That was the most intellectual train of thought he had ridden in many
hours, and for a moment he felt a heartening resurgence of the cognitive
powers that had earned him the reputation of a genius in his field. But
only for a moment. Then the memory of blood returned, and a shiver of
savage pleasure passed through him, and he made a thick guttural sound
in the back of his throat.
A few cars and trucks passed on the highway to his left. Heading east.
Heading to Vegas. Vegas…
Slowly he recalled that he was also bound for Vegas, for the Golden Sand
Inn, for a rendezvous with revenge.
PART THREE DARKEST Night can be sweet as a kiss, though not a night like
this -Te Book of cod Sorrows After washing her face and doing what
little she could with her lank and tangled hair, Rachael returned to the
vicinity of the public telephones and sat on a red leatherette bench
nearby, where she could see everyone who approached from the front of
the hotel lobby and from the stairs that led out of the sunken casino.
Most people remained down on the bright and noisy gaming level, but the
lobby concourse was filled with a steady stream of passersby.
She studied all the men as surreptitiously as possible.
She was not trying to spot Whitney Gavis, for she had no idea what he
looked like. However, she was worried that someone might recognize her
from photographs n television. She felt that enemies were everywhere,
all around her, closing in-and while that might be paranoia, it might
also be the truth.
If she had ever been wearier and more miserable, she could not remember
the time. The few hours of sleep she’d had last night in Palm Springs
had not prepared her for today’s frantic activity. Her legs ached from
all the running and climbing she had done, her arms felt stiff, leaden.
A dull pain extended from the back of her neck to the base of her spine.
Her eyes were bloodshot, grainy, and sore. Although she had stopped in
Baker for a pack of diet sodas and had emptied all six cans during the
drive to Vegas, her mouth was dry and sour.
“You look beat, kid,” Whitney Gavis said, stepping up to the bench on
which she sat, startling her.
She’d seen him approaching from the front of the lobby, but she had
turned her attention to other men, certain that he could not be Whitney
Gavis. He was about five nine, an inch or two shorter than Benny,
perhaps more solidly built than Benny, with heavier shoulders, a broader
chest. He was wearing baggy white pants and a soft pastel-blue
cotton-knit shirt, a modified Miami Vice look without the white jacket.
However, the left side of his face was disfigured by a web of red and
brown scars, as if he’d been deeply cut or burnedr both. His left ear
was lumpy, gnarled. He walked with a stiff and awkward gait,
laboriously swinging his left hip in a manner that indicated either that
the leg was paralyzed or, more likely, that it was an artificial limb.
His left arm had been amputated midway between the elbow and the wrist,
and the stump poked out of the short sleeve of his shirt.
Laughing at her surprise, he said, “Evidently Benny didn’t warn you, as
knight-errant riding to the rescue, I leave something to be desired.”
Blinking up at him, she said, “No, no, I’m glad you’re here, I’m glad to
have a friend no matter… I mean, I didn’t.. . I’m sure that you…
Oh, hell, there’s no reason to She started to get up, then realized he
might be more comfortable sitting down, then realized that was a
patronizing thought, and consequently found herself bobbing up and down
in embarrassing indecision.
Laughing again, taking her by the arm with his one hand, Whitney said,
“Relax, kid. I’m not offended. I’ve never known anyone who’s less
concerned about a person 5 appearance than Benny, he judges you by what
you are and what you deliver, not by the way you look or by your
physical limitations, so it’s just exactly like him to forget to mention