The Sweetman Curve Read online

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  SPIRIT

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  UNSPEAKABLE

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  The Katie Maguire Series

  WHITE BONES

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  RED LIGHT

  TAKEN FOR DEAD

  BLOOD SISTERS

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  LIVING DEATH

  DEAD GIRLS DANCING

  DEAD MEN WHISTLING

  THE LAST DROP OF BLOOD

  The Scarlet Widow Series

  SCARLET WIDOW

  THE COVEN

  Standalones

  GHOST VIRUS

  The Sweetman Curve

  Graham Masterton

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1980 by Sphere Books

  This edition first published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Graham Masterton, 1979

  The moral right of Graham Masterton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781838935757

  Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.headofzeus.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Book One: The Mighty

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Book Two: The Fallen

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  About the author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  FREEWAY KILLING!

  Just as he thought it was over, and that they’d survived, he felt something spraying through the car, sparkling and bright, and realised that it was thousands of tiny fragments of shattered glass. He pushed Vicki down towards the floor, and he was reaching for his father when the back of his father’s grey hair flapped upward like a toupee, and in front of his eyes, his father’s cheek and nose seemed to swell, as if a terrible black boil was growing on his face, and then burst open in a geyser of mucous membrane and blood. His father’s hands were rising towards his face in surprise, but then he pitched forward and collapsed on the floor of the car.

  BOOK ONE

  THE MIGHTY

  One

  He was the kind of man who could make a crowded room fall silent when he entered. He looked sullen, moody and unpredictably vicious.

  He was sitting alone at a table on the narrow sidewalk terrace of the Old World Restaurant on Sunset Boulevard, forking up scrambled eggs with determined distaste.

  He was unnervingly tall, you could tell that even though he was sitting, with black slicked-back hair, and reflector sunglasses. He wore black cord jeans, a grey utility shirt, and three heavy gold bracelets on his left wrist. By his sharp nose and his high cheekbones, you might have guessed that he was Armenian or Czech.

  It was Friday. The morning was still hazy, and out over Los Angeles only the dim fretwork of skyscrapers and the twin towers of Century City rose from the smog. Across the street, next to a giant grinning billboard of John Denver, an illuminated sign told the man that the time was 9:27 and the temperature was 77°F. The traffic cruised ceaselessly past along the curving concrete spine of the street, but he only raised his eyes, and then almost imperceptibly, if a car drew alongside the kerb.

  The young freckle-faced waiter came out to the terrace with a fresh jug of coffee.

  ‘You want a refill, sir?’

  The man held out his cup without a word.

  ‘You want anything else, sir? We have waffles, blueberry muffins, ice cream with hot chocolate sauce?’

  The man shook his head.

  The waiter began to collect up his dirty plates. ‘Did you see that Woody Allen movie on TV last night?’ he chatted. ‘I’ve been meaning to see that goddamned movie for five years. I broke my ass laughing. I really broke my ass.’

  The tall man lifted his head. In the twin mirrors of his sunglasses, two young waiters, both apprehensive, peered out of two fishbowl worlds.

  ‘The cheque,’ whispered the man.

  The waiter gave a twitchy little smile, then shrugged. 'Okay. I was just trying to be pleasant.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ whispered the man.

  The waiter hesitated, picked up the man’s knife and fork, and then disappeared inside, glancing back uncertainly over his shoulder. The man ignored him, swallowed a hot mouthful of coffee, and then reached into the pocket of his shirt for his cigarettes. He lit one carefully from a box of matches with ‘Benihana’s of Tokyo’ printed on it, and then sat back in his chair and blew out smoke. The sign across the street said it was 9:30.

  The man didn’t appear to be thinking about anything. He looked at the world from behind those mirrored sunglasses with an expression that could have been interest, or pain, or boredom, or anger.

  He didn’t know what it was himself.

  He waited four more minutes. Then he got up from his table, and went inside to the cashier. It was bustling in there, with waiters balancing trays of pineapple and alfalfa salads and bacon-and-eggs, and Sunset Boulevard’s floating population all smoking and chattering and laughing. The man laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter along with the cheque, tu
rned around and walked out.

  Behind the cash register, the girl with the long tawny blonde hair punched out $6.25, and then looked around for someone to give the change to. She called to the young waiter, ‘Hey, Myron! Table nine left his change.’

  The waiter said, ‘Okay – he only just left,’ and hurried out into the sunlight after him. He glanced to his right, and saw that the sidewalk was almost deserted, except for a Mexican woman with hips as wide as a wheelbarrow; so he trotted around the corner into Holloway Drive.

  He couldn’t see the man at first. He squinted up towards the sloping parking lot at the back of the restaurant, but there was nobody there. Then he looked along the street, and about fifty yards away, under the shadow of overhanging trees, he saw the tall man standing by the open trunk of a silver Grand Prix.

  He called: ‘Hey! Sir!’ but the man didn’t seem to hear him. Myron began to pad along the concrete sidewalk in his worn-down sneakers, until he was only five or six yards away. It was then that he glimpsed something in the open trunk of the car, and stopped short. The tall man turned towards him.

  ‘Yes?’ he whispered. His mirrored eyes gave nothing away.

  The waiter held out a handful of crumpled bills and sweaty coins. ‘You – well, you forgot your change. The cheque was only six twenty-five.’

  The tall man didn’t move for a moment, didn’t answer. But then he slammed the trunk shut, and came towards the waiter with a slow, easy stride.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said with cold softness, and took the money out of the boy’s hand.

  The waiter wiped his beaded forehead with the back of his wrist. It certainly didn’t seem like he was going to get a tip, and considering what he’d seen in the back of the car, he didn’t much care. He said, cautiously, ‘Have a good day, sir,’ and retreated back up the sidewalk towards the restaurant.

  On the angled corner of Holloway and Sunset, he paused and looked back. The tall man was still standing by the car, watching him. The sun flashed like a heliographic warning from his sunglasses.

  ‘Did you catch up with him?’ asked the girl with the long tawny hair as Myron came back into the restaurant.

  The young waiter looked at her, and nodded. ‘Yes. He said thanks.’

  She glanced up at him. ‘What’s the matter, Myron? You look like you’re sick.’

  He blinked, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘What? Oh, no, I’m not sick. I just think I had myself a lucky escape.’

  ‘Escape? What from? Was he a faggot or something?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘That guy had more guns in the trunk of his car than a goddamned armoury. You should have seen it. The whole trunk was full of guns.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? Call the police?’

  He mopped at his face with a paper napkin. ‘Are you kidding? He’s probably a homicidal maniac. Anybody with that many guns is going to use ’em, and I’d just as soon he didn’t use ’em on me.’

  ‘So you’re going to let him drive around free? What kind of responsible attitude is that?’

  Two glittery-eyed black girls in T-shirts came in, and the waiter picked up his order book. ‘It’s a responsible attitude towards my head,’ he said emphatically. ‘I want it to stay on my shoulders.’

  The blonde shrugged and helped herself to a mint from the little basket beside the cash register.

  Two

  The previous evening, the L.A. Strangler’s eleventh victim had been found in the bushes at Griffith Park, and Mrs Benduzzi wasn’t very happy about Ricardo going out for a walk. She sat on the plumped-up cushions of her pink velvet settee, a fat and florid commercial for what a daily diet of fresh cream cakes and pepperoni pizzas could do to stretch a pair of violet-coloured ski pants to bursting point. Her ash-blonde wig wasn’t on straight, and she was clutching Ricardo so tight to her floral-printed bosom that the poor animal’s eyes were bulging.

  ‘Mrs Benduzzi,’ John told her, ‘I’m sure the Strangler doesn’t go for poodles. It seems to me that he’s more interested in humans.’

  ‘Well, you can say that,’ Mrs Benduzzi retorted. ‘But Ricardo’s almost human, aren’t you, darling? He talks to me, you know. When we’re alone at home here, he talks. You’d be surprised at the things he says.’

  John patiently rubbed at the back of his neck. He was pretty sure that Mrs Benduzzi’s cocktail hour had started a little early this morning. After all, what else was there for a middle-aged Beverly Hills lady to do, except wander around her expensive house all day, eating too much, and drinking too many tequila sunrises? She was too fat to take a lover, and too lonesome to diet. Apart from her husband, a casting director for CBS with a droopy moustache, droopy eyes, and about as much personality as a plate of stone-cold tagliatelle, Ricardo was all that Mrs Benduzzi had.

  ‘You want me to skip the walkies, then?’ asked John. ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ said Mrs Benduzzi. ‘I mean, it looks kind of hot today, too. Didn’t they say we were having a heatwave? I haven’t been out yet. What with this maniac around, I’m not sure that I’m going to.’

  ‘Mrs Benduzzi, I can promise you that Ricardo will be quite safe with me,’ John assured her. ‘I’ll protect him with my life if I have to.’

  ‘Oh, don’t talk that way,’ said Mrs Benduzzi, faintly. ‘Listen – why don’t you wax the car instead? Take Ricardo out tomorrow. Maybe they will have caught him by then. It’s disgraceful, letting a man like that prowl around loose, terrorizing defenceless dogs.’

  ‘Mrs Benduzzi, I don’t think he’s—’

  But Mrs Benduzzi wasn’t listening. She was too busy smothering Ricardo with kisses. It used to turn John’s stomach, all this sentimental slobbering over animals, but since he’d been walking dogs around Hollywood and Beverly Hills, he’d grown to understand, despite his distaste, that dogs and cats were often the only devoted friends these women knew. Apart from that, if he was going to supplement his income at a reasonable rate, he was going to have to get along with his customers, and he couldn’t command ten bucks an hour if he openly barfed every time a lady went into a romantic clinch with her Schnauzer.

  ‘Okay, Mrs Benduzzi,’ he said resignedly, ‘if that’s the way you feel about it.’

  Mrs Benduzzi gave him an indulgent smile, and held out her pink and porky hand. ‘You’re so understanding, Mr Cullen. If I was five years younger, and fancy-free…’

  He squeezed her hand hard enough to press her diamond and sapphire rings into her flesh, and hurt her a little bit.

  ‘Mrs Benduzzi, I’d better go wax the car,’ he said, in a voice so deliberately husky that for one puzzled moment she thought he’d made some outrageously erotic suggestion. It wasn’t altogether surprising. Even to himself, he had to admit that he’d never looked better in his whole life. He was tall and quite muscular, and his irregular employment had given him the chance to work up a deep, dark suntan. There was still something about him that told you he wasn’t a native Californian – a kind of inner defensiveness, a constant tension, that characterizes men and women brought up in the cities of the East – but to women like Mrs Benduzzi, who were aroused by anxious young men, that was all the more attractive. He was thin-faced, with a long straight nose, and brown eyes that could be coaxingly soft with people he liked and disturbingly vacant with people he didn’t. His hair was cut very short, and you could have mistaken him for a slightly macho telephone linesman or a would-be middleweight boxer.

  He gave her his winningest smile, the smile he usually reserved for ladies in theatre box offices who were trying to tell him there were no more seats for A Chorus Line; and then crossed the soft-carpeted, brocade-draped room to the double french doors. They were the sort of doors he felt like flinging open and intoning: ‘Dinner is served.’ He turned around once, gave Mrs Benduzzi a last fading smirk, and then closed the doors behind him. He walked along the corridor, feeling more like smoking a cigarette than he had in days. It was a week now since he’d given them up.

  He didn’t quite know how or why his lif
e had taken this particular turn. Walking dogs and waxing cars weren’t the kinds of jobs you’d logically expect from a boy who had solemnly assured his parents at the age of eighteen that he was going to be the second Frank Lloyd Wright. But during his first tedious years as a junior draughtsman in Trenton, New Jersey, he had come to understand with increasing frustration that architecture had little to do with building ideal cities, or even reasonably pleasant homes for people to live in. His design chief had only congratulated him once, when he worked out a way of tiling a roof with a hundred fewer shingles than it usually took, and on the cheeseparing budgets that his first few projects had been allocated, he hadn’t been able to allow himself the decorative luxuries of Charles Sale’s privy-builder, let alone Frank Lloyd Wright. At the age of twenty-six, he had quit architecture, leaving two small supermarkets and a row of garages in Ewing, New Jersey, as his only contributions to America’s heritage.

  He had come to Los Angeles to look for his identity, or maybe to run away from it, he couldn’t be sure which. He also wanted to discover why beauty and humanity were such expensive commodities; and for that quest, at least, he had come to the right place. He worked for five years as a salesman for Euclid Schwarz, the leading west coast builders of condominiums and retirement homes. John’s leftish politics grated on Mr Schwarz’s nerves, and he was eventually passed up for promotion so many times that he quit. He had a savagely bitter love affair with a British girl who worked in the ticket office at Mann’s Chinese Theatre, all scratched backs and smashed crockery, and that had left him emotionally and morally exhausted and ready for anything so long as it was calm.

  Now, thirty-two years old, nothing like wealthy, but healthier, and pretty much at peace with the world, John Cullen devoted his time to writing for the Los Angeles Liberal Journal, a mildly radical paper with bees in its bonnet about open government and legalized pornography, although not usually in that order. He also spent some of his time designing villages of the future for stylish architectural magazines; restoring, his old green weatherboard house up in Topanga Canyon, where he lived with his new lady friend, Vicki; and drying leaf cups on his back porch in an attempt to find a substitute for grass, which he unaccountably disliked.