Rage Factor (35 page)

Reaching the landing, she turned her key in the lock—

Someone stepped from the shadows.

Regan gasped, dropping her keys. “Oh! Jeez, I thought you were the cops.”

“Why would you expect the police?” Her visitor picked up Regan’s keys, inserted one deftly into the lock, then pushed the door wide so Regan could enter. “Was it you who called them?”

“I just—I didn’t want that man to
die!”

“It was God’s will for Gary Ingles to die. And for Sid Carlson to spend a long, painful time reflecting on his sins. Why can’t you see the divine symmetry of what occurred last night?” She closed the door behind her and loosened her coat buttons.

Regan took off her fake fur jacket and tossed it on the sofa. She didn’t want to think about Gary Ingles or God’s Fist right now. She wanted to pack. She didn’t want to be in Houston anymore, even if Joanna Francis wasn’t—

No, she wouldn’t jinx her good luck.

“Why didn’t the paramedics save him?” she asked earnestly. “You told me—”

“I
told you
, the Lord works miracles according to His own agenda.” Her gloved fingers tightened around the silk encircling her neck.

“I didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him. I
didn’t.
I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Nobody’s going to jail, Regan. Unless you told the police something you shouldn’t, there’s really nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about? We
killed
a man. That’s not going to go away.” Regan gnawed at the lipstick on her bottom lip.

“You can’t honestly believe the police are going to waste their time worrying about Ingles’ death.” The woman crossed the cluttered living room to the kitchen, took two of Regan’s teacups off their hooks, and began filling them with water.

Well, she could have tea if she wanted, but Regan wasn’t wasting any more time. She went into the bedroom, just an alcove, really, the whole apartment being one big space, and pulled her suitcases out of the closet.

“You didn’t mention going on a trip.”

“Just … for a while.” Regan was afraid if she said her new dream out loud it might go
poof!
Like a big pink bubble bursting. “It makes me crazy waiting around, expecting the cops to knock on my door.”

“There’ll be no cops knocking on your door. You’re worrying about nothing.”

“Nothing?
You keep saying that, but we
killed
a man. That’s not
nothing.
We should have stopped after Lawrence.”

“Weren’t you furious about Carrera and her son?”

“Of course I was. We all were.”

“Little Paulie is safe now. We accomplished what the court failed to do.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that we killed a man.” Regan felt another flood of tears pressing behind her eyes. She didn’t want to cry and ruin her makeup, but … jeez! “It … it
was
an accident. We didn’t plan for that man to die. That should count for something.”

“God’s will is done. If He intended Gary Ingles to live, the man would have lived.”

Regan watched her set the cups in the microwave and remove two tea bags from a canister.

“I hate it when you talk like that.” Opening her dainties drawer, Regan began scooping up handfuls, throwing them into the suitcase. “What makes you think God has any
interest in what happens to us? Where the hell was God when Lawrence hurt me? Or Beverly? Where was God when Patricia Carrera hurt her son? Where—”

The woman—suddenly right in Regan’s face—slapped her.

Regan cringed. “Ow!”

“This will all quiet down before you know it. Ingles’ death will land in the unsolved pile. There’s nothing to lead the police to us.” She glanced at the open suitcases. “That is, unless one of us does something crazy, like running away.”

“Crazy? You think I’m crazy for wanting to get out? You’re the one who’s crazy, talking about being God’s Fist, part of some divine scheme to punish the unholy. Thinking you’re God’s avenger.”

“I told you, this is not about vengeance. It’s about stamping out cruelty and waking people up to the weakness of man’s law. Now, calm down, and nothing will happen to any of us. God watches over His chosen.”

Outside, a siren whooped. Regan pushed past and flung an armful of sweaters into the suitcase.

“You
can wait around, expecting God to take care of you, but I’m leaving.” Regan jerked open the closet door and grabbed a handful of hangers—

“What—?” Something was around her neck! “Stop!”

Dropping the clothing, she clawed at the scarf squeezing off her breath. She tried to scream, but only a dry wheezing sound came from her mouth.

Arching backward, Regan struggled to shake the woman off—

She felt herself pushed, through the clothes, to the back of the closet. Her face slammed into the wall. The silk twisted tighter around her throat, yanked her back—

Slammed her into the wall again.

The pulse of blood roared inside Regan’s brain. Brilliant pinpoints of light darted like fireflies … in the deepening fog.

Memorial Hospital Southwest advertised as a “not-for-profit health care system.” Dixie wasn’t sure what that meant, but she could see the hospital planners had gone to some trouble creating an atmosphere of wellness rather than illness. Nevertheless, the overwhelming sensation she felt within the long-term care unit was of walking through the twilight of death.

Beverly Foxworth lay motionless and alone, waxy skin as white as the sheets. A single window, thin drapes drawn wide, let in a stream of cool winter sunlight that fell precisely across Beverly’s still hand lying atop a pale blue blanket. The comatose woman looked far younger than her twenty-five years.

A yellow rose in a slender green vase adorned the bedside table. A copy of
Pride and Prejudice
lay beside the vase, a silver clip holding the reader’s place. Did Grace Foxworth read aloud to her daughter, Dixie wondered, and where had Grace gotten off to? She “lived at the hospital,” according to
her husband. When she wasn’t at church. Dixie glanced at her watch. Dinnertime.

Sarina’s new hairstyle fell in a sleek cap around her face, threads of red-gold glistening among the straw-blond strands. A concerned frown creased the teenager’s brow as she repositioned the only guest chair, drawing it close to the bed. She watched Beverly’s face as if expecting her to awaken.

“How long has she been like this?” Sarina whispered.

“A few months.”

“Are you trying to find the man who did this? Is that what’s with all the questions to Mr. Foxworth and the hairdresser?”

“Not exactly.” How did she explain the sardonic whims of justice? “The man was already tried and found not guilty.”

Sarina’s young face turned to meet Dixie’s, frown lines deepening in perplexed intensity.

“Then who did it?”

Dixie sighed inwardly. “That’s where it gets complicated. The man acquitted was the only suspect, and Beverly was comatose when she was found. She never described her attacker.”

“So he’s free—to do this again?” Sarina looked horrified.

“I’m afraid so.” Actually, Coombs had never been tried for assaulting Beverly Foxworth. If the young woman ever regained consciousness, the DA would have another crack at him—providing they thought the case against Coombs was stronger than their last one.

Sarina’s young features hardened. She turned back to Beverly, picked up one fragile hand, and held it in her own. A nurse came by, checked the monitors, jotted a note on Beverly’s chart, and moved on.

When Dixie’s pager shuddered against her waist, she reached to turn it off and knocked it out of its clip. Picking it up, she recognized the number as Parker’s. She stepped to a telephone on the nightstand to return his call, stretching the cord to its full length to have some privacy. A photograph of the Foxworths sat near the phone, a gold cross and chain, like the one Beverly wore in the photograph, draped over it.

“Everything’s set for tonight,” Parker told her.

The boat ride. Dixie’s innards went all soft. “What does a woman wear on a moonlight sail?”

“Warm, comfortable clothes. The weather is supposed to be fair, but you’ll need a heavy coat. Gets nippy on the water.”

No problem. She had tossed an all-weather coat in the Porsche’s trunk that morning, along with her new deck shoes. “This time it’s just the two of us?”

“You, me, the boat, the sea, and the laughing old man in the moon.”

“Which of us is sailing the boat?”

“You get to read the instructions, while I man the sails.”

“Instructions?
Don’t you know how to sail it?”

“Never had it out before.”

“But you’ve sailed other boats, haven’t you?” Parker was from Montana. Not much chance to practice sailing in the frozen mountains.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep us afloat. And I’ve stocked the galley with sandwiches and hot chocolate. Come prepared to relax and enjoy.”

Sounded irresistible. He rattled off directions to the slip where the boat was docked.

“See you at ten o’clock, latest,” Dixie promised. She disconnected, and almost instantly got another page.

“Where are you?” Belle’s voice held a note of urgency.

“Near the Southwest Freeway and Beechnut.” Visiting one of Coombs’ victims probably wouldn’t meet with Belle’s approval, so why mention it? “What’s up?”

“Joanna got another card from the stalker.”

Dixie straightened and looked at Sarina. She had picked up the book and was reading aloud, too softly for Dixie to make out the words.

“What’s the message?”

“‘To my special friend: Just want you to know how special you are to me.’ The stalker’s added, ‘I’m disappointed, Joanna. This was to be
our
special time. Now there’s only one day left.’ The word ‘our’ is underlined.”

“‘One day left’? What does that—?”

“The filming’s back on schedule. Joanna says they’ll finish tomorrow.”

“Who would know that?”

“Everyone in the cast and crew, I suppose, and anybody they happened to tell.”

“That narrows it to most of Houston.” Dixie wondered if the downstrokes on the stalker’s words would reveal surging anger. “Whether Joanna likes the idea or not, we need someone watching her until she gets on that airplane.”

Dixie would be dropping Sarina off early that evening to attend a dinner party the production company was throwing for the cast and crew. Dixie wasn’t invited. Anyway, she planned to do some snooping around the set while no one was there. She couldn’t be in two places at once.

“Trust me, Flannigan, she won’t go for it. This message doesn’t threaten her, and she gets this sort of mail often enough that it doesn’t upset her. Except for Sarina. I’ve already flapped my gums on the subject until they’re bloody.” When Belle paused and Dixie didn’t fill in the silence, the attorney said, “You think ‘only one day left’ indicates the stalker’s about to make a move?”

“Who knows what to think? But why risk it?”

Belle heaved a sigh with a hint of defeat in it. “I think you’re right that we need another operative, just to be safe, but it has to be somebody invisible.”

“Operative. I like that word. I suppose the hottest female defense attorney in Texas wouldn’t have ordinary gumshoes working for her. She’d hire
operatives”

“I’ve been reading detective novels lately, picking up all sorts of interesting tidbits. You ought to try it.”

“If this jerk really means business,
RIC
, only the best is good enough. It has to be somebody who can do the job.”

“You can’t mean Hooch.”

“He’s the best.”

“I said
invisible.
Somebody to blend with the crowd. Flannigan, that’s not Hooch.”

“If ever there were the perfect place for Hooch to blend in, it’s on a movie set.”

“The set of
Frankenstein
, maybe.”

“That’s a low remark, and not a bit worthy of you.”

Before Belle could launch a full-blown argument, Dixie disconnected and dialed a pager number for the Gypsy Filchers.

It was approaching darkness when Hooch and Ski slipped out of the shadows and joined Dixie across from the Four Seasons Hotel. She wanted Sarina to meet them. Her mother might be obstinate, but the kid deserved to know who to approach for help if she needed it.

“Holy humbug,” Sarina murmured as the pair neared them. “What role is he made up for?”

The gray scar that marred Hooch’s face started at the corner of his right eye, bisected the bridge of his nose, and permanently sealed the left corner of his mouth, where an ax blade had split his jaw. Standing six-foot-four, 285 pounds, Hooch made grown men want to crawl into a hidey-hole.

His unfortunate appearance resulted from a wound suffered as a child, a blow that had nearly split his skull in half. In a Halloween fright show, Hooch could be the major frightmonger without a speck of makeup. When he walked down a street, people crossed to the other side. Yet he could shadow a person for days, never lose them, and never be
spotted. He was one of the trio who had organized the Gypsy Filchers—a team with more skills, talents, and accomplishments among them than many a well-trained army. Hooch was responsible for most of their training. With him on the job, Dixie could enjoy her moonlight sail.

“This guy’s going to stay nearby tonight in case you need him.” Dixie explained briefly about the latest greeting card, then opened the car door and stepped out.

“What’s horrible?” Hooch said, grinning from the good side of his mouth. He’d coined the greeting from one of his favorite fiction detectives and used it the way other people said, “What’s happening?” Hooch claimed it made people smile a little before they ran away screaming.

Ski cast a long, curious gaze at Sarina. She and Hooch were both dressed in black jeans, dark crew neck sweaters, and dark jackets. Dixie made introductions.

“Hooch is going to follow you and your mother to the restaurant,” Dixie explained to Sarina. “He’ll hang around outside until the dinner is over, then follow you back here.”

“Cool! With another bodyguard, we can go to the festival tomorrow.”