You see? they heard Jack say. Theres no one here but me. Or would you like to check the garage?
The window slid shut.
Victor gave Cathy a little push. Go, he whispered. The end of the hedge. Well run from there.
On hands and knees she crawled along the row of azalea bushes. Her soaked jeans were icy and her palms scratched and bleeding, but she was too numbed by terror to feel any pain. All her attention was focused on moving forward. Victor was crawling close behind her. When she felt him bump up against her hip, it occurred to her what a ridiculous view he had, her rump swaying practically under his nose.
She reached the last bush and stopped to shove a handful of tangled hair off her face. That house next? she asked.
Go for it!
Go for it!
They both took off like scared rabbits, dashing across the twenty yards of lawn between houses. Once they reached the cover of the next house, they didnt stop. They kept running, past parked cars and early-morning pedestrians. Five blocks later, they ducked into a coffee shop. Through the front window, they glanced out at the street, watching for signs of pursuit. All they saw was the typical Monday morning bustle: the stop-and-go traffic, the passersby bundled up in scarves and overcoats.
From the grill behind them came the hiss and sizzle of bacon. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the counter burner. The aromas were almost painful; they reminded Cathy that she and Victor probably had a total of forty dollars between them. Damn it, why hadnt she begged, borrowed or stolen some cash from Jack?
What now? she asked, half hoping hed suggest blowing the rest of their cash on breakfast.
He scanned the street. Lets go on.
Where?
Hickeys studio.
Oh. She sighed. Another long walk, and all on an empty stomach.
Outside, a car passed by bearing the bumper sticker: Today is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life.
Lord, I hope it gets better than this, she thought. Then she followed Victor out the door and into the morning chill.
Field Supervisor Larry Dafoe was sitting at his desk, pumping away at his executive power chair. Upper body strength, he always said, was the key to success as a man. Bulk out those muscles pull! fill out that size forty-four jacket pull! and what you got was a pair of shoulders thatd impress any woman, intimidate any rival. And with this snazzy 700-buck model, you didnt even have to get out of your chair.
Sam Polowski watched his superior strain at the system of wires and pulleys and thought the device looked more like an exotic instrument of torture.
What you gotta understand, gasped Dafoe, is that there are other pull! issues at work here. Things you know nothing about.
Like what? asked Polowski.
Dafoe released the handles and looked up, his face sheened with a healthy sweat. If I was at liberty to tell you, dont you think I already wouldve?
Polowski looked at the gleaming black exercise handles, wondering whether hed benefit from an executive power chair. Maybe a souped-up set of biceps was what he needed to get a little respect around this office.
I still dont see what the point is, he said. Putting Victor Holland in the hot seat.
The point, said Dafoe, is that you dont call the shots.
I gave Holland my word hed be left out of this mess.
Hes part of the mess! First he claims he has evidence, then he pulls a vanishing act.
Thats partly my fault. I never made it to the rendezvous.
Why hasnt he tried to contact you?
I dont know. Polowski sighed and shook his head. Maybe hes dead.
Maybe we just need to find him. Dafoe reached for the exercise handles. Maybe you need to get to work on the Lanzano file. Or maybe you should just go home. You look terrible.
Yeah. Sure. Polowski turned. As he left the office, he could hear Dafoe once again huffing and puffing. He went to his desk, sat down and contemplated his collection of cold capsules, aspirin and cough syrup. He took a double dose of each. Then he reached in his briefcase and pulled out the Viratek file.
It was his own private collection of scrambled notes and phone numbers and news clippings. He sifted through them, stopping to ponder once again the link between Holland and the woman Catherine Weaver. Hed first seen her name on the hospital admission sheet, and had later been startled to hear of her connection to the murdered Garberville woman. Too many coincidences, too many twists and turns. Was there something obvious here he was missing? Might the woman have an answer or two?
He reached for the telephone and dialed the Garberville police department. They would know how to reach their witness. And maybe she would know how to find Victor Holland. It was a long shot but Sam Polowski was an inveterate horseplayer. He had a penchant for long shots.
The man ringing his doorbell looked like a tree stump dressed in a brown polyester suit. Jack opened the door and said, Sorry, Im not buying today.
Im not selling anything, Mr. Zuckerman, said the man. Im with the FBI.
Jack sighed. Not again.
Im Special Agent Sam Polowski. Im trying to locate a woman named Catherine Weaver, formerly Zuckerman. I believe she-
Dont you guys ever know when to quit?
Quit what?
One of your agents was here this morning. Talk to him!
The man frowned. One of our agents?
Yeah. And I just might register a complaint against him. Barged right in here without a warrant and started tramping all over my house.
What did he look like?
Oh, I dont know! Dark hair, terrific build. But he couldve used a course in charm school.
Was he about my height?
Taller. Skinnier. Lots more hair.
Did he give you his name? It wasnt Mac Braden, was it?
Naw, he didnt give me any name.
Polowski pulled out his badge. Jack squinted at the words: Federal Bureau of Investigation. Did he show you one of these? asked Polowski.
No. He just asked about Cathy and some guy named Victor Holland. Whether I knew how to find them.
Did you tell him?
That jerk? Jack laughed. I wouldnt bother to give him the time of day. I sure as hell wasnt going to tell him about- Jack paused and cleared his throat. I wasnt going to tell him anything. Even if I knew. Which I dont.
Polowski slipped his badge into his pocket, all the time gazing steadily at Jack. I think we should talk, Mr. Zuckerman.
What about?
About your ex-wife. About the fact shes in big trouble.
That, sighed Jack, I already know.
Shes going to get hurt. I cant fill you in on all the details because Im still in the dark myself. But I do know one womans already been hit. Your wife-
My ex-wife.
Your ex-wife could be next.
Jack, unconvinced, merely looked at him.
Its your duty as a citizen to tell me what you know, Polowski reminded him.
My duty. Right.
Look, cooperate, and you and me, well get along just fine. Give me grief, and Ill give you grief. Polowski smiled. Jack didnt. Now, Mr. Zuckerman. Hey, can I call you Jack? Jack, why dont you tell me where she is? Before its too late. For both of you.
Jack scowled at him. He drummed his fingers against the door frame. He debated. At last he stepped aside. As a law-abiding citizen, I suppose it is my duty. Grudgingly, he waved the man in. Oh, just come in, Polowski. Ill tell you what I know.
The window shattered, raining slivers into the gloomy space beyond.
Cathy winced at the sound. Sorry, Hickey, she said under her breath.
Well make it up to him, said Victor, knocking off the remaining shards. Well send him a nice fat check. You see anyone?
She glanced up and down the alley. Except for a crumpled newspaper tumbling past the trash cans, nothing moved. A few blocks away, car horns blared, the sounds of another Union Street traffic jam.
All clear, she whispered.
Okay. Victor draped his windbreaker over the sill. Up you go.
He gave her a lift to the window. She clambered through and landed among the glass shards. Seconds later, Victor dropped down beside her.
They were standing in the studio dressing room. Against one wall hung a rack of womens lingerie; against the other were makeup tables and a long mirror.
Victor frowned at a cloud of peach silk flung over one of the chairs. What kind of photos does your friend take, anyway?
Hickey specializes in whats politely known as boudoir portraits.
Victors startled gaze turned to a black lace negligee hanging from a wall hook. Does that mean what I think it means?
What do you think it means?
You know.
She headed into the next room. Hickey insists its not pornography. Its tasteful erotic art She stopped in her tracks as she came face-to-face with a photo blowup on the wall. Naked limbs-eight, maybe more-were entwined in a sort of human octopus. Nothing was left to the imagination. Nothing at all.
Tasteful, Victor said dryly.
That must be one of his, uh, commercial assignments.
I wonder what product they were selling.
She turned and found herself staring at another photograph. This time it was two women, drop-dead gorgeous and wearing not a stitch.
Another commercial assignment? Victor inquired politely over her shoulder.
She shook her head. Dont ask.
In the front room they found a weeks worth of mail piled up beneath the door slot, darkroom catalogues and advertising flyers. The roll of film Cathy had mailed the day before was not yet in the mound.
I guess we just sit around and wait for the postman, she said.
He nodded. Seems like a safe-enough place. Any chance your friend keeps food around?
I seem to remember a refrigerator in the other room.
She led Victor into what Hickey had dubbed his shooting gallery. Cathy flipped the wall switch and the vast room was instantly illuminated by a dazzling array of spotlights.
So this is where he does it, said Victor, blinking in the sudden glare. He stepped over a jumble of electrical cords and slowly circled the room, regarding with humorous disbelief the various props. It was a strange collection of objects: a genuine English phone booth, a street bench, an exercise bicycle. In a place of honor sat a four-poster bed. The ruffled coverlet was Victorian; the handcuffs dangling from the bedposts were not.
Victor picked up one of the cuffs and let it fall again. Just how good a friend is this Hickey guy, anyway?
None of this stuff was here when he shot me a month ago.