Beware. Part 12

"It'd be ridiculous."

Grinning, Scott drawled, "Mighty grateful, ma'am. I accept your hospitality."

Lacey went to bed first. Though she usually slept in the nude, to night she wore her jogging shorts and tank top in case her sheet should slip off during the night. She lay wide awake. From the other room came quiet TV voices. She listened, but couldn't make out their words.

Had it been a mistake, offering the other bed? It might've sounded like an invitation for something more. Had Scott taken it that way? G.o.d, what if he came over to her bed and climbed in?

He would say something cute. "I'm here to guard your body at close range."

She rolled onto her belly, and forced her mind away from the possibility. How'll we work it in the morning? Each drive our own cars, I suppose. Meet at my house. We'll park in front. Go in together? Sneak in? And search the place. Spread flour around so we can see footprints? G.o.d, what a cleanup job. Would it come out of the carpet?

The tele vision voices stopped.

Lacey heard quiet footsteps. She expected Scott to enter the bathroom just off the hallway, but the steps kept coming. The doork.n.o.b rattled a bit. Then the door swung open.

She pressed her face against the pillow and shut her eyes.

Please, let him go straight to his own bed.

I'm here to guard your body at close range.

The footsteps stopped between the beds. She heard the squeak of springs, followed by a whispered "d.a.m.n" as if he were angry about the noise. Obviously, he thought she was asleep and didn't want to disturb her. So he had no intention of coming to her bed, after all.

Lacey remained motionless, listening to his breathing, to the quiet sounds the bed made as he shifted to remove his shoes, to the single link of his belt buckle and the whisper of his zipper. Then the springs squawked.

He's standing up.

Coming here, after all? Lacey's heart began to thunder.

Turning her head slightly, she opened one eye and saw him in the darkness only a yard away. He stepped out of his pants, folded them once, and placed them on the floor beside his bed. He took off his shoulder holster, then his shirt. His tanned skin looked very dark against his white briefs. Crouching, he folded his shirt and set it on top of the pants. Then he turned away to pull down the bedcovers. He climbed in without taking off his shorts.

Lacey shut her eye. Her heart was still racing, and she realized that she'd barely been breathing since Scott entered the room.

She was parched. She tried to work up enough saliva to moisten her mouth, but couldn't.

She waited.

I'll die if I don't get a drink of water. Probably those margaritas.

Slipping her sheet aside, she swung her legs off the bed and stood up. She rushed through the darkness to the bathroom, and turned on a light. Squinting against its glare, she ran cold water. She filled a gla.s.s and drank. In the mirror, she saw hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. She shook her head at the image. She drank another gla.s.sful of cold water, then turned off the faucet and used the toilet. The flush sounded very loud. If Scott heard it...No, he's all right. He'll stay in bed. If he'd wanted to try anything to night, he would've done it by now.

She flicked off the light and opened the door.

Scott clutched her shoulders. He was wearing only his briefs. In his right hand, upraised to his shoulder, he held the pistol. It smelled oily and metallic.

"What...?"

"Shhhh. We've got company."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Standing close to Scott in the dark hallway, Lacey heard the quiet rap of knuckles on wood. "Where's it coming from?" she asked.

"Our door."

"You sure?"

Scott nodded.

"My G.o.d."

"Come on." Holding her by the elbow, Scott led her into the main room. They stood motionless. After a moment of silence, the knocking resumed. "I'll watch from the closet," Scott whispered. "You get the door."

"What if it's him?"

"Then we're in luck."

As Scott hurried to the coat closet, Lacey turned on a lamp. "Right there," she called. She scanned the room, and found her handbag on the coffee table. Rushing to it, she took out the can of spray paint and the knife. She pulled off the leather sheath, and slid the knife under the waistband at the back of her shorts. The blade was cool and flat against her rump. She felt the sc.r.a.pe of its edges as she walked to the door.

She peered through the peephole. Though the man in the bright hallway looked shrunken and distorted as if viewed in a distant fun house mirror, Lacey recognized his lanky build, his haggard face and short, curly hair.

"Carl?"

She flicked off the guard chain, and pulled the door open. Carl gazed at her with grim, red-rimmed eyes. "Hi, Lace."

"Carl, what's going on? What're you doing here?"

"I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

"No. Come on in."

Lacey stepped aside to let him enter. Then she shut and chained the door. She turned to him. "Did something happen? What's wrong?"

"Our man paid a visit to the Trib. He...he killed Alfred."

"Oh my G.o.d!"

"I came back from lunch, and...Alfred was on the floor." Reaching into a pocket of his baggy slacks, Carl pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "The police have the original. It was pinned to him, to his belly...with my letter opener." He handed the paper to Lacey.

She set the spray can on the coffee table, and unfolded the paper, and stared. The photocopy was stained as if it had been used to mop up a spill of black ink. But the typing was legible. She read it in silence. "Can't get rid of me that easy. Better come home, b.i.t.c.h, or your editor's next." With a trembling hand, she gave the note back to Carl.

"I thought I'd call you, but...h.e.l.l, I remembered what you said about him being invisible. Still not sure I can believe that, but I figured I'd better be careful. If he is like you say, he might've been right behind me, watching me dial. If he got the hotel's number...Well, I figured I'd drive on out to be on the safe side."

"He could've been in your car!" Lacey blurted, suddenly alarmed.

"No. I checked it over."

"Your trunk?"

"Checked that, too."

"Maybe he followed you."

"I don't think so. Wasn't much traffic. The only car behind me much had a couple in it-a man driving, a woman pa.s.senger." He made a grim smile. "Neither one was invisible. So I think we're okay on that score."

"You saw the man's face?" Lacey asked.

"Not up close, but he had one. It's all right, Lace. Now stop worrying. I wasn't followed."

"He could've put something on. A mask, makeup..."

Carl shook his head. "We've gotta figure out what to do about this guy. Seems Tome, we're both in the same boat, now. I don't think I want to hang around Oasis and just wait for him to slit my gullet. I figure, if we stick together on this..."

"What about the woman pa.s.senger?" Lacey asked.

"Huh?"

"In the car that followed you."

"It wasn't following me. It was just behind me."

"All the way?"

"I don't know." He sounded annoyed. "I didn't keep track. It was just some clown and his wife."

"How do you know it was his wife?"

"Cause," Carl said, smiling slightly, "she was asleep the whole way."

"Asleep?"

"Sure. Slumped over, her head against the side window...Oh, for Christsake, Lace, don't turn paranoid on me. Don't start telling me she was dead, and the driver was your invisible man decked out in a Stetson and mask."

"You think that's not possible?"

"I think you're jumping to some mighty big conclusions."

"He figured you would know where to get in touch with me. Killing Alfred, leaving the note, he did it so you'd lead him here. For G.o.d-sake, he's probably..."

"Now don't get all worked up. Calm down. There's nothing to..."

Lacey jerked stiff as her knife turned, the blade slicing a white-hot line up her b.u.t.tock. She clutched the wound and spun around. The suspended knife slashed through the air, barely missing her face, and jerked toward Carl.

"Scott!"

The closet door burst open. Scott crouched, pistol forward, but his face was twisted with confusion. "W here?"

Even as Lacey pointed, the blade punched into Carl's throat. Blood shot out. It spurted a few inches, then splattered as if hitting a sheet of gla.s.s. It sprayed and sheathed the surface-the face and shoulders and chest of a sixfoot man.

Scott gazed, his mouth agape.

"Shoot him!"

The figure, vague as a patch of floating red cellophane, raised Carl off his feet and flung him at Scott. Scott leapt sideways. The body hit the closet door, crashed it shut, and thudded to the floor. The knife, Lacey saw, was still embedded in Carl's throat.

Scott aimed at the film of blood rushing toward him. "Stop!"

Lacey braced herself for the roar of gunfire. It didn't come.

A yard in front of Scott, the figure halted.

"f.u.c.kin' blood," muttered a scratchy voice.

The layer of red shifted as if a child were finger-painting on his face.

"Hands on your head," Scott ordered.

The top of the head wasn't there, but Lacey saw two hand-shaped images of blood suspended above the concave face-a face like the back of a translucent red Halloween mask.

Lacey grabbed her can of silver paint from the coffee table and tugged off its plastic top. Tossing the cap aside, she shook the can. It rattled as if a marble were trapped inside. She stepped close to the dripping, red veil in front of Scott's automatic.

"Don't do it," the man muttered.

As her forefinger lowered to the plastic nozzle, the red membrane shifted like a flag struck by wind. Something struck Lacey's hand. The can tumbled away. Then a tightness clenched her wrist and swung her toward Scott. He jumped out of the way, rushed in front of her, and dived. He landed flat on the floor, his hands grabbing only air.

The door flew open, ripping the guard chain from its mounting, and slammed shut.

Scott pushed himself to his knees. His eyes met Lacey's. He shook his head.

Lacey stepped over to Carl's body. She knelt down beside him. Blood no longer pumped from his torn throat. She covered her face with both hands, and started to cry.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.