was to be expected, the amount of whiskey he drank. Heâd never heard that! What the hell did they know? Screw âem all, the medical profession didnât know no more than some jungle witch doctor, maybe a hell of a lot less.
Watching cops move in and out of the Getz house, and cop cars take off, he thought again about Lilly Jones. Strange, pale woman. He guessed she stayed on in the family house because she had nothing better. She didnât work, not that heâd heard. Maybe the parentsâd left some money when they died, or maybe Cage saw that she got by, so heâd have a place to come the times he was outâand a place to hide his stash. Had to be pretty well hidden for the feds not to find it. He wondered, uncomfortably, if Lilly knew.
But hell, Cage wouldnât have told her. And sheâd never figure it out. Woman was too dull. Hidebound. Spent half her time in churchâuntil that sister of hers was born. Then, Cageâd said once, Lillyâd stopped going to church. That one, the sister, even as a child, was just as pale and silent as Lilly. Even as a child, near as dried up. No more spirit than a sick chicken.
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Wilmaâs shoulder hurt badly, felt like it was swelling, getting tight against her shirt. Cage had twisted her arm sopainfully behind her, she wondered if heâd dislocated it. Sheâd fought him with little effect, and cursed herself for not staying in better shape. But Cage was built like an ape. Well, if she couldnât fight him, sheâd have to outwit him somehow.
How many dead women, in the last hour of their lives, had clung to that same futile hope? Imagining they would outsmart their abductor?
Sheâd blown it when sheâd let him slip up on her. How the hell did he get out of jail? What kind of scam had he pulled this time? It had been around four in the afternoon when she was grabbed from behind and shoved in the backseat of her car, where heâd jerked her down and tied her hands behind her, taped her ankles together. Sheâd wanted badly to ask him how heâd escaped; every time she tried to turn and face him, heâd shoved her down again. The prodding in her back had felt like a gun but could have been anything: flashlight, cigarette lighter, the blunt end of a screwdriver. She prayed he hadnât found her own gun, hadnât jimmied the glove compartment. She didnât dare try to look up over the backseat in that direction.
But now he had her keys, surely he would look. She could only hope he wouldnât want to be caught with her gun. She had managed to flip her credit card in the gutter, distracting Cage again so he wouldnât see it. Slashing at him sheâd cut her hand a little on the cardâs ragged corner. At least, with it folded, someone finding it might be less likely to use it. Maybe someone honest would find it, if it was found at all. Cage had then slapped three lengths of duct tape over her mouth. Sheâd waited sickly for the blindfold, but he hadnât put one on her. Did he mean to kill her before it would matter what she saw?
How had she ever supervised this man?
But heâd needed her then, needed her goodwill, needed her influence with the court. He didnât need her now, and he could let all the hate out.
She presumed that no pedestrian, no shopper had been near enough to see him throw her in the car. Heâd kept his back to the sidewalk while he tied her, his body hiding her. The tape was going to hurt like hell when it was ripped offâif she was alive when it was removed. If it is ever removed, she thought, fear escalating into panic.
There were two of them. The other man had slipped into the driverâs seat, shoving the seat back as far as it would go; it pressed hard against her legs. He was tall, thin shouldered, looked younger: smooth neck under longish brown hair. Tan T-shirt tight across his bony shoulders, dirty brown cotton cap pulled low.
Cage had