“No, it’s been in the shop since yesterday, but they gave me a car to use. A broken-down old loaner I can hardly keep running.” Payley laughed mellowly. “Not much of a car for a midnight spin, I discovered. I was glad to get back home last night. How about tomorrow?” he asked Krug. “Or Monday? I can come in anytime.”
“I guess tomorrow’ll—”
“Wait a minute.” Casey’s head was spinning. Midnight. Both men’s faces seemed to swim in radiance, featureless, unreadable. “Mr. Payley, you said you drove up the coast last night? North, you meant?”
“Why, yes, that’s right.”
Krug cleared his throat, and Casey got the message, but he couldn’t stop now. “How far,” he asked carefully, “would you say you drove? Approximately, Mr. Payley?”
“Well, I don’t really know. Probably twenty miles—why?”
“You must have passed Trancas, then—before you turned around.”
“I suppose so. It’s only a few miles from here.”
“Yes, I know, Mr. Payley.” Relief flooded Casey as he glanced at Krug, a reckless, untrustworthy excitement which he knew he must conceal. “Between here and Trancas,” he said mildly, “there was a twenty-car pileup in the fog last night. The highway was closed till after one.”
Krug blinked once. “Is that so.” Deadpan, he turned to the actor.
But Payley looked undisturbed. “That’s odd,” he murmured. “I must be mistaken, mustn’t I?”
“About the time, you mean,” Krug suggested.
“And how far I drove. I really didn’t notice.”
“Yeah, that could happen, I guess.”
As Krug smiled agreeably, Casey stared at him, unbelieving. He’s going to blow it, he thought wildly. The stupid bullheaded clod’s going to—
“Tell you what, though, Mr. Payley,” Krug was saying, “since we can’t check on time, let’s take a look at your speedometer.”
Payley laughed. “What on earth for?”
“Well, sometimes they make a note of the mileage on these loan jobs. We’ll give your garage a call. Maybe we can help you figure out how far you drove.”
“Oh, I see. Yes. Well, of course,” Payley said cordially as he stepped back through the gate, “if it’ll help any—”
There was no warning. The gate slammed shut. They heard the bolt shoot home as they lunged at it, and the wooden panel creaked, but held firm.
THIRTY-ONE
“Get to that beach, and quick,” Krug roared. “Go through somebody’s house if you have to!”
But Casey was leaping for the top of the fence, clawing wildly for a handhold. Pulling himself up with one violent heave, he rolled over into a fern tree which cushioned his heavy fall. He heard Krug yell something as he bounced up and raced across the patio, pulling his .38, his mind registering the thong sandals lying yards apart on the flagstones, the door to the house closed tight, the ferns swaying wildly in a shadowy corner on the beach side where the fence seemed to join the south side of the house.
Plunging through the thick fronds which whipped his face, he found a narrow gate still swinging on its hinges. It hit the fence with a splintering crash as Casey burst through and stumbled down three wooden steps, half falling as he landed ankle-deep in soft loose dry sand.
At cellar-level now—but there weren’t any cellars here, for these closely built houses sat on pilings four feet and more above the sandy beach—Casey peered into the dank cavelike darkness under Payley’s house. The thick creosoted pilings blocked his view—and perhaps hid Payley. He spied a long white shape lying midway under the house, and his heart leaped. Then he realized it was a skiff stored there. “Payley,” he shouted. There was no echo: the sand, the shadows seemed to absorb his voice. “Payley, you haven’t got a chance!”
But he had, of course. Even unarmed, Casey thought, and realized his mistake. Payley wouldn’t hide. He had to run.
He plunged out of the narrow passage between houses, and looked up and down the empty beach. Damp sand at the tide line glittered in the sun. A series of small waves rolled lazily shoreward, blue-green, translucent as bottle glass. He had guessed wrong.
Casey ran back between the houses again and leaped up the three wooden steps, banging against the gate which no longer swung free. Locked solid now. Realizing how he had been tricked, a chill went through him. The man was a devil, cunning, absolutely fearless to have pulled off a ruse like this. And he had managed to separate them. Divide and conquer.
Jumping down onto the sand again, he ran under the house, dodging between pilings, to the other side. But there was no access here, he saw, the connecting fence was ten feet high from the sand level.
Moving swiftly out onto the beach again, Casey studied the house. The shore sloped toward the sea and the pilings supporting this side of the house were eight or nine feet high. The corner front ones were set back perhaps two feet, overhung by the outer edge of an open railed deck. Could he shinny up one of those pilings, holding his weight with his knees while he leaned outward to get a grasp on the edge of the deck flooring?
Imagining the strain, the will he must summon to do it, Casey sucked in his breath. Only six hours’ sleep in forty-eight. And lack of food. He felt weak, dizzy, short of breath. In his mind, Payley blazed up, hairless and obscene, immensely powerful. A killer, Timms had said. A torturer. Feeling a sudden liquidness turning in his bowels, Casey knew he was terribly afraid.
Teetering unsteadily on his bound feet, Farr crouched against the wall by the door, braced by his numbed hands and forearms. The bindings on his wrists burned like red-hot wires. His arms felt dislocated—dead limbs tied behind him, suffering only remembered pain. In his body something broken throbbed wildly, sending sheeting waves of fever through him, followed by deathly chill. But the darkness did not come this time, for in place of hope, he had a furious patient bitter certainty that sooner or later the door beside him must open.
But the silence seemed endless. And when it came, he sensed rather than heard the sound he had been waiting for. Gathering himself, Farr felt again the subtle draft under the door, heard a swift soft padding. The doorknob moved slightly. A quiet metallic click sounded as the lock turned. Then the door opened and Farr hurled himself sideways, his strangled shout becoming a scream of agony as their two bodies collided violently and crashed to the floor.
Under the house, Casey heard the jarring thump resounding in the sub-flooring over his head. Like a signal, he thought—Payley there—and mercifully his imagination grappled with a man again, not a terrifying vision.
Shinnying up the rough creosoted piling at the south corner, he gripped with all the force of his knees and thigh muscles, the tendons in his abdomen creaking as he leaned out, searching blindly for a handhold on the overhanging deck above him. But the painted wood was wet with sea damp, and his fingers slipped. Feeling himself toppling, Casey clawed wildly, catching two fingers of his right hand in a knothole. The firm grip steadied him, allowed a second to seek a left-hand hold. He found one, let his body hang free, and slowly chinned himself. Then for an instant suspended like an acrobat, he jerked upward, grasping the lowest rail of the deck with his right hand.
The rest was easy, and crawling through the rails, Casey crouched, drawing his .38 again, keeping low until he saw that all the windows, even the glass doors, were shuttered inside. Two strides took him across the deck. Pressing himself against the wall by the double French doors, he listened for an instant, baffled by the muffled banging inside. God only knew what that maniac was doing. The smiling lizard.
Stepping into the open in front of the nearest set of French doors, Casey kicked high and hard, the flat of his sole bursting the latch of the flimsy many-paned doors. Glass tinkled as they flew open. A shutter cracked like a gunshot. Casey jumped in, dropping to a crouch as he did. The room was dim. Blinking, unable to believe his eyes, he rose slowly. “Mr. Payley,” he said, “don’t do it. Can’t you see you haven’t got a chance?”
But it was a lie,
of course. Payley knew as well as he did that you can’t shoot a man through a human shield.
With Farr’s limp body clamped around the chest, a barrier held in front of his own, Payley moved slowly backward, his eyes fixed on Casey’s hypnotically. Behind him, Casey could see what looked to be an entry, the front door ajar, a sun-dappled section of the patio beyond. The car, he thought, he’s headed for the car, and his mind’s eye saw the narrow door off the patio letting into the garage. Was it an overhead door onto the street side? Whatever it was, if Payley could reach his car, get it started, he could gamble on crashing through to the road.
Glass crunched under Payley’s bare feet. Blood smeared the lacquered floor, but he seemed to feel nothing as, step by step, he backed toward the open door into the entry. A door that locked, Casey saw, and knew that Payley meant to trap him again.
“You close that,” he said quietly, “and I’ll shoot you through it. You understand? I’ll have to fire.”
“You can’t, he’s alive—” meaning Farr. “I can feel his heart. I can hear him breathing.” Payley grimaced as Casey moved forward. “Stay where you are or I’ll break his neck! You know I can.” And blindly he reached one hand out, fumbling for the doorknob.
Farr’s head hung down as if he were dead, and supported by only one powerful arm now, his body sagged. Knowing he had to gamble, Casey raised the .38. “I warn you, Mr. Payley.”
“If you hit him, it’ll be murder.”
“Maybe.” He moved a step forward. “But either way, it’ll be your neck.” Another step. “The odds are all on my side, Mr. Payley.”
“Then shoot!” he hissed, and as Casey lunged forward, Payley jerked the doorknob, throwing himself aside, letting the panel swing by him.
Casey hit the door before it slammed shut, but his soles slipped on the slick floor. He went down hard, trying to roll as he did, to protect his grip on the gun. A bloody foot kicked at his head and he dodged, sprawling. Before he could right himself, Payley kicked again, and dropping the .38, Casey grabbed for the foot, jerking upward with all his strength.
Payley staggered off balance, losing his grip on Farr, open for an instant to an advantage. But Casey knew he dared not risk it. Instead, he scrabbled for the weapon lying half across the entry. But before he could get near it, Payley was on him again, furiously chopping with hands like ax blades. Casey’s ears rang, the arm he’d thrown up to protect his head went dead under the savage karate blows. Rolling, sprawling, he kicked out at Payley’s legs, then rolled away again, clawing for the .38. But now Farr’s inert unconscious form blocked him. Casey had a wheeling glimpse of the battered face pressed against the floor. Beaten. Tortured. Sobbing for breath, he faced Payley, braced for the one blow he knew he could count on getting in before Payley’s superior skill and strength pounded him into oblivion.
Payley was smiling now, crouched like a sumo wrestler as he moved in on Casey. With a hoarse wild shout, he attacked, and Casey hit him twice, but it was like hitting a machine which feels nothing and which nothing can stop. Casey’s teeth crunched and blood poured into his mouth as Payley caught him under the chin. He tried to roll away, but a hammer blow dropped him flat, sent him spinning down what seemed to be a long chute toward a black pit. He kept clawing, grabbing, trying to stop himself. But then he began to float pleasantly, hearing laughter somewhere in the soft dark. Then his eyes opened, and gasping, sick, he found himself staring point-blank into Farr’s purple pulpy face. Dead. No, he was breathing.
Scrambling to his feet, Casey looked for his gun. Gone, of course. He reeled through the open door into the patio. It seemed immensely wide now, riven by a white unearthly light. He heard a metallic whirring, saw the dark opening in the back wall of the garage as his sight cleared slightly. Then a powerful motor boomed into life, and time caught up with Casey: he realized he had been unconscious for only seconds.
“Payley,” he shouted. “Al!” and uncoordinated, his feet banging the flagstones, he ran across the patio. A cloud of exhaust was billowing through the narrow back garage door. Casey glimpsed the long low shape of the car in the dark interior—a Jaguar—then an explosion rocked the frame walls, and sudden daylight streamed through the garage as the car shot out like a huge projectile. Splintered wood flew. The heavy springs which had balanced the overhead door to the street tore free, twanging, and the wide broken panel collapsed with a crash, narrowly missing Casey as he dodged into the blinding sunshine streaming down Malibu Road.
Krug was standing in the middle of the asphalt paving. “Look at that crazy bastard go! Just look—” Then he peered at Casey, caught him by the arm. “What the hell—? You look like you been through a meat grinder!”
Rocking on his feet, bewildered, Casey stared at him. “Al, he’s getting away—”
The hell he is.” He swung Casey around. “Take a look down that road. While you were grandstanding in there instead of covering the beach like I told you, I called the sheriffs from the neighbors. They got him bottled up both ends of the road.”
“But he’s got my gun—”
“Yeah, that figures.” Krug blew out his breath. “You goddam glory-hound,” he said furiously, “You know the drill. But no, you got to grab for medals, don’t you? Single-handed capture, you asshole, I ought to put you in for a reprimand. Maybe I will at that.” He tugged at Casey’s arm. “Come on, let’s go, I want to see that big bastard’s face when they slap the cuffs on him.”
But Casey held back. “Farr’s in there, Al. That was his car—”
“I told you there was a connection!”
“You won’t think so when you see him. He’s badly hurt, I think.”
“Better phone for an ambulance, then.” He glared at Casey. “You think you can go back in there and handle a routine matter like a phone call, genius?”
“I think so, yes,” and restored by his rage, Casey plodded back through the garage again, ignoring the rending shriek of metal hitting metal down the road which marked the end of Hubbard Payley’s flight.
The ambulance arrived, and with it came what appeared to be an army of men in sheriff’s uniforms. Two highway patrolmen joined the crowd. The patio of Payley’s house was suddenly jammed with neighbors until one of the patrolmen shooed them out. Casey waited while Farr was strapped on a stretcher. “Sure you don’t want to come along, too?” one of the ambulance attendants asked him. “Looks like the same steam roller that got him didn’t miss you, either.”
“No, I’m all right.” Casey grinned painfully. “But maybe I can find myself an aspirin around here somewhere.”
He didn’t find an aspirin. But what he did discover as he wandered through Hubbard Payley’s house made Casey recall something he had heard a lecturer at the Academy say—if the taxpayers ever knew the truth about police work, it would either bore them to death or give them nightmares.
Payley’s house fell somewhere in between, Casey decided at first. Every room told a story of an egomania which, without crime, might have seemed pathetic—the gigantically blown-up publicity photos which magnified what had obviously been a small career as a supporting actor; hunting trophies too old and moldy on close inspection to have been Payley’s; the black-and-gold thirties décor which, like Payley himself was embarrassingly theatrical.
Upstairs, Casey came upon what was obviously Payley’s bedroom: another black and gold chamber with lacquered floors, photo-lined walls, skins of wild animals as a bed covering. And through a louvered door, he discovered a mirror-walled dressing room. Wig stands cluttered every flat surface, plastic holders containing mustaches and beards. Searching through this gallery of assumed personalities, Casey discovered without surprise a bushy sandy wig among the others, and a large mustache of a matching color. He set them aside.
Then, at the bottom of one of the wardrobe closets crammed with clothing, he found a tin trunk like a soldier’s footlocker. Casey opened it with a nail file. Inside he found what looked to be a keepsake collection. But such a strange assortment of th
ings—like the sweepings, he thought, of a hundred bargain basement and used-goods counters. There were unmatched shoes, sweaters, hats, toys, scarves, and purses. There was a woman’s blouse, a man’s necktie. Nothing was new, Casey noticed, and as he picked through the trunk, a slow suspicion began to stir in him.
Squatting, he fished delicately inside a fringed handbag with a shoulder strap lying on top of the heap, finding a twenty-dollar bill and a small white card crumpled into a wad. A business card. On the back was a neatly written note. No signature, none needed. Before he could change his mind, Casey shoved it in his pocket and dug in the purse again, pulling out a cheap wallet containing two dollars, a couple of receipts, a Social Security card in the name of Holly Jean Berry. Tucked in a corner was a snapshot of two skinny adolescents—a boy and a girl—standing in front of a bleak wooden building which might be a barn. On the back was scrawled Del and Me, 1968.
Mindful now of possible fingerprints, Casey lifted the bag by the strap to set it aside. Something red lay underneath. Casey’s breath whistled out and all the tiny hairs on his body rose up in horror. A red cowboy boot. Child’s size. His stomach turned. Keepsakes, he thought crazily. Slamming the lid of the trunk, he scrambled to his feet and got out as fast as he could.
“There’s our hero,” Krug greeted him from the bottom of the stairs. But the words had no sting, and Krug was beaming. “Not a shot fired, would you believe it? He went meek as a lamb. Here—” he handed Casey his .38. “Show’s over, sport.”
“Not quite,” Casey said wearily. “But thanks, Al. Come on upstairs, I’ve got something to show you.”
“Can’t it wait till we grab some breakfast?”
“I don’t think you’ll want any after you’ve seen this.”
And, for once, he was right: even Krug looked sick as he inspected the contents of what the newspapers later called the trunkful of horrors.
The Complete Krug & Kellog Page 18
