by Tami Hoag
“No,” she said.
“Who came to take you?” he asked again, enunciating with emphasis.
“No,” she said, glaring at him. “I won't do it.”
The blade of the knife bit deeper. Sweat glistened on her pale face in the firelight. The denim shredded. Blood bloomed bright red in the tears.
Kate felt ill at the sight. “Rob, stop it.”
“She needs to do this, Kate,” he said. “Angie, who came to take you?”
“No.” Tears streaked down Angie's battered face. “You can't make me.”
“Let her alone.” Kate moved off her perch. Christ, she had to do something before the girl cut herself to ribbons.
Rob's stare was locked on Angie. “Tell us, Angie. No more games.”
Angie glared at him, shaking visibly now.
“Where did he take you? What did he do to you?”
“Fuck you!” she spat out. “I'm not playing your game.”
“Yes, you are, Angie,” he said, his voice growing darker. “You will. You don't have a choice.”
“Fuck you! I hate you!”
Shrieking, she came up off the couch, arm raised, knife blade flashing.
Kate moved fast, flinging the chenille throw to cover the knife and diving into Angie from the side almost simultaneously. The girl howled as they crashed to the floor, knocking into the coffee table and scattering the victimology reports.
Kate held her down as she struggled, the first wave of relief washing through her. Rob picked up the knife, closed the blade, and put it in his pocket.
Angie was sobbing. Kate moved onto her knees and pulled the girl into her arms to hold her.
“It's all right, Angie,” she whispered. “You're safe now.”
Angie pushed free, staring at her, incredulous and furious. “You stupid bitch,” she rasped. “Now you're dead.”
34
CHAPTER
“THE SHARKS SMELL blood in the water,” Quinn commented as they watched the mob gather for the press conference.
Kovac scowled. “Yeah, and some of it is mine.”
“Sam, I can guarantee you, with Vanlees on the block, they could give a shit about you.”
The idea seemed to further depress Kovac. It did nothing for Quinn either. Having Bondurant's people leak information about Vanlees to the press was bad enough, but to have the police talk openly to the press about Gil Vanlees at this point was dangerously premature. He'd said so to the mayor, Greer, and Sabin. That they were choosing to ignore his advice was beyond his control. And yet he could feel the anxiety singeing another hole in the wall of his stomach.
He was the one who had come up with the initial profile, which Vanlees fit, nearly to a T. In retrospect he thought he shouldn't have been so quick to offer an opinion. The possibility of tandem killers changed everything. But the press and the powers running the show had Vanlees now, and were all too happy to sink their teeth into him.
The mayor had chosen the grand Fourth Street entrance for the setting of the press conference. A cathedral of polished marble with an impressive double staircase and stained glass panels. The kind of place where politicians could stand on the stairs above the common folk and look important, where the glow of the marble seemed to reflect off their skin and make them seem more radiant than the average citizen.
Quinn and Kovac watched from a shadowed alcove as the television people set up and the newspaper people jockeyed for status spots. On the stairs, the mayor and Sabin conferred as the mayor's assistant brushed lint from her suit. Gary Yurek was deep in conversation with Chief Greer, Fowler, and a pair of captains who seemed to have come out of the woodwork for the photo op. Quinn would join the circus in a moment and give his two cents' worth to the throng, trying to give the announcement of a suspect in custody a cautionary spin, which almost no one would listen to. They would rather listen to Edwyn Noble spin lies for Peter Bondurant, which was almost certainly what he was doing standing with a reporter for MSNBC.
There was no sign of Peter. Not that Quinn had expected him—not after this morning, and not with the possibility of incest allegations seeping out into the news pool. Still, he couldn't help but wonder at Bondurant's mental state, and what exactly had brought Lucas Brandt running with his little black bag. Jillian's supposed demise, or the revelation of what might have happened all those years ago?
“Charm,” Kovac said with derision, staring at Yurek. “Destined for a corner office. They love him upstairs. A million-dollar smile on lips he won't hesitate to use to kiss ass.”
“Jealous?” Quinn asked.
He made one of his faces. “I was made for chewing ass, not kissing it. What do I need with a corner office, when I can have a crappy little desk in a crappy little cubicle with no decent file cabinets?”
“At least you're not bitter.”
“I was born bitter.”
Vince Walsh heralded his arrival with a phlegm-rattling coughing fit. Kovac turned and looked at him.
“Jesus, Vince, hack up a lung, why don't you?”
“Goddamn cold,” Walsh complained. His color had the odd yellow cast of an embalmed body. He offered Kovac a manila envelope. “Jillian Bondurant's medical records—or what of them LeBlanc would release. There are some X rays. You want to take them or you want me to drop them off with the ME?”
“I'm out, you know,” Kovac said even as he took the envelope. “Yurek's boss now.”
Walsh sucked half the contents of his sinuses down the back of his throat and made a sour face.
Kovac nodded. “Yeah, that's what I said.”
PETER WAITED UNTIL the press conference was under way to enter the building. A simple matter of calling Edwyn on his cell phone from the car. Noble had no way of knowing he wasn't still at home. Peter had dismissed from the house the employees Edwyn had posted to keep an eye on him. They had gone without argument. He was the one who paid their wages, after all.
He came into the hall, holding the duffel bag in his arms, his gaze scanning the backs of five dozen heads. Greer was at the podium, going on in his overly dramatic way about the qualifications of the man he had chosen to succeed Kovac as head of the task force. Peter didn't care to hear it. The task force was no longer of any interest to him. He knew who had killed Jillian.
The press shouted questions. Flashes went off like so many star bursts. Peter worked his way along one side of the crowd, moving toward the stairs, feeling as if he were invisible. Maybe he was. Maybe he was already a ghost. All his life he had felt a certain emptiness in his soul, a hole nothing had ever been able to fill. Maybe he had been eroding away from the inside out for so long that the essence of what made him human had all leeched away, making him invisible.
QUINN SAW BONDURANT coming. Oddly, no one else seemed to. No one looked closely enough, he supposed. Their focus was on the podium and the latest batch of bullshit they wanted to spread on the news and in the papers. And there was the fact that he looked vaguely seedy—unshaven, unkempt—not the Peter Bondurant of finely tailored suits, every hair in place.
His skin looked so pale, it was nearly translucent. His face was gaunt, as if his body were devouring itself from within. His eyes met Quinn's, and he stopped behind the camera people and stood there, a black duffel bag in his arms.
Quinn's instincts went on point—just as Greer invited him to step to the podium.
The glare of the lights blocked his view of Bondurant. He wondered if Kovac had spotted him.
“I want to stress,” he began, “that the interview of a possible suspect does not end the investigation.”
“Do you believe Vanlees is the Cremator?” a reporter called out.
“It wouldn't be prudent for me to comment on that one way or the other.”
He tried to shift to an angle where he could see Bondurant again, but Bondurant was gone from the spot where he had last been. His nerves tightened.
“But Vanlees fits the profile. He knew Jillian Bondurant—”
“Isn't it tr
ue he had articles of her clothing in his possession when he was arrested?” another asked.
Damn leaks, Quinn thought, his attention focused more on getting Bondurant back in his sights than on the reporters. What was he doing here on his own, and looking like a vagrant?
“Special Agent Quinn . . . ?”
“No comment.”
“Do you have anything to say about the Bondurant case?”
“I killed her.”
Peter stepped out from behind a cameraman at the foot of the stairs and turned to face the crowd. For a moment no one but Quinn realized the admission had come from him. Then he raised a nine-millimeter semiautomatic handgun to his head, and awareness ran back through the crowd in a wave.
“I killed her!” Peter cried louder.
He looked stunned by his own confession—bug-eyed, stark white, openmouthed. He looked at the gun with terror, as if someone else were holding it. He went up the stairs sideways, eyes darting to the crowd, to the people near the podium: Mayor Noble, Chief Greer, Ted Sabin—all of whom backed away, staring at him as if they'd never seen him before.
Quinn held his spot at the podium.
“Peter, put the gun down,” he said firmly, the microphone picking up his voice and broadcasting it to the hall.
Bondurant shook his head. His face was quivering, twitching, contorting. He clutched the duffel bag to him with his left arm. Behind him Quinn could see two uniformed officers moving into place with guns drawn and held low.
“Peter, you don't want to do this,” he said quietly, calmly, shifting subtly away from the podium.
“I ruined her life. I killed her. It's my turn.”
“Why here? Why now?”
“So everyone will know,” he said, his voice choked. “Everyone will know what I am.”
Edwyn Noble moved from the front of the crowd toward the stairs. “Peter, don't do this.”
“What?” Bondurant asked. “Damage my reputation? Or yours?”
“You're talking nonsense!” the lawyer demanded. “Put down the gun.”
Peter didn't listen. His anguish was an almost palpable thing. It was in the sweat that ran down his face. It was in the smell of him. It was in the air he exhaled too quickly from his lungs.
“This is my fault,” he said, the tears coming harder. “I did this. I have to pay. Here. Now. I can't stand it anymore.”
“Come with me, Peter,” Quinn said, stepping a little closer, offering his left hand. “We'll sit down and you can tell me the whole story. That's what you want, isn't it?”
He was aware of the whir of motor drives as photographers shot frame after frame. The video cameras were running as well, some likely running live feeds to their stations. All of them recording this man's agony for their audiences.
“You can trust me, Peter. I've been asking you for the truth from day one. That's all I want: the truth. You can give it to me.”
“I killed her. I killed her,” he mumbled over and over, tears streaming down his cheeks.
His gun hand was trembling badly. Another few minutes and his own burning muscles would make him lower it. If he didn't blow his head off first.
“You sent for me, Peter,” Quinn said. “You sent for me for a reason. You want to give me the truth.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God!” Bondurant sobbed, the struggle within himself enormous, powerful, tearing him apart. His whole right arm was shaking now. He cocked the hammer back.
“Peter, no!” Quinn ordered, going for him.
The gun exploded. Shouts and screams echoed with the shot. A fraction of a second too late, Quinn grabbed hold of Bondurant's wrist and forced it up. Another shot boomed. Kovac rushed up behind Peter, the uniforms right behind him, and pulled the gun out of his hand.
Bondurant collapsed against Quinn, sobbing, bleeding, but alive. Quinn lowered him gently to the marble steps. The first shot had cut at an angle above his temple and plowed out a furrow of flesh and hair two inches long on its way to the second floor of the building. Gunpowder residue blackened the skin. He dropped his head between his knees and vomited.
The sound level in the hall was deafening. Photographers rushed forward for better angles. Edwyn Noble shoved past two of them to get to his boss.
“Don't say anything, Peter.”
Kovac gave the attorney a look of disgust. “You know, I think it's a little late for that.”
Ted Sabin took the podium and called for order and calm. The mayor was crying. Dick Greer snapped at his captains. The cops went about their jobs, dealing with the gun, clearing a path for the EMTs.
Quinn crouched beside Peter, hand still on the man's wrist, feeling his pulse race out of control. Quinn's own heart was pumping hard. A fraction of an inch, a steadier hand, and Peter Bondurant would have blown his brains out in front of half the country. An event to be broadcast on the nightly news with the disclaimer: We warn you—what you are about to see may be disturbing . . .
“You have the right to remain silent, Peter,” he began quietly. “Anything you say may be used against you in court.”
“Must you do this now?” Noble asked in a harsh whisper. “The press is watching.”
“They were watching when he came onstage with a loaded gun too,” Quinn said, tugging at the duffel bag Peter had smuggled the gun in. Bondurant, sobbing uncontrollably, tried to hold on to it for a moment, then let go. His body crumpled into a bony heap.
“I think people have already let too many rules slide where Peter is concerned,” Quinn said.
He handed the bag to Vince Walsh. “It's heavy. He may have more weapons in it.”
“You have the right to have your attorney present at questioning,” Kovac continued the Miranda warning, pulling out handcuffs.
“Jesus God!” came the hoarse exclamation. Quinn looked up to see Walsh drop the duffel bag and grab the side of his neck, his face purple.
The paramedics said later he was dead before he hit the ground . . . right beside the bag that carried Jillian Bondurant's decapitated head.
35
CHAPTER
KATE STEPPED BACK from Angie, not trying to decipher what the girl had said. She was breathing hard, and she'd cracked her elbow on the coffee table on the fall to the floor. She rubbed it now as she tried to get her thoughts clear. Angie sat on her knees, keening like a banshee, hitting herself in the head with her bloody hands over and over again. Blood soaked the thighs of her jeans and oozed out through the slits she had cut with the knife.
“My God,” Kate murmured, shaken by the sight. She backed into the desk, turned to the phone.
Rob stood three feet away, staring at the girl with a peculiar kind of interest, as if he were a scientist watching a specimen.
“Talk to us, Angie,” he said softly. “Tell us what you're feeling.”
“Jesus Christ, Rob,” Kate snapped as she picked up the receiver. “Leave her alone! Go in the kitchen and get some wet towels.”
He went instead to Angie, pulled a six-inch black leather sap from his coat pocket, and struck her across the back. The girl screamed and fell over sideways, arching her back as if to try to escape the pain.
Kate stood stunned, staring at her boss with her mouth hanging open. “W-what . . . ?” she began, then swallowed and started again, her pulse racing. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked, breathless with astonishment.
Rob Marshall turned his gaze on her with undisguised hate. His eyes nearly glowed with it. The stare ran through Kate like a sword. She could feel the contempt roll off him in hot waves, could smell it rising, sour and vile from his pores. She stood there, time elongating, instincts coming alive even as she realized her phone was dead.
“You have no respect for me, Kate, you fucking cunt,” he said in a low, growling voice.
The words and the hatred behind them hit her like a fist, stunning her for a moment, then shaking her as the pieces fell into place.
“Who choked you, Angie? Did you know this guy?”
“Sure . . . So do you . . .”
“. . . It's all right, Angie. You're safe now.”
“You stupid bitch. Now you're dead.”
Rob Marshall? No. The idea seemed almost laughable. Almost. Except that the phone had been working before he showed up, and he was standing before her with a weapon in his hand.
She put the receiver down.
“I've had it with you,” he said bitterly. “Picking, picking, picking. Bitching, bitching, bitching. Belittling me. Looking down your nose at me.”
He stood on the victimology reports that had scattered on the floor. Everyone is a victim of something. She'd had that thought half a dozen times that morning when she'd been going over the reports, but she hadn't examined it closely enough.
Lila White had been a victim of an assault.
Fawn Pierce had been a victim of rape.
Melanie Hessler, another rape victim.
At some time or other they had all dealt with victim/witness services.
The only one who didn't fit was Jillian Bondurant.
“But you're an advocate for victims, for God's sake,” she murmured.
An advocate who, because of his position, listened to account after account of people—largely women—being victimized, brutalized, beaten, raped, degraded. . . .
How many times had he made her sit through the replaying of Melanie Hessler's interview tapes? Rob listening intently, running the tape back, replaying pieces over and over.
In her mind she was suddenly in Kovac's car at the Hessler crime scene, listening to the microcassette the killer had dropped. Melanie Hessler begging for her life, screaming in agony, begging for death.
She thought of Rob going to look at the charred body, coming back agitated, seemingly upset. But what she had mistaken for distress had in fact been excitement.
Oh, my God.
Bile rose up the back of her throat as every rotten thing she'd ever said to him scrolled through her memory.
Oh, God, I'm dead.
“I'm sorry,” she said, options racing through her mind. The front door was just ten feet down the hall.
