Rage Against the Dying Read online

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  For Frederick J. Masterman, my husband and writing partner, finally

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  From his idling van atop the Golder Ranch Road bridge, Gerald Peasil examined his next girlfriend. With his elbow leaning out the open window, and his face resting on his forearm, the slide of his lips back and forth on the hair of his arm aroused him a little, that and the salty sour odor of his skin. No hurry to introduce himself. Savoring the anticipation of meeting was part of the thrill

  The little woman would have been poking among the rocks in the dry riverbed below, too busy to spot him. She didn’t have all the qualities that her picture promised. Sure, wisps of gray hair snuck out from under her khaki canvas hat, and she leaned on her walking stick whenever she stopped to examine a rock, but her body was so erect she could almost pass for hot.

  The idea of a hot granny frightened Gerald a little, but no matter. It had probably been a lifetime since she got any, and she’d welcome the attention of a younger man. With his free hand Gerald rearranged himself through his thin nylon workout shorts and thought about his own mother. Mom used to grab him there really hard to discourage him from touching himself, until he got big enough to smack her across the chest with her prize Amway skillet. Dad thought that was pretty funny, only told him he should pick on someone his own size. But anybody telling Gerald not to touch himself from then on was asking to swallow their own teeth.

  Gerald turned the van left at the end of the bridge and eased down the steep hill that stopped at the edge of the dry riverbed, what they called a wash here. He paused again and looked up and down the wide expanse of sand that was the color of wet concrete.

  It was mid-August hot and not a dry heat by any standard. The summer monsoons had pummeled the desert in the last couple of days, so the usually dry sand showed dark rivulets where the rain saturated the ground. Another storm like the one last night, especially in the Catalina Mountains to the east where the river started, and the wash would fill with water, would “run.”

  But today you could walk in the riverbed, as the woman was. While Gerald watched, she shifted her exploration to underneath the bridge and faded from his sight. He was unconcerned; she couldn’t see him either and that gave him all the time he needed to plan what he would do next, and next, and after that.

  Gerald put the van in gear and turned at the end of the bridge down the dirt road that led to the very edge of the wash. He stopped just before the packed dirt became tractionless river sand and maneuvered a careful three-point turn so he faced back up the hill. That way the back of the van was open to the wash for ease of loading, and, if they had unexpected company, he’d be able to get the hell away. He didn’t worry about whether she could hear the engine. A second dirt road that ran along the side of the river meant other cars sometimes came this way, so she wouldn’t be alarmed at the sound of his. Besides, she was likely hard of hearing. At that thought Gerald blew a little puff of air out his nose, in a kind of laugh.

  He jerked up the emergency brake, got out, and made sure the blue plastic shower curtain was smoothed out on the floor of the van and the restraining straps within easy reach. He picked up a set of pliers that had fallen from their niche on the side of the van. A place for everything and everything in its place. When he had tidied up and made his preparations, from a small box he pulled a roll of duct tape and yanked off a six-inch piece that he stuck lightly on the front of his sleeveless T-shirt so it would be at hand when needed. Then he pushed the doors shut but didn’t close them altogether.

  Gerald stopped once more to check out the hillsides on either side of the wash. Just a few prefab houses clinging to the side of the hill. Sweet location, from a made-to-order wet dream. There wouldn’t be the fuss there was sometimes getting them into the van. He fingered the square piece of foil attached to a string around his neck and stuffed it down under his shirt.

  His rubber flip-flops skidded on the fine gravel covering the slope into the wash, but he recovered. Tucking an oily strand of hair behind his ear and adjusting himself one more time made him feel presentable enough to approach his date.

  The woman appeared not to notice him as she picked up rock after rock with her bulky garden gloves, examined them, threw some away and put others in a dusty olive green backpack resting on a larger stone. That was a good sign, her ignoring him. You could tell they were a little fearful if they didn’t look at you. Fear was a good sign.

  As he watched she bent down and one-handed a rock that looked to be about five pounds. Did a couple curls with it. Maybe not so old after all?

  But then he got closer and saw that, yes, this was the one he was looking for, and she was ripe. Face not wrinkled, but lined a little with the dryness of the desert, and a trace of softness along the edge of her jaw. Gerald sucked in a sudden breath as he thought about running his nose over that jaw. Freckles sprinkled the part of her chest that showed above the neckline of her T-shirt. So thin and frail he wondered if her hips might break when she spread her legs. Fantasies of cracking bones aroused him again. She took off her hat and wiped her face with it. The hair that looked gray on first sighting from the bridge glowed white in the mid-morning sun.

  The reflection of the sun in her hair made Gerald think about how goddamn hot it was. At least a hundred and five, maybe more. More humid than usual, too. You could almost feel steam rising off the wet sand. His head itched and he scratched it, picking the residue from under his nails as he picked his way through the hardening mush of the riverbed.

  A trickle of sweat ran down his inner thigh, matching a sheen of moisture where the woman’s denim shirt formed a V between her cushiony breasts. Ten degrees less would make this a whole lot more comfortable. Most guys of his persuasion did their work at night, but when your specialty was older broads
you had to take advantage when the opportunity arose. All the older ones had been to the early bird special and were in bed by the time darkness fell.

  His thoughts for a moment took him far away from the wash, to other sites and other women. Returning, Gerald was surprised to discover the woman looking at him. No “hi,” no friendly wave, just observing him with an unblinking gaze. Her left hand that held the stone paused in mid-curl. She was so still she creeped him out, made him want to back away, to nix the deal. But then he remembered there was more than just satisfaction at stake here.

  “Hiya,” he said. The urge to tug on his balls was unbearable but he knew it could be off-putting in a new relationship.

  “Hello.” Her rich, elderly vibrato made him swell. Hers was an odd voice, not high and airy like most old ladies, but almost as deep and strong as a man’s. She looked down briefly at the boner pushing up from underneath his shorts. Her head jerked involuntarily, and gave a little tremble. Maybe she hadn’t seen a hard-on for a long time. Maybe she was excited.

  “You okay down here?” Gerald asked. Back and forth in the sand he bent the rubber edge of his flip-flop, casually, to show he was relaxed, to put her off guard until he could get closer.

  Her eyes crept to the right and left of him, scanning the mesquite trees on the side of the wash with the intensity of prayer. She started to speak, coughed once, unsuccessfully, but managed to croak, “Fine.” In the sand her walking stick swizzled nervously.

  “It’s a hot day and it’s noon,” Gerald said. “You could get dehydrated before you know it, and no one around.” With that he took a step closer, not directly but a little to the right like a coyote side-stepping to figure out the best approach to his prey.

  The woman didn’t deny she was alone. “I’ve got water in the bag.” She indicated the backpack nearby, then turned her head to look at the bridge above and behind her, at a single car going over and going gone. Funny how most of them never screamed for help, like they’d rather be dead than embarrassed if they turned out to be wrong. She turned back to him, startled, as if afraid she’d looked away too long. “I want to get back to my rock hounding. Please.”

  “What’s with the rocks?” Gerald asked, shaking his head, taking a step closer, a little to the left this time.

  “I like rocks.”

  “Are you a—what do you call it—”

  “Geologist?” The woman asked. She was very still again. You could almost imagine her tongue where it stopped after hitting the t sound.

  Step closer, little to the right. “Yeah, a geologist,” he said.

  “No … please, lea—” she stopped in mid-word, as if knowing that begging Gerald to go would make what was happening to her too real. As if it would rub her face in her own vulnerability.

  “Well, that’s good.” Gerald wasn’t much for small talk. He had kept angling toward her while they spoke, right and left, like the rivulets in the sand, so she wouldn’t get scared and bolt. Sometimes even the ripe ones could give him a run for his money, and it was too hot to chase her.

  But standing flat-footed, alert yet indecisive, gripping her walking stick, this one let him come within about four feet. Her steadiness made Gerald falter again. Then he remembered hearing about people being paralyzed by fear. She looked like that. Maybe he’d just pick her up under his arm like a stiff cardboard cutout and carry her back to the van that way. He puffed another laugh. Later, when he had her secured, he’d have to tell her that one.

  The hand that held the rock suddenly shifted, getting a firmer grip.

  “That looks heavy,” Gerald said. “Let me help you with that.”

  “No,” she drew out the word, made it sound a lot like please.

  He was near enough now. Fast as a nightmare Gerald closed the gap between them and knocked the rock from her hand so she couldn’t drop it on his foot. He took a few steps back again to gauge the effect.

  Still unmoving, she might as well have been another rock for all the reaction she had. This wouldn’t be any fun if she didn’t get scared. Was she some kind of retard? Gerald licked his lips. He’d never done a retard before. Maybe a more direct message was necessary. He tugged on the string around his neck to raise up the foil-wrapped condom attached to it. Not like he needed a condom—there would be no evidence to be found—it was just to make them think he wasn’t going to hurt them. The woman studied the little package resting on the outside of his T-shirt.

  Maybe now she understood.

  The woman’s eyes widened.

  “Why?” she said, fear now taking up what he knew would become permanent residence on her face.

  Gerald only grunted with his final dash forward and the effort of grabbing her arm by the wrist and wrenching it behind her back. With his other hand he tore the duct tape from his shirt and clamped it over her mouth.

  The woman flailed ineffectively at him with her walking stick, really just a dowel of the kind you got at Home Depot, not much heavier than balsa wood. When she did connect with his hip, the stick swinging behind her, he could hardly feel it. He knew the fifty feet or so to the van was the most dangerous time. If a car went by, and if the person happened to look, they would see struggle. But she was small, and weaker than he thought when he saw her lifting the rock. The most she could do was drag her feet, which she did mightily. Gerald punched at the back of her knees with his own to buckle her, and that made the rest of the way go faster.

  One more sharp knee to her backside and into the van she went, messing up the shower curtain. He could tell she noticed the dried blood underneath it. The duct tape kept her from screaming as she tried to get very small against the back wall. That gave Gerald a moment to close the doors to the van, to get her secured before taking them both to his place near San Manuel, about a forty-five-minute drive north.

  Now that they were safe in the van, the woman cowering and so in shock she didn’t realize her hands were free to pull off the tape, Gerald took a more leisurely look at her. The canvas hat had been left in the wash, and the wisps of pale hair he had spotted were falling among thick white waves almost to her shoulders. The only sound for a moment in the van was her noisy breathing. Somehow she had kept a hold on the dowel, and pointed it at Gerald, not knowing it was about as threatening as a chopstick. He held out his hand, palm up, kept his eyes on hers.

  “Give me the stick. Come on, sweetheart. Give me the stick. I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to come in out of the sun. Talk about rocks.” Gerald puffed a laugh and grabbed at the stick, then sucked his breath back again. A sharp sting on the palm of his hand made him release the stick. He gazed in surprise at a gash that ran from the bottom of his index finger to the top of his wrist. As he watched, blood seeped up through the cut. What had caused that? His blood had no connection to what he imagined happening in the van. He struggled to put the blood in context and then saw that it wasn’t just a dowel she held. It was a dowel with a blade attached to the end, a blade that formed a triangle with a razor on one side and a point at the end.

  He saw the blood before he felt the real pain, and felt the pain before he felt the rage when the woman ripped the duct tape halfway off her mouth and the exposed side grimaced.

  * * *

  She was thinking. In the shaved moment while she watched the pain reach his consciousness, watched him process the absurdity of an attack by a woman who two minutes ago had been immobilized with fear, watched the rage flash in anticipation of his own counterattack, she was thinking.

  The dried blood on the floor of the van confirmed she wasn’t his first. There were bodies hidden somewhere. She was in a unique position to confirm that without the legal strictures of interrogation and defense counsel. But he was stronger than she had originally judged, and it had been a long while since she had moved in these ways. A little less strong, reaction time a little slower, she was out of practice, and the confines of the van limited her options more than she had foreseen. She should not have let him get her into the van; that was an
error in judgment.

  Things may have already gone too far, but no time to think about that now. For now she felt her forty years of conditioning kick into fight or …

  That was it, fight. There was nowhere to run.

  One

  Ten days earlier …

  I’ve sometimes regretted the women I’ve been.

  There have been so many: daughter, sister, cop, tough broad, several kinds of whore, jilted lover, ideal wife, heroine, killer. I’ll provide the truth of them all, inasmuch as I’m capable of telling the truth. Keeping secrets, telling lies, they require the same skill. Both become a habit, almost an addiction, that’s hard to break even with the people closest to you, out of the business. For example, they say never trust a woman who tells you her age; if she can’t keep that secret, she can’t keep yours.

  I’m fifty-nine.

  When I joined the FBI there weren’t many female special agents and the Bureau took advantage of that. A five-foot-three-inch natural blond with a preteen cheerleader’s body comes in handy for many investigations, so they were willing to waive the height requirement. For a good chunk of my career I worked undercover, mostly acting as bait for human traffickers and sexual predators crossing state or international lines.

  I did the undercover work for nine years. That’s about five years longer than usual before agents burn out or lose their families. Because I never married or had children I might have done more time if it hadn’t been for the accident that necessitated fusing several vertebrae. It could have been worse; you should have seen what happened to the horse.

  The surgery made problematic many job requirements—leaping across rooftops … dodging knife thrusts … lap dancing. I could have taken disability but couldn’t see what life would look like outside the Bureau, so the second half of my career was spent in Investigations. Then I retired.

  No, that’s not the whole truth. Toward the end I was having a little difficulty making decisions. Specifically, a couple of years ago I killed an unarmed perp near Turnerville, Georgia. Contrary to what you see in movies, FBI special agents seldom use deadly force. It causes the Bureau embarrassment. Look at Waco, or Ruby Ridge. As for the agents, they’re not trusted so much anymore and the defense can use it against them in court, paint them as a rogue who might plant evidence or slant the facts to fit a case.