Stealing Faces - Michael Prescott [33]
There were many things to say, but she had no strength for any of them. She remained silent.
Daybreak bloomed over the mountains. A glaze of pink light spread across the pale, tired land.
“So where am I taking you?” the driver asked.
She looked at him. He was an Indian, perhaps sixty. Age had filled out his face and grayed his ponytail. His hands on the steering wheel of the old Dodge Rambler were thick and meaty and lightly liver-spotted.
He reminded her of Anson, her father-in-law. There was no physical resemblance, only a similarity of character. Both of them were men well worn by the years, men whose squinting eyes had seen too much darkness ever to fully trust the light.
“I’m staying at a motel.” She couldn’t remember the name. “It’s off Interstate Ten, near Silverlake Road. But if it’s out of your way—”
“Not really”
“I appreciate this.”
“Don’t worry about it. What’s your name?”
“Paula Neilson,” she said, using one of her old identities. Lying about such things had become habitual with her.
“Wallace Zepeda. What brings you to Tucson, Paula?”
“Just ... personal business.”
“Personal business. Well, that’s clear enough. Me, I’m in the security field.”
She flashed on the fear that he might be a cop, a detective or an undercover officer or something.
“Airport security,” he added, and she saw a smile crease his cheek. “You wouldn’t get past my checkpoint.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“Not when the mere mention of the word security turns you as pale as ... well, as a paleface, pardon the expression. You on the run from the law, maybe?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. I’d hate to be aiding and abetting. Mind if I turn on the music?”
“Music would be fine.”
“Better than talking, huh?”
That smile again.
She didn’t answer.
There was an audio cassette half-inserted in the Rambler’s tape deck. Zepeda pushed it in and thumbed the on-off knob, and Creedence Clearwater Revival pumped through the cheap speakers at moderate volume.
The song was “Who’ll Stop the Rain.”
Elizabeth thought it was a good question.
She looked at the desert. Cray was out there. Cray, who hunted women in the wilderness the way other men hunted mule deer and javelinas. Cray, with his erudite, impeccably pedigreed opinions on the nature of the human mind.
No ghost in the machine, he had said. No spirit, no soul, only chemicals.
And if that was so, then what was murder except a rearrangement of those chemicals into a new form? And where was the crime in that? There was no right or wrong, no good, no evil. There was only better living through chemistry. There was death as sport.
Blood sport. She tried to imagine what it would have been like. Cray had said he would give her a head start. She would have fled through the alkali flats, cutting her legs on cactus needles, stumbling, falling, rising. She would have fought against panic, but in the end panic would have overtaken her, and then she would have made some thoughtless mistake, and a bullet would have brought her down.
How long, from start to finish? An hour, maybe. Or less time even than that.
Elizabeth felt a shudder pass through her as it became real to her—the fate she would have suffered, and how narrow had been her escape.
And Cray would not give up. She was sure of that. He must have followed her. Perhaps he had reached the Lexus by now.
She had taken the ignition key, but he probably carried a spare. Even if he didn’t, he was smart enough to hot-wire the vehicle.
If she had been thinking more clearly, she would have let the air out of the other tires or stolen the distributor cap to disable the vehicle. As it was, he could change the tire and get away.
And then what? Would he prowl the city night after night in search of her car?
She knew he would.
Well, she could leave town, of course. Head to Texas, possibly. A new name, new life. She’d been Elizabeth Palmer for too long anyway. It was smart to change I.D.’s at least once every few years.
But Cray would go on killing. He might never be caught.
Call the police, then. Tip