HAPTER 47

In two hours, the list of white male employees twenty to fifty years old who owned vans was completed. There were twenty-six names on it.

Missouri DMV provided hair color from driver's-licence information, but it was not used as an exclusionary factor; the Dragon might wear a wig.

Fisk's secretary, Miss Trillman, made copies of the list and passed them around.

Lieutenant Fogel was going down the list of names when his beeper went off.

Fogel spoke to his headquarters briefly on the telephone, then put his hand over the receiver. "Mr. Crawford . . . Jack, one Ralph Mandy, white male, thirty-eight, was found shot to death a few minutes ago in University City - that's in the middle of town, close to Washington University - he was in the front yard of a house occupied by a woman named Reba McClane. The neighbors said she works for Baeder. Her door's unlocked, she's not home."

"Dandridge!" Crawford called. "Reba McClane, what about her?"

"She works in the darkroom. She's blind. She's from someplace in Colorado-"

"You know a Ralph Mandy?"

"Mandy?" Dandridge said. "Randy Mandy?"

"Ralph Mandy, he work here?"

A check of the roll showed he didn't.

"Coincidence maybe," Fogel said.

"Maybe," Crawford said.

"I hope nothing's happened to Reba," Miss Trillman said.

"You know her?" Graham said.

"I've talked with her several times."

"What about Mandy?"

"I don't know him. The only man I've seen her with, I saw her getting into Mr. Dolarhyde's van."

"Mr. Dolarhyde's van, Miss Trillman? What color is Mr. Dolarhyde's van?"

"Let's see. Dark brown, or maybe black."

"Where does Mr. Dolarhyde work?" Crawford asked.

"He's production supervisor," Fisk said.

"Where's his office?"

"Right down the hall."

Crawford turned to speak to Graham, hut he was already moving. Mr, Dolarhyde's office was locked. A passkey from Maintenance worked.

Graham reached in and flipped on the light. He stood still in the doorway while his eyes went over the room. It was extremely neat. No personal items were anywhere in sight. The bookshelf held only technical manuals.

The desk lamp was on the left side of the chair, so he was right-handed. Need a left thumbprint fast off a right-handed man.

"Let's toss it for a clipboard," he said to Crawford, behind him in the hall. "He'll use his left thumb on the clip."

They had started on the drawers when the desk appointment calendar caught Graham's eye. He flipped back through the scribbled pages to Saturday, June 28, the date of the Jacobi killings.

The calendar was unmarked on the Thursday and Friday before that weekend.

He flipped forward to the last week in July. The Thursday and Friday were blank. There was a note on Wednesday. It said: "Am 552 3:45 - 6:15."

Graham copied the entry. "I want to find out where this flight goes."

"Let me do it, you go ahead here," Crawford said. He went to a telephone across the hall.

Graham was looking at a tube of denture adhesive in the bottom desk drawer when Crawford called from the door.

"It goes to Atlanta, Will. Let's take him out."

CHAPTER 48

Water cold on Reba's face, running in her hair. Dizzy. Something hard under her, sloping. She turned her head. Wood under her. A cold wet towel wiped her face.

"Are you all right, Reba?" Dolarhyde's calm voice. She shied from the sound. "Uhhhh."

"Breathe deeply."

A minute passed.

"Do you think you can stand up? Try to stand up."

She could stand with his arm around her. Her stomach heaved. He waited until the spasm passed.

"Up the ramp. Do you remember where you are?"

She nodded.

"Take the key out of the door, Reba. Come inside. Now lock it and put the key around my neck. Hang it around my neck. Good. Let's just be sure it's locked."

She heard the knob rattle.

"That's good. Now go in the bedroom, you know the way." She stumbled and went down on her knees, her head bowed. He lifted her by the arms and supported her into the bedroom.

"Sit in this chair." She sat.

"GIVE HER TO ME NOW."

She struggled to rise; big hands on her shoulders held her down.

"Sit still or I can't keep Him off you," Dolarhyde said. Her mind was coming back. It didn't want to.

"Please try," she said.

"Reba, it's all over for me."

He was up, doing something. The odor of gasoline was very strong.

"Put out your hand. Feel this. Don't grab it, feel it."

She felt something like steel nostrils, slick inside. The muzzle of a gun.

"That's a shotgun, Reba. A twelve-gauge magnum. Do you know what it will do?"

She nodded.

"Take your hand down." The cold muzzle rested in the hollow of her throat.

"Reba, I wish I could have trusted you. I wanted to trust you." He sounded like he was crying.

"You felt so good."

He was crying.

"So did you, D. I love it. Please don't hurt me now."

"It's all over for me. I can't leave you to Him. You know what He'll do?"

Bawling now.

"Do you know what He'll do? He'll bite you to death. Better you go with me."

She heard a match struck, smelled sulfur, heard a whoosh. Heat in the room. Smoke. Fire. The thing she feared most in the world. Fire. Anything was better than that. She hoped the first shot killed her. She tensed her legs to run.

Blubbering.

"Oh, Reba, I can't stand to watch you burn."

The muzzle left her throat.

Both barrels of the shotgun went off at once as she came to her feet.

Ears numbed, she thought she was shot, thought she was dead, felt the heavy thump on the floor more than she heard it.

Smoke now and the crackle of flames. Fire. Fire brought her to herself. She felt heat on her arms and face. Out. She stepped on legs, stumbled choking into the foot of the bed.

Stoop low, they said, under the smoke. Don't run, you'll bump into things and die.

She was locked in. Locked in. Walking, stooping low, fingers trailing on the floor, she found legs - other end - she found hair, a hairy flap, put her hand in something soft below the hair. Only pulp, sharp bone splinters and a loose eye in it.

Key around his neck . . . hurry. Both hands on the chain, legs under her, snatch. The chain broke and she fell backward, scrambling up again. Turned around, confused. Trying to feel, trying to listen with her numbed ears over the crackle of the flames. Side of the bed . . . which side? She stumbled on the body, tried to listen.

BONG, BONG, the clock striking. BONG, BONG, into the living room, BONG, BONG, take a right.

Throat seared with smoke. BONG BONG. Door here. Under the knob. Don't drop it. Click the lock. Snatch it open. Air. Down the ramp. Air. Collapsed in the grass. Up again on hands and knees, crawling.

She came up on her knees to clap, picked up the house echo and crawled away from it, breathing deep until she could stand, walk, run until she hit something, run again.