Body Rides (14 page)

I hit the bastard, Neal thought. Hit him good.

Not good enough
.

Maybe he’s close to the end of his rope.

But those punches Elise caught in the guts hadn’t felt like they’d come from a guy on the verge of collapse. They’d been damn hard. And the way he’d picked her up by the hair . . .

But who knows?

He can’t keep going and going forever.

Maybe she’ll be able to take him. Hurt him enough to get away. Or enough to slow him down.

Neal had the green at Olympic Boulevard. Not that it mattered. Red, amber or green, he wouldn’t have stopped. He’d been blowing through intersections against the red all down Venice Boulevard, Centinela, and now Bundy. Hoping not to end the race with a crash. Hoping a cop might see him and give chase.

Tonight, the cops must be somewhere else.

Soon, he shot across Santa Monica Boulevard.

Almost there, he thought. A few more minutes.

Fight him, Elise! Hang on.

What if they’re gone?

Last time, the bastard hadn’t worked on her in the house; he’d driven her away.

Maybe he’ll do that again, carry her out to the van and head for somewhere else.

Maybe he’s too hurt to carry her.

Find out soon.

At the corner of Bundy and San Vicente, the traffic light was red. The intersection looked clear. Knowing he would probably flip over if he took the turn at full speed, he slowed down slightly. He swung left. He skidded, tires squealing. Came out of the skid, and stepped on the gas.

Greenhaven coming up.

Nothing in the rearview.

Bearing down on Greenhaven, he hit the brakes. Slowed abruptly and almost came to a stop before making his turn onto the narrow lane.

As he raced the final stretch to Elise’s house, he knew he’d made good time.

Must’ve averaged sixty.

Doubted he could’ve gone faster.

But the guy’d had at least ten minutes with Elise. More like fifteen.

No sign of the van.

Was it just around the bend? Or gone? Gone with Elise inside?

As Neal swung into her driveway, his headlights reached past the open iron gate and lit the rear of a black van parked in front of Elise’s garage.

The sight of the van struck him like a kick to the heart.

Still here, he thought. Oh, God.

He killed his lights, shut off the engine, pulled the ignition key and switched the key case to his left hand. With his right, he flipped open the console and dug for the bottom.

Come on, come on, where is it!

He found the spare ammo magazine.

Snatched it up.

Flung open his door and leaped out.

Running toward the van, he pocketed the keys. He clamped the steel magazine between his teeth, reached deep into his right pocket and drew out the pistol.

The van was dark and quiet.

Engine not running.

Not yet.

You’re not going anywhere, bastard, he thought.

Ducking as he rushed past the rear, he shoved his pistol toward the tire and fired. The blast stunned his ears. The gun bucked in his hand. He didn’t stop to check the effect, but hurried on to the front right tire and shot it, too.

Then he glanced through the side window.

Nobody in the front seats.

He thought about making a quick search of the van. He doubted anyone was in it, though. And he didn’t want to waste time opening the door and climbing in.

A few lost seconds might make all the difference to Elise.

So he kept on running.

As he raced toward the corner of the house, he changed magazines and jacked a fresh round into the chamber. On his way through the grove at the side, he dropped his used magazine into a pocket. He dodged his way through the fruit trees, ducking under low limbs. Suddenly, the trees ended. He rushed out onto the concrete apron of the pool.

Light spilled out from the sliding glass door of Elise’s bedroom.

Neal ran toward it.

Open.

I was last one in, he thought.

Elise had picked up the towel she’d left in the lounge and stepped into her bedroom, and Neal had followed her through the sliding door.

He couldn’t remember locking it.

Did
I lock it? he wondered. Did I even
shut
it?

Must be how
he
got in.

Fuck!

Doesn’t matter now, Neal told himself.

And charged through the open door.

Elise’s bedroom looked almost the same as when he’d last seen it. The big blue towel was gone, that’s all. She’d thrown it onto her bed, but someone had taken it away.

On the other side of the room, the door to the master bathroom was ajar.

Light showed through the crack.

Neal jumped onto the bed and ran across it, the mattress bouncy under his feet. At the other side, he leaped down. He ran at the bathroom door.

‘Hey!’ he yelled. No answer.

He kicked the door open. It slammed the wall behind it, bounced and swung back.

In the moments it was wide open, Neal glimpsed a small heap of shiny blue cloth on the floor. Elise’s pajamas?

He didn’t see her, though.

Or the attacker.

So he kneed the door wide open, gently so it wouldn’t fly back.

This was much larger than the guest bathroom. Over to the right, it had a long counter with twin sinks, cupboards underneath. A mirror ran the length of the wall. Down at the far end was a toilet.

From where Neal stood, just inside the doorway, he couldn’t see the tub.

But there seemed to be a large, recessed area to the left, just beyond the small heap of Elise’s pajamas.

He walked toward it.

They aren’t here, he thought. I’m wasting time.

What about her pajamas?

Then he saw Elise.

Saw her reflection in the mirror to his right.

It wrenched out a moan.

He told himself that maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Mirrors distort things.

He turned his face away from the mirror and hurried on and stepped over Elise’s pajamas and found her. Not a reflection. Not a distortion.

The bath was a sunken tub, rectangular and tiled like a miniature swimming pool, a ledge around it.

She sat on the ledge at the far side, her feet in the tub.

Her arms were stretched out to her right and left, her wrists bound with tape to chrome fixtures that appeared to be handholds. The way she leaned forward, the fixtures seemed to be bearing most of her weight. Her head hung down so Neal couldn’t see her face.

There was no water in the tub.

Its tile bottom was puddled and spattered with blood.

The towel from the bed lay in a heap near her feet. It looked sodden. It wasn’t very blue anymore.

Neal stepped down into the tub.

He had to see her face.

Maybe it
isn’t
Elise, he thought. Maybe it’s a trick to make me think she’s dead, and this is some other woman.

This
can’t
be her, he told himself. Not this slaughtered, mutilated ruin.

‘No,’ Neal muttered. ‘No, no. Huh-uh.’

The tiles were slippery.

He crouched in front of her and looked up at her face. Coils of hair clung to her bloody forehead. Her eyes were wide open, bulging. A thick bar of pink soap was jammed into her mouth.

He looked away quickly and stood up.

He suddenly went dizzy. His vision darkened. Blinking, he saw electric blue auras. He heard ringing in his ears.

God, I’m gonna faint!

He staggered backward and sat on the edge of the tub. Bending at the waist, he lowered his head. He gazed down between his knees. Down at the tile steps.

As his head cleared, he noticed there was no blood on the steps.

He looked to his left. No blood, anywhere, on the bathroom floor.

Maybe that’s what the guy did with the towel, he thought. Used it to clean up after himself, then tossed it into the tub.

Neal kept his head turned away so he wouldn’t see Elise again, and climbed backward up the steps. He turned and backed away from the tub.

Leaving bloody shoeprints.

They’re gonna think I did this
.

The crime scene investigators would find
his
shoeprints in Elise’s blood, his fingerprints all over the place . . . his hair in the drain of the guest bathroom’s tub, even traces of his blood on the tissues he’d used for drying his abrasions after the shower.

Other evidence, too.

The task of cleaning up after himself to make all the traces disappear seemed overwhelming. And even if he spent hours, he couldn’t possibly eliminate every print, stain, hair . . .

Forget it, he thought.

‘Who cares?’ he muttered.

He felt sick, confused, tired, scared.

Where’s the bastard who killed her? That’s what I want to know. Gotta get my hands on him. He has to be around here someplace
.

Van isn’t going anywhere
.

He wondered if the cops would be arriving soon.

Only if someone reported my shots, he thought.

If Elise had been right about the neighbors, the cops should’ve gotten a dozen calls by now.

So where are they?

He suddenly felt an odd sensation of having drifted into an alien land – an unreal, twisted copy of Los Angeles where nothing quite worked out the way it should.

A place where madmen don’t die when you shoot them.

A place where damsels in distress can’t really be saved, after all.

A place where magic bracelets let you inhabit people but won’t allow you to help them.

A place where no cops come.

He wondered if he should call the police, himself.

Maybe they could surround the place and catch the killer.

They’ll think I did it
.

Where
is
he? Neal wondered. Turning around, he found himself standing above Elise’s pajamas. He gazed at them.

My card
.

He crouched. Keeping his head up and the pistol ready in his right hand, he used his left hand to separate the pajama shirt from the pants. He turned the shirt until he found its pocket.

As he dug his fingers into the pocket, he remembered Elise slipping the Alka-Seltzer packet in – the feel of the stiff foil against her nipple.

Where’s that nipple now?

In the bastard’s belly?

The thoughts made Neal want to scream and crash his head against a wall.

None of this happened! Not really
.

Then what was that in the tub?

I’m asleep and dreaming
. . .

Neal knew he was awake.

His fingers were delving inside an empty pocket.

My card!

His first thought was that the killer had taken it. Then he realized it might’ve simply fallen out of Elise’s pocket during the struggles, or when the man stripped her.

He picked up her pajamas and checked the floor.

No card.

Worry about it later, he told himself. The killer’s still around here, someplace.

Probably.

He let the pajamas drift from his fingers. As he stood up, he scanned the bathroom floor.

No sign of his card.

If the cops find it
. . .
Least of my worries. What if HE has it?

He’ll know where to find me
.

‘Good!’ Neal blurted.

The sound of his voice shocked him. He didn’t dare speak again.

But he thought, Come and get me.

Neal searched the house.

He worked his way carefully from room to room, looking for the killer.

And looking for his business card.

He felt oddly calm.

The worst had already happened.

He sort of hoped the police wouldn’t show up and catch him here, but he didn’t actually care that much, one way or the other. If they showed up, they might shoot him. L.A.P.D. cops weren’t trigger-happy cowboys, though. That was movie crap. He’d be fine if he put his gun down.