Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (64 page)

Soriano took a step toward her. Amy retreated behind Emmons's chair.
Emmons sat very still, gripping the wide armrests with whitened fingers.

Soriano said to me, "You've seen the newspaper article."

"I don't know what she's talking—"

"Don't give me that! If you hadn't seen it, the first thing you'd
have mentioned when you arrived here was the fire at the club."

I didn't reply. Thanks to Amy, there was no more need for pretense.

"And I suppose," he added, "you want to turn the information over to
the police—just like Tracy Kostakos."

"Was that what she planned to do?"

"You suspected blackmail instead?"

"She had her ways of getting what she wanted."

"Blackmail wasn't one of them. The girl had an incongruous moral
streak when it came to crime. Marc had been trying to persuade her not
to do anything for over a week before she died. But that last night she
thought Jay had turned on her. She saw going to the police as a noble
protective gesture toward Jay—one that might make him forgive her
rather rampant promiscuity."

I watched Soriano silently. His eyes darted about the room, resting
first on me, then Emmons, then Amy. A tic had developed in one of the
lines that bracketed his mouth; it fluttered, was still, fluttered
again. When I glanced at Emmons, he seemed frozen. Amy had finally
figured the situation out; her eyes were wide with terror, and she was
backing up against an old upright piano on the wall behind Marc's chair.

The peculiar calm still infused me. I stared intently into Soriano's
eyes, trying to divine what his next move would be.

They showed nothing but panicky purpose; there was not a trace of
remorse, or distaste for what he intended to do.

I thought, This is the most evil person I have ever known. I refuse
to die by this man's hand.

I said, "You haven't asked about your wife. Whether she was one of
the people killed at the club."

"Was she?" He spoke almost absently.

"Yes."

I'd hoped to elicit some sort of reaction with the lie. Soriano
merely said, "Too bad."

Those cold, cold words accomplished what his obvious insanity and
the implied threat of death hadn't: my calm shattered. An equally icy
rage rose in its place.

I waited until I could speak in a deceptively level voice. "She
meant that little to you?"

"The woman was a fool. Like that one over there." He jerked his chin
toward Amy. "Like the other fool in the chair. He's a prize, Marc is.
I'm glad I won't have to rectify his blunders any longer. The idiot
couldn't even keep from getting blood all over Kathy's car when he
dumped the Kostakos girl's body. I had to lay out damn good money to
convince my assistant to report it stolen from him."

At first I thought I'd heard him wrong. But I hadn't. I narrowed my
eyes until my vision blurred. When I widened them, everything was clear.

I looked at Emmons. "You killed her."

He merely sat there, his mouth partially open.

Soriano said, "You thought I did?"

"Not anymore." He hadn't known that she'd been shot in the car. Or
that Emmons couldn't have taken her body by car to the boat where he'd
hidden it. Soriano had no reason to lie about that—not with all the
other deaths he had caused. "How much did he tell you about the
murder?" I asked.

"He wasn't making much sense when he came to our house afterwards.
He may have discussed the details with Kathy at some point, but I
didn't want to know any more than I had to."

Emmons continued to sit still. His breath wheezed faintly through
his open lips. Amy stood rigid in front of the piano, her hands jammed
over her mouth.

"Why?" I asked him. "Why?"

After a moment he shook his head, as if awakening from a trance. He
looked at me, then at the gun in Soriano's hand. Finally he let out a
sigh that was very nearly a whine. "She wouldn't agree not to go to the
cops. When I called Rob at the club after she left my place that night,
he promised me an immediate slot on the program if I would shut her up.
So I came here and tried talking to her again, but she wouldn't listen.
She tried to run out on me, so…"

"Where did you get the gun?"

"I had it at home."

"Was it the one from the club?"

"Yes. I took it a week or two before."

"Why?"

He shrugged.

"You planned to kill her, didn't you?"

He rose unsteadily from his chair, big body swaying. Shook his head
again. "I… at first I planned to kill myself. She'd left me for Jay,
and I'd heard rumors about… others. But when this thing about Rob came
up and I thought I'd have a chance at what I'd always wanted… well, all
that was standing between me and it was Tracy."

Behind him, Amy closed her eyes and screamed, "You bastard!"

His clown's face twisted. "You don't understand, Ame," he said. "I
hated her. Hated her for what she'd done to me—and what she was going
to do to me. It was my life, and she was just going to crumple it up
and toss it away."

Amy began to sob, slumping against the piano's keyboard. Chords
crashed dissonantly.

Emmons took a step toward her, stumbled and lurched back toward
Soriano. Soriano brought the gun up.

Emmons slewed around, saw it, lost his head, and lunged. I darted
inside the semicircle of chairs, intent on getting my hands on the .32.

Soriano shoved Emmons away. His big body crashed into mine, knocking
me toward the fireplace. He fell back against his chair.

As he lay there panting, Soriano shot him in the head.

Emmons's left eye became a ragged, bloody hole. He slumped back in
the chair, limbs twitching.

Amy screamed and ran toward the door.

My rage flashed from cold to white hot. As Soriano raised the .32 at
Amy's fleeing form, I grabbed the fishing pole that leaned against the
mantel. Swung it up and slashed it down on his gun hand.

He howled and dropped the .32. Whirled. Lunged at me.

I swung the pole again. It caught him a glancing blow on the temple.
The metal line guide left a bleeding track on his cheek.

I whipped the pole back, brought it down on his shoulder. He
staggered, bent over, looking for the gun.

I whacked him on the small of the back. He gave a high-pitched
scream. Then he bolted for the door. I went after him. He got the door
open before I could hit him again, and ran outside. By the time I
reached the porch, he had disappeared into the pyracantha thicket.

Behind me Amy sobbed hysterically. I turned, saw she was lying on
the floor in a fetal position, arms wrapped around her
knees. Ignoring her, I dropped the pole and hurried back to the
semicircle of chairs to check on Emmons. He was dead.

I felt none of the things that I'd come to expect when confronted
with violent death—nothing but the rage, burning dangerously high now.
Dropping to all fours, I located the gun under the chair Soriano had
sat in. Then I ran back outside.

The branches of the pyracanthas had stopped rustling. I listened,
but heard no footfall, no car engine. Cautiously I made my way to the
gate; it was closed, as Amy had left it. I looked down the road. The
car was still parked under the trees. I could make out its shape now:
it looked to be the Jaguar that I'd seen parked in the Sorianos'
driveway the previous noon.

Why was it still here? Soriano had had ample time to get to the car
and drive away. Then I thought, No, he doesn't want to leave witnesses
to his murder of Emmons. I suspected he was hiding nearby, recovering
from the blows I'd dealt him, waiting for another chance at Amy and me.

I wanted to go hunting him, but I couldn't leave Amy alone; that
would be inviting him to kill her or take her hostage. And I couldn't
summon help; the cottage had no phone. But there was another way…

I hurried back to the cottage. Amy was still lying on the floor, her
sobs diminished to whimpers now. I knelt and placed a gentle hand on
her shoulder.

She thrashed around in sudden panic, making a protesting sound.
"Amy," I said, "it's me. Soriano's gone."

After a few seconds she opened her eyes and peered at me from under
her drooping petals of hair. "Gone?"

"Yes. He can't hurt you."

She unwrapped her arms from her knees and struggled to sit up.

"Marc?"

"He's—" I hesitated. "We need to get help."

"Marc killed Trace. He killed her!"

"Don't think about that now."

"That's why he sent me for you. He was going to confess, wasn't he?"

"Probably. Everything was closing in on him." I went to where my bag
sat on the chair, rummaged around until I found my Swiss Army knife,
and jammed it into the pocket of my coat. Then I got her to her feet,
turning her so she couldn't see his body. "Let's go."

She looked down, saw the gun in my hand, and shuddered.

I said, "It's okay. He's unarmed. I'll protect us."

Slowly she nodded. I put my arm around her shoulders and led her to
the door, gripping the .32 in my other hand.

When we reached the gate, I peered through it; the Jaguar was still
there. I stood for a minute, looking up and down the road, debating
which way to go. There were no lights in the houses in the row that
extended back toward the railroad bridge, but through the trees at the
far end of the turnaround, the lights I'd glimpsed earlier were still
on. I guided Amy through the gate, and we set off, straight down the
middle of the road, where we couldn't be ambushed from the shrubbery.

Moonlight fell on the rutted pavement and the plain belonging to the
salt company; once again I was reminded of an ice floe on the barren
terrain. The air was chill, and a strong wind whipped tree branches
about; their soughing was punctuated by snaps and thumps in the
underbrush. Warped phantom shapes darted through the shadows to the
side of the road, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. My gaze
pursued the fleeting images, but they eluded it in the dark. I kept my
arm firmly around Amy's shoulders, the gun ready, and led her along.

We had almost reached the turnaround when there was a loud tearing
sound. Amy cried out as a jagged tree limb crashed to
the pavement inches from us. I spun, bringing the gun up, peering into
the underbrush. Nothing but shifting lines and shadows.

I reached for Amy, grasped her elbow. Whispered, "Just the wind,
that's all."

"I'm scared."

"It's only a little farther."

We kept on, to where Soriano's car was parked. Now my own tension
heightened, and I searched the darkness to see if he might be lurking
close to his means of escape. I saw no one, heard nothing.

Beyond the car was a narrow dirt track leading through a grove of
trees toward the lighted house. Amy and I turned in there. The
underbrush was close on either side now. The shifting, sighing branches
created a babble that would mask all but the loudest of sounds. When I
looked around, the phantom-shapes danced and leaped, playing tricks on
my eyes.

I said to Amy, "Let's walk faster now," and hurried her along.

When the track emerged from the grove, it meandered across a large
area of cleared land. The house was perhaps fifty yards away. I waited
until we were well in the open before stopping, then scanned the
terrain on all sides of us. No one was in sight. Over by the house a
dog began barking; it must have been chained up, because it didn't come
running out to see who was there.

Amy stood beside me, silent and motionless. I looked at her and
realized she was no longer afraid. The slickness of her mouth and the
sluggish way she moved her eyes told me she was operating automatically
now, her emotions shut down. She didn't question why we'd stopped, just
waited quietly.

I studied her face, pallid in the moonlight, wondering if she was
enough in touch with her surroundings to do what I had in
mind for her. Finally I decided that her trancelike state might work to
my advantage.

I said, "Amy, I need your help now."

She nodded.

"He's out here somewhere. He may get away if I don't find him. I
need you to go on to that house alone."

She looked over at the lights as if measuring the distance to them.

"I'll be right here," I added. "With the gun. He won't come near you
anyway, not with other people so close."

After a moment she nodded again.

"When you get to the house, tell the people to call nine-eleven."

"Nine-eleven."

"Tell them there's been a homicide, we need the sheriff's
department."

"Homicide. The sheriff."

"Then just stay there."

She looked toward the lights again. Took a deep breath and squared
her shoulders.

"Can you do that?" I asked.

"I can do it." She hesitated a few seconds longer, then took off at
a run.

I watched her go, gun raised, should Soriano suddenly appear. She
ran awkwardly, arms flailing, but she didn't falter. When she reached
the house, she pounded on the door. After it opened and she disappeared
inside, I turned away.

Then I went after him.

I crouched by the right front tire of the Jaguar and stabbed at it
with the Swiss Army knife's largest blade. I'd never slashed a tire
before; it was more difficult than I'd imagined. But after working at
it for half a minute, I made a slit. The air hissed out, and the car
began to settle onto the wheel rim.

Soriano wasn't going anywhere now.

I stood, jamming the knife back into my pocket. He was still
somewhere close by, of that I was certain.

But where?

Not beyond the turnaround; I'd have spotted him if he was. Not on
the property belonging to the salt company; it was fenced in barbed
wire, possibly patrolled. He wouldn't have gone down the road, either;
the houses were too numerous, packed too close together.

So he had to be somewhere behind the Barbour cottage.