Night Show (22 page)

She passed through security without any trouble.

The taxi crept up the San Diego Freeway in rush-hour traffic. ‘Where are they all going?’ Linda asked, half to herself.

‘Home from work,’ the driver said, smiling back at her. ‘Home from shopping, home from the airport, Disneyland, the beach. You name it.’

‘I’ve never seen so many cars.’

‘Then you’ve never been to LA. I tell you, one of these days there’s gonna be one single car too many coming on, and that’ll be it. Nobody’ll move. I’ve got ten days rations in the trunk for the day it happens.’

‘Really?’

‘Would I kid you?’ He swung abruptly into a right-hand lane, slipping into a space barely long enough for the taxi. The car in front slowed down. Linda braced her feet on the floor as the taxi braked. She waited for an impact from the rear. It didn’t come. Her left leg ached as she let her muscles loosen. She rubbed it through her dress.

The driver seemed unconcerned about the close call. ‘Make sure you take in Grauman’s Chinese,’ he said. ‘They don’t call it that anymore, but it’s still got the stars’ footprints. That’s just a few blocks from where I’m dropping you.’

‘Okay.’

They moved slowly down a ramp leading onto another freeway. This one looked just as crowded as the other.

Linda glanced at the meter. Seven-fifty. She still had more than two hundred dollars, so . . .

‘The Walk of Fame’s there, too. You know, the stars in the sidewalk?’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard of it.’

‘Some good bookstores along there, too. You into books?’

‘A little.’

‘Me, I do screenplays. I’ve picked up some option money, here and there, but I haven’t been produced yet.’

‘Maybe you should write a book.’

‘I’ve tried. I can’t do prose.’

‘You write your screenplays in verse?’

He laughed. He didn’t explain what was funny, but continued to talk about his writing as he left the freeway and drove up a crowded street named La Brea. Linda felt smothered by the traffic. Often, they had to wait through three cycles of a stop light before getting across an intersection. The amount on the meter continued to rise.

‘Hollywood Boulevard,’ he finally announced, making a right-hand turn. ‘Grauman’s, all that, is just up ahead. We’ll be turning off, though.’

A few blocks later, he made a left. Then a right onto La Mar Street. He stopped in front of a shabby
apartment
house, and turned in his seat. Linda gave him thirty dollars. She told him to keep the change.

‘Good luck with your poetry,’ she said, and left him smiling.

Alone on the sidewalk, she took Tony’s letter from her purse. She checked the return address against the numbers beside the building’s double glass doors. They matched.

Taking a deep breath, she walked toward the doors. She pulled one open. The lobby seemed dark after the glare outside, and felt slightly cool.

Near the foot of the staircase, she found rows of mail boxes. Each was labeled with two strips of red plastic tape. Her eyes moved swiftly to the strip marked 210, and lowered to the name: A. Johnson.

She’d found him!

She climbed the stairs slowly. At the top, she leaned against the wall. Her breath was coming fast, her heart racing, but not from the exertion.

Shutting her eyes, she saw the naked, cadaverous specter leering down at her through the darkness. The severed head tumbled down the stairs. It bumped her. Its vacant eye peered at her through the gap of her upraised legs. She felt the warm spread of urine. He was coming down, lifting the ax. She felt her terror, her certainty that she would be killed, at last the welcome taste of fresh night air when she made her escape. Then the explosion of pain as the car tore into her.

She gasped and her eyes jerked open as if she’d been startled from sleep.

Her legs were dripping. The insides of her shoes felt slippery. The faded green rug was dark between her feet.

Stunned, she looked down the corridor. At least nobody was around.

She peeled off her sopping panties. With Kleenex from her handbag, she wiped herself dry. She left the panties and tissues in a wet heap, and hurried toward room 210.

All his fucking fault! Everything!

Don’t blow it, she warned herself as she raised a fist to strike the door.

She knocked gently.

She waited, hands folded to conceal the blotch on her dress.

The door stayed shut.

She knocked again.

Finally, she gave up. She took the back stairway to the first floor. Stepping out a rear exit, she found herself in an alley. She walked down it, holding the wet part of her dress away from her skin.

In her overnight bag, she carried a change of clothes. She considered ducking between trash bins and ridding herself of the fouled dress.

No. The sun would dry it, soon enough.

She wanted to save the clean clothes for her trip home. Whatever she wore tonight would very likely get messed up with blood.

If she was lucky.

She walked for a long time, sticking mostly to alleys.
Finally
, she returned to Tony’s apartment. She knocked on his door and waited.

Then she went out the front. She crossed the street. Near the end of the block, she sat down on a curb and watched the front of the building and waited.

‘O
KAY OKAY
,’ Roger said. ‘Ready for the splash shot. It’s been a long day. Let’s get it right and we’ll wrap.’

Jack, crouched on the low roof of the shack facade, gave a nod and pulled the ski mask down over his face. He picked up the ax with both hands.

‘Be careful,’ Dani called.

‘Just get it right,’ Roger said, apparently still miffed about last week’s foul-up with the shotgun.

Jack’s hesitation to blast Ingrid’s head. The thought of it made Dani smile. Thank God for such foul-ups. But her good feelings vanished in an instant when she remembered Ingrid’s disappearance.

Ingrid, her double.

Tony fondling the dummy, handling its breasts, its buttocks and groin, calling it by her name.

He’s just sick enough . . .

‘Action.’

Jack leaped from the roof. He landed on his feet in front of the chair where the mannequin of Bill sat with a beer bottle raised to its lips. He swung the ax sideways. It caught Bill across the left eyebrow. The top of the
head
flew off with a burst of red gore, tumbled and thudded on the porch floor.

‘Cut!’ Roger called. ‘Beautiful. That’s a print.’

‘Do you want me to go in with you?’ Jack asked.

Dani shook her head. ‘I’m sure it’s all right. He’s probably still home licking his wounds.’

‘I’d better.’

‘If you insist.’

They climbed out of Jack’s Mustang and walked toward the front door.

‘He didn’t pull anything yesterday,’ Dani said.

‘He didn’t dare. I was with you all day.’

She unlocked the door. They stepped inside. The house was silent. They walked through it as quietly as intruders, checking all the windows and doors.

‘I guess it’s all right,’ Jack whispered when they reached the kitchen.

‘Then why,’ she whispered, ‘are we whispering?’

He grinned. ‘Beats me,’ he said in his normal voice.

Dani glanced at the workroom door. The lock button protruded from its handle. ‘Did we leave that unlocked this morning?’

‘Might’ve.’

With a shrug, she stepped around the kitchen table and opened the door. She flicked the light switch. ‘Anybody home?’ she asked.

‘Let’s make sure.’

They entered the workroom. It felt hot and stuffy.

‘I’ll check the back door,’ Dani said.

Jack nodded and stepped around the lathe, making his way toward the side window.

As she passed the workbench, Dani picked up the rusted machete. ‘Maybe I should keep this with me,’ she said. Smiling across at Jack, she waved it overhead.

‘Give him forty whacks.’

‘Yuck.’ She set it down and continued toward the rear door.

‘Window’s all . . .’

‘Jack!’ She staggered backwards a step, her gaze fixed on the empty space of wall.

He rushed to her side.

She pointed. ‘My life mask. It’s gone.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘Let’s look around. Maybe it’s just misplaced.’

She shook her head. She felt weak and dizzy. Jack’s hand pressed gently against her back.

‘It was here Saturday morning,’ he said.

‘We showed Tony how. He . . . he wants my head on Ingrid.’

Jack mussed her hair. ‘As long as he doesn’t get the real one.’

She tried to smile.

‘Honey, it’s only a hunk of plaster.’

‘It’s my
face
. And Ingrid’s my
body
. God, I can almost feel him touching it.’

‘That’s me,’ Jack said, pulling her close. He stroked her back. His lips pressed her mouth. She held him tightly. ‘We’ll get Ingrid,’ he finally said.

‘How?’

‘Tony’s bound to show up.’

Jack checked the rear door. Then they left the stifling workroom.

‘I’ll only be gone an hour,’ he said.

‘You sure I can’t help?’

‘You’d be grossed out.’

‘Your place can’t be
that
messy.’

‘If you’re afraid to stay here . . .’

‘No.’

‘I’ll just grab enough for one suitcase, and scurry right back.’

When he was gone, Dani chained the front door. She went into the bedroom. Through the glass door, the swimming pool looked shiny and inviting. She could almost feel the cold shock of water. But she was afraid.

Afraid to use her own pool because she was alone and Tony might come through the gate.

‘Damn him,’ she muttered.

Might as well play it safe, though. Why take chances? Just stay locked up in your cage so the bastard can’t get at you . . .

Some cage. A glass house. If Tony wanted, he could get to her in seconds.

With that thought, she convinced herself: she was no safer in the house than outside.

‘Clever me,’ she muttered.

Laughing softly, she stripped off her sweaty clothes. She went into the bathroom and reached for the bikini hanging over the shower door. It was the skimpy orange
one
she’d been wearing Saturday. When Tony dropped in.

‘No way,’ she said.

She went to her dresser and took out a green, one-piece suit. Though low cut and backless, it was a vast improvement over the bikini. She stepped into it, pulled it up her legs and lifted the front over her breasts. As she slipped her arms into the straps, she suddenly realised why she was putting it on.

So Tony wouldn’t see her in the bikini.

Did she
expect
him to show up?

Yeah. Or why the modest suit?

‘Let him,’ she said. Picking up a towel, she walked to the door, slid it open and stepped outside. The sun felt warm. A mild breeze blew against her.

‘Where’d Jack go?’ Tony asked.

Dani’s head jerked to the right.

Tony was sitting shirtless on a lounger, hands folded behind his glossy head. The bandages were gone. His face was bruised, blotched and streaked with brown scabs. His left eye was nearly hidden under bulbs of swollen flesh.

Dani stared at him, more confused than alarmed, feeling as if she’d somehow conjured him up. ‘How long have you been here?’ she asked. The sound of her voice brought back a sense of reality.

‘Just a few minutes. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘You saw Jack leave?’

‘No. I just noticed his car wasn’t out front.’

‘You were coming by anyway?’

He nodded.

‘Quite a coincidence.’

‘Huh?’

‘Jack happens to be gone every time you show up.’

‘Yeah. I keep missing him.’

‘You’re watching the house.’ It was not a question.

He looked at Dani as if she were mad.

‘And your mother didn’t die on Saturday.’

He unlocked his hands from behind his head and leaned forward, frowning. ‘She died. Just like I said. Why should I lie?’

‘Worked out pretty well, didn’t it? I let you stay, I fed you, I took you to the movies. You got your chance to put some moves on me . . .’

‘You’re crazy!’

‘I was crazy to believe you. But, oh, I fell for it, didn’t I? You must figure I’m a real push-over. Give me a sob story, I’m putty in your hands. What’ll it be today, Tony? Father die? Dog hit by a car? Come on, let’s hear it. You wouldn’t come without a story for the old softie here.’