All or Nothing (15 page)

Vickie supposed they did not. She wished she could be as sure as Marla seemed to be, though.

God, but she was lonely. She paced downstairs, flicked on the over–the–counter lights, staring around her pretty kitchen. They had bought the house because of this kitchen with its attached family room. She had fallen in love with the big fireplace and the sliding windows opening onto the pool area with its barbecue, and with the pale–blond wood cabinets and deep blue tile counters. She had thought it looked kind of Mediterranean, reminding her of constantly blue skies and sunshine and happiness. Which, she thought sadly, just goes to show you.

She opened the refrigerator. Closed it again. Opened cupboards, tidied a few shelves. Her brain was working overtime, worrying about Steve. Did he? Or didn’t he? God, she couldn’t stand not knowing, couldn’t take Steve’s silence. He never called her anymore, though she knew he was still in Arrowhead because Marla had told her so. She couldn’t take this empty house, her now–empty life. She needed to talk to someone . . . anyone. . . .

Snatching up the phone, she dialed Marla’s number.
Oh, be home, please, please be home,
she prayed, as it rang endlessly. . . .

“Giraud, what are you doing up this late in Falcon City?” Marla answered.

“Marla, it’s Vickie Mallard.”

Surprised, Marla glanced at her watch. It was late, twelve–fifteen. She was just about to turn out the lights. “What is it, Vickie?”

“Marla, I can’t stand it, I can’t take the loneliness, not knowing. . . .”

Marla recognized the familiar note of hysteria in Vickie’s voice. It was there every time she spoke with her.

“I need to talk, Marla . . . I know it’s late but do you think you could come around . . . there’s stuff I just have to tell you, about Steve. . . .”

“Put up the coffee, Vickie. I’ll be right there.”

This was what a P.I.’s life was all about, Marla thought, throwing on a pair of jeans, a black sweatshirt, sneakers. Midnight assignations, secrets discussed until dawn . . . Vickie must have something new to tell her.

On her way out she picked up a bottle of wine from the kitchen. It might be a better idea than the coffee . . . loosen Vickie up a bit.

Suddenly hungry, Vickie fixed herself a bagel with lox and cream cheese, and put up the coffee. The TV mumbled in the background and she clicked through the channels looking for a newscast, which was all she watched these days.

Her ears pricked up. Was that the door? Could Marla be here already? She pressed the TV mute button and swung round, listening. There it was again.

“Marla?” she called. The silence was different now, so dense she seemed to breathe it like a texture in the air. Her heart thundered and her mouth was suddenly dry as the desert. Panicked, she turned, reached for the phone.

The hissing came from behind her, like a wildcat, then strong hands clamped around her throat . . . 
she wanted to scream, she wanted to scream so bad. . . .
A gloved hand smacked over her mouth.

Hot panic flashed with adrenaline up her spine . . . she was bursting for air, the top of her head was going to blow off. . . . She was choking now, her tongue stuck from her gaping mouth and she could taste her own blood. . . .

This can’t be happening to me, it can’t . . . his hands are choking the life out of me . . . I’m losing the battle . . . Oh, God, help me. . . .

An image of Taylor suddenly flashed to the front of her mind, and Mellie too, so clear it was as though they were there . . . 
she had to fight, she had to see her babies again. . . .
With new strength, she kicked backward, jammed her elbows into his stomach, felt the grip on her throat slacken. Again she punched back . . . heard a gasp like a punctured balloon. Gulping air, she swung around. . . .

And oh, God, oh, God . . . now he had a knife . . . a fury in a black ski mask, mad eyes burning with hate into hers . . . stabbing at her, hissing with the effort of each blow . . . arm raised again . . . and again . . . and again. . . .

From a long way away she heard herself whimpering . . . it was the last sound she heard. . . .

Marla parked in the Mallards’ short driveway. She glanced around the quiet street. A couple of cars were parked in the road and, P.I.–style, she made a mental note of them: a black Explorer and a blue Acura. Most of the lights were out in the houses and she thought with a smile of kids in bed, of getting up early for the school drive, of juggling work and baby–sitters. Oh, the joys of young married life, where work never ends.

A lamp was on somewhere in the back of the Mallard house; she could see the glow through the curtains. Standing on the front step, she rang the bell. No reply. She rang again, peering at the curtained window. Vickie was expecting her––so where was she?

She tried the door. It was locked. Frustrated, she opened the side gate and walked to the back of the house. The light was coming from the kitchen. She rang the bell, still no reply. She frowned. That was odd. Perhaps Vickie had gone to the bathroom, maybe she was on the phone . . . maybe with Steve. She peered through the side window but could see nothing.

To her surprise, the back door was open. She peered down the dark hallway.

“Vickie,” she called loudly, “it’s me, Marla.”

She couldn’t say exactly why she walked on tiptoe, except the house was so darned silent it made the back of her neck bristle. She was glad when she got to the softly lighted kitchen. “Vickie?” she called again, tentatively this time, putting the bottle of wine on the counter.

And then she saw the bagel and lox on the floor––and something else––a discarded rag doll, arms outflung. Only this was no doll. It was Vickie,
lying in a great pool of red. . . . Blood was pulsing from her neck, her chest, her arms. . . .

The scream erupted from somewhere deep inside. Marla hadn’t known she could ever make a sound like this . . . fear, anguish, horror. . . .

Was it a faint indrawn breath she heard or pure instinct that sent her whirling around––and right into the arms of the masked figure standing behind her . . . a tall, thin man. . . .

Fear was hot––not cold as she had always imagined, flashing up her spine like a flame.

She screamed again and he slammed a hand over her mouth, snapping her head backward. Her teeth sank into her lower lip and she tasted fresh blood . . . and then he hit her again, rocking her head back once more. . . .

The fight–or–flee adrenaline surged through her veins, her heart thundered and she jolted upright, mad as hell. He was reaching for her, his right arm raised, she caught a glimpse of the bloody knife. . . .
The same knife he had killed Vickie with.

Fury blinded her, she didn’t know what she was doing, only that it was him or her and she wasn’t ready to die yet. She smacked her knee viciously into his groin, dodged the downsweep of the knife, shrieked with rage as she jammed her fingers into his eyes. She heard his howl of pain . . . a howl that matched her own as she fought for her life . . . the way she knew Giraud would have expected her to. . . .

She jerked away from him, dodged around the kitchen counter, with him right behind her. She was on top of the counter, already sliding over the other side. He grabbed the back of her sweatshirt and she was dangling over the counter’s edge, throttled by her own shirt. Then she felt the knife slash down her arm and the warm silkiness of rushing blood. Oh, God, she hated blood, hated the sight of it, the slick feel of it, the iron smell of it . . . nausea swept over her, she was going to faint.

Dazed, she lifted her head. And looked straight into her attacker’s eyes, dark coals flickering with hate. And she knew she was looking into evil.

Crazed with pain and fear, somehow she slid out of the sweatshirt and fell, half–naked, to the floor on the opposite side of the counter. He was quick, though, and agile. Before she could get to her feet he had straddled her . . . again she jammed her thumbs into his eyes, heard his hiss of pain. He grabbed the wine bottle from the kitchen counter. She saw it coming at her as if in slow motion . . . then faster and faster. . . .

Falcon City, near Laredo, Texas, was hot and dry enough to scare up a thirst in a dead man. It shimmered in the midday heat, looking like a scene from a Western as Giraud, in a Jeep Wrangler this time––they went in for the more sporty–type vehicle in San Antonio, where he had rented it––bowled down the highway that went right through the middle of town and out the other end. It was gone before he had even realized it was there. He stared back over his shoulder, saw a single palm tree and a glint of water. Maybe it was just a mirage. The traditional oasis–in–the–desert type.

He checked the highway. Nothin’. Swung the Jeep around and chugged back into town.

Main Street, Falcon City, was lined with typical storefront establishments, anchored at one end by a supermarket and a drugstore and at the other by a minimall. In between were Blick’s Hardware, Toys’n More; King Ho’s Chinese Restaurant and Takeout, a Burger Boy, Lucille’s Fabrics and Sewing; Corky’s Chili Parlor––and like that. Plus, a car dealership, Marstons Autos and Body Shop. Giraud’s eyes swiveled left as he drove by, checking it out. He wondered whether Bonnie had traded in the Buick there. But first he needed to talk to the woman who now owned the car.

Miss Gwyneth Arden lived in a small brown–shingled ranch house overhung by a giant eucalyptus tree, whose peeling bark revealed a trail of black widow spiders skittering rapidly upward. Standing on the rickety front porch, ringing the doorbell, Giraud wondered if Miss Arden knew about them. He didn’t know any woman who was fond of spiders and black widows were not exactly the kind any household wanted to be infested with.

As he wiped the sweat off the back of his neck he now understood why all those cowboys wore bandannas. It wasn’t just a sartorial trend, it kept the sweat from running down the back of their shirts.

Behind the dusty screen the front door stood open, but all he could see was a blank wall about four feet away, which in his experience made it the smallest front hall ever. An old–fashioned sepia picture of Jesus in a crown of thorns and a blazing heart––hand–tinted in living color––hung on the wall to greet Miss Arden’s visitors. She certainly let you know what to expect, he thought, ringing the bell again.

“Hello?” He pushed open the screen door, stuck his head inside. A smell of must and church incense tickled his nostrils, making him sneeze, and a small black cat rustled quickly past him and out the door.

“Come on in, come in,” a woman’s deep voice commanded. “If that’s you again, Jackson Miller, you can put the groceries on the kitchen counter and tell your ma I’ll see her at the bingo hall this evenin’. Okay?”

Even though he wasn’t Jackson Miller, Giraud stepped inside. To the left of the four–foot–square hallway was a kitchen. A sink spilling over with dirty dishes, countertops piled with empty cartons; cat bowls; Coke cans and clutter of all kinds. A cat litter box desperately in need of cleaning, and a linoleum floor that had been there for a couple of decades and was now worn to an indistinguishable mottled brown.

To the right was a living room. Miss Arden was parked on an ancient green velvet Barcalounger in front of the TV set blasting what must be a riveting episode of
Days of Our Lives,
because she didn’t even turn to see if Jackson Miller had put the groceries in the kitchen, or who the hell it was standing in her front hall. Another large picture of Jesus hung over the brick fireplace and half a dozen candles burned in front of a prie–dieu with a small shrine dedicated to the Madonna. The smell of incense and cats was staggering, but Giraud guessed you got used to anything after a while.

All he could see was the back of Miss Arden’s head. “Excuse me, ma’am, Miss Arden,” he said loudly over the TV. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“What?” Her gaze never wavered from the screen and he stepped farther into the room, came around in front so she could see him.

“Excuse me, Miss Arden, I’ve come about your car.”

She was immensely fat, dressed in an orange and blue muumuu and with a home dye job that had left her hair blacker than any crow. She wore a blue bow in her hair, fluffy blue slippers on her fat feet and pale plastic eyeglasses propped on the end of her tiny nose. Her rosebud mouth was colored orange to match her outfit––though Giraud guessed, with Miss Arden’s taste, it could just as easily have been blue.

“Wait a minute.” She waved her little banana–fingered hand impatiently. “Can’t you see I’m watching this?”

Al waited, trying not to breathe too deeply. Between the litter box and the incense and the heat it was enough to choke even the strongest stomach. Five minutes passed, then the final credits rolled.

Gwyneth Arden sat up in her Barcalounger and peered over her shoulder at him. “Who’re you and waddya want?” she snapped, her gimlet–eyes taking him in from behind the glasses.

Al didn’t blame her for snapping; after all, a stranger was standing right there in her living room. It occurred to him that he was in frontier land and she might very well have a shotgun next to her in that Barcalounger. He explained himself quickly. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I wanted to talk to you about your car. A 1980 Buick Regal   .   .   .”

“I know what my automobile is. And why’re you askin’ anyhow?”

“We’re trying to trace the previous owner of that vehicle, Miss Arden. Could you tell me who you purchased it from?”

“
Who?
It weren’t no
“who.’
I got it from Harmons, the car dealers, six or seven years ago now.” She was already clicking through the channels to her next program, but Giraud knew to be patient. After all, she wasn’t obliged to answer any of his questions if she didn’t want to.

“The car dealership on Main Street? I thought that was Marstons.”

Her tiny eyes flicked over him for a second before she turned back to the television. “Not from around here, are ya?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not. . . .”

“Else you woulda known Harmons went outta business a few years back.”