Neon Prey (Lucas Davenport #29)(97)

Both the ankle and wrist were chafed and red with still-drying blood. Purplish dried blood from a bloodied lip covered her chin, and a cut on her cheekbone had trickled blood down into her ear. She had a black eye, the eyebrow crusty with yet more blood. And the room was infused with the smell of urine. Harrelson was naked, her clothes strewn on the floor. She’d managed to partly cover herself with a tattered cotton blanket.

She looked up at Cox and pleaded again, weakly, “Help me . . . Please help me . . .”

“I can’t,” Cox said. “They’d kill me.”

Harrelson bit at her lip and started to weep, and then said, “Give me some water? Please give me some water . . .”

“That I can do,” Cox said.

She went back to the refrigerator and got out a bottle of Dasani, carried it back to the bedroom, and handed it to Harrelson, who grabbed it with her free hand and drank the entire thing in a half dozen long gulps.

Cox waited until she was done, but when Harrelson said, “You’ve gotta . . .” Cox shook her head and walked away.

Harrelson continued calling out from the bedroom, but Cox dropped back on the couch and put her fingers in her ears until the calls stopped.


COX THEN SPENT a few moments contemplating her future. Not a promising one, she concluded. Cole and Deese both could place her at home invasions they had orchestrated, and those two, plus Gloria Harrelson and Ralph Deese, could testify that she was involved in a brutal kidnapping that had involved an even more brutal rape.

Cole, she thought, would take care of her as far as he could, but what would happen if they were all caught and the police offered to cut a deal with Cole for implicating her? There was a major difference between ten to fifteen years in prison and life, especially when you were Cole’s age, in your early thirties. After ten to fifteen behind bars, he’d still have a shot at a life when he got out.

Would they get caught? She closed her eyes and thought about it. Probably, she concluded. There were too many people chasing them and those people were smart and there were a lot of them. Deese, the cannibal, was a big deal for the cops. They might get away with it for a while, but sooner or later they’d be cornered. Especially if they stayed on the run with Deese.

Her mother had told her that she’d have to take care of herself, that nobody else would. And nobody had taken care of her mother, that was for sure. The woman was drinking herself to death while dating men who invariably beat her, an ugly race between liver failure and homicide.

She could go out and get in the car and take off, Cox thought. She had Beauchamps’s money, plus a few thousand dollars of her own, a little sack of gems, three Rolexes—a grand total of sixty or seventy thousand. Tempting.

But then there was Ralph with his shotgun. He was not likely to let her walk. She could probably work her way around that.

Eventually, she decided that running alone wasn’t the ticket. She needed Cole and his connections. With Cole, she could find a fence for the jewelry. And Cole knew how to disappear. She’d have to wait for them to get back.

When they came back, would Deese really share the money? Or would he try to kill them? That seemed as likely as not. The logic of the situation seemed to point only in one direction if she was going to get out alive.


RALPH DEESE came back, looked at her, said, “They oughta be in Vegas by now.”

She grunted, he nodded, then his eyes drifted back toward the bedroom. “Well,” he said. “Time for a little morning pussy. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

Deese headed for the back. He didn’t bother closing the door, and Cox heard him say, “How you doin’, cutie-pie?”

Through the open door she saw him take off his clothes, his erection bobbling around like a fishing pole below his flabby gut.

Clayton Deese, Cox thought, as the screams began again from the bedroom, was going to kill her, and then Cole, and then Gloria Harrelson, and probably Ralph as well. Harrelson was driving her crazy. The goddamn woman shouldn’t fight it, she should go with it. Screaming didn’t help. Not with the Deeses.

Fuck it, she thought. The Deeses didn’t give a shit about anybody—not Cole, not her, probably not each other.

She reached beneath the couch cushion where she’d been sitting and pulled out Marion Beauchamps’s 9mm. The gun was loaded and cocked, and all she had to do was click the safety off and pull the trigger.

She clicked the safety off, tiptoed down the length of the Airsteam to just outside the bedroom door, where she could hear Harrelson’s sobs as Ralph’s flab slapped against Harrelson’s flat stomach. Then Ralph grunted, which, in Cox’s experience, meant that he was done. He’d lie on her a minute, resting. Then, if Cox knew men, he’d get up and look for his pants, unless he decided to bring his stupid cock out to show Cox.

Which is what he did.


COX WAS STANDING outside the bedroom door when Ralph stood up, turned from the bed, and saw Cox standing there. He grinned at her, the Deese family’s yellow teeth on full display, and said, “Hey there, you want some of this?”

Cox said, “I thought I’d give you some of this instead.”

She brought the gun around and shot Deese in the chest. The gun bucked hard against her hand and she almost dropped it. The muzzle blast was deafening, and she put her free hand up to an ear, which was ringing like an old-fashioned telephone. Deese took a wide-eyed step backwards, then toppled onto the bed, pinning Gloria Harrelson’s body beneath his suddenly dead bulk.