Authors: Bill Pronzini
T W E N T Y - T H R E E
I
T’S TRUE,” CLAIRE LOMAX
said. Her eyes were open now, rounded, the pupils dilated and the whites that sickly clabbered-milk color in the fireglow. “I don’t care who knows it now, I don’t care what the police do to me if I live through tonight. It wasn’t the Coastline Killer who shot Gene, it was Brian. And not down the coast, in our own living room. Brian, Brian, Brian!”
A sick metallic taste had formed in Macklin’s mouth. He said, “For God’s sake, why?”
“He blamed it all on me,” she said. Talking to herself now as much as to him. Her gaze had shifted away, was fixed on something only she could see. “But it’s not my fault, it’s his,
his
. None of it would’ve happened if he hadn’t started treating me like a … a toy he was tired of, a piece of useless baggage. I was faithful to him until then … I swear I was, I never even looked at another man. But you can only stand so much. That’s why I had the affair, to get back at him.”
“Decker? He’s the one you had the affair with?”
“I didn’t have any feelings for Gene,” she said, “I never even liked him very much. But he’d been after me for a long time and finally I just … I let it happen. Twice, that’s all. Only twice.”
“How’d your husband find out?”
“I don’t know how he found out … something Gene said, the way he kept looking at me with that smarmy smile of his … I don’t
know
. But Brian knew and he kept on hitting me until I admitted it. He wouldn’t listen when I told him I was sorry, just hit me some more, then sat up most of the night drinking and brooding. Paula must’ve heard us, that’s why she left. Brian accused Gene after she was gone. Gene laughed at him and Brian hates to be laughed it, he went and got that fucking gun of his, but Gene the stupid drunken fool kept right on laughing. You won’t use that, he said, quit playing Dirty Harry, he said, and Brian … Brian …”
She shuddered, hugged herself before she went on. “Afterward he put the … the body in Gene’s car and made me take it down to that rest area so it would look like the Coastline Killer did it. All that way with Gene dead beside me and Brian just ahead so I couldn’t get away, so he could bring me back here and beat on me some more.”
It had been Claire driving Decker’s Porsche Monday afternoon, grinding the gears because she was scared or unused to a stick shift. He hadn’t heard the SUV because Lomax, leading, had already passed by.
“Threatened to kill me too if I didn’t do what he told me, if I didn’t lie to the police when they came. But he’s going to do it anyway—I knew he would, I knew it. He’s crazy, he’ll kill anybody who gets in his way …”
Shelby!
What if Lomax went all the way to the highway and she’s still there and he finds her, tries to stop her from bringing help?
Another chilling thought jolted Macklin.
What if
Lomax
was the Coastline Killer?
T W E N T Y - F O U R
T
HE ESTATE DRIVEWAY SLOPED
downward, flanked closely by timber on the south side. The darkness here wasn’t quite as impenetrable as it had been on the other side; Shelby could make out the faint luminosity of frothing waves and high-flung spindrift below and to her right, and that the north side of the property was mostly treeless, the land folded into a long, deep crease. Half-seen tree trunks flicked past like black ghosts as she staggered ahead. The nyctophobia kept nibbling at her mind, radiating panic that threatened to send her into a disastrous headlong flight. The fight against it, the effort it took to move at a retarded pace and trust to the feel of pavement under her feet, had pushed her near the edge of exhaustion.
Had he seen her come through the gates?
No lights behind her yet. Maybe he hadn’t—
Yes, he had. One beam appeared, then the other, splitting the night with short and then elongated streaks.
Without thinking she lengthened her stride. One foot slid on something yielding; she lost her balance and went down awkwardly, jamming her left knee this time, scraping more skin off her right palm. Pain flared and ran hot up into her crotch as she slid, then rolled half onto her side. She had to dig fingers and elbows into the sloping blacktop to check her forward momentum.
Neither of the shafts had found her yet, but they were drawing closer. Any second now.
The skidding fall had torn a long slit in the front of her raincoat; the oilskin flapped like loose skin, got in her way as she tried to stand. She fought free, finally gained her feet, biting down hard against the throb in her knee, and flung herself off the driveway into the timber.
She hobbled between two trees, up close against another. The bared part of her hand touched rough bark, softer, thicker, stringier than on the pines by the lane … redwood bark. Mixed growth in here, pines and redwoods. She grasped a handful, pulled herself around behind the thick trunk a couple of ticks before one of the beams swept past.
There was more spacing between the trees here, and less ground cover. Ink-black in among them nonetheless, with only blips from the traveling lights to keep her oriented.
The thought crossed her mind that she’d trapped herself by coming onto the estate grounds. No other choice, he’d have caught her outside the fence if she hadn’t—but unless she found a place to hide he’d catch her even more easily in here.
Jay—
But she couldn’t help him unless she saved herself.
She groped her way blindly through the trees, dodging or plowing through obstructions, her knee still giving off shoots of pain, the muscles in both legs quivering with fatigue. Not thinking at all now, functioning on adrenaline and a savage determination not to give in to the fear.
The terrain kept sloping downward … toward the estate buildings? Had to be; the big, weirdly shaped house she and Jay had seen from the beach had been backed by woods. The rays crisscrossed behind her, moved up alongside, then out in front: Her pursuer must still be on the driveway. Shelby ducked as one flicked past, steadied, drew back. He’d seen her …
But he hadn’t. The beam circled like a predatory bird seeking prey, slid off to hunt elsewhere.
Down, down … and at last she was on level ground. The spaces between the trees seemed even wider now, nothing underfoot but wet, spongy earth. No place to hide in here. The trunks were tall and straight and impossible to climb in the dark. No chance of escape unless she could get to the buildings—
Ahead there, to the left … what was that?
Another light?
Yes! Below, not behind. Pale, unmoving, fuzzed by the rain. Beacon in the night.
Shelby sidestepped another tree, then two more, and finally she was out of the grove, coming into a broad clearing. Vague bulky shapes loomed ahead and to her left. The massive one farthest away was the estate house, the nearest, small and squat, an outbuilding of some kind; that was where the light was coming from.
Somebody was here, help was here …
She ran toward the stationary light, away from the moving ones.
Slipped once, almost fell again. For several strides she was back on pavement—the driveway—and then off it again onto more rain-soaked ground. From there she could see that the beacon light was leaking out through a window and a half-open door in the front wall of a small, square cabin.
As she neared it another stationary shape materialized beyond the pale yellow glow, touched by its outer edges.
Parked car. Escape, help for Jay.
Shelby hobbled to the doorway, caught hold of the jamb. Started inside with a cry forming in her throat.
Dying in her throat.
What came out instead was a half-strangled moan. She stopped dead still, sucking air, staring in at the floor.
A man lay sprawled next to the table that held an oil lantern, face down, motionless—a man wearing the uniform of a sheriff’s deputy. Arms drawn together behind his back, wrists bound with duct tape … ankles, too. Blood from a wound on the side of his head gleamed blackly in the saffron glow.
Reflexively she took a step toward him. The holster on his Sam Browne belt was unbuttoned and empty. His head was half turned toward her, so that she saw his face clearly in profile—a face she recognized. Ferguson, the mustached deputy they’d encountered in Seacrest that first night, who’d showed up at the cottage yesterday with the highway patrol investigator.
But if Ferguson was here, hurt, tied up, then who had dragged her out of the cruiser, who was chasing her? And who was the second man who’d been shot?
Panic tore at her again. Run, get out of here before it’s too late!
She turned away from the door. And froze once more, with the fear congealing inside her.
It was already too late.
T W E N T Y - F I V E
M
ACKLIN DONNED THE HEAVIEST
sweater he’d brought, then sat on the edge of the bed to pull on wool socks and lace up his shoes.
“What’re you doing?” Claire Lomax had followed him, stood in the bedroom doorway with a hand at her throat.
“What it looks like—getting dressed.”
“Why? For God’s sake, you’re sick, you can’t leave here—”
“But that’s what I’m going to do.”
“With no gun and Brian out there? You must be out of your mind!”
Maybe he was. But the bad feeling he’d had since she told him Lomax had murdered Gene Decker kept getting worse. Prodding him, filling him with a sense of dire necessity. Shelby might be perfectly safe, alone at the highway or in somebody’s car on the way for help by now, but there was just as much chance that she wasn’t; that Lomax had gone out that way hunting his wife. If he found Shelby instead, there was no telling what he might do. Coastline Killer or not, he was unhinged and unpredictable.
“Maybe so. But I can’t keep on sitting here doing nothing,” Macklin said. “He’s out there and so is Shelby.”
“What about me?” Claire’s voice had risen to that hysterical edge again. “You can’t leave me here alone.”
“Come with me.”
“No! I told you, he’ll kill me if he finds me, he’ll kill both of us if he finds us together—”
“Then stay here with the door locked.”
“He’d break it down.”
“Hide somewhere else then. One of the sheds behind the carport … he won’t think to look in there.”
“I couldn’t stand it, trapped in a place like that. Please, please, I don’t want to be alone.”
He finished tying his shoes, stood up in slow, measured movements. Shelby had left the bottle of nitroglycerin pills on the bureau; he slipped it into his pants pocket. Claire clutched at his arm as he moved past her into the hall and he could smell the sweaty, fetid odor of her terror. He was sorry for her, but he couldn’t do anything for her if she refused to cooperate.
She trailed him to the utility closet behind the front door, stood watching him paw through the shelves by candle flame. No other flashlight in there. The closet on the porch? Yes … on a lower shelf among a bunch of canned goods. But it stayed dark when he thumbed the switch; the batteries must be dead.
There was a package of D batteries in the utility closet. He grabbed his raincoat and hat from where Shelby had hung them, threw the coat around his shoulders as he went back to the living room. Claire was in his way; he pushed her aside, not roughly, but the contact made her flinch and moan.
He found the batteries, dropped the dead ones out of the flashlight and shoved in the replacements. Held a breath when he thumbed the switch this time, released it hissing between his teeth when the bar of light stabbed out. He shut it off, then quickly buttoned himself inside the coat, pulled on his gloves, yanked the hat down tight on his head.
Claire plucked at his arm, pleading with him again not to leave her. He said, “I’m going. You’ll be better off coming with me.”
“No, I can’t go out there, I tell you, I
can’t
…”
“Then go to the woodshed. Take one of the knives with you.”
Macklin picked up the fireplace poker. Take the other knife along, too? He decided against it; he’d have to carry it in his coat pocket and it was liable to get hung up in the cloth. He might even accidentally stab himself with it.
He went to the door. A feral sound came out of Claire; she ran after him, dug her fingers into his arm to try to hold him back. He pulled away from her, flipped the dead bolt with the hand holding the flashlight, eased the door open a crack.
“Last chance, Claire.”
“No!” She flung more words at him, called him a son of a bitch and something else he didn’t listen to, and then he was outside.
Immediately the door banged shut behind him and he thought he heard the bolt slide home. He had a fleeting moment of concern for her. But she was beyond his help now. Shelby was his main worry, his only worry.
He stood studying the darkness, not thinking about Claire Lomax anymore. No light of any kind visible from here. The storm had lost some of its wildness; the wind had died down to intermittent thrummings, the rain to a light, misty drizzle. Even though it was well after nightfall, it didn’t seem quite as cold as it had earlier. The boom and crash of the surf was all there was to hear.
His throat and mouth were dry, otherwise he was all right. A voice in his head reminded him that it didn’t make any difference how he felt or thought he felt, he could still have another attack any minute. But he could drop dead waiting in the cottage, too. Anybody could suddenly drop dead any time … coronary, stroke, massive cerebral hemorrhage. You could get run over by a car or break your neck in a fall. You could get shot by a lunatic. If he didn’t survive tonight, at least he’d die doing something important for the first time in a long time—die a man instead of a helpless invalid.
He made his way to the open gate. Visibility was poor—he could barely see where he was going—but he wouldn’t put the flash on until he made sure Lomax wasn’t roaming somewhere in the vicinity. He groped out past the carport, careful of his footing. Down the short drive to the half-flooded lane.
Still no lights anywhere.
He turned right on the lane, holding the poker down along his right leg, the flashlight in his left hand. The torch was necessary now or he’d run the risk of stumbling over something, hurting himself in a fall. He aimed the lens down at his feet, flicked it on and held it so that the pale yellow blob was no more than a yard ahead of him, just far enough to pick out obstacles to be avoided.
The Prius was parked close to the fallen tree. Macklin detoured around it, playing the flash over the pine’s trunk and branches, looking for a way to climb over that wouldn’t require too much effort. One place toward the upper end looked manageable, but when he tried it, a branch heavy with decayed cones snagged his coat and forced him to back off. He found a different spot, tried that. Another dead branch broke under his foot as he stepped up and over; he saved himself from sliding onto the splintered end by digging the tip of the poker into wet wood.
When he was down on the other side, he leaned back against the bole to rest. His pulse rate had climbed with the effort and there was a tightness like a contracting band inside his chest. Not now, he thought, not now! Slow, shallow breaths. The tightness didn’t get any worse and there was no pain. A minute, two minutes … and his heart beat more slowly, the clamping sensation eased.
He made himself slog ahead at the same pace as before. The light picked out a torn-off pine bough six or seven feet long lying half on the lane, half in the stream of rainwater that gushed alongside it. He sidestepped the bough, into a gradual left-hand curve, and when he was halfway through that the outer reach of the shaft touched something else in the roadway.
It was just a shapeless lump until he closed the gap and the light brightened on it, gave it definition. Macklin pulled up short. Not an object—a man. Lying crumpled there, one arm outflung as if it were pointing down the lane. He took two more steps and then he could see the bare head, the rain glistening on the pink scalp visible through the close-cropped hair.
Lomax.
Fell, hit his head, knocked himself out?
Cautiously he moved up close, around the huddled body. The light was on Lomax’s side-turned face then—on the open eye staring up blankly into the drizzle, on the gaping hole in his throat.
Christ! Dead. Shot, from the look of the wound. Dead for a while, long enough for the rain to have washed away most of the blood.
Macklin shook his head to clear it. Shelby? he thought then. Ran into Lomax here, he pulled that gun of his and there was a struggle and it went off? That must be it. And after it happened she must’ve continued onto the highway—which meant she was all right, she hadn’t been hurt.
He almost turned back. Lomax was no longer a threat to Shelby, or to him or Claire; there was no reason to continue risking cardiac arrest out here in the rain and cold.
But then he thought: If that’s what happened, where’s the gun? It wasn’t anywhere near the body, and when he moved Lomax enough to shine the light under him, he didn’t find it there either. Shelby wouldn’t have taken it with her … she wouldn’t have any reason to with Lomax dead.
He lifted the light off the body, fanned it around and then moved farther along the blacktop. The appearance of the car parked beyond the jog surprised him almost as much as finding Lomax’s corpse. He took a few steps toward it—and the torch beam glinted off the bar flasher on the vehicle’s roof.
What was a sheriff’s cruiser doing here?
Macklin went ahead to the cruiser, ran the light over it and through the side window. Empty. He made a three-sixty sweep with the torch: no sign of anybody in the area. Maybe Lomax hadn’t died in a struggle with Shelby, maybe he’d been shot by a deputy … but then where the hell was the deputy?
He tried the driver’s door, found it unlocked, jerked it open and poked his head and the light inside. And when he saw what lay on the passenger side of the front seat, his breath caught, his heartbeat jumped and stuttered.
Shelby’s purse.