Curt uttered a short exclamation, starting forward with the terrible fear constricting his chest that she was bleeding to death, as Paula had. Then he checked himself.
The dark stains were oil. Oil to make her wrists slippery, let her slip off the ropes tying her arms, pull free from her mouth the filthy rag that probably had been used to gag her. A lot of guts, a lot of determination for a girl on the edge of hysteria. How long had it taken her to figure a way to get loose? How long to get to the phone and dial Curt’s number?
Curt was damned glad he hadn’t stopped to call the police. If she had wanted the cops, she would have called them, not Curt.
“Debbie,” he said gently, “I’m going to take the phone. I’ll just touch that, I won’t touch you. Okay?”
Her eyes, those dark shadowed wells without any sign of recognition or comprehension, didn’t react; but when Curt gently took hold of the receiver her fingers released it immediately. Her hand dropped laxly to the twist of ruined cloth which covered her womanhood.
Moving slowly, like a man trying not to startle a wild animal, Curt carried the phone to the far end of the workbench. He got the number from the operator, and dialed, watching Debbie the whole time.
“County General Hospital.”
“Barbara Anderson, please. She’s an R.N. on duty until three o’clock, I don’t know the floor or section. It is an extreme emergency involving Mrs. Anderson personally.”
The switchboard girl was either very bright or very efficient; in less than thirty seconds he heard Barbara’s voice, tight and high with tension, demanding to know what had happened to Jimmy.
“Nothing. This is Curt. I can only tell you this once, Barbara, so take down what you need. They’ve raped another girl, the one I told you about. Debbie Marsden. In the garage behind three-eight-seven Cuesta Avenue, C-u-e-s-t-a. She’s alive and conscious, but she’s catatonic, very pale, her respiration light and fast. I didn’t want to touch her to check the pulse. There’s been some bleeding, I’d guess internally, but I’d guess not very much unless they used something on her besides themselves. She’ll need—”
“The ambulance will be on its way directly.” Her voice was crisp.
“Right.” Curt was still looking at Debbie, his mouth a tight thin line. “Can you keep the police away from her until tomorrow?”
There was a pause. “If she’s in the state you describe, the doctor probably will put her under anyway. But...”
“I need tonight. I know where they are; they’re going to be waiting for me. I don’t want to disappoint them.”
“Oh.” She was silent for what seemed a long time. “You feel you—”
“That’s right.”
Curt could picture her, seemed to look into those remarkably clear green eyes.
She said, “I’ll manage. Come back to me, Curt.”
“Right,” he said again. Then he hung up.
He opened the double doors, waited until he heard the first far whisper of siren, and walked down to his VW. As the ambulance wheeled into Cuesta, he pulled sedately away from the curb. He drove north to Preston’s house in Redwood City, stuck an elbow through the glass of the kitchen door, and spent eight minutes finding Preston’s skin-diving gear.
Back home, he waterproofed a flashlight with electrician’s tape, rummaged through his old foot locker in the study until he found the black commando knife he had carried all through the war, and spent fifteen minutes on it with an oil stone. It had a needle point, double-edged blade. He needed it to butcher them, one by one, as befit the unspeakable pigs they were. Tonight they would die, or he would.
Finally he studied moon, tide, and sunset tables for that night, Friday, August 29th. Planning strategy, all fear burned away.
It was eighteen weeks to the day since Paula’s suicide.
Chapter 28
Champ Mather stood up and stretched his massive body in the deep shadows under the trees just beside the cabin, delighting in the tight powerful play of muscle. By the luminous hands of his watch, 8:45. That guy, that Halstead, he was almost an hour late. Pretty soon it’d be too dark to see him if he did come down the drive. That was too bad, because old Rick had fixed it up real smart. Champ here; Julio up beside the gate; and Heavy inside to answer Halstead’s knock.
But he sure was late, that guy.
A faint scuff of shoe on gravel dropped Champ back into his crouch. Through the gloom he could just make out, beyond the muted gleam of the Triumph, the lighter strip of gravel which marked the drive. That sure was smart of Rick, too, leaving the Triumph right out in plain sight while the wagon was hidden behind the cabin.
That Halstead would think Debbie and Rick were alone in there, would walk right up to the cabin. Once he was inside, they’d do him.
Champ licked his lips in delighted memory. Debbie’d been better than that old woman last spring, because she’d had that look in her eyes. Like a rabbit’s eyes when the back legs are busted with a bad shot, so you can take hold of its head and twist, slow-like, and feel the fibers letting go one at a time while it kicked and thrashed.
That Debbie, she wouldn’t walk with her legs together for a week, he bet. Champ snorted aloud with delight. He’d gone four times, himself. Julio only went the once on her. Heavy, he went twice, like to flattened her just getting on top of her.
“Some lookout you are,” said Julio, from right on top of him.
Wow! Remembering, he’d forgot about watching. He said, “Hey, Julio, how come that professor ain’t showed yet?”
“I don’t think he’s coming. What were you laughing at, Champ?”
“I was remembering how we done Debbie today.”
“Oh.” Julio’s voice was subdued. “Let’s go inside. It’s so dark he’d have to use a flashlight now if he came.”
“Gonna be some moon pretty soon, Julio.”
Julio led the way around the cabin to the kitchen door. Remembering how they done Debbie. He shuddered in the dark, felt an urge to cross himself. He would never forget that. That terrible mistake. He envied Champ, in a way. Champ would probably get as much fun out of using a knothole, except that a knothole couldn’t feel pain.
He knocked at the door; after a moment Heavy’s fat, frightened face looked out. Grease gleamed in the corners of his mouth; bread, mayonnaise, processed cheese, and canned corned beef were laid out for sandwiches. “Oh, it’s you guys.” His voice was relieved. “Guess he ain’t coming, huh?”
“That ought to make you happy,” said Julio wearily.
He went through the doorway into the living room, sickened by the remembered image of Heavy’s white balloon buttocks flexing sluggishly between Debbie’s knees. Rick was standing up against the wall beside the door, the automatic clubbed in his hand. Smash the butt down on Halstead’s head, then carry him unconscious down to the cove and drown him. Better than shooting. Rick and Heavy, the good swimmers, would then carry the body out to the mouth of the cove and let it go. If he was ever found, he’d be accepted as someone who’d fallen off the bluffs, or something, like you read about all the time in the newspapers. So simple. Except Halstead hadn’t come, and it all had been wasted.
“Why did you both come in?” demanded Rick in a thin sharp voice.
Maybe, Julio thought, giving him Paula Halstead’s suicide note after finding it in Debbie’s handbag had been a mistake. “Hell, Rick, he isn’t coming. Not now. And if he does, we—”