Michael Prescott - Stealing Faces

Blood sport. She tried to imagine what it would have been like. Cray had said he would give her a head start. She would have fled through the alkali flats, cutting her legs on cactus needles, stumbling, falling, rising. She would have fought against panic, but in the end panic would have overtaken her, and then she would have made some thoughtless mistake, and a bullet would have brought her down.

How long, from start to finish? An hour, maybe. Or less time even than that.

Elizabeth felt a shudder pass through her as it became real to her — the fate she would have suffered, and how narrow had been her escape.

And Cray would not give up. She was sure of that. He must have followed her. Perhaps he had reached the Lexus by now.

She had taken the ignition key, but he probably carried a spare. Even if he didn’t, he was smart enough to hot-wire the vehicle.

If she had been thinking more clearly, she would have let the air out of the other tires or stolen the distributor cap to disable the vehicle. As it was, he could change the tire and get away.

And then what? Would he prowl the city night after night in search of her car?

She knew he would.

Well, she could leave town, of course. Head to Texas, possibly. A new name, new life. She’d been Elizabeth Palmer for too long anyway. It was smart to change I.D.’s at least once every few years.

But Cray would go on killing. He might never be caught.

Call the police, then. Tip them off.

She doubted they would believe her. Sure, she could tell them what had happened, but it would be the claim of an anonymous caller. The damage to Cray’s Lexus might help substantiate her story, but she was fairly certain Cray would come up with an explanation.

She had his ignition key. She could mail it to the police. But what would it prove, except that she had stolen the key somehow?

In her mind she heard Cray smoothly answering every question. Why, yes, Officers, as a matter of fact, my sport-utility was stolen the other night. Someone must have found the spare key I keep in a magnetic case under the chassis….

I know, I know, it’s the first place a thief will look. I suppose I just never thought it would happen to me. In any event, the vehicle was taken for a short joy ride. I was lucky enough to find it a mile from here, on a dirt road. One of the tires had gone flat….

A report? There seemed to be no point in filing a report. My insurance deductible is quite high, so I’m paying out of pocket for the new tire and some other repairs….

He could persuade them. Unless…

She remembered the satchel in her lap.

Carefully she opened the satchel and took out her photo album and the manila envelope containing her I.D. documents. Then she probed deeper inside, using the flat of her hand to rummage through the items, touching nothing with her fingertips for fear of leaving prints.

It felt good to look. Cray had violated her privacy by examining her luggage. Now she would return the favor.

She saw a small pocket flashlight with a red filter. A jewel box with a transparent plastic lid, holding what looked like locksmith tools. An unlabeled vial of clear liquid, probably chloroform. A package of what must be smelling salts. Duct tape. A suction cup. A glass cutter.

The satchel was Cray’s tool kit.

And it would incriminate him.

Burglar’s tools for breaking and entering. Chloroform for carrying out a silent abduction. Duct tape to bind the victim.

She dug deeper and found a spare clip for that pistol of his, the Gock, Crock, whatever it was called.

Had he shot Sharon Andrews with the pistol? If so, the cartridges in this clip were probably of the same caliber and design as the two slugs found in her body.

There was one more item, at the very bottom of the sack. A leather sheath. And in it, a knife.

She cupped the sheath in the palm of her hand and lifted it. Spots of discoloration freckled the careworn leather, spots that were brown and black and rust-colored. Some were dirt, and some were blood.

Sharon Andrews’ blood? Almost surely.

Cray had used this knife to — well, she knew what he’d used it for.

Seaweed in the tide. Green and limp.

A woman’s face.

She almost dropped the knife in a spasm of repugnance.

“You okay?” Wallace Zepeda asked over the music.

“Fine. I’m fine.”

She was. Really.

Because she had Cray now. She had him.

All she needed to do was get the whole package to the police — Cray’s tools and, with them, his damn car key. The key would link the satchel to him almost as effectively as a fingerprint.

The cops must receive dozen of anonymous tips, but this was one tip they couldn’t ignore.

And let Cray tell any smooth lie he liked. It wouldn’t matter. He was finished, the murdering bastard.

Her hands were shaking as she knotted the satchel’s drawstring clasp.

When she looked up, she was surprised to see that the Rambler was heading west on Silverlake Road, and her motel was dead ahead.

“It’s there,” she said, pointing.

Zepeda pulled into the parking lot and turned off the cassette. He cast a sour gaze on the ramshackle building and the nearby freeway.

“Great place. You find out about it in the Triple-A guide?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Not exactly. Look, I really want to thank you—”

“Forget it. I don’t want your gratitude. I just want your attention for a moment.”

“I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“You’ve got time for some old Indian wisdom, don’t you?”

“Sure. I’m sorry. Of course I do.”

“Then here goes. You’re in some deep shit, lady. You can’t handle it alone. You need to get some help, or the next person who finds you in the desert will be looking at a corpse.”

She was shocked for a moment, and then she had to smile. “That’s old Indian wisdom?”

“It’s wise enough. And I am one old fucking Indian.”

“I’m going to get help, Mr. Zepeda.”

“You wouldn’t be selling me a string of beads, would you, Paula?”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Okay, then. Get some rest. And find yourself some damn shoes.”

He let her out and watched her as she hurried to her room and went quickly inside. He noticed that she hadn’t needed a key; the door had been left unlocked.

Unlocked — in this neighborhood.

It was just another thing Wallace Zepeda didn’t want to think about as he drove away, Creedence loud over the speakers, the sun a haze of glare in the red east.

Cray was heading south on Interstate 10, two miles past downtown Tucson, when his glance strayed to the floor of the passenger seat and he realized that it was empty.

Kaylie’s purse had been there. She had taken it, of course. That didn’t matter.

But the satchel did.

He had forgotten it entirely. Exhaustion and anger had fogged his mind.

She had carried off his little black bag, perhaps without even knowing what it was. But she would know before long. She would look inside, paw through the satchel’s contents. She would find the knife.

Cray had cleaned the knife after each kill, but he knew that microscopic traces of blood could still be found on it, perhaps in the narrow crevice where the blade met the hilt.

Sharon Andrews’ blood. And the blood of others.

The knife posed the worst threat to him, but the other items were incriminating as well. Once in the possession of the police, the bag’s contents would fairly scream his guilt.

“God damn her,” he said with sudden violence. “God damn that meddlesome girl to hell.”

He took the next exit and doubled back toward town, driving fast. There might not be much time.