Beware by Richard Laymon Page A

you?”
    She sneered. “No one.”
    “I don’t have time for games.” He jabbed his knife down. Her body jerked as if jolted by a cattle prod, mouth springing open to scream. He stopped the point of his knife above her bulging right eye. An eighth of an inch above it. She blinked, her lashes flicking over the steel tip. “Who sent you?”
    She said nothing. Slowly, the panic left her face. Her body relaxed. Even the straining tendons and muscles of her neck went slack under Dukane’s hand. She smirked up at him. “Do as you like,” she said. “Cut out my eye, if that’s what pleases you. Take what ever you wish. My breasts?” Her hands moved, stroking them. The dark nipples stood rigid. “I am all powerful,” she whispered. “I am immortal.”
    “Have you drunk at the river?” Dukane asked.
    “Oh yes, oh yes.”
    He eased the blade away from her eye.
    “Immortal,” she said. “All powerful.”
    He removed his right hand from her throat. “Okay, get up.” As he inched the knife away, her fingers caught his wrist. Dukane tensed, expecting an upward thrust. But she tugged down. He wasn’t ready for that. The blade punched into the pale flesh between her breasts.
    Dukane snatched it free.
    The woman bucked, clutched the wound, and sat up with a look of sudden terror on her face.
    Blood spilled out between her fingers. She glanced at it, then gazedat Dukane with eyes like a hurt child.
    “Shit,” Dukane muttered, suddenly feeling sorry for her. “Don’t worry, you missed your heart. I’ll call an ambulance.” He rushed around the end of the bed. “Press down hard on the wound.” He picked up the phone.
    As he started to dial, the woman grabbed the bed and pushed herself to her feet.
    “Lie down, damn it!”
    She suddenly ran.
    “Hey!” Dukane dropped the phone and scrambled over the bed, hoping to stop her before she reached the sliding door to the balcony.
    She was too quick.
    Her forehead rammed the door. The plate glass burst. She lunged through a spray of tumbling shards that slashed her bare skin, and disappeared onto the balcony. Dukane rushed after her. As he ducked through the smashed door, she threw herself headfirst over the railing. Dukane lunged, reached for her foot, and touched its heel with his forefinger. Then all he could do was watch.
    She kicked and twisted for a second that seemed like minutes even to Dukane, then threw out her arms to break her fall. The concrete slab of the pool’s apron smashed her arms out of the way, and she hit it with her face.
    Dukane looked down at her body, and sighed. He knew he shouldn’t feel sorry for her; she’d probably planned to kill him to night. But Christ, the waste…a beautiful girl…Why the hell did she ever get mixed up in such…
    He clutched the railing, frozen by a sudden chill as a huge, black-robed man darted from behind bushes beside the pool. The man crouched at the broken body, flung it over his shoulder, and lumbered away.
    Dukane pried his fingers off the railing. His skin was crawly with goose bumps. He stared down at the dark figure and knew he should give chase, but he couldn’t move.
    Besides, he told himself, Scott has priority. He watched, rubbing his prickly arms and thighs, thinking it strange that he should be so spooked. Whoever the bastard was, Dukane could probably nail him in unarmed combat, even with one hand tied behind his back. Probably. The thought didn’t give him much comfort.
    He picked bits of glass out of his feet, then hobbled down the long balcony to its guest room entrance. He slid open the door and stared at the pale carpet.
    “Shit,” he muttered.
    One ruined carpet was enough for one night.
    On hands and knees, keeping his feet elevated, he crawled across the carpet. In the guest bathroom, he found iodine, adhesive tape, and gauze. He quickly bandaged his feet.
    Ignoring the slight pain, he rushed back to his bedroom. He glanced at the clock. Less than five minutes had passed since Scott’s