Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги без регистрации txt) 📗

All his girls had loved trinkets. Of course, that was before they saw him. That was always a shock. They were always willing to accept gifts from a good-looking guy like Dorrance, but they turned their nose up at him.

He bought a pretty choker, the thin strand of silver almost liquid in the glaring sunlight. Little beads of turquoise were threaded on at intervals. He drove the rest of the way with a smile on his face.

As he switched on his blinker to make the turn into the El Rancho Trailer Court, he felt a sudden premonition. He’d learned to trust his instincts, so he flicked off the blinker and continued driving on to the next block. He turned there and turned left again, coming up behind the trailer court.

He’d been right.

From this angle he could see the revolving lights of a cop car.

Feast or famine, DPS intelligence analyst Charlie Specter thought as he got himself a cup of coffee and sat back down at the computer. Tips from law enforcement entities throughout the state had come in rapidly at first, then slowed to a trickle, followed by another onslaught. Like turning a faucet on and off. Right now was a down-time.

He checked his watch. Another thirty minutes or so had gone by since the last time he checked his e-mail.

Laura Cardinal had made sure that Charlie was specifically named in the subpoena to Lundy’s Internet server. The messages that Lundy sent and received would be trapped at the server and then sent on to Lundy. After it had been sent to Lundy, an “admin copy” would be sent on directly to Charlie. Along with the text of the e-mail would be a header showing the date and time of the e-mail, as well as the area code and phone number.

He took a sip of coffee and logged on.

Bingo! There was the e-mail address from Lundy’s ISP log: [email protected] The e-mail was from [email protected]

Time sent: 1:57 a.m. Time received: 10:43 a.m.

Lundy’s ISP had a Tucson area code. He was still in Tucson—a 628 exchange.

Specter called the 628 number. Familiar music came on—Tom Bodette inviting the caller to stay at Motel 6.

He looked up Motel 6 and found several. One of them had the 628 exchange.

He turned the corner and walked to Laura’s desk. “How’s this?” he said. “I know where your bad guy was, up to an hour ago.”

Get a grip, Musicman told himself. There’s no way she could have gotten out of that motor home. No way anyone could have heard her.

He parked the car by the side of the road, got out, and trotted across the patch of desert toward the chain link fence that bordered the park. The fence was woven with dried-out yellow plastic, so it was hard to see, but he could hear the yelling. It sounded like a drunk male, very angry.

He snuck up to the fence and peered through a hole in the plastic.

A shirtless, long-haired man was bent over the hood of a Tucson police car as two cops struggled to handcuff him. His jeans were so low on his skinny waist they showed his butt crack and a bad tattoo.

“What’d I do? What’d I do?” the man kept screaming.

Even though the guy was obviously suffering from malnutrition, he gave the cops quite a fight.

The cop cars were parked four trailers down from Musicman’s motor home. The motor home was quiet, but Summer could be hitting her fists against the windows and screaming—no way to tell.

He watched the cops. They were so busy with the screaming man that they were oblivious to anything else. A few neighbors had come out, hanging back mostly, on their front stoops. A ragtag bunch.

Finally the cops wrestled the screaming man into the back of one of the patrol cars. Both cops had to pause for breath, and as they did, they looked at the crowd, which seemed to melt back into the rusting metal of their homes.

He didn’t like it.

The first car, the one holding the prisoner, drove away. The second cop walked to his car. Was it his imagination or did the cop give the Pace Arrow more than a passing glance? He even took a step to the side, so he could see more of it.

Then the cop’s radio squawked. Whatever it was, he got in and drove off in a cloud of dust.

Musicman waited for several minutes, then got back into the car and drove around to the entrance.

Right before the entrance, the GEO stalled and he cursed. Still, he was glad he’d bought the car.

He needed to get out of here.

Officer Ray Garcia wiped the sweat from his face. Even in the squad car, Timmy Swanson was still kicking and screaming. Let him kick. He wasn’t about to break through that steel mesh.

“D&D. Possession of crack. Resisting arrest. I guess that’ll about do it,” said Sam Chilcott.

“Ought to. See you in a few." Ray knocked on the roof of Sam’s squad car and then walked back to his own.

He always told his kids he had eyes in the back of his head, which wasn’t far from the truth. He’d been trained to look at everything as a potential threat and had developed that eye for detail. So as he walked to his car, he scanned the trailer park. Maybe someone would resent the arrest of poor ol’ Timmy, maybe they would rush him or take a potshot at him. Some people would say he was paranoid, but it was a paranoia he wasn’t ashamed of.

A vehicle up ahead stood out from the rest. Every other trailer looked as if it had been moored there and the vegetation—and junk—had grown up around it. But the motor home at the end looked out of place. The trailers here had been scoured by the sun and the dust, burnished to oxidation. But the motor home looked as if it had been washed recently. It also didn’t look permanent.

He stepped out of the lane so he could see the back end. Lace curtains in the back window, just like on the sides.

He’d heard something about a motor home recently, but couldn’t remember what kind or where.

His hand-held crackled—a knife fight two blocks south of here. He got into his unit and floored it on out of there.

Musicman unlocked the door to the motor home and called out, “Oh, June, I’m home!”

It was a lame joke, but it had become kind of a ritual. He loved the old TV shows on TV Land. At his age, he’d missed the best ones: The Andy Griffith Show, The Dick Van Dyke Show, Lucy.

“There’s been a change of plans. We’re going on our trip sooner than I thought.”

No reply.

“I’m sorry about what I did. I just kind of lost it. I won’t act like that again.”

Nothing. She was being stubborn.

He was surprised to realize that it excited him. He remembered one porno tape he played over and over where the man did a young girl and she fought and snarled and he kept saying, “You little wildcat!”

He couldn’t think about that now. Sometimes he felt he lived inside a flame that wanted to consume him, burn him to nothing. This was one of those times. He swallowed. “We don’t have any time to waste. We’ve got to go.”

He unlocked the padlock. “Let’s go!”

Still no reply.

Maybe he should just hitch the GEO up to the Pace Arrow and get out of here. That way he could leave her in her room. Deal with her later. She needed finesse, not force, and he didn’t have time to play games.

“Okay, you want to play it that way, fine.”

He walked outside and got into the GEO, drove it up to the hitch.

As he got out, he saw two cop cars zoom by on Benson Highway. Going fast and silent, but with their lights on, headed in the direction of the Motel 6.

Don’t be paranoid

Maybe they were going to the Motel 6, maybe not. But what if they were?

What if it had something to do with him?

Shit! He didn’t have time. He clambered back into the motor home and pulled the seat cushions off the dinette seat, flung it open, and rummaged inside. He needed his duffle and his computer bag. He grabbed the duffle and started throwing things in. The main thing was the laptop, the power cord, the disks, his Jazz drive.