"I will."

Rex Barrett drew a thumb along the handlebar moustache that he'd raised since becoming chief of the Oasis Police Department. To Lacey, it made the lean lawman look like a twin of Wyatt Earp. She often suspected that he'd grown it for that reason.

"You'll be writing this up for the Trib?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'd appreciate your not mentioning specifics about the way he did Elsie."

"Fine," she said, leaning back against the counter. There were other specifics she planned not to mention.

"Now, if I were you, I'd drag my doctor out of bed for a quick onceover. You took some good knocks to night and you just never know, with a head injury."

"I'll do that," she lied.

"I would, if I were you."

"Is it all right if...?" Two men wheeled a stretcher down the aisle. One hurried ahead to open the door. She looked at the body bag. The contours of the black plastic resembled a human. Had they pieced Elsie back together?

Shutting her eyes, she tried to think about something else. Her shoulder was touched. She flinched and snapped open her eyes.

"It's okay," Barrett said. He squeezed her shoulder.

"Sure."

"You go on, now. See your doctor. Get a good night's sleep."

"I will. Thanks."

Outside, she saw the stretcher being slid into the rear of the coroner's van. She hurried past Red's pickup, and opened her car door. The ceiling light came on. As she started to climb in, goose b.u.mps p.r.i.c.kled her skin.

She snapped her head sideways. n.o.body in the backseat.

But she couldn't see the rear floor.

Silly, she thought. Like a kid checking under the bed.

Silly or not, she had to make sure n.o.body was hunched out of sight behind the front seats. Planting a knee on the cushion, she grabbed the headrest and eased herself forward. Her breast hurt as it pushed against the vinyl upholstery. She peered over the top of the seat. n.o.body down there.

Of course not.

But she'd had to make sure.

She twisted around, sat down, and pulled her door shut. She locked it. With a glance to the right, she saw that the pa.s.senger door wasn't locked. Stretching across the seat, she jabbed the b.u.t.ton down with her forefinger. She checked the rear doors. Their lock b.u.t.tons looked low and snug.

She sighed. With a slick, sweaty hand, she rubbed the back of her neck. Then she pushed the key into the ignition, and started the car.

A cigarette. She wanted a cigarette. A little treat for herself, an indulgence, a comfort that didn't have to wait till she reached her home on the outskirts of town. The drink and the bath had to wait: not the cigarette.

She opened her handbag. With a glance around the parking lot to be sure no one would see, she pulled out her ruined bra and pan ties. She tossed them onto the pa.s.senger seat. Then she reached into the bag, looking down into its darkness, hoping to find her pack of Tareytons without touching the sodden wads of tissue. Her body jerked as she fingered a cool, slippery ball and gagged. The pack of cigarettes was beneath the mess. She pulled it out, gagging again as her hand came out wet and sticky. She rubbed her hand on her jeans.

"G.o.d," she muttered.

Her whole body ached, as if the pressure of the spasms had burst open all her injuries. She pressed her legs together, and held her b.r.e.a.s.t.s gently until the pain subsided.

Then she shook out a cigarette. She held it in her lips and lit it, staring at the glowing red coils of the car's lighter. The smoke was as soothing as she'd hoped. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned on the headlights and backed her car out of the parking s.p.a.ce.

The coroner's van was gone. Three police cars remained, as did Red's pickup. She supposed the pickup would be towed away before morning.

The road was deserted. She turned her radio on, and listened to a country station from Tucson. Ronnie Milsap was singing "What a Difference You Made in My Life." When his song ended, Anne Murray came on with "Can I Have This Dance?" Nice of them to play a couple of her favorites. The songs helped to soothe her shattered nerves.

As she reached her block, she took a final, deep drag on her cigarette. She held the smoke in, stubbed out her cigarette, and let the smoke ease out of her mouth.

From behind her came a m.u.f.fled cough.

Her eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. A slice of ceiling. The back window. The empty road.

Had it been the radio?

No, the cough had come from behind. She was sure. It sounded like someone in the backseat. Impossible. She'd looked so carefully.

The m.u.f.fler? A simple backfire? No.

Lacey swerved across the road, shot up her driveway, and hit the brakes. The car lurched to a stop. She shut it off. Grabbing her handbag, she threw open the door and leapt out. She slammed the door.

Fighting an urge to run, she stepped close to the rear window and peered inside. n.o.body there. Of course not.

Under the car? Could a man hang on, down there? It seemed impossible. But now that the idea had entered her mind, she had to check. She dropped to her knees, planted her hands on the cool concrete, and lowered herself until she could see under the carriage. She scanned the dark s.p.a.ce.

n.o.body.

The trunk? She stood up, brushing off her hands, and stared at the trunk's sloping hood.

How could anyone get in? Pick the lock? Child's play, probably, for someone who knew how. And if he could get in, he could get out just as easily.

What if it's not even latched?

Holding her breath, Lacey stepped softly toward the rear of the car. The edges of the trunk's hood were not perfectly flush with the bordering surfaces. Slightly higher. Less than a quarter of an inch, though. Maybe that was normal.

Maybe not.

Maybe the killer, the slug who raped her, was hunched inside the trunk, holding it shut.

She lunged at the trunk, slapped both hands on its top, shoved down and threw herself forward. The car rocked under her weight. But no clack of the trunk's lock. She lay there, thinking. No clack. The trunk had been locked, after all. Probably. But that didn't mean the killer wasn't inside, didn't mean he couldn't get out.

He can't get out if I stay like this, she thought. But she couldn't stay that way, sprawled on the trunk with her face pressing the back window, her legs hanging off. Her belly, on the trunk's rim, took most of her weight so she could hardly breathe. And the pain of lying on her injuries was almost unbearable.

She squirmed backward until her feet found the driveway, then pushed herself off and ran for her house. She leapt onto the stoop. Sliding her key into the lock, she glanced over her shoulder. Her blue Granada stood in the driveway, looking as it should, as if nothing were wrong. For an instant, Lacey questioned herself. Had she imagined the cough?

No.

He's in there. In the trunk.

She shoved open the front door, shut and bolted it behind her, and rushed across the living room. She dropped her handbag on the dining room table. Skirting the table, she entered her bedroom and flicked on a light. She rushed to her bed. Jerked open a nightstand drawer. Took out a Smith & Wesson.38-caliber revolver.

Then she ran from the house. She started to leave the front door open in case she needed a quick escape. But the man could've already left the trunk. Not likely-Lacey had been in the house no more than half a minute. That could be time enough, though. He might be out of the trunk, hiding nearby, ready to jump her or sneak inside the house. So she closed the front door and locked it.

She stood on the Welcome mat, holding the revolver close to her belly. Its weight felt good in her hand. She felt safer than before, as if she'd been joined by a powerful trusted friend-a brother who would nail the b.a.s.t.a.r.d for her.

Just point and fire.

The only real danger, now, lay in being caught from behind. Like before. That's how he got me before.

Not this time.

He might be in the geraniums.

He's probably still in the trunk.

Lacey sprang from the stoop, past the geranium bushes, and raced into the center of her lawn. She spun around, revolver ready. No one.

Okay.

Still in the trunk.

She ran to her car. Standing behind it, she studied the keys in her left hand. She found the trunk key. Revolver ready, she stabbed the key into the lock and twisted it. The latch clicked.

She jumped back, and aimed. The springs groaned as the trunk began to open. The lid inched upward. Lacey stared at the dark, widening gap. Her finger was tense on the trigger. The lid gathered speed, stopped abruptly at its apex, and quivered for a moment.

In the darkness of the trunk, nothing moved.

Lacey stepped closer. She saw her spare tire, a pack of road flares, and an old towel she sometimes used for wiping the car windows. There was certainly no man in the trunk.

She sighed. She felt weary, disappointed. She'd been sure she would find the killer there.

The rapist.

The man who tore her and bit her and pumped his foul seed into her.

He would be in the trunk and Lacey would pump him full of a different kind of seed-the kind that grows death-the lead kind. He would never hurt anyone again.

"d.a.m.n," she muttered.

Reaching up with her left hand, she slammed the trunk shut. The car rocked slightly with its impact.

She remembered her torn undergarments on the front seat. Better pick them up.

Stepping around the end of the car, she saw that the rear door jutted out an inch. Its lock b.u.t.ton stood high.

"My G.o.d," Lacey said. She covered her mouth, and staggered backward.

CHAPTER FIVE.

She refused to run. Back in the market, she had run and he'd taken her down from behind. It was a mistake she would not repeat.

Cautiously, turning to check every side, she made her way to the front door. She stood against its cool wood, the handle near her hip, and reached behind her with the key. It clicked and skidded against the lock-face. Finally, it slid in. She turned it. The lock tongue snapped back.

Through the bushes to her left, she saw a quick pale movement. She jerked her revolver toward it. The shape rushed clear of the bushes and appeared in the open ahead of her, just across the lawn.

A man. Cliff Woodman. Out for a run.

He glanced toward Lacey, waved, and suddenly stopped.

"That you, Lacey?"

"It's me."

"Is that a gun?"

"Yeah."

"Trouble?"

"I don't know."

Lacey stepped away from the door and lowered her revolver as Cliff jogged toward her. She immediately felt better. Cliff, a gym teacher at the high school, was forty years old and an ex-marine. To night, in his running shoes, shorts, and a bandanna knotted around his head as a sweatband, he looked almost savage.

"What's the problem?" he asked.

"I think I've got a prowler."

"Where?" He squinted at the bushes in front of the house.