Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

were fully clothed, tied to the bed, and gagged. Quickly, I removed Rob’s gag: “You recognized my voice.”
    “Voice! I recognized your knock.” He looked at me in a way he never had before. I liked to think that sometimes he looked as if he loved me, even admired me for my mind. But this look had a new respect in it; and gratitude as well. It came to me that I was rescuing him—and that if I weren’t, he had a good chance of dying. On impulse, I bent to kiss him. “Watch out,” he whispered.
    I turned around quickly, heard footsteps, saw a man come into view. With relief, I noted that it wasn’t a giant black dude, but a scrawny, wiry white one—not Mean-Mouth at all. So why was Rob shouting another warning? “It’s Mean-Mouth!”
    It hit me suddenly: I’d been had. Old Ralph’s description was his idea of a joke; if ever anyone didn’t look an iota like him, it was Mean-Mouth. But Ralph, I suspected, had been accurate in one particular—if Mean-Mouth wasn’t the meanest dude in the Tenderloin, you couldn’t tell it by his face. He had no lips to speak of and no chin—just a nasty little point bereft of jaws for backup. His eyes were so small you couldn’t tell what color they were. His nose would have been normal except that it was red—like the rest of his face.
    I froze, as one does in a nightmare. Mean-Mouth came in quickly, slammed the door, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a switchblade.
    When he pulled the knife, my mental processes thawed like the snowpack at Tahoe. If I hadn’t been able to think before, suddenly I couldn’t stop. It occurred to me to tell Rob I loved him before I died. Then it occurred to me to save my breath. Then I remembered to whistle—and then to do it again and still again—but with the door closed I didn’t think Chris could hear me.
    Several possible plans of action came crowding in at once, including the notion of jumping out the window.
    But it was closed and besides, the bed was between me and it.
    One plan stood out from all the others; but there were serious flaws in it. And yet—was it really impossible? If I could time things right, maybe not.
    Mean-Mouth stepped toward me. As he did I dropped and rolled under the bed.
    “Come out or I cut him.” I imagined Mean-Mouth holding the knife at Rob’s throat, and it was far from a pretty picture, but I could bear it—the thing just didn’t have the impact it would have if I’d actually been watching. I took time to fumble in the Sportsac for the two things I needed, put one between two fingers so it couldn’t be seen, and put the other in my jeans’ pocket.
    Then I rolled out from under the bed on Miranda’s side. She stared at me with terrified eyes. I didn’t dare look at Rob. Mean-Mouth said, “Come over here.” Which was exactly what I wanted to hear. I walked around the bed, making as wide a circle as I could so that, when I reached the foot, I was also near the wall with the door—and the light switch.
    With my left hand I turned the light off, at the same time reaching in my pocket with my right. I pulled out the switchblade comb Rob and I had bought at the magic shop, brandished it, and pressed the button, praying there wasn’t enough light to give me away. Mean-Mouth tensed and moved toward me. It looked as if I’d gotten away with it—so far. I backed away from Mean-Mouth, crouching a bit and trying to look fierce.
    Rob spoke quietly: “Circle, Rebecca. Keep moving on his left side—stay away from the hand with the knife.”
    I started circling and so did Mean-Mouth, throwing his knife back and forth between his left and right hands. I didn’t know if the gesture was meant to intimidate, or if it served some other purpose, but it did succeed in making my scalp prickle. I had the sudden sinking feeling that I wasn’t going to pull this off.
    “If he comes at you, parry with your left hand.”
    What the hell did parry mean? I decided that asking would create a poor psychological effect. I kept circling.
    Mean-Mouth struck. Instinctively, I blocked him with my left arm. “Good,” said Rob, but it wasn’t that good. I had a nasty cut on my arm. I wondered if I’d need stitches, and if the cut would leave a scar, which was probably all to the good—it kept me from realizing I might be too dead to care sometime in the next five minutes.
    I didn’t have the nerve to strike at Mean-Mouth. If I tried—especially if I tried for the only part of his anatomy that was