“What’s with her?” he asked.
The detectives saw the tied-up woman as well.
“Let’s find out,” Wondero said.
The old woman next door did not answer her door, which was locked. Wondero took it down, and the three men rushed in and found themselves standing in someone’s living room.
“LAPD,” Wondero shouted.
The interior was musty and dark, the light from the TV outlining the ancient credenzas and wing-backed chairs. An orangery portrait of John F. Kennedy hung next to a portrait of Jesus. A woman bound in ropes with a gag in her mouth staggered in. It was the same woman they’d seen in the window. Wondero pulled the gag out of her mouth and stared to untie her.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name’s Myrtle Jones. I suppose you’re looking for Eugene. I wish I knew where he was, only I don’t.”
“Was Eugene holding you prisoner?” Wondero asked.
“Yes, since yesterday. I was inside his house, and saw his ghoulish collection. He’s the serial killer who’s been stalking Los Angeles, isn’t he.”
“Someone’s in the back of the house,” Rittenbaugh said.
The detectives drew their guns and hurried down a narrow hallway to the kitchen in the rear of the house. The shrunken remains of a man sat in a wheelchair. Prolonged sickness had eaten him away from within, his chest a sunken cavity.
“Mr. Kozlowski, we’ve been saved,” Myrtle Jones said, coming in behind them. “Mr. Kozlowski has a degenerative bone disease. When he was younger; he was a long distance runner, but those days are behind him. He’s been confined to a wheelchair for years.”
Wondero and Rittenbaugh gave Mr. Kozlowski a passing nod. They looked around the kitchen, found nothing, and headed back toward the front of the house.
Mr. Kozlowski acted annoyed, and bumped his wheelchair into the table.
“Is something wrong?” Hardare asked.
“He’s trying to say something,” Myrtle Jones explained.
A small computer was taped to the arm of his wheelchair. The infirmed man’s fingertips ran across the keyboard, and a message appeared on the screen.
HE’S HERE
“Who’s here, Mr. Kozlowski?”
EUGENE
“But he left. We both saw him.”
NO HE DIDN’T
“Well, I certainly saw him. He walked out the front door, and banged it shut.”
TRYING TO TRICK US
Kneeling, Hardare looked Mr. Kozlowski in the eye, and saw the sparkle of a mind that had refused to stop living long after his body had given up.
“Please tell me what you saw,” Hardare said.
EUGENE SNUCK AROUND THE HOUSE I HEARD HIM
“You’re saying he’s hiding behind the house?”
YES IN THE GARAGE
“Is there a car in there?”
VAN
“Does it run?”
LIKE A CHAMP
Everywhere Osbourne went, he’d used a stolen car, and it made sense that he might have another vehicle ready for his escape.
“Are you sure, Mr. Kozlowski?” Myrtle said, sounding doubtful.
HE TOOK THE KEYS
Hardare went to the back door and peered at the garage behind the house. The garage door was up, and inside the shadows he spied an old Volkwsagen bus.
“He wants to tell you something else,” Myrtle Jones said.
Hardare came back into the room.
TAKE MY GUN
“Where is it?” Hardare asked.
DRAWER BENEATH SINK
“Is it loaded?”
ALWAYS
Hardare opened the drawer under the sink and found a small caliber gun waiting for him. Grabbing it, he hurried outside.
Chapter 37
Primal Scream
Hardare came out the back door just as the VW’s headlights came on, followed by the sound of its engine turning over. The vehicle came screeching out of the garage and flew past him.
Hardare fired the gun into the vehicle’s side door. It raced past him and down the driveway to the street. A fire truck was parked in front of the burning house, the police helping the firemen deal with the blaze. The VW shot past them and sped away.
“Goddamnit — NO!”
In a heartbeat Hardare found himself standing in the middle of the street. The VW was already two blocks away. Osbourne was going to escape unless he stopped him.
Jan had taken him to a firing range a few times, and he knew how to handle a gun. Going into a crouch, he shut one eye, aimed, and started pulling the trigger.
The gun barked five times in rapid succession. The VW swerved, and smashed into a car parked by the curb. He’d hit the tank, and gasoline poured onto the street.
Hardare felt the rage of all the women Osbourne had killed boil up within him. He gave a bloodcurdling yell that came out sounding like a primal scream.
Wondero joined him as he ran down the street.
“Are you crazy — what are you doing?”
“Osbourne’s in the van,” Hardare said.
“What? Are you sure?”
“Yes — the old man in the wheelchair told me.”
Wondero sprinted past him, determined to get there first.
Hardare beat him anyway.
The VW was stopped. Bright orange flames had filled the interior, as if the gates of purgatory had prematurely opened up to make room. Flames shot up twenty feet into the air.
The driver’s door swung open. Covered in flames, his head and hands already dark cinders, Osbourne toppled out of the inferno, and did a series of fading pirouettes in the street. It was beautiful and horrible at the same time, and he finally crumpled in a heap before them, his charred corpse shriveling into a ball as the fire danced in mad jubilation across his remains.
“Christ Almighty,” Wondero said. “I didn’t think I’d ever see this day.”
The detective touched the corpse with his toe, just to be sure.
Chapter 38
Kindred Spirits
The discovery of a partially melted gas can with a bullet hole in it on the floor of the van Osbourne had been driving provided a logical explanation of his demise for the local TV stations, and Hardare’s name was hardly mentioned in any of the stories which ran that night.
Hardare didn’t care. Upon returning to the hotel, his wife and daughter had treated him like a hero, and he opened up his eyes the next morning to find the celebration still underway. Jan had ordered eggs Benedict and Dom Perignon from room service, which was delivered on a metal cart. As he sat up in bed, he’d been startled by the presence of several dozen brightly colored helium balloons clinging to the ceiling. Crystal handed him a pea shooter, and a box filled with metal BBs.
“Where the heck did you get these?” he said, laughing.
“Let’s see if you’ve lost your touch!” his daughter said.
And so he had spent the next half-hour lying in bed, leaving no doubt in either of their minds that he was still the world champion at shooting balloons off the ceiling.
Their jubilation soon passed. At noon, the theatre manager at the Wilshire Ebell called the hotel. Ticket sales had slowed to a trickle. If demand did not pick up, he did not anticipate them breaking even for the two week run. Did Hardare wish to consider cancelling the engagement?
“Hell no,” Hardare had told him.
The news got a little better when they drove to Burbank that afternoon, and met with the fast-talking carnival owner who had agreed to let Hardare perform his straitjacket escape while hanging from his monster roller-coaster ride.
“With the TV people here, you’ll be a smash,” the owner assured them, punctuating his words with a stinky cigar. “You mark my words: appearing at Bob Olley’s carnival will be the best thing that ever happened to you.”