A professor at North Carolina med school told me that Kate McTiernan was one of the most conscientious students she’d taught in twenty years. Another professor at the school said that her commitment and intelligence were indeed high, but “her temperament is the truly extraordinary thing about Kate.”
It was unanimous in that regard. Even competing interns at the hospital agreed that Kate McTiernan was something else. “She’s the least narcissistic woman I’ve ever met,” one of the woman interns told me. “Kate’s totally driven, but she knows it and she can laugh at herself,” said another. “She’s a really cool person. This is such a sad, numbing thing for everyone at the hospital.” “She’s a brain, who happens to be built like a brick shithouse.”
I called Peter McGrath, a history professor, and he reluctantly agreed to see me. Kate McTiernan had dated him for almost four months, but their relationship had ended abruptly. Professor McGrath was tall, athletic- looking, a bit imperious.
“I could say that I fucked up royally by losing her,” McGrath admitted to me. “And I did. But I couldn’t have held on to the Katester. She’s probably the strongest-willed person, man or woman, that I’ve ever met. God, I can’t believe this has happened to Kate.”
His face was pale, and he was obviously shaken up by her disappearance. At least he appeared to be.
I ended up eating by myself in a noisy bar in the college town of Chapel Hill. There were hordes of university students, and a busy pool table, but I sat alone with my beers, a greasy, rubbery cheeseburger, and my early thoughts on Casanova.
The long day had drained me. I missed Sampson, my kids, my home in D.C. A comfortable world without any monsters. Scootchie was still missing, though. So were several other young women in the Southeast.
My thoughts kept drifting back to Kate McTiernan, and what I’d heard about her today.
This is the way cases got solved—at least it was the way I had always solved them. Data got collected. Data ran loose in the brain. Eventually, connections were made.
Casanova doesn’t just take physically beautiful women, I suddenly realized in the bar. He takes the most extraordinary women he can find. He’s taking only the heartbreakers… the women that everybody wants but nobody ever seems to get.
He’s collecting them somewhere out there.
Why extraordinary women? I wondered.
There was one possible answer. Because he believes he’s extraordinary, too.
CHAPTER 24
I ALMOST went back to see Mary Ellen Klouk again, but I changed my mind and returned to the Washington Duke Inn. A couple of messages were waiting for me.
The first was from a friend in the Washington PD. He was processing information I needed for a meaningful profile on Casanova. I’d brought a laptop with me and I hoped I would be in business soon.
A reporter by the name of Mike Hart had called four times. I recognized his name, and I knew his newspaper—a tabloid out of Florida called the National Star. The reporter’s nickname was No-Heart Hart. I didn’t return No-Heart’s calls. I’d been featured on the front page of the Star once, and once was enough for this lifetime.
Detective Nick Ruskin had finally returned one of my calls. He left a short message. Nothing new on our end. Will let you know. I found that hard to believe. I didn’t trust Detective Ruskin or his faithful sidekick Davey Sikes.
I drifted off to a restless sleep in a cozy armchair in my room and had the most vivid, nightmarish dreams. A monster right out of an Edvard Munch painting was chasing Naomi. I was powerless to help her; all I could do was watch the macabre scene in horror. Not much need for a trained psychotherapist to interpret that one.
I woke up sensing that someone was in the hotel room with me.
I quietly placed my hand on the butt of my revolver and stayed very still. My heart was pounding. How could someone have gotten into the room?
I stood up slowly, but stayed low in a shooting crouch. I peered around as best I could in the semidarkness.
The chintz window drapes weren’t completely drawn, so there was enough light from outside for me to make out shapes. Shadows of tree leaves danced on the hotel room wall. Nothing else seemed to be moving.
I checked the bathroom, Glock pistol first. Then the closets. I began to feel a little silly stalking the hotel room with my gun drawn, but I had definitely heard a noise!
I finally spotted a piece of paper under the door, but I waited a few seconds before I flipped on the light. Just to be sure.
A black-and-white photograph was staring up at me. Instant associations and connections jumped to mind. It was a colonial British postcard, probably from the early 1900s. At that time the postcards had been collected by Westerners as pseudoart, but mostly as soft pornography. They had been a racy turn-on for male collectors in the early part of the century.
I bent down to get a better look at the old-fashioned photo.
The card showed an odalisque smoking a Turkish cigarette, in a startling acrobatic posture. The woman was dark, young, and beautiful; probably in her mid-teens. She was naked to the waist, and her full breasts hung upside down in the posed photograph.
I flipped the card over with a pencil.
There was a printed caption near where a stamp could be placed: Odalisques with great beauty and high intelligence were carefully trained to be concubines. They learned to dance quite beautifully, to play musical instruments, and to write exquisitely lyrical poetry. They were the most valuable part of the harem, perhaps the emperor’s greatest treasure.
The caption was signed in ink with a printed name. Giovanni Giacomo Casanova de Seignalt.
He knew that I was here in Durham. He knew who I was.
Casanova had left a calling card.
CHAPTER 25
I’M ALIVE.
Kate McTiernan slowly forced open her eyes inside a dimly lit room… somewhere.
For a couple of blinks of her eyes, she believed she was in a hotel that she couldn’t for the life of her remember checking into. A really weird hotel in an even weirder Jim Jarmusch art movie. It didn’t matter, though. At least she wasn’t dead.
Suddenly, she remembered being shot point-blank in the chest. She remembered the intruder. Tall… long hair… gentle, conversational voice… sixth-degree animal.
She tried to get up, but thought better of it immediately. “Whoa there,” she said out loud. Her throat was dry, and her voice sounded raspy as it echoed unpleasantly inside her head. Her tongue felt as if it needed a shave.
I’m in hell. In a circle from Dante’s Inferno, with a very low number, she thought, and she began to shiver. Everything about the moment was terrifying, but it was so horrible, and so unexpected, she couldn’t orient herself to it.
Her joints were stiff and painful; she ached all over. She doubted that she could press a hundred pounds right now. Her head felt huge, bloated like aging fruit, and it hurt, but she could vividly remember the attacker. He was tall, maybe six two, youngish, extremely powerful, articulate. The images were hazy, but she was absolutely certain they were true.
She remembered something else about the monstrous attack in her apartment. He’d used a stun gun, or something like it, to immobilize her. He’d also used chloroform, or maybe it was halothane. That could account for her bruising headache.
The lights had purposely been left on in the room. She noticed they were coming from modern-looking dimmers built into the ceiling. The ceiling was low, possibly under seven feet.
The room looked as if it had recently been built, or remodeled. It was actually decorated tastefully, the way she might have done her own apartment if she had the money and time…. A real brass bed. Antique white dresser with brass handles. A dressing table with a silver brush, comb, mirror. There were colorful scarves tied on the bedposts, just the way she did them at home. That struck her as strange. Very odd.
There were no windows in the room. The only way out appeared to be through a heavy wooden door.
“Nice decor,�
�� Kate muttered softly. “Early psycho. No, it’s late psycho.”
The door to a small closet was open halfway and she could see inside. What she saw made her feel physically ill.
He’d brought her clothes to this horrible place, this bizarre prison cell. All of her clothes were here.
Using her remaining strength, Kate McTiernan forced herself to sit upright in the bed. The effort made her heart race, and the pounding in her chest frightened her. Her arms and legs felt as if heavy weights were tied to them.
She concentrated hard, trying to focus her eyes on the incredible scene. She continued to stare into the closet.
Those weren’t actually her clothes, she realized. He’d gone out and bought clothes just like hers! Exactly to her taste and style. The clothes displayed in the closet were brand-new. She could see some of the store tags dangling from the blouses and skirts. The Limited. The Gap in Chapel Hill. Stores she actually shopped in herself.
Her eyes darted to the top of the antique white dresser across the room. Her perfume was there, too. Obsession. Safari. Opium.
He’d bought all of it for her, hadn’t he?
Next to the bed was a copy of All the Pretty Horses, the same book she had bought on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill.
He knows everything about me!
CHAPTER 26
DR. KATE MCTIERNAN slept. Awoke. Slept some more. She made a joke of it. Called herself “lazybones.” She never slept in. Not since before med school, anyway.
She was beginning to feel more clearheaded and alert, more in command of herself, except that she had lost track of time. She didn’t know if it was morning, noon, or night. Or even which day it was.
The man, whoever the bastard was, had been inside the mysterious, despicable room while she slept. The thought made her physically ill. There was a note propped on the bedside table, where she was sure to see it.
The note was handwritten. Dear Dr. Kate, it said. Her hands were trembling as she read her own name.
I wanted you to read this, so that you understand me better, and also the rules of the house. This is probably the most important letter you’ll ever receive, so read it carefully. And please take it very seriously.
No, I am not crazy or out of control. Actually, I’m quite the opposite. Apply your obviously high intelligence to the concept that I’m relatively sane, and that I know exactly what I want. Most people don’t know what they want.
Do you, Kate? We’ll talk about that later. It’s a subject worthy of much lively and interesting discussion. Do you know what you want? Are you getting it? Why not? For the good of society? Whose society? Whose life are we living, anyway?
I won’t pretend that you are happy to be here, so no false-sounding welcomes. No cellophaned basket of fresh fruit and champagne. As you will soon see, or have already, I’ve tried to make your stay as comfortable as possible. Which brings up an important point, perhaps the most important point of this first attempt at communication between us.
Your stay will be temporary. You will leave—if, Big If—you listen to what I tell you… so listen carefully, Kate.
Are you listening now? Please listen, Kate. Chase away the justifiable anger and the white noise in your head. I am not crazy or out of control.
That’s the whole point: I am in control! See the distinction? Of course you do. I know how very bright you are. National Merit Scholar and all that.
It is important that you know how special you are to me. That’s why you are completely safe here. It is also why you’ll leave, eventually.
I picked you from thousands and thousands of women at my disposal, so to speak. I know, you’re saying “lucky me.” I know how funny and cynical you can be. I even know that laughter has gotten you through difficult times. I’m beginning to know you better than anyone has ever known you. Almost as well as you know yourself, Kate.
Now for the bad parts. And Kate, these next points are as important as any of the good news I’ve stated above.
These are the house rules, and they are to be strictly observed:
1. The most important rule: You must never try to escape—or you will be executed within hours, however painful that would be for both of us. Believe me, there is precedent for this. There can be no reprieve following an escape attempt.
2. Just for you, Kate, a special rule: You must never try to use your karate skills on me. (I almost brought your gi, your crisp white karate suit, but why encourage you to temptation.)
3. You must never call out for help—I’ll know if you do—and you will be punished with facial and genital disfigurement.
You want to know more—you want to know everything at once. But it doesn’t work that way. Don’t bother trying to figure out where you are. You won’t guess, and will only give yourself an unnecessary headache.
That’s all for now. I’ve given you more than enough to think about. You are totally safe here. I love you more than you can imagine. I can’t wait for us to talk, really talk.
Casanova
And you are hopelessly out of your mind! Kate McTiernan thought as she paced the eleven-by-fifteen-foot room. Her claustrophobic prison. Her hell on this earth.
Her body felt as if it were floating, as if warm viscous fluid were flowing over her. She wondered if she’d suffered a head injury during the attack.
She had only one thought: how to escape. She began to analyze her situation in every possible way. She reversed the conventional assumptions, and broke down each to its component parts.
There was a single, double-locked, thick wooden door.
There was no way out other than through that door.
No! That was the conventional assumption. There had to be another way.
She remembered a problem-solution puzzle from some heretofore useless undergrad logics course she had taken. It began with ten matchsticks arranged as Roman numerals in a math equation:
XI + I = X
The problem was how to correct the equation without touching any of the matches. Without adding new matches. Without taking away any matches.
No easy way out.
No apparent solution.
The problem had been unsolvable to many students, but she had figured it out relatively quickly. A solution was there, where none seemed to be. She solved it by reversing the conventional assumptions. She turned the page upside down.
X = I + IX
But she couldn’t turn this prison room upside down. Or could she? Kate McTiernan examined every single floorboard and each two-by-four in the wall. The wood smelled new. Maybe he was a builder, a contractor, or perhaps an architect?
No way out.
No apparent solution.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t accept that answer.
She thought about seducing him—if she could force herself to do it. No. He was too clever. He would know. Worse than that, she would know.
There had to be a way. She would find it.
Kate stared down at the note on the bedside table.
You must never try to escape—or you will be executed within hours.
CHAPTER 27
THE FOLLOWING afternoon I visited the Sarah Duke Gardens, the place where Naomi had been abducted six days ago. I needed to go there, to visit the scene, to think about my niece, to grieve in private.
There were more than fifty acres of exquisitely landscaped woodland gardens adjacent to the Duke University Medical Center, literally miles of allees. Casanova couldn’t have hoped for a better site for his kidnapping. He had been thorough. Perfect, so far. How was that possible?
I talked to staff members and also to a few students who had been there the day Naomi disappeared. The picturesque gardens were officially open from early morning until dusk. Naomi had last been seen at around four o’clock. Casanova had taken her in broad daylight. I couldn’t figure out how he’d done it. Not yet. Neither could the Durham police or the FBI.
I walked around the woods and gardens for almost two hours. I was overwhelmed by the thought
that Scootchie had been taken right here.
A spot called the Terraces was particularly beautiful. Visitors could enter through a wisteria-covered pergola. Lovely wooden stairways led down to an irregular-shaped fishpond with a rock garden stacked directly behind. Visually, the Terraces were horizontal bands of rock, accented by stripes of the most beautiful color. Tulips, azaleas, camellias, irises, and peonies were in bloom.
I knew instinctively that this was a place that Scootchie would love.
I knelt near a visually striking patch of bright red and yellow tulips. I was wearing a gray suit with an open-necked white shirt. The ground was soft and stained my trousers, but it didn’t matter. I bowed my head low. Finally, I wept for Scootchie.
CHAPTER 28
TICK-COCK. Tick-cock.
Kate McTiernan thought that she’d heard something. She was probably imagining it. You could definitely get a little buggy in here.
There it was again. The slightest creak in the floorboards. The door opened and he walked into the room without saying a word.
There he was! Casanova. He had on another mask. He looked like some kind of dark god—slender and athletic. Was that his fantasy image of himself?
Physically, he would be considered a hunk at the university or even as a cadaver in an autopsy room, which was preferable to her.
She noted his clothes: tight, faded blue jeans, black cowboy boots edged with soil, no shirt. He was definitely a hardbody, proud of his rippling chest. She was trying to remember everything—for the time when she escaped.
“I read all your rules,” Kate said, trying to act as calm as possible. Her body was shivering, though. “They’re very thorough, very clear.”
“Thank you. No one likes rules, least of all me. But they’re necessary sometimes.”
The mask hid his face, and it held Kate’s attention. She couldn’t take her eyes away from it. It reminded her of the elaborate, decorative masks from Venice. It was handpainted, ritualistic in its artistic detail, and weirdly beautiful. Was he trying to be seductive? Kate wondered. Was that it?
Kiss the Girls Page 7
