Again he reported no contact.
While he parked under a light with the car doors locked and wrote up preliminary reports on Hammond’s and here, he listened to Doris send Duncan to the high school.
Ten minutes later Duncan came on the radio laughing. “Be on the lookout for a Friday the 13th Jason costume, stolen off the person of the wearer outside the high school gym. Victim is unable to describe his assailant because he is unable to remember the assault, just waking up in the catering truck in his skivvies.”
Garreth’s pulse jumped. Lane’s work! With the reception for an alibi and a disguise to hide her identity, she was free to stalk him. “Did the victim have a real machete with his costume?”
“Negative,” Duncan answered.
At least she could not attack him with that. He ought meet with Duncan — avoiding radio traffic Lane would hear — and warn him to approach anyone in a Jason costume with extreme caution, that the individual behind the hockey mask was many times more dangerous than the Jason Voorhees character.
Only, would Duncan believe that? Not likely. So he was probably safer thinking they had a mere prankster. Then if he encountered her, she might just incapacitate him…not kill him as she surely would if he pulled a weapon and acted macho.
“Baumen Seven. Possible 10–96 at the sale barn.”
Another prowler. Maybe for real this time. Maybe Lane.
With every nerve buzzing, he pulled out of the bowling alley lot and up 282 onto River Road…leaving his headlights off, turning his radio down almost to inaudibility. Building up enough speed to just coast into the big parking lot between the sale barn and the rodeo arena to the south, then wince at the crunch of his tires on gravel. To avoid the lighted front of the building, he parked along its side, then turned off the dome light and pulled his ignition key to prevent an interior light or key-in-ignition warning as he opened the door.
Once out of the car, he stood motionless, peering into the mist, listening, sniffing. Nothing moved in the visible area. He heard nothing…smelled nothing but the scent of old manure in the stock pens, and…aerosol paint.
Could he have a merely human prowler, here to tag the sale barn walls?
Garreth cautiously worked his way around the building, circling well out of the light pools in front. Though if Lane were here she saw him anyway. His skin crawled at his visibility while vaulting the six-foot fences. Better risk that, however, than the greater vulnerability while sliding between the pipe rails and possibly hanging up his gear belt. But nothing came at him. Nothing moved but him. He found no paint on the building or fences, and even the paint odor disappeared.
Until he came around the last rear corner and approached his car. Then he smelled it again. Where did it come from?
A slow turn, sniffing to locate the source, came to a sharp halt facing the car. His nerves cranked tighter. The tires on this passenger side had been slashed. Someone was here. Probably watching him. Lane…had to be, for him to detect no one.
Garreth eased he gun out, shielding the action with his body, and holding the gun down along his leg, resumed walking toward the car. The question was how effective it was against Lane. Could a wound incapacitate her long enough to effect a capture?
But the idea of using a firearm brought an icy chill as he thought of the shotgun in the car. Legend said destroying a vampire’s nervous system killed him…so blowing off his head with a shotgun would certainly accomplish that. What if Lane broke into the car for the weapon while he was on the other side of the building.
To his relief, on reaching the car he saw it still in its overhead rack.
Then a stir of air brought an stronger scent of paint. From a definite direction this time…south. He peered across the parking lot into the mist and saw movement by the rodeo arena. Followed a second later by a flat thrum and hiss.
Garreth reacted with all his cop’s training and instincts…leaping for cover around the front of the car. Before he reached it, pain exploded in his right shoulder. Force like a powerful punch shoved him backward even as momentum carried him behind the car. The gun slipped from numb fingers as he fell heavily, bringing even more intense pain that radiated all the way through him, setting his testicles throbbing again and tearing a scream from him. Grabbing his shoulder, he discovered why. To his shock, an arrow protruded from his jacket. The feathered end must have hit the car bumper as he fell, wrenching the shaft sideways in the wound.
An arrow. A narrow wooden stake. Fear flooded him.
Pressing against the sale barn wall, he jerked the arrow out, clamping his jaw to keep from screaming again as the shaft grated under his collar bone. The arrow came free in a spurt of blood…and more fear. No metal tipped it. Instead, the shaft had been sharpened to a point. No doubt now that Lane was his assailant. He remembered those blue ribbons in Anna’s album that Lane won for archery.
He pressed the jacket against his shoulder, using the thick pile lining to soak up the blood, then picked up the gun again with his left hand…glad his father taught him to shoot with either hand. Gritting his teeth against pain, he pulled his feet under him and crouched listening.
Gravel shifted almost inaudibly…the sound coming toward him, angling to his right.
He peered around that side of the car. Yes, there she was, a shadow emerging from the mist. He had a clear shot, but shooting left-handed meant losing his cover…either by standing or stepping from behind the car. He had to shoot fast, then.
He jumped sideways, crouched, hoping she would not expect that, and took aim.
“Stop!” Lane called. “Don’t move.”
To Garreth’s horror, his finger froze on the trigger. Like being at Wink’s back door all over again, without the fire.
Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Put down the gun, lover.”
The words dragged at him like daylight. Grimly, he fought them, fought to pulled the trigger. He had a perfect shot. Shoot! Shoot! But his body refused to obey. With all his will trying to fire, his hand slowly opened and dropped the gun.
“You’re weak. You hurt, poor baby.” The shadow came closer. “You just want to curl up and wait for the pain to go away.”
No! He had refused to give up in that alley and damn if he would do so here!
Jason Voorhees appeared out of the mist in heavy boots, dungarees, and a ragged barn coat…carrying a bow with another arrow nocked, the bowstring half drawn. Now Garreth understood the paint smell. Between the gym and here, Lane had stopped to increase her invisibility by spraying the white hockey mask black.
Could two play the power game? Panting in pain, he stared hard at her. “You don’t want to shoot me.” He stayed crouched, presenting as small a target as possible, protecting his chest. The body armor stopped bullets but not thin, penetrating weapons like arrows. He poured his will at her. “Put…down…the bow. Lay…it…down.”
She continued drawing back the bowstring. “You don’t have the experience to use that against me. Now, sit up,” she crooned. “Give me a good target so it’ll be over quick.”
No. No! his mind screamed…while his body slowly, inexorably straightened.
She smiled. “That’s a good boy.”
Desperately he fought to look away, fought to focus on his pain, to become angry, but nothing worked.
She held him, pinned him with her eyes like a butterfly specimen.
Off behind her exhaust pipes roared, accompanied by haunted house shrieks. Scott Dreiling’s Trans Am tore into sale barn grounds from River Road.
Lane glanced around.
Free! Garreth snatched up the gun and rolled sideways. From flat on his back he fired at her chest.
Her jerk told him the shot found its mark…yet she immediately steadied again, as if nothing happened.