resemble a graceful creature of the water. I didn’t know exactly where he belonged, but the biped act he was attempting definitely seemed an evolutionary challenge. Awkward and insectile and at least seven feet tall, he carried a lean gym-sculpted torso on a pair of skinny legs that looked like they should collapse under the weight. As far as I was concerned, the ugly bastard broke about a dozen laws of nature. He looked like he belonged under a rock.
He gave me the once-over as he dried off. “This the guy?” he asked, and I could tell by his tone that he was almost as impressed as I was.
“Yes. This is the guy.” Circe snatched a towel from a chaise lounge and dried herself, but her eyes never left me. Not the bright blue pair set in the savage angles of her face, not the others that stared out from the faces of demons and children and monsters etched on her flesh.
“Toss me my robe?” she asked.
It hung over a railing at the bottom of the staircase. The freak headed for it. His legs were longer, but I was closer. Besides, he was still panting like a sled dog heading for the Iditarod finish line. By the time he got to the railing, I was holding the robe in my left hand.
Empty-handed, the bugman looked way past distressed.
“You can always take this,” I said, extending the backpack.
“Get that fucking thing away from me.”
He said it too quickly. I had him on the run, and I knew it. I jammed the backpack against the branded ankh on his chest.
Wasn’t that a laugh-the Egyptian symbol of eternal life. “Do you really think you’re going to live forever?” I asked. The bugman’s upper lip started to twitch.
“Now boys,” Circe said. “Play nice, or I won’t let you play at all.”
The whole thing was a joke now. I grinned and slung the backpack over my shoulder, and the freak grabbed a fistful of my right hand, his big hand swallowing mine like an albino spider.
He shook my hand like he wanted to break it. I let him have his fun. “Spider Ripley,” he said.
“Clay Saunders.”
Ripley eyed me hard. But when he released my hand, he didn’t have anything. I still had the backpack, and Circe’s robe.
The robe was silk. I liked touching it. It hardly weighed a thing. I turned my back on Spider Ripley, and Circe turned her back on me when I came near. Another horror movie scare-scales and tentacles and more eyes tattooed on the sleek, muscled plain of her back.
Circe held out her arms and I blinded the monsters, covering her in black silk. She looked better in silk. Her pool time had bought her strong swimmer’s shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. The hem of the robe fell just under her ass, and the long legs that carried her were white and pure, as surprising as an unmarked canvas hanging in a museum. She wore no tattoos from heel to thigh, but her legs held my attention just the same.
Circe knotted the sash around her waist. “Did everything go all right?”
“I finished the job,” I said.
“Wonderful,” she said.
It wasn’t like we were talking about murder at all.
We entered the house. Spider Ripley went to dress. Circe didn’t. She seemed perfectly comfortable in her silk robe, and I was perfectly comfortable with her in it.
She led me to a large living room. A peaked wall of windows faced west. The view was beyond spectacular, only slightly marred by the barred security fence that surrounded the entire property.
Beyond the fence, the Pacific gleamed like a mirror under the setting sun. Jagged cliffs carved by wind and rain dropped to a beach hidden from view by the twisted skeletons of stunted cypress trees, but I had no feeling for the wind that had maimed them. All was still within the house.
There was no wind here at all. Still, the room was as tortured as the trees outside, the difference being that the room had been twisted by man. A circular staircase rose in one corner, writhing with barbed wrought iron railings. Lights grew on spiked steel stems. The walls and furniture were fashioned from carved redwood that was as dead as coffin wood, its live, earthy smell now no more than a faded rumor.
But there was life here, if you were willing to look for it. A bonsai tree sat on a low glass table, its limbs tortured by cunning twists of wire, harnessed just as brutally as the dead things.
The house exuded male pheromones, and I was willing to bet that they didn’t belong to Spider Ripley. Circe Whistler was the owner here, but her father had put his mark on this place and it was as indelible as the mark of the beast. Diabolos Whistler’s daughter could not erase it or cover it over with her own mark, try as she might. Circe’s father had claimed to be Satan’s successor, had built a cult with temples spread as far as Paris and Hong Kong and Rio de Janeiro, and even in death his presence was as unavoidable as the ripe black stench of decay.
I could feel it.
And I could smell it.
I opened the backpack and placed Diabolos Whistler’s severed head on the glass table, next to the bonsai tree. The cult leader’s face wore a twisted expression frozen somewhere between a sneer and a smile, but no length of cunning wire had trained it.
I had trained Whistler’s death grin.
I had done the job with a seven-inch U.S. Army K-bar knife.
“Fucking hell.” Circe’s nose wrinkled. “Couldn’t you have kept it on ice or something?”
It was the wrong thing to say. I took a deep breath, and the stink of death burned in my lungs. Circe smiled as if she’d made a joke, but I wasn’t laughing. Not after what I d gone through. I wasn’t laughing at all.
I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have held that stinking breath in my lungs and not said a word. But I couldn’t do that.
“I didn’t much notice the stink,” I said. “Maybe because I stink, too. The last shower I had was at a hotel in Baja. That was four days ago. I drove straight through. I would have made it back sooner, but that would have meant flying, and I don’t think the folks at AeroMexico would have allowed my carry-on luggage. I bought a Toyota truck off some surf bum for the trip back. Paid way too much for it. It didn’t even have air-conditioning.
“Your father had it tougher, though. When I crossed the border, I duct-taped his head to the differential. That’s how he got the grease spot on his forehead and the burn mark on his cheek. But I don’t figure it bothered him much. He was already dead.”
“Okay,” Circe said. “Okay-”
“I just wanted you to know that I earned my money.”
“It appears that you did.” Circe knelt and stared into her father’s eyes. Her expressions was completely clinical, almost as serious as the one she’d worn on the cover of Newsweek.
“We’ll be running tests, you understand,” she said. “My father loved going to the doctor. The dentist, too. His medical records are nauseatingly detailed.”
“You act like I made this thing out of papier-mache or something.”
“My father starting using doubles after he received his first death threats back in the Haight-Ashbury days. That was thirty years ago. Some of them were nearly identical, right down to the tattoos.” She leaned closer to the head, staring into those dead eyes. “All I’m saying is that I have to be sure. You can understand that. After all, we’re talking about a lot of money.”
“You never said anything about doubles. As far as I’m concerned, I fulfilled my contract. I killed the man who lived in Diabolos Whistler’s mansion in Los Cabos. I returned with his head, as per your instructions. Apart from the transportation problem, it was a fairly easy job. Your father was right where you said he’d be. He was all alone, unless you want to count those mummies stacked like so much cordwood in his library. If you want to know the details, he went pretty easy. I came up from behind and stabbed him just above the first vertebra. He gasped a little bit. Then he started mewling. It didn’t last more than a second or two, but it was enough to make an impression. To tell you the truth, he sounded more like a newborn babe than a seventy-three-year-old master of occult sciences.”
