by R. G. Belsky
“Promise?”
“I’m running a special at my place tonight—all the ravishing you can handle—as part of my bodyguard recruitment plan.”
He leaned over and kissed me.
We were right in the middle of a police station. There were cops all around us, watching. Everyone whooped and hollered at our public display of affection. Some cheered. A few of them even shouted obscene remarks.
I didn’t care.
There was nothing wrong with sleeping with a cop.
You just had to pick the right cop to sleep with.
I thought about that all the way home that night. How had I ever let myself get mixed up with Jack Reagan? Sure, he’d been good-looking and charming and I’d been very young. But long before I ever suspected he was a murderer, I knew he was no good. So why had I slept with him? That said something about my character too.
Maybe there was something about him I had needed back then.
The same way I had needed to continually find some sort of high to get through life, whether it be from the adrenaline of a big story or from drinking.
I liked danger, I liked taking chances—I liked living on the edge.
But now I was different. I wasn’t the wild, reckless person I used to be, I didn’t need a continual high to get through the day—or the night—anymore. I was older, more cautious, willing to take things more slowly. I looked before I leaped a lot more these days. The way I used to be, I was easy prey for someone like a Jack Reagan. But not anymore.
The only high I wanted now was love.
I’d never quite experienced that one.
Now I’d finally found the real thing with Mitch Caruso. I was in love with him. And he was in love with me. Maybe this time I could live happily ever after.
I was still preoccupied with all this when I opened the door of my apartment. That was why I didn’t see him right away. I was halfway into the living room before I spotted the figure sitting on the couch and staring at me.
I let out a gasp.
It was Jack Reagan.
He had a gun—a Bulldog .44 revolver—pointed at me.
“Hi, honey,” he said. “I’m home.”
Chapter 64
He looked different. Much different.
Some of it was from the passing of time. The blond hair was thinner and darker now. He’d put on about twenty-five pounds. And his skin looked weather-beaten, like he’d been out in the sun a lot.
But he’d deliberately changed his appearance too. His hair was cut short. He had a beard. And he wore glasses.
“You’re looking real good, babe,” the man I knew a million years ago as Jack Reagan said to me.
“You too, Jack.” I tried to keep my voice calm and under control. “Death must agree with you.”
He laughed. “Sorry about that. But I had to leave in a big hurry. Things were getting pretty hot. I hope I didn’t cause you too many problems.”
“Nothing that twelve years of psychiatry couldn’t help,” I said.
He shook his head. “You don’t seem very surprised to see me, Lucy.”
“I already figured out you were still alive.”
“I thought you would.”
“Really?”
“You always were a smart girl.”
“Funny, I was just thinking about how dumb I was twelve years ago.”
He motioned for me to sit down in a chair across from him. The gun was still pointing at me.
“Why’d you do it, Jack?”
“Hell, it was fun.”
“Murdering all those people?”
“You don’t know what it’s like, Lucy. Holding the power of life and death in your hands.
“I used to pick out pretty girls on the street. Then I’d follow them. Watch everything they did—for hours, sometimes for days. I’d savor every little move they made—combing their hair, fixing their lipstick, eating a final meal—without knowing their life was coming to an end. But I knew. I felt like God.
“And then when I did it . . . well, it was like great mind-blowing sex, only better. It’s the mother of all orgasms, believe me.”
“That’s sick,” I said.
“No, it’s human nature. That’s why people like to hunt. That jungle instinct is inside all of us. Only I was hunting humans. Beautiful female humans. It was like combining the two most exciting things in the world—sex and violence.
“Did you know I was assigned to the Son of Sam case? I was there when they caught him in 1977. I watched him being questioned. And I could see the excitement in his eyes when he talked about the killings.
“So I began to wonder what it must be like. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I started to fantasize about it. I used to stand in front of a mirror and act out his murders. Only this time it was me doing them. It was all I could think about.
“And then one night I just did it. The Fowler kid and his girlfriend. I followed them the whole evening. First to dinner, then to a disco and finally to the spot in the lovers’ lane where they parked.
“Goddamn, it exceeded all my expectations. Afterward, I was on such a high. I knew I was going to do it again. I was hooked.”
I remembered talking with Robert Fowler about the same thing.
Fowler had started out as a victim, and wound up enjoying the killing too.
Maybe it was true.
Maybe there was a bit of Jack Reagan in all of us.
“There’s only one problem with that,” I said. “You didn’t really get the idea from Son of Sam. You were killing people back in Missouri when you were Martin Chambers and barely out of your teens. At least five that I know of. Of course, that doesn’t even include your wife.”
“Well, well, you’ve been a busy girl, haven’t you?”
“I’m a reporter, remember?”
“I’m impressed.”
“I’d also be willing to bet that in the city you’re living in now—under whatever name you’re using these days—there’s a whole string of unsolved killings of young women. Is that true or false?”
He smiled. “That would be true.”
We sat there staring at each other.
There was one more thing I wanted from him.
No matter what happened, I had to know.
“Why did you pick me up that first night in Gramercy Park?”
“I wanted to do you.”
“You mean sleep with me?”
He shook his head. “I was going to kill you. I watched you covering the story. The way you moved, talked to people, wrote stuff down in your notebook. You were going to be my next victim. I’d never done two shootings in one night like that. But that’s what I was going to do.”
“What happened?”
“I decided I could use you instead. You were young, you were ambitious, you wanted a big story really bad—so I decided to give one to you. I decided it was time that everyone knew what I was doing. I thought it would make it more exciting. I was right.”
“And that’s it?”
“Well, I liked you too.”
“You fell in love with me?”
“More or less.”
“I guess I should be flattered, huh?”
“You were the only one.”
The telephone rang. It jolted me like an alarm clock, suddenly reminding me I was not dreaming. This was really happening.
“Don’t answer it,” Reagan said.
The phone rang four times. Then my answering machine clicked on. After the beeps, I heard Mitch Caruso’s voice. “Hey, Lucy, are you there? Pick up, hon.”
“Who’s that?” Reagan asked.
“A friend.”
“Your lover, right?”
“I got tired of waiting for you, Jack.”
Mitch was still talking, assuming I was in another part of the apartment and would pick up at any second.
“He’s coming over,” I said.
“He’ll think you’re not home.”
“No, he’ll be here anyway to wait for me. He
’s got a key. He’s only a few minutes away. I better talk to him.”
Reagan looked at the answering machine. He made an instant decision.
“Okay, talk to him. But don’t try anything. Just tell him you can’t see him tonight.”
“Why?”
“Make up some reason.”
I picked up the receiver. Reagan stood behind me and held it so he could hear both sides of the conversation. He had the gun pointed at my head.
“I’m on my way over,” Mitch said.
“Not tonight,” I told him.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m really tired.”
“Me too. So we’ll be tired together.”
I tried to think of something I could tell him.
Some clue to alert Mitch that things had gone terribly wrong for me.
But a clue that wouldn’t seem strange or suspicious to Jack Reagan.
Something that one man knew about me—and the other didn’t.
“Listen, I’ve just had two glasses of vodka,” I told him, “and I’m pouring myself another right now.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
“What are you talking about?” Mitch asked finally.
“I’m talking about getting myself quietly blitzed, and I prefer to do that alone.”
“But . . .”
“Got that?”
I slammed the phone down.
Reagan was eyeing me carefully. But he bought it.
I guess I was acting very normally—for the old Lucy.
“Very good,” he said.
But I knew it wasn’t good.
Not when Jack Reagan thought I was the only person in the world who knew he was still alive.
Not good at all.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“We’re going for a ride.”
“Where?”
“Back where it all started.”
Chapter 65
That secluded scenic overlook was still there.
Just like it had been on that night a long time ago when Bobby Fowler and Linda Malandro parked their Chevy Nova on the ridge overlooking the waters of the Hudson River.
We went in my car. I drove. Reagan sat in the passenger seat with his gun pointed at me the whole way.
I took the FDR Drive uptown, then got off just before the George Washington Bridge and made my way through upper Manhattan to the spot by the water. I kept looking in the rearview mirror, praying for help. I hoped Mitch had figured it out in time. But there was no Mitch. No police cars. No cavalry riding to the rescue in the nick of time. I was on my own.
“Why here?” I asked as we pulled into the place where the first Loverboy shooting had occurred.
“It seems appropriate.”
“A beginning and ending to everything, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“An end to Loverboy?”
“An end to everything.”
I shut off the motor. There were no other cars in sight. It was a clear, quiet summer night, and the car windows were open. Across the river, you could see New Jersey. To the south were the bright lights of Manhattan. The Blade was back there somewhere. My apartment too. And Mitch Caruso. My whole life, or what was left of it.
“It is very romantic here, isn’t it?” Reagan said.
“You want to fool around?” I asked.
He gave me a look of surprise.
“Just like old times,” I told him.
“Are you serious?”
“Sure, you and me. Shannon and Reagan. Together again one last time.”
“An interesting idea,” he said. “The circumstances certainly would add a sense of excitement and . . . well, urgency . . . to the lovemaking.”
“You’re getting me all hot, Jack.”
He shook his head.
“I’m not stupid, Lucy. You’d be thinking the whole time about some way to escape. And it would be difficult to hold this gun on you. A pity, really. So I’m afraid I have to pass on your kind offer.”
“Maybe some other time,” I said.
“Doubtful.”
He took a brown paper bag out of his pocket.
“I will have a drink with you, though.”
There was a bottle of vodka inside. Stolichnaya. “Stoli,” my favorite brand.
“I don’t drink,” I said.
“Sure you do.”
“Not anymore.”
“You quit?”
“Last Christmas.”
“But you told that guy on the phone . . .”
He suddenly realized what had happened back at the apartment.
“You were trying to give him a message that you were in trouble,” he said.
“My, my, what a bright boy you are.”
“But here we are all alone.”
“That’s right.”
“So your little ruse didn’t work.”
“Evidently not.”
He unscrewed the top of the vodka bottle with his free hand and held it out to me.
“No way,” I said.
“I’m afraid I must insist.”
“Look, you’re going to kill me anyway. We both know that. So it doesn’t really make any difference what I do, does it? And if I’m going to die, I’d rather die sober. It’s important to me. It would be one thing I was able to do right in this life.”
“Drink the vodka, Lucy. There are different ways to die. It can be painless or it can be very painful. In your case, I’d like to make the outcome as painless as possible.”
“For old times’ sake?” I asked.
“For old times’ sake.”
I looked at the clear liquid in the bottle. Hello, old friend. It’s been a while. All that willpower, just to end up like this.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Lucy. You’re obsessed by the Loverboy story—it’s driven you over the brink. So you drive up here to the place where it all started. You’re drunk, you’re distraught, you’re suicidal. You kill yourself at the scene of your greatest triumph. They’ll find a note in which you admit you made up all that stuff in your story about poor, long-dead Jack Reagan. And the gun will be in your hand. The real gun this time. Loverboy’s gun. The one you kept all these years.”
“It won’t work, Jack.”
“Why not?”
“Too many people know what I know. The cops. My editors. Even your old friend Police Commissioner Ferraro. They realize I’m not crazy. And that this is not all just a figment of my imagination.”
“Maybe.”
“And they’re gonna figure out the real Loverboy did this.”
“That’s all right too.”
“You want Loverboy to go out in a final blaze of publicity, huh?”
“It does provide a certain kind of closure,” he replied and smiled.
“But it’s not over for you, is it? You’re going to keep on killing people, aren’t you? Maybe not as Loverboy. But you won’t stop. You can’t stop.”
“Like I said before, it is the ultimate thrill.”
“You are one sick motherfucker.”
He gestured to me with the gun to start drinking.
I raised the bottle to my lips and started to take a sip.
“More,” he ordered. “A lot more. Keep drinking until I tell you to stop. I want your alcohol content nice and high when they find you.”
I took some more in my mouth. It tasted wonderful. Just like it always had. I closed my eyes and savored the taste and felt the familiar anticipation beginning to spread through my body.
It was now or never.
Suddenly I gasped for breath.
I lurched forward like I was going to be sick.
“What are you doing?” Reagan yelled in surprise.
Before he could react, I spit the vodka in his face. He reacted instinctively, jerking back to get out of the way of the liquid coming out of my mouth. I dove for the gun he was holding.
The .44 went off, bucking violently in his han
d.
I felt a burning pain in my side as the bullet creased me and then smashed through the windshield of the car. Reagan tried to fire another shot, but he couldn’t wrestle control of the gun from me for long enough.
We battled for it in the front seat. The fight probably lasted only for seconds, but it seemed like hours.
Finally, with every ounce of strength I could muster, I grabbed hold of his wrist, smashed it against the passenger door and forced him to let go. The gun flew out the open window.
Reagan broke away from my grasp and desperately looked around for it on the floor of the car. He didn’t know where it was.
I grabbed at the door handle on my side and jumped out, landing on the ground.
Then I picked myself up and started to run.
The pain in my side was getting worse. I looked down and saw a pool of blood growing bigger on my blouse.
Suddenly, behind me, I heard Reagan gun the engine of my car. I realized in a panic that I couldn’t outrun him. In front of me was the edge of a cliff, dropping off steeply to the waters below.
I was trapped.
There was no way out.
That was when I saw the gun.
It was lying on the ground where it had fallen after flying out of Reagan’s hand during the struggle.
If I could only get to it in time.
Reagan started to speed toward me in the car.
I dove for the gun. Then I came up firing, emptying all six shots at him.
I hit him. He slumped forward on the steering wheel, his foot still pressed down on the gas pedal. The car continued speeding right at me. I jumped out of its path just in time. It missed me by only a few inches.
The car roared on by, crashing through a low fence on the edge of the cliff and dropping off into the water far below.
I watched it sink below the current.
Then, from somewhere in the distance, I heard police sirens.
That was the last thing I remembered until I looked up and saw Mitch Caruso’s face above me.
“Am I going to die?” I asked.
“You’re going to be fine.”
Then Mitch leaned down and kissed me.
“Promise me something,” I said.
“Anything.”
“I want us to be forever.”
He kissed me again.
“I love you, Lucy Shannon.”
“I’ve been waiting for you my whole life, Mitch Caruso.”
