Clinging to the wall, she made her way slowly
toward the stairs. Twice she stumbled, managed to get her feet
under her, and continued on. Painful as it was, she focused on the
edge of the newel post visible at the top of the stairs. She
refused to take her eyes off of it. It became her one goal, to
reach that post.
Clarissa stumbled toward the stairwell,
sliding along the walls for support, fighting down the rising
nausea and the stabbing headache. When her hands finally closed
tightly around the banister, she stopped to catch her breath. The
stairs twisted and stretched out and downward away from her,
bobbing and weaving as if they were blowing in the wind. She could
not see the second floor landing in the dark shadows below. The
stairs seemed to end down into a black hole. Then, out of that hole
rose Rowland, shuffling down toward the lobby.
She had to follow and not lose sight of the
gray fedora. There was no choice but to try to negotiate the waving
stairs. She tested the top step, reluctant to put her full weight
down. She eased onto the second step carefully, her balance
precarious.
"Clarissa!" The deep, raspy voice came from
behind her. She whirled around. A streak of lightning illuminated
the empty hallway. She turned back toward the top of the stairs and
her hand slipped on the banister. She started to fall, grabbed
wildly at the railing, struggling to keep on her feet.
"Clarissa!"
He stood at the top of the stairs, a dark
figure, and his face in shadows. All she could see was a toothy
grin.
"No!" she screamed and half ran, half slid the
rest of the way down to the second floor landing.
"We need to talk, Clarissa," his voice was
cunningly smooth. "Here, give me your hand." A black gloved hand
reached out to her from the shadows.
The urge to run from the man was overwhelming.
She had not seen his face but there had been something deadly
familiar about him. Something screamed at her to flee, to get away
and she crawled across the second floor landing on her hands and
knees until she reached the stairs. She pulled herself upright by
hanging onto the banister. Then she froze. Coming up the stairs
toward her was the drunk she had met on the stairs the day before.
He still had the cap pulled low over his brow but this time he was
looking straight at her.
"You come with me," he ordered and reached out
to grab her hand.
"Leave me alone," she cried. She quickly
glanced back up into the dim stairwell behind her, but the man who
had reached for her was gone.
"Come on, damn it," the drunk snapped
angrily.
She backed up awkwardly, kicking out at him.
He grabbed her wrist and she screamed, trying to twist her way
free.
"Let go of me," Clarissa pleaded.
"He won't hurt you if you come with me," the
drunk insisted.
"Stop it, let go," she screamed at him. She
kicked out again and again as he dragged her down the to the first
floor landing. With her free arm she tried to hit him. All she
succeeded in doing was knocking off the baseball cap. That was
enough. It was no drunk that held her. She recognized the face of
Alex Rogers even through the mental haze. Panic seared through her,
the fragments of reality coalescing enough for her to know that she
had been discovered and death waited only moments away. "Please,
let me go!" she screamed.
"Shut up!" he demanded.
She sunk her teeth into Alex's arm and he
yelped with pain.
"Clarissa!" he said. "I can get you out of
here. Come with me, now!"
She bit deeper the second time and he pulled
his hand away. Clarissa ran down the last few steps into the lobby,
around the corner, and crouched in the small recess behind the
stairs.
"Clarissa! Wait!" she heard Alex call as she
watched him run toward the hotel's front door. He searched through
the lobby and, not finding her, he went out into the rain. She saw
him through the glass door. He looked both ways down the sidewalk,
then he went to the right toward the alley between the two
buildings.
McKinnon eased open the back door of the
Hempstead Hotel and stepped out into the light drizzle in the
alley. Black gloved hands adjusted the gray fedora further down on
her brow and pulled up the collar of the tweed jacket. An old white
MGB with a black rag top was parked at the end of the alley, its
headlights facing the street.
"Good, still here," McKinnon sighed and
slipped behind the wheel. The assassin had watched the missionary
woman park it a few minutes ago. Saved her the trouble of finding
another vehicle to use, It only took only moments for her practiced
hands to hot wire the engine.
McKinnon let the motor idle. It would be only
moments now and the assassin's greatest asset was patience.
Clarissa would emerge from the front door of the hotel and head
toward the soup kitchen. She would cross the alley in front of the
MGB for the last time. McKinnon would be waiting. The job would be
done, the car abandoned in the dry Los Angeles riverbed and set
ablaze. McKinnon smiled. This had been an easy hit with only one
minor complication, already taken care of. McKinnon's gloved hand
shoved the gear selector forward into first gear and revved the
motor. "Come on, Clarissa," the assassin hissed quietly and played
restlessly with clutch and gas pedal.
Clarissa could not follow Rowland now. Not
with Alex Rogers outside. She had to find a place to hide until he
went away. She crept silently toward the cellar door. The pain
behind her eyes was nearly blinding her as she groped for the door
knob and turned it. It opened with a click and she eased the
creaking door open. She stood at the top of the wooden stairs,
peering down into the darkness. Only the first few weaving steps
were visible in the muted light from the hallway.
"Randy?" she called softly, her voice still
edged with panic. "Randy, are you down there?"
There was no sound in the cellar and the
wooden steps appeared to be buckled and warped. Clarissa took a
hesitant step down. "Randy," she hissed. "Randy, where are
you?"
The patch of light on the stairs went suddenly
dim. Clarissa felt the slight pressure on her back a moment too
late to stop the fall. She pitched forward and plunged into the
darkness. The wooden railing arched toward her and she reached out
and grabbed hold. It arrested her fall but wrenched her already
sprained shoulder. Her cry of pain was lost in the jarring slam of
the cellar door above. Clarissa eased herself down to the bottom
step. Her head swam and her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the
cement cellar floor, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She lay
there in the dark and strained to hear any sound. The cellar door
above her was still closed, shutting out the light. Only the dim
gray light from the grime covered cellar windows afforded any light
at all.
She tried to stand but her legs were like
jelly and she could not get them under her. Her shoulder stung with
a stabbing pain. Clarissa slumped back onto the floor. Then she
heard them. Slow and heavy, dull scraping footsteps and the creak
of the wooden boards. With all her strength she tried to push
herself along the floor back into the blackest shadows but she was
not fast enough.
A streak of lightning illuminated for a second
the figure standing on the bottom step. Marco grinned and pulled
tight the black leather gloves on his hands.
"Hit bottom, Clarissa?" he sneered as he
dropped down off the last wooden step. "I see Morgan's paid killer
never showed up. Figures. If you want something done right, you
can't trust it to no stranger. That's what Morgan pays me for. To
see that every job is done right."
"Please, Marco," Clarissa whimpered. "Don't do
this."
"That's what Virginia said," Marco
bragged.
"Virginia?" Clarissa's mind fought feverishly
to put the random links together. "Where's Virginia?"
"With her Indian ancestors," Marco
replied.
"My God," Clarissa cried.
He was standing over her, flexing his fingers,
the grin gone from his face. Before she could draw a full breath to
scream, his hands closed about her neck. Clarissa clawed at the
black iron fingers as they pressed deeper into her throat and held
her pinned to the floor. Marco held a switchblade knife. The blade
snapped up in front of her eyes, turning slowly in Marco's hand.
Her eyes followed it as it rose high above his head, then began its
deadly descent toward her chest.
Suddenly, Marco's arms went rigid. His eyes
widened and a groan escaped from his lips. The fingers around her
throat went slack and Clarissa forced herself to breathe. Marco
fell toward her, and the force of his fall on her chest knocked the
little bit of air out of her lungs. She recognized the bone handle
of a carving knife protruding from Marco's his back, struggling to
recall where she had seen such a knife. She glimpsed a shadow
detach itself from the others. Then she lost
consciousness.
CHAPTER 12
Morgan snapped shut the briefcase and secured
the combination lock. He handed it to an elderly valet standing in
front of his desk in the den of the Wolfe estate.
Will that be all, sir?" the valet
asked.
"My suitcase is packed, Peter?" Wolfe asked.
"I'll be gone just until next Thursday."
"Yes, sir," the valet responded.
"Did you tell Dalton I wanted to see
him?'
"He's waiting in the living room, sir. I'll
tell him to come in."
Peter did not make a sound as he bowed
slightly and slid out of the double doors of the den as if he were
on casters. A moment later, the black security guard knocked
softly.
"Yes, Dalton," Wolfe called. "Come
in."
The guard entered and stood at attention,
waiting for Wolfe to address him.
"Alex Rogers has not checked in all day?"
Wolfe asked.
"No, Mister Wolfe," Dalton replied. "His car
is no longer registering a signal on the scanner. We assume he's
dismantled it. The last signal was from the area of Wilshire
Boulevard and Bristol Avenue near the Wilshire Towers Condos. That
was at nine thirty two this morning."
"Where the hell is Marco?" Wolfe
demanded.
The guard hesitated, a look of uneasiness
crossed his face. He swallowed the knot in his throat. There was no
easy way out of this. He was damned if he told and damned if he
didn't. He had worked for Morgan Wolfe for four years. Dalton knew
all too well the unquestionable loyalty that Wolfe demanded. He was
witness to the consequences if that allegiance was in any way
violated. The Roth brothers were the most recent example and Dalton
suspected there had been others.
The guard also knew Marco Camponello. Growing
up in the south central Los Angeles neighborhoods, Dalton had been
the leader of one of the most notorious gangs, the Blades. He had
been convicted of murder and sent to the maximum security prison at
Vacaville. Eight years later, social and political strings were
pulled to obtain his release and he found himself in the employ of
Morgan Wolfe. The job was personal body guard. He had little
choice, take the job or spend the next twenty years in prison. It
was made very clear to Lewis Dalton that his freedom and his life
were one hundred percent dependent on his job
performance.
The job was easy. The most demanding aspects
were keeping in top physical condition, learning to deploy the
latest in high tech weapons, security systems, and surveillance
equipment, and being anywhere around Marco Camponello.
Dalton called him the man without a soul.
Dalton's old Southern Baptist mother would call Marco demon
possessed, but Lewis knew that the devil had sucked out Marco's
soul a long time ago. Marco Camponello was a walking motel for
every demon in hell.
Dalton swallowed again. He could feel the
beads of perspiration forming on his upper lip and he resisted the
temptation to wipe the moisture off. He had rehearsed the lie a
thousand times that morning and prayed that Alex and Marco would
return before Wolfe asked about them. It was almost four o'clock
and neither had showed up. Dalton had begun to worry around noon
and now his stomach was filled with churning bile that threatened
to burn holes clear through to his knotted intestines.
He had never before seen Marco so tense. This
morning had been the first time that Wolfe's chief of security
seemed out of sorts and anxious. Dalton was on guard duty in the
surveillance room early in the morning, watching the monitors and
tracking screens when Marco had silently come up behind him and put
the knife to his throat.
Marco made Dalton turn off the tracking device
to one of the Cadillacs. "You turn it on before I get back and this
will be the last day you draw breath," Marco had whispered quietly
in black man's ear. "Wolfe asks you anything, you tell him I went
to find Alex. You got it?"
Dalton nodded and the knife slipped away from
his throat. Before Dalton could turn to ask Marco about a problem
with one of the outside cameras, Marco had already disappeared from
the room without so much as a whisper of a sound. Dalton had no
doubt that Marco's was no idle threat. He had seen Marco knife a
man on a dark and narrow Columbian street for refusing to hurry
along with his basket laden bicycle, and slash a woman's throat for
refusing to kiss him in a cantina in La Paz. Killing was as second
nature to Marco as eating and sex.