Read Koontz, Dean R. - Mr. Murder Page 20


  using his patrician looks to intimidate but keeping his voice soft and

  without inflection, Lowbock said, "Mr. Stillwater, are you always so

  careless with guns?"

  "I don't believe I've been careless."

  The raised eyebrow again. "Don't you?"

  "No."

  The detective picked up his pen and made a cryptic note in his

  spiral-bound notebook. Then he began to doodle again. "Tell me, Mr.

  Stillwater, do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?"

  "No, of course not."

  "I see."

  Marty sipped his Pepsi.

  Under the table, Paige sought his hand again. He was grateful for the

  contact.

  The new doodle was taking shape. A pair of handcuffs.

  Lowbock said, "Are you a gun enthusiast, a collector?"

  "No, not really."

  "But you have a lot of guns."

  "Not so many."

  Lowbock enumerated them on the fingers of one hand. "Well, the Smith

  and Wesson, the Korth--the Colt M16 assault rifle in the foyer closet."

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  Looking up from his hand, meeting Marty's eyes with that cool, intense

  gaze, Lowbock said, "Were you aware the M16 was also loaded?"

  "I've bought all the guns primarily for research, book research.

  I don't like to write about a gun without having used it." It was the

  truth, but even to Marty it sounded like flimflam.

  "And you keep them loaded, tucked into drawers and closets all over the

  house?"

  No safe answer occurred to Marty. If he said he knew the rifle was

  loaded, Lowbock would want to know why anyone would need to keep a

  military weapon in such a state of readiness in a peaceful, quiet

  residential neighborhood. An M16 was sure as hell not a suitable

  home-defense gun except, perhaps, if you lived in Beirut or Kuwait City

  or South Central Los Angeles. On the other hand, if he said that he

  hadn't known the rifle was loaded, there would be more snide questions

  about his carelessness with guns and bolder insinuations that he was

  lying.

  Besides, whatever he said might seem foolish or deceptive in the extreme

  if they had also found the Mossberg shotgun under the bed in the master

  bedroom or the Beretta that he had stashed in a kitchen cabinet.

  Trying not to lose his temper, he said, "What do my guns have to do with

  what happened today? It seems to me we've gotten way off the track,

  Lieutenant."

  "Is that how it seems?" Lowbock asked, as if genuinely puzzled by

  Marty's attitude.

  "Yes, that's how it seems," Paige said sharply, obviously realizing she

  was in a better position than Marty to be harsh with the detective.

  "You make it seem as if Marty's the one who broke into somebody's home

  and tried to strangle them to death."

  Marty said, "Do you have men searching the neighborhood, have you put

  out an APB?"

  "An APB?"

  Marty was irritated by the detective's intentional obtuseness.

  "An APB for The Other."

  Frowning, Lowbock said, "For the what?"

  "For the look-alike, the other me."

  "Oh, yes, him." That wasn't actually an answer, but Lowbock went on

  with his agenda before Marty or Paige could insist on a more specific

  reply, "Is the Heckler and Koch another one of the weapons you purchased

  for research?"

  "Heckler and Koch?"

  "The P7. Fires nine-millimeter ammunition."

  "I don't own a P7."

  "You don't? Well, it was lying on the floor of your office upstairs."

  "That was his gun," Marty said. "I told you he had a gun."

  "Did you know the barrel on that P7 is threaded for a silencer?"

  "He had a gun, that's all I knew. I didn't take time to notice if it

  had a silencer. I didn't exactly have the leisure to catalogue all its

  features.

  "Wasn't a silencer on it, actually, but it's threaded for one.

  Mr. Stillwater, did you know it's illegal to equip a firearm with a

  silencer?"

  "It's not my gun, Lieutenant."

  Marty was beginning to wonder if he should refuse to answer any more

  questions without an attorney present. But that was crazy.

  He hadn't done anything. He was innocent. He was the victim, for God's

  sake. The police wouldn't even have been there if he hadn't told Paige

  to call them.

  "A Heckler and Koch P7 threaded for a silencer--that's very much a

  professional's weapon, Mr. Stillwater. Hitman, assassin, whatever you

  want to call him. What would you call him?"

  "What do you mean?" Marty asked.

  "Well, I was wondering, if you were writing about such a man, a

  professional, what are the various terms you'd use to refer to him?"

  Marty sensed an unspoken implication in the question, something that was

  getting close to the heart of whatever agenda Lowbock was promoting, but

  he was not quite sure what it was.

  Apparently Paige sensed it, too, for she said, "Exactly what are you

  trying to say, Lieutenant?"

  Frustratingly, Cyrus Lowbock edged away from confrontation again. In

  fact, he lowered his gaze to his notes and pretended as if there had

  been nothing more to his question than casual curiosity about a writer's

  choice of synonyms. "Anyway, you're very lucky that a professional like

  this, a man who would carry a P7 threaded for a silencer, wasn't able to

  get the best of you."

  "I surprised him."

  "Evidently."

  "By having a gun in my desk drawer."

  "It always pays to be prepared," Lowbock said. Then quickly, "But you

  were lucky to get the best of him in hand-to-hand combat, too. A

  professional like that would be a good close-in fighter, maybe even know

  Tae Kwon Do or something, like they always do in books and movies."

  "He was slowed a little. Two shots in the chest."

  Nodding, the detective said, "Yes, that's right, I remember.

  Ought to've brought down any ordinary man."

  "He was lively enough." Marty tenderly touched his throat.

  Changing subjects with a suddenness meant to be disconcerting, Lowbock

  said, "Mr. Stillwater, were you drinking this afternoon?"

  Giving in to his anger, Marty said, "It can't be explained away that

  easily, Lieutenant."

  "You weren't drinking this afternoon?"

  "No."

  "Not at all?"

  "No."

  "I don't mean to be argumentative, Mr. Stillwater, really I don't, but

  when we first met, I smelled alcohol on your breath. Beer, I believe.

  And there's a can of Coors lying in the living room, beer spilled on the

  wood floor."

  "I drank some beer after."

  "After what?"

  "After it was over. He was lying on the foyer floor with a broken back.

  At least I thought it was broken."

  "So you figured, after all that shooting and fighting, a cold beer was

  just the thing."

  Paige glared at the detective. "You're trying so hard to make the whole

  business sound silly--"

  "--and I wish to hell you'd just come right out and tell us why you

  don't believe me," Marty added.

  "I don't disbelieve you, Mr. Stillwater. I know this is all very

  frustrating, you feel pu
t-upon, you're still shaken up, tired. But I'm

  still absorbing, listening and absorbing. That's what I do. It's my

  job.

  And I really haven't formed any theories or opinions yet."

  Marty was certain that was not the truth. Lowbock had carried with him

  a set of fully formed opinions when he'd first sat down at the

  dining-room table.

  After draining the last of the Pepsi in the mug, Marty said, "I almost

  drank some milk, orange juice, but my throat was so sore, hurt like

  hell, as if it was on fire. I couldn't swallow without agony.

  When I opened the refrigerator, the beer just looked a lot better than

  anything else, the most refreshing."

  With his Montblanc pen, Lowbock was again doodling on one corner of a

  page in his notebook. "So you only had that one can of Coors."

  "Not all of it. I drank half, maybe two-thirds. When my throat was

  feeling a little better, I went back to see how The Other . . . how the

  look-alike was doing. I was carrying the beer with me. I was so

  surprised to see the bastard gone, after he'd looked half dead, the can

  of Coors just sort of slipped out of my hand."

  Even though it was upside-down, Marty was able to see what the detective

  was drawing. A bottle. A long-necked beer bottle.

  "So then half a can of Coors," Lowbock said.

  "That's right."

  "Maybe two-thirds."

  "Yes."

  "But nothing more."

  "No."

  Finishing his doodle, Lowbock looked up from the notebook and said,

  "What about the three empty bottles of Corona in the trash can under the

  kitchen sink?"

  "Rest area, this exit," Drew Oslett read. Then he said to Clocker, "You

  see that sign?"

  Clocker did not reply.

  Returning his attention to the SATU screen in his lap, Oslett said,

  "That's where he is, all right, maybe taking a leak in the men's room,

  maybe even stretched out on the back seat of whatever car he's driving,

  catching a few winks."

  They were about to go into action against an unpredictable and

  formidable adversary, but Clocker appeared unperturbed. Even though

  driving, he seemed to be lost in a meditative state. His bearlike body

  was as relaxed as that of a Tibetan monk in a transcendental swoon.

  His enormous hands rested on the steering wheel, the thick fingers only

  slightly curled, maintaining the minimum grip. Oslett wouldn't have

  been surprised to learn that the big man was steering the car mostly

  with some arcane power of the mind. Nothing in Clocker's broad,

  blunt-featured face indicated that he knew what the word "tension"

  meant, pale brow as smooth as polished marble, cheeks unlined,

  sapphire-blue eyes softly radiant in the reflected light of the

  instrument panel, gazing into the distance, not merely at the road ahead

  but possibly beyond this world. His wide mouth was open just enough to

  accept a thin communion wafer. His lips were curved in the faintest of

  smiles, but it was impossible to know if he was pleased by something he

  was contemplating in a spiritual reverie or by the prospect of imminent

  violence.

  Karl Clocker had a talent for violence.

  For that reason, in spite of his taste in clothes, he was a man of his

  times.

  "Here's the rest area," Oslett said as they neared the end of the access

  road.

  "Where else would it be?" Clocker responded.

  "Huh?"

  "It is where it is."

  The big man wasn't much of a talker, and when he did have something to

  say, half the time it was cryptic. Oslett suspected Clocker of being

  either a closet existentialist on-at the other end of the spectrum--a

  New Age mystic. Though the truth might be that he was so totally

  self-contained, he didn't need much human contact or interaction, his

  own thoughts and observations adequately engaged and entertained him.

  One thing was certain, Clocker was not as stupid as he looked, in fact,

  he had an IQ well above average.

  The rest-area parking lot was illuminated by eight tall sodiumvapor

  lamps. After so many grim miles of unrelieved darkness, which had begun

  to seem like the blasted black barrens of a post-nuclear landscape,

  Oslett's spirits were lifted by the glow of the tall lamps, though it

  was a sickly urine-yellow reminiscent of the sour light in a bad dream.

  No one would ever mistake the place for any part of Manhattan, but it

  confirmed that civilization still existed.

  A large motorhome was the only vehicle in sight. It was parked near the

  concrete-block building that housed the comfort stations.

  "We're right on top of him now." Oslett switched off the SATU screen

  and placed the unit on the floor between his feet. Popping the suction

  cup off the windshield, dropping it on the electronic map, he said, "No

  doubt about it--our Alfie's snug in that road hog.

  Probably ripped it off some poor shmuck, now he's on the run with all

  the comforts of home."

  They drove past a grassy area with three picnic tables and parked about

  twenty feet away from the Road King, on the driver's side.

  No lights were on in the motorhome.

  "No matter how far off the tracks Alfie's gone," Oslett said, "I still

  think he'll respond well to us. We're all he has, right? Without us,

  he's alone in the world. Hell, we're like his family."

  Clocker switched off the lights and the engine.

  Oslett said, "Regardless of what condition he's in, I don't think he'd

  hurt us. Not old Alfie. Maybe he'd waste anyone else who got in his

  way but not us. What do you think?"

  Getting out of the Chevy, Clocker plucked both his hat and his Colt .357

  Magnum off the front seat.

  Oslett took a flashlight and the tranquilizer gun. The bulky pistol had

  two barrels, over and under, each loaded with a fat hypodermic

  cartridge. It was designed for use in zoos and wasn't accurate at more

  than fifty feet, which was good enough for Oslett's purpose, since he

  wasn't planning to go after any lions on the veldt.

  Oslett was grateful that the rest area was not crowded with travelers.

  He hoped that he and Clocker could finish their business and get away

  before any cars or trucks pulled in from the highway.

  On the other hand, when he got out of the Chevy and eased the door shut

  behind him, he was disturbed by the emptiness of the night. Except for

  the singing of tires and the air-cutting whoosh of passing traffic on

  the interstate, the silence was as oppressive as it must be in the

  vacuum of deep space. A copse of tall pines stood as backdrop to the

  entire rest area, and, in the windless darkness, their heavy boughs

  drooped like swags of funeral bunting.

  He craved the hum and bustle of urban streets, where ceaseless activity

  offered continuous distractions. Commotion provided escape from

  contemplation. In the city, the flash-clatter-spin of daily life

  allowed his attention to be directed forever outward if he wished,

  sparing him the dangers inherent in self-examination.

  Joining Clocker at the driver's door of the Road King, Oslett considered

  making as stealthy a
n entrance as possible. But if Alfie was inside, as

  the SATU electronic map specifically indicated, he was probably already

  aware of their arrival.

  Besides, on the deepest cognitive levels, Alfie was conditioned to

  respond to Drew Oslett with absolute obedience. It was almost

  inconceivable that he would attempt to harm him.

  Almost.

  They had also been certain that the chances of Alfie going A.W.O.L were

  so small as to be nonexistent. They had been wrong about that.

  Time might prove them wrong about other things.

  That was why Oslett had the tranquilizer gun.

  And that was why he didn't try to dissuade Clocker from bringing the

  .357 Magnum.

  Steeling himself for the unexpected, Oslett knocked on the metal door.

  Knocking seemed a ludicrous way to announce himself under the