The Bad Place Part 4

"Somebody still pays you." She risked more pressure, not with the points of her nails but with the flat surfaces, although Rasmussen was so swept away by a rapture of fear that he might still imagine he could feel those filed edges gradually carving through the delicate s.h.i.+elds of his eyelids. He must be seeing interior starfields now, bursts and whorls of color, and maybe he was feeling some pain. He was shaking; his shackles clinked and rattled. More tears squeezed from beneath his lids.

"Delafield." The word erupted from him, as if he had been trying simultaneously to hold it back and to expel it with all his might.

"Kevin Delafield."

"Who's he?" Julie asked, still holding Rasmussen's chin with one hand, her fingernails against his eyes, unrelenting.

"Microcrest Corporation."

"That's who hired you for this?"

He was rigid, afraid to move a fraction of an inch, convinced that the slightest s.h.i.+ft in his position would force her fingernails into his eyes.

"Yeah. Delafield. A nut case. A renegade. They don't understand about him at Microcrest. They know he gets results for them. When this. .h.i.ts the fan, I won't be surprised by it, blown away. So let go of me.

What do you want?"

She let go of him.

Immediately he opened his eyes, blinked, testing his vision then broke down and sobbed with relief.

As Julie stood, the nearby elevator doors opened, and Bobby returned with the officer who had accompanied him down stairs to Ackroyd's office. Bobby looked at Rasmussen, his head at Julie, clucked his tongue, and said, "You've been naughty, haven't you, dear? Can't I take you anywhere "I just had a conversation with Mr. Rasmussen. That's all."

"He seems to have found it stimulating," Bobby said.

Rasmussen sat slumped forward with his hands over his eyes, weeping uncontrollably.

"We disagreed about something," Julie said.

"Movies, books?"

"Music."

"Ah."

Sampson Garfeuss said softly, "You're a wild woman Julie."

"He tried to have Bobby killed," was all she said.

Sampson nodded.

"I'm not saying I don't admire will sometimes... a little. But you sure as h.e.l.l owe me on this one."

"I do," she agreed.

"You owe me more than one," Burdock said.

"This guy's going to file a complaint. You can bet your a.s.s on it."

"Complaint about what?" Julie asked. "He's not marked."

Already the faint welts on Rasmussen's cheek were faint Sweat, tears, and a case of the shakes were the only evidence of his ordeal.

"Listen," Julie told Burdock, "he cracked because I just happened to know exactly the right weak point where I could give him a little tap, like cutting a diamond. It worked because sc.u.m like him thinks everyone else is sc.u.m, too, thinks we're capable of doing what he'd do in the same situation. I'd never put out his eyes, but he might've put mine out if our roles were reversed, so he thought for sure I'd do him like he would've done me. All I did was use his own screwed-up att.i.tudes against him. Psychology. n.o.body can file a complaint about the application of a little psychology."

She turned to Bobby and said, "What was on those diskettes?"

"Wizard. Not trash data. The whole thing. These have to be the files he duplicated. He only made one set while I was watching, and after the shooting started he didn't have time to make backup copies."

The elevator bell rang, and their floor number lit on the board. When the doors opened, a plain-clothes detective they knew, Gil Dainer, stepped into the hallway.

Julie took the package of diskettes from Bobby, handed them to Dainer.

She said, "This is evidence. The whole case might rest on it. You think you can keep track of it?"

Dainer grinned.

"Gosh, ma'am, I'll try."

FRANK POLLARD-alias James Roman, and George Farris-looked in the trunk of the stolen Chevy found a small bundle of tools wrapped in a felt pouch tucked in the wheel well. He used a screwdriver to take the plates off the car.

Half an hour later, after cruising some of the higher and more quiet neighborhoods in fog bound Laguna, he parked on a dark side street and exchanged the Chevy's plates for those on an Oldsmobile. With luck, the owner of the Olds wouldn't notice the new plates for a couple of days, maybe even a day or longer; until he reported the switch, the Chevy wouldn't match anything on a police hot sheet and he would, therefore be relatively safe to drive. In any case, Frank intended to get rid of the car by tomorrow night and either boost a new one or use some of the cash in the flight bag to buy legal wheels. Though he was exhausted, he didn't think it wise to check into a motel. Four-thirty in the morning was a d.a.m.ned hour for anyone to be wanting a room. Furthermore, he was unshaven, and his thick hair was matted and oily, and his jeans and checkered blue flannel s.h.i.+rt were dirty and filthy from his recent adventures. The last thing he wanted to do was call attention to himself, so he decided to catch a couple hours of sleep in the car.

He drove farther south, into Laguna Niguel, where he parked on a quiet residential street, under the immense bow of a date palm. He stretched out on the back seat, as foully as possible without benefit of sufficient legroom or pillow and closed his eyes.

For the moment he was not afraid of his unknown pursuers because he felt that the man was no longer nearby. Temporarily, at least, he had given his enemy the shake, and had no desire to lie awake in fear of a hostile face suddenly appearing at the window. He was also able to put out of his mind all questions about his ident.i.ty and the money in the flight bag; he was so tired-and his thought processes were so fuzzy-that any attempt to puzzle out solutions to those mysteries would be fruitless.

He was kept awake, however, by the memory of how strange the events in Anaheim had been, a few hours ago. The foreboding gusts of wind. The eerie flowerlike music. Imploding windows, exploding tires, failed brakes, failed steering...

Who had come into that apartment behind the blue light?

Was "who" the right word... or would it be more accurate to ask what had been searching for him?

During his urgent flight from Anaheim to Laguna, he'd not had the leisure to reflect upon those bizarre incidents, but now he could not turn his mind from them. He sensed that he had survived an encounter with something unnatural. Worse, he sensed that he knew what it was-and that his amnesia was self-induced by a deep desire to forget.

After a while, even the memory of those preternatural events wasn't enough to keep him awake. The last thing that crossed his waking mind, as he slipped off on a tide of sleep, was that four-word phrase that had come to him when he had first awakened in the deserted alleyway: Fireflies in a windstorm....

BY THE time they had cooperated with the police at the scene, made arrangements for their disabled vehicle and talked with the three corporate officers who showed at Decodyne, Bobby and Julie did not get home until shortly before dawn. They were dropped at their door by a police cruiser, and Bobby was glad to see the place.

They lived on the east side of Orange, in a three-bedroom sort-of-ersatz-Spanish tract house, which they had bought new two years ago, largely for its investment potential. Even though the relative youth of the neighborhood was apparent the landscaping: and None of the shrubbery had reached full size the trees were still too immature to loom higher than the gutters on the houses.

Bobby unlocked the door. Julie went in, and he followed The sound of their footsteps on the parquet floor of the foyer echoing hollowly off the bare walls of the adjacent and utter empty living room, was proof that they were not committed to the house for the long term. To save money toward the fulfillment of The Dream, they had left the living room, dining room, and two bedrooms unfurnished. They installed carpet and cheaper draperies. Not a penny had been spent on other improvements. This was merely a way station enroute to The Dream, so they saw no point in lavis.h.i.+ng funds on dreams.

The Dream. That was how they thought of it-with a capital d They kept their expenses as low as possible in order to fund The Dream. They didn't spend much on clothes or vacations, and they didn't buy fancy cars. With hard work and iron determination, they were building Dakota and Dakota Investigations into a major firm that could be sold for a large capital gain, so they plowed a lot of earnings back into the business to make it grow. For The Dream.

At the back of the house, the kitchen and family room-and the small breakfast area that separated them-were furnished. This-and the master bedroom upstairs-was where they lived when at home.

The kitchen had a Spanish-tile floor, beige counters, and dark oak cabinets. No money had been spent on decorative accessories, but the room had a cozy feeling because some necessities of a functioning kitchen were on display: a net bag filled with half a dozen onions, copper pots dangling from a ceiling rack, cooking utensils, bottles of spices. Three green tomatoes were ripening on the windowsill.

Julie leaned against the counter, as if she could not stand another moment without support, and Bobby said, "You want a drink?"

"Booze at dawn?"

"I was thinking more of milk or juice."

"No, thanks."

"Hungry?"

She shook her head. "I just want to fall into bed. I'm beat."

He took her in his arms, held her close, cheek to cheek, with his face buried in her hair. Her arms tightened around him.

They stood that way for a while, saying nothing, letting the residual fear evaporate in the gentle heat they generated between them.

Fear and love were indivisible. If you allowed yourself to care, to love, you made yourself vulnerable, and vulnerability led to fear. He found meaning in life through his relations.h.i.+p with her, and if she died, meaning and purpose would die too.

With Julie still in his arms, Bobby leaned back and studied her face.

The smudges of dried blood had been wiped away. The skinned spot on her forehead was beginning to scab over with a thin yellow membrane.

However, the imprint of their recent ordeal consisted of more than the abrasion on her forehead. With her tan complexion, she could never be said to look pale, even in moments of the most profound anxiety; a detectable grayness seeped into her face, however, at times like this, and at the moment her cinnamon-and-cream skin was underlaid with a shade of gray that made him think of headstone marble.

"It's over," he a.s.sured her, "and we're okay."

"It's not over in my dreams. Won't be for weeks."

"A thing like tonight adds to the legend of Dakota and Dakota.

"I don't want to be a legend. Legends are all dead."

"We'll be living legends, and that'll bring in business. The more business we build, the sooner we can sell out, grab the Dream."

He kissed her gently on each corner of her mouth "I have to call in, leave a long message on the agency machine so Clint will know how to handle everything when he goes to work."

"Yeah. I don't want the phone to start ringing only a couple of hours after I hit the sheets.

He kissed her again and went to the wall phone beside the refrigerator.

As he was dialing the office number, Julie walk to the bathroom off the short hall that connected the kitchen to the laundry room. She closed the bathroom door just as the answering machine picked up: "Thank you for calling Dakota and Dakota. No one-"

Clint Karaghiosis -whose Greek-American family had been fans of Clint Eastwood from the earliest days of his first television show, and had named their baby after him. "Rawhide"-was Bobby and Julie's right hand man at the office. He could be trusted to handle any problem. Bobby left a long message for him, summarizing the events at Decodyne and noting specific tasks that had to be done to wrap up the case.

When he hung up, he stepped down into the adjoining family room, switched on the CD player, and put on a Benny Goodman disc. The first notes of "King Porter Stomp" brought the dead room to life.

In the kitchen again, he got a quart can of eggnog from the refrigerator. They had bought it two weeks ago for their at-home, New Year's Eve celebration, but had not opened it after all, on the holiday.

He opened it now and half-filled the water gla.s.ses.

From the bathroom he heard Julie make a tortured sound she was finally throwing up. It was mostly just dry heaves because they had not eaten in eight or ten hours, but the spasm sounded violent. Throughout the night, Bobby had expected her to succ.u.mb to nausea, and he was surprised that she had retained control of herself this long.

He retrieved a bottle of white rum from the bar cabinet in the family room and spiked each serving of eggnog with a double shot. He was gently stirring the drinks with a spoon to blend in the rum, when Julie returned, looking even grayer than before.

When she saw what he was doing, she said, "I don't need that.

"I know what you need. I'm psychic. I knew you'd toss your cookies after what happened tonight. Now I know you need this.

" He stepped to the sink and rinsed off the spoon.

"No, Bobby, really, I can't drink that."

The Goodman music didn't seem to be energizing her.

"It'll settle your stomach. And if you don't drink it, you're not going to sleep."

Taking her by the arm, crossing the breakfast area, and stepping down into the family room, he said, "You'll lie awake worrying about me, about Thomas"Thomas was her brother-"about the world and everyone in it." They sat on the sofa, and he did not turn on any lamps. The only light was what reached them from the kitchen.

She drew her legs under her and turned slightly to face him. Her eyes shone with a soft, reflected light. She sipped the eggnog.

The room was now filled with the strains of "One Sweet Letter From You,"

one of Goodman's most beautiful thematic statements, with a vocal by Louise Tobin.

They sat and listened for a while.

Then Julie said, "I'm tough, Bobby, I really am."

"I know you are."

"I don't want you thinking I'm lame."

"Never." : "It wasn't just the shooting that made me sick, or using the Toyota to, run that guy down, or even the thought of almost losing you-'

"I know. It was what you had to do to Rasmussen."

"He's a slimy little weasel-faced b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but even he doesn't deserve to be broken like that. What I did to him stank."

"It was the only way to crack the case, because it wasn't nearly cracked till we'd found out who hired him."

She drank more eggnog. She frowned down at the milky contents of her gla.s.s, as if the answer to some mystery could be found there.

Following Tobin's vocal, Ziggy Elman came in with a trumpet solo, followed by Goodman's clarinet. The sounds made that boxy, tract-house room seem like the most romantic place in the world.

"What I did... I did for The Dream. Giving Decodyne's Rasmussen's employer will please them. But breaking him somehow... It was worse than wasting a man in a fair gunfight."

Bobby put one hand on her knee. It was a nice knee. All these years, he was still sometimes surprised by her slenderness and the delicacy of her bone structure, for he always thought of her as being strong for her size, solid, formidable.

"If you hadn't put Rasmussen in that vise and squeezed I would've done it."