Kate Wilhelm was the only person who’d been close enough to take them but she hadn’t done it alone. She had seduced him, gotten him separated from his keys, and someone else had taken them. While he had been with Kate in the bedroom someone had sneaked into the living room. That was where he’d left his overcoat, which had had both sets of keys as well as Jeremy’s wallet stuffed into its pockets. But only one set of keys was taken – Simon’s. And apparently the clothes he was wearing when he arrived in Pasadena this morning.
But what mattered was who was behind this. The man behind the curtain. The Great and Powerful Oz. Someone was organizing this; someone was trying to drive him mad. It had to be Zurasky. The doctor was the only connection between him and Jeremy, and whoever was doing this knew who he was. Robert still might be involved somehow, maybe simply as an informant, but Zurasky had to be organizing this. Simon didn’t know why or how, but it had to be him. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed there was no alternative. He had been manipulating Jeremy during their sessions, must have talked Jeremy into breaking into his apartment, into trying to kill him.
Simon couldn’t remember doing anything that deserved death, but he must have done something to warrant death in someone’s eyes: someone had tried to kill him.
Zurasky would be home in bed at this hour. His office would be empty. His records would be there unguarded. Perhaps there was something in Shackleford’s file that would prove useful, or maybe something in his own file.
He wanted sleep, but he thought he should take care of this first. If he didn’t do it tonight, it would have to wait another day, and by then – well, who knew what might have happened by then?
He had no vehicle here. He was a payroll accountant and knew nothing about hot-wiring cars, which meant his Volvo was useless to him. And Los Angeles’s train system didn’t go within two miles of Zurasky’s office. He had to take the train back to Pasadena to get the Saab, then drive that into North Hollywood. Then he would find a motel room and get the sleep he so desperately needed.
He just had to hope that the Cadillac that had been following him was no longer there. He didn’t want whoever was driving it to be a witness to tonight’s activities. For all Simon knew the guy worked for Zurasky. In fact, it seemed likely. Simon couldn’t think of anybody else who might want him followed.
If the Cadillac was there, Simon would have to ditch it before going to Zurasky’s office. He didn’t want to be followed, and he didn’t want to be stopped.
He stayed out of the light of the moon, sticking to shadows, as he walked through the night-quiet suburban neighborhood toward the Saab. As he slithered from shadow to shadow, he kept an eye on the street, looking for the Cadillac. He didn’t see it.
He reached the Saab, used Jeremy’s keys to unlock the door, and slid inside. It smelled of stale cigarettes and flop sweat.
Though he’d merely been walking, he was breathing hard. Only a little over two weeks ago he had been a man who worked eight hours and then drank himself to sleep; he’d been a man who talked to fewer than half a dozen people on any given day, and usually the same half dozen; a man whose days were so like one another that more than once he’d awakened on a Sunday – he worked Saturdays – and driven to the office only to find it closed. And been disappointed. How was he supposed to fill these hours? The days and weeks changed, but his routine did not.
And now look where he was.
He slid the key into the ignition and started the car.
The radio blared at him, screaming out loud rock music, and he quickly shut it off.
Had he left it on? No. He didn’t like rock music. He only listened to acoustic blues. But still, maybe he’d been listening to—
It didn’t matter. He didn’t think it did. But then how could he know what mattered and what didn’t any more?
Everything couldn’t be significant.
Maybe there were messages for him in the rock song that was—
He closed his eyes. He breathed in and he breathed out. He opened his eyes and put the car into gear and drove toward the corner.
He was turning left onto Colorado when he saw the headlights come to life in his rear-view mirror. It was dark out, and the headlights were half a block behind him, but he thought they might belong to the same Cadillac. It looked the same beneath the light of the moon. What light the thin sliver of the crescent moon refracted anyway.
After turning onto Colorado he watched his rear-view mirror to see what the other car did. It turned left a few seconds later, staying behind him.
He had to lose it before he started toward Zurasky’s place of business – if it was the car he thought it was.
A light in front of him turned red. He slowed the car to a stop at the intersection, found his cigarettes in his inside coat pocket, and lighted one.
The other car pulled up beside him on the right. It was definitely the same Cadillac.
Simon tried to get a look at the driver without being obvious. He stole several glances from the corner of his eye. He was a short man, his head a full six inches from the roof of the car. Simon figured that made him about five and a half feet tall, three inches shorter than Simon himself. He had the build of a jockey. Simon put him at eight stone – a hundred and twelve pounds. He was pale as a snake’s belly. He wore dark sunglasses despite the night. His greasy black hair hung down to his jaw, was cut straight there, and was tucked behind his ears. He looked straight ahead, not even a glance in Simon’s direction.
A car horn honked. The light was green.
Simon gassed it.
At the next block Simon cut right and swerved across two lanes. He heard the Cadillac screeching to a stop behind him. He cut right again and found himself on another empty street. He pulled to the curb and shut off his lights, letting the engine idle quietly while he sat in darkness, watching the street behind him in his side-view mirror.
The Cadillac drove by. The pale face of the driver hovered behind the side window, but the Cadillac simply went past.
After another moment of silence Simon made a u-turn and drove back out to the main street. Once he’d turned onto it, he flipped his headlights back on. All the way to the freeway he glanced around him, expecting to see the Cadillac, but it seemed that he’d successfully lost it.
The strip mall was dark and the parking lot empty. Doors were bolted. Alarms were set. Simon didn’t know if Zurasky’s office was wired with one. He had never looked for it and he had never seen one. Even if it was, he had thirty or forty minutes, unless a police cruiser happened to roll by or someone saw broken glass. Simon didn’t know how else he might get inside; he was no lock picker. Unless he could get in through a window in the—
He got out of the car and walked around to the back alley, where several dumpsters sat. If he could get in through the back, that would save him the worry of witnesses. It looked like Zurasky’s office window was half open. The question was whether he could get inside through it.
After a moment’s thought, he walked over to the dumpsters. It was tough work moving one of them, as the wheels didn’t roll very well and the thing was half-filled with garbage and heavy. It reeked and when he started pushing it he put his left hand into something slimy and rancid-smelling. He pulled his hand away and shook off what was either noodles or maggots – it was impossible to tell which – and then continued pushing. Once he had it against the wall beneath Zurasky’s open window, he climbed atop it. The plastic lids were slippery, and because the dumpster’s back was higher than the front, he felt like he would slip backwards and fall. He didn’t.
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