God, if only that had been nothing but a dream.
He crawled to the edge of the bed and sat up. The bruise on his stomach where Marty had punched him (he started it) looked like a smudge of dirt. There were a few minor scratches on the backs of his hands, but his knuckles weren’t even skinned from rapping Claire’s face. He walked to the mirror above the dressing table, and peered at his own face. Except for the bloodshot eyes, it looked fine.
He went into the bathroom. Kneeling beside the tub, he looked closely for traces of blood on the enamel, especially around the drain. The tub looked fine. It should—he’d bathed in the ocean before returning to the room and showering.
He turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature, and stepped beneath its hot spray. As he washed himself, his mind went over every detail. Had he overlooked anything?
The contracts. He had burned them both and flushed the ashes down the toilet.
The tape. He’d pried open the plastic cassette, stripped out the tape, and held it dangling over the toilet while it burned, making greasy black smoke.
The recorder. Since he’d touched its casing with his bloody hand, it had to go. It went into the ocean.
The camera. Same problem. Same solution.
His clothes. After tearing off the tags, he’d weighted each garment with a rock and hurled each into the surf. The shoes hadn’t required rocks.
The cars. In Gorman’s estimation, his solution to that problem had been brilliant and daring. At the time he’d taken Marty’s keys, he hadn’t known why he wanted them. But the scheme must, even then, have been brewing in his subconscious. Not until he reached the cars did the plan come fullblown to his mind.
Since he couldn’t risk leaving even a minute trace of Claire’s blood in the Mercedes, he left it untouched and drove Marty’s car to the beach. He’d been very lucky finding the beach; the very first road leading west had taken him within a couple of hundred yards. He’d simply followed a moonlit path along a hillside and voilà—the ocean.
Farewell to the cassette player, the camera, and his clothes. The worst part was washing his body in the ocean. No, perhaps the worst part was the trek back to Marty’s car, naked and wet and freezing, and frightened half to death that someone might see him. The area was desolate, though, and the only building with a view of the parking area appeared to have no windows.
He’d found a rag under the car’s front seat. He’d used it to wipe the seat and steering wheel before climbing in, just in case some blood remained on them. Later, after parking behind the Mercedes, he’d used the same rag to wipe the car for fingerprints. When he’d finished, he wiped its outside handles and flung the keys far up the wooded slope. Then he had simply climbed into the Mercedes and driven it back to the motel. Stark naked. Right through the center of town. But he hadn’t seen a living soul, thank God, and all the bungalows of the Welcome Inn were dark when he arrived.
Looking back on it now, he was amazed that he’d succeeded in carrying it off—amazed, indeed, that he hadn’t allowed the panic of the situation to overwhelm and destroy him. For he would have been destroyed if he’d simply fled without taking elaborate precautions.
As matters now stood, even if suspicion should fall on Gorman, he was confident that he’d left no evidence connecting him to the crimes. And he had a marvelous bonus in his favor: investigators would naturally assume that the same perpetrator had dispatched Brian, Marty and Claire. It would be obvious to anyone that Gorman was physically incapable of impaling Brian on a seven-foot fence.
Only one possibility worried him—that he may have been seen. Janice was unaccounted for. If she’d been alive on the hillside and witnessed the murders…Possible, but highly unlikely since she neither appeared nor called out during the search. More than likely, she was dead. But Gorman had committed the murders within view of Beast House. Someone watching from a window could have watched it all. If that had been the case, however, and his crimes reported, certainly the police would have intercepted him at the cars. Since the police didn’t show up, he could assume that either he wasn’t seen or the witness had crimes of his own to hide—such as the murders of Brian and Janice.
The thought that he might have been watched by their killers sent a chill through Gorman. He suddenly felt squirmy. His scrotum tightened and his penis drew in as if to hide.
Who could have done such a thing to Brian? The strength it must’ve taken!
Perhaps, he thought, there is a beast.
He was no longer enjoying the hot spray of the shower. He finished rinsing the soap from his body, and climbed out. To perk himself up, he concentrated on his good fortune as he dried and got dressed.
The killer, whether man or beast, had done him a splendid service. Gorman may or may not be able to use the incident in his book, depending on the outcome of the investigation. Regardless, all the proceeds would now come to him. Every last cent. Even if Janice should miraculously reappear, the contracts were destroyed. The initial correspondence implied no commitment (perhaps he could find those letters and destroy them…awfully risky…why had he thrown away Marty’s keys?) but basically Janice wouldn’t have a leg to stand on without the contract itself.
Besides, she’s dead.
Please, let her be dead.
As he finished buttoning his sport shirt, he heard a knocking on the door—a light, tentative rapping but it made his stomach lurch. It came from Brian’s room. He took a deep breath, cautioned himself to remain calm, and stepped through the connecting doors. Both of Brian’s beds were intact. He rushed silently to the closer bed, raked back its cover and sheet, and mashed the pillow. Then he opened the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Hardy,” the woman said in a cheerful voice.
She was young and attractive, rather tall and nicely put together, looking fresh and altogether sexy in yellow shorts and a green tube-top that left her shoulders bare and hugged her sizable breasts. Gorman knew that he had met her before. Then he remembered where. The cocktail lounge. Yesterday evening. One of those librarians.
“Oh,” he said, smiling. “Nina, is it?”
“Nora.”
“How are you this fine morning, Nora?”
“Just terrific. How about you?”
“Couldn’t be better.” He took a deep breath. The warm air had a pine aroma. “A gorgeous day to be alive,” he said.
“Every day’s good for that,” Nora said. “Anyway, the reason I dropped by, you mentioned you might be going on that tour today. Beast House?”
‘Yes, I intend to.”
“Well, my friends and I are also going over there in a while. They’ve got a ten-thirty tour. We were wondering if you and Mr. Blake might want to come along with us.”
Gorman glanced at his digital wristwatch. Nine fifty-two. It would be comforting, he thought, to take the tour with acquaintances. Far better than entering that awful house with a group of strangers. “I would be delighted,” he answered, “though I’m not certain about Brian. He seems to have wandered off, and I have no idea when he might be back.”
Nora glanced at the Mercedes. “You think he went for a walk?”
“Apparently.” Gorman shrugged. “Too bad for him. I’d be glad to…” He snicked his tongue. “Oh, I do have an errand to run first. Suppose I meet you and your friends at the ticket booth?”
“Fine. Great.”
“At ten thirty, correct? I’d best get moving.”
Nora nodded, smiling. “Okay, we’ll see you there.”
She turned and started away. Gorman watched for a moment, enjoying the way her buttocks moved in the tight shorts.
Back in his own room, he uncapped his gin bottle and took a swallow. He found a telephone directory in a drawer of the night stand. Nursing the bottle, he searched the yellow pages. Under the heading PHOTOGRAPHIC EQUIPMENT AND SUPPLIES—RETAIL were several listings. Most of the shops seemed to be located elsewhere; the book covered a county-wide area. Only Bob’s Camera and Sound Center was in Malcasa Point. On the three-hundred block of Front Street. “Marvelous,” Gorman muttered. He took a final swig of gin, and hurried out to the car.