Michael Prescott - Shiver

He waited while the attendant studied the glossy. “Yeah,” the young man said finally. “That’s her.”

“You’re certain?”

“Sure am.”

Delgado took back the photo. “Did you see which way the car went when it left the station?”

“I might have, but I can’t remember now.”

“But you think you did see it leave?”

“Yeah, but like I said, I don’t remember for sure.” A note of testiness crept into his voice. “We get a lot of business in here, man. Cars going in and out all day.”

“All right.” Delgado was not quite ready to drop that subject, but he decided to approach it from another angle. “What time did you service the car?”

“It was maybe nine-thirty. Little before, little after.”

“Did you check the oil? The tires?”

“They didn’t want me to. The lady just asked for a full tank. That’s all.”

“The bill was paid in cash. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“And while you were making change, you talked briefly about the car, what year it had come out, what sort of condition it was in?”

“Uh-huh. I like old cars. They’ve got, you know, character.”

“How would you describe the vehicle’s condition?”

“Good. Real good, considering the model year.”

“Anything wrong with it?”

“Some of the chrome had fallen off.”

“Where?”

“On the sides.”

“Rust? Dents?”

“No rust I could see. No dents either.”

“Did you notice if the headlights or taillights worked?”

“He didn’t have the headlights on. It was broad daylight. Taillights… um, yeah. I saw the brake lights flash when they pulled out.”

Delgado was careful to show no reaction. “How about the turn signals? Did they work?”

“The right-hand one did. It was blinking.”

“Where were you when you saw the turn signal?”

“Still at the pump.”

“And the car was where? At that exit?” He pointed.

“No, the other one.”

“So if the car used that exit and the right-hand signal flashed,” Delgado said slowly, “then it must have turned north onto Sepulveda.”

The attendant blinked. “Hey, I guess so. Jeez. I didn’t even know I knew that.”

“Well”-Delgado allowed himself a smile-“we both know it now.”

He asked a few more questions but obtained no further information. After thanking the attendant, he returned to his car and radioed an update to Dispatch, informing them that Rood’s vehicle, when last seen, was heading north on Sepulveda near Magnolia Boulevard.

Then he left the service station, taking the same exit the Falcon used, heading in the same direction.

As he drove, he scanned the wide thoroughfare. He knew there was no realistic possibility that he would see the Falcon parked at the curb or nosing into traffic from an intersecting street. He watched anyway, alert for any flash of chrome; and as he did, he pondered the destination Franklin Rood might have had in mind.

He hadn’t taken Wendy to his apartment. Why not? Presumably because the apartment offered too little privacy. Someone in the neighborhood might hear a woman’s cries. He must have wanted to find a remote, secluded area, where he could do whatever he wished to his captive, with no chance of being seen or heard.

But then why had he gone to the San Fernando Valley, which was nearly as crowded as West L.A.? True, there were pocket parks scattered throughout the Valley, but on a sunny day they would be brightened with scampering children and their watchful parents. The Sepulveda Dam Recreation Area was large enough to provide places of concealment, but Rood had been within a few blocks of that park when he’d made Wendy pull into the service station. There was no reason to stop for gas, let alone to fill the tank, if he had only a short distance left to travel.

No, he must have had miles yet to cover. Miles of shapeless, urban sprawl-a grid of streets lined with shops, restaurants, office buildings, apartment complexes, and rows of stucco bungalows. Few isolated locations there.

But perhaps he had gone still farther north. Out of the Valley… and into the desert.

Delgado remembered the sandstone paperweight in Rood’s apartment. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Rood must have picked up that rock in the Mojave.

Did he spend a lot of time out there? Was that where he kept his trophies?

He imagined the attraction a man like Rood would feel for the desert-vast stretches of emptiness, of desolation and dust-no strangers’ eyes watching him, no police cars patrolling the streets. A lonely place where he would be free to be himself.

It seemed right. Felt right.

The high Mojave was too big to survey by car. Fifty patrol units would not do the job fast enough. But an aerial surveillance was a different matter.

As he hooked left on Sherman Way and raced toward Van Nuys Airport, Delgado was already speaking into the microphone in his hand, requesting a helicopter.

Michael Prescott

Shiver

Wendy lay on the futon for what seemed like many minutes while the Gryphon paced the trailer, talking to himself in a muttering undertone. She had no idea what he was saying and no desire to find out. She still struggled to free her hands, but the tape binding her wrists was thick and strong, and she couldn’t work it loose.

Finally he approached her. She waited for him to begin whatever torture he had planned. But he merely stooped and picked up the statuette that had fallen from her pocket.

“The poor thing is chipped,” he said sadly. “Broke one of its wings. That’s a shame, isn’t it, Wendy? A shame that such a beautiful thing could be damaged.”

She watched as he carried the figurine to the card table and set it down gently. It lay there, recumbent, a tiny sphinx.

“Still,” Rood whispered, “it’s lost only a wing. Could be worse. Suppose its head had come off.” His lips parted in a chilly, feral smile. “Wouldn’t that have been a tragedy?”

He clapped his hands once.

“Get up.”

She didn’t move.

“You heard me,” he said quietly.

“I’m not going to help you kill me.”

“Sure you are. You’re going to do exactly as I say.” He tapped the butt of the holstered automatic. “Because if you don’t, I’ll shoot off your kneecaps. Bang. Bang. Then I’ll still be free to do whatever I wish with you. So what will you have gained, besides unnecessary pain?”

“All right,” she mumbled, defeated. With difficulty she climbed off the futon.

“Now come here.”

She walked to the card table. Her unbuttoned blouse hung open, exposing her red raw breasts to his eyes.

The Gryphon turned one of the folding chairs sideways to face the shrouded cabinet. “Sit.”

She obeyed.

“Very good. I’ve been considering how to do this, Wendy, and I’ve decided to put on a show for you. A very special show, one that means a great deal to me. I hope you enjoy it. It’s the last entertainment you’re ever going to have.”

He tore a strip of cloth from his shirttail, then blindfolded her. She drew a sharp breath when the room disappeared from her view.

“Is that necessary?” she whispered.

“Humor me. I have a flair for the dramatic.”

She heard him move away from the chair. Some stretch of time passed, filled with faint rustling sounds and circling footsteps and his low breathing. After that, silence. Silence and darkness.

Then from somewhere before her, a woman’s voice, faint and whispery, rising in a trembling monotone like a furtive, frightened prayer.

“Please don’t kill me. I don’t… want to die. I’ll do whatever you say…”

A second woman began to plead, joining the first.