The Final Kill Page 11

  “I’m curious,” Abby said. “How did you know I wasn’t Alicia?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were running. I think if you believed I was Alicia, you wouldn’t run from her.”

  “I…” Willow turned to the mirror and began to check her makeup. “I guess I didn’t think she’d come here.”

  “Then who did you think I was?”

  Willow turned to Abby. “Look, I believe you’re a friend of Alicia’s, because she’s mentioned you. But I’ve only got a few minutes. What do you want?”

  “I need to find Alicia, and I’m pretty sure you know where she is.”

  The woman didn’t answer.

  Abby looked around the room. “According to Allie, you’ve been here a long time.”

  “Ten years,” Willow said. “Ten very long years.”

  “Not as long as you and Allie have been friends, though.”

  Willow seemed to make a decision. Pulling out a straight, wooden chair, she said, “Here. We can talk while I finish getting ready.”

  Abby took a seat while Willow sat at her dressing table, touching up her makeup and hair.

  “I have to go on in about ten minutes,” Willow said, shooting a glance at Abby in the mirror, “so this will have to be quick. I don’t know what I can tell you, anyway. I haven’t seen Allie in ages.”

  “That’s too bad,” Abby said. “I was hoping to warn her.”

  “Warn her?” Willow said far too casually. She put her powder puff down, but not before Abby saw that her hand was shaking.

  “She’s in danger,” Abby said. “But if you don’t know where she is—” She stood.

  Willow turned sharply. “Wait. Danger?”

  “Of arrest,” Abby said. “The FBI is looking for her.”

  “I…I didn’t know. What did she do?”

  “They say she committed a murder in Carmel. They came to me looking for her last night, and you’re probably next.”

  Willow paled. “I don’t see why they’d want me.”

  “If they discover your connection to Allie, they’ll want to question you about her whereabouts. In case they manage to force it out of you, I was hoping I could get to her first.”

  “But if I don’t know anything…”

  “I have a feeling that won’t matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They could arrest you, try to make you talk.”

  “No way,” Willow said firmly. “They can’t just arrest people without some sort of evidence.”

  “The FBI,” Abby said, “can arrest anybody these days. They can say you’re involved in terrorist activities, for instance, and put you away without anyone even knowing. No lawyer, no bail, nothing.”

  “That’s crazy!” Willow muttered.

  “Tell it to the American Civil Liberties Union.”

  From Willow’s expression, that threat, at least, had gotten to her.

  “Look,” Abby said. “You obviously know where Alicia is, and if I can see that, I’m sure the FBI will be able to. Why don’t you just tell me, so I can get to her and warn her.”

  “But if we don’t tell what we know, won’t that make us accessories or something?”

  “Not if they never find out,” Abby said, shrugging.

  Willow’s mouth tightened. “I can’t go to jail, Abby. You just don’t know—”

  She stopped abruptly as someone knocked on the door. “Three minutes, Willow!”

  “I have to go,” she said, pushing her vanity chair back and standing.

  “Every minute counts, Willow. Tell me now, and when the FBI shows up, if you feel you need to tell them, fine. I’ll at least get a head start on them.”

  The knock on the door came again. “Willow!”

  She looked at Abby, then away, as if panicked and unsure. Finally she opened the middle drawer of her vanity and pulled a taped piece of paper off the bottom of the drawer.

  “Allie gave me this phone number a couple years ago, just in case anything happened to Jancy and no one knew how to reach her. I was never to give this number to anyone, just call it myself in an emergency. I don’t even know if it’s still good.”

  She closed her eyes as if sending up a prayer. “Here, take it. That way, at least, nobody can find it if they do come here.”

  She grabbed a boa and ran out, a blur of copper hair and gold stiletto heels clattering across the wooden floor. There was nothing much between the hair and heels but a wisp of gold satin and sequins, a matter that obviously pleased the crowd as she reached the stage. Bluesy music began to play, a bass thumped in the age-old stripper rhythm and the shouts heated up.

  Abby sat there a moment, staring at the piece of paper Willow had given her. Then she went to an old black pay phone in the hall and dialed “0” for an operator.

  “I have an area code here.” She read it aloud. “Can you tell me where it is?”

  “Six-oh-one? That’s Phoenix, Arizona,” the operator said.

  “Thank you.” Abby hung up and dialed 411 for information. They gave her the number of an all-night car rental office in Vegas. She called it and confirmed that a car was available. Then she did something she almost never did. From her purse, she removed one of three sets of identification she always had on hand at the Prayer House—a fake driver’s license and credit card, part of a stash she kept for women who were on the run. The money behind the credit cards came from a special fund she’d set up with her own money.

  At the car rental office, she introduced herself as Katherine Gavney, handing over the driver’s license and credit card in that name. Within minutes she had started on the drive south to Phoenix. Although Willow might be forced to tell the FBI that Alicia was in Phoenix, Abby had to try to get there first and make sure they never found her there.

  Her mind was so intent on finding Alicia, she saw it too late—the coyote that crossed a few feet ahead of her in the road, causing her to swerve quickly to the side. The car went into sand, and the tires spun.

  Oh, God, no. Not out here in the desert. Anything could happen to a woman here alone.

  She pressed the accelerator again. When it didn’t work, she stopped, knowing that if she did that much more, she’d just be digging a deeper hole.

  Was that what she was doing? Digging a hole for herself that she’d never get out of?

  Abby closed her eyes and breathed deeply until she was calm. I know what to do for this. I’ve seen it in movies, if nothing else. All I need is a couple of boards….

  She reached into the glove compartment for the flashlight she’d made sure was in there before leaving the rental office, but when she flicked it on, the light was weak. Damn. She turned it off to save the batteries and slid out of the car, looking around. The night air was cold, and the stars in a pitch-black sky looked so close, she imagined she could almost reach up and grab one.

  The reality, however, was that the only light down here was the narrow swath ahead of the car, where its headlights illuminated an empty expanse of sand. Everything else around her was black, and for a moment her head went all funny, the way it had on the hill in Carmel two years ago, where she’d almost died. Her bedroom in the Ocean Drive house slammed back into her mind, too—the body pounding into her, grinding, the naked hatred on the face above her, the terrible, terrible pain of the instrument that left her womb forever an empty void—

  She grabbed hold of the car to steady herself. A noise sounded nearby, a crackle as of feet on hard rock. Her heart rose in her throat. She swung around toward the back of the car.

  “Who’s there?”

  Nothing.

  “Who is it?” she whispered, her voice failing her.

  Something brushed across her feet, and she screamed. She spun around to the car door, ready to jump back in. Then, in the headlights, she saw the small desert animal skittering away.

  My God, she thought, shaking and sitting back down on the car seat. I’ve been living in the Prayer House too long. All this while I’ve be
en thinking of myself as a relatively brave person, able to take care of myself no matter what. But the truth is, I’ve become a ninny. I’ve been hiding away in the Prayer House, afraid to face the real world. It’s become my hide-away, my escape.

  Think, Abby. You’re in the middle of the desert and your car is stuck in the sand. Now, just what the hell are you going to do about that?

  She got out again and turned the flashlight on, looking at the front tires as best she could in the weak beam of light. They weren’t in too deep. And the tires were new, with good traction. There had to be something—

  That was it. The rental car was new, and the rugs on the floorboards must be new, as well. The rubber that lined them hadn’t been broken in yet, which would mean they were stiff.

  She turned the flashlight off and set it on the front seat. Grabbing up all four carpets, she placed each one in front of a wheel. Climbing back into the car, she turned it on and pressed the accelerator again, holding her breath. After a couple of false starts, the car went rolling back onto the road.

  Relief poured through her like a wave, leaving her limp now that the fear-induced adrenaline was gone. Abby whispered a prayer and thanked God, Goddess, her angels and even her old, abandoned saints for the news magazine show that had described the way auto carpets could be used for getting cars out of mud, ice and sand. Thank you for keeping me safe.

  But then she remembered something Davis, her Kenpo instructor, had told her ages ago: that coyotes are known as tricksters, that they can take on different shapes, and are known to cause much trouble.

  You need to be on constant guard, he had warned her, after a coyote crosses your path.

  12

  It was after nine o’clock and dark when Abby drove into Phoenix. She hadn’t eaten since that morning at the Prayer House, except for a small snack of apples and cheese she’d bought at a service station along the road. Stopping at a retro diner connected to a motel, she slid into a booth and ordered a cheese and tomato sandwich, grilled.

  “Anything to drink?” the waitress asked.

  “Just water. Is there a pay phone here?”

  “Down the other end by the restrooms,” the waitress answered, nodding her head in that direction.

  “Thanks.”

  While she waited for the food, Abby placed a call to Bobby.

  “I’m here,” she said. “Do you have an address for that phone number I called you about from Vegas?”

  “Piece of cake,” he said. “It’s 13259 El Caballo. It’s listed under a Eugene L. Davenport.”

  “Great. Thanks, Bobby. Call you later.”

  “Wait. You need anything else?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll be in touch.”

  When the sandwich came she wolfed it down, left enough money on the table for it and the tip and gestured to the busy waitress that it was there. The woman nodded and smiled.

  Back in her car, Abby stopped for gas again and bought a street map for Phoenix. Sitting behind the wheel with the map and overhead lights on, she didn’t see the man watching her from a black car two parking spots away.

  Less than a minute after she pulled out onto the highway, he was there behind her, leaving another car between them, sometimes two. When she turned onto El Caballo, he did, too, and parked even before she did—as if he already knew where she was going.

  On El Caballo, Abby strained to see numbers on the houses. Some were set too far back from the road, but then in the next block numbers had been painted in white on the curbs. As her headlights struck each one in turn she could see that the one on her right was 13247, the next 13249. At 13259 she pulled to the curb and cut her engine and lights. For a moment, she sat there, looking around.

  The property was entirely dark, but a pale reflection from a streetlight half a block down was enough to show her the outline of an older-style ranch home, with a swamp cooler on the roof. The other houses in the neighborhood looked new, and were all about a quarter acre apart. As Abby had passed them, she’d noted that most had cars in the drive and lights at the windows. This house was just the opposite. No sign of life at all.

  She stepped out of the car and shut the door quietly. The scent of rotting cacti hit her like a club, making her stomach turn. The short, rancid cacti dotted the gravel lawn like so many forgotten dead bodies on a battlefield. Abby stood on the sidewalk and shivered.

  She wondered if Bobby, who always got things right, had been given the wrong address. Or, more likely, Willow had deliberately given her the wrong phone number.

  But Willow had said that she wasn’t sure this number would still work. Had Alicia decided at some point not to trust Willow anymore? Had she changed the number, or moved and had this one disconnected?

  That was, assuming the phone number was for a place Alicia owned, and not that of someone she’d known years before and no longer had any contact with.

  Sighing, Abby walked up the concrete path to the front door. There was no porch, nothing but a concrete block for a step, and no doorbell. She knocked, and waited.

  There were sounds inside that could have been someone tiptoeing across a room. Or rats. Large, noisy rats. Were they running for cover—or charging the door?

  Oh, God, what am I doing here?

  Just as she was about to leave, a floodlight came on above the door. It lit up the entire front yard, all the way to Abby’s car.

  “Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked softly.

  “I…it’s Abby Northrup. I’m looking for a friend. Alicia? Is she here?”

  There was a pause, then the door opened. The woman standing before Abby was dressed in denim shorts and a sleeveless white T. She had short dark hair, and no smile.

  “What’s this about?” she said crisply. “I need to reach Alicia,” Abby said, deliberately leaving out Alicia’s last name again. No point, if this wasn’t even the right place. “Someone said she might be here.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name. Alice?”

  “Alicia,” Abby corrected.

  The woman shook her head. “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong house.”

  “Is this your phone number?” Abby asked, holding up the piece of paper Willow had given her.

  The woman squinted at it and frowned. “No, it’s not. Maybe it belonged to whoever lived here before.”

  The way she stood partially blocked Abby’s sight into the room behind her. All she could see was that the room was dark, except for a flickering light that probably came from a television. She was almost certain she’d heard someone stifle a cough, though.

  “Do you mind telling me how long you’ve been here?” Abby asked.

  The woman began to shut the door. “Seven, eight years,” she said. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

  “Just one more thing,” Abby said quickly. She longed to stick her foot in the door like an old-time vacuum cleaner salesman.

  “I’ve been traveling,” she said with a slightly embarrassed laugh. “And you know how bad some gas station restrooms are. Could I possibly use your bathroom? I know it’s an imposition, but—”

  The woman shook her head and closed the door farther. “I’m sorry, but when I’m here alone I never let anyone in that I don’t know.”

  “But—” Abby began.

  “Sorry,” the woman repeated. “There’s a nice gas station just a few blocks away if you turn right from here. I have to go now.”

  She closed the door firmly, and Abby heard a lock slip into place, then another. The floodlights stayed on while she got into the rental car and turned right along the road. When she was just out of sight of the house, she pulled over to the curb.

  There were no homes here, only palms that clattered and sighed in the dry breeze, and the ever-present cacti. When the glow from the floodlights at the house disappeared, Abby looked around quickly to make sure she was alone. No dogs, no people walking them….

  Reaching onto the passenger’s seat for the flashlight, she turned the switch on, but the batteries were now dead. She
left her purse and stepped out of the car, locking it and heading back toward the house on foot. When she reached the driveway, she followed it to the rear. There could be a motion light back there, she knew, but it was a chance she had to take. There was someone else in that house, and it could be Alicia.

  Or it could have been the woman’s husband, watching television half-naked.

  Abby’s chuckle was soft and self-derogatory. There were any number of reasons the woman wouldn’t want to let her in. Especially at this time of night. Still, Abby was certain she’d lied when she’d said she was alone.

  Halfway to the back of the house, she stepped off the paved driveway and into gravel. Almost immediately, she stumbled over something in the dark. It was hard, and large enough to land her on her hands and knees. Swearing to herself, she stayed like that for several seconds, letting her eyes adjust more to the night.

  Finally, she saw what she’d tripped over—a knee-high rock about three feet wide. The entire yard was strewn with rocks of all shapes and sizes, as if they’d been scooped off a mountain by a giant hand and thrown down here helter-skelter.

  Now that she could see where she was going, she picked her way carefully to a window halfway up the outside wall. It was too high to see through, but there was a dim light on inside. Abby went back to a rock about two feet high and carried it over to the window, her back straining and arms shaking from the weight of it. The worst part was setting it down carefully, without a thud.

  She had just stepped up onto the rock when the blow came. Her legs went weak and she sank to the ground. Something sticky covered her mouth and kept her from screaming. Then her head and face were covered with something rough that smelled like burlap. Her next thought was, I can’t see. I can’t see.

  “Damned fool,” she heard. “It’s about time you learned your lesson.”

  Hands snaked around her ankles, pulling her across the rough terrain. Her back screamed in silent, excruciating pain as rocks and stones pulled her shirt up and scraped over her flesh.