Night-World Read Online Free Page B

did promise to stay there until they arrived.
    Of course she had no intention of staying; she’d made up her mind before placing the call. Once the authorities were notified, it was their problem. What had Bruce said about the service—do your duty, stay in line, and never volunteer? Well, she’d done her duty and now it was up to them. She couldn’t afford to stay because staying would mean getting involved. And involving Bruce. Not with his record and case history!
    So she hung up on them in mid-sentence and walked back over to the car and climbed in, certain that by the time anyone reached the station she’d be too far away to find.
    What she didn’t anticipate was that she wouldn’t be able to start the car.
    It wasn’t the gas or the carburetor or the engine. The problem was simply that her fingers trembled so she couldn’t turn the key in the ignition. Karen sat there quite calmly, completely self-possessed except for the fact that she was shaking uncontrollably. There was no sensation at all, only a numbness. You’re in shock, she told herself.
    If she could sob, if she could scream, then perhaps movement would be possible. But there was only the ceaseless shuddering when she fumbled with the key; the shuddering which evoked images of Griswold’s body, throbbing and pulsing. When she glanced up at the rearview mirror she could see his corpse-eyes staring out at her.
    Karen closed her own eyes, clenched her hands together in her lap, and shook.
    She was still sitting there when the patrol car came flashing out of the fog.
    There were three men in the car, and Sergeant Cole was very polite and soft-spoken, waiting patiently until she managed to open her purse and produce her driver’s license. She still couldn’t control her fingers completely, but oddly enough her voice was firm. At first she flatly refused to accompany them back to the rest home, but Sergeant Cole said he’d have one of his men drive her in her own car, and no, she wouldn’t have to look at the bodies.
    The officer who drove Karen to the sanatorium was a squat, burly middle-aged man named Montoya. His younger and slimmer companion, Hyams, rode beside her in the back seat.
    Karen hadn’t expected a double escort, and at first she was a bit confused, until she realized it was a precautionary measure. The thought hit hard, jarring her out of one sort of shock and into another.
    She was a suspect.
    Karen tensed, shifting uneasily in her seat, waiting for one of her companions to break the silence, to start asking questions.
    But there were no questions. Montoya chewed gum and concentrated on the road ahead, following closely behind the patrol car in the fog. Hyams seemed to be relaxing beside her, half-asleep. It was only when she reached into her purse for a handkerchief that his hand dropped instantly to the seat, only inches away from the revolver butt protruding from his holster. Karen caught his eyes and he smiled, but the hand stayed there for the remainder of the drive.
    And when at last they parked in the driveway before the big house, Hyams continued to sit beside her.
    “Wait here,” Cole told him, when he climbed out of the patrol car. He nodded at Montoya. “Let’s go.”
    The front door was ajar—Karen realized for the first time that she hadn’t closed it on her way out—and the two men disappeared inside. Karen stared after them, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. Hyams said nothing, but she was conscious that his eyes were following her movements.
    It seemed like a long time before Sergeant Cole came out of the house again. But when he did he was moving quickly, legs scissoring a path to the patrol car. Opening the door, Cole slid across the front seat and a moment later Karen could hear the crackle of the squawk box. She couldn’t catch what he was saying, but the message was a lengthy one. She wondered if he’d located any of the other staff members or patients, and if so, what he had learned.
    Finally