I might never get another chance like this. Find out who he is, where he lives.
Find out enough, and he’s MINE.
So is the reward.
When Neal’s attention returned to Rasputin’s mind-movie, the guy nailed to the floor was bucking and screaming . . .
Neal saw what the pliers were doing.
He felt himself shrivel.
Rasputin was so wrapped up in his fantasy that his mind had gone voiceless and he seemed unaware of his own hands. But through his fingers, Neal suddenly felt something give inside the lock.
And so did Rasputin.
Yah! ‘Here I come, ready or not, you cocksucking piece of shit! You better be here this time!’
He slipped the lockpicking tools into a soft leather case, folded the case and stuffed it into a pocket of his trousers. Then he pulled out a pair of thin rubber gloves. He snapped them onto his hands.
The fingertips of the gloves felt strange to Neal – stiff, not flimsy. Had they been painted with something – maybe fingernail polish or glue – as an extra precaution against leaving latent fingerprints?
This guy’s careful, Neal thought.
As Rasputin shoved the door open, he pictured Neal standing in the darkness, waiting with the gun, blasting him point blank in the face. A cold wind of fear swept through him.
The bastard’s scared of me, Neal realized.
Good!
But the fear was a lone gust that blew through him and left him behind – gone as soon as Rasputin stared into the darkness of the room and didn’t find Neal facing him.
Looking in the wrong place, asshole. I’ m not in front of you, I’m inside you.
Rasputin stepped over the threshold and silently shut the door. Then he stood motionless, listening.
‘Oh, you better be here.’
I’m here all right, Neal thought.
Rasputin seemed to sense that the rooms were deserted. But he didn’t want to admit it to himself. Not yet. He didn’t want to face the disappointment, the frustration . . .
He suddenly detected an aroma.
So did Neal.
A vague, sweet scent . . .
What’s that? Rasputin wondered. His mind switched to a memory of his previous visit. He remembered himself standing in much the same place, trying to detect . . .
This odor was new.
Beer!
Neal felt himself shrivel again. He knows!
Excitement swelled in Rasputin.
He doesn’t know about Sue, Neal realized. He thinks it was just me drinking the beer . . . He thinks I’m still here.
Now I gotcha! Now I gotcha! Ohhhh.
Rasputin surged inside with a brew of rage and glee and lust that made Neal want to scream and bolt.
STAY! he commanded himself. This bastard can’t hurt me, can’t touch me, doesn’t even know I’m here. I’m perfectly safe.
But he sure didn’t feel safe.
Rasputin started creeping across the living room.
‘Here I come, ready or not. Ooo hoo hoo. Oh, how I’m going to make you scream!’
Back he went to his fantasy of Neal naked, hands and feet nailed to a floor.
Neal turned his attention to Rasputin’s body. The man was tall and extremely thin, but had muscles like strips of iron. He wore heavy, snug boots. Leather trousers that were tight and very hot inside – so hot that Rasputin was dripping sweat all the way down from his waist and the leather felt slimy against his buttocks and cock and legs. No underwear. Several objects in his trouser pockets – something in the right front pocket that might be pliers. A belt cinched around his waist. At his left hip, a weight that Neal suspected might be a sheathed knife.
Above his waist, a snug shirt with long sleeves. Under the shirt, bandages and wounds.
These bandages didn’t seem to be made from the odds and ends Rasputin took from Neal’s medicine cabinet. They wrapped his torso, shoulder, and the top of his head as if someone had tried to make a mummy of him.
Rasputin had apparently found medical care.
They’re supposed to report bullet wounds.
He’d probably gone to a crooked doctor – plenty of those in L.A.
How do you find a crooked doctor? Easy. Just ask your crooked lawyer.
All patched up and rarin’ to go.
He doesn’t have a hammer, Neal suddenly realized. Rasputin’s only weapons seemed to be the pliers and the knife.
How does he expect to nail me to the floor if he didn’t bring his hammer and nails?
Borrow mine? He’d have to find them first.
Maybe that’s what he’s looking for,
Because Rasputin hadn’t gone directly to the bedroom, where he was sure he would find Neal sleeping.
Pay attention, Neal told himself. What’s the bastard up to?
Relishing the anticipation.
And wanting to make sure nobody would pop in from another room and take him by surprise.
‘Are we all by ourselves tonight, Neal? No guests? Lonely boy? I’ll give you some company. Yoo-hoo! Leslie Glitt, at your service. Less is more. And all that glitters isn’t gold.’
He pulled the knife from its sheath and stepped into the kitchen.
Leslie Glitt, Neal thought. That’s his name? Leslie?
Walking through the kitchen, Rasputin considered taking his boots off. He couldn’t walk quietly in them, not on the linoleum floor. But he decided against it. The struggle to take them off would fire up the pain in his wounds. Besides, he would need to put them on again in the bedroom.
Needed to be wearing them when he took Neal.
He imagined himself sneaking to the side of the bed, bending over and pressing the knife to Neal’s throat. ‘Wake up, sleepy-head – Leslie’s come over to play.’ He imagined Neal waking up, startled and terrified, gasping. ‘Remember me? You shot me, you fucking cocksucker.’ He pictured himself jabbing Neal a few times with the knife. ‘Didn’t kill me, though. Too bad, so sad. Didn’t save the slut, either. Did you? Thought you’d saved her ass, big hero. No no no. Wrong. So sad. You should’ve seen what I did to her. You should’ve heard her scream.’ All the time, poking Neal with the knife. Not really shoving it in, just poking him with it, making him flinch and bleed. ‘But she died easy. Wait’ll you see what I do to you. Now get up.’ Neal hesitates, so Leslie gives him a slice across an eyeball. ‘Get up, now. We’re going on a trip. I’m taking you to a very special place.’
A place with a wooden floor, Neal supposed.
Rasputin, shivering and hard, stepped through the bedroom door and halted and stared at Neal’s bed. Neal stared at it with him – saw it as he did.
In the gray glow filtering in through the curtains, the bed looked like a flat, unwrinkled plain. Nobody was sprawled out on it. The blankets covered no telltale landscape of humps.
No! Impossible! He’s here! He has to be here!
Rasputin flung out an arm and flicked the light switch. The sudden light hurt his eyes. He squinted.
The bed was empty, neatly made.
He rushed to the closet and flung open its door.
No Neal.
‘You’re here! I know you’re here! You’ve GOT to be!’
He hurried to the other side of the bed, sank to his knees and, pain crushing through him, bent and peered underneath the bed.
No Neal.
‘Where ARE you?’
‘Right here inside you, Lesss-lie,’ Neal told him.
Rasputin hunted for him.
He stomped through every room, turning on lights, knife clutched tightly in his right hand, teeth clenched. He looked in the bathtub. He looked in cupboards and closets. He looked behind furniture. He looked behind doors. He no longer shivered with excitement. He no longer had an erection. He ached not only from his bullet wounds, but from disappointment.
An agony of frustration and regret.
‘Where the fuck are you? Where ARE you, you slimy cocksucking shit? I know you’re here!’
He’s not here.
He’s not.
Oh, the dirty fuck!
Where is he?
Done with the frantic search, Rasputin turned his back to the front door and scanned the living room.
Okay, okay, calm down. He’s not here. Big deal. What’s the hurry? He lives here. He’ll be back.
He already came back. Came back since I was here last, and had a beer. Two beers.
Rasputin scowled at the two beer cans. They had not been on the table during his earlier visit to Neal’s apartment.
They stood side by side . . .
Ha! Just look at them!
Not close together, as if Neal had polished off one, then the other. Two feet apart, as if set down on the table by two different people sitting side by side.
‘You drank with a friend, didn’t you? A beer for you, a beer for . . . him or her?’
Rasputin sniffed the air, but detected no hint of perfume.
Ah, I do hope it’s a she. A pretty she. I do love shes. The pretty ones.
Pretty ones like Elise.
He groaned aloud as his mind played a memory . . . not a whole scene . . . a clip . . . a peek . . . two or three seconds . . . Elise in her bathtub while . . .
For a moment, Neal wasn’t sure what he was seeing.
Then he cried out ‘NO!!!’ so loudly that he thought his voice might explode Rasputin’s mind.
It did nothing.
‘How could you do that to a person?’ Neal raged. ‘How could you even THINK of a thing like that? What kind of sick bastard are you?’
Rasputin was becoming aroused again.
Have to try that on the drinking buddy. Hope she’s a she. A pretty one. Try that one on her and see how she likes it. Do it in front of Neal, so he can enjoy it, too.
That might be tricky. How’ll I manage two of them?
Easy.
Get them one at a time.
The buddy first. Beer girl.
Next time they come by, track them when they leave. Follow them, find out where they’re hiding . . .
Neal, sobbing inside him, blurted, ‘You’re never gonna touch her! Never! I’LL KILL YOU!’
Rasputin suddenly wondered how long ago they’d left.
He picked up one of the cans. It left a wet circle on the table. He couldn’t tell much about the can’s temperature, thanks to his rubber glove, so he pressed it against his cheek. It had no coolness to it. He shook the can near his ear. Though he heard no sloshing sound, he put the can to his lips and tilted it high.
Some lukewarm, sour-tasting beer dribbled into his mouth.
He concluded that several hours had probably gone by since Neal and his friend had been sitting on the sofa, drinking the beers.
Earlier tonight?
Late this afternoon?
Maybe they’ll be back tomorrow. Ooo, I do hope so. Hope she’s a pretty one.
Might be a guy.
Fine, too, if he’s pretty.
Tomorrow, when they come . . .
Shit! Fuck! Not tomorrow night! The money.
Wait. Yeah. Sure I can. Don’t have to be there till two.
If I get over here good and early . . .
Can’t let them know I was here. Don’t want to spook the little critters and scare them off.
Rasputin set the beer can down on its own wet circle. After that, he made his way through every room, checking to make sure he was leaving behind no token of his presence, then turning off the lights.
Finally, he opened the front door. He leaned out, glanced around, then stepped onto the balcony and silently shut the door. Hurrying toward the stairway, he pulled off his gloves and tucked them into a pocket of his trousers.
As he started down the stairs, he tried to remember where he’d left his car.
He remembered.
Yes! Neal thought. We’re going to his car!
This is it!
Forty-One
Rasputin, turning the corner, saw several cars parked along the curb.
What kind of . . . ah, sure. A white something. A Subaru, or . . . there!
It’s not his own car, Neal realized. Probably stole it.
Rasputin didn’t search for the keys as he approached it.
Of course not, Neal thought. He doesn’t have keys. Must’ve popped the ignition . . .
The driver’s door wasn’t locked. Rasputin opened it and climbed in, reached out to the steering column and started the car.
With the key. Which was already in the ignition.
The engine turned over and ran smoothly, quietly.
Rasputin thought, Not a bad little car. Maybe I’ll keep it.
He laughed, then frowned.
Where’s the headlights? I had them on coming over . . . Ah, yes. Cute.
The twin bright beams leaped forward. Rasputin stepped on the gas and swung away from the curb.
‘And awaaaay we go!’ he proclaimed aloud.
Get me a real car with the loot. How about a Lincoln Continental, or one of those Towncars? Or, hey, why not a Ferrari? What’s something like that cost, anyhow? Not half a mil, that’s for sure. Half a mil, I could buy a fucking airplane.
Yeah, sure. I can’t buy shit. Get back to Kingman and lay low, keep a good low profile till I heal up.
If I do heal up.
That cocksucker, he’ll wish . . .
Wait’ll he sees what I do to his beer buddy. A little taste of what he’ll be getting for himself. Teach him to blow holes in me . . .
Rasputin imagined Neal nailed to a wooden wall. Not to a floor, this time, but to a wall. Naked, the same as before. His arms stretched out and nailed at the hands, but his legs together. His feet in a green plastic bucket.
The bucket, Neal supposed, was meant to catch his blood and whatever other bodily fluids . . .
Clever, he thought, feeling sick.
At least this guy doesn’t look like me.
For that matter, the victim in Rasputin’s fantasy didn’t even resemble his previous mental version of Neal. This fellow was older than the other, a little flabby, and had a neatly trimmed black moustache. Not at all the handsome blond chap he’d pictured last time.
He can’t keep straight what I’m supposed to look like, Neal thought.
And he obviously had no idea what Sue looked like.
Thank God for that, Neal thought.
The woman was nailed to the wall across the room from Neal. So that they were facing each other. So that he could watch.
Like Neal, her arms were stretched out and she was standing in a green bucket.
She must’ve been forty years old. In good shape. Slender, with very large breasts.
This is what he thinks my beer buddy looks like?
She didn’t resemble Sue or Marta. They were both a lot younger than that. Neither of them had breasts like those, and both had blonde hair.
A lot less hair, too.
Neal had never seen such a hairy woman in his life: thick black tresses hanging over her brow and flowing down both sides of her head; heavy black eyebrows that nearly met above her nose; a huge thicket below her navel.
Rasputin smiled over his shoulder at his imaginary Neal, walked up to the woman and set her pubic hair on fire. It flared as if bathed in gasoline. She writhed against the wall and danced inside her bucket, her huge breasts leaping, her skin orange and gleaming in the firelight.
Rasputin, caught in his fantasy, was hard again.
Do that to his girlfriend, he might wish he hadn’t been so quick to shoot me, the fuck.
Do that to her for starters, and make him watch. Make him watch everything till she’s dead. Before I even start on him.
Maybe we can make it interactive.
Where would you like me to make the first incision, Neal? Pick an eyelid. Pick a nipple. Pick . . .
Suddenly recognizing the house, he was jerked out of his fantasy. He hit the brakes and swung into the driveway. His headlights brightened the broad, white door of a garage.
G
otta catch the address, Neal told himself.
‘Come on, Rasputin, look at the house! Come on, Leslie! Damn it! Look!’
Instead of looking toward the house, Rasputin lowered his eyes to the passenger seat. He picked up a small, pale device – the garage door opener. He pointed it out the windshield.
We’re going in the garage? I’ll never get the address!
The garage door started to rise.
The car started toward it.
‘Look at the house, you bastard!’
He didn’t. He kept his eyes on the rising door.
All Neal could make out, through Rasputin’s peripheral vision, was a single-story stucco building with some bushes in front.
Then Rasputin shut off the headlights.
The house went dark. It seemed to have no lights on at all: none in the windows, none over the front door, none in the garage.
Rasputin drove slowly into the black, wide mouth of the garage.
‘Home, sweet home,’ he said.
He shut off the engine. When he thumbed the remote, the garage door began to rumble down. He stayed in his seat until it was completely shut.
And wondered what he ought to do, now that he was home.
Go straight to bed?
He probably should turn in, but he felt too edgy and excited to sleep.
Anyway, I can sleep all day tomorrow. Nothing to do till after dark.
I might as well stay up for a while and have some fun.
Rasputin, feeling a delicious tremor of excitement, climbed out of the car. He made his way through the darkness, walking carefully with his arms outstretched.
He found the door to the house.
He didn’t open it, though.
He touched the knob only to orient himself. Then he found the door frame. And then the light switch.
He flicked the switch up.
And squinted in the brightness.
And turned.
Neal glimpsed a man against the wall, arms outstretched, feet in a bucket, head drooping.
Rasputin looked at the man for only an instant before turning and walking across the garage toward the woman.
Slender, with very large breasts.
But no black tresses, no heavy black eyebrows, no thicket below her navel. Where all that hair had been – in Rasputin’s fantasy – this woman had bare, scorched skin.
Neal knew, at once, that it had been no fantasy.