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 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 of the 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 Pina 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 kind of attack. “Jimmy, don’t! Christ, I almost dropped the glasses.”“Anything but that.”Lacey heard a key ratchet into a lock. A knob turned. A door swung open with a barely audible squeak, and banged shut.“Hope they got in alone,” Scott said, starting on a third leg.“I sure hope so. They sounded nice.”“The guy’s a cheapskate.”“He was just kidding around.”“Yeah. On the surface. Underneath, he’s a cheapskate.”“He did buy two of those drinks.”“At six fifty a whack. Not only a cheapskate, but he likes to play martyr.”Lacey looked at Scott, and saw he was smiling.The door’s lock button snapped out. Lacey turned, saw the door lurch, the chair tip forward a fraction. She thrust herself to her knees. The knife fell from her lap. She grabbed it. Scott threw himself against the wall on the other side of the door. He held a table leg in one upraised hand, the knife in the other. The automatic remained tucked in his belt.The door eased back silently, then rammed the chair again, this time forcing the legs to scoot an inch across the carpet.“Shoot him through the door,” Lacey whispered.Scott shook his head. “Louder,” he mouthed.“Shoot through the door!”“Right.” Clamping the club between his legs, he pulled out the automatic. He held it close to the door and worked its slide, jacking a live cartridge out.The door settled back into place.Lacey waited, holding her breath, expecting another thrust. Scott picked up his bullet and dropped it into his shirt pocket.Nothing happened.“What ever he is,” Scott whispered, “he doesn’t like bullets.” Tucking away the pistol, he shoved the chair more firmly under the knob. “I think we’re all right for a while…till he figures a new way to get at us.”“What’ll he do?”Scott shrugged.“What time is it now?”Scott glanced at his wristwatch. “Five minutes later than the last time you asked.”“Encouraging,” she muttered.“Three and a half hours to go.”“If your man’s on time.”“Knowing Dukane, he’ll be early.”“I hope so.” Lacey sat down again, feeling a slight pain as her shorts drew taut across her wound. Raising herself for a moment, she tugged the shorts to loosen them. Fortunately, the cut was high enough so that she didn’t rest on it, sitting upright. It hurt very little, except for a frequent, achy itch. It itched now. She scratched it gently with her fingernails. “What makes you think this Dukane will do us any good?”“He’s brilliant, innovative, a crack shot…”“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?”“Damn near. Won the Medal of Honor in Vietnam. Dropped in behind the lines, killed God-knows how many gooks, freed two dozen POWs and led them all back. Alone.”Scott shook his head, looking astonished by the feat. “He’s been a private investigator and bodyguard for nine years. An amazing guy. He’s actually lived the Charlie Dane stories. Most of them are based on incidents from Dukane’s past.”“Hope I live long enough to meet him.”“I keep trying to figure out what he’d do, if he were here instead of me.”“What would he do?”Scott shook his head. One corner of his mouth smiled. “He’d make clubs out of the table legs.”“Would he shoot through the door?”“More than likely.”“I wish you had.”“Don’t tell anyone, but my shooting has been limited to pistol ranges. I’ve never killed a man.”“That would’ve been a good time to start.”“Well…” Scott sighed. “I’m not against it—morally, I mean. Sort of a big step, though. Besides, I’d still rather take him alive. I mean, can you imagine the story? It’d be terrific! Do it up non fiction. A hardbound sale. Major advertising and promotion. Whammo, a best seller!”“Give me your gun,” Lacey said, scrambling to her feet. She held out her hand. “Come on, give it. If you aren’t willing to shoot him, I sure am.”He held onto it. “Sorry.”“Sorry won’t get us out of a coffin. Now come on! You’ve missed two big chances to blast this bastard to hell. Let me do it.”“Lacey, don’t get…”She lunged, reaching for the automatic. Scott knocked her arm away. He shoved her backward with the table leg, its bolt biting into her chest. “Calm down!”“You’ll get us killed!” she blurted, and suddenly started to cry. She turned away. She wanted to run for the bedroom or bathroom, to let out her despair in private, but was afraid to leave him. So she faced the wall, crying into her hands. She heard Scott approach. His arms reached forward and folded lightly across her belly.“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his breath warm through her hair. “I promise.”“What about your best seller?”“I won’t let him get you.”Lacey turned around. Blinking tears away, she stared up into his serious eyes. “You could shoot to wound,” she said, and tried to smile.“That’s it.” His fingers brushed the tears off her cheeks.Lacey put her arms around him and shut her eyes. If she could only keep on holding him, feeling his strong body against her, the
