In Dark Places

Chapter Thirty-one

Gray knew he had to ditch the Saab and the stolen clothes if he wanted to keep a low profile. And right now, going lo-pro was the only way to go. He was a big dog, a major violator, armed and dangerous, and the local lawmen would be getting their shit hot over him in a major way. Every swinging dick in a blue uniform would be gunning for his ass.

In the mid-Wilshire district he found a thrift shop, a ratty little place that looked like it had been going out of business for the past twenty years. He browsed the store, picking out tan pants, a brown shirt, and a denim jacket that fit him, paying with cash he'd taken from the doc's purse. The local news was airing on a black-and-white TV set behind the counter, but there was no mention of his escape.

In an alley he changed clothes, discarding the deputy's pants and the doc's jacket in a trash bin, along with his yellow jumpsuit.

So far, so good. He'd gotten his mojo back. Now for a new beast to thrash around in.

He cruised the streets, staying within the speed limit, stopping at yellow lights. The last thing he needed was a traffic citation. Ordinarily he wouldn't give a shit about the patrol fairies who worked traffic detail, doing drunk stops and cutting tickets, but today he had to play it smart.

Not far from the thrift shop, he found a parking garage, where he abandoned the Saab in favor of a Firebird owned by some weak motherfucker who was stupid enough to leave the passenger door unlocked. The car was an old bucket, nothing special, but that was okay, because the newer ones were harder to steal.

He slipped into the car and checked to see if the owner had left the keys under the floor mat or behind the visor. No such luck. Didn't matter. It was all good.

He shoved the two front seats farther backwhoever drove this dune buggy was a midgetthen slid into the passenger seat and braced his shoes against the driver's door. He wrested the steering wheel toward him as hard as possible and heard the crack of the steering lock.

Back in the driver's seat, he used his screwdriver to pry off the plastic cowling around the ignition keyhole. Inside the exposed hole were a half dozen multicolored wires. He pressed them together at random. The battery and ignition feeds connected, turning on the dashboard ignition lights. He touched the remaining wires to the two feeds until the engine turned over, then put the Firebird in gear and rolled.

In the glove compartment he found the parking stub. Nice of the dude to leave it for him. Gray paid the fee on his way out. The attendant never even looked at him. Real good security they had here.

The car had 92,000 miles on the odometer, but it handled fine, and nobody would be looking for him behind the wheel of a Firebird. There was only a tape player, not a CD deck, but the owner's taste in tunes was a lot better than Dr. Robin's. The cassette in the slot was Eminem. Gray cranked the volume.

He motored aimlessly, favoring side streets, watching the parked cars. On the outskirts of Inglewood he caught sight of another Firebird, blue like the one he'd boosted. The car sat at a curb in a neighborhood so empty of life that it might have been the set of one of those post-Armageddon movies where people were always getting into brawls over the last drum of gasoline or the last tin of pork 'n' beans. Gray parked behind the other car and got out. Using the screwdriver, he quickly swapped plates, then drove off, whistling.

Now even if the stolen Firebird was linked to him, the cops would be on the lookout for a car with a different license number. And if some patrol faggots happened to give the car he was driving the evil eye, the plates would run clean.

He'd got his swerve on, all right. He was staying cool, handling everything nice and smooth.

Now he needed to quarterback his next moves.

First things first. He needed more benjamins. There wasn't much cash in the doc's wallet, and he'd already spent some of it. He couldn't use her plastictoo easy to trace-so he'd have to jack some asshole at an ATM. Once he got paid, find a crib.

After that amp; well, shit, he'd been in stir a year. Had himself a major love jones. It was time to knock off a piece of ass. Find himself a booty house or some boulevard gash and do some serious pipe cleaning.

Wouldn't hurt to change his appearance, too. Dye his hair or shave himself bald or maybe grow one of those pussy goatees. Wear long-sleeved shirts to cover the tats on his arms.

Then lay low for a few days before beating feet out of town and starting over again in Seattle or Las Vegassomeplace big and growing, where a new arrival wouldn't stand out.

One thing was for goddamned certain: He wasn't going back to the joint. He was out, and he would stay out. Play it right, and he could keep going for years, moving from town to town, state to state. Before he was through, this whole country was gonna bow down to him.

By now it was nearly six o'clock. His escape must be all over the news. He ejected the Eminem cassette and dialed the radio to KFWB.

He was the top story. "I'm the man!" he yelled.

And they used his whole name, Justin Hanover Gray. He loved that. Three names, like fucking royalty. That was how the news reports always referred to him. He wished they'd given him a nickname, some kick-ass moniker like they gave that Ramirez guythe Night Stalker, they called him. But he guessed they didn't do that shit no more. There'd been so goddamn many serial killers, all the good names had been taken. Maybe if he'd done something more creative with his girlscarved them up or somethinghe might've gotten a nickname. The LA Butcher. The Death Dealer. The Bitch Snuffer.

"Bitch Snuffer." He laughed aloud at that one. He was feeling very damn good.

Then he heard the details of the report, and his warm glow faded.

They were saying he'd attacked a psychiatrist who was working with him. That he'd killed a deputy. And that he had kidnapped the psychiatrist's teenage daughter.

Meg? They thought he had Meg?

Even the boys in blue couldn't get their facts that fucked up. It had to be some kind of game they were playing, some way to mess with his head. He couldn't see the point, but one thing was for surethe doc was part of it. Her and the cops were spreading a bunch of bullshit about him, making him out to be a cop killer, which he wasn't, and a kidnapper, which he also wasn'tat least, not this time.

"Doc Robin's lying," he whispered. "Fuckin' lying about me."

The report was rebroadcast as he kept driving. He flipped to other stations, but the story never varied.

He was majorly vexed. Here he'd been feeling so fine, and then this shit had to come on the radio and harsh his mellow. Now he really wished he'd sliced her when he had the opportunity.

Here he'd gone out of his way to be civilized, to be a fucking gentleman, and she goes and starts screwing with him, making up shit. He didn't mind sucking heat for stuff he'd done, but he'd be goddamned if he had to take the rap for stuff he had nothing to do with.

"Motherfucker," he said. He repeated the word every few seconds, feeling angrier each time.

What he needed was a drink. He stopped at a liquor store and bought a six-pack of Coronas, cracked a brew, and drove on, thinking about Dr. Robin Cameron and her bitch daughter and what he'd like to do to them both.