There was work to be done.
Chapter Nineteen
Lee woke up the next morning in a clammy sweat, anxiety squeezing his stomach like an evil fist.
Mornings were the worst. With the demands of the day looming, the terror could drain him of will, crippling him and leaving him paralyzed. Sometimes he knew the reason for his anxiety, and sometimes he didn't. It was much worse when he didn't. Then it would grip him hour after hour, pressing like a vise upon his consciousness, until even the simplest action, like brushing his teeth, required an enormous act of will.
Today he knew the reason for his anxiety: it was Kathy Azarian. Meeting her had upset his carefully calibrated world. He feared that whatever control he had managed over his emotions would be thrown to the wind. More than anything, he wanted never to return to the months following his sister's disappearance.
That was when it had started-when the darkness had descended around him, a blackness that he had never known before. Since then, he had come to know the many faces of depression. Most often, it would hit him first thing in the morning, upon waking, a cold, hard hand around his heart and a burning, as though his soul were on fire. Familiar objects become foreign, food lost its ability to comfort, landscapes he once found charming looked utterly blank. There was no seeing beyond the thick fog of pain.
Now, lying in bed, he felt the familiar restlessness coupled with frozen immobility. He lay curled up in his bed for a while, stomach churning, his mind circling around itself like a lion pacing in a cage. He looked over at the digital alarm clock next to his bed. The red numbers read 10:32, the dots between them flashing like warning signal lights.
At one point after Laura's death, he had developed a fear of his answering machine. He dreaded getting up in the morning and seeing the blinking red light indicating he had messages. It was like the glaring red eye of a great, devouring beast waiting to swallow him whole. He was terrified of other people's needs and demands on him, afraid he would fail them-or worse, that he would be engulfed by them.
He was also certain that each message would be the police calling to say they had found his sister's body. In spite of his certainty that she was dead, he dreaded receiving that call.
He pulled himself out of bed, dragged himself to the bathroom, bathed, and shaved in a haze, hardly aware of what he was doing, as though he were sleepwalking. He forced himself to look at the answering machine. To his relief, there were no messages.
Hands trembling, he picked up the phone and called his therapist. After leaving a message, he felt what little will he had draining away with each passing minute. He went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and tried to imagine desiring food. No coffee, not today-when he was this jittery, caffeine was the last thing he needed. He stared at a bowl of bananas on the table, but they looked uninviting. He sat down at the piano but couldn't focus on the notes in front of him.
Finally, the phone rang. He picked it up on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Lee, it's Georgina Williams." Her voice was cool and yet intimate, with just the right amount of professional detachment.
He got right to the point. "Do you have any openings or cancellations today?"
"Actually, I have one in an hour, if you can get here that quickly."
"Great. I'll see you in an hour."
He put the phone down and forced his breath all the way down into his belly, making himself exhale slowly. Then he went to the kitchen, snagged a banana from the bowl, and forced himself to eat it.
An hour later he was seated in the familiar office, with its comforting collection of objects, books, and paintings. A vase of carnations sat on the table next to Dr. Williams, casting off an aroma of nutmeg.
"Okay, you're anxious today," Dr. Williams was saying in her smooth, cultivated voice. "But are you anything else?"
"Sad, maybe."
"Anything else?"
Lee looked at her. "Like what?"
"Like…angry, perhaps?"
His stomach burned-boiled with-yes, rage.
"Okay," he said, "so I'm angry. What do I do about it?"
"Well, allowing yourself to acknowledge it is a start. Then you might tell me all the things you're angry about."
Lee felt his jaw tighten.
"Okay," he said stiffly. "I'm angry at my mother for not recognizing the truth: that Laura is gone, that she's never coming back. She just can't accept that Laura is dead."
"So you're angry at your mother for holding on to hope."
"Yes. There's a time to let it go, to see reality for what it is."
"What if reality is too painful?"
"Reality is often too painful. That's not a good excuse. You still have to face it."
"So you wish your mother had your courage?"
"Yeah, I guess I do. Because then I could-I could grieve with her. It's something we could go through together, instead of living in these parallel realities."
Dr. Williams nodded, sympathy stamped across her high-cheekboned face. "Yes, it's hard when people we care about continue to disappoint us."
"There's something else." How to say it? "I've met someone."
Dr. Williams folded her elegant hands in her lap and leaned back in her chair. "Well, that sounds like a good thing."
"It sounds great-but it feels scary."
"Why don't we talk about why it feels scary?"
"Well, it's a chance to have something I want, but it's also a chance to fail, to lose what I want."
"So as long as you don't want anything you're safe?"
Lee considered the question. "Yeah, pretty much. That's no way to live, though. The thing is, I'm not sure I'm ready for something like this. I mean, the timing-I feel caught off guard."
"Wouldn't it be great if opportunity only knocked when we asked it to?"
"Do I sense a little sarcasm?"
"No, not at all. Just irony. I don't think it's unreasonable for you to feel that way at all, but life often throws you a curve just when-"
"When you were hoping for a fastball."
Dr. Williams laughed, a low, bell-like sound that emanated from deep in her throat. Lee was reminded of a didgeridoo, the Australian musical instrument that produced amazing waves of overtones when played correctly.
"What does she look like?"
"She's, uh…kind of short, with curly dark hair."
"Like your sister."
"Oh, come on-does everything have to be about Laura?"
"No. I'm just pointing it out. It's interesting that you became so immediately defensive about it."
"All right, all right!"
"You know, it isn't unusual for someone to try to construct a surrogate family when their family of origin is inadequate-or, in this case, torn away from you."
"Okay, okay," Lee said impatiently. "And John Nelson is my substitute father figure, who doesn't abandon me, but chooses me from among all the others."
"Why does that make you so angry?"
"That's what I'm here to find out, isn't it?"
"Okay." Dr. Williams rarely took bait, even when it was dangled in front of her. It was one of the things Lee liked about her-she had that kind of confidence as a therapist.
There was a pause, and then Lee said, "You know, my mother doesn't really approve of what I do for a living."
"You think not?"
"It's too messy, too involved with things she'd rather not think about."
"The dark side of human nature?"
"She was all right with my being a psychologist, but this 'profiling thing,' as she calls it, takes me to places she doesn't want to admit even exist."
"So you think she finds it threatening?"
"I'm sure of it."
"And you? Do you find it threatening?"
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"This woman you've met-do you think she finds it threatening?"
"Well, that's the thing: she seems fascinated by it. I don't know how I feel about that. Part of me is glad, and part of
me wonders…"
"What's wrong with her?"
He thought about it. "Yeah, maybe."
"So you think you should marry a girl just like dear old Mom?"
"Well, now, which is it, Dr. Williams-my mother or my sister? Make up your mind."
They both laughed, but Lee had a sticky feeling of discomfort. It was one thing to read about these things in a textbook, or even to go through it with a patient, but it was another thing to experience it yourself.
Lee left Dr. Williams's office feeling a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It was such a relief to be able to say "I'm afraid." In his family, those were forbidden words. No one was ever afraid-not strong, worthy people, at any rate. Fear was for the rest of humanity, those inferior beings who had not the good fortune to be born Campbells. As Lee turned the corner onto University Place, past the University Coffee Shop, the smell of grilled beef assailed his nostrils, and he was suddenly ravenous.
His cell phone beeped inside his jacket, indicating that he had a message. He dug it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. NEW TEXT MESSAGE. He scrolled over to the message and read it. It was a single sentence. What about the red dress?
He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, stunned. No one knew about the red dress, the one his sister was last seen wearing before she disappeared. That detail had never been released to the public-only the police knew about the red dress.
Except that now someone else knew too.
Chapter Twenty
Later that afternoon Lee sat in the overstuffed brown leather armchair by the window, his feet propped up on the windowsill, a cup of strong coffee on the round rosewood table by his side. He opened the yellow file folder on his lap. The red tab marking said simply Kelleher, Marie, followed by the case number. This young girl, who once had a life ahead of her, was now reduced to a manila folder, a few horrific photos, and a case number. A good girl, a practicing Catholic, pious and churchgoing, without an enemy in the world. His sister hadn't had an enemy either, and yet someday someone would be sitting with a file like this one on his lap, and the tab would read Campbell, Laura…if her body was ever found.
What about the red dress?
Lee rubbed his forehead. There was no way to trace who might have left the text message-you could buy a disposable cell phone at any bodega in New York, use it for one call, and throw it in the East River. Lee debated whether to call Chuck and tell him about the message.
He forced his mind back to the file in front of him and looked at the forensic data, or lack of it: no semen, no prints, and-other than the victim's-no blood. He studied the crime scene photographs, and was struck by the orderliness of the scene. Nothing out of place, the vase of flowers exactly where the priest said he had last seen them, the pulpit right where it belonged-very little had been touched, except for the awful presence of Marie's body on the altar. The lack of defensive wounds meant she was probably blindsided-a blitzkrieg attack. The killer didn't necessarily know her well, but she didn't feel threatened by him-until it was too late.
The phone rang, jarring him out of his reverie. He picked it up on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Heya, Boss."
"Hi, Eddie."
"I think I got something for you."
"Really? What?"
"I can't talk right now, but it might be good. Diesel and Rhino have been snooping around, you know."
"Okay, listen-give me your number and I'll call you."
"No can do, Boss. I'll have to call you back."
"Okay."
"When would be a good time?"
Just then Lee heard the beep of call waiting.
"Look, I have to go. Call me tomorrow, okay?"
"Right. Will do."
Lee pressed the receiver and answered the other line.
"Hello?"
"Lee, it's Chuck." Something in his voice made Lee's stomach clench. Before he spoke again, Lee already knew what was coming next. "There's been another one-same MO. It's him, Lee."
"Where?"
"Brooklyn. The victim's name is Annie O'Donnell. They found her in a church in the Heights."
"Damn. Are you there now?"
"On my way. It's in Park Slope-Two-two-five Sixth Avenue."
"Okay, I'm leaving now. I'll meet you there."
Lee took a gulp from the cooling cup of coffee, threw on his coat, and grabbed his house keys, shoving them in his pocket.
He stepped out into the dimming February twilight and looked at the lights in the windows of the apartments lining Seventh Street. The apartment opposite his had cream-colored French lace curtains, and the soft yellow glow of lamplight inside was inviting. But behind even the most inviting glow of lamplight there could live a killer, plotting his next act of rage against society. Lee jogged a half block to the west to look for a cab at the intersection where the Bowery bifurcated into Third Avenue to the east and Fourth Avenue to the west.
As he stepped out from the curb to hail a cab, he heard the sound of a car backfiring. It wasn't an unusual sound to hear on Third Avenue, but an instant later something whizzed by his head, embedding itself with a tinny thud in the lamppost behind him. He turned to look at the lamppost, but just then a cab pulled up in front of him. He looked around Third Avenue, but there was no sign of the shooter. No one on the street seemed to notice that anything unusual had happened. He searched the crowd, but no one was running away-even the sound of the gun firing had been swallowed up by the blare of car horns and traffic noise.
He glanced at the lamppost. Whatever the object was, it had cut deeply into the metal. He took a step toward it, but the cabbie honked his horn impatiently.
"Hey mister-do you wanna go somewhere or not?"
Lee looked down Third Avenue. A light rain had begun to fall, and this was the only free cab in sight.
"Yeah, thanks," he said, climbing in and closing the door.
There was no doubt in his mind that the dent in the lamppost was made by a bullet. What he wasn't sure of was whether or not he was the intended victim.
The pursuer becomes the pursued, he thought grimly as the cab rattled up Third Avenue.
Chapter Twenty-one
Saint Francis Xavier was a graceful granite and limestone structure smiling down over the low buildings of Park Slope like a kindly uncle. The stone looked as though it had recently been cleaned; even in the feeble February sun, Lee had to squint against the glare. The elegant vaulted ceiling loomed above him as he walked past tall stained-glass windows of unusual beauty. The light cascaded onto the stone floor, magnified as it sliced through cut-glass figures of saints and apostles, sinners and deities, in their flowing vermillion and sapphire robes. In happier times, he would have stopped to study them, but he continued walking, his footsteps clicking rhythmically on the polished floor.
The heavy marble altar was magnificent, its splendor only serving to heighten the gloom he felt as he approached it. The CSI team was already there, moving about the church with their usual efficiency, dusting for prints, scanning the pews for any stray scrap of evidence. He approached the little group around the pulpit. Chuck Morton was there, still wearing his overcoat, which was cream colored and looked pricey. Chuck's wife, Susan, had a knack for buying clothes that weren't expensive but looked like they were.
When Chuck heard Lee approach, he looked up.
"Thanks for coming out on such short notice."
Lee looked at the body draped over the altar.
The victim in this attack was eerily similar to the one at Fordham-young, with dark curly hair and a decidedly Irish look about her. This time, however, the crime scene showed evidence of a frenzied attack. Several hymnals had been ripped from their racks in the front choir loft surrounding the altar and lay scattered about, their pages ripped and spattered with blood. A large blue and white flower vase lay a few feet from the victim's body, broken in two, its contents strewn over the thick carpet covering the floor of the altar. Yellow roses-ironic, Lee thought, since
they were the symbol for friendship.
But what he couldn't take his eyes off were the words carved into her chest.
Hallowed be thy name.
The cuts were deeper than last time, the slashes cruder-the e in Hallowed bisecting her right nipple so deeply that it had almost come off. There was more blood, too-a lot more blood. He thought about what the pathologist at the morgue had said about postmortem injuries-and these injuries did not appear to be postmortem. He turned away, sickened.
Hallowed be thy name.
The phrase circled his brain rhythmically, mockingly. Hal-low-ed be thy na…
"Jesus," Lee muttered. He had another horrifying thought. The Slasher was only two lines into the prayer-not even a quarter of the way through it.
"It's him-it's the same guy," Chuck sighed, coming up to stand next to him. "You were right about one thing: he isn't going to stop."
"And there was less than a week between these two killings," Lee pointed out. "The last time he waited a month, but this time-well, he's either more driven, more confident, or both. What do you have on the victim so far?"
Chuck looked down at the girl. "Poor kid. Name's Annie O'Donnell." He indicated a nearby detective interviewing a middle-aged Hispanic man in a drab green uniform, who appeared to be distraught. "Even the janitor recognized her-said she attended this church. Apparently she's fairly quiet, but he says he has an eye for pretty girls." Chuck glanced over at the man. "He's not…is he?" he asked.
"Too old, wrong race. The Slasher is younger, and probably white. Interracial sex crimes aren't unknown, but they're rare, and this guy seems to be a preferential killer."
"Meaning-?"
"He targets a specific kind of victim."
"Yeah, okay," Chuck said, with a glance at the technicians quietly dusting for prints, gathering and bagging evidence. "The CSI team is doing what it can, but I wouldn't expect much."
"No," Lee agreed. "If he covered his tracks last time, he will this time too. He knows what he's doing. On the other hand, this time there is evidence of a struggle, so it's always possible-"
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