His barking was terrifying. All sorts of images of me as his dinner flooded my mind. I was paralyzed.
My fear, of course, was that he'd attack me. But just as the mutant Rottweiler-or whatever the heck he was-started to think about moving on me, I saw a flashlight beam cutting faintly through the mist and rain.
And then a male voice calling, "Gretchen! Gretchen!"
He hadn't taken time to dress properly, a beanpole of a bald guy in a robe and pajamas, slipping and sliding over the muddy grass of his backyard to get to his precious dog.
"Gretchen! Gretchen!"
Gretchen was out to impress him. Demonstrate just how bloodcurdling her bark could be. If he had any sense, he would have been afraid of it, too.
I was pinned against a garage on the other side of the alley. The flashlight beam found my face.
The rain hissed and hummed and hammered away. Soft bullets. "Who're you?"
"My name's Payne. Robert Payne."
"What the hell you doing in my backyard this time of night?"
"I wasn't in your backyard. I was walking down the alley to my motel."
"On foot on a night like this?"
"My car got caught in a little flash flood. Sewer backed up. Couldn't get it started again. So I was walking back to my motel."
"Oh."
"Your fence got knocked down just enough to let Gretchen out."
"Oh, hell, I'm sorry about this, mister."
He was so trusting, I felt ashamed of myself for lying about my stalled car.
Gretchen growled.
He leaned down and said something to her in dog. She quit growling.
"She really wouldn't hurt you."
"Yeah, that's the impression I had."
He caught my sarcasm and smiled. "That's actually the truth. She wouldn't hurt you unless you made some threatening move or something."
"I'll try to remember that."
"I'm going to dry off and make some cocoa. You want to come in and have some?"
"No, thanks. I'd better get back to the motel."
"Well, sorry if she scared you."
Headlights. Far end of the alley. Very good chance it was the police.
I started to edge away.
"Appreciate you coming out like that. Thanks."
Edging away.
"Busy night," he said, staring down the alley at the headlights. "I heard sirens earlier. Something must be going on."
"Well, see you?" I said.
The headlights were starting up the alley now, malevolent in the rain-slashed night.
I didn't run. But I came damned close.
In the cutting rain, the motel looked shabby and beaten, age and relentless rain more than it could handle.
No sign of cops.
I went around the back way. I didn't want the old gent in the office to see me.
I spent a lingering moment under the overhang. No more rain except the beads that bounced off the cars pulled up to their respective rooms.
I leaned against the wall. Catching my breath. Enjoying the respite.
And then I saw the cop car at the far end of the motel. Starting toward me.
I jumped around the corner and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.
At the rate the squad car had been moving, it would be just about below me right now.
I found Tandy's room. No sound but that of spraying wind and rain as I pressed my ear to the door.
Where was she this late at night? I needed to get in there.
The door wasn't closed. Disbelief, at first, as if somebody was tricking me. But it was true. The door was slightly ajar.
I went inside. Darkness. Perfume. Wine. I stood by the window. Intermixed with the rain was the raspy sound of a police radio. He was almost directly below.
The spotlight again. Angling across the door and window of Tandy's room.
Then he worked his way down the line of doors.
Behind me, a moan.
I couldn't risk a light. I moved through the shadows to the moan, which had been repeated now two or three times. Soughing wind; rattling rain.
I knelt next to the bed. Groped for her face. Touched it. Blood. "What happened, Tandy?"
"She tried to kill me. What time is it?"
"About five."
"I've been out for a long time. She beat me with her gun. I think she thinks she killed me."
"I'm sorry. I should've figured this out a lot sooner."
"It's not your fault," she said. Then, "Giles is Renard."
"I know."
"She was afraid it was going to get out and ruin her career. She has big plans. But being associated with Renard would end them."
The moan.
"And Susan Charles is his daughter. His daughter with Claire."
The moan again.
"The face was hers, Robert. She came in here and saw the drawing-the scar-and knew what was going on."
I stood up. "I'm going to call an ambulance for you."
"Please. I'm scared, Robert. She beat me pretty bad."
In the darkness, I found the phone. Dialed emergency. "Where're your car keys?"
"You're going after her?"
"Yeah."
"They're on the dresser. She's crazy, Robert. Maybe as crazy as Renard."
"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, she is."
SEVEN
Many of the streets had become wading pools. Shrubs and children's toys and even a lone garden rake carried away in the torrents. Huge branches lay at angles in the water. Fire sirens; police sirens. Rising water covering entire lawns, swirling water obscuring entire intersections. Yellow overhead traffic lights flashing bold and useless above it all.
Took me a long time to reach the Gileses'. Every other street had to be detoured. All I needed was a stalled car. I'd snuck away from the motel with no problem. I didn't want to get stopped now.
The Giles house was dark.
I parked as close to the curb as I could get.
A steep hill was conducting heavy washes of water down onto the flat corner where the Gileses lived. Most of their front lawn was already submerged.
Some rain smells clean. This rain smelled dirty. I walked around the house. At first, I didn't see any sign of her.
Then I checked the garage.
Smart.
She'd run her car into one of the two stalls. Nobody would find her.
So she was inside and the house was dark.
Maybe she'd finally snapped, the years of keeping her terrible secret finally too much for her.
Claire was her mother. Claire had known Paul Renard and fallen in love with him. According to most of the locals, that hadn't been too difficult to do. A real charmer, they all said.
And she'd borne him a child. Susan.
And then had suffered her breakdown. And let her own mother, Mrs. Giles, care for the baby.
And then fifteen years ago, Paul Renard had returned. He hadn't worn well, and he'd changed his style entirely. Looked like a used-up workingman. The perfect disguise for a dashing former ass-bandit.
And now all of them were in the house standing before me in the cold, hard rain. Crazy Claire and her mother and stepfather and crazy Claire's daughter, Susan.
Tandy would have a story, all right.
The garage smelled of summer tools that hadn't been cleaned completely. Lawnmower and rakes and wheelbarrow all smelled of sweet summer grass. Dry summer grass. It was time for me to leave my roost again.
I walked outside.
The front door was locked.
I went over to the window and peeked inside.
He sat in his armchair looking straight at me. His T-shirt was bloody. So was his face. A butcher knife had been plunged deep into his right eye. There was a.45 a few inches from his hand. He'd likely dropped it defending himself and his wife.
His wife lay sprawled on her back in front of him. The breast of her faded housedress was soaked with blood. She'd apparently been shot several times.