Джеймс Суэйн - The Man Who Cheated Death

“Think you can open it?” Wondero asked.

“We’ll see,” he said.

Hardare’s head was buzzing from the swill that 7-Eleven called coffee. He shut his eyes, and let his fingers go to work.

Houdini, whose techniques he considered nonpareil, had picked locks with a blank mind. With twenty years practice, Hardare had reached this level, and even gone one step further, able to dream of faraway locals and the pleasures such places afforded.

He was imagining the city of Stuttgart — the first proposed stop for The Hardare Circus — when the driver’s door clicked open. Standing, he brushed himself off.

“All yours,” he said.

“Nice work,” Wondero said.

The detective retrieved the wallet lying on the seat, flipped it open, and pulled out a California Driver’s License. It contained a photo of Osbourne wearing a wig and glasses. The name on the license was Gene Murray the address 4501 Rosewood.

“That’s walking distance from here,” Rittenbaugh said.

The shaky two-story at 4501 Rosewood reminded Wondero of so many houses featured on Hollywood celebrity tours: a non-descript place, with a sloping porch and old casement windows, the same kind of nothing house Cary Grant and Marilyn Monroe and Carole Lombard had lived in, until fame and fortune had called them to the hills.

Wondero waited for their back-ups to position themselves. Two policemen in the alley, four standing on the curb, a chopper circling overhead, testing its spotlight on rooftops. He rapped three times on the screened front door.

Rittenbaugh edged sideways across the porch, attempting to see inside. “I hear something.”

Wondero knocked again, harder.

The front porch light flickered on, the moths asleep within the glass casement coming to life. Wondero clutched his 12 gauge, double pump shotgun to his chest. He had discounted this exact scenario years ago, convinced Death would be caught by chance, or worse, never caught at all. For him to make the collar, it was enough to make him start going back to church.

“LAPD, open up.” He paused. “Okay, we’re going in.”

Wondero kicked the door three inches above the knob. The door went down, and he rushed inside. Sitting on a chair in the hall was a package of dynamite that was wired to the door. The light on the porch had been voice-activated. It was a trap.

“Get out — get out!”

Wondero and Rittenbaugh were on the lawn when the bomb went off, and the house became engulfed in bright orange flames.

Hardare was sitting in the detectives’ car across the street when the house caught fire. He jumped out, and met the detectives in the middle of the street. They were both white as ghosts.

“What happened?”

“Osbourne booby-trapped his own house,” Wondero said. “Son-of-a-bitch just destroyed all the evidence.”

The house continued to burn. Neighbors filled the sidewalks to watch. In the window of a house next door, Hardare saw a stocky, elderly woman with an ecru net in her hair, who appeared to be tied up with ropes.

“What’s with her?” he asked.

The detectives saw the tied-up woman as well.

“Let’s find out,” Wondero said.

The old woman next door did not answer her door, which was locked. Wondero took it down, and the three men rushed in and found themselves standing in someone’s living room.

“LAPD,” Wondero shouted.

The interior was musty and dark, the light from the TV outlining the ancient credenzas and wing-backed chairs. An orangery portrait of John F. Kennedy hung next to a portrait of Jesus. A woman bound in ropes with a gag in her mouth staggered in. It was the same woman they’d seen in the window. Wondero pulled the gag out of her mouth and stared to untie her.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name’s Myrtle Jones. I suppose you’re looking for Eugene. I wish I knew where he was, only I don’t.”

“Was Eugene holding you prisoner?” Wondero asked.

“Yes, since yesterday. I was inside his house, and saw his ghoulish collection. He’s the serial killer who’s been stalking Los Angeles, isn’t he.”

“Someone’s in the back of the house,” Rittenbaugh said.

The detectives drew their guns and hurried down a narrow hallway to the kitchen in the rear of the house. The shrunken remains of a man sat in a wheelchair. Prolonged sickness had eaten him away from within, his chest a sunken cavity.

“Mr. Kozlowski, we’ve been saved,” Myrtle Jones said, coming in behind them. “Mr. Kozlowski has a degenerative bone disease. When he was younger; he was a long distance runner, but those days are behind him. He’s been confined to a wheelchair for years.”

Wondero and Rittenbaugh gave Mr. Kozlowski a passing nod. They looked around the kitchen, found nothing, and headed back toward the front of the house.

Mr. Kozlowski acted annoyed, and bumped his wheelchair into the table.

“Is something wrong?” Hardare asked.

“He’s trying to say something,” Myrtle Jones explained.

A small computer was taped to the arm of his wheelchair. The infirmed man’s fingertips ran across the keyboard, and a message appeared on the screen.

HE’S HERE

“Who’s here, Mr. Kozlowski?”

EUGENE

“But he left. We both saw him.”

NO HE DIDN’T

“Well, I certainly saw him. He walked out the front door, and banged it shut.”

TRYING TO TRICK US

Kneeling, Hardare looked Mr. Kozlowski in the eye, and saw the sparkle of a mind that had refused to stop living long after his body had given up.

“Please tell me what you saw,” Hardare said.

EUGENE SNUCK AROUND THE HOUSE I HEARD HIM

“You’re saying he’s hiding behind the house?”

YES IN THE GARAGE

“Is there a car in there?”

VAN

“Does it run?”

LIKE A CHAMP

Everywhere Osbourne went, he’d used a stolen car, and it made sense that he might have another vehicle ready for his escape.

“Are you sure, Mr. Kozlowski?” Myrtle said, sounding doubtful.

HE TOOK THE KEYS

Hardare went to the back door and peered at the garage behind the house. The garage door was up, and inside the shadows he spied an old Volkwsagen bus.

“He wants to tell you something else,” Myrtle Jones said.

Hardare came back into the room.

TAKE MY GUN

“Where is it?” Hardare asked.

DRAWER BENEATH SINK

“Is it loaded?”

ALWAYS

Hardare opened the drawer under the sink and found a small caliber gun waiting for him. Grabbing it, he hurried outside.

Hardare came out the back door just as the VW’s headlights came on, followed by the sound of its engine turning over. The vehicle came screeching out of the garage and flew past him.

Hardare fired the gun into the vehicle’s side door. It raced past him and down the driveway to the street. A fire truck was parked in front of the burning house, the police helping the firemen deal with the blaze. The VW shot past them and sped away.

“Goddamnit — NO! ”

In a heartbeat Hardare found himself standing in the middle of the street. The VW was already two blocks away. Osbourne was going to escape unless he stopped him.

Jan had taken him to a firing range a few times, and he knew how to handle a gun. Going into a crouch, he shut one eye, aimed, and started pulling the trigger.

The gun barked five times in rapid succession. The VW swerved, and smashed into a car parked by the curb. He’d hit the tank, and gasoline poured onto the street.

Hardare felt the rage of all the women Osbourne had killed boil up within him. He gave a bloodcurdling yell that came out sounding like a primal scream.

Wondero joined him as he ran down the street.