Okay. New plan. Juice him up with the pepper spray, and then use his suspenders to tie him up until she could call the police. Assuming he’d be properly and fully incapacitated, it should be a snap. If he wasn’t, she’d empty the can on him and worry about the consequences later. Pepper spray wasn’t lethal, was it?

No, just hideously uncomfortable, she decided. Now that she had a plan, she fumbled in her bag for the pepper spray with her right hand and steered with her left. Nerves made her stomach thump, and her heart raced like Jeff Gordon’s souped-up Chevy.

The roads wound gently through the cemetery, sloping at times. Interstate 240 bounded the east side, Poplar Avenue the south, Yates on the west, and condos and houses on the north side. The neighborhood was upscale residential and high-end shops, with a sprinkling of doctor and dentist offices close to a Wendy’s and Igor’s Hair Salon. Igor cut her hair when she was flush with cash, as well as the hair of famous people like Jerry Lawler’s wife. Ex-wife? It didn’t matter. Lawler retained the title of King, as long as it pertained to wrestling and not Elvis. Too bad Lawler wasn’t nearby. She’d appreciate a little help about now.

The road she’d been following came to a T. She paused, and then took the right hand turn toward the grotto. Dark clouds scudded overhead, oak branches swayed, and mixed in with the smell of rain and wet asphalt was that smell peculiar to cemeteries. Nana had said it was ivy, but Diva said it was the smell of sorrow lingering from those left behind. Nana’s version sounded a lot better.

A white face suddenly popped up right in front of the van, startling her into slamming on the brakes. Van tires screeched, but fortunately she was going slow enough that the air bag didn’t balloon out. She slammed the van into gear and bolted out the driver’s door, pepper spray in hand, hot on the trail of the dancing mime. He managed to stay just ahead of her, and she was glad it had started raining hard enough that no one would see her running after some guy skipping along in tight black pants, ballet shoes, white shirt and suspenders, and wearing a black bowler on top of his head. They’d both be taken down to Memphis Psychiatric.

“Stop!” she yelled even though she knew he wouldn’t. It just seemed like she should at least be yelling something at him.

He turned around and ran backward, doing that thing again with his hands pressed to his face and his mouth open like he was scared. That made her pretty mad. If she could just get close enough to this guy, she’d give him a shot of pepper spray that’d make those painted black tears on his face real enough, by God.

He must have read her mind. What looked like spiffy ballet pumps picked up a little speed. They had to be getting slick because of the rain, but he didn’t miss a step over the arched footbridge that led to the grotto. A high rock wall rose behind the man-made cave. To the right of the grotto, some kind of storage area with a curved door and barred window had been carved.

Rain came down harder and thunder rumbled. It came down so hard and fast it looked like it was raining from the ground up. Puddles quickly formed and drenched her Nikes. Carefully-gelled spikes of hair clogged her vision like drowned worms. Weather never cooperated. Harley stumbled forward a few more steps, peering through the downpour, thinking that she must have been a Nazi in her former life. How else to explain all this bad luck? Or karma? Whatever it was, she should rethink letting Diva cleanse her aura.

She stopped. There was no sign of the killer mime. He could have climbed the rocks, but she didn’t think so. Maybe he went behind the grotto. There was some kind of dirt path that went off to one side. Streams of runoff rain splashed down the rock wall in little waterfalls. Grass and plants flattened out under the force. So where had the guy gone?

Then he reappeared, white face looking like a disembodied moon in the pelting rain. It was bizarre. When he ducked into the crystal grotto, Harley smiled. Now she had him. There was no other way out of there. There should be an iron gate she could close to keep him in there until the police showed up. Everything had to be locked up at night because of vandals with the mental acuity of garden slugs who’d found it amusing to spray paint the crystals and the carved Biblical scenes. This time, their low IQs might work in her favor.

Gasping for air that wasn’t full of water, she half-ran, half-slid across the footbridge and slammed shut the iron gate. It took a little work since it was hooked to the wall and heavier than she’d thought it’d be, but if he knew what she was doing, he didn’t try to stop her. When she got the opening barred, she leaned back against it to catch her breath.

And damn if he wasn’t right there in front of her. Outside of the cave instead of inside.

“How the hell...?”

The dark red mouth squared into a silent grin. Every cell in her brain screamed at her to run, but her muscles didn’t get the message in time. Well, what a bitch.

That was her last coherent thought before he pressed something against her arm and a numbing shot of voltage curled her hair and turned her into a flounder.

Chapter Fifteen

It
was dark. The kind of dark that had to exist before the Big Bang. A musty smell filled the small space, and she had a hell of a headache. Harley tried to sit up, but her head hit a hard surface. Something soft cushioned her, but she didn’t have room to roll over. No noise or sound provided any bearings for where she might be. Damn, it was quiet as a tomb.

No. That’d be too macabre. She shoved with all her strength at the lid over her but it didn’t budge. Okay, don’t panic, she told herself. No point in panicking. It couldn’t be what it seemed to be, she just hadn’t figured out yet where she was or how to get out. Panic would only make it a lot worse.

She sucked in a deep breath that smelled like dirt and tasted like death, and panic took over for a few minutes as she screamed until she was hoarse. When it subsided, she tried to stop shivering.

“All right,” she said aloud so she didn’t seem so alone, and her voice sounded muffled and heavy in the closeness, “I’ll get out of this. Somehow. My karma hasn’t been that bad. I’m nice to dogs and idiots. I love my parents. I visit the elderly.”

Her voice broke a little on the last word. Tears stung her eyes. Her clothes were damp, her head still wet, and her toes felt squishy inside her shoes. She couldn’t have been in here that long. Air must be coming in from somewhere. If ... if she was buried, it wouldn’t last long.

No nightmare had ever been like this. Maybe she should just go ahead and suck in all the air and get it over with instead of dying slowly. No, dammit. Something stronger than fear took over. She filled her lungs with air and let it out very slowly, a little at a time, then waited to take the next breath. Maybe she should breathe shallowly, but this seemed to work best.

Stale air felt warm and stuffy. After a while sleep tugged at her eyelids, but she kept them open even though she couldn’t see anything. If she fell asleep, she’d never wake up. Not in this life.

That made her think of Diva’s assurance that her spirit guides were always there. Maybe Diva’s spirit guides were always on the job, but apparently her daughter’s spirit guides were still gambling in Vegas. Unlucky in life and love, it seemed.

Morgan. She wondered if he’d miss her, or if he’d just be mad that she hadn’t listened to him. That’d be Bobby’s first reaction. Then he’d think of the past sixteen years and feel regret. As for Morgan, she had no idea what he’d feel. Or even if he’d feel anything. A month ago she’d have had a different opinion, but now?

Thinking of Morgan and Bobby and her own imminent demise made her breathe too heavily, so she focused on something else. She thought about Tootsie and wished she’d made out a will so he could have the last few silk dresses she owned. Cami would take Sam back, of course, and probably keep him the rest of his life since no one else could stand the cat. And the souvenir she’d brought home from that warehouse where she’d almost been killed would really make Nana happy. A wooden penis was just the kind of thing she’d find an appropriate bequest.

Okay. That wasn’t focusing on something else. That was still thinking about dying.

She thought about her brother Eric and some of the stuff they’d done as kids, then how Diva and Yogi may not have been conventional parents, but they’d always been supportive. At least they weren’t judgmental or prejudiced. Except for Yogi’s distrust of anything to do with the government.

That made her think of some of their past protests at meat-packing plants and cosmetic manufacturers rumored to use animals as test subjects, and how she’d had to bail them out of jail. How many times? A lot. Then there were the protests they’d staged for human rights. And civil rights. Wasn’t there something about animal rights?

It got harder to think and she concentrated on breathing in and letting it out slowly. Breathe in, hold, exhale. Breathe in, hold, exhale. It was so hard to keep her eyes open.

* * * *

Earthquake
. Damn, she was underground in an earthquake. What else could happen? And it was wet. She’d probably drown.

“Harley. Dammit, Harley, open your eyes! More oxygen, somebody give her more oxygen!”

Morgan? She opened her eyes, but everything was blurred. And wet. There was some kind of cover over her nose and mouth. Strangers crowded around looking down at her, and she got cranky and started shoving.

“Get ... off me!”

Someone laughed. Morgan, she thought, but the crowd thinned some.

“Hey you,” Morgan said, his face coming into focus. “They’re going to take you to the hospital to check you out, okay?”

“So ... I have ... a choice?”

“No. We’ll talk later. Just keep breathing for now.”

That sounded like a plan. She nodded and closed her eyes.

When she woke up again, she was on a gurney in the emergency room. Doctors said a lot of things, mostly how lucky she was they’d found her in time, and that she’d be fine with a little rest and a lot of air. They left, and Morgan stood at the side of her bed.

On the other side, Diva and Yogi huddled close by, looking worried. Harley realized it was the first time in years she’d seen that look on her mother’s face.

“Fire my ... spirit guides,” she whispered, and like someone had turned on a light, a smile chased away the frown on Diva’s face. Harley thought she’d never before quite appreciated how beautiful Diva was. Yogi kept a worried expression. They must have come to the hospital instead of going to the competitions. He still wore his Elvis costume, complete with cape, lacquered hair, gold chains, and long sideburns. How wonderful they both looked.

“If not for your spirit guides,” Diva said in a husky voice, “I wouldn’t have known where to look for you.” Bells sewn into her sleeves tinkled as she dabbed at her eyes.

Yogi nudged closer, one arm around her mother’s shoulders and his other hand reaching through the aluminum bars to touch Harley’s arm. “When I find the guy who did this to you, he’ll wish he hadn’t, I promise!”

“So much for ... being a pacifist,” Harley got out with a weak laugh.

“Father first. Pacifist second. It’s engraved on my tire iron.”

“Take away his tire iron,” Morgan said to Diva across the hospital bed. “I’ll find the guy, and he’ll wish that all he had to deal with was a tire iron.”

“Yes,” Diva said, “I know.”

A little startled, Harley looked up at Mike. Blue eyes burned behind his half-lowered black lashes. Grooves deepened around his mouth. He put his fingers on her wrist and held it gently. His thumb made small, soft circles on the back of her hand. But she felt the tension in him, a slight vibration that said a lot more than his words. He had that look on his face again, the predatory one she’d first seen months ago when he was playing the part of Bruno Jett. Maybe he hadn’t been playing a part after all. Maybe that was really him, and the more easygoing Mike was the disguise.