“It’s all right now,” Jud said.
“Not on my back.” He lay on the sand, covering his eyes with his forearms, and wept silently.
Jud knelt beside him. “It’s all right, Larry. It’s all over.”
“It’s not over. It’ll never be over. Never.”
“You gave the kid a terrible scare.”
“I kno-o-o-w,” he said, stretching the word like a groan of misery. “I’m sor-ry. Maybe…if I apologize.”
“Might help.”
He sniffed, and wiped his eyes. When he sat up, Jud saw the scars. They criss-crossed his shoulders and back in a savage tracery more white than his pale skin.
“They’re not from the beast, if that’s what you think. I got them from my fall. The beast never touched me. Never.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Roy made certain, once again, that Joni was securely tied. Probably it didn’t matter. She’d obviously lost her marbles. But Roy wanted nothing left to chance.
In the living room, he bent down and lit the candle. He patted the newspaper wads to make certain, once again, they were touching the candle stick. Then he headed for the kitchen, stepping high, his feet crushing the newspaper wads and clothes he’d scattered along the floor.
The fire might not destroy all the evidence, but it couldn’t hurt.
He put on sunglasses and a faded Dodger cap that had belonged to Marv, and went out the back door. Pulling it shut, he twisted his hand to smear prints on the knob. He trotted down three steps to the patio, then hurried to the driveway. Looking toward the street, he saw that a gate blocked the driveway. He walked casually to it, unlatched it, and opened it.
The neighbor’s house was very close. He watched its windows, but saw nobody looking out.
He walked up the driveway to the garage. A twocar garage, with two doors separated by a beam. He raised the left-hand door. Inside was a red Chevy. He climbed into it, glanced at the three sets of keys he’d brought from the house, and easily found the Chevrolet keys.
He started the car and backed out of the garage. He stopped close to the kitchen door. Then he got out and opened the trunk. He brought Joni out of the house, set her inside the trunk, and slammed the lid shut.
The trip to Karen’s house took less than ten minutes. He’d expected to recognize the house, but it didn’t look familiar at all. He checked the address again. Then he remembered that she and Bob moved just before the trial. This was the right house.
He parked in front. He checked his wristwatch—Marv’s wristwatch—his now. Nearly two-thirty.
The neighborhood seemed very quiet. He looked up and down the block as he walked to the front door. Four houses to the right, a Japanese gardener was whacking limbs from a bush. To the left, a lawn away, a lone tabby cat crouched, stalking something. Roy didn’t bother trying to spot its prey. He had some prey of his own.
Grinning, he rang the doorbell. He waited, and rang again. Finally he decided nobody was in.
He headed around the side of the house, took two steps past the rear corner, and stopped abruptly.
There she was. Maybe not Karen, but some woman on a chaise lounge, listening to music from a transistor radio. The lounge was facing away, so its back blocked Roy’s view of all but her slim, tanned legs, her left arm, and the crown of her hat. A white hat, like a sailor’s.
Roy scanned the yard. High shrubbery enclosed its sides and rear. Good and secluded. Bending low, he raised his pants leg and slipped the knife from its sheath.
Silently, he stepped closer until he could see over the back of the lounge. The woman was wearing a white bikini, its straps hanging off her shoulders. Her skin was glossy with oil. She held a folded magazine in her right hand, keeping it off to the side so it wouldn’t cast a shadow on her belly.
Her hand jerked, dropping the magazine as Roy clutched her mouth.
He pressed the knife edge to her throat.
“Don’t make a sound, or I’ll open you up.”
She tried to say something through his hand.
“Shut up. I’m gonna take my hand away, and you’re not gonna make a sound. Ready?”
Her head nodded once.
Roy let go of her mouth, flung the sailor’s hat off her head, and clutched her brown hair. “Okay, stand up.” He helped by pulling her hair. When she was up, he jerked her head around. The tanned face belonged to Karen, all right. He could tell that, even through the sunglasses. “Not a word,” he muttered.
He guided her to the back door.
“Open it,” he said.
She pulled open the screen door. They stepped into the kitchen. It seemed very dark after the sunny yard, but Roy couldn’t spare a hand to take off his sunglasses. “I need rope,” he said. “Where do you keep it?”
“You mean I’m allowed to talk now?”
“Where’s some rope?”
“We don’t have any.”
He put pressure on the blade. “You’d better hope you do. Now, where is it?”
“I don’t…” She gasped as he yanked her hair. “We have some with the camping gear, I think.”
“Show me.” He lifted the knife off her throat, but kept it half an inch away, his wrist propped on her shoulder. “Move.”
They went out the kitchen, and turned left down a hallway. They walked past closed doors: closets, probably. Past the bathroom. Into a doorway on the right. The room was a study with bookshelves, a cluttered desk, a rocking chair.
“Any kids?” Roy asked.
“No.”
“Too bad.”
She stopped at a door beside the rocker. “In there,” she said.
“Open it.”
She pulled open the door. The closet held nothing but camping gear: two mummy bags suspended from hangers, hiking boots on the floor, backpacks propped against the wall. A metaltipped walking stick hung from a hook. Beside it were two soft felt hats. Yellow foam-rubber pads, strapped neatly into rolls, stood upright beside the packs. On the shelf was a long red stuffbag, probably containing a mountain tent. On hangers were outdoor clothes: rain ponchos, flannel shirts, even a pair of gray leather Liederhosen.
“Where’s the rope?”
“In the packs.”
He let go of her hair. He took the knife away from her throat and touched the point to her bare back. “Get it.”
She stepped into the closet and knelt down. She flipped back the red cover of a Kelty pack. She tipped the pack forward, reaching into it, and rummaged through it. Her hand came out with a coil of stiff, new clothesline.
“Is there more?” He took it from her and tossed it behind him.
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Look in the other pack.”
She turned to it without closing the first one. As she peeled back its cover, her arm seemed to freeze.
“Don’t.” Roy slipped the blade through Karen’s hair until its point stopped against the back of her neck. She sucked a quick breath. Keeping the knife at her neck, Roy bent down. He reached over her shoulder and lifted the hand ax out of the pack. Its haft was wood. A leather case enclosed its head. He tossed the ax behind him. It thumped heavily on the carpeted floor.
“Okay, now get the other rope.”
She searched inside the pack and brought out a coil of clothesline much like the first, but gray and soft with wear.
“Get up.”
She stood.
Roy swung her around to face him. “Hands out.” He pulled the rope away from her. He slid his knife under his belt and tightly bound her hands together. He stepped away from her, paying out rope. Then he picked up the hand ax and the spare coil. Pulling the rope, he led her out the doorway and into the hall. He found the master bedroom at the end of the hall. He pulled her into it.
“Guess what happens now,” he said.