The Good Guy. Dean Koontz

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       Nine

      As Tim reversed out of the driveway, Linda said, “He seems all right for a cop. He has a sweet pooch.”

      “He’s also got a dead fish named for his ex-wife.”

      “Well, maybe she was a cold fish.”

      “He says he won’t mind if you want to dismember him.”

      “What does that mean?”

      Shifting into drive, Tim said, “It’s sand-dog humor.”

      “Sand dog?”

      Surprised that he had opened this door, he at once closed it. “Never mind.”

      “What’s a sand dog?”

      His cell phone rang, sparing him the need to respond to her. Thinking this might be Rooney with some additional news, Tim had it on the third ring. The screen didn’t reveal the caller’s ID.

      “Hello?”

      “Tim?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Is she there with you?”

      Tim said nothing.

      “Tell her she makes an excellent egg-custard pie.”

      Conjured by the voice, into memory rose those impossibly dilated eyes, greedy for light.

      “Her coffee isn’t bad, either,” said Richard Lee Kravet. “And I liked the mug with the parrot handle so much that I took it with me.”

      This residential neighborhood had little traffic; at the moment, none. Tim came to a stop in the middle of the street, half a block from Pete Santo’s house.

      The killer had gotten Tim’s name from someone other than Rooney. How he had obtained the unlisted cell-phone number was a mystery.

      Although she couldn’t hear the killer, Linda clearly knew who had called.

      “I’m back on track, Tim, no thanks to you. I’ve been given another picture of her, to replace the one you kept.”

      Linda picked up the printout of Kravet’s driver’s license and held it to the window, studying his face in the glow of a nearby streetlamp.

      “Before the coup de grâce,” said Kravet, “I’m supposed to rape her. She looks sweet. Is that why you sent me away with half my money? Did you see this skank’s picture, want to rape her yourself?”

      “This is over,” Tim said. “You can’t put it together again.”

      “What—you’ll never go home, she’ll never go home, you’ll both run forever?”

      “We’re going to the police.”

      “I have no problem with that, Tim. You should go to the police at once. It’s the responsible thing to do.”

      Tim considered saying I know you’re a cop, I saw you drive away from the tavern, now I know your name, but revealing this knowledge to Kravet would diminish its value.

      “Why are you doing this, Tim? What is she to you?”

      “I admire her sangfroid.”

      “Don’t be silly now.”

      “It’s a French word.”

      “Spend the night with her if you want. Do her a couple of times. Enjoy yourself. Then drop her off at her place in the morning. I’ll take it from there, and I’ll forget you ever interfered.”

      “I’ll consider your suggestion.”

      “You better do more than that, Tim. You better make a deal with me, and convince me you mean it. Because I’m still coming, you know.”

      “Have fun combing through the haystack.”

      “The haystack isn’t as large as you think, Tim. And you’re a lot bigger than a needle. I’ll find you soon. Sooner than you can imagine—and then no deal is possible.”

      Kravet terminated the call.

      At once, Tim pressed *69, but Kravet’s cell was shielded against a call-back.

      Ahead, a car ran the stop sign, roared through the intersection. As it bounced through a drainage swale, its headlights swept up across the Explorer’s windshield, then down.

      Tim shifted his foot from brake to accelerator, and swung away from the center line, expecting the oncoming vehicle to angle into his lane and attempt to block him.

      The car shot past, taillights dwindling in the rearview mirror.

      Having swerved into the parking lane, СКАЧАТЬ