“Hey. It ain’t a joke.”
He stopped in the foyer and turned around. “You were kidding, right?”
“Of course.” I smiled, patting his back.
“I mean, really, Doc. Don’t do nothing like that. You hear him on your machine, don’t pick up the damn phone–”
Marino froze as I opened the door, his eyes widening in horror.
“Holy shiiiiit …”
He stepped out on my porch, idiotically reaching for his revolver, casting about like a madman.
I was too stunned to speak as I stared past him, the winter air alive with the crackle and roar of heat.
Marino’s LTD was an inferno against the black night, flames dancing, licking up toward the quarter moon. Grabbing Marino’s sleeve, I yanked him back inside the house just as the wailing of a siren sounded in the distance and the gas tank exploded. The living room windows lit up as a ball of fire shot into the sky and ignited the small dogwood trees at the edge of my yard.
“Oh, God,” I cried as the power went out.
Marino’s big shape paced the carpet in the dark like a crazed bull about to charge as he fumbled with his portable radio and swore.
“The fucking bastard! The fucking bastard!”
I sent Marino away shortly after the incinerated heap that was left of his beloved new car was hauled off in a flatbed truck. He had insisted on staying the night. I had insisted that the several patrol units staking out my house would suffice. He had insisted I check into a hotel, and I had refused to budge. He had his wreckage to deal with and I had mine. My street and yard were a sooty swamp, the downstairs hazy with vile-smelling smoke. The mailbox at the end of my drive looked like a blackened match-stick, and I had lost at least half a dozen boxwoods and just as many trees. More to the point, though I appreciated Marino’s concern, I needed to be alone.
It was well past midnight and I was undressing in candlelight when the telephone rang. Frankie’s voice seeped like a noxious vapor into my bedroom, poisoning the air I breathed, fouling the privileged refuge of my home.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared blindly at the answering machine as bile crept up my throat and my heart thudded sickly against my ribs.
“… I wish I could have stayed around to watch. Was it impre-pre-pressive, Kay? Wasn’t it something? I don’t like it when you have other me-me-men in your house. Now you know. Now you know.”
The answering machine stopped and the message light began to blink. Shutting my eyes, I took slow, deep breaths as my heart raced, shadows from the candle flame wavering silently on the walls. How could this be happening to me?
I knew what I had to do. It was the same thing Beryl Madison had done. I wondered if I was experiencing the same fear she had felt when fleeing the car wash, the ragged heart scratched on her car door. My hands trembled violently as I opened the drawer in the bedside table and pulled out the Yellow Pages. After I made the reservations, I called Benton Wesley.
“I don’t advise that, Kay,” he said, instantly wide awake. “No. Under no circumstances. Listen to me, Kay–”
“I have no choice, Benton. I just wanted someone to know. You can inform Marino, if you wish.
But don’t interfere. Please. The manuscript–”
“Kay–”
“I’ve got to find it. I think that’s where it is.”
“Kay! You’re not thinking right!”
“Look.” My voice rose. “What am I supposed to do? Wait here until the bastard decides to kick in my door or blow up my car? I stay here, I’m dead. Haven’t you figured that out yet, Benton?”
“You’ve got an alarm system. You’ve got a gun. He can’t blow up your car with you in it. Uh, Marino called. He told me what happened. They’re pretty sure someone doused a rag with gasoline, stuffed it into the gas tank. They found pry marks. He pried open the–”
“Jesus, Benton. You’re not even listening to me.”
“Listen. You listen. Please listen to me, Kay. I’ll get cover for you, get someone to move in with you, all right? One of our female agents–“