The traffic light at the intersection with Ventura Boulevard was red when they reached it. Cindy leaned across the seat, kissed Dukane quickly on the mouth, and sprang from the car.

It took him three freeways and twenty minutes to reach the Lincoln exit in Santa Monica. The traffic on Lincoln was heavy. He finally reached Rose, turned right, and sped up the street for several blocks. He parked on Rose. He ran to the other side, then walked.

Approaching Dr. Miles's house, he saw that the gate of its low picket fence stood open. His stomach knotted.

Maybe the mailman had left the gate open.

Wishful thinking.

They got to Alice's parents, found out where she was being kept. No telepathy necessary. No magical powers. Just a check of their rec ords, a visit to the girl's home, an interrogation.

s.h.i.t! He'd known, d.a.m.n it, that something like this could happen. He should've insisted on staying. He'd let the lady talk him out of it, he'd gone against his better judgment, and...

The front door stood ajar. Grabbing his automatic, Dukane toed it open. The foyer, the hallway, were deserted. The house was silent.

With his elbow, he eased the door shut. He stepped forward, silent except for the groan of the hardwood floor. At the edge of the living room entry, he stopped. He listened, but heard nothing. Holding his breath, he peered around the corner.

The naked, headless body of a woman was sprawled on the floor, her flesh carved, a fire poker protruding from between her spread legs.

Alice smiled at him. "I knew you'd come," she said. She sat cross-legged near the body, her face and yellow sundress smeared with blood. The head of Teri Miles lay in her lap. She lifted it with both hands. The wire-rimmed gla.s.ses were in place, one lens webbed with cracks. The eyes were open, staring. Alice grinned.

From behind the couch and easy chair, three figures rose into view.

"These are my friends. I told you they'd find me."

"Drop your weapon," said the man behind the chair. He wore a three-piece suit and a confident smile. In his hand was an automatic, probably.25 caliber, small enough to be concealed easily in a pocket. Too small for much accuracy.

Neither of the others held a gun.

The one on the left, a fat bearded man dressed like a biker, climbed over the back of the couch. He stepped down, his belly swinging, and waved a b.l.o.o.d.y bowie knife in front of his smile.

The one on the right stepped around an end of the couch. He wore grease-stained coveralls. He held a pipe wrench.

Dukane took a step into the living room.

"I told you to..."

"You drop yours," he said, raising his.45. "Mine's bigger."

The man's eyes flicked to the side. Catching the movement, Dukane whirled around, flung up his left arm, and blocked the knife. The woman wielding it hissed and jerked the blade back, tearing open his forearm. Dukane swung his heavy Colt. It slammed across her cheek and she stumbled backward, grabbing her face.

Dukane started to turn. He heard a quick flat bam like a screen door slamming shut. The bullet punched through his jacket sleeve, but he felt no hit. The clean-cut man tried again as Dukane brought up his automatic and fired. The man's chin dissolved in a burst of red.

Even as the gun bucked, the biker chopped down with his knife. He missed Dukane's wrist, but the powerful blow against the barrel knocked his pistol free. Alice grabbed his ankles. He fell backward as the huge knife slashed at his belly. Hitting the floor, he jerked a foot free. Alice reached for it. His heel smashed her face aside.

He kicked out at the legs of the biker, but the bulky man lunged forward, kicking back, slashing at his shins.

The grease monkey, at the biker's side, hurled the wrench down at Dukane's head. It almost missed. It numbed his ear and brought tears to his eyes. Dukane grabbed the wrench. He sat up, swinging it to keep away the knife. It clanked against the blade. Before the knife could slash back, he leaned far forward and hammered the man's knee. With a cry of pain, the biker hobbled and fell.

The mechanic was bending down, reaching for Dukane's automatic. Dukane threw the wrench. It bounced off his shoulder, knocking him off balance. As he dropped to one knee, Dukane scrambled toward him. He saw the man pick up the gun, swing its barrel toward him. His fist cut upward. Hit the man's hand. The barrel jumped with the impact, tipped high and blasted a hole through the mechanic's upper teeth. The bullet exited the top of his head, splashing gore at the ceiling.

Dukane jerked the pistol from his dead fingers. He stood as the biker limped toward him, snarling, waving the knife like a pirate's cutla.s.s.

He shot the man in the chest.

The woman who'd caught Dukane's barrel with her cheek was on her hands and knees, spitting blood and bits of broken teeth. She was wearing a tennis dress. Across the seat of her pan ties was printed "DON'T POACH."

Alice lay on the floor, curled up, blood spilling out between the fingers holding her face.

Dukane went to her.

He snapped a handcuff around her left wrist and dragged her across the floor. He cuffed her to the tennis player.

Then he searched for a telephone and called the police.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Lacey was awakened by maids giggling and chattering in the hallway. They spoke Spanish, a language she had picked up as a child in Oasis. She grinned as she listened.

Two of the women had gone on a double-date to the drive-in, last night. Infuriated by their drunken boyfriends, they'd insisted on sitting together. The boyfriends climbed out of the car and went stumbling away, at which point the girls grandly drove off.

Lacey wondered who owned the car.

She flung the sheet aside, and groaned as she sat up. All over her body, her muscles ached with stiffness. She felt better than before, though. Waking up in the hotel room yesterday morning, she'd felt like the loser in a scrimmage with the Dallas Cowboys. Today, by comparison, was great.

Getting off the bed, she hobbled into the bathroom. She studied herself in the full-length mirror. Though her hair was a mess, her face had lost its haggard, haunted look. The bruises mottling her body had turned a sickly, greenish yellow. Hard ridges of scab had formed on her scratches.

"Won't be posing for a centerfold," she muttered. "But not bad."

She took a shower in the huge, gla.s.s-sided stall, then dried herself and got dressed in the same baggy clothes Alfred had bought on Thursday.

This was Sat.u.r.day.

Escape day. Thursday and Friday, she'd been afraid to leave her room. She'd sat around reading paperbacks from the hotel gift shop, watching television, smoking, indulging herself in incredibly expensive food and wine from room ser vice. After two days of it, she was ready to get out. More than ready.

She intended to buy several items, but the sun felt wonderful so she left her car in the hotel parking lot and walked. Three blocks away, in a sporting goods store just off Stone, she found most of what she wanted: a web belt to hold up her corduroys, a tank top and gym shorts, a one-piece bathing suit, suntan oil, a pocket knife, and a sheath knife with a sixinch blade. After purchasing the items, she shut herself into a dressing room and changed into the shorts and top.

She wandered the downtown area, enjoying the feel of the sun, pleased but slightly nervous with the stares of pa.s.sing men.

Near noon, she entered a hardware store. She bought a spray can of "aluminum"-colored paint. She ate lunch at a McDonald's, then returned to her hotel.

She put on the swimsuit. With its high neckline, it concealed the worst of her injuries. Scratches and bruises showed on her thighs, her shoulders, her arms. But that couldn't be helped. She was determined to use the pool, no matter how she looked. Turning, she studied her back. The suit left it bare almost to the rump. Her back, at least, looked reasonably unmarred.

She emptied her handbag on the bed, and filled it with what she needed: suntan oil, an Ed McBain paperback, the can of spray paint and her sheath knife. With a bath towel draping her shoulders, she left the room.

The pool, in the hotel's center courtyard, was nearly deserted: a young man was swimming lengths in a steady crawl; a deeply tanned woman lay facedown on a lounge with the top of her black bikini untied; and a middle-aged couple sat beneath an umbrella, sipping b.l.o.o.d.y Marys. Lacey spread her towel on a lounge far from the others, and sat down.

She slicked herself with coconut oil, breathing deeply of its aroma, a rich sweet fragrance that reminded her of other, better times.

Of Will Rogers State Park, near Pacific Palisades where she stayed with Tom and his family that week in spring, six years ago. Her se nior year at Stanford. They spent every day at the beach, swimming far out, body surfing, walking the sh.o.r.eline, or just stretching out on their towels. Tom would trickle coconut oil onto her back. His hands would glide over her, sometimes slipping down between her legs.

Brian used to do that, too, but she never loved Brian. Never loved anyone after Tom. But Brian came along at a time when she needed a man, and she'd never had such s.e.x; Brian cared about nothing else.

Lying back, Lacey sighed and remembered those times by his pool when she lay on her back with her eyes shut and the sun on her naked body-the sun, the oil, and Brian's sliding, searching hands.

Now, she wondered if she could ever allow another man to have her. She knew her desire was strong: it always had been. But could she let herself be touched without recoiling, entered without shuddering in revulsion?

Sprawled on the bathroom floor. The rug against her face. Fingers clamping her shoulders. Erection ramming her.

Hurt by the sudden shock of memory, she opened her eyes, groped inside her handbag, and took out the book. She struggled to read, but her mind soon strayed from the words. She saw herself tied to the bed and she heard the scratchy voice-"I oughta kill you"-and felt him jerk her legs apart, felt his mouth. She shut the book.

The pool was deserted. The man who'd been swimming lengths now lay on the concrete, dripping, hands folded under his head. Lacey took off her sungla.s.ses. She got up from the lounge and stepped to the pool's edge.

She dived in, jerking rigid at the cold blast of water, gliding through its silence and finally curving upward to the surface. She swam to the far end, turned, and swam back with all her might. Then she turned again and raced to the other end and back. She sidestroked two lengths, then breast-stroked two lengths, then climbed exhausted from the pool. She lowered the back of her lounge and flopped on it facedown, gasping.

She heard the slap of footsteps.

"You're quite a swimmer."

Raising her head, she looked up at the man-the one who'd been in the pool before her. "Thanks," she told him.

"I'm Scott."

"Hi."

He was slim and muscular and tanned. His tight bikini trunks covered little of him, and concealed less. He sat on the concrete beside Lacey, facing her. "Do you have a name?" he asked.

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Oooh. Touchy."

"Sorry. I'm just not in the mood for company."

"That's the time when you need company the most."

"Wrong." She lowered her head, and shut her eyes.

"Can't get rid of me that easily. Nothing I enjoy more than a challenge."

"Climb a mountain."

"Too rough. I prefer smoother terrain."

"Leave me alone, all right?"

"Your back will burn. Would you like me to apply a dab of oil?"

"I wouldn't. I'd like to be left alone. Why don't you go try someone else?"

"Because you're beautiful and lonely."

Lacey sighed. "I really don't need this. If you won't leave, I will."

"Ah, say no more. I can take a hint."

She opened one eye enough to see him stand. Scott smiled and waved as he backed away.

Resting her head on her crossed arms, Lacey tried to sleep. Her mind replayed the encounter. The guy had been arrogant and pushy. But, d.a.m.n it, she could've at least been polite. She'd acted like a b.i.t.c.h. She felt herself blushing at the memory.

Well, what's done is done.

She tried not to think about it.

She lay motionless, concentrating on the hot pressure of the sun.

"A libation for the lady."

Lifting her head, she saw Scott above her, a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary in each hand. "You don't give up, do you?"

"That's why I seldom fail."

Lacey turned over, stared at the grinning man, and finally sat up. "I'm Lacey," she said. "And I apologize for acting creepy."

"Creepy is a fair first-line of defense," he said, sitting down on the concrete. "Only fair, though. Total complacency works better. It reduces the woman's guilt factor. Much more difficult to penetrate."

"You've studied the subject."

"Women fascinate me." He took the dripping celery stalk from his drink and licked it.

Intentional symbolism? More than likely. Holding back a smile, Lacey removed her own stalk and tapped off its drops on the rim of her gla.s.s. She set it down beside her lounge. Scott placed his beside it.

" To our fortunate encounter," he said.

"Okay."

He clinked his gla.s.s against hers, and they both drank. Her b.l.o.o.d.y Mary was hot with Tabasco. It made her eyes water, her nose start to run. She sniffed.