call.
A long time, five minutes.
A long time for that dumb woman. A long time for a guy like Scott, waiting to get bailed out.
It took him under a minute to dress.
Then he ran downstairs, through the dark house, and out to his garage. He jumped into his Jaguar. Thumbed the garage door switch. Keyed the ignition. The engine thundered, shaking the car.
In his rearview mirror, he watched the door rise. The gap widened. He saw the dark-robed man looking in at him, the naked body of the girl still over his shoulder.
Dukane jammed the shift to reverse and floored the gas pedal. He popped the clutch. The car leapt backward. He gripped the wheel, expecting an impact, but the car shot past the figure. Caught in the headlight, the man turned slowly to face him.
Dukane’s foot hovered over the brake. He could easily stop and have another try.
But Scott was waiting.
He’d already wasted too many minutes.
So he sped backward to the street, leaving the strange man alone in the driveway with the corpse.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“What was that about?” Lacey had asked as soon as Scott put down the phone.
“Saving our hides.”
“Dukane? Who’s he?”
“The real-life Charlie Dane. Excuse me a minute, I want to get dressed.” He left her alone in the room.
Lacey got up and followed him. When she reached the bedroom, Scott was stepping into his pants. “There really
is
a Charlie Dane?”
Scott fastened his trousers and picked up his shirt. “Sure is. No trench coat and battered fedora, and he operates now instead of the forties, but the rest is pretty close. A hell of a guy. He’ll get us out of here. We just have to stay alive for the next four hours, till he arrives.”
“Maybe we should call the police.”
“What good would they be against an invisible maniac?”
“What good will this Dukane be?”
Scott grinned, for the first time since the attack looking calm and confident. “Good enough.”
“What time is it?” Lacey asked.
“Eleven forty.”
“Is that all?” Only twenty minutes had passed since Scott’s talk with Dukane. For the past ten, Lacey had been sitting cross-legged beside the barricaded door, her pocket knife open on her lap, the paint can beside her ready to spray if the door should be forced open.
Scott had spent much of the time wandering the suite. He’d looked out the windows and determined that no ledges ran over from adjacent rooms. He’d shoved the couch against a locked, connecting door. Then he’d knelt down to remove the knife from Carl’s throat.
“Should you do that?” Lacey had asked. “What about fingerprints?”
“We need it.”
“But the police. My God, we don’t want them thinking we killed Carl.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Thanks, but I can’t help it.”
“The police are the least of our problems, right now.”
Lacey had looked away when he pulled out the knife. He arranged the blanket again over Carl’s head, then took the knife into the bathroom and cleaned it.
Now Scott was turning over the coffee table.
“What’re you doing?”
“Clubs,” he said, and began to unscrew one ofthe short, tapering legs. When it came free, he tossed it underhand. It thumped the floor near Lacey, and rolled toward her. She picked it up by the narrow end. It felt like a small baseball bat. A thick, inch-long bolt protruded from the top.
As Scott twisted another leg off the table, Lacey heard voices in the hallway.
“Six fifty for a Piña Colada,” said a man. “You believe it?”
“That’s not so bad,” a woman said. “It included the glass.”
“Sixty cents’ worth of glass. A nickle worth of booze.”
“They’re awfully cute glasses.”
“Maybe we should get a few more.”
“It would be nice to have a complete set.” The woman’s sudden yelp made Lacey jump. Her mind flashed an image of the two under attack, and she grabbed the spray can, tensing, ready to unblock the door and rush out to help. But the yelp led into a giggle. A different
A long time, five minutes.
A long time for that dumb woman. A long time for a guy like Scott, waiting to get bailed out.
It took him under a minute to dress.
Then he ran downstairs, through the dark house, and out to his garage. He jumped into his Jaguar. Thumbed the garage door switch. Keyed the ignition. The engine thundered, shaking the car.
In his rearview mirror, he watched the door rise. The gap widened. He saw the dark-robed man looking in at him, the naked body of the girl still over his shoulder.
Dukane jammed the shift to reverse and floored the gas pedal. He popped the clutch. The car leapt backward. He gripped the wheel, expecting an impact, but the car shot past the figure. Caught in the headlight, the man turned slowly to face him.
Dukane’s foot hovered over the brake. He could easily stop and have another try.
But Scott was waiting.
He’d already wasted too many minutes.
So he sped backward to the street, leaving the strange man alone in the driveway with the corpse.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“What was that about?” Lacey had asked as soon as Scott put down the phone.
“Saving our hides.”
“Dukane? Who’s he?”
“The real-life Charlie Dane. Excuse me a minute, I want to get dressed.” He left her alone in the room.
Lacey got up and followed him. When she reached the bedroom, Scott was stepping into his pants. “There really
is
a Charlie Dane?”
Scott fastened his trousers and picked up his shirt. “Sure is. No trench coat and battered fedora, and he operates now instead of the forties, but the rest is pretty close. A hell of a guy. He’ll get us out of here. We just have to stay alive for the next four hours, till he arrives.”
“Maybe we should call the police.”
“What good would they be against an invisible maniac?”
“What good will this Dukane be?”
Scott grinned, for the first time since the attack looking calm and confident. “Good enough.”
“What time is it?” Lacey asked.
“Eleven forty.”
“Is that all?” Only twenty minutes had passed since Scott’s talk with Dukane. For the past ten, Lacey had been sitting cross-legged beside the barricaded door, her pocket knife open on her lap, the paint can beside her ready to spray if the door should be forced open.
Scott had spent much of the time wandering the suite. He’d looked out the windows and determined that no ledges ran over from adjacent rooms. He’d shoved the couch against a locked, connecting door. Then he’d knelt down to remove the knife from Carl’s throat.
“Should you do that?” Lacey had asked. “What about fingerprints?”
“We need it.”
“But the police. My God, we don’t want them thinking we killed Carl.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Thanks, but I can’t help it.”
“The police are the least of our problems, right now.”
Lacey had looked away when he pulled out the knife. He arranged the blanket again over Carl’s head, then took the knife into the bathroom and cleaned it.
Now Scott was turning over the coffee table.
“What’re you doing?”
“Clubs,” he said, and began to unscrew one ofthe short, tapering legs. When it came free, he tossed it underhand. It thumped the floor near Lacey, and rolled toward her. She picked it up by the narrow end. It felt like a small baseball bat. A thick, inch-long bolt protruded from the top.
As Scott twisted another leg off the table, Lacey heard voices in the hallway.
“Six fifty for a Piña Colada,” said a man. “You believe it?”
“That’s not so bad,” a woman said. “It included the glass.”
“Sixty cents’ worth of glass. A nickle worth of booze.”
“They’re awfully cute glasses.”
“Maybe we should get a few more.”
“It would be nice to have a complete set.” The woman’s sudden yelp made Lacey jump. Her mind flashed an image of the two under attack, and she grabbed the spray can, tensing, ready to unblock the door and rush out to help. But the yelp led into a giggle. A different
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