He removed the noose from her neck and tossed it to the floor. She lay defenseless, a halo of auburn hair framing her face. Her skirt had bunched under her hips, exposing her long and shapely legs. The struggle had also torn several buttons from her blouse. Reaching to the nightstand, Carns picked up the knife he had taken from the kitchen. After severing the remaining buttons of the blouse, he cut away the rest of the silky material, dropping the shredded garment to the floor beside the rope. Next he slit the shoulder straps of her bra. She shivered as the blade touched her skin. With a yank, he jerked the lacy fabric down to her waist.
Her breasts were firm, almost perfect. Leaning down, he gently bit her left breast-not too hard, not taking tissue yet-just enough to make her moan. And again, moving to the flawless skin at the base of her neck. And again on her shoulder, harder this time, tasting her fear. She bucked beneath him, helpless.
Take her now.
No. First things first.
Carns climbed from the bed. After retrieving his knapsack from the hallway, he returned to the woman’s side. Slowly, he opened his bag and withdrew several of its contents, laying items out in a neat row upon the sheets. Surgical scissors. Prophylactics. Camera. Gun. Tape recorder.
And the knife.
Blood racing with excitement, Carns smiled at the woman. Then he picked up the scissors and moved toward Travis. Abruptly, he froze.
Someone was banging on the front door.
Damn! Who could it be at this time of night?
The police, like last time?
Run?
What about the woman and the boy?
He couldn’t leave them alive.
No time…
Don’t panic. The police can’t know. They can’t. It must be someone else. See who’s there.
Carns put down the scissors and grabbed his knapsack and gun. Stealthily, he crept to the front door.
Allison heard the knock. She couldn’t believe her ears.
Please God, let it be the police.
More knocking, louder this time. “Malibu sheriff,” a voice called.
Allison opened her mouth to reply, stopping as she heard footsteps moving down the hall. Seconds later she heard the outside gate bang open, then a rustle of beach cane as the sheriff began making his way down the side of the house. The intruder stopped in the entry, then quietly descended the stairs.
Get out. Quick, before he comes back.
Allison forced herself from her hiding place.
The front door?
No. He’ll see me.
The window.
Her bedroom window hadn’t been opened since a heat wave the previous summer. Allison fumbled at the latch. Somehow she got it open. Panting with terror, she strained to slide the sash up the paint-thickened jamb. It wouldn’t budge.
Please open…
A creak.
Hurry…
Another creak.
Abruptly, the window jerked up an inch. And another.
Come on, a little more…
With a lurch, the window rattled open wide enough for her to squeeze through.
Allison squirmed one leg into the opening, then an arm, finally her head, expecting at any moment to hear the intruder bolting back up the stairs. With a five-foot drop to the ground and freedom, she paused on the sill.
What about the others? Maybe it’s not too late…
No. I can’t do anything. Go.
But what about them?
There’s nothing I can do. Hurry, hurry, before he comes back. Go
…
Despite her fear, Allison hesitated, suddenly recalling her father’s words to her in the cemetery: “When things go bad, really bad… remember who you are. ” At the time his advice had seemed superficial and facile. Now, with a flash of understanding, Allison realized its meaning.
She hesitated a moment more. Then, clenching her teeth to still their chattering, she eased back into her room.
53
Following another failed attempt to reach Catheryn on her cell phone, I made a second call to the Malibu sheriff’s station, then jumped into my Suburban and sped north. Even though I badged my way past several jam-ups, it took twenty minutes to reach Topanga, where I found a police unit diverting traffic. Again, I flashed my ID and raced past.
On the other side of the police barricade, I found the four-lane coast highway eerily deserted. Three miles farther on, as I rounded a bend and reached Las Flores Beach, my heart sank. Police cruisers were lined up on the far side of the road. Weapons drawn, a dozen sheriff’s deputies were crouched behind their vehicles, their attention focused on a beach residence across the highway.
Mine.
Swerving to avoid a black-and-white angled across PCH, I skidded through a line of highway flares and screeched to a stop across from my house. With a lurch of horror, I saw Catheryn’s Volvo parked out front, Travis’s Bronco close behind.
Too late? Oh, God, please let me be in time.
“Kane! Over here.”
I glanced toward an officer huddled behind the nearest patrol car. It was Brian Safire, a sheriff with whom I had spoken earlier. Waving frantically, Safire motioned me over. Nodding that I understood, I pulled my automatic. Head down, I exited my Suburban from the passenger side and joined my friend behind his cruiser.
“Fill me in,” I said, staring at my house. Most of the police units had their spots on it, bathing the structure in an unearthly glow.
Sergeant Brian Safire was only in his early thirties, but years of desk work and a steady diet of junk food and cigarettes had taken their toll. “We have an officer down,” he said, his face shining with sweat. He swallowed, seeming more out of breath with each word. “After you called, I had dispatch send over a unit. There was already a car at Carbon Beach, so it got here fast. One of the guys recognized your wife’s Volvo out front. When nobody answered the door, he climbed down the side of the house to the lower deck. Caught a bullet in the chest out one of the back windows.”
“He going to be okay?”
Safire nodded. “Vest stopped it. He’s shook, but he’ll be all right.”
“Anything since then?”
“We got a phone line open twenty minutes ago. The asshole inside says he wants a helicopter and safe passage or he’ll start killing hostages. I’m sorry, Dan.”
“Are they all right?”
“I don’t know. After making his demands, the guy gave us thirty minutes to respond and then cut us off. We evacuated the adjacent homes and stationed teams on either side as well as out on the beach. Nobody’s seen or heard anything since.”
“You talked with him twenty minutes ago? That gives us ten minutes.”
“Give or take. I called SWAT right away. They’ll be here soon. Meanwhile, that dirtbag ain’t going nowhere.”
I holstered my automatic, opened the door of Safire’s cruiser, and reached inside.
Ignoring Safire’s puzzled look, I flipped the radio-console toggle to bullhorn position and grabbed the mike. Seconds later my amplified voice boomed into the night. “Victor Carns. This is Detective Daniel Kane.”
Silence.
“Carns, I know you’re in there. Put the phone back on the hook. I’ll call you in thirty seconds. I have something to tell you. I guarantee it’s something you want to hear. Thirty seconds.”
Safire stared at me. “You know this guy?”
I tossed the mike back into the cruiser. “I know him.” I opened my cell phone and punched in my home number. It was busy. I tried again. The second time someone picked up. “You now have six minutes,” a voice declared harshly.
“Then that’s about what you have, too,” I replied. “That is, unless you pay close attention to what I’m about to say.”
“I’m listening.”
“First off, the helicopter’s on its way,” I lied. “It took off from Santa Monica a few minutes ago.”
“Good.”
“Not good, Victor. Regardless of what you think, there’s no way you’re getting on that chopper with civilian hostages. It just isn’t going to happen-even if it means everybody winding up in body bags, including you.”