Keeping the gun trained on me. Reaching around, he squeezed her breast. Pinched her nipple.
“Umm,” she said.
He pinched her again.
“Ow, that was too hard!”
“Sorry,” said Irving. Cradling her chin, he kissed the tip of her nose. Shoved her hard.
As she staggered backward, he moved fast. Staring at me as he swung the gun around. He shot her twice in the face, stepping back to avoid the blood spray. By the time she hit the boards, the gun was back on me.
She landed on her side.
“Thanks,” he told me. “You gave me a good idea. Yeah, I had plans for her, but this is even better.”
“Happy to oblige,” I said. “But maybe she wasn’t the only one with delusions. Think about what I said: Will Anita and Ben really be happy sharing? Spoiled rich kids aren’t big on gratitude.”
He shrugged. Blood streamed from under Cheryl’s head, oil black in the starlight, and he inched away from the welling pool.
“Doesn’t matter, does it?” I said, not looking at the body. “You’ve got plans for them too. Really think you’re going to walk away with everything.”
He snorted, sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
“I wasn’t lying about the police,” I said. “You’re a prime suspect. They know about your garment biz days, meeting Lauren back when she worked the Mart. Must’ve been a shock when she showed up at the estate with Ben – good old Ben screwing up again, picking up another dumb blonde. He’s got a thing for them, doesn’t he? Uses his experiments to find them and to hit on them, but once he gets them, the poor schmuck doesn’t know what to do with them. Cheryl, Lauren, Shawna Yeager – what happened to her? How did she get in the way?”
That same flicker of confusion in his dead eyes. Cheryl’s blood kept spreading closer to his shoes, and he sidled away, again. Despite myself I looked at her. Life juice leaking from the mop of blond hair, dipping to a low spot between the boards, trickling through. They say sharks can smell a drop in millions of gallons. Was the shark Internet buzzing?
Irving raised the automatic.
“Another blonde,” I said. “But Lauren wasn’t dumb. Anything but. She was a double threat – knew you from the bad old days, the hooker-a-night days. Knew stuff you strongly preferred Anita didn’t find out about. And on top of that, she tells you who she
Irving sighed again. The sweats made him look pudgy. His ponytail made him look like nothing but Mr. Midlife Crisis, and as he aimed the gun at my face, a sick, sour thought flashed in my head:
Then a voice behind Irving shouted, “Kent? What’re you doing? What’s going on?” and Irving blinked and turned as footfalls twanged the pier.
A man running toward us. Irving moving reflexively, the gun arm wavering, realizing his error and pivoting back toward me, but I’d already thrown myself at him and was grabbing for the automatic.
Managing only to jar his elbow.
He fired up in the air.
The new voice said, “Oh, my God!” and Irving slashed out at me and I chopped at him, keeping myself close, fighting for the weapon. A new set of hands grabbed for Irving. Irving, growling now, fired again.
The new voice said, “Oh!” and went down, but Irving had been thrown off balance, and I brought my knee up hard into his groin and, as he doubled over, stabbed at his eyes with my fingertips.
I made contact with something soft, and he screamed and stumbled and I shoved him, kept shoving him, down to the planks, got on top, straddled him, kept hitting him. It had been a while since I’d messed with karate, and what I did to him was more blind rage than martial arts, chopping at his head and his neck over and over and over, using stiff fingers and frozen fists, bloodying my knuckles, slashing and slamming until well after he’d stopped moving.
The gun had landed several feet from his arm. I picked it up, aimed it at Irving.
He didn’t move. His face was pulp.
A few feet away, Ben Dugger moaned. I went to see how he was doing.
CHAPTER 35
“WRONG,” I SAID. “By light-years.”
Dugger smiled. “About what?”
“About you. About lots of things.”
It was eleven A.M., three days after I’d watched Cheryl Duke die.
During that time Robin had left one message on the machine.
For three days my life had been stagnating, but Ben Dugger had traveled: from the ambulance I’d called, to the E.R. at St. John’s, to three and a half hours of surgery – tying together blood vessels in his thigh – to recovery, then two nights in a private room at the hospital.
Now this place, bright yellow and vast and dim, the air sweet with cinnamon and antiseptic, lots of inlaid French furniture – everything ornate and antique except the bed, which was all function and much too small for the room. The IV stand, the bank of medical gizmos.
The room was on the third floor of his father’s mansion. Doting nurses hovered round the clock, but he seemed mostly to want to rest.
I’d phoned yesterday to request permission, waited half a day for the call back from a woman who identified herself as Tony Duke’s personal assistant’s assistant, had been allowed through the copper gates an hour ago.
I’d driven up, sat scrutinized as the closed-circuit camera rotated for several minutes, then the tentacles parted and a mountainous bouncer type in a fudge brown suit stepped out and showed me where to park. When I exited the car he was there. Escorted me through a fern grove and a pine forest to the peach-colored, blue-roofed house. Stayed with me as we entered the building, exerting the merest pressure at my elbow, propelling me across an acre of black granite iced by two tons of Baccarat chandelier hanging three stories above, the entry hall commodious enough for a presidential convention. Flemish paintings, carved, gilded baseboards and moldings, gold velvet walls, the elevator cut so seamlessly into the plush fabric that I could’ve walked past it.
Finally, this room, with its canary-colored damask walls. Bad color for recuperation. Dugger looked jaundiced.
He coughed.
I said, “Need anything?”
Smiling again, he shook his head. Pillows surrounded him, a percale halo. His thin hair was plastered across his brow, and beneath the sallowness his skin tone was dirty snow. The IV taped to his arm dripped, and the instruments monitoring his vitals blinked and bleeped and graphed his mortality. The ceiling above him was a trompe l’oeil grape arbor painted in garish hues. Silly in any context, but especially so now. If not for the way I felt, I might’ve smiled.
“Anyway,” I said. “I just wanted to-”
“Whatever you think you did, you made up for it.” He pointed shakily at his bandaged leg. Irving’s stray bullet had passed through his thigh, nicked his femoral artery. I’d tied back the wound, stanched as much of the bleeding as I could, used the cell phone in the pocket of Irving’s sweatpants to call 911.
“Not even close to a tie,” I said. “If you hadn’t shown up-”
“Hey, it’s a soft science,” he said. “Psychology. We study, we guess, sometimes we’re right, other times…” Weak smile.
The door opened, and Dr. Rene Maccaferri marched in. Those same appraising eyes. White lab coat over black turtleneck and slacks, pointy little lizardskin shoes on too-small feet. He looked like a goombah playing doctor, and I
