Till the Butchers Cut Him Down (30 page)

I stuffed my hands deep in my jacket pockets and walked along the pavement toward the MG. Another car’s engine boomed to life
above, and I automatically moved over to the road’s edge. Headlights flared behind me. I glanced back.

The lights seemed to be coming straight toward me.

Momentarily I froze, waiting for the driver to correct his course. The lights kept coming, faster now. Fear surged through
me as I realized he intended to run me down.

Blindly I leaped sideways off the road, twisting my body, my arms out for balance. I felt a rush of air; gravel spurted up
and peppered my back. Pain seared my left calf as the car’s bumper grazed it. I pitched forward, fell hard, and slid down
the incline on a scratchy blanket of pine needles.

I pushed myself to my feet, gritting my teeth against the pain. There was a shriek of tires, a clash of gears. Then the headlight
beams splashed over the branches of the trees above me.

Coming back.

I ducked, fumbled my way into a clump of pyracantha bushes. Their spines tore at my clothing, scratched my face. I batted
at them, burrowed deeper—heart pounding, mouth dry.

On the road above, the car stopped.

I eased forward, saw a paved driveway on the other side of the bushes. Parted the branches so I could peer up its length.

The car idled at its top—light-colored, low-slung, the make unidentifiable at this distance. After a moment it moved on, but
slowly and only for a few yards. Then its engine shut off, its headlights went out.

Coming after me on foot—and not to ask if I was okay.

He’d find me all too easily here.

I broke from the bushes and ran down the driveway, ignoring the pain in my calf. Toward the muted lights of the house where
there were people, a phone. …

As I ran, I scanned the ground for something to use as a weapon. Nothing. Just a line of pyracanthas and, beyond them, fog
and darkness. Why, I thought, was my gun always locked away at home when I needed it! I had a carry permit; I should get over
my aversion to keeping the .38 with me—

From high above came the sound of pursuing footsteps.

I ran through a parking area in front of a garage, around the garage, over a decked walkway to the front door. The lights
I’d seen were exterior fixtures; the house’s interior was dark.

I pushed the bell anyway, pounded on the door. No response.

The footsteps slapped behind me, in the parking area now. Whirling, I saw a stairway leading to a big deck at the side of
the house. I plunged down the steps two at a time, grasping the railing for balance.

The deck was huge, illuminated by photoelectric security spots. Beyond it, a pool area was as bright as noonday. I veered
off the stairs, slid down a brushy slope to one of the deck’s support beams, then ducked under its planking. There was only
about four feet of clearance there; I hunched low, worked my way back into the darkness.

I could hear footfalls on the stairs now.

Blood roared in my ears. My leg throbbed. Fear clogged my throat, threatening to burst forth as sound. I clamped my lips together,
held my breath.

My pursuer stopped. Moved onto the deck. Stopped again, briefly, then walked more quietly toward its perimeter.

I remained still, my back hurting from the bowed position, my leg throbbing harder now. The terrain sloped steeply here; I
had to lean backward and dig in my heels to keep from sliding. My eyes had adjusted to the blackness; I thrust my head forward
turtlelike and peered around. Support beams, a drainage pipe, coils of what looked to be sprinkler tubing. And there, by the
outermost supports—

A chain-link fence.

Trapped.

He was still moving around overhead. A man—I could tell by the way he walked. Coming back toward me. Coming closer. Tap. Tap.
Tap …

Directly overhead now. Stopping.

Don’t breathe.

He breathed. Softly.

Don’t move.

He moved. Purposefully.

Don’t look up.

He was looking around. Carefully.

I couldn’t hold my breath much longer. My balance felt shaky; at any second I might slip, give myself away. I wanted to look
up, try to identify him. Couldn’t risk it.

The man began moving again.

Across the deck. Pause. Turn.

Back toward me.

Over my head and toward the stairway.

Stop. Go.

And then he stepped off the planking onto the slope. Heading toward the place where I’d gone under.

Slowly I turned my head. Saw a pair of feet shod in athletic shoes. Legs clad in jeans.

He was big, if foot size was any indication.

Armed?

Impossible to tell.

Dammit, why don’t I have my gun!

A sports car’s engine raced on the road above; the car turned into the driveway. The owner of the house coming home?

My pursuer’s feet pivoted. He was looking up the slope.

The car stopped in the driveway. A garage door began going up.

The man turned again and moved downhill fast. I glimpsed a formless dark figure that blended into the shadows by the chain-link
fence. He glided along toward the far boundary—quiet, controlled. He’d done this kind of thing before—and that made him all
the more frightening.

The sports car drove into the garage. The garage door shut again. Silence.

Moments later another engine started up on the road—my pursuer’s car. I heard it turn and drive downhill. Sedately.

I tried to leave my cramped hiding place, but my legs had begun to shake—delayed reaction, like you have when you’ve barely
missed a collision on the freeway. My foot slipped on the rocky earth and I went down on my ass. Pounded my fists on the hard-packed
earth and cursed the man who had forced me to cower here.

After a moment I reined in my rage and, for safety’s sake, sat quietly under the deck, hugging myself against the chill for
five minutes. Then I eased over to its edge and checked out the house. Dark, except for faint lights on its upper story; the
exterior spots were off. Keeping close to the pyracanthas, I dragged myself uphill to my MG.

The night was tranquil once more. In Nate Evans’s house only the entry light shone. Chances were, the architect hadn’t taken
much notice of the earlier wailing of tires and clashing of gears. Had probably put it off to rowdy teenagers.

Unless he was the one who had alerted my pursuer to the fact I’d be here on this lonely, dangerous curve tonight. Evans had
seemed straightforward enough, but I’d long ago learned not to take anyone involved in my investigations at face value.

I locked the MG’s doors and sat behind the wheel until I felt fit to drive. It took longer than I expected—and that made me
all the more angry.

Before I pulled into my driveway, I circled the block a couple of times, looking for cars that resembled the one that had
nearly run me down. I spotted a few low-slung, light-colored models, but none were close enough to allow an occupant to easily
watch my house. Still, I tucked the MG safely into the garage and hurried inside, turning on lights and looking for signs
of an intruder. No one was there, not even Mick. Before I could decide whether his absence was cause for a different kind
of concern, the phone rang. I hurried to pick up, thinking it would be Gage Renshaw returning the call I’d earlier placed
from my car phone to the emergency number at RKI’s La Jolla headquarters.

Chuck Westerkamp’s voice said, “Thanks for the tip on the redial button.”

It was a few seconds before I realized what he was talking about. “You got inside Brenda Walker’s house?”

“Uh-huh. Not exactly legal, but turns out the end justifies the means. I recorded the dial tones, ran them by one of my deputies
who’s got an ear for that sort of thing. Number was in your area code. I talked to Pacific Bell, and guess what? Belongs to
your client.”

Not good. “Which number is it?”

Westerkamp recited it. “Address is on the Embarcadero in your town.”

“His condominium. Walker couldn’t have talked with him, though. He wasn’t there—hasn’t been for some time.”

“Well, she tried to get him, anyway.”

“Maybe right before she and Leon took off. I don’t suppose there’s been any sign of them since we last spoke?”

“No, but we’re doing our damnedest to find them.”

During the next ten minutes I packed my briefcase and replaced the dirty clothes in my bag with clean ones. Took my .38 from
its lockbox in the linen closet and put it in my purse. Mick still hadn’t returned; his absence both annoyed me and made me
edgy. I went to the guest room and threw some things into a bag for him, too. Allie appeared, saw the bag, and slunk out to
her pet door. Both cats hated suitcases more than anything else, even the neighbors’ Rottweiler; the appearance of baggage
signaled lonely times ahead.

The phone rang, and this time it was Gage Renshaw. “If you’re looking for Ripinsky,” he said, “he’s back at the ranch.”

“I know. It’s you I want to talk with. I need a couple of favors.”

“I told you last spring that if you need anything, it’s yours. The offer stands. Will continue to stand.”

I pictured Renshaw pacing around wherever he was calling from: tall, thin body restless as usual; longish black hair disheveled,
its startling white forelock hanging in his eyes. He’d be wearing hopelessly rumpled clothing, and the glasses that perched
on his Abe Lincoln nose would more likely than not be repaired with tape or wire in at least two places. “Thanks, Gage,” I
said. “At one point either you or Dan mentioned that you’ve got a hospitality suite here in the city for clients with security
problems.”

“Right. Top floor of our building on Green Street.”

“Is it in use now?”

“I don’t know, but I can check. I take it you want to stash someone there?”

“I want to stash
me
.”

“Sharon, Sharon. What kind of scrape have you gotten yourself into now?” He sounded amused.

“Nothing very serious, but I need to keep a low profile for a few days.”

“Starting off your career as an independent operative with fireworks, are you?”

“Nothing too explosive.” I hope.

“Well, let me get back to you.”

“Thanks,” I said again, listening to a key turn in the front door lock. I replaced the receiver in its base unit as Mick came
down the hall. “Where have you been?” I demanded.

“Returning your rental car.”

I looked at my watch. “It took you five hours?”

“No, I was with a woman friend. I met somebody, okay?”

“Tonight?”

“Last month.”

“You never mentioned her.”

“You never asked. You’ve been kind of … preoccupied.”

Come to think of it, except when I was giving him orders or he was giving me computer lessons, I
had
been ignoring him. Now I was beginning to understand why he’d made a play for attention by following up on the Blessing lead.

I started to ask what the friend was like, but as Mick came closer I caught the scent of wine on his breath. “You’ve been
drinking.”

“A glass of wine with dinner; no more than I have at home. Maggie cooked me dinner at her condo.”

“Her condo? How old is Maggie, anyway?”

“Forty-five.”

“What?”

He smiled slyly. “Gotcha. She’s nineteen. And it’s actually her folks’ condo; they’ve retired to Palm Springs and are letting
her use it.” He hesitated, seemed to be gearing up for something. “Shar, I’m moving in with her as soon as her roommate can
find a new place.”

“You’re …?”

He nodded, serious again. “I know you don’t want me at the agency or in your life any more, but I’m not going home. Living
in a place where I’m generally considered a fuckup and where they’re watching me all the time to see what hideous thing I’ll
do next isn’t going to help me learn, as you put it, to exercise better judgment.”

“And you think living with a woman will?”

He smiled again. “You’re starting to sound like Grandma. I bet it was all you could do not to say ‘living in sin.’”

“But you’re only seventeen.”

“How old were you when you and the captain of the swim team—”

“Okay! You’ve made your point. How’d you know about that, anyway?”

“It’s kind of a family legend.”

“Oh, no! Still, Mick, are you prepared—”

“You don’t have to give me The Talk,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “I’ve been sexually active and prepared since I was fifteen.”

“Oh.”

“And to get back to your question—yes, living with someone I care about, getting a job and contributing my share, maybe going
to school part-time
will
help me learn to exercise better judgement, because it’ll help me get my life together.”

Suddenly I was so proud of him that I could have kissed him, but I didn’t because it would have embarrassed both of us. Instead
I said, “You’re starting to sound like a pretty mature seventeen. And you don’t have to get a job yet; for the moment, you
still have one with me.”

He blinked and looked down to cover his relief and pleasure. “Thanks, Shar.” Then he nudged my travel bag with his foot. “So
what’s happening?”

“Plenty, and I don’t have time to explain. We’re getting out of here tonight.”

“Why? To go where?”

“Somebody’s been … following me; I don’t think it’s safe for either of us to stay here. You’re going to All Souls. Camp out
in the office or sleep in Jack Stuart’s old room, if you like.”

“I can stay at Maggie’s—”

“Mick, in this business you don’t jeopardize people you care about. Ever. Remember that.”

He nodded—filing it away, I thought.

I went on, “I’m going to make it look as if I’m going out of town; you can come over here to feed the cats, bring in the mail,
check the answering machine, just the way Ted does when I’m really away.”

Mick’s face had grown concerned. He sat down on the couch. “Shar, did this person try to hurt you?”

I hesitated, then sat down too. He had a right to know. Briefly I explained what had happened in Woodside, concluding, “It’s
the same M.O. as in the Blessing murder—isolated place, run the victim down with a car. I doubt he’ll try that again, at least
not in a congested area, but you never know. Anyway, I don’t want to put you in danger, and I can’t operate with him watching
me.”