He slowed down and pulled over to the shoulder so he could get a closer look at the car through his rearview. He was almost certain he had seen that car before—in the parking lot at Earl’s.
Of course. That was Tyrone’s car. But what was it doing on the side of the road?
Maybe Tyrone’d gotten tired of waiting for Ben. Understandable, but why would he come here? Why would he ever want to leave his car in this neighborhood?
Something screwy was going on. After making a quick check for traffic and cops, Ben made a U-turn. Slowing, he pulled up behind Tyrone’s car. There didn’t appear to be anyone inside.
Ben understood what people meant when they talked about their blood running cold. He felt as if ice floes were coursing just below his skin. He was getting goose bumps from head to toe. If he was smart, he realized, he’d start his car and get the hell out of there.
But Tyrone might be in trouble. And if they lost Tyrone, the D.A. would run over Earl with a steamroller.
Slowly, trying to stay alert for any sign of anything, Ben popped open his car door and stepped outside.
He hadn’t noticed until just that second how dark it was out here. He could see street lamps, but none of them were functioning. He heard a noise and his hand clenched down on the side of his car. It was a bird—a crow, he thought, though he was no expert on birds.
He walked up to Tyrone’s car and peered through the windows. Lots of cassette tapes, trash, and wadded wrappers from a variety of fast-food palaces. But there was no sign of Tyrone. Or anyone else, for that matter.
He tried the door; it opened. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the car; the door light came on and an annoying buzzing noise told him the keys were still in the ignition.
The keys? Did he want it to be stolen? Abandoning his car was incredible enough, but leaving it here, in the worst part of town, with the keys still in it? That was beyond incredible. That was something Tyrone simply wouldn’t have done. Unless he had no choice.
Ben didn’t know why exactly, but he knew he didn’t want to be here anymore. His knees were trembling; his palms were getting clammy and wet. He wanted out.
He returned to his own car. Just as he arrived at the driver’s-side door, he heard a sound he couldn’t possibly write off as a bird.
“Excuse me. Is that your car?”
Ben froze. His hands clutched the door handle. “Who are you?” He whirled around in the darkness. “Where are you?”
“I’m over here,” the voice replied.
Ben tried to keep his voice steady. “I can’t see you.”
“It’s dark.” Ben heard a crunching of gravel that told him that whoever and wherever the voice was, it was coming closer. “I repeat, is that your car?”
“No.” Ben squinted, scanning the darkness. “Are you a police officer?”
There was a soft chuckle. “Not hardly.” Ben heard a brief intake of air. “So why did you stop?”
Ben’s brain was racing. “I—I thought I recognized the car.”
“And did you?”
“No, it was a mistake. It just looked like my friend’s car.”
Ben heard more footsteps. A few feet in front of his van, he saw a dark silhouette emerge.
“A very distinctive automobile. Hard to mistake.”
“Yeah, well, I did.” Ben inched closer to his van. Had he locked the door? He couldn’t remember. He fumbled for the keys.
“Don’t run off,” the voice in the blackness urged.
Ben tried to grip the keys with his sweat-soaked fingers. “I have an appointment.” He slid the correct key into the lock and turned. There was no resistance; the door had not been locked.
He popped open the door. A seeming flood of light burst out of the cracked door, illuminating Ben’s face.
The other man’s voice cut through the darkness like a knife slicing through butter. “It’s you.”
Ben froze. He knew what that meant.
It was the man with the rug, the man at the club, the man Tyrone saw in the bathroom.
The man with the knife.
Ben jumped into the driver’s seat of the car and shoved his keys toward the ignition. He heard the crunching footsteps outside, closing fast. Ben switched on his headlights, bathing the area in front of the car with white light. The instant the lights came on, he saw a dark shadow just leaving the illuminated area. He was only a few feet away.
Ben grabbed the van door and pulled it to him, but not in time. The other man shoved his arm inside, preventing the door from closing. Ben continued to pull tightly on the door, clamping the man’s arm like a vise, holding him fast.
“Let go!” the man shouted. His voice was livid with rage.
“Think I’ll pass,” Ben muttered. Cautiously, holding the door tight with one hand, he used the other to fumble with his keys, trying to find the one that started the car.
“I said let go!” the man bellowed. An instant later, his loose fist came barreling toward the window. It crashed through the glass, shattering it, sending safety glass flying in all directions.
Ben turned his head and closed his eyes. He felt the glass rain down on his face, his hands, his body.
With the hand through the window, the other man clamped down on Ben’s throat and squeezed. His fingers were like steel, tightening by the second.
Ben felt the air rush out of his lungs. The man was choking him, crushing his windpipe. What could he do? He held one of the keys in his hand like a dagger and jabbed it down onto the man’s arm.
The man cried out. He released Ben’s throat, but an instant later, his fingers balled into a fist and jackhammered forward.
Ben’s head slammed back against the headrest with a thud. He felt blood trickling out of his nose.
His lids fluttered; the combination of having his air cut off followed by a sharp blow to the face had dazed him. Still grappling with the keys, he struggled to push them toward the ignition.
The man brought his fist around again and knocked the keys out of Ben’s hand. They tumbled onto the floor, disappearing into the black interior. “I have you now,” the man outside muttered. “Release my arm!”
“Whatever you say,” Ben gasped. He eased off the pressure, but a nanosecond after he did—and before the man had a chance to move—he pulled it back with all his might, crunching the man’s arm.
The man howled. He cried out even louder than before. “Son of a bitch!” he bellowed. “You are one dead fucking piano player.”
Ben tried to make him out, but all he could see were the arms, one trapped, the other grappling for his throat. The fist came at him again, this time banging into the side of his face.
The blow knocked Ben backward, pulling his arm off the door for an instant. It was enough. The man outside pulled his trapped arm free, then used both hands to yank the door wide open.
The hands Ben had struggled with so long shot into the van, one of them holding a long shimmering blade. “Your time has come,” the man growled, raising the knife into the air. “Put on a happy face.”
Chapter 32
BEN SAW THE BLADE coming toward him, but there was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do. His eyes darted around the van’s interior, searching for a weapon. He was trapped like a fox with the hounds circling, absolutely powerless to stop the inevitable.
“If you don’t struggle,” the man said, “I can end this quickly. If you fight me, I might draw it out for days. I might carve your smile several times, over and over again. While you’re still breathing.”
Ben tried to scramble out of the seat, but the man’s free hand clamped down hard on his shoulder.