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

I managed to get an incident report number from him and the name of the officer who’d be in charge of the investigation to pass along to Swift Rent-A-Car. I had a feeling they’d want more than my word to explain how their LeSabre had become a giant ashtray.

I hung around for another hour or two, looking suitably spooked, watching them douse what was left of the fire, and then slipped back to my room.

I called Swift Rent-A-Car and gave them the bad news. Because I’d taken all the insurance they’d offered, I was off the hook as far as damages went. They asked, hesitantly, if I wanted another car and I passed. I didn’t want to press my luck with the company, especially since I couldn’t be sure my next car wouldn’t meet a dire fate, too. So I rang up one of their competitors, EconoCar, who agreed to send out their courtesy shuttle to pick me up in an hour.

I didn’t have much to pack in the meantime. I’d sacrificed a suitcase, my clothes, my shaving kit, and my copy of Anita Shreve’s book to the flames, all things that could be easily replaced or forgotten about. All I had left were the clothes on my back, my wallet, a return ticket to LA, a few pictures of Lauren, and my gun.

I had everything I needed.

So, I went and stood outside in the drizzle to wait for courtesy shuttle. As dawn broke over the top of the smoldering trees, I watched the firemen pick through the smoking rubble where the motel once stood.

The Sno-Inn was gone and all because Harvey Mapes came to town and asked a few questions. I can’t really explain why, and I know it’s sick, but it made me incredibly happy.

***

I picked out a blue Crown Victoria from EconoCar that looked just like an unmarked cop car, drove to a hardware store, and bought a sledgehammer and roll of duct tape to replace the ones I lost.

I drove out of town to the muddy road that led to Jolene’s mobile home and pulled off into the weeds. I took out the duct tape, dropped the roll around the handle of the sledgehammer, and went the rest of the way on foot.

I took my time, stopping every few moments to listen and look around. When I got to the clearing, I slipped behind a tree, pulled out my replica Desert Eagle handgun, and peered around the edge of the trunk.

Everything was exactly like it was the day before. Even the Lumina was parked in the same spot. The only sound I heard was the half-open front door of the mobile home creaking in the breeze.

My guess was that they were still asleep, and that Arlo accidentally left the door open when he crept back in after fire-bombing the Sno-Inn.

And now he was sleeping soundly, convinced his troubles were over. He was about to find out how wrong he was. Harvey Mapes was ready for payback.

I was light-headed with excitement, my heart pounding. This was the most exciting thing I’d ever done. And the most dangerous. But I had surprise on my side.

The front door was open, so I wouldn’t need the sledgehammer. I left it by the tree, took the duct tape, and made a break for one of the stripped cars. I waited a moment, then went forward a few yards to the discarded couch.

And so I went, from tree to junked car to picnic table, slowly working my way closer, copying moves I saw Don Johnson use a thousand times on “Miami Vice.” I dashed and I spun and I crouched my way to the mobile home and up the steps to the door. I flattened myself against the wall and tried to catch my breath.

This was the big moment. Time to burst in and take Arlo Pelz down. I’d force Jolene at gunpoint to bind Arlo’s wrists with the duct tape and then I’d lead him away. I’d do that bit I’d planned earlier, where I’d threaten to execute him unless he talked, and then once he told me everything he knew about Lauren, about the drugs and whatever else, I’d deliver him to the police, where he’d be charged with attempted murder, blackmail, and extortion. Lauren would be avenged and I’d be well on my way to a successful career as a private detective.

All I had to do was step through that door, where Arlo could be waiting with a sawed-off shotgun to blow me in half.

That wasn’t going to happen, I assured myself. Arlo thought I was dead. He wasn’t expecting any more trouble.

Unless he heard me drive up. Unless he saw my ridiculous Don Johnson dance across the clearing. Unless he knew I was standing right outside his door.

My mouth was dry, my body was covered with sweat, and, much to my surprise, I was hard. I looked down and I could see my erection, poking against my pants.

It had to be the adrenaline, because I certainly wasn’t horny, so thinking about grilled cheese sandwiches and dog shit and Roseanne wouldn’t make this untimely tumescence go away. I didn’t want to stand there and wait for the adrenaline rush to go, because I needed it to overcome my fear and insecurity. I had to go in, hard-on or not.

But did I really want to confront Arlo with a big boner? How could he take me seriously with that poking out?

Because, I told myself, you’ll be holding a big, fucking gun.

A toy gun, I countered.

Yes, I agreed, but he doesn’t know that.

I decided I had a good point. Fuck the boner. It’s not like I’d wet myself. The hard-on simply meant I was surging with manhood. Dangerous manhood.

Maybe it would scare him. Maybe it would make him think I got off on the violence. And if it didn’t, I could always pistol-whip the son-of-a-bitch. God knows he deserved it.

I took a deep breath.

I eased open the door with the toe of my muddy shoe and spun into the room in a firing stance, my toy gun and my stiff penis aimed directly at Jolene’s corpse.

Chapter Nineteen

Somebody had shoved Jolene’s head through the big-screen TV, slashing her neck open on the jagged, broken glass. There was blood everywhere, only now it was no longer red, but black and flaky.

She was still wearing her bathrobe, which was now drenched in the shit and piss she expelled when she died, which also accounted for the horrible smell that suddenly hit me and the fat horseflies that buzzed around the room.

I started to gag and, without even bothering to check if I was alone, I ran into the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. I kept gagging until there was absolutely nothing left inside me and I was hugging myself in agony, my cheek resting against the rim of the toilet.

My ribs felt as if they’d splintered apart, sending shards of bone ricocheting into my internal organs. The pain was so bad I thought I was going to faint, my face in the toilet.

But in a few minutes, the worst of the pain ebbed, and I reached out to the sink for support and staggered to my feet. I ran some cold water and splashed my face to revive myself. At least my hard-on was gone, and I feared it might never return.

I stood very still.

I could hear the flies buzzing around and the front door creaking.

I was alone. Except that outside the bathroom, and three steps down the hall, there was a corpse in the living room. A woman I knew, who was alive and talking and drinking coffee just twenty-four hours ago, was dead because of me.

No, murdered, because of me.

If she hadn’t met Harvey Mapes, she’d be alive. She wouldn’t be sticking out of a TV set, her body rotting in her own blood, shit, and piss.

The thought made me gag again, and I hunched over the sink, my mouth wide open, but there was nothing left to heave, except maybe what was left of my rib cage.

This was a nightmare. I’d been hired to follow a cheating wife. That’s it. Now I was in a mobile home in Snohomish, Washington, with a corpse. This was the life of adventure I’d always wanted but I never thought it would feel, look, or smell like this.

I straightened up, looked at my reflection in the mirror, and ordered myself to leave the bathroom. I couldn’t stay here, as much as I wanted to. I couldn’t hide from what was in the living room. It had happened. Now I had to deal with it. Coolly. Calmly. Professionally.