Bernhardt's Edge (33 page)

Instantly, the gas would explode. Inside, they'd panic. With the UZI—safety off, remember, safety off—he'd go around to the front, wait for them—do them when they came out, screaming. Two bursts—one clip—and they'd go down. Clip out, new clip in. Remember to release the slide, release the fucker, make sure there was a bullet in the chamber. Then another short burst, the insurance burst, to her head. Then back over the split rail fence, back to the Camaro—fifty thousand richer. Start the car, drive, disappear in the night, sixty-five miles to Palm Springs, across the open desert, gone.

The monster was turning, coming back, leering down on him, a fire-breathing, four-wheeled monster, shattering the high, wide, raging sky with a doomsday roar. And he was helpless, trapped, held fast by—

“
Alan
.”

Opening his eyes, he saw her face close to his, saw her eyes, fearfully wide in the half light. It was Betty, whispering his name. Betty Giles, the target. Terrified.

“Wh—”

“
Shhh
.” With her hand on his arm, to quiet him, she moved her head to the left, in the direction of the bathroom door. “Listen—”

And as he sat up straight in the chair, he heard it: a faint, alien sound. Was it an animal, gnawing?

A man, coming for them?

As he rose to his feet and picked up the sawed-off, his heart began to hammer, his knees went weak. Gripping the shotgun, his hands trembled violently.

The safety
…

He must take off the safety, right thumb pushing the catch forward.

Twenty-five dollars, he'd paid for the shotgun. Not enough, not nearly enough. Not now, not enough. Suddenly not now.

“Get back,” he whispered, gesturing with his head for her to move aside, away from the bathroom door. Then, with legs that were leaden, with the roar of blood pounding in his ears, throat gone dry, he was moving forward—one step, two steps—and one last step, bringing him squarely facing the bathroom door. Taking his left hand from the sawed-off's forestock, fingers cravenly trembling, he slowly, gently, pushed the door fully open.

In the rectangle of the bathroom window, slid to the side, fully open, he saw something changing the quality of the outside darkness. Not a hand, or a head, or a solid shape, but a film without substance, a thickening, then a thinning—

—the screen.

It was the screen, moving, folding back, disappearing.

With his right shoulder pressed against the cabin wall, with the gasoline-filled bottle on the ground beside the UZI, both of them in front of him, he crouched, swept the nearby darkness one last time with quick, probing eyes. Then he looked up at the window; two feet above his head, its nylon screen folded back.

A lob—a hook shot, really, from his crouched position beneath the window—a left-handed hook shot, followed by a right-handed grab for the UZI. And then the sprint around the side of the cabin, UZI cocked, safety off, finger on the trigger, ready. Followed by the ten, twenty-second wait, listening to their screams from inside, trapped in the flames—trapped until they tore open the front door, desperate to escape the fire.

As he held his breath, listening, he took the matches from a hip pocket, opened the folder. Had someone spoken, inside the cabin? Had something stirred? He allowed himself five more seconds, the last five seconds, listening. Then, winner take all, he struck the match, hesitated one last, final moment, then touched the tiny flame to the gas-soaked rag, the wick. Instantly, orange flame blossomed; bits of burning rag flared, fell away from the bottle. He dropped the matches, used both hands to grip the bottle below the flaming wick. He straightened from his crouch to stand close beside the window. Pain seared one hand, both hands.

Quick. It had to be quick.

He was out there. The black man, come to kill them. He was out there, just outside the window. Was this the time to run, tear open the front door, try for safety, scream for help? Frozen at his center, Bernhardt could only raise the shotgun, trained on the window's foot-square opening. At five feet, six feet from the window, the buckshot would—

Beneath the window a glow began, followed instantly by a tiny flame in the dark rectangle of the window. The shotgun bucked; the blast was palpable, a flash of gouted orange in the darkness, deafening him—

—as fire filled the window frame, an explosion of flame, blinding him, the black of night flaring daytime-bright, acrid, deadly dangerous.

He braced himself, used both hands to lift the bottle level with the window—

—heard the shotgun blast, saw flame explode, felt the heat searing nostrils and throat, saw the darkness fuse with the fire, first into a blinding-bright whiteness, then into the last long, sudden darkness…

…as his voice, screaming, filled everything: the last sound so quickly fading: all the pain, finally gone. Too late.

A
S POWERS SWITCHED OFF
the bedside lamp he heard the siren: a high, thin wail, rising and falling in the night. He'd heard this same sound in small towns before: the siren on the firehouse, summoning the local volunteer firemen.

Or it could be the police: the Borrego Springs sheriff, or the state police, racing to answer the homicide call. Betty Giles, dead. Murdered at the Ram's Head Motel.

In the darkness he sat up in bed, listening. If it was the police, the sound of the siren would soon fade as the car left the center of town, outward bound.

But even if it
was
the police, it wasn't necessarily murder. It could be an accident, on the highway. Or a robbery. Anything.

But it wasn't the police, because the sound was stationary, still rising and falling, a monotony of undulating shrillness. And now, close by, he heard excited voices, heard car doors slamming. The motel manager, doubtless, was a volunteer fireman, and was answering the call.

He got out of bed, went to the window, drew back the drape. Yes, an engine was revving nearby, a car was moving, spurting gravel from its rear wheels.

Grimacing at the sound of the siren, he switched on the lights and strode to the bureau, and the bottle of Cutty Sark. Was there still ice in the ice bucket? Yes, enough for one drink, one generous drink. He filled the plastic glass with ice, poured in the Cutty Sark. The TV was beside the brown plastic tray that held the bottle, the glass, and the ice bucket. Giving the ice in his drink time to melt, he looked at the local TV log, on top of the set. An old John Wayne movie had just come on:
Flying Tigers,
made during the war. He switched on the TV, turned the channel selector, saw John Wayne in the cockpit of a vintage fighter plane, maneuvering to elude a villainous Japanese, a propaganda turn.

As he picked up the highball, the sound of the siren suddenly died. Enough firemen had responded; the truck was ready to roll. He carried the glass to one of the room's two easy chairs, sank down, propped his bare feet on the edge of the bed, and sipped the scotch as he watched the whirling, roaring, smoke-spiraling dogfight.

The TV's digital clock read 12:45
A.M.
He'd left a call for six-thirty. He would dress, get in his car, make the rounds of the town's motels, all four of them. In the darkness, he could have driven within a block of the black Camaro, and never seen it. But tomorrow, in daylight, he would find him, find Fisher, pay the killer off. Then he'd pack his bag and return to Los Angeles, all danger passed, all problems resolved.

He yawned, settled himself, sipped the Cutty Sark, then set the glass aside. Surprisingly, perhaps, considering the situation, he could feel his eyes growing heavy…

Something had startled him, brought him suddenly awake, eyes wide, heart thudding. His attention was groggily focused on the TV screen: John Wayne, chin-to-chin with another man, both of them angry, voices raised, fists clenched.

But the sound came from the door: a knocking, three quick, firm knuckle-raps.

“Yes?” As he spoke he rose, went to the TV, switched it off, looked at the digital clock: 1:30
A.M.

“Mr. Carter?” It was a man's voice, medium loud.

Still groggy, he began to shake his head. Then memory returned, a rush of random images: the envelope filled with money, exchanging hands at the airport—the narrow, winding road, coming down out of the mountains, straightening on the desert floor—the motel clerk's transparent suspicion as he answered questions about the black man.

Mr. Carter was really himself. Justin Powers. Both were the same. Here, now, both were the same.

“Mr. Carter?” More insistently, now.

As he turned uncertainly toward the door, he was aware that he wore only shorts, because of the desert heat.

“Yes. Who is it?”

“It's Deputy Foster, Mr. Carter. Could I talk to you for a few minutes? Ask you some questions?”

“But it—it's late.”

“I know that, sir. But there's been an accident. We need some help, sir.”

He was standing close to the door now, close enough to touch the knob. But he couldn't do it, couldn't open the door. Not now. Not wearing shorts, and nothing else.

“Just a minute.” He took his slacks from a chair, slipped into them, put on the sports shirt he'd worn earlier, finger-combed his hair. He'd forgotten to pack slippers, and as he stepped to the door he was conscious of his bare feet.

Standing close to the door, he squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, drew a deep, uncertain breath.

James Carter. He must remember it, remember the name.
His
name. His identity, now. And ludicrously, also the name of a president. How had it happened that, for anonymity, he'd chosen Jimmy Carter's name? How could he have been so incredibly stupid?

He slipped off the night chain, twisted the doorknob, stepped back as he swung the door open.

Deputy Foster was a young, muscular, fresh-faced man who spoke in a high, clear, self-important voice: “This won't take but a minute, sir—” As he said it, the deputy sheriff moved purposefully forward into the room; leaving Powers to close the door behind him: an inferior, waiting on his betters.

Standing in the center of the room between the bed and the bureau, the deputy turned to face him squarely. For a moment Foster said nothing, standing with his legs slightly spread, both thumbs hooked into his tooled leather equipment belt. His wide-brimmed beige felt hat, Powers noticed, was impeccably creased and sat precisely square on Foster's large head. The flesh of Foster's face and neck glowed with good health.

“Do you have any identification, Mr. Carter?”

Identification…

Yes, of course he had identification: a wallet stuffed with money and credit cards…

…everything in the name of Justin Powers, of Beverly Hills, California.

“Well—well, yes, certainly. Of course, I've got identification.”

“I wonder—could I just take a look at your driver's license, please?” As he spoke, Foster glanced pointedly at the bureau top, at the wallet and the keys and the small change and the pocket knife, a random scattering, somehow so intimately revealing.

“Well, I—” His gaze, too, was fixed on the wallet. Helplessly fixed. Hopelessly fixed. “I suppose so. But why?”

“Your car—is that your car, outside? The Mercedes? License CVC 916 J. Is that yours?”

“Well, yes. Certainly. It's—”

His car. Registered to Justin Powers. Not to James Carter. But to Justin Powers. Beverly Hills, California.

If he were there, in Beverly Hills, he would call his lawyer, demand to see his lawyer. He'd make this banal, boyish policeman miserable, make him crawl.

But not here. Not in this motel room, rented in the name of James Carter.

Not with his identification made out to Justin Powers, lying on the bureau. Not with the car's license, also registered to Justin Powers.

“Yes,” he heard himself answering, “yes, that's my car. But—” Betraying him, his throat closed.

But was it really a betrayal? Or was it his body, his mind, involuntarily protecting him? Because he mustn't do this—couldn't do this—couldn't put Justin Powers here, in this tiny town, with Betty Giles and her killer.

But he couldn't lie, either. Because the police computer could catch him. In seconds, the computer could catch him, expose him, prove that the Mercedes was his.

But, God, he had to say something. He couldn't simply stand here, feeling his eyes betraying him.

In his own ears, his voice sounded weak: a low, hoarse croak: “But my real name is Powers. Justin Powers. I'm—ah—traveling incognito. Because of—”

Because of what?

Business?

A woman?

Money or sex, which was it? Which would protect him, impress this spit-and-polish policeman most?

“Because of business—” He waved his right hand in a quick, ragged gesture. “We're working on a deal—a real estate deal. My firm is Powers, Associates. In Los Angeles. That's my head office, in Los Angeles. And we're putting together a deal, a big real estate deal. You can check. You can—” Once more, he gestured raggedly, this time toward the wallet. “I've got business cards. Everything, all kinds of identification.”

“Ah—” Now the deputy was nodding. Was it a sign of encouragement? Or cat-and-mouse complacency? “Ah—that checks, then. Jerry Tricomi—the manager, here—he says that you're in Borrego Springs on business, that you're self-employed.”

He nodded. “Yes. Th—that's right.”

“And you're in real estate.” As he spoke, Foster smiled—a false, fatuous smile, transparently calculating.

“Well, actually, it's really investments, that I'm in. Venture capital.”

The truth. The precious truth—until now, that moment, he'd never known how wonderful it was, to tell the truth.

“Jerry says you came here looking for someone who works for you.” A pause. And as the silence lengthened, Deputy Foster's smile was fading. Gone. Cat-and-mouse gone.