by Cassie Miles
"I need to make some phone calls," he said. "Do you still have my cell?"
She unzipped a pocket on her backpack, but before she turned over the phone, she said, "No cell phone while you're driving."
"Here's an idea," he said. "You drive. I'll sit in the passenger seat and make my phone calls."
The approving smile that lit her face told him that he should have figured out this solution a long time ago. If Blair was behind the wheel, he wouldn't have to listen to her constant back-seat driver commentary, telling him to watch out for the other cars, for bumps in the road, for lane changes.
"I'd be delighted," she said.
Behind the wheel of the Acura, Blair made adjustments to the seat and the mirrors. Carefully she eased the car onto the residential street. "Where to?"
"St. Ignatius Hospital," he said.
For a little while she tried to listen to David's end of phone conversations, but her mind drifted as she drove back toward the center of town. Coming from the west, the skyline was a reverse image of her usual view. Sunlight sparkled in, brash reflections off the skyscraper windows. The skies above were blue and clear.
Though she'd grown up in Indiana, she considered Denver to be her home. The city was large enough to have urban advantages, but there was still a small, cow town feeling within the various neighborhoods. The fabric of the city was stitched together like a quilt with each scrap representing a diverse locale with its own architecture and population—like Ted's house in an older section where brick two-stories stood side by side, looking out at a quiet street where few children played. Ted Hurtado seemed out-of-place in that dark brick home. He was a sophisticated guy who belonged in a classy downtown loft where he could walk to performances at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. Why had he stayed with his mother?
More important, why had the Fisherman chosen to send his threat notes to Ted? Could it possibly be—as he suggested—because he wrote a restaurant column?
She had a sense that Ted knew more information about the Fisherman but didn't want to share with David. On the other hand, he seemed to like her. If Blair could schedule some time alone with him, he might be more forthcoming.
Not that she was thrilled by the process of interviewing witnesses and suspects. It was too inaccurate. If you showed five witnesses the exact same scene, they'd come up with five different stories. People lied. Or they avoided the truth. Or they simply didn't see what needed to be seen.
She much preferred the exactitude of science. Just the facts, ma'am.
David completed his calls and clicked the cell phone closed. "Here's what we're going to do. I just talked to Jake, and he's clearing his stuff out of my town house. You'll stay with me."
She thought for half a second and said, "No."
"I need to be in my office, using my own computer to make notes on these interviews and—"
"I wanted to ask about that," she said. "You didn't jot down any notes while you were talking to Ted. How do you remember what was said?"
"If the interview gets complicated or if I need accurate quotes, I use a tape recorder. Otherwise, I remember," he said. "And don't change the subject. Why can't you move into my place?"
"You don't have a swimming pool." Seemed obvious to her. "Swimming every day is important to me. It keeps me in balance."
"No problem. I'll make sure we get back to your place every day for a swim. But you're going to stay with me. It's safer."
She had to agree that moving in with David seemed like a good protection strategy. In the past, the Fisherman only targeted women who lived alone. Still, she didn't want to pick up and move. It was a huge disruption. Her condo was comfortable; her daily routine was settled. She might not have the most wildly ecstatic lifestyle, but she wasn't miserable. Only a little bit lonely. Okay, so she was occasionally very lonely. Desperately isolated.
What was the real reason she didn't want to move? It was an admission that she was in danger—an acceptance of the possibility that the Fisherman might target her next. Friday, four days from now, was the deadline.
"Okay, David. I'll move in with you. The change will do me good."
"I promise to get food," he said.
"And coffee," she said. "And—"
"Chocolate," he said. "I know."
She found a parking space down the street from St. Ignatius Hospital. "What are we doing here?"
"I'm hoping we can hook up with Dr. Kevin MacKay. He's an anesthesiologist. His fiancée was the first victim."
"Is Kevin MacKay a suspect?"
"The cops seemed to think so. At the time of the first murder, they really worked him over. Then the second body showed up, and this turned into a serial killer investigation."
"Do we have an appointment with him?"
"I just talked to him. He said he'd try to meet us in the cafeteria within the hour."
She groaned. "Hospital food for lunch."
In the hospital's beige cafeteria, Blair assembled a palatable lunch: a bag of chips, bottled water and a turkey sandwich. The secret to decent eating in any kind of institutional setting was to avoid foods that required expert preparation—like the goopy bowl of chili on David's tray.
He opened his skinny briefcase on the Formica table-top and pulled out a photograph. "This is an old picture of Dr. MacKay. See if you can spot him in here."
With his red hair, snub nose and pale-blue eyes, he looked like an all-American guy with no secrets and no nefarious agenda. She scanned the cafeteria. The people in street clothes—patients, their friends and family— shared an attitude of resigned anticipation as they poked at their food, waiting for medical results. The hospital staff was far more varied in their poses. They were on the job. Some weary. Some happy. Some tense. None of them were Kevin MacKay. "I don't see him."
David was already halfway through his chili. "This isn't half-bad. I might have to go back for seconds."
"Two bowls of chili? You must have a cast-iron stomach."
"As long as it's food, I'm okay."
She wondered if, while she was staying at his home, they'd cook meals together. The idea of sharing domestic duties made her smile. The last time she'd lived with another person was in med school when she'd rented a bedroom in a large old house with three other roommates. She remembered big dinners of salad and spaghetti. It might be fun to try out her more experienced culinary skills on David.
"Hello, Blair."
The tenor voice came from over her left shoulder. She turned and looked up at the redheaded man from the photograph. Dr. Kevin MacKay. He seemed to know her. "Hi," she said tentatively.
"You don't remember me," he said as he set his tray on the table beside her. "We interned at the same time. That was at Rose Hospital."
"But you're an anesthesiologist." Logically their paths wouldn't cross. "I was never on a surgical rotation."
"We didn't work together, but I noticed you." His smile seemed forced. "You looked real cute in your purple scrubs."
"Right. Baggy scrubs are so adorable."
His laugh was cold. "I even asked you out on a date. You turned me down."
"I didn't date much." This was turning uncomfortable. "We were so busy as interns."
"Sure," he said. "That was the same excuse you used back then."
She still couldn't place him. Had they really interned at the same time? He looked to be in his late forties, at least ten years older than she was. "What have you been up to, Kevin?"
"This and that." He carefully unwrapped the cellophane on his cafeteria sandwich. "I just got back from Peru. For the past four years, I've been working with International Medical Relief. Which means I've been all over the world. Africa, Asia and South America."
"So you've been away from Denver for quite a while."
"I like the travel."
As David introduced himself and explained his investigation, Blair's thoughts turned inward. If Kevin MacKay could be considered a suspect, if he might be the Fisherman, his travel patterns would
explain the gap of five years between the earlier murders and the killing of Pamela Comforti.
The perfect escape for a serial killer was to move from place to place so the authorities wouldn't recognize a pattern. Even more brilliant would be moving from country to country. A killing in Peru would never be connected to the murders in Denver.
The thought sickened her. It was grotesque to imagine someone from International Medical Aid as a serial killer. Their job was to provide relief to a desperate population, not to harm them. The revulsion must have shown in her expression because Kevin said, "Something wrong, Blair?"
Had he targeted her? Was he looking at her as his next victim? "I'm fine."
David said, "I hate to rake up the past, Kevin. But sometimes we have a different perspective when we look back."
"What do you want to know?"
"I'm interested in the time right before the murder of your fiancee. Did you notice anything unusual?"
"Like what?"
"A change in her regular routine?"
"Hard to tell," he said. "She had a bee in her bonnet about setting a date for our wedding. Kept pressuring me about it. Every time I saw her, she was carrying one of those bride magazines."
"Was that behavior different?"
As Kevin considered the question, he arranged the food on his tray and started eating in a clockwise progression, taking a bite of sandwich, a sip of milk, then a bite of apple. Very precise.
The way he dressed was equally obsessive. Under his starched white medical jacket, his scrubs were ironed. The four pens in his pocket were identical. He wore a large wristwatch with several dials and functions. Blair suspected it was an alarm clock wristwatch—one of those annoying devices for people who were oh, so important.
She really wasn't being fair to Kevin. Attention to detail was a positive trait for an anesthesiologist. And for a serial killer?
"As I look back," Kevin said, "I'd say Marion was more excitable than usual. You know, giggly. She mentioned three or four times that she wanted to move in with me."
"You weren't living together?"
"Of course not." He frowned. "Not before marriage."
"You were a priest," Blair said. "I remember now. When you started interning, you'd just left the priesthood."
"Because I believed I could do more good in a medical profession," he said.
"That's why you've been working for International Medical Aid. To do good."
"That wasn't my first plan. I expected to get married, settle down and have kids. After Marion was killed, that changed."
"Did you find someone else? Are you married now?"
"Not yet. But I'm still looking."
With this new evidence, Blair absolutely had to revise her opinion of Kevin. He was a former priest and a volunteer for medical aid. It didn't sound like the resume for a serial killer.
"Back to Marion," David said. "Did you ever have the impression that she was being stalked?"
"Not really. She didn't get weird notes or phone calls."
"Anything more subtle? Somebody asking her out even though she was engaged?"
"Well, that happened all the time." He sipped his milk. "Marion was a very beautiful woman."
"Looking back," David said, "was it possible that she wanted to move in with you because she felt threatened?"
"I don't think so." He nibbled his apple. "Marion enjoyed the attention of men. All men. She encouraged them, tossing her hair and swinging her pelvis when she walked. And all that giggling. She had an aura. Very sexy. I wasn't surprised she attracted a serial killer."
Blair couldn't believe his words. "Surely you don't blame her for what happened?"
"I don't condemn her. She couldn't help the way she was. Women don't realize what they do to men. Like Eve in the Garden. The temptation of the flesh."
Before she could tromp all over his idiotic opinion, David said, "Do you think Marion knew the killer?"
"Certainly," he said. "She allowed him to get close enough to take her captive. When her body was found at Sloan's Lake, she was wearing tight leather pants I disapproved of. If she'd done as I said—"
"Wear Amish clothes?" Blair snapped. "Or never leave the house?"
"There's something to be said for modesty." Kevin tasted his sandwich, his milk, his apple.
Outraged, she pushed away from the table. "I'll wait for you in the hall, David."
"Sorry," Kevin said. "I didn't mean to offend you. I'm being honest."
Honestly offensive. She was appalled by his suggestion that female victims deserved to be attacked or murdered because of their clothing. Tight leather pants didn't justify an assault. Blair had never believed the "she's asking for it" theory.
Walking as quickly as possible, she left the cafeteria and stepped into the hallway. Even the faintly antiseptic smell of the hospital was a relief after listening to Kevin's rancid opinions.
Blair leaned her back against the wall and folded her arms below her breasts. Impotent anger surged through her. Right now, she seriously needed a swim—something refreshing to wash away this disgusting, slimy sensation.
But she knew the swim would have to wait.
They spent the rest of the day talking to other people connected to the first murder, Marion's murder. According to her sister and other friends, Marion had been an average woman in her mid-twenties. A nurse. She liked dressing up and considered herself lucky to be engaged to Kevin. None of these people suspected Kevin of anything more than being opinionated.
It was after dark when the returned to Blair's condo so she could gather up the necessary clothes and toiletries for a stay at David's place. Before she went anywhere, she intended to take a swim.
She emerged from her bedroom wearing her robe over her bathing suit. Her apartment keys were in her robe pocket. "I'm going down to the pool."
He pried himself out of the recliner. "I'll come with you."
"That's not necessary," she said, rolling her eyes. Though she enjoyed David's company, they'd been joined at the hip all day. "Take a break."
"What kind of bodyguard would I be if I let you—"
"A sensible one." Placing her hands on his chest, she pushed him back toward the recliner. "I swim every day and nothing ever happens to me. Besides, the Fisherman set his deadline for Friday. Four days from now. I'll be fine."
He glanced longingly toward the television. "I'd like to catch the evening news and see if there's been progress on Pamela Comforti's murder."
She picked up the remote and clicked on the news broadcast. "I'll be back in half an hour."
With a sigh, David sank into the chair.
Before he could change his mind, she whipped down the hall, out the door and ran to the elevator. She liked David, but she needed a break from the incessant talking. All the spoken words crammed inside her head and rattled around in a jumbled mess. .Too much—it was definitely too much human contact for someone like Blair who usually spent her days in relative quiet.
The tiled pool room was empty. As usual. She always found it hard to believe that with more than a hundred people living in her building, the pool was so often deserted.
She hung her robe on a wall hook, put on her goggles and stepped to the edge. Her neat dive into the cool blue water instantly revived her senses. A delicious shiver rippled through her.
With vigorous strokes, she swam two laps, then rolled onto her back and set a more leisurely pace. The gentle exercise relaxed her body and eased her mind. Tension flowed from her. Swimming was such a clean sport. No sweating. No straining. Only a smooth ripple.
And then the overhead lights in the pool room went out. Darkness fell over her like a smothering blanket.
Chapter Eight
Confused by the sudden darkness, Blair splashed in a circle, treading water, staying afloat. Unable to get her bearings, she tore off her goggles. A faint illumination spilled from two high windows that were shuttered for privacy. It was just enough light to reflect off the water. The waves shimmered
around her like a hundred sharp knives pointed straight at her heart.
This blackout hadn't been caused by a power failure. The impending danger had caught up with her.
There was only one door out of the pool room, and she peered toward it. Beside the door was the light switch. "Who's there?" she whispered.
Outlined against the tile walls, she saw a shadow, a solid presence. He was here with her. Watching. Waiting.
"Who are you?" Her trembling voice echoed off the tiles, bouncing back at her in desperate mockery of her fear. Screaming for help was useless. No one lived on this level. No one would hear.
The shadow moved, furtively gliding along the wall, circling the edge of the room. Where was he?
She couldn't tell, couldn't see anything. Her only landmarks were the tiny slashes of light from the windows. Could he see her?
She swam toward the shallow end of the pool. Before she grasped the edge, she decided this was a bad idea. Once she got out of the water, she was exposed. If she stayed in the center of the pool, surrounded by water, he couldn't reach her.
She pushed away from the side and paddled halfway back to the deep end. At least, that's where she thought she was. In the dark, her familiar surroundings became alien territory. She straightened her body in the water and bobbed below the surface. The deepest part of the pool was eight feet. She wasn't there yet.
When she broke the surface, she heard the sound of shuffling feet against the concrete. Where was he? How close?
If he dove into the water after her, she could pinpoint his location and flee from him. She was a fast swimmer. But where was he? Where would the attack come from?
Concentrating hard, she stared at the tiled walls all the way around the room. There seemed to be no one. No shadow. Nothing.
Then she looked up. On the diving board above her head, she saw a crouching form. Hunched over, he didn't even look human.
Instinctively she took a breath and dove as deep as she could. Absolute silence engulfed her. A dark void. It was the most horrible emptiness she'd ever experienced. Totally alone, she was in limbo, a prelude to hell but safer here than on the top where he could find her. The engulfing waters would cushion and protect her. How long could she stay down? Forever? It would be better to die here than to be caught by the Fisherman.
