The Fourth Motive (33 page)

When his eyes finally focused, he relaxed. Standing inside the doorway, silhouetted
by the moonlight, stood Paige. With the light behind her, her face was shadowed and
he couldn’t make out her expression. She was wearing a short robe and standing motionless.

“Paige,” he began. “What–”

“I thought about this morning,” she said, quieting him. Her voice was almost inaudible,
even in the hushed silence of the cottage. She approached the bed. Throwing back her
shoulders, she let the robe slip off. Beneath it she wore nothing.

Kearns blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. The moon’s illumination danced across
her features, lending Paige an almost otherworldly glow. Her hair was down and her
face, now visible, was calm.

Wordlessly, she peeled back the covers and climbed into bed. Kearns could feel the
heat emanating from her body. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he let her
push him back down. Paige leaned over him and pressed her lips against his.

Still in shock, it was several seconds before he responded. Paige’s body was hard
and hot, her lips and tongue a moist inferno. There was a barely subdued urgency in
her embrace. It was as if Paige had been suppressing an uncontrollable need and suddenly
unleashed it. Kearns put his hand on the small of her back, lifted, and turned his
body around hers, placing her underneath him. Their mouths melted further. She reacted
with fervor, arching her back, leaning into him.

Much later, when the wave subsided and both lay out of breath and entwined in each
other’s sweat-soaked limbs, she snuggled against him. A long time passed with nothing
spoken.

“You must think I’m crazy,” she finally said.

“Not at all. I think you’re enchanting.”

“Enchanting?” She propped herself on one elbow to face him. Her eyes were wide in
disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

He smiled. “I know it sounds corny–”

“I’ll say.”

“–but the term applies.”

Kearns thought she was going to argue with him, but instead, Paige resumed her snuggling
position. She ran her hand over the scars on his chest and abdomen.

“These are from the child killer Vernon Slocum, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“He almost killed you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you go after him? Why didn’t you let the police handle it?”

“It was mine to do.”

“What made it your responsibility?”

“These aren’t the only scars he left me,” Kearns said, touching her hand on his chest.

“I’m not sure why I came here,” she said, as if an explanation was necessary.

“Wasn’t that you wanted to enough?”

“It’s out of character for me.”

“Only because it’s been a long time since you let your guard down and relaxed. Is
that so terrible?”

Another long silence came on. Eventually, Paige broke it. “You took a big chance today,
kissing me,” she said into his neck.

“I couldn’t help myself; I like you.”

“I think I’m starting to like you too, Kevin.”

“Starting?” he mocked. “When will you know for sure?”

“Maybe tomorrow morning,” she said mischievously, climbing on top of him.

Afterward, she fell asleep in his arms. Not long after Paige succumbed to slumber,
Kearns drifted into sleep as well. He awoke to Paige’s cries and found her in the
throes of a nightmare. Her fists were clenched and her body drenched in cold sweat.

He held her tightly and swept the matted hair from her eyes. The nightmare abated.
She never woke up, and soon fell back into undisturbed sleep.

Kearns did not fall back asleep, electing to remain awake and stand vigil against
her nightmares.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 40

 

 

Ray Cowell was not a happy camper.

The last twenty-four hours had passed in agonizing slowness. His body hurt more and
his mood darkened with each passing minute. He craved a cigarette so badly, he physically
ached. The previous day was the longest stretch he’d gone without smoking since he’d
picked up the habit in his fifteenth year.

He’d almost allowed himself the pleasure of a cigarette once or twice, but each time
he did, the faint scent of chlorine from the pool below would waft by. Ray decided
not to risk the distinct smell of burning tobacco divulging his presence.

What Ray presumed would be a relaxing day of observation and preparation had instead
become a miserable period of almost unbearable torment. The sun had poured down on
him mercilessly all yesterday, baking his body, soaking him in sweat, and magnifying
his craving for a smoke exponentially. His makeshift campsite/observation post, composed
of a sleeping bag and camouflaged tarpaulin, had provided shade but no protection
from the blistering heat.

Ray emptied his only canteen by early afternoon and cursed himself for not bringing
more water. He presumed one canteen would be more than enough. He hadn’t anticipated
how thirsty he would become lying immobile in the heat of the Napa Valley. And the
salty snacks he’d brought along, crackers and beef jerky, which he gobbled incessantly
since he couldn’t smoke, heightened his thirst even more.

The fatigues he wore were hot and restrictive. When his overheating skin could bear
them no longer and he shed them, he found the fleas and mosquitoes more than willing
to feast on his exposed flesh. Even the fleeting pleasure of masturbation, which he
indulged in as he watched the slut frolic at the pool, was no consolation and left
his throat and mouth dryer than ever.

Ray had, during the eye-opening past twenty-four hours, become acutely aware of the
disparity between reading military texts and actually carrying out the maneuvers described
in them.

His generally poor physical condition didn’t make matters any easier. Ray’s thin body
was flaccid from his sedentary lifestyle and chronic lack of exercise, and his two-pack-a-day
cigarette habit augmented this weakness. The uphill hike through the woods from his
car to his vantage point over the Callen property the previous morning, under the
weight of his loaded duffel bag, left his legs trembling and his breath coming in
gasps.

The night, though somewhat cooler, had passed no more quickly. While he welcomed the
sun’s departure and the decline in temperature it brought, Ray did not receive the
increased insect activity with the same eagerness. He spent a fitful night slapping
at his face and neck and again cursing himself, this time for not having the foresight
to anticipate a need for mosquito netting.

By the time the sun began to crest the horizon, Ray was a mess. His muscles were stiff
and cramped from lying motionless for so long, his skin was a mass of insect bites
and stings, and his throat was as dry and scratchy as the weeds covering the dusty
hillside below him. And his lack of sleep for nearly thirty-six hours sparked a steadily
rising tide of fury along with his mounting exhaustion.

Ray squinted through his binoculars, his jaw clenching behind cracked lips. He grunted
in satisfaction as he watched the whore and her boyfriend jog away from the ranch,
taking the same route as yesterday. He was beginning to think they were never going
to leave.

He checked his watch. He’d timed their run the day before, which lasted just under
fifty-five minutes. He had plenty of time. He waited until they rounded the first
turn and were out of sight to make his move.

Ray got shakily to his feet, his muscles screaming in protest. He felt light-headed
and blinked several times to clear the cobwebs from his brain. He put on a pair of
gloves and picked up his carbine, which he stared at in disgust. Once again, he became
irritated at his lack of foresight and failure to give attention to detail its proper
place in his planning.

Ray had replaced the standard stock of the M1 some weeks before, modifying it with
a pistol grip and sling for concealment under his coat. At the time, he thought the
modification quite clever, ideal for an urban environment where carrying a rifle around
grabbed attention. But out here, in the country, he would much rather have had the
full-length stock in place where he could shoulder the weapon for an aimed shot if
needed. As it was, the carbine’s accuracy was greatly diminished by the fact that
it could now only be fired like a pistol.

He pulled back the bolt of the M1 carbine and let it ride forward to chamber the first
cartridge. It had a thirty-round magazine in place. He was also armed with his 9mm
Glock pistol in a holster at his waist and a hunting knife. Ray looked around at the
remainder of his gear scattered in the makeshift hide.

The original plan called for Ray to pack all his gear back into the duffel bag, shoulder
it, and take it with him down the hill. There, he could discard the bag before entering
the house. Once his mission was completed, he would take one of the cars, possibly
the new-looking Jeep the slut had arrived in, load his duffel bag into it, and drive
himself back to where he’d stashed his own car.

But as he stood up on shaky feet to ready himself for the final phase of his plan,
his body weak from lack of water and sleep, and the previous day’s torturous vigil,
he decided to amend his plan. Ray realized he didn’t have the strength to carry the
duffel down the hill and still maintain the necessary energy needed for what lay ahead.
He elected to leave his gear on the hilltop; he could always retrieve it later after
he’d eaten and drunk from the kitchen below. He put on his hat, crouched low, and
began to descend the slope toward the house.

His plan was quite simple. With the slut and her boyfriend gone, Ray would enter the
house and deal with the old woman quickly and quietly. Then he would wait in ambush
for the lovebirds to return and take them by surprise. That had been the original
plan; how things were supposed to have unfolded at the Judge’s house in Alameda. But
then the idiot in the Porsche had showed up and ruined everything. As a result of
that unforeseeable occurrence, Ray hadn’t been able to finish the Judge and was lucky
to make his escape. Sometimes, even the most careful plans could go awry, Ray had
discovered.

Nothing was going to go awry today, because Ray was taking no chances. He planned
to cut the boyfriend down first, using the carbine, since by then, noise would no
longer be a consideration. Then he would deal with the whore.

That would take a while.

Ray felt his groin tighten at the thought of being in the house alone with the slut,
with no one to intervene and all the time he wanted. Images of her begging helplessly
flooded over him, and he shuddered in anticipation of what was to come. She was going
to make up for yesterday.

For all his yesterdays.

Ray covered ground rapidly, getting a second wind. His anticipation triggered an adrenaline
jolt, and he found himself picking up his pace. Within minutes, he was at the edge
of the patio, and the cool blue water of the pool reminded him of his burning thirst.
He resisted the urge to stop and take a drink, as the open ground between the patio
and the back of the house was easily visible to anyone looking out through the rear
windows. He remembered the woman was an early riser and had breakfast ready when the
slut returned from her jog the morning before.

Ray tiptoed across the stone patio and put his back to the wall adjacent to the sliding-glass
rear door. The door was open. He could hear movement from inside as well as music.

He took a moment to glance at his watch. He’d used twelve minutes to descend the hill.
Ray was well within his preplanned time parameters for setting up in the house before
the slut and her boyfriend returned. He peered around the doorframe into the home’s
interior.

The kitchen came into view. He could see the woman’s back as she faced the stove.
She was wearing a long flowered robe and slippers, and her hair was down past her
shoulders. The smell of bacon cooking made Ray’s mouth water. The serene sounds of
classical music emanated from somewhere within.

Ray slung the carbine over his shoulder by its web sling and drew his knife. He held
it low, with the blade facing out, as illustrated in William E. Fairbairn’s Scientific
Self-Defence. The distance between him and the old woman was perhaps twenty feet.
He entered the kitchen as quietly as he could.

Ray moved deliberately, willing her not to turn around. His heart was racing, and
he was gripping the knife handle so tightly, his hand was cramping. He had only to
pass a series of waist-high cabinets and he would reach her. Three or four steps at
most, no more.

He was almost upon her when all hell broke loose.

The big yellow Labrador leaped at his midsection, a snarling juggernaut of animal
ferocity. Ray screamed and tried to back up, but the dog was already on him. He staggered
rearward as he felt canine teeth sink deep into his left thigh. The dog must have
been curled up on the other side of the cabinets, hidden from sight at the woman’s
feet.

The woman whirled on him. Ray was on one knee, slashing at the dog with his knife,
trying to fend off the furious attack with his other forearm. He could see his own
blood on his arm and leg. He felt the knife sink into the animal’s flesh, but the
dog gave no quarter. It continued to growl and chomp, the onslaught of its jaws savage
and relentless.

He released the knife and began fumbling for his pistol. The Labrador shook its head
back and forth with Ray’s forearm locked in its mouth, spraying droplets of blood
throughout the kitchen.