The satchel was Cray’s tool kit.
And it would incriminate him.
Burglar’s tools for breaking and entering. Chloroform for carrying out a silent abduction. Duct tape to bind the victim.
She dug deeper and found a spare clip for that pistol of his, the Gock, Crock, whatever it was called.
Had he shot Sharon Andrews with the pistol? If so, the cartridges in this clip were probably of the same caliber and design as the two slugs found in her body.
There was one more item, at the very bottom of the sack. A leather sheath. And in it, a knife.
She cupped the sheath in the palm of her hand and lifted it. Spots of discoloration freckled the careworn leather, spots that were brown and black and rust-colored. Some were dirt, and some were blood.
Sharon Andrews’ blood? Almost surely.
Cray had used this knife to — well, she knew what he’d used it for.
Seaweed in the tide. Green and limp.
A woman’s face.
She almost dropped the knife in a spasm of repugnance.
“You okay?” Wallace Zepeda asked over the music.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
She was. Really.
Because she had Cray now. She had him.
All she needed to do was get the whole package to the police — Cray’s tools and, with them, his damn car key. The key would link the satchel to him almost as effectively as a fingerprint.
The cops must receive dozen of anonymous tips, but this was one tip they couldn’t ignore.
And let Cray tell any smooth lie he liked. It wouldn’t matter. He was finished, the murdering bastard.
Her hands were shaking as she knotted the satchel’s drawstring clasp.
When she looked up, she was surprised to see that the Rambler was heading west on Silverlake Road, and her motel was dead ahead.
“It’s there,” she said, pointing.
Zepeda pulled into the parking lot and turned off the cassette. He cast a sour gaze on the ramshackle building and the nearby freeway.
“Great place. You find out about it in the Triple-A guide?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Not exactly. Look, I really want to thank you—”
“Forget it. I don’t want your gratitude. I just want your attention for a moment.”
“I’m kind of in a hurry.”
“You’ve got time for some old Indian wisdom, don’t you?”
“Sure. I’m sorry. Of course I do.”
“Then here goes. You’re in some deep shit, lady. You can’t handle it alone. You need to get some help, or the next person who finds you in the desert will be looking at a corpse.”
She was shocked for a moment, and then she had to smile. “That’s old Indian wisdom?”
“It’s wise enough. And I am one old fucking Indian.”
“I’m going to get help, Mr. Zepeda.”
“You wouldn’t be selling me a string of beads, would you, Paula?”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Okay, then. Get some rest. And find yourself some damn shoes.”
He let her out and watched her as she hurried to her room and went quickly inside. He noticed that she hadn’t needed a key; the door had been left unlocked.
Unlocked — in this neighborhood.
It was just another thing Wallace Zepeda didn’t want to think about as he drove away, Creedence loud over the speakers, the sun a haze of glare in the red east.
15
Cray was heading south on Interstate 10, two miles past downtown Tucson, when his glance strayed to the floor of the passenger seat and he realized that it was empty.
Kaylie’s purse had been there. She had taken it, of course. That didn’t matter.
But the satchel did.
He had forgotten it entirely. Exhaustion and anger had fogged his mind.
She had carried off his little black bag, perhaps without even knowing what it was. But she would know before long. She would look inside, paw through the satchel’s contents. She would find the knife.
Cray had cleaned the knife after each kill, but he knew that microscopic traces of blood could still be found on it, perhaps in the narrow crevice where the blade met the hilt.
Sharon Andrews’ blood. And the blood of others.
The knife posed the worst threat to him, but the other items were incriminating as well. Once in the possession of the police, the bag’s contents would fairly scream his guilt.
“God damn her,” he said with sudden violence. “God damn that meddlesome girl to hell.”
He took the next exit and doubled back toward town, driving fast. There might not be much time.
Elizabeth spent less than two minutes in the motel room, long enough to put on her shoes and collect her two suitcases.
Before leaving, she entered the bathroom, switching on the vanity lights over the counter. The sink was old and yellowed with deposits of chemical residue, and there was hair, not her own, in the drain.
She cupped her hands under the lukewarm stream from the tap and splashed her face, wanting to feel clean.
When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw sky-blue eyes and a pale, freckled complexion. She found the strength for a smile. “Still here,” she said aloud.
Cray had wanted to wipe her out. He had failed. Now he would pay the price.
She loaded her luggage into the Chevette, then remembered her gun. Cray had said he pitched it into the brush outside the motel.
She spent a few minutes combing the weeds before conceding that the gun was lost. It could be anywhere within the dense foliage. She would need hours to perform a thorough search, and even then, finding the gun would be largely a matter of luck.
Well, maybe she wouldn’t need it. Maybe her role in all this was almost done.
The hope buoyed her as she hurried to the front office, fishing the room key from her purse.
The clerk was watching an adult video on a portable TV with a built-in VCR. He glanced at her and asked perfunctorily, “Room okay?”
“Fantastic.”
He heard sarcasm and shrugged. “For nineteen a night, whatchoo expect? The Ritz friggin’ Carlton?”
On the TV, a nude woman with breasts like water balloons was urgently requesting, “More.”
Elizabeth was at the door when the clerk said, “Hey, wait a sec. You see anybody funny hanging ‘round here last night?”
“Funny?” There was nothing funny about John Cray. “No.”
“Kids, maybe? Troublemakers?”
“I didn’t. Why?”
“Some shithead busted inna our storage closet, is why. Didn’t take nothing, but they fucked up a goddamn expensive padlock. Broke it all in pieces.”
“Broke it?”
“Like it was glass. I don’t know how the hell they pulled that off.”
She thought of the cold stream hissing from the canister’s nozzle. Cold enough to freeze a padlock solid and render it vulnerable to a shattering blow.
“Me neither,” she said. “You call the police?”
“Cops?” The clerk pantomimed spitting. “All them assholes do is hassle me. You know?”
“I know. Well, good luck.”
She was glad the crime would go unreported. She didn’t want the police somehow connecting the break-in with Cray, then tying him to her.
The police. She really was going to contact them. The thought seemed strange, unreal, after so many years of evading every patrol car, every blue uniform.
Although it was only a few minutes past seven o’clock, already the morning was warm. The Chevette, unprotected from the sun, baked her as she cranked the engine. The car was equipped with air-conditioning, but that particular feature had never worked. She rolled down the window and tried to breathe.