"Oh, and I also brought you something even more useless," she added, digging through a tan rattan shoulder bag on her lap.
He watched her, noting the familiar renegade curl of dark hair falling over her eyes. The mystery of desire was part of the greater mystery that Lee had come very close to during his descent into depression. In the midst of damnation, he had sensed the possibility of salvation. And maybe this was why he felt he could relate to the tortured soul of this young killer, caught as he was in the cycle of damnation. There were no maps showing the way through the dark thicket Lee had found himself in. But he had learned that salvation and damnation were very close, the line separating them thin as the band of winter twilight separating earth and sky.
"Here it is," Kathy cried triumphantly, pulling a dog-eared piece of newspaper from her bag. "This week's Tuesday crossword puzzle in the Times is all about forensic science. I thought maybe we could do it together."
"Okay," he said. "I'm not that good at crossword puzzles. I don't do them often enough. My mother's a real whiz. Does double crostics."
"Well, this is only Tuesday's puzzle, so it shouldn't be too hard."
"Good."
She handed it to him, and he studied it. The title was "Criminology." He looked at the first clue: "FBI Profiling guru." There were seven spaces. "Ressler," he said. "Robert Ressler. Or it could be Douglas-John Douglas."
"You bite your left lower lip when you're concentrating," she said. "Did you know that?"
He looked up. "I never thought much about it. Here," he said, handing the newspaper back to her. She took it, but let it fall in her lap.
"Oh, hell," she said. "Damn."
"What? What's wrong?"
"Damn."
"What? What is it?"
She tossed the newspaper on the bed in a gesture of surrender. "I'm in love with you."
A laugh burst from his throat, taking him by surprise. She cocked her head to one side and raised her right eyebrow.
"That's funny?"
"Well, it was the way you said it."
She smiled only on one side-it was her rueful look, the nearest expression she had to looking apologetic.
"Maybe you just feel sorry for me," he suggested.
"I didn't mean anything by it, really. It's just that-well, I wasn't planning on it right now." She looked irritated, but her voice was soft.
He laughed again. It felt good, like something inside him was unfreezing. "Sorry to upset your plans."
"You don't laugh very often, you know."
"I know. I used to-before."
"Oh. Right." Her face went slack, then assumed a holding pattern, as if she wasn't sure what the proper expression was.
"I guess it means I'm feeling better," he said, then winced at how much the tone of forced cheer reminded him of his mother. God, get a grip, Campbell.
"Are you?" she asked. "Feeling better, I mean?"
"Yes, much." He looked around the room. "It's weird to be back here again. I haven't been here since-"
"Right. Is that-uh, is that better?"
"That? Yes. I mean, it comes and goes at times, but mostly I'm better."
She smiled. "Oh, good. I've never had…that"-(funny how both of them were reluctant to say the word "depression")-"but I've had friends who did. I didn't realize how bad it was until one of them committed suicide."
Lee swallowed once, hard. "How did she-" he began, then realized he didn't want to hear the answer.
"He, actually. Carbon monoxide. Sat in his car in the garage with the engine on. His mother found him."
"How old were you?"
"It was a few years after college."
"Close friend?"
"Close enough that I asked myself for years afterward what I could have done or said to change things. I didn't even know he was depressed-we'd sort of lost touch, I guess. I found out from mutual friends."
"I'm sorry."
She looked out the window and put her right forefinger to her forehead. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. I'm sorry-after what you've been through."
"Well, I am a trained psychologist," he said. "If people can't talk to me, who can they talk to?"
She smiled at his attempt to lighten the conversation.
"What I learned from that was how…irreplaceable everyone is. Once you lose someone, that's it. There's really no replacing them."
"That's true. I just never thought of it exactly that way."
Chuck returned with hamburgers from the coffee shop next door. Lee thought he saw a flicker of irritation on his friend's face when he saw Kathy.
"Hi," Chuck said, "nice to see you again."
"Yes," Kathy replied. "Good to see you too."
Fortunately, Chuck had bought three hamburgers, so they each had one. Lee liked the way Kathy ate, with a hearty, unself-conscious appetite. But as soon as they had finished, Dr. Patel appeared, wagging his stethoscope at them.
"Time to rest," he said sternly, herding Chuck and Kathy out of the room.
"Does he ever sleep?" Kathy whispered to Lee as she kissed him good-bye.
"He's a resident," he whispered back. "They never sleep."
Dr. Patel did one more quick check of Lee's blood pressure and pulse, nodded grimly, muttered something to himself, made a notation on the chart at the foot of the bed, and left the room. Lee lay back on the pillow, feeling an odd sense of contentment. Sleep dragged at his eyelids, and he sank into its dark and welcoming arms.
Chapter Fifty-seven
The church was vast and empty, its dark marbled interior cold as the grave. A chill wind swept over Lee as he walked down the long corridor toward the altar. The pews were empty, but he could hear whispering, tongues slithering over consonants like so many snakes. The click of his heels on the hard stone floors was like a rhythm track underneath the wall of whispering. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but felt that they were talking about him in the dimly lit chapel, illuminated only by flickering votive candles lining the walls. He strained to see them, but saw only rows of empty pews stretching out before him, silent wooden sentinels.
He walked on. The corridor stretched out before him, and the altar seemed to recede as he approached it. The whispering was behind him now, and he strained to make out the words, but the voices blended into a hissing like the sound of raindrops on a tin roof. A single white light shone down upon the altar as he ascended the steps. The whispering got louder, thickening the air like the buzzing of cicadas.
There, on the altar, Laura was waiting for him. She lay on her back, her hands folded over her spotless white communion dress. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful in death-and there was no doubt in his mind she was as dead as the dried flowers lining the steps of the altar. Lee studied her face, waiting for the roses to bloom in her cheeks once again, to replace the gray pallor of death. Her hair surrounded her pale face like a dark halo, falling in crisp ringlets on her shoulders. Laura had always been proud of her hair-thick, black and shiny as polished river stones.
He felt sadness, but no horror. To his surprise, he also felt relief. He had always known she was dead, but now here was proof, and she was at peace. Instead of a rotting, mangled corpse cast off in a ditch somewhere, exposed to the elements, and eaten by wild creatures, she was perfectly preserved, pristine as a bride, her beauty intact forever. He was glad-glad for her and for his mother, who could now accept the reality of her death.
He bent to kiss her dead cheek, but as he did, her face morphed and changed before his eyes-into Kathy Azarian's face. A fist of fear grabbed his heart, squeezing the breath from his body. He sank to his knees, blind terror wrapping itself around his brain, pressing down on him so that all of his senses began to fade. He struggled to see, to hear, to feel, but a cloud of unknowing draped itself over him, dimming his senses. He tried to cry out, but his vocal cords had turned to dust, dry as the dead flowers surrounding the altar.
He awoke to middle-of-the-night stillness. It took him a few moments to realize
where he was. The phones at the nurses' station had stopped ringing, and he heard the soft whirr of machinery from the ICU unit down the hall. He was flooded with an overwhelming sense of relief that his dream was just that: a dream.
The room was dark; the only source of illumination was the light seeping through the smoked glass door panel. The venetian blinds on the window next to his bed were closed, blocking out even the light from the street lamps. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, Lee had a strong sense of a presence in the room with him. He peered into the far corner of the room, where a straight-backed chair sat against the wall. At first glance Lee thought maybe someone had thrown an overcoat across the chair, but then he realized the dark figure on the chair was a person. He thought could just make out a man seated in the shadows-unmoving, as still as if he were made of stone.
He knew who it was.
Lee's hand twitched, and he almost reached for the call button to summon the nurse, but something stopped him. Curiosity, maybe-or perhaps an instinct to submit to whatever fate held in store for him. The figure in the corner sat very still. Lee reached over and pulled the string on the Venetian blinds, letting in light from the street outside. As he did so, a gleam of moonlight reflected off the high, pale forehead. The room was still too dark to get a good look at his face, but he could tell that the man was thin and pale.
Lee ran his tongue over his parched lips. "How did you get in here?" he croaked.
His visitor laughed nervously. "I'm very good at getting into places-but you should know that by now." The voice was young, high pitched, and raspy, and there was a soft wheezing sound when he breathed, as if his lungs were worn and tattered bellows, stiff and dried with age. Lee couldn't resist feeling a sense of triumph. So I was right about the asthma. He also had the feeling he had heard the voice before, but where? In their brief encounter in Hastings, no words had been exchanged between them.
"What do you want?"
"What does anyone want? Money, power, immortality-but I'm not interested in those things."
"What are you interested in?"
"Love. Like the love I feel for God: unconditional love and devotion."
"Is there a difference? Between love and devotion, I mean?"
"I guess it depends on who you are. But there's really no such thing as unconditional love-not in this life, anyway."
"So why are you here?"
His visitor leaned forward in his chair. "To let you know that He tells me to do what I do."
"God, you mean?"
"Yes. It's His work I'm doing."
"Aren't you afraid of getting caught?"
"The righteous cannot afford to feel fear."
"But don't you feel it anyway? To know all those people are out there looking for you?"
The pursuer becomes the pursued.
"I have God to protect me."
"Is that what you think? That He'll keep you from getting caught?"
"Until His work is finished, yes."
"What about the girls? Don't you feel bad for them at all?"
His breath became more hoarse. Lee heard the wheezing from deep within his chest, lungs struggling to pull in enough air.
"I have to save them."
"From what?"
"Eternal damnation. I always ask their forgiveness, but it must be done."
There was a pause. "I don't want to kill you too, you know. I feel close to you."
"Why do you keep going?"
"I couldn't stop if I wanted to now. You should know that." The voice was half ironic, half sincere.
"Why don't you turn yourself in? Then you could rest-you could finally be at peace."
His visitor inhaled, making the deep, rattling sound of congested lungs.
"I don't think so. Why is it that cops always seem to think people are going to go for that one? Has anyone in the history of law enforcement ever actually fallen for that?"
Another pause.
Then Lee said, "Why did you have to kill Eddie?"
"I'm afraid I don't know anything about that. And now I have to go-I have an appointment with death," he said, rising from the chair. He was out the door before Lee could find the call button. As the door clicked closed behind him, Lee imagined he was already on his way to Seventh Avenue, perhaps slipping into a stairwell to avoid being seen in an elevator.
Lee shivered and stared out the window as the moon slid behind a looming cloud. He wouldn't forget that voice. It carried the buried rage of a life gone sour. He couldn't shake the feeling he had heard the voice before, but he couldn't quite place it.
To his surprise, Lee recognized some of himself in this man. Like most civilized people, Lee was forced to swallow his rage-but this man had given into it, punishing innocent young women for the sins of a careless and indifferent God.
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chuck Morton arrived the next afternoon with Detective Butts in tow. Butts was even more rumpled than usual, and he looked around the room uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. After a brief greeting, he lurked at the far side of the room, inspecting the idle hospital machinery at the end of the empty bed across from Lee's.
"We just came by to see how you were doing," Chuck said, but Lee sensed that was not the real reason for their visit.
"I'm ready to get out of this place," Lee replied.
"Do you really think that's a good idea?"
"They can't keep me here against my will."
"Don't you think you should listen to your doctor?"
"Aw, what do doctors know anyway?" Butts interjected, lowering his bulk into one of the plastic chairs and fanning his face with a packet of sterilized towelettes.
Lee began to get out of bed.
"Look, there's no need to punish yourself because we haven't caught this guy yet," Chuck said.
"I'm not punishing myself," Lee answered, even though he knew Chuck had a point.
"Okay, fine," Chuck replied. "Don't you think you should listen to your doctor anyway?"
Lee looked at his friend. He seemed ill at ease.
"Hey, I'm dyin' for some coffee," Butts declared. "You want some?"
"No, I'm fine," Chuck replied.
"Uh, sure," said Lee. "Sounds good."
"I'll be right back," Butts said, leaving the room as though he couldn't wait to get out.
"I don't think he likes hospitals," Lee remarked.
"Yeah-right," Chuck answered, but he sounded distracted.
There was an awkward pause, and then he put a hand on Lee's shoulder.
"Look, Lee…"
Something in his tone of voice caused a thin trickle of dread to seep into Lee's veins.
"What is it? Was there another victim?"
Chuck avoided looking at him. "No, it's not that."
"What, then? What's wrong?"
Chuck bit his lip and studied his shoelaces.
"The mayor's been hounding the DA, you know, and he's been coming down hard on us."
"So? What are you saying?"
"Well, they're pressuring me to bring in the Feds."
"You mean bring in an FBI profiler?"
"Yeah."
"I'm all for it-if they can spare the manpower."
"And you really need to rest-"
"Look, Chuck, I'm fine now! I'm ready to go-"
"No, you're not. Dr. Patel says you should stay in bed for at least another week."
"Dr. Patel is a professional pessimist."
"The thing is, we don't have the manpower available we once did, since-"
"I know-we're all stretched thin since September eleventh. But even if the FBI can spare someone, you'll need help filling them in. I'm getting out of here right now."
Lee struggled to get out of bed, but Chuck kept his hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, Lee, don't be like that."
"Like what, Chuck? Like what? What am I supposed to do? Stay in bed and take my medicine like a good boy? To hell with that!"
Lee pushed Chuck's hand awa
y and struggled out of bed, fighting not to show the dizziness the sudden activity caused him. He dug his clothes out of the bureau next to his bed and stuffed them into the leather satchel Kathy had brought him.
Chuck smacked a hand onto his own thigh. "I knew it-I knew this was too close for you!"
Lee wheeled around to face Chuck. "Do you want to know how close it is? Do you? He came to me last night!"
"What do you mean?"
"He was here-sitting in that chair!"
"What are you talking about? Did you have some kind of fever dream or something?"
"No, I was as clear as day. He got in somehow."
"What? How?"
"I don't know how! He probably just walked in." Lee's head throbbed, and he had to sit on the bed.
"The bottom line here is that you're really not well yet."
"Oh, don't start with that again, for God's sake!"
"Would you just slow down for a minute and think what you're doing?"
"We're moving too slowly already!" Lee pulled on his shirt so violently that he ripped the sleeve. "Shit!" he said. "Goddamn it!" He picked up a shoe and threw it as hard as he could across the room.
As he did, he looked up to see his mother and Kylie standing in the doorway to his room. Kylie's eyes were wide with amazement, and his mother looked as though she had just swallowed a gnat.
"Well," Fiona Campbell said frostily, "it looks as though someone is having a bit of a temper tantrum."
"Uncle Lee, those are bad words," said Kylie.
"Yes, they are, Kylie," he replied, "very bad words."
Butts returned with two cups of coffee and an enormous cheese danish.
"I thought you might be hungry, so I-" He stopped, sensing the tension in the air. "What's the matter? Something happen while I was gone?"
"Well," Lee's mother said, "this is awkward, isn't it?"
Chapter Fifty-nine
Half a dozen apologies later, Fiona was persuaded to take Kylie shopping, while Lee and Chuck went back with Detective Butts to Chuck's office.
When they got there, Nelson and Florette were waiting for them. Nelson did not look happy.
"The Feds?" he bellowed. "The goddamn Federales? What the hell do you want to bring them in for?"
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