Spellbinder (30 page)

“There it is—” He was whispering as he pointed toward the light. “That’s the cabin. She’s there.” As he said it, he was aware of a sudden, trembling mix of emotion: an unsteady rush of joy, and gratitude, and wild, wanton hope.

And, yes, love.

From the back seat, he heard Mitchell’s voice: “Someone’s there.”

Triggering, instantly, another rush of emotion: a cold, frozen fear. What had been given, could so easily be taken away. Hope was a sucker’s game. He’d always known it. Even though he constantly fell for the bait, he’d always known that the celestial odds-makers played on the down side.

Yes, someone was there. It could be Denise—or someone else.

Straining to see through the trees, he felt a hand on his shoulder: a big, heavy hand. Mitchell’s.

“Should we go on?” Mitchell asked. “Or should we stop. Can we be seen?”

“I—” He was forced to break off, clear his throat. “I don’t think we can be seen. It’s about a hundred yards, from the cabin. Through trees.” And then, hearing the uncertainty in his voice, he said, “But maybe we should stop, anyhow. Just to make sure.”

At a single word from Mitchell, Calloway braked to a stop, killing the engine. With the engine off, a moment of complete silence followed, broken only by the sound of breathing, and the rustle of clothing as each of them shifted in his seat, straining for a view through the windows.

“Let’s get out,” Mitchell said quietly. “Three of us. You, Mr. Giannini, and Calloway and me. We want to see about a car—whether there’s one car, or two.”

As he reached for the door handle, he heard Mitchell say, “Quietly, remember. Very quietly.” He swung the door open, stepped out onto the graveled shoulder of the road, eased the door closed until the latch clicked. On the opposite side of the car, Mitchell and Calloway were standing together, whispering. Now Mitchell bent down, said something to Flournoy, then straightened. Raising his hand, he gestured for Peter to come to the front of the car,

“Is that your gate?” Mitchell asked, pointing.

“Yes. But it squeaks. Here—this way.” Moving through the waist-high underbrush, he forced his way to the barbed-wire fence. “Climb over here. Hold on to the post.” He put a foot on the lowest wire, swung a leg over and dropped to the ground on the other side. To the right, a rushing sound came from the brush; they’d startled a deer. Behind him, Calloway was groping his way awkwardly over the fence.

“Just a minute,” Mitchell whispered. In the dim light from a half moon, he saw Mitchell move around to the rear of the car, out of sight. The trunk lid came up, then gently down. Reappearing, Mitchell held something long and narrow in his hands—a rifle, or a shotgun. “Here—” Across the fence, Mitchell handed the gun to Calloway. It was a shotgun, single-barreled, slide action—the kind the police carried in their squad cars.

Quickly, with surprising agility, Mitchell climbed over the fence, then extended his hand for the shotgun. Calloway handed over the weapon, then reached inside his jacket, withdrawing a pistol.

“Listen—” Peter gestured to the weapons. “Take it easy with those.”

“If he’s in there,” Mitchell said, “then he’s probably armed.” The big man gestured toward the cabin, with its two lighted living-room windows facing the road. “Let’s go. You lead. Let’s look for her car.”

“All right. But I’m telling you—no shooting. Not with Denise inside.”

Instead of replying, Mitchell simply gestured impassively toward the cabin. He held the shotgun across his chest. It was a military posture, evoking a verity as old as the race: that, yes, might made right. Mitchell personified the warrior—the centurion—the enforcer.

“I mean it, goddammit. No shooting.”

In response, Mitchell suddenly slid the shotgun’s walnut forestock backward and forward, jacking a shell into the chamber. Then, carefully, he used his right thumb to lower the hammer. As—still—he simply stared, impassively waiting for him to lead the way.

Wordlessly, Peter turned away and began picking his way through the brambles and saplings, angling toward the cabin. Behind him, he heard one of the two men trip and fall, heard a voice muttering angrily. Now the tress were thinning. He stopped, turned back, whispered: “The driveway’s just ahead. We can see her car from there. But we can be seen from the cabin, too.”

“You go ahead,” Mitchell answered. “We’ll stay back.”

“All right.”

Holding his breath, he stepped out into the narrow driveway.

Parked close beside the house, he saw two cars—Denise’s Toyota and another car: a small, domestic two-door sedan. A Chevrolet, or perhaps an Oldsmobile. A General Motors car.

An intruder’s car.

As he stood motionless, he saw a figure move between the lamplight and the right front window, throwing a shadow across the curtains. The shadow was indistinct, indecipherable.

Yet, almost certainly, the shadow wasn’t Denise’s. He would know it, if the shadow were hers. He would sense it—
feel
it.

Involuntarily, he’d stepped back into the shelter of the trees that lined the driveway, out of sight.

“Someone’s in there,” he said. “Someone besides her—besides Denise.”

“Are you sure?” Mitchell asked. “Absolutely sure?”

“There’re two cars—hers, and another one that doesn’t belong to either of our neighbors. And, just now, I saw a shadow in the window. It wasn’t hers. I’m almost sure.”

Mitchell nodded, a slow, grave inclination of his head, saying softly: “The next thing we’ve got to do is make absolutely sure it’s him.” His voice was steady, his manner firm and measured. “Is there any way I can see inside, without being seen?”

“Not unless there’s a gap in the front-room curtains—or unless he goes into the kitchen. There’s no curtain in the kitchen. It’s in the rear.”

“Here—” Mitchell handed him the shotgun, then drew a pistol from a shoulder holster. “Take this. Wait here.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I’m going to take a look.”

“No. I—I want to do it. You stay here—the two of you. I know the ground. You don’t. You might make noise.”

“No. I don’t want you to—”

“
Yes
, goddammit.” He thrust the shotgun against the other man’s chest, hard. Hissing: “If you screw up, it’s Denise’s neck. I won’t risk it.”

“Mr. Giannini—we already told you, in your apartment, that Mr. Holloway doesn’t want—”

“Screw Holloway. He doesn’t care anything about Denise. And neither do you—either one of you. You’re just—just hired thugs. And I’m tired of taking orders from you.” He pointed down at the ground. “This is my property we’re on. And that—” He pointed to the cabin. “That’s my lady, in there. You understand?”

Taking the shotgun with his right hand, Mitchell hesitated, then returned the pistol to its shoulder holster. For a long moment they stood silently, toe to toe. Finally—reluctantly—the other man nodded.

“All right, Mr. Giannini. Maybe you’re right. But don’t come back until you’ve seen him, and can describe him to me. I want to know his age, and’ his height, and his weight, and the color of his hair and eyes. I don’t care whether it takes an hour. I don’t care whether it takes all night. But I want to know who’s in there—whether it’s Carson. Do you understand?”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“All right. Good.” A short, appraising pause followed. Then Mitchell asked quietly, “Are you scared?”

“Scared?” He realized that, unaccountably, he was smiling at the big man. “Not now, I’m not. That’ll come later.”

If he mounted the steps to the porch, the ancient floorboards would creak. But unless he were on the porch, he couldn’t hope to see inside, or hear voices from inside. Crouching low beneath the level of the porch, he circled to his right, where the porch railing was attached to the cabin. He gripped the chest-high railing, testing it. The railing was solid. He looked back down the driveway, to the place where he knew that Mitchell and Calloway waited. The darkness revealed nothing: no movement, no gleam of moonlight on metal. He took a deep breath. With one foot on the porch, he gripped the railing and heaved. He was standing erect, both feet placed precariously on the few inches of porch that bordered the spokes of the railing. Nothing had creaked, or groaned, or shifted. Slowly, he raised one leg over the railing, then the other leg. He was standing on the porch, his back pressed to the cabin’s wall.

He realized that his breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. He was hyperventilating. Because he was frightened. If Carson was inside, and was armed, the intruder could open the front door and find him defenseless, unable to do anything but try to vault the railing and escape into the trees.

It would be better—safer—to return to Mitchell, and demand that they go to Mendocino, and call the sheriff, and ask for help. As a property owner, he could do it.

But not without Mitchell’s help—not without the car. He was nothing more than Mitchell’s tool, his toady. Because Mitchell had the weapons. And Mitchell had the remorseless, implacable will. Mitchell was an irresistible force, the elemental man.

The window was an arm’s length away. One cautious, soundless step—and another—and another. Close beside the window now, he inched his head around the frame—

—and could see nothing but the curtain, thick, brown burlap, impenetrable.

But, from inside, he heard the faint sound of voices. If he pressed his ear to the glass, risking discovery, he might be able to hear more clearly—might be able to learn what he must know. It was either that, or a walk across the porch to the other window, hoping for a look inside—and risking discovery with-each step, because of the porch’s rickety floorboards.

Taking one final step, he pressed his ear to the glass. With startling clarity, he could suddenly hear Denise’s voice—and then a man’s voice. The actual words were still inaudible, but their sense was unmistakable. Speaking in a low, venomous voice, the intruder was taunting her—threatening her—abusing her. Denise’s responses were short and faltering, stifled by uncertainty and fear.

It was enough; he’d learned enough. Whoever was inside, whether Carson or someone else, he was an enemy.

He was moving back along the shingled side of the cabin, toward the railing. He would get back to Mitchell. He would—

Beneath his foot, he felt a floorboard give under his weight. The sound of a creak followed, as loud as a shriek in the silence.

From inside the cabin, he heard a sharp, startled exclamation.

“T
HIS IS A NEW GAME,
Denise.” As he said it, he moved his legs until both thighs pressed close against her shoulders. “Do you know how it goes? It’s called ‘head.’ Have you ever heard of it?”

She knelt with her eyes fixed on his waist, at the belt buckle. How long had she been kneeling before him, watching him fondle himself, listening to his obscene ramblings? She didn’t know, was helpless to decide. Time had become truncated by terror. Terror, and the bulge of his genitals—and the knife, still stuck in the split table top, within easy reach.

“Before we start playing, though,” he said, “I have to make sure you know the rules.” He spoke in a slow, sensuously mocking voice. His eyes were half closed; his head lay back against the chair. “Did they teach you the rules in college, Denise? Or in Beverly Hills? Did you ever go out in the bushes behind your father’s mansion? Or maybe Peter taught you.” As he said it he nodded, satisfied with the last possibility. “Yeah, maybe Peter taught you. But, see, this is more than just a game of head. This is a game of chicken, too. Do you know how to play chicken?”

With her eyes fixed on the knife, she didn’t answer. When he began unbuckling his belt, she would have her chance. She could—

“
Do
you?” he hissed, his voice suddenly venomous. “Answer me, when I talk to you.”

“I—no, I don’t.”

“That’s better.” He nodded, pleased that she’d spoken so obsequiously. “You can’t very well play, if you don’t know the rules. Can you?”

“I—no, I can’t.”

“The way the game goes,” he said, “is that you have a choice. You can either play head, or you can play chicken. And the way you play chicken, you have to take a chance on the knife. You have to make a grab for the knife: But if you miss, then you have to pay a penalty. You have to—”

From outside she heard the sound of a floorboard creaking. It was the front porch. Someone was on the front porch.

“What’s that?” He pushed her aside, got quickly to his feet, turned toward the front door.

Also on her feet, pretending surprise, she said, “What?” Then, to cover the sound of more movement, she said, “What’re you talking about?”

But, instantly, he’d whirled toward his rifle, snatched it from the corner. Crouched over the rifle, he faced the two front windows, listening intently.

“I don’t think—”

“
Shut up
,” he hissed, turning the rifle on her. “Shut up.” The rifle’s muzzle, a dark, terrible, circular void, was aimed directly at her chest: instant death, a glimpse of eternity. Involuntarily she raised a hand against the rifle—against death.

Now, as stealthy and deadly as a jungle predator, he was moving toward the door, his whole body coiled tight. Just short of the door, he stopped, standing motionless, listening. Holding the rifle with his right hand, he slowly reached out with his left hand for the knob. But, inches short of the knob, the hand drew back. He looked over his shoulder—first at her, then at the two kerosene lamps on either end of the redwood mantel.

“Blow them out,” he whispered. “Blow out the lamps.
Now
.”

On her feet, she felt herself sag as her legs momentarily failed her. Recovering, she moved to the first lamp, reaching for the small knob that lowered the wick. As she turned the knob, she looked up at the half loft that extended above the far end of the living room. A ladder was fixed to the wall, offering access to the loft through a square cut in the loft floor. The shotgun was up there, concealed behind the loose board. In the darkness, she could—

“
Hurry.
”

A final twist of the knob, and the flame inside the lamp’s glass chimney guttered and died. She moved down the mantel, toward the other lamp.