Endless Night Part 39

"I'm very pleased to meet you," Andy said.

Dad resumed his seat and picked up his gla.s.s. "Make yourselves comfortable," he said, gesturing toward the twin queen-sized beds. One of the beds looked as if it had been slept in.

Andy sat on the end of that one, Jody on the other.

She watched her father take a sip of whiskey. "What were you two doing in here?" she asked. "Drinking in the dark?"

"That's right." Dad said.

"It's been very pleasant," Sharon added.

"Is that all?" Jody asked.

The side of Dad's mouth climbed his cheek. "It worked, didn't it? I hadn't been over here for five minutes before Andy showed up at your door."

The boy's mouth fell open. "How do you know?"

With the back of his hand, Dad patted the curtains by his shoulder. "Watched."

"Besides which," Sharon said, "the whole motel must've heard you trying to wake up Jody."

"Oh, boy," Andy muttered.

"He thought you were over here ... fooling around."

"He was supposed to," Sharon said.

"Oh, boy," Andy muttered again. "I like walked into a trap."

"Sort of," Dad said.

"Very much so," said Sharon.

"Did you know where I was all along, or ... ?"

"Oh, h.e.l.l no," Dad told him. "After we'd gotten done exploring all the possibilities, though ..."

"With which Jody was very helpful," Sharon added.

"We figured you might still be in the neighborhood, probably hiding somewhere. If that was the case, you might be near enough to spot us when we showed up. So we took the rooms here, and I left Jody by herself."

Sharon set her empty gla.s.s down on the table. "You made a bee-line for her, buddy."

Andy grimaced. "Now what happens?"

"Is anybody else hungry around here?" Sharon asked. "There're a couple of vending machines downstairs with all sorts of good stuff."

"Fine idea," Dad said. He polished off his drink, and stood up. "Why don't you kids come with me so you can pick what you want?"

"Let's all go," Sharon said.

"You aren't dressed," Dad pointed out.

"Sure I am." She carefully adjusted the front of her robe as she stood up. "I'm perfectly decent. n.o.body but me knows I'm b.u.t.t naked under here."

"n.o.body at all," Dad said, and laughed. "Okay, let's go."

Part Six.

Simon Says.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

Guess where I am.

Give up?

I'm in Jody's house.

The only problem is, she isn't.

After I got off the phone last night, I was all hot to rush right over here and grab her. For one thing, taking her to Tom and the guys was the only way to set things right. I'd be saving a lot more than Lisa-including my own skin. That wasn't any reason to rush, though. I've got till ten tonight for that. The reason for the rush was just so I could get my hands on Jody and have her all to myself for a while. I mean, I wanted her. I could taste her.

Tom had warned me, though. He'd said she had more security than the president.

I figured he was exaggerating. But still, there were sure to be bodyguards. Cops all over the place.

In other words, it didn't sound like a great idea to storm the house.

The situation called for caution and smarts.

It also called for a wig. I took Hillary's hair with me, but didn't wear it. The scalp was starting to "turn," as they say. A couple of miles from the motel, I swung into an alley and tossed it into one of the garbage bins behind an apartment house.

Then I ran over Engineer Bill.

I don't know what the f.u.c.k his name was. He was a b.u.m. I call him Engineer Bill because he was pushing a train of shopping carts down the alley. This was a few minutes after I'd thrown away Hillary's hair, and I was staying in alleys.

I like the way they are at night. A lot of them are pretty well lit, but they've got dark places, too. There are usually buildings on both sides. The alleys are like secret canyons through the city. n.o.body's usually in them except a b.u.m, now and then.

L.A.'s got b.u.ms up the wazoo, in case you haven't noticed.

You're not supposed to call them b.u.ms. They're the "homeless." A bunch of f.u.c.king crazy a.s.sholes is what they are. And always in your face. Begging. You can't go anywhere without one of them stumbling after you like some sort of d.a.m.n zombie out of The Night of the Living Dead.

They're enough to make you nuts.

My flesh crawled when I spotted Engineer Bill. He was up ahead of me, hobbling along behind his shopping carts. He had long white hair that stuck out all over the place, but I figured him for a man because he was wearing a suit coat and trousers.

He must've heard my car coming. He didn't look around, but he pushed his train over to the right to make room for me to pa.s.s. His train was made up of four shopping carts, all of them full of stuff. I guess, by b.u.m standards, he must've been rich. I mean, it took four shopping carts to hold all his wealth.

I've heard that the carts go for about a hundred and twenty bucks each, so he was pushing close to five hundred bucks' worth of stolen property.

He wasn't just a b.u.m, but also a thief.

Those are a couple of pretty good reasons to kill a guy. They aren't really why I did it, though. The main thing was because I wanted to see it happen.

He was off to the right, leaning way forward to get his weight behind the carts. They were rattling and clanking along in front of him. I gunned the Jag. At just the last moment, I swerved. I smacked him behind the legs. He sort of sat down very fast on the hood and I plowed him into the caboose of his train.

The idea was partly to see how far I could shoot the carts.

You should've seen 'em go!

It turned out they were lashed together. They went flying down the alley in a straight line for a while, then curved off to the left and flipped over sideways and skidded on their sides. By the time they stopped, Engineer Bill's goods were scattered all over the place.

He was still on my Jaguar. His legs hung off the front, and the rest of him was sprawled on top of the hood. He wasn't dead. Not even close. He whined and flapped his arms and tried to sit up.

I was worried all the noise from the crashing train might get people in the apartment buildings to look out their windows, so I drove off. I drove for about two blocks with Bill on the hood. He kept trying to sit up, which was pretty funny to watch.

I stopped in another alley. There was a box of old newspapers next to a garbage bin. On top was a Metro section of the L.A. Times. I took a few pages from that so I wouldn't have to touch Bill. I spread them against his side and pushed and shoved him off the hood.

A wind sent the newspaper pages tumbling off through the night.

I got into the car and backed away in order to get a good start. Then I sped at him and ran over him. The front and back tires on the left side got his head.

It was like driving over a speed b.u.mp. A big one.

Anyway, then it was back to business.

I left the alleys behind and cruised down Pico Boulevard. Traffic was pretty light. Some fast food joints and convenience stores and bars and gas stations were still open, but most places were closed for the night. I kept my eyes on their display windows.

A place called Nuances had windows full of female dummies. The store was closed, but the dummies were nicely lighted so people pa.s.sing by could admire their underwear. I pulled over to the curb and shut off my headlights.

Cars were going by, so I sat there for a while and enjoyed the view.

Some of the dummies wore skimpy little negligees. Some wore bras and panties. The fabrics were shiny and clinging, or lacy, or see-through. Everything was cut to show plenty. For instance, there were bras and panties with open fronts. One dummy wore a black garter belt and fishnet stockings, and that was it.

They all wore wigs.

There were blondes, brunettes, redheads. A dozen different styles of haircuts.

Every so often, even on a main drag like Pico, you get a break in the traffic. I was waiting for one of those. It came along after about five minutes. Cars were still coming from both directions, but the nearest of them were still a few blocks away.

I jumped out of the Jag, ran to the big plate gla.s.s window to the right of the entrance, and smashed the gla.s.s with the barrel of my Colt. The whole d.a.m.n window caved in. Most of it, anyway. There was enough noise to wake the dead, all that gla.s.s exploding and crashing down. Not to mention the burglar alarm.

As soon as the gla.s.s stopped falling, I climbed in and s.n.a.t.c.hed the wigs off the heads of four of the dummies. Tugged them off with my left hand, tucked them under my right arm.

Then I hopped down to the pavement and walked to the Jag. The nearest car was still two blocks away.

I just hoped it wasn't a cop car.

I tossed my wigs onto the pa.s.senger seat, climbed in behind the wheel, stuffed the Colt into my purse, and took off.

At the end of the block, I made a right. It was a residential street. I drove past a few houses, then swung to the curb and watched Pico in the rearview mirror. A few cars went by, but none of them turned. So I started moving again and put my headlights on.

Sticking to the back streets for a while, I tried out my wigs. They all seemed to be about the same size, which was just a teeny bit too small for my head. Better too tight than too loose, I guess. They went on just fine, but felt a little uncomfortable.

Not as uncomfortable as Hillary's scalp, though. They were dry, for one thing. And they weren't sticky or slimy.

I decided to wear the blond hair. It was full and s.h.a.ggy, the sort of hair you'd expect to see on a bombsh.e.l.l bimbo.

Just the thing for Hollywood.

That's where I was heading, for Hollywood.

This was Sat.u.r.day night, so the main drags were jammed with traffic and the sidewalks were mobbed. I made one pa.s.s down Hollywood Boulevard, mostly just to get my bearings.

It was enough to turn a girl's head.

My Jag was a red convertible, remember? And there I was, tooling along the boulevard in my flashy blond wig and sleeveless blue sundress, my bare arm resting on the windowsill. There were whistles and hoots. A lot of people stared at me. They probably figured I was a famous movie star or a wh.o.r.e. Not wanting to disappoint anyone, I waved and blew kisses.

Face it, as a woman I'm dynamite.

But I had a job to do, so after a while I got away from the crowds and cruised sidestreets where there were houses and apartment buildings and only a few people roaming around. Some of the people were on the way back to their parked cars. Others just seemed to be out for a stroll. There were also some speed-walkers and joggers out for exercise. And a few people walking their dogs.

Dog walkers fall into two categories. There are those who are taking themselves for a walk, and have the dog along for protection. Then there are the ones whose alleged purpose is to give their dog a taste of fresh air and exercise-but whose real purpose is to have the dog take its s.h.i.t away from home, on somebody else's property.

Dogs are man's best friend.

They bark at one end and s.h.i.t at the other.

I'd like to kill them all.

I do kill them pretty often, if you want to know the truth. It's not like killing people, but it's a good way to eliminate the nuisance factor-and it's good practice.

Any time at home when I hear a dog start barking after dark, I get into my black "nightfighter suit" and go out hunting. Sometimes they're strays, but usually I find them fenced inside a back yard. I never use a gun. I've used just about everything else, though. I've shot them with arrows, hit them with spears and poison darts and boomerangs. I've pounded some to death with a baseball bat or hammer or rock. I've strangled some. I've hacked some with hatchets, meat cleavers, and machetes. Butchered some with knives. Killed plenty with my feet, kicking and stomping.

I could go on and on about dogs.

We have a very special relationship.

Anyway, I saw a lot of people walking their dogs, so it was mostly a question of choosing which to take. I wanted something like a toy poodle. You know, a sissy type of thing. A woman's dog.