J. JANCE - Hour of the Hunter

“Oh’o, ihab !” the medicine man commanded. “Bone, here!”

To Fat Crack’s astonishment, the dog obeyed at once, materializing out of the brush beside the road. He went directly to the old man, tail lowered and wagging tentatively.

Preoccupied with the dog, they failed to notice the other car again until it braked at the head of the drive. Too late Fat Crack tugged at Looks At Nothing’s arm, trying to pull him down the hill toward the meager cover of a mesquite tree.

All the way from TMC, Brandon had cursed himself for being in his mother’s car instead of the Galaxy, for being cut off from all communications. If only he had talked to Maddern again, they might have coordinated some kind of game plan. As it was, the only thing he’d thought to tell Hank was for him to call Diana and warn her.

He reached down and checked the.38 Smith amp; Wesson Special in his ankle holster. Police officers were required to be armed at all times. Ankle holsters were the only feasible choice when wearing ordinary clothing.

Brandon’s car sped over the top of the rise and roared down the long canyon road. Ahead and to the right, he could see lights glowing peacefully in the windows of Diana Ladd’s solitary house. Maybe he and Farrell were pushing panic buttons for no good reason.

Walker slowed and switched on his turn signal. As his tires dropped off the hard surface onto the dirt driveway, the headlights caught two shadowy figures dodging into the underbrush ahead of him. Walker felt a rush of adrenaline. He had surprised them, caught them in the act.

He jammed on the brakes, cutting the motor, turning off the lights. Expecting gunfire, he ducked down on the seat and drew his weapon. Heart pounding, he lay there waiting, with the desert night still and expectant around him.

Two of them, he thought. So who had that bastard Carlisle brought along with him? Whoever it was, Brandon thought, they’re going to get more than they bargained for. Not only was he here, Geet Farrell was on his way with plenty of reinforcements. In addition, there was that godawful dog. If those two jokers ran into Bone out there in the dark somewhere, they’d have yet another rude awakening.

Carlisle scrounged through the refrigerator and came away with a pound of bacon and half a dozen eggs, which he handed over to Diana. “Bacon, crisp. Eggs, over easy. Toast. Orange juice and coffee. Think you can handle that, honey? You know, if you’re a good-enough cook, maybe I’ll keep you around awhile. We’ll play house, just the two of us-cooking and fucking-and not necessarily in that order. What do you think of that?”

Diana said nothing. Carlisle, enamored with the sound of his own voice, didn’t notice. While he continued with his rambling monologue, Diana gathered what she needed for cooking-frying pan, salt and pepper shakers, the spatula. What would happen if she turned on the gas in the oven and didn’t light it? Would enough propane accumulate to cause an explosion, or would the oven just come on eventually when the gas seeped out far enough to reach the pilot lights on top of the stove? Anything was worth a try. Diana turned on the control.

She worked mechanically, trying not to think about Rita and Davy. That would divert her, take her mind away from the problem. She put a few pieces of bacon into the frying pan, started the fire under it, and loaded coffee and water into the percolator.

Still talking, Carlisle had meandered into a long self-pitying dissertation about prison life. “Do you know what they do to people like me in places like that?” he was saying. “Do you have any idea? Answer me when I speak to you.”

“No,” she said, “I have no idea.”

A spatter of hot fat leaped out of the frying pan as she turned the bacon, stinging Diana’s wrist. She jumped back, but the pain on her bare wrist gave her the beginning glimmer of an idea. Quickly, she dumped the rest of the pound of bacon into the frying pan and turned up the heat.

“How do you like your eggs?” she asked.

“I already told you. Over easy, same as I like my women. Get it?” He laughed. “Pay attention, girl. You pay attention to everything I say, and maybe I’ll let you hang around a little longer.”

She nodded, knowing it was a lie, and stirred the sizzling bacon, willing the fat to render out of it, welcoming the painful spatters that found their way to the bare skin of her arm and wrist.

“That was Gary’s problem, you know,” he continued offhandedly. “He didn’t pay attention. That’s why I had to get rid of him.”

Trying to shut him out, Diana almost missed Carlisle’s throw-away admission. Then, when she did understand, the what of it if not the how, she fought off the temptation to react. It was still too soon.

Ducking down on the seat to make himself less of a target, Brandon waited for the bark from Bone that would signal the dog’s attack or at least alert those in the house to their danger. The expected bark never came.

“Damn,” Walker muttered. The dog was probably inside the house, sleeping on the job. The detective lay there and tried to strategize. He had to assume that both his opponents were armed and dangerous. Two-to-one odds aren’t very good, especially for a cop dealing with crooks who may not care that much if they live or die.

He considered honking the horn to alert the people in the house of the impending danger, but that might do more harm than good. If Diana came outside to see what was going on, she might possibly fall into the wrong hands. What if the crooks took off with her before help arrived?

Finally, Walker hit on the only strategy that seemed feasible. He would attempt to make his way to the house undetected. Once inside, he and Diana could probably hold the bad guys off long enough for help to arrive and catch them in a cross fire. Once the decision was made, Walker moved to put it into action.

Closing his eyes so the overhead light wouldn’t rob him of night vision, he eased open the passenger door and quickly dropped to the ground. The door closed behind him with a dull thud, and he scuttled silently off into the desert, swinging wide and hoping to make it to the side of the house before Carlisle and his pal realized what he was up to.

The bacon turned to hard, brittle curls in the pan, but an oblivious Andrew Carlisle continued talking. “There are tools for rape, you see, things you wouldn’t normally think about, but in prison you have to use whatever’s handy. You’d be surprised what people get off on. This gun, for instance. What would you think if I crammed that all the way up inside you? Would it make you come? The metal gun sight might bother you a little, don’t you think?”

Diana’s stomach lurched with dread, and the hand holding the wooden spatula trembled uncontrollably.

His voice rose in pitch. “Look at me when I speak to you. I asked you a simple question. What would you think of it?”

She looked. He was grinning at her, holding the.45, fondling it, sensually stroking the long barrel with his fingertips. “I wouldn’t like it,” she said.

“Wouldn’t you?” he asked, eyeing her speculatively. “I think you would. Maybe after I eat, we could have a lesson. I’ll show you how it works right here on the kitchen table. Mr. Colt has a permanent hard-on for you. I think he’d enjoy it.”

He paused, as if waiting for Diana to comment. When she didn’t, he bent over and pulled something out of the top of his boot. She saw him out of the corner of her eye and trembled to think that he had retrieved his knife, which he would use on her as well, but when he straightened up, he wasn’t holding the knife at all. Between his fingers was a key-a familiar, old-fashioned skeleton key.

“Or maybe, little Mama,” he added with a malicious grin, “since you don’t think you’d like it, maybe I should bring that kid of yours out here and cram it down his throat or maybe up his ass a couple of inches. How much could he take? How much could you? What would you do then, Diana? Would you ask me to stop? Would you beg me to do it to you instead of him? Would you crawl on your hands and knees on the floor and kiss my feet and beg?”