Michael Prescott - In Dark Places

"I don't think so. Nobody can connect me with you. I took all the necessary precautions. Never even told you my real name. No way I'm giving my name to a girl who could get me busted for statutory rape."

"I wouldn't have told anyone."

"I couldn't be sure of that, could I? You might blab to one of your pajama-party girlfriends. I couldn't risk it. Couldn't tell the truth about myself to some airhead cheerleader I was banging."

Airhead cheerleader . The words burned like acid. He chuckled as if he knew it.

"And here we are," he added.

They had arrived at a massive brick-and-stone building that seemed ancient, like some fortress from medieval times. It was vast, taking up most of a city block, its parking lot empty and forlorn. There was no sign over the entrance, and the few small windows had been boarded up. Another one of the ubiquitous security fences surrounded the building and its grounds.

"We can't get in there," Meg said. "It's closed off."

"O ye of little faith."

Gabeor whatever his real name wasguided the car around to an alley at the side of the building, where a rear gate was secured by a rusty padlock. Gabe pressed the nose of the car against the gate, pushing it inward, straining against the chain that held it closed, until finally the chain snapped and the gate swung wide.

"Crappy security they got here," he said with a laugh.

He drove through and parked by the building.

"I'm getting out now," Gabe said. "I'm taking the keys. You could try locking yourself in the car, but I'll just unlock the door, and then I'll be mad. You could also try screaming for help. Does this look like a neighborhood where screaming for help would prove effective?"

"No," she said.

"You're very observant."

He left the car, walked around to the passenger side, and hustled her out, the gun held loosely in his hand.

"Now what?" she asked.

"We go in. This way."

The gun pointed toward a door in the building's brick wall, a few yards away. She approached it, her shoes crunching on broken glass and dead leaves.

"It's open. Just push."

She did. The doora heavy door of solid metaleased open with a groan. Beyond the threshold, there was dim, wavering light and a smell of age and rot. She stood motionless, afraid to go farther.

"Inside."

Her face felt hot, her head all stuffy, as if she'd just come down with the flu. She wasn't sure she could force her legs to move. They felt stiff and numb.

"Go," he ordered, shoving her from behind.

She stepped forward, into air heavy with dust motes. She heard rustlings from distant corners.

A whimper escaped her, and Gabe laughed.

"You said you wanted excitement in your life," he said. "Looks like you got your wish."

Robin checked her wristwatch for the thirtieth time. "Meg should have called by now."

"Whose apartment did you send her to?" Wolper asked.

"Mrs. Grandy. A neighbor in the building. Retired schoolteacher. I see her around all the time, but I don't know her phone number and I couldn't find it in the book amp;"

"I'll get it for you."

"I told Meg that if Mrs. Grandy wasn't there, she should go to another neighbor, Mr. Haver. He works at home."

"I'll get that number, too."

Wolper took out his cell phone and made a call. While he was talking, Robin dared another look inside the waiting room. The deputy had been taken away, but the misshapen pool of blood remained, thick on the carpet. It troubled her that she could think of the man only as "the deputy." He had delivered Gray to her on many occasions, but she had never looked at his nameplate, never learned his name.

"Okay, Doctor." It was Wolper, handing her a sheet of paper with two phone numbers written on it. "Use my phone," he said. "We'll keep the office line clear for now."

She punched in the first number, praying to hear Meg's voice. But the person who answered was Mrs. Grandy. "No, dear," she said in response to Robin's question. "I haven't seen her."

"Were you out? Did you just get in?"

Mrs. Grandy chuckled. "You know me better than that. With my arthritis and my bad hip, how often do I go out? I've been here all day. Is anything the matter?"

"Everything's fine. Thank you." Her hand was shaking as she entered the second number. Wolper watched in concern.

"Mannie?" she said when Haver answered. "This is Robin." She cut short his reflexive attempt at small talk. "Is Meg there?" She was not. "You haven't seen her?" He had not. He offered to go to her apartment and ring the doorbell. Robin almost said yes, but she couldn't drag another person into this. "No, it's okay, Mannie. Thanks." She hung up and looked at Wolper. "Not there. She's not there."

"Calm down. Call your home phone. Maybe she hasn't even left yet. In the meantime I'll have West LA send a squad car."

She made the call while Wolper talked to a uniformed officer, who got on his radio. The phone in her condo rang four times before the answering machine clicked on. Meg had recorded the message: "Cameron residence. Mother-and-daughter psychiatric consulting services available at an exorbitant fee." Then a beep.

"Meg, if you're there, pick up. Meg? Meg, pick up, please."

No answer. Robin ended the call.

"Patrol unit's on the way," Wolper said. "They have permission to enter the premises?"

"Yes, of course."

"That's what I told them. How long ago did Gray leave?"

"Twenty-five, thirty minutes."

"I doubt that's enough time to get across town."

"It's a straight shot on the freeway."

"The freeway's always jammed at this hour."

"Almost always. Maybe today he got lucky."

"Even if he did, you told Meg to exit the apartment."

"What if she didn't listen?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

"She's always on my case about being overprotective. And I didn't have time to explain what was going on. She may have thought I was being hysterical."

"You don't strike me as the hysterical type."

"Tell that to my daughter. I probably am overprotective, honestly. She's always telling me not to worry so much. Maybe she decided to ignore my phone call."

"Do you think she would do that?"

"No. But amp; where is she?"

"He hasn't got your daughter, Robin."

She didn't answer. She rose from the couch and paced the office, flicking glances at her wristwatch.

"What's taking so long? Shouldn't they have called in by now?"

"There's about a ten-minute response time," Wolper said.

She went on pacing, her heart beating in counterpoint to the ragged rhythm of her steps.

Her head throbbed. She had told the paramedics she was fine. She had assured Wolper that she hadn't blacked out. She'd lied. She was not fine. She had been struck on the head and had lost consciousness for an indeterminate time period. She was suffering from a headache, intermittent blurred vision, and amnesiathe moments before her injury were a blank. All of these were symptoms of concussion. She could be bleeding intracranially. But she refused to submit to an exam, because an exam would lead to hospitalization, and she could not be hospitalized right now. She couldn't sit still for a CT scan. Not until she knew about Meg.

Her mind went back to the young buzz-cut officers watching her from behind shaded lenses, asking her if she believed that the gang members who attacked her deserved rehabilitation. She'd said everyone deserved a chance. But where to draw the line? She had wanted to help Gray, but maybe she had only helped him to get loose. And now maybe he had Meg.

She could handle anything that affected no one but her. But if Gray had Meg amp; if he killed her amp;

Gray had already murdered a deputy, and now he might be running through his old, familiar MOthe drive to the desert, the slow crawl of hours, then the bullet to the brain. He had done it five times before, and now he could be repeating the same stereotyped behavior pattern, replaying the well-worn tape.