Yarbeck and both of them with Hudston, so if Vince did not get to Hudston
tonight, the police would be providing the man with protection by tomorrow.
Vince said, “I wonder. . . do you want the option exercised in the same way as
the other two deals today? You want a pattern?”
He was thinking maybe he should burn the Hudston house to the ground with them
in it to cover the murders.
“No, we absolutely do want a pattern,” the woman said. “Same as the others. We
want them to know we’ve been busy.”
“I see.”
“We want to tweak their noses,” she said, and laughed softly. “We want to rub in
the salt.”
Vince hung up and walked to the Jolly Roger for dinner. He had vegetable soup, a
hamburger, fries, onion rings, coleslaw, chocolate cake with ice cream, and (as
an afterthought) apple pie, all of which he washed down with five cups of
coffee. He was ordinarily a big eater, but his appetite increased dramatically
after a job. In fact, when he finished the pie, he wasn’t full. Understandable.
In one busy day, he had absorbed the life energies of Davis Weatherby and the
Yarbecks; he was overcharged, a racing engine. His metabolism was in high gear;
he would need more fuel for a while, until his body stored the excess life
energies in biological batteries for future use.
The ability to absorb the very life force of his victim was the Gift that made
him different from all other men. Because of the Gift, he would always be
Strong, vital, alert. He would live forever.
He had never divulged the secret of his splendid Gift to the throaty-voiced
Woman or to any of the people for whom he worked. Few people were imaginative
and open-minded enough to consider seriously such an amazing talent. Vince kept
it to himself because he was afraid they’d think he was crazy.
Outside the restaurant, he stood on the sidewalk for a while, just breathing
deeply, savoring the crisp sea air. A chilly night wind blew off the harbor,
sweeping scrap paper and purple jacaranda blossoms along the pavement.
Vince felt terrific. He believed he was as much of an elemental force as were
the sea and wind.
From Balboa Island, he drove south to Laguna Beach. At eleven-twenty, he parked
his van across the street from the Hudston house. It was in the hills, a
single-story home slung on a steep slope to take advantage of ocean views. He
saw lights in a couple of windows.
He climbed between the seats and sat down in the back of the van, out of sight,
to wait until all of the Hudstons had gone to bed. Soon after leaving the
Yarbeck house, he had changed out of his blue suit into gray slacks, a white
shirt, a maroon sweater, and a dark-blue nylon jacket. Now, in the darkness, he
had nothing to do except take his weapons out of a cardboard box, where they
were hidden beneath two loaves of bread, a four-roll package of toilet tissue,
and other items that gave the impression he had just been to the market.
The Walther P-38 was fully loaded. After finishing the job at the Yarbeck house,
he had screwed a fresh silencer onto the barrel, one of the new short ones that,
thanks to the high-tech revolution, was half the length of older models. He set
the gun aside.
He had a six-inch switchblade knife. He put it in the right front pocket of his
trousers.
When he had wound the wire garrote into a tight coil, he tucked it into the left
inside pocket of his jacket.
He had a sap weighted with lead pellets. That went into his right exterior
jacket pocket.
He did not expect to use anything but the gun. However, he liked to be prepared
for any eventuality.
On some jobs he had used an Uzi submachine gun that had been illegally converted
for automatic fire. But the current assignment did not require heavy armament.
He also had a small leather packet, half the size of a shaving kit, which
contained a few simple burglary tools. He did not bother to inspect those