They were disgusting, with their inbred complacency—that aura of self-satisfaction they had swallowed with their mother’s milk, confidence absorbed through the placental fluid. These girls might not know who they were yet, but they thought they did.
Caleb watched as a short, pug-faced Dominican busboy cleared the table, his face set in that deliberate expression of disinterest he had seen on so many workers. He wondered what the Dominicans and Guatemalans thought of these girls. Did they resent their financial, social, and genetic superiority, or were they just grateful to be in America, working for minimum wage while waiting on these princesses of privilege? He was always amazed at the goodwill and cheerful humor of New York restaurant workers.
One of the girls, a coltish brunette in a pink sweater, bumped his table, then, catching his eye, giggled and whispered something to her friends. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, so aware of her superiority it took his breath away. Caleb stirred his coffee and took a sip. She is clearly a bad girl, and bad girls deserve to be punished.
Caleb adjusted his stockings and straightened his wig. The disguise was a good one—no one had even glanced at him twice on the subway. He smiled as he smoothed his green tweed skirt. It was expensive and well cut—his mother would have looked good in it.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIFTY
Caroline Benton waved good-bye to her girlfriends and sauntered out into the gentle atmosphere of the late summer evening. The sun was sinking into a salmon-pink sunset, the air soft as a caress.
Pausing to wipe a few drops of moisture from her downy upper lip, she stood at the bus stop, rocking back and forth on her heels. Never mind trying to get a cab this time of day, in this neighborhood—you might as well wish for a unicorn to ride home. She unzipped her Prada shoulder bag and dug around inside. The bag was lemon yellow, the leather buttery and soft, and it cost seven hundred dollars, which she thought was a bargain—though her father had rolled his eyes when he saw the bill on his Visa card. God, she thought, he could be so retarded sometimes, considering what he spent on that single-malt Scotch of his.
Her fingers found what she was looking for, the pack of Marlboro Lights at the bottom of the bag. She wanted a cigarette very badly, but was afraid her stepmother would smell it on her clothes and hair—that woman had a nose like a bloodhound. Caroline didn’t see why she should have to obey her, anyway. It’s not like she was her real mother or anything.
She squinted and peered down Madison Avenue, as if that would make the bus come faster. She looked around. She was the only one at the bus stop, so maybe it would be okay to have a cigarette after all. She could run right up to her room when she got home, claiming she had homework to do, and her stepmother would never be the wiser.
As she was fiddling around in her bag for a lighter, a black limousine rolled up to the bus stop. It was a Lincoln Town Car, polished to a gleaming shine. Even the whitewall tires looked clean. The electric window slid down, and a young man leaned out. He was wearing a gray wool cap with a black leather brim—like the kind of hat you might see a cab driver wearing in an old movie on AMC or TCM, she thought.
“You the one who called for a car service?” Caroline shook her head.
He held up a clipboard. “I got the address here—says I’m to meet a young lady in front of this coffee shop.”
She looked back at the restaurant. No one was standing outside waiting to be picked up.
“Any idea who it might be?” he said. “One of your friends, maybe?”
In the back of her mind, she wondered briefly how he knew she had friends in the restaurant, but the thought never made its way into her conscious brain. Something else registered only vaguely in her pretty head: though it was August, he was wearing black leather gloves.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, and started to roll the window back up. She glanced down the avenue—there was no bus in sight as far as she could see. Yellow cabs zoomed by, all of them filled with passengers.
“Wait a minute!” she called to him.
He lowered the window again.
“Yes?” He smiled. He had a pleasant face—not handsome, but pleasant. The kind of face you would forget as soon as you saw it.
“I’d like a lift home, if you’re free.”
“Sure—hop in.”
She slung her bag over her back and opened the door to the limo, inhaling the aroma of oiled leather seats. The cigarette could wait, she thought—now she just wanted to get home.
“Where to?” he said.
She told him.
“How much?”
He turned around and grinned. “For you, no charge.”
She smiled and leaned back into the soft, yielding embrace of expensive leather. She stretched out her tanned legs and regarded the polished toenails poking out from her Versace sandals with satisfaction. It was good to be young and pretty and rich on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
“Help yourself to water,” he said, and she saw a row of Poland Spring bottles tucked neatly into the pocket behind the front seat.
She reached for one and opened it, drinking greedily. It was a hot day, and she was thirsty. If she had noticed it tasted a little funny, or if that the seal had already been broken, she might have survived. But by the time the black Town Car turned toward the East River, she was already losing consciousness. She barely felt the car come to a stop after pulling into the cul-de-sac amid the block of warehouses on East Seventy-seventh Street. The last thing she saw before her young life ended was a pair of gloved hands moving toward her pretty white throat.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Lee was at home later that day when the phone rang. It was Kathy, and he knew immediately from her voice that something was wrong. She hadn’t spent the night with him on Saturday either, and he thought she had already gone back to Philadelphia.
“I need to see you.”
“Is it about your cat?”
“No, it’s—I need to see you in person.”
“You’re still in town?”
“Yes. I leave for Philly later today.”
“Why don’t you come here?”
There was a pause, and in that single window of silence, despair crept into the room and nestled quietly beside him, warming itself in the fire of his passion.
“Can we meet somewhere else?”
“Sure.”
“I’m still at Arlene’s place in Murray Hill. Can you meet me at the Waterfront?”
The Waterfront was a friendly neighborhood joint on Second Avenue with a nautical theme, a long narrow room with dark wood floors and pictures of sailing boats on the walls. The elaborate mahogany bar sported a great selection of microbrewery beers, and the menu selections included ostrich burgers and rabbit stew. Lee had been going there for years, and when he took Kathy, she had loved the place as much as he did.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said.
He hailed a cab and was there in twelve.
Kathy was sitting at a square wooden table farthest from the bar, where the regular customers were perched on their barstools, shrouded in a blue haze of cigarette smoke. Lee’s father had smoked, and he hated being around smoking of any kind.
She looked nervous, and the smile she gave him was fleeting, flitting across her face in the space of a second. He bent down to kiss her, but felt her stiffen.
He sat across from her, resting his elbows on the wooden surface, deeply scarred with the carved initials of previous patrons. In front of him the phrase Kilroy was here was written in large block letters.
“What are you drinking?” he said, glancing at the glass in front of her.
“Scotch,” she answered. She seemed to be avoiding looking at him.
“Want another one?”
She nodded and drained her glass in a single swallow. Bad sign, he thought—normally she wasn’t much of a drinker.
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
He threaded his way through afte
r-work crowd. They looked to be mostly office workers, men with their ties undone and suit jackets over their shoulders, the women at the bar slipping off their pumps to wiggle their toes under the bar stools. Everyone was in a festive mood. Even though it was Monday, the place was crowded. Waves of laughter crested and fell among the various groups; people flirted and gossiped, leaning into one another and then suddenly throwing their heads back to laugh at the punch line of a joke.
He ordered two Scotches, carrying them back to the table carefully through the crowd to avoid spilling them. She accepted the drink and took a large swallow. She put down the glass and looked at her hands, which were fidgeting with the drink straw, twisting it into tight knots.
“Okay,” he said, his stomach slowly filling with dread, “what did you want to talk about?”
“This is really hard,” she said, looking away.
“Waiting to hear it is harder—just say it.”
“Okay.” She looked up at him. In the rosy rays of the setting sun, her eyes were the color of caramel cream. A single lock of curly black hair fell over her forehead, and Lee’s stomach went hollow. He forced himself to look away.
The words, when they came, hit him like a body blow.
“I think we should have some time apart.”
“All right,” he said calmly, though what he wanted was to yell and scream as loud as he could. “Why couldn’t you tell me this over the phone?”
“Because it’s not the kind of thing you say over the phone.”
“Okay.”
“I … I’m having trouble sleeping—”
“Me, too, but we both know it’ll take a while—”
She raised a hand to stop him.
“Just hear me out, please?”
He nodded, miserable, and took a large gulp of Scotch. The peaty burn slid down his throat, bringing with it the welcome promise of numbness.
She studied her hands, which were trembling. “Lately it feels like when we’re together you’re not really … there.”
“Okay,” he said, forcing an evenness of tone he did not feel. He wished he were a better actor.
“I know this case has a personal element for you—”
His head felt like a parade of ants had invaded his brain. What about the red dress?
“All cases are personal for me,” he said.
“I already thought about that, and it doesn’t help. Maybe it should, but it doesn’t. But what’s worse is I don’t feel I’m quite there either. The job I’m doing, the body identifications …” She looked away, her lips compressed. “At the end of the day all I want is to crawl into bed.” She looked back again—not at him, but at her hands, gripping the glass of Scotch, the skin around her fingernails white. “And in less than two weeks is the—”
“I thought of that,” he said quickly, knowing what she was going to say. It would be the first anniversary of the attack.
“Maybe I’m an emotional coward,” she said, “but I’ve been around some of the families, and what they’re going through…. Jesus.” She took a long drink of Scotch. “When I lost my mother I thought I would never get through it.”
“Maybe I’m an emotional coward,” she said, “but I’ve been around some of the families, and what they’re going through…. Jesus.” She took a long drink of Scotch. “When I lost my mother I thought I would never get through it.”
“But you did.”
“But I don’t want to feel that pain ever again.”
“To live is to feel pain, Kathy—you can’t protect yourself forever, for Christ’s sake!”
“There’s another thing,” she said, looking into her Scotch glass as if it held all the answers. “I don’t feel like I can talk to you about it, because of your—your—”
“My depression.” He knew she didn’t like to say the word.
“Yes. I don’t want to be the cause of an episode, and … it sounds really shitty to say it, but I don’t want to have to deal with it right now. I have enough on my hands just doing my job.”
“I understand,” he said.
“No,” she said, “I don’t think you do. I’m not like you—I’m not good at putting things into words. I’m a scientist, and we’re not good at that kind of thing. I just don’t have room for a relationship right now—not with you, anyway.”
The last phrase stopped his breathing for a moment. Not with you, anyway.
“I see,” he said, his voice tight.
“Don’t be angry,” she said.
“What the hell do you expect me to be?”
“I’m not saying this is forever. I just need some time—”
“Fine,” he said. “I thought we had something, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Don’t be a drama queen, for God’s sake—”
“When couples have problems, they’re supposed to work them out together.”
“I’ve never been very good at that. I’ve always worked things out on my own. Maybe it’s because I lost my mother young, and I didn’t have a female role model.”
They had joked about this from the first—how she was the “boy” in the relationship and he was the “girl.” But now it felt like a stolid, ugly wall between them. The sun had dipped behind the Manhattan skyline, and the only lighting in the room came from wall sconces and the occasional standing lamp. Kathy’s eyes had again changed color; now they were the shade of dark mahogany, like the burnished wood on the beautiful old bar.
“There’s something else I want to tell you,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m … going into therapy.”
“Well, good. It’s probably what you need right now.”
“But I’m scared and anxious and afraid I’ll end up … like you.”
“Look, Kathy,” he said. “Everyone’s different. Just because you’re going into therapy, it doesn’t mean you’ll become clinically depressed. There are some hard truths in everyone’s life. It may take courage to face them, and it’ll be painful, sure—but that doesn’t mean you’ll end up like me.”
“I hate the way that sounded—I’m sorry.”
“And another thing. My sister, my only sibling, was murdered, probably by some psychopathic creep, and I can’t even talk to my mother about it. So unless there’s something about your family you haven’t told me, I don’t think you have that much to worry about.” He was aware of the anger in his voice, but he didn’t care. She wasn’t the only one with issues, he thought bitterly.
A silence descended upon them. They had run out of words; anything else they might say to each other would only compound the hurt. It suddenly felt as if there were a frozen tundra between them, instead of a scarred wooden table in a crowded bar.
They finished their drinks and walked without speaking out into the gathering twilight. A brisk wind was blowing in from the East River, and as they faced the setting sun, it occurred to him this might be the last time he ever saw her.
She stood on the curb, waiting to snag one of the yellow cabs hurtling down Second Avenue. She turned back to him as if about to say something, just as a cab came grinding to a halt in front of them, brakes screeching.
“I’ll call you,” she called to him as she climbed in, closing the door behind her. With a gun of its engine and a squeal of tire rubber, the cab turned west and sped off across town.
Walking home through the darkening city, Lee replayed the evening in his head. He watched the couples, arms linked, strolling in stride with one another, heels clacking crisply on the pavement. Just a few days ago he and Kathy had been one of those couples, and now he was headed home alone, while she caught a train back to Philadelphia.
He knew she was afraid; they were both afraid. And that’s what frightened him most of all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Drip, drip, drip …
Elena Krieger groaned as she fought her way into consciousness. It was cold here, so cold…. She opened her eyes, but there was little light in the room. She blinked rapi
dly and peered into the darkness, trying to make out the shape and size of the chamber where she was imprisoned.
Drip, drip, drip …
She struggled to move her limbs, but realized she was bound and gagged, her hands tied securely to her feet. Drip, drip … drip.
The sound was maddening—more than the ropes binding her limbs or the rag wound tightly around her mouth. She struggled some more, but only succeeded in getting rope burns, tiring herself out in the process. She was thirsty, so thirsty.
Drip, drip … drip.
She inhaled the musty odor of dirt and damp stones and realized she was in a basement. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could see a row of dusty jars on a shelf just above her. Yes—it was someone’s basement, she thought, and this was the canning shelf. For some reason, the thought cheered her. Whoever owned this basement, it was someone who canned. Like her aunt in Düsseldorf, who lovingly boiled and strained fresh berries each summer to make quarts and quarts of fresh jelly: red currant, strawberry, or black raspberry—her favorite. Her tear glands began to thicken, and she could feel her eyes swelling up.
Not now, she scolded herself. Gott im Himmel! Was kann ich jetzt tun? She reverted to thinking in German, as she did in times of stress.
She tried to remember how she got here … the last thing she could recall was getting into the limo with the polite young driver. He had offered her a bottle of water—that was it! He had drugged her! Even now, her shame at being captured was almost as great as her fear. This kind of thing had never happened to her—not Hildegard Elena Krieger von Boehm, in whose veins ran the blood of her ancestors, great German warriors whose blond manes and chilling battle cries sent a stab of fear into the hearts of their opponents.
She had no doubt who her captor was—it was him, the man she had been hunting—but now she was in his power. Another more disquieting thought came to her. He hadn’t killed her yet—but why not? What did he have in mind for her? She tried not to think about it, but fear wound itself around her intestines like a serpent, making her breath come in short bursts. She tried to calm herself by mouthing a bedtime prayer from her childhood, one her mother had taught her in her native Bavarian dialect. Lieber Gott, mach mich fromm, dass ich kann in Himmel komm. A beseechment to God to make her pious so she would go to Heaven when she died. Right now, the prayer seemed chillingly appropriate. A single tear slid slowly down her left cheek, dripping onto the cold stone floor, and Elena Krieger realized to her shame that she was crying.
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