did not respond. She had gotten the gun after leaving Eric. A woman alone ought to have a gun . . . especially after walking out on a man like him. As the doors rolled open, she tried to remember what her pistol instructor had said: Don’t jerk the trigger; squeeze it slowly, or you’ll pull the muzzle off target and miss.
But no one was waiting for them, at least not in front of the elevator. The gray concrete floor, walls, pillars, and ceiling looked like those in the basement from which they’d begun their ascent. The silence was the same, too: sepulchral and somehow threatening. The air was less dank and far warmer than it had been three levels below, though it was every bit as still. A few of the ceiling lights were burned out or broken, so a greater number of shadows populated the huge room than had darkened the basement, and they seemed deeper as well, better suited for the complete concealment of an attacker, though perhaps her imagination painted them blacker than they really were.
Following her out of the elevator, Benny said, “Rachael, who are you afraid of?”
“Later. Right now let’s just get the hell out of here.”
“But—”
“Later.”
Their footsteps echoed and reechoed hollowly off the concrete, and she felt as if they were walking not through an ordinary parking garage in Santa Ana but through the chambers of an alien temple, under the eye of an unimaginably strange deity.
At that late hour, her red 560 SL was one of only three cars parked on the entire floor. It stood alone, gleaming, a hundred feet from the elevator. She walked directly toward it, circled it warily. No one crouched on the far side. Through the windows, she could see that no one was inside, either. She opened the door, got in quickly. As soon as Benny climbed in and closed his door, she hit the master lock switch, started the engine, threw the car in gear, popped the emergency brake, and drove too fast toward the exit ramp.
As she drove, she engaged the safeties on her pistol and, with one hand, returned it to her purse.
When they reached the street, Benny said, “Okay, now tell me what this cloak-and-dagger stuff is all about.”
She hesitated, wishing she had not brought him this far into it. She should have come to the morgue alone. She’d been weak, needed to lean on him, but now if she didn’t break her dependency on him, if she drew him further into it, she would without doubt be putting his life in jeopardy. She had no right to endanger him.
“Rachael?”
She stopped at a red traffic light at the intersection of Main Street and Fourth, where a hot summer wind blew a few scraps of litter into the center of the crossroads and spun them around for a moment before sweeping them away.
“Rachael?” Benny persisted.
A shabbily dressed derelict stood at the corner, only a few feet away. He was filthy, unshaven, and drunk. His nose was gnarled and hideous, half eaten away by melanoma. In his left hand he held a wine bottle imperfectly concealed in a paper bag. In his grubby right paw he gripped a broken alarm clock—no glass covering the face of it, the minute hand missing—as if he thought he possessed a great treasure. He stooped down, peered in at her. His eyes were fevered, blasted.
Ignoring the derelict, Benny said, “Don’t withdraw from me, Rachael. What’s wrong? Tell me. I can help.”
“I don’t want to get you involved,” she said.
“I’m already involved.”
“No. Right now you don’t know anything. And I really think that’s best.”
“You promised—”
The traffic light changed, and she tramped the accelerator so suddenly that Benny was thrown against his seat belt and cut off in midsentence.
Behind them, the drunk with the clock shouted: “I’m Father Time! ”
Rachael said, “Listen, Benny, I’ll take you back to my place so you can get your car.”
“Like hell.”
“Please let me handle this myself.”
“Handle what ? What’s going on?”
“Benny, don’t
But no one was waiting for them, at least not in front of the elevator. The gray concrete floor, walls, pillars, and ceiling looked like those in the basement from which they’d begun their ascent. The silence was the same, too: sepulchral and somehow threatening. The air was less dank and far warmer than it had been three levels below, though it was every bit as still. A few of the ceiling lights were burned out or broken, so a greater number of shadows populated the huge room than had darkened the basement, and they seemed deeper as well, better suited for the complete concealment of an attacker, though perhaps her imagination painted them blacker than they really were.
Following her out of the elevator, Benny said, “Rachael, who are you afraid of?”
“Later. Right now let’s just get the hell out of here.”
“But—”
“Later.”
Their footsteps echoed and reechoed hollowly off the concrete, and she felt as if they were walking not through an ordinary parking garage in Santa Ana but through the chambers of an alien temple, under the eye of an unimaginably strange deity.
At that late hour, her red 560 SL was one of only three cars parked on the entire floor. It stood alone, gleaming, a hundred feet from the elevator. She walked directly toward it, circled it warily. No one crouched on the far side. Through the windows, she could see that no one was inside, either. She opened the door, got in quickly. As soon as Benny climbed in and closed his door, she hit the master lock switch, started the engine, threw the car in gear, popped the emergency brake, and drove too fast toward the exit ramp.
As she drove, she engaged the safeties on her pistol and, with one hand, returned it to her purse.
When they reached the street, Benny said, “Okay, now tell me what this cloak-and-dagger stuff is all about.”
She hesitated, wishing she had not brought him this far into it. She should have come to the morgue alone. She’d been weak, needed to lean on him, but now if she didn’t break her dependency on him, if she drew him further into it, she would without doubt be putting his life in jeopardy. She had no right to endanger him.
“Rachael?”
She stopped at a red traffic light at the intersection of Main Street and Fourth, where a hot summer wind blew a few scraps of litter into the center of the crossroads and spun them around for a moment before sweeping them away.
“Rachael?” Benny persisted.
A shabbily dressed derelict stood at the corner, only a few feet away. He was filthy, unshaven, and drunk. His nose was gnarled and hideous, half eaten away by melanoma. In his left hand he held a wine bottle imperfectly concealed in a paper bag. In his grubby right paw he gripped a broken alarm clock—no glass covering the face of it, the minute hand missing—as if he thought he possessed a great treasure. He stooped down, peered in at her. His eyes were fevered, blasted.
Ignoring the derelict, Benny said, “Don’t withdraw from me, Rachael. What’s wrong? Tell me. I can help.”
“I don’t want to get you involved,” she said.
“I’m already involved.”
“No. Right now you don’t know anything. And I really think that’s best.”
“You promised—”
The traffic light changed, and she tramped the accelerator so suddenly that Benny was thrown against his seat belt and cut off in midsentence.
Behind them, the drunk with the clock shouted: “I’m Father Time! ”
Rachael said, “Listen, Benny, I’ll take you back to my place so you can get your car.”
“Like hell.”
“Please let me handle this myself.”
“Handle what ? What’s going on?”
“Benny, don’t
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