CHAPTER NINE
“Alfred, go on over to Harry’s and pick me up some lunch.”With a nod, Alfred fumbled among half a dozen pens safely clipped inside his plastic pocket shield. He plucked out a Bic, and slipped a notepad from his trousers. “What’ll it be?”“Pastrami on a sourdough roll, hold the onions. Fries, and a Bud.” Carl waited for the young man to finish scribbling, then gave him a five-dollar bill.“Want a doughnut or something?”“Nope.”“Back in a jiff.”“No hurry.” Carl followed him outside, watched him start down the sidewalk toward the deli three blocks away, and called after him, “Don’t forget to bring me back some ketchup.”“Oh, I’ll remember.”He watched Alfred slip the notepad out of his seat pocket. He stepped back inside the office. He shut and locked the door, then hurried through the deserted room to his desk. His hands were sweaty and trembling. He wiped them on his pants legs. He took a deep breath, and picked up the telephone. On the first try, his finger slipped and he had to dial again.At the other end, the phone rang six times before it was picked up. A woman’s pleasant voice said, “Spiritual Development Foundation, Miss Prince speaking.”“This is Carl Williams, number 68259385.”“Just a moment, please.”He waited for her to punch the code number into her terminal.“Level?” she asked.“Red.”“Very good. What can we do for you, Mr. Williams?”“I have an urgent message for section three.”“Just a moment, please. I’ll put you through to the section three coordinator.”Carl heard the faint ringing of a phone. Then a strong male voice said, “Farris, here. What have you got for us?”“This is Carl Williams, publisher of the Oasis Tribune. That’s Oasis, Arizona.”“Right.” He sounded impatient.“We’ve had a series of incidents here that I suspect might be related to the SDF—a couple of nasty murders and an assault on one of my reporters, a Miss Lacey Allen.”“I see. And what makes you think they may be connected to SDF?”“Oasis is the home town of Samuel Hoffman. Also, Hoffman’s mother was one of the murder victims.”“You think Hoffman may have been the perpetrator?”“My reporter, Miss Allen, claims that her attacker was invisible.”“Sounds like our man,” Farris said, sounding pleased. “Any knowledge of his present whereabouts?”“Miss Allen wounded him this morning—about four hours ago—at her home here in town. The police couldn’t find any trace of him, but I imagine he isn’t far from here.”“Excellent.”“I may be wrong about this, sir, but I think he’s still after the Allen woman. While she was his prisoner, he threatened to hunt her down if she ever escaped.”“I see. Where is Allen now?”“She’s on her way to Tucson. She took his threat seriously, and plans to hide out there for a while.”“Her exact location?”“I don’t know. She’s promised to give me a call, though, once she’s found a room. I suspect she’ll check into a hotel.”“Very good. I’ll alert our Tucson personnel. Now. This Allen woman, does she trust you?”“Yes.”“As soon as she gives you her location, I want you to do two things. First, inform me immediately. Second, drive to Tucson and meet her. Stay with her, and keep us informed of her movements. If Hoffman goes for her, we want to be there.”“What if…suppose he attacks while I’m there?”“Any sacrifice you make on our behalf will be rewarded.”“I mean, do you want me to kill him?” “Laveda would prefer him alive. It’s a moot point, however; you probably couldn’t kill him if you tried.”
CHAPTER TEN
A quiet, rumbling sound entered Dukane’s mind. He realized, vaguely, that the sliding glass door to his balcony was being opened. Suddenly alarmed, he tensed and opened his eyes.It was morning. He stared at the nightstand, thought about jerking open the drawer and grabbing his automatic. Then he remembered bringing a woman home last night from the bar at La Dome. Rolling over, he saw that the other side of the king-size bed was empty.“Cindy?” he asked.“Out here.”He crawled across the bed, climbed off, and saw her standing naked on the sunlit balcony. Her back was toward him, her hands on the railing. He stepped out. The sun felt warm on his bare skin. She looked around and smiled. Kissing her cheek, Dukane pressed himself lightly against her back. He slipped his hands up the smoothness of her sides, and held her breasts.“It’s a lovely day for a swim,” she said.“If you’re planning a dive from here, don’t. I tried it once. Broke my ankle.”“Yuck. I guess I won’t.”“It’s farther than it looks, and the concrete is very hard.”“Were you drunk?”“When I jumped? Cold sober.”She sighed as he fingered her rigid nipples. She squirmed, her buttocks rubbing him. Then she turned around. She leaned back against the railings. “Right here,” she said.“A bit awkward.”“Consider it a challenge.”“I’m always up for a challenge.”She gripped the railing with both hands and spread her legs. Dukane clutched her hips. Crouching slightly, he found her wet slit. He thrust upward into her. Her head went back and she moaned.When they were done, they left the balcony. Cindy disappeared into the bathroom. Dukane put on his robe, and went downstairs. He started to prepare coffee. As its thin stream trickled into the pot, Cindy entered the kitchen. She was wearing one of his shortsleeved plaid shirts, and nothing else.“Okay if I borrow this?” she asked, raising her arms and turning around.“Wish it looked that good on me.” As he spoke, he remembered Alice wearing one of his spare shirts before he bought the dress for her. He wondered how Dr. Teri Miles was faring with her. He didn’t envy the woman, spending days alone with the little bitch. Thinking about it, a familiar worry whispered in his mind. He pushed it away. They’re all right, he told himself.“What’s your drothers for breakfast?” Cindy asked. “I make a mean Spanish omelet, if you’ve got the makings.”“Hmmm?”“Spanish omelet. Hello? You tuned in?”“Yeah. That sounds great. There’re chilis in the refrigerator.”“Cheese, eggs?”“Them too.Yougo ahead and get started, I’ll bring in the paper.”“News paper?” She wrinkled her nose. “How dreary.”“I just read the funnies.”“Liar liar, pants on fire.”“Not at the moment.”With a laugh, she pulled open the refrigerator. She bent over, the tail of the shirt riding up. Dukane glimpsed her pale rump, then turned away.Outside, he spotted the Times halfway up his long drive way. He crossed the lawn, its grass cool and dewy under his feet. The driveway felt pleasantly warm and dry. He picked up the paper. Heading back to the house, he pulled off its plastic ribbon.The bold letters near the bottom corner of the front page made his heart lurch. KABC anchorman and wife slain.He stopped in the wet grass: