“Of course not.”
“Good. I’d hate to be aiding and abetting. Mind if I turn on the music?”
“Music would be fine.”
“Better than talking, huh?”
That smile again.
She didn’t answer.
There was an audio cassette half-inserted in the Rambler’s tape deck. Zepeda pushed it in and thumbed the on-off knob, and Creedence Clearwater Revival pumped through the cheap speakers at moderate volume.
The song was “Who’ll Stop the Rain.”
Elizabeth thought it was a good question.
She looked at the desert. Cray was out there. Cray, who hunted women in the wilderness the way other men hunted mule deer and javelinas. Cray, with his erudite, impeccably pedigreed opinions on the nature of the human mind.
No ghost in the machine, he had said. No spirit, no soul, only chemicals.
And if that was so, then what was murder except a rearrangement of those chemicals into a new form? And where was the crime in that? There was no right or wrong, no good, no evil. There was only better living through chemistry. There was death as sport.
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.