. . and it was open.
Dr. Newman couldn’t hear the scream that spilled over his own lips. But he could feel the dragon’s long slithering tongue as it slapped against the back of his hand.
And he could smell the stream of urine even as it spilled down the leg of his summer trousers.
The vet was scooting around the floor on his ass.
The redhead lay by an open door, half her skull splattered on the wall behind her.
The door swung shut slowly. And then Jack noticed the other door. The one to the big metal cage.
A fucking monster came out of the cage, moving fast, little black eyes gleaming like eight balls.
A Komodo dragon. Jesus. Jack had seen one of the big lizards on an old
The vet might be an American, but he wasn’t in Race Bannon’s league. He just sat there on his ass, looking kind of like Pa Kettle dressed up for the county fair. Jack couldn’t understand it. Even if the vet didn’t see the big lizard, he’d have to hear the thing’s claws clinking over the tiled floor-
The monster’s long yellow tongue flicked against the back of the vet’s right hand. Then its jaws opened wider.
Jack raised the Colt Python and opened fire.
Once again, blood splashed Dr. Newman’s face. Only this blood was colder.
He reached out and touched a long, slimy hunk of flesh. Bruce’s tongue. Only the tongue wasn’t attached to anything.
Bruce was dead.
Bruce had been shot in the head.
Along with an exotic dancer.
All of it had happened in Dr. Newman’s operating theater. Dr. Newman began to cry, because none of these events could possibly occur in a Norman Rockwell universe.
His career was over.
And, worse than that, he would probably never see Tura Lynch again.
The vet sat on the floor, holding the dead lizard’s tongue and crying.
“What’s wrong with him?” Jack asked.
“I think he’s deaf, for one thing. And blind, too.” Angel picked up the doctor’s Coke-bottle glasses and handed them to Jack. “He probably can’t see a thing without these.”
Jack dropped the glasses on the floor and stomped them hard.
“Why’d you do that?”
“Do you want him to be able to give the cops our descriptions, or what?”
“Oh. . yeah.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“C’mon Spike,” Angel said, hoisting the Chihuahua. “We’re going home.”
After a while, Dr. Newman dropped Bruce’s tongue and stumbled out of the operating theater.
He felt his way along the wall and eventually found his office, where he bruised his thigh on the sharp corner of his desk before sinking into his plush leather chair.
Fright consumed him, but he persevered. He reached out tentatively, exploring his desktop even as his heart raced, afraid that his fingers would brush the severed tongue of a Komodo dragon.
They didn’t, of course. The dragon’s tongue was on the floor of the operating theater.
Eventually Dr. Newman found the telephone. He held the handset to his ear and could not hear a thing. Without his glasses, he couldn’t see the keypad, either, but he started pressing buttons anyway.
Three buttons each time. Then he would say he had an emergency, and give his address, and hang up and do it again.
Eventually, he’d hit 911.
Eventually.
It was simply the law of averages.
“God, I’m glad Spike’s okay.” Angel hugged the Chihuahua. “I’m glad this whole thing is over.”
Jack didn’t say anything. He just drove.
“Jack. . it is over, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. The woman who got away. . she’s out there, somewhere. So is Harold Ticks. And the old lady and the guy with the rattlesnakes. They’re out there, too.”
Angel nodded. “Don’t forget Tony Katt. He probably the arranged the whole thing. And the woman with the wrist braces.”
“Yeah.”
“So what should we do?”
“I don’t know, Angel. I just don’t think they’ll leave it like this. You shot that woman back there. You killed her. And her sister isn’t going to forget that. She’ll probably come looking for us. God help us if she brings those other freaks with her.”
“You think they’ll come after us?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Unless we go after them first.”
SIX
There were seven Randy Travis records on the truck stop jukebox. Harold was sure about that. He’d heard every damn one of them, and more than once.
Still, anything was better than hanging out with Eden. Man, was she messed up. Harold didn’t know how to feel about that. Deep down, he really cared about her. But to see her all torn up like that, completely out of control. . man, it was scary. He just couldn’t handle it.
Maybe things would be okay after they collected the ransom. Harold figured he could stick it out that long. Hell, he had to. The drop site was already set up. No way he could make an end run around the entire Lynch family at this late hour, even if he wanted to.
And if things didn’t work out after that? Well, he’d said adios before. The word was definitely in his vocabulary.
But he’d never said adios to anyone like Eden Lynch. That would be a tough one. Of course, it was easy to say that now. Eden wasn’t having a nervous breakdown right before his eyes. If she started that shit again. . all that crying and making him feel guilty shit. . well, watch out. That’s when the rubber would meet the road.
A gear-jammer dropped a quarter in the jukebox and pressed B26. Randy Travis started singing about a love that was deeper than the holler and stronger than the river and higher than the pine trees growin’ tall upon the hill.
Enough of this weepy redneck shit. Harold chugged one last swallow from his coffee cup. It wasn’t quite time for the rubber to meet the road, but it was way past time for the shoe leather to hit the parquet tile.
Harold’s shoe leather did. He paid the waitress and headed for the pay phones at the gas station adjacent to the restaurant. It was almost noon. Time to goose Angel Gemignani. Get her to that safe-deposit box and then give her directions to the drop site.
Harold punched in the Casbah number and the operator transferred him to Angel Gemignani’s suite.
The phone rang a bunch of times. Harold was about to give up when someone answered. Some stupid Valley Girl voice. All whiny. Plus Harold could hardly hear the chick. It sounded like a party was going on or something.
