While I Disappear

by Edward Wright

  “That you had killed her.”

  “Don’t be self-righteous with me,” she said, her voice grown ugly. “What I did was terrible, but what Rose did was no better. Years later, when she decided it was time to talk to me about it, she made it clear what had been in her mind that night. She hated Tess as much as I hated Rose. Neither one of us meant to kill anyone, but the fact remains that we both took part in a rape.”

  “Difference is, Rose was ready to admit what she’d done,” he said to her. “You were just ready to keep killing people.”

  She didn’t answer. “In a minute I’m going to have to shut your mouth,” De Loach said to Horn, fingering the gun at his belt.

  “And I imagine you’re the one who did the killing for her,” Horn said, turning to him.

  “With great pleasure.” De Loach bowed slightly from the waist, as if to acknowledge a compliment.

  “I’d guess you’re also the one who’s been sneaking around my place.”

  “Let’s just say I identified you early on as a potential problem and wanted to know more about you.”

  “How long have you been strangling women?”

  De Loach’s smooth manner deserted him for a second, replaced by a look of hatred. Don’t forget how dangerous he is, Horn told himself. Then De Loach assumed the mask again. “Has Myra been talking about me?” he asked with mock concern. “I thought we paid that poor thing enough to ensure her silence. But apparently not. Let me make a mental note to visit her again.”

  “You haven’t answered the question.”

  “Well, then, my has-been actor friend, the answer is, none of your business,” De Loach said lightly. “Doll may want to tell all tonight. I prefer to be known as a man of mystery.”

  “But I can guess some of it,” Horn went on. “We’re talking about strangling, not killing. Just a sex thing, wasn’t it? Just for fun. At some point, Doll must have found out what you like to do. Maybe it was around the time Myra made such trouble for you. Or maybe Doll always knew what you liked to do. Hell, maybe she likes it too.” He glanced at her but could see no reaction.

  “Then one day Rose told her that some of the old secrets were going to come out—” He stopped and turned to her again. “Did Rose know it was you who killed Tess? Or were you just afraid that she might put too much attention on you?”

  “I think she knew, or at least guessed,” Doll said in a small voice. “But she never said so. Maybe she wanted to leave herself room for doubt. Rose, you see, believed she was responsible for everything that happened that night.”

  “But you decided she had to die,” Horn said. “And old Lewis must have seemed like a gift from Heaven. A man who gets a kick out of strangling women. Do me a little favor, Lewis. Is that how you put it?”

  She was silent. “Don’t tell him any more,” De Loach said to her.

  “You had already divorced him,” Horn said. “Maybe that was the reason you took him back. You suddenly realized what a talented man he was.”

  De Loach started to come around the table, his hand at the gun. “Don’t hit him,” Doll said, sounding more irritated than concerned. He stopped.

  Horn eyed De Loach cautiously, trying to judge how far he could go in trying to get them to talk to him. He studied the distance between himself and De Loach. Too far to get at that gun, he conceded, and the table was in the way.He did not want to get hit again, but he recognized the need to get De Loach within reach. Maybe he would have to bait him some more.

  The tension made his head throb anew. His stomach growled, and he was aware that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Was he going to die hungry, and with a headache? The thought made him profoundly depressed.

  There was also fear, of course. His old enemy from the war. He had fought it and been defeated by it, and it had left him feeling less than a man. Thinking about his make-believe heroics up on the screen only made the memory of the war more painful. Since then, he had been visited by his old enemy only rarely. He had found an uneasy accommodation with fear that night up at the old Aguilar estate, and once again the night he stood in the glare of the big car’s headlights as Willie Apples came at him. He had learned that he could momentarily push his fear aside by focusing on something more important than himself—a life that needed to be saved, for instance. He glanced over at Alden. Would that be enough?

  Now, as he felt the old feeling begin to gnaw at him, the growing weakness in his limbs, he wondered if any of the old tricks would work. Two of the people in this room planned to kill him, and there seemed to be little he could do about it.

  He thought he saw a movement in the corner of his eye, around the French doors. Carefully, he looked without turning his head, but saw only the wet garden greenery hanging limply just beyond the glass.

  De Loach had seen the look. He followed Horn’s gaze to the doors. “You’ve probably noticed it’s almost dark,” he said. “And earlier than usual, because of the rain. We’ve been waiting for the dark.”

  Horn understood. “I suppose that’s when you kill us,” he said. He tried to sound resigned, beaten down, when all he wanted was the feel of De Loach’s windpipe under his thumbs.

  “Well, actually, we don’t want to mess up Alden’s lovely house,” De Loach said. “We’ll take you out to the car, and then we’ll do our business somewhere up in the hills where it’s nice and quiet.” No longer guarding his speech, De Loach was warming up to his subject. Horn could hear the self-satisfaction in his tone, the need to brag.

  “Of course,” De Loach went on, enjoying the moment, “if you make a fuss about leaving, we’ll just have to shoot you here. But that would involve dragging you out to the car, which is something I’d prefer not to do.”

  Time was running out. Horn needed to get the other man within reach.

  “I know you think you’re a real desperado, Lewis,” he said, “but anybody who goes around strangling women can’t be much of a real threat.”

  De Loach regarded him, his eyes pale against his freckled skin.

  “Poor Rose didn’t put up much of a fight, did she?” Horn continued. “In fact, she was probably asleep when you snuck in there. Not much to brag about, was it?”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “But I bet Cassie was more of a challenge….” Horn stopped. He had to know. “Why did you kill her?”

  De Loach allowed himself a smile. His answer came easily, conversationally. “It was her idea,” he said, indicating Doll, as if the answer were obvious.

  “Why?” Horn demanded. “What did she do?”

  “Enough,” Doll said evenly, reaching down to her purse, which sat on the floor near her chair, and coming up with a cigarette and her lighter. “You mentioned to me how helpful she was in sniffing around for you, how she had managed to locate Alden. I thought she had done enough damage, and I didn’t want to wait for more.”

  Horn felt sick. His words had painted a target on Cassie, allowing her killers to take aim.

  Alden Richwine stirred in his chair. “Cassie.” The name came out as a croak. “You killed Cassie?”

  Horn regarded him. “Alden, are you all right?”

  Richwine’s eyes were fixed on De Loach. “Answer me.”

  “He killed her,” Horn said. “He was getting ready to tell me about it.” Inside him, the sickness began turning to rage, and he focused all of it on Lewis De Loach.

  “Villain,” Richwine said. The word came out as a curse. “Monstrous villain. Damnable—”

  When De Loach’s hand went again to the pistol in his belt, Horn quickly interrupted. “She pulled a knife on you, didn’t she, Lewis? Bet that surprised the hell out of you. Where did she cut you?”

  “She tried, but she couldn’t do much,” De Loach responded with a shrug. “Just a little nick across the base of the neck. My shirt collar covers it nicely.”

  “Still, not much for you to brag about,” Horn said, shaking his head. “You ever kill a man, Lewis?”

  De Loach stared at him.

>   “I don’t mean a woman. You ever try to strangle a man?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Doll said, her voice controlled. “He’s just trying to get at you.”

  “You’d better mind your mama or she might spank you,” Horn said. “Answer me, Lewis. You feel like coming over here and trying your little trick with me? Or are you afraid?”

  De Loach’s mouth twisted, and he started around the table. Horn’s hands and arms tensed. Just before De Loach got within reach, Horn heard a sound from behind, in the entryway of the house. It was the front door closing, followed by quick footsteps and a shout.

  “Hey!”

  De Loach stopped, the fury on his face dissolving. Horn turned around, blinking his eyes against the pain in his head.

  Luther Coby walked into the living room.

  “Don’t go all to pieces on me, Lewis,” Coby said. “There’s plenty of time to take care of him.” His hat and suit coat were lightly speckled with raindrops. He walked over, lightly pushing De Loach aside, and said to Doll, “I moved his car a few blocks away. We’re just about ready.”

  “When the time comes,” De Loach muttered, looking at Horn, “I want him.”

  “Sure, if it makes you happy.” Coby stood looking down at Horn, a matchstick busy in one corner of his mouth. “Awake, huh? You figured everything out?”

  Horn stared back, his brain working furiously. “Not quite,” he said, straining to sound unconcerned. “But I’m working on it. I guess Eden Lamont’s nowhere around the Beverly Hills Hotel, is she?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Coby said with a chuckle. “But I thought that was pretty fancy footwork on my part, coming up with that story as quick as I did. Just wanted to throw you off a little, that’s all.”

  “What was supposed to happen when I—”

  “When you met me there tomorrow? I guess you haven’t worked out the details. You see, you never would have made it there. Sometime tonight, I’d have paid you a visit, gotten you to open the door, and put out your lights. You coming over here—”

  “I know. Doll told me. It just made things a lot easier for you.”

  “Exactly.” He leaned to the side, studying Horn’s wounds. “Doesn’t usually take me two licks to put a man out with a gun butt. I must be slowing down.” Noting Horn’s look, he laughed quietly. “So you thought you owed Lewis for your headache? Nope, that was me.”

  He looked out the window, then at his watch, and turned to the others. “It’s about time. I don’t want to use my car for this.” He turned to De Loach. “Go get the Lincoln and park it by the kitchen door.”

  “Yes, sir,” De Loach said with exaggerated subservience. “Right away.” He looked around the room. “Where’s my raincoat?”

  Even though slumped in his chair, Horn felt his whole body tense. For the first time, he felt something approaching panic. Soon De Loach would leave, but there was no way to separate Luther Coby from his gun. And yet he would have to try. For Alden’s sake, and his own. He couldn’t just go quietly.

  “So what brought you into this?” he asked Coby.

  “You need to ask?” the detective said.

  “That little retirement cottage in Del Mar.”

  Coby nodded. “We got a saying in homicide. All over the department, in fact. Retirement doesn’t come cheap.”

  “Some cops do, though, I bet,” Horn said, wondering what it would take to set the man off. “What was your price, exactly?” When Coby didn’t answer, Horn looked over at Doll. “Was it just money? Or something else?”

  For the first time, Coby looked slightly uneasy. As he watched the man’s responses, Horn again thought he saw a slight movement, this time in the corridor that led from the living room past the pantry to the kitchen. He glanced over at Doll to see if she had noticed as well, but her eyes were on him, waiting to hear what else he had to say.

  Horn pressed on. “Doll can be pretty persuasive when she wants to be,” he said. “I’ve had a little experience in that department. If she did you any favors to get you on her side, my guess is she had her eyes closed all the time. Did you even notice?”

  Coby stopped chewing on the matchstick and shook his head in a weary manner, as if to signal that he’d heard enough. “Don’t listen to him, Luther,” Doll said. Standing several feet away, De Loach adjusted the collar of his raincoat and waited, clearly enjoying the drama.

  “You ever hear some of the things she says about you when you’re not around?” Horn said to Coby. I need to get him closer. “She likes the word fat. Another one is lazy. And then there was something about the way you smell—”

  Watching Coby, he missed the swift movement of Doll’s arm. Her open palm rocked his head sideways. It threw him off, left him unprepared for Coby’s move, barely a second later, as he drew his short-barreled police revolver, shifted it quickly to his left hand, and slammed it against Horn’s right temple and ear, driving his head against the back of the chair.

  “Behave,” Coby muttered. “Any more conversation, and I shoot you right here.”

  The front sight of the pistol had torn skin and cartilage, and blood began to trickle down the side of his face. The pain was intense, but it had a curious side effect. The fear was now pushed deep inside, in a place where he thought he could manage it. He could feel adrenalin starting to course through his system. All he needed was a target for it.

  Doll leaned over, holding out a handkerchief. She dabbed at his cheek and jaw. “That was your fault,” she whispered. “Does it do any good to say I’m sorry? Or to say I wish I’d met you some other way, some other time?”

  He pushed her hand away without looking at her.

  Her face went blank. She withdrew the handkerchief, spotted with his blood. “Lewis, will you get the goddam car?” she said, raising her voice. Then, to Coby: “Collect all those pictures.”

  The detective replaced his pistol in its holster, knelt in front of the table, and began gathering up the prints. His face was barely a yard from Horn’s knees. I can almost reach him. It has to be now.

  De Loach turned and started for the pantry corridor. Horn’s every muscle tensed. As soon as he was out of sight….

  Then, an unexpected sound. Footsteps from the corridor. All of them turned as Mad Crow emerged. He walked slowly and deliberately into the living room, both hands showing innocently, but his eyes were wide, and his face held a wild energy. De Loach had halted in surprise, and now Mad Crow stopped about two paces away. Horn heard Doll’s wordless intake of breath. At the margin of his vision, he saw Coby, still kneeling, pull out his pistol and half-turn toward the intruder.

  “Lewis De Loach, I presume,” Mad Crow said. “Or is it Carson?”

  “I know you.” De Loach’s tone suggested curiosity as much as concern.

  “’Course you do,” Mad Crow said. “From the movies, maybe. Or my dreams.”

  “What?”

  “Lewis, look out!” Doll shouted.

  Coby’s gun wavered. De Loach was in the way, and he waited for a clear shot. Quickening his step, Mad Crow closed the gap, reaching for something at his hip. De Loach took a tentative step backward, his left hand sweeping away his raincoat as his right reached for his gun.

  Mad Crow’s face broke into that fearsome grin, showing his teeth. “Present from Cassie Montag,” he growled as he whipped the hunting knife from its scabbard and drove the blade into the other man’s stomach. De Loach, his back to the others, hunched his shoulders and made a small, clenched sound.

  Coby’s arm steadied as he took aim at what he could see of Mad Crow. He squeezed off a shot, but it missed, sending a chunk of chipped plaster off the wall. The blast from the gun was shockingly loud.

  Mad Crow slightly turned De Loach, getting a grip on the front of the man’s raincoat with his left hand. In three quick moves, he withdrew the blade, raised it, and then sliced it backhanded across De Loach’s throat. It sounded like the parting of a ripe melon.

  Coby was taking aim again, trying to rise, bu
t now Horn was out of the chair and launching himself across the table head first. Coby swung his gun hand to meet the attack. Horn went for Coby’s throat with his right hand and the gun with his left. In the same instant, he knew he would not make it.

  The gun spat fire. The blast this time was deafening. Horn felt the bullet tear through the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger, heard Doll scream behind him. His hand closed on barrel and cylinder, and he forced the barrel upward as his other hand closed on Coby’s throat and his weight drove the detective backward onto the floor.

  Coby was strong, but Horn was driven by a demon. The gun, slippery with his blood, went off one more time. Horn turned loose of the man’s throat and began using his fist. Coby tried to cover up with his free hand, but Horn drove in—face, neck, stomach, wherever he found a target. Somewhere in the background he could hear Alden Richwine’s voice, vigorous once again, urging him on. He punched with all his strength, hearing Coby grunting and also hearing great, sobbing groans that he realized were his own.

  He punched until he felt the detective’s grip loosen from the gun.

  Then he reached over, took the pistol shakily in his right hand, and placed it against the other man’s temple. The gesture said, I’ve got you. Horn’s finger was tight on the trigger, his hand shaking with rage. Coby, eyes bulging, sucked in his breath. Horn’s finger froze, unable for an instant to follow through.

  Then Coby’s knee drove upward into his groin, and Horn shouted in pain. He felt the other man’s hand scrabbling at his waist, reaching for….