Part 10 (1/2)

The DA talked about an airtight case, but that was for the cameras. Karen never saw his face, and in the darkness, the excitement, she could not describe his clothes. It was a winter night, and cold: the ski mask easily explained. The beating muddled any references to scratches on his face. On top of everything, the pigs forgot to read him his Miranda rights.

Case closed, but not forgotten. Larry learned from his mistakes. Stay clear of parking lots. Immobilize the b.i.t.c.h, first thing. No witness means no case.

Sweet Karen is the one who got away . . . but not this time.

No f.u.c.king way.

She works on Wils.h.i.+re, at a travel agency, concocting getaways and dream vacations for a clientele that is predominantly forty-plus and upper middle cla.s.s. Nine-hour days, with lunch from noon to one o'clock. Two days a week, on average, Karen skips the meal to use her free time window-shopping, anywhere within a half-mile radius of work.

Today, a Friday afternoon, is one of those. He spots her coming out. The clinging slacks and frilly blouse are businesslike, yet somehow still provocative. The scary part, for Gaskins, comes when Karen looks straight at him, blue eyes burning into his from less than thirty feet away.

She made me, Jesus!

No. She breaks the contact, heading south, without a backward glance. It was a fluke. No recognition in her eyes ... or was there?

Larry gives her half a block before he falls in step behind her. Karen never seems to hit the same shop twice, and that suits Larry fine. He treats it as an education, concentrating on his quarry, working hard to shake the sense that she has spotted him.

The witchy shop is a surprise, no place that he has seen her go before. Two blocks off Wils.h.i.+re, tucked between a tattoo parlor and a p.a.w.nshop, with a.s.sorted books and jewelry in the window. Larry watches from across the street, as best he can, with sun glare on the window. Glimpses Karen talking to an aging hippie type behind the counter, plain-Jane in a tie-dyed peasant blouse. He can't hear what they're saying, natch, but Karen makes a purchase, giving up a few dead presidents. Receives some object in return and tucks it in her purse.

Emerging from the shop, she hesitates once more and turns to look across the chrome-bright traffic flow, direct at Larry. Blue eyes fixed upon him like the laser sighting mechanism of a h.e.l.lfire missile.

s.h.i.+t!

He turns away, the sudden panic burning in his chest like Texas chili with an extra shot of jalapeno. Twice, that is, in half an hour, and he has to watch his a.s.s from this point on. If Karen doesn't know he's d.o.g.g.i.ng her by now, a third time will erase all doubt.

Goldfinger speaks: ”We have a saying in Chicago, Mr. Bond. The first time is coincidence; the second time is happenstance; the third time, it's enemy action.”

f.u.c.king-A.

Cheeks flaming, Larry walks due east, away from Wils.h.i.+re and the travel agency. Too risky, trailing Karen back to work. She doesn't have a thing to tell the pigs, so far, but he cannot afford to have her on alert.

Surprise is half the battle. Half the fun.

Anxiety propels him toward his car, the long way round. Frustration broods beside him, in the shotgun seat.

No sweat.

He has the Little Lady waiting for him, back at home.

”You love it, don't you, b.i.t.c.h? I know you love it. Let me hear you say it. Say it!”

Pumping into Suzee's rubber r.e.c.t.u.m like some kind of robot, piston-powered. Feeling Karen. Listening to Karen cry for mercy. Shooting deep inside her, just because she begged him not to.

Later, he can always make her lick him clean.

The handcuffs are a new refinement, $16.95 at The Survival Store, on Sunset. They are loose on Suzee's wrists until he clamps them down, and cold against his belly as he reams her a.s.s. It adds a little something extra to the dress rehearsal, this time.

Better.

He can start to work on new positions, for the main event. With both hands free, all kinds of new refinements come to mind.

The very thought of Karen, helpless, stiffens Larry's c.o.c.k. Say no to this, you snotty c.u.n.t. Just try.

He rolls her over, stubby nipples pointed at the ceiling. Blue eyes staring up at him. A captive audience.

”You love it, don't you, b.i.t.c.h?” He smiles. ”Cat got your tongue? Okay. We got all night.”

The old apartment house stands one block south of Pico, st.u.r.dy willows ranked outside the six-foot wall of cinder blocks that rings the parking lot. A nod to privacy. No sweat for Larry, scrambling up the middle tree of five with leather gloves on, cheap binoculars around his neck. The now familiar perch is waiting for him, on a level with the second floor.

The drapes are open wide, as usual. No sign of Karen on the first sweep, but the lights are on, and Larry knows the b.i.t.c.h is home. He cannot see inside her bedroom, but the broad gla.s.s sliding doors provide a clear view of her living room and tiny kitchen. The binoculars put Larry right inside there, like a c.o.c.kroach on the wall. With any luck, he may catch Karen in her bra and panties, like the last time, wandering around the flat, oblivious to prying eyes.

A private show.

He spends a moment checking out the empty rooms and taking inventory. On his right, directly opposite the couch, a Sony Trinitron, the twenty-six-inch console model. Copper knickknacks hanging on the kitchen walls. Above the couch, a reproduction of a painting Larry knows he ought to recognize by name, but doesn't.

Something different, on the gla.s.s-topped coffee table, wrapped in plain brown paper, resting on a saucer flanked by stubby candles. Are they black or navy blue? No telling, from a distance, and he doesn't really give a s.h.i.+t. The knife seems out of place, though. Something from the kitchen, maybe, six or seven inches long.

He is considering the items, frowning to himself, when Karen makes her entrance from the hallway on his left. She wears a plain white terry robe, hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. Getting ready for the shower, maybe, since her hair is dry, feet bare of slippers.

Larry curses when she kills the kitchen light and blacks out the apartment. Wasted time and effort, if she turns in now, without a single glimpse of flesh.

But no.

He tracks her silhouette as Karen moves into the living room and kneels before the coffee table, with her back to the TV. The bright flare of a match as she leans forward, lights the candles. Soft light on her profile, like a trick shot from the movies.

Larry feels his Jockey shorts begin to shrink as Karen slips the robe off, dropping it behind her. Candlelight and shadow on her perfect body, b.r.e.a.s.t.s defying gravity, strong muscles rippling on her flank and thigh each time she moves.

He finds it difficult to focus on her hands as Karen reaches for the parcel on the coffee table, peels the wrapping back, distributing the contents. Nothing he can recognize, offhand: some kind of gnarly root thing; reddish powder in a tiny gla.s.sine envelope; a six-inch strip of something that resembles jerky. Karen sprinkles powder in the saucer, spreads it with her fingertips, then slices little flakes of root and jerky into it. The knife looks sharp.

She proves it with a move that startles Larry, opening her left palm with the blade. She splays her hand above the saucer, dribbling crimson. Stirs it with her index finger.

What the h.e.l.l?

Her lips are moving, Larry wis.h.i.+ng there were some way he could figure out what she is saying. Screw it. Focus on the t.i.ts and a.s.s, his b.o.n.e.r hot and cramped inside his jeans.

She makes it easy for him, standing up and turning you are, and I don't wanna know, okay? Just take the s.h.i.+t and go.”

A tapping on the nightstand makes him crack one eyelid, coming into focus on a wooden stick. Some kind of handle. Is it... ? Sure, the f.u.c.king toilet plunger from his bathroom. Fingers wrapped around it, near the suction cup.

The fingers look familiar.

Both eyes now. He tracks the wrist, arm, shoulder. Curve of naked breast and hip. Blond pubic hair. Smooth rubber thighs.

”What is this s.h.i.+t?”

It comes to Larry that the prowler is manipulating Suzee like a puppet, using her to taunt him. Crazy f.u.c.ker. When he cranks his head around, though, looking for the stranger's hands, he can't find any. Suzee standing on her own, for Christ's sake, no visible means of support.