Double Image

  29

  H E HAD CHOSEN A REVOLVER BECAUSE HIS LACK OF EXPERIENCE with handguns warned him to get something simple. There wasn’t any magazine to be loaded and inserted, any slide to be pulled back, any slight possibility of jamming, characteristics of a semiautomatic pistol. With the weapon he had chosen, a Colt .357 Python, all he had to do was press a lever on the left side of the frame, tilt out a cylinder, push six rounds into its chambers, and shove the cylinder back into place. As easy as that, it was ready to use, an important consideration for someone with Coltrane’s inexperience. Granted, a semiautomatic in a similar caliber held more than twice as many rounds as the Python, but Coltrane had concluded that a weapon he didn’t feel comfortable with was almost as bad as not having a weapon at all.

  He explained this to Jennifer after he pulled into his garage, loaded the handgun, and shoved it under his sport coat. It gouged his skin.

  “You’re going to carry that with you?”

  “If we need it, it’s no use in a drawer.” Coltrane loaded the shotgun. “You remember I showed you how to use this?”

  “I swore I never would.”

  “That was then. What about now?”

  “Yes, I remember how to use it.”

  Coltrane had closed the garage before loading the weapons. Now he held the shotgun in his left hand, used his right hand to unlock the garage’s entrance into the house, and pushed the door open. Jennifer came behind him. She closed the door as he turned to disarm the intrusion detector, but a fidgety corner of his mind was already warning him that something was wrong. The detector should have let out a thirty-second beep, reminding him to deactivate the system before it went into full alarm mode.

  But it wasn’t beeping.

  “No,” Coltrane said.

  Jennifer secured the dead bolt on the door. “What’s wrong?”

  The glowing words on the keypad chilled him: READY TO ARM .

  He spun toward the murky stairs that went up and down, aiming the shotgun. “I turned on the alarm when I left, but now it’s off. Somebody’s in the house.”

  Jennifer bumped backward against the shadowy wall.

  It had to be Tash, Coltrane thought. Duncan had known the secondary codes that disarmed the intrusion detector. She must have made him tell her the sequence.

  “Coltrane.” The man’s voice was deep, hoarse with anger. It came from the right, from upstairs in the dark living room.

  “Walt?”

  Jesus, if he sees me with this shotgun, he might not give me a chance to talk, Coltrane thought. Sweating, he set the shotgun on the entryway’s floor, close to the wall, where it might not be noticed. He buttoned his sport coat, concealing the revolver under his belt. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.” The husky voice was unsteady with greater anger.

  Coltrane flicked a light switch near the front door, activating a lamp in the living room. “I’m coming up. I’ve got something to show you.”

  “What a coincidence. I’ve got something to show you.”

  Coltrane took a deep breath and started up the stairs. Jennifer followed, her briefcase tight in her hand.

  One step.

  Another.

  Coltrane gradually came up to the living room and saw Walt diagonally across from him, farthest from the illuminated lamp at the top of the stairs. His face in shadow, Walt was seated in one of the black tubular chairs, his hands on his knees.

  “If you’ll give me a minute,” Coltrane said, “I need to tell you something.”

  “You read my mind again.”

  “Oh?”

  “Because I came here to tell you something.”

  “This is Jennifer.”

  “If she’s smart, she’ll get out of here.”

  “Let me explain. In her briefcase, she’s got—”

  “I don’t give a damn about what’s in her briefcase.” Walt stood, his rigid body rising like sections of an unfolding machine. “What I do give a damn about—”

  Coltrane winced when he saw that as Walt rose, he lifted something from beneath the chair.

  A baseball bat.

  Holding it in his right hand, patting its hitting surface against the palm of his left hand, Walt had never looked so tall and menacing.

  “—is making sure you get my message this time.” Walt stepped forward.

  “For heaven sake, listen. Tash has done this before.”

  “I warned you to stay away from her.”

  “I have stayed away from her.”

  “You call following her everywhere yesterday staying away from her?” Walt came closer, patting the bat.

  “I didn’t. I’ve been in Oakland!”

  “Sure.”

  “Ask Jennifer.”

  “He’s right,” Jennifer said quickly. “Mitch was with me in—”

  “You’re lying!” Walt smashed an Art Deco lamp, the impact ear-torturing, glass and beads flying.

  Coltrane had never seen a more furious gaze.

  “If the two of you were in Oakland, how could you have followed Tash and me to the stores she owns?” Walt demanded.

  “Followed? But I didn’t—”

  Walt shattered a glass table, shards exploding.

  “Every damned store we went to, the minute we entered, the phone rang, and it was for her. From you!”

  “Tash is the one who’s lying.” Coltrane made a placating gesture, startled to see that when Walt raised his arms to swing, his leather windbreaker hiked up and revealed a semiautomatic pistol in a holster clipped to his belt.

  Oh Jesus, if he realizes I’m wearing a handgun, too, he might drop the bat and reach for—Suddenly, buying the gun seemed a terrible idea.

  “She must have somebody helping her,” Coltrane said. “Maybe she phoned ahead and told somebody in each store to claim she had a phone call when the two of you walked in. Then she pretended the call was from me.”

  “Bullshit! Why would she—”

  “To make you so mad that you’d come after me!”

  “What are you talking about? You stalked her in Malibu. You’re stalking her now. But I swear you’ll never do it again!”

  Walt swung, his body movement warning Coltrane just in time for him to jump back. The bat whistled past his head and walloped against the wall.

  “She likes men to fight over her!” Coltrane shouted.

  As Walt swung in the reverse direction, Coltrane dodged again, and Jennifer dove to the floor. The bat missed Coltrane by an inch, the fierce movement of air cooling the sweat on his brow.

  “Listen to me!” Coltrane shouted. “She wasn’t being stalked in Malibu! She was making it up! She had help!”

  “You expect me to believe that crap?”

  “But it’s true!” Jennifer yelled from the floor. “I’ve got the proof in my briefcase. Her name isn’t Natasha Adler. It’s Melinda Chance. She’s had half a dozen different identities and—”

  “Lady, I warned you to stay out of this!”

  “Men keep killing each other because of her!” Jennifer rose with her briefcase, offering it in a crouch. “Just let me open this and show you what I—”

  “You asked for it!”

  Walt put all his weight behind his swing, delivering the full force of the bat against the briefcase, jolting it out of Jennifer’s hands. It burst open and flipped through the air. Documents flying, the briefcase rebounded off the wall and landed among the broken glass of the table. Simultaneously, Jennifer shrieked, falling back.

  Walt was poised to reverse the swing of his bat, aiming at Jennifer as she raised her hands to protect her head. Walt balked, suddenly seeming to realize what he had become.

  “I—”

  Whatever he meant to say, it was too late. Coltrane charged. The terror in Jennifer’s eyes had released a fury in him beyond anything he had ever felt. He struck Walt from the side and collided with the table upon which the only light in the room sat. Their combined weight slammed down onto it, buckling the tabl
e, breaking the lamp, sending the room into darkness. As they rolled, Walt had to release his grip on the bat to block Coltrane’s punches. The hard edges of Coltrane’s revolver tore against his side, making him groan. Then the revolver slipped free, falling among the wreckage, and Coltrane struggled upward with Walt. Amid the roaring fury of his frantic breathing and his savage heartbeat, he heard Jennifer shouting, “No!”

  She was pleading, wailing, “Stop! This is what she wants!”

  But Coltrane was far beyond reason. With no doubt whatsoever that Walt meant to destroy him, he had to do to Walt what Walt meant to do to him. They lurched this way and that, striking each other, groaning, blood mixing with the sweat on their faces. Legs weakening, Coltrane charged with all his remaining might. His body hit Walt so hard that Walt jerked backward, but the force of Coltrane’s attack propelled Coltrane with him, and they hurtled through a French door, glass bursting like a bomb going off.

  Kept hurtling.

  Struck the railing of a balcony.

  And plummeted over.

  30

  F OR A MOMENT , Coltrane had the sensation of floating in darkness. Then his stomach rose. Air rushed past him, or the other way around, as he and Walt rushed through air, falling, twisting, locked in each other’s arms. Their impact was shocking, cold black water engulfing them. They struck the pool so hard that their momentum took them all the way to the bottom, jolting against it. His breath knocked out of him, Coltrane gasped, inhaled water, and panicked, struggling toward the surface. He broke through, gulped air, and was thrown underwater again as Walt gripped his shoulders and pressed down. Lungs burning, Coltrane twisted free, braced his bent legs against the pool’s bottom, and thrust himself upward, breaking the surface again, straining to breathe.

  Lights came on all around him, in the living room, from which they had fallen, in the lower level that gave access to the pool, in the shrubs of the backyard, in the pool itself. Temporarily blinded, Coltrane splashed backward just in time to avoid Walt’s hands around his throat.

  “Stop!” Jennifer’s pleading voice was close. She must have turned on the lights and run down to the pool, but Coltrane paid no attention, too busy avoiding Walt’s attempts to push him under. As Walt lost his balance in the shoulder-high water, Coltrane dove beneath the surface, rocketed to the surface behind Walt, grabbed him from behind, and pushed him beneath the water.

  “No!”

  A pole banged against the back of Coltrane’s neck. Feeling bristles on the end of it, Coltrane vaguely realized that Jennifer was using one of the pool-cleaning tools to try to stop them from fighting.

  Walt wrestled free, gasped for air, spun, and came at Coltrane as Jennifer dropped the pole between them and threw a cushion from a deck chair.

  “Stop!”

  They had each other by the throat. Coltrane felt his face bulging as he tightened his grip and—

  The shotgun blast was so startling that he jerked his hands away. Stumbling back, he lost his footing, went under, splashed to the surface, breathed frantically, saw that Walt had reacted much as he had, and was astonished to discover Jennifer at the side of the pool, holding the shotgun.

  Down the street, a dog barked in alarm. Several houses away, a man yelled, “What was that?”

  Her movements unpracticed, Jennifer awkwardly racked a fresh shell into the shotgun’s firing chamber. The spent shell arced through the air, clattering onto concrete. “Look at yourselves! It’s what she wants! Don’t you understand you’re being used? For God’s sake, what do I have to do to make you stop?”

  Jennifer looked so surprised, her eyes fierce, obviously uncomfortable with the shotgun, doing her best to keep it balanced in her hands, that Coltrane suddenly had a sense of how out of control he had become.

  “She’s right.” He stared at Walt. “I don’t want to—”

  Laughter interrupted him.

  From above. Deep-throated, sensuous laughter.

  Baffled, he looked upward and saw Tash leaning over the balcony on the topmost level, her beautiful features radiant with amusement. Her laughter swelled until she had to throw her head back to release it.

  “Tash?” Walt murmured.

  “Do you understand now?” Coltrane asked.

  Peering down from two stories above them, Tash wiped away tears of laughter.

  “But . . .” Walt became speechless with bewilderment.

  “Read the documents I had in my briefcase!” Jennifer said.

  Tash shook her head in delight. “Make her shoot again! Make her jump in and try to stop you!”

  “Tash,” Walt said, this time with realization. “You—” The word sounded like a curse as he splashed through the water. He reached the side, pulled himself out, glared up, dripping, and suddenly broke into a run, charging toward the house.

  As Walt disappeared into the bottom level, Coltrane forced his way to the side of the pool. He crawled out, ignored the cold air on his wet skin, and raced after him.

  Jennifer hurried next to him, the two of them passing the darkroom and the vault, pounding up the stairs. Higher, Walt was shouting something, Tash continuing to laugh. Coltrane reached the living room and surveyed the wreckage, the incalculable damage that Walt had inflicted on the priceless furniture. He saw the revolver that he had lost during the fight, and he picked it up, but he didn’t see Walt, although he did hear a commotion above him and raced higher. When he and Jennifer came to the third level and rushed into the bedroom, Coltrane was shocked. The bedroom was the only room on that level. A flower-rimmed balcony led along all four sides, and through the windows, Coltrane saw Tash gamboling from one section to the next, taunting Walt as he pursued her.

  The effect was dizzying: Coltrane in the middle of his bedroom, turning, peering outward, watching Tash sprint from one section of the balcony to the next. Walt was slowing, his chest heaving. For her part, Tash seemed to have an endless reservoir of energy, skipping, spinning, evading Walt. She wore an all-white ankle-long cotton dress of a type that Coltrane had seen in Mexico. Loose, it flared provocatively as she skipped and spun. A red shawl was draped over her shoulders, tied at her cleavage. Watching her and Walt round another corner, Coltrane turned, dizzier, amazed at the sudden burst of speed that Walt mustered. Thrusting out a hand, Walt grabbed the back of Tash’s shawl and jerked her up short, causing her to gasp, but before Walt could pull her toward him, she ducked her head and slipped free of the shawl’s tied loop. He shot out another hand, clutching her arm as she started to run. When he spun her toward him, he tossed away the shawl and drew back his hand to strike her.

  She stared defiantly.

  He hesitated.

  “What’s the matter? Are you afraid to hit a woman?”

  “You’re not a woman.”

  “You sure thought I was three hours ago when I—”

  “That doesn’t make you a woman.”

  Tash laughed. “No? What does it make me?”

  Walt said a word, the crudity of which was devastating.

  The laughter halted.

  “I don’t know what I saw in you,” Walt said. “I’m going to have to burn my clothes and scour myself with bleach to get rid of the slime you left on me.”

  Tash’s eyes darkened.

  “You’re a cesspool.” Walt turned to enter the bedroom.

  “Hey,” Tash said.

  Seeing Walt come through the doorway, Coltrane was overwhelmed by the look of absolute revulsion on Walt’s face.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Tash demanded.

  Walt came farther into the bedroom.

  “I’m not through with you,” Tash said.

  “The important thing is, I’m through with you.” Walt kept crossing the bedroom, not bothering to look at her.

  “Nobody walks away from me!”

  “Watch.”

  “Come back here!”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You first!” Tash grabbed a heavy pot from a row of flowers, rushed into the be
droom, and hurled it against the back of Walt’s head.

  For an instant, Coltrane thought that the cracking sound he heard was the pot breaking, but then the pot thudded intact onto the floor, and Coltrane realized that the sound had come from Walt’s skull. The burly policeman staggered toward Coltrane, reached for support, but never got that far. His eyes rolled up. His body became a collapsing rag doll. When his face struck the carpeted floor, the back of his head had an indentation covered with blood.

  “Oh,” Tash said.

  The room seemed to shrink.

  “Now look what you’ve made me do.”

  31

  C OLTRANE WAS SO STARTLED THAT HE COULDN ’ T MOVE . Next to him, Jennifer gaped at Walt’s unmoving body.

  The next thing, Tash was hunkered next to Walt’s body, fumbling through his pockets. “It’s not supposed to happen this way.” She glared up at Coltrane. “You’ll pay for this.”

  For the first time, Coltrane noticed that her hands were shiny.

  She was wearing plastic gloves.

  From Walt’s leather jacket, she pulled out a small black electronic object that resembled a miniature remote control. She picked up Walt’s left hand, wedged his fingers around the device, and used his thumb to press a button on it. “Make you pay.”

  “I’m calling the police,” Coltrane said.

  Starting toward the bedside phone, he saw Tash grope hurriedly beneath Walt’s jacket, understood, and yelled to Jennifer, “Get back down the stairs!”

  Immediately, Tash pulled Walt’s semiautomatic free of its holster, pressed it into his right hand, inserted his index finger into the trigger guard, and squeezed the trigger. The gunshot was deafening, not as loud as the shotgun blast had been, but ear-slamming all the same. The unaimed bullet missed Coltrane by a wide margin, blasting into a wall, but he had the sense that the next bullet would be very deliberately aimed. He scrambled toward the stairs as Tash removed the weapon from Walt’s hand and sighted expertly along it.

  “Jesus.” Diving, Coltrane heard the shot as he felt a bullet whiz by him. He hit the stairs on his side, winced, and tumbled to the landing, seeing the blurred figure of Jennifer racing down the continuation of the stairs.