“He doesn’t grab his victims and kill them immediately. The Gentleman Caller has his routine,” I said to Kate. “He’s kept every one of the victims for a day. He likes to play. He won’t break away from the pattern.”
I believed that, but I didn’t know it for certain. Maybe Dr. Rudolph knew we were outside… maybe he wanted to get caught. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I remembered stalking the madman Gary Soneji/Murphy. It was hard not to rush the cabin. Take our chances right now. We might find physical evidence of other murders inside. Maybe the missing body parts were kept here. Maybe he did the actual killing here in Big Sur. Or maybe he was planning another kind of surprise for us. The drama was unfolding less than fifty yards away.
“I’m going to try to get in a little closer,” I finally said to Kate. “I have to see what’s happening in there.”
“I’m glad you said that,” Kate whispered.
The talk was cut short. A bloodcurdling scream came from the cabin. “Help! Help me! Somebody help me!” the blond woman screamed.
I ran at full speed for the closest door into the cabin. So did at least five men in dark blue windbreakers from the other side of the house. I spotted Asaro and Cosgrove among them.
FBI, the windbreakers read. Rain-slicker yellow on navy blue.
All hell was breaking loose in Big Sur. We were about to meet the Gentleman.
CHAPTER 70
I GOT THERE first, at least I think I did. I threw myself hard against the cabin’s wood-plank back door. It wouldn’t give. On the second try the frame splintered, and the door burst open with a wounded grunt. I charged into the cabin with my pistol drawn.
I could see across the small kitchen, and all the way down a narrow hallway that led into a bedroom. The blond woman from Nepenthe was naked, and curled sideways on an antique brass bed. Wildflowers had been thrown around her body. Her wrists were pinioned with handcuffs near the small of her back. She was in pain, but at least she was still alive. The Gentleman Caller wasn’t there.
From outside the cabin I heard a loud bark, the harsh sound of gunfire. At least half a dozen shots were fired in rapid succession, like a string of powerful firecrackers. “Jesus, don’t kill him!” I shouted as I ran from the cabin.
Complete chaos reigned in the woods! The Range Rover was already backing wildly from the driveway when I came out. Two of the FBI men were down on the ground. One was agent Ray Cosgrove. The others had opened fire on the Range Rover.
A side window exploded. Jagged holes opened in the Range Rover’s sheet metal. The off-road vehicle swerved sideways, its wheels spinning in the dirt and gravel.
“Don’t kill him!” I yelled again. No one even looked at me in the wild confusion of the moment.
I sprinted through the side woods, hoping to cut off Rudolph if he headed west, back toward Highway 1. I got there just as the Range Rover made a shrieking, skidding turn out onto the road. A gunshot blew out another side window. Great! The FBI was shooting at both of us now.
I grabbed the passenger side door and yanked hard at the handle. It was locked. Rudolph tried to accelerate, but I held on tightly. The Rove
r fishtailed, still caught in a swale of driveway gravel. That gave me time to grab the roof rack with my free hand. I pulled myself onto the roof.
Rudolph finally got the Rover onto the concrete roadway and accelerated. He floored the vehicle for seventy yards. Then he hit the brakes hard!
I was thinking ahead—that far ahead, anyway. My face was pressed tightly against the sheet metal, which was still warm from sitting in the sun at Nepenthe. My arms and legs were splayed out against the roof rack. I was wedged like a Samsonite all-nighter on the roof.
I wasn’t coming off there, not if I could help it. He had killed at least half a dozen women around Los Angeles, and I had to find out if Naomi was still alive. He knew Casanova, and he knew about Scootchie.
Rudolph floored the Range Rover again, and the engine roared through its gears as he tried to shake me loose. He was weaving all over the road.
Trees and ancient telephone poles zoomed past me in blurry, fast motion. The rushing pines, redwoods, and mountain vines were like the changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. A lot of the foliage was brownish-gray, prickly as vineyards in the Napa Valley. It was a strange perspective on the world.
I wasn’t exactly enjoying the scenery from my perch on the Range Rover. It took all of my strength to concentrate on hugging the roof.
Rudolph drove very fast along the winding narrow road, doing seventy or eighty where fifty was dangerous.
The FBI agents, what was left of them, hadn’t been able to catch up. How could they? They’d had to run back to their cars. They would be several minutes behind us.
Other cars passed us as we got closer to the Pacific Coast Highway. Drivers gave us the strangest looks. I wondered what Rudolph was thinking as he drove. He wasn’t trying to throw me off anymore. What options did he still have? In particular—what was he planning as his next move?
We were both temporarily in check. Somebody had to lose very big, and very soon, though. Will Rudolph had always been too clever to be caught. He wouldn’t expect to be stopped now. But how would he get out of this one?
I heard the noisy diesel chug of a VW van. I saw the rear end of the van coming fast. We passed it as if it were standing still.