She was so young that a lump rose in Claire's throat. She looked so much like Ashley with her hair blond again that it pained her. But she couldn't think about Ashley right now. She had to believe she had gotten away from Alan as he had hinted. She had to believe that Ashley was getting help at this very moment.
"So this is your mother?" Claire asked, smiling at what was obviously a school picture. From the style of her clothing, it looked like the photo had been taken in the early sixties. She appeared poor and uneducated, if it was possible to see that in a fifteen-or sixteen-year-old's eyes. "Alan, she's so beautiful." She looked up at him, trying not to see the monster he obviously was. "And you have her eyes."
He pressed his lips together, studying the photo himself for a moment before he put it back in his pocket.
"What happened to your mother?" she asked. "Why did you have to come here to live with your grandmother?"
"I don't really know," he answered after a moment. "I guess she couldn't take care of me so she left me with my father's mother."
"Cora Bradford," she offered.
"Don't say her name," he exploded, reaching out and striking her hard across the face. "We don't ever say her name!"
He hit Claire so hard that she felt as if her head might snap off her shoulders. She closed her eyes, fighting the tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered, turning back to him, opening her eyes.
He walked back to the table and picked up the scalpel.
Claire's heart gave a trip. And things seemed to have been going so well for a few minutes. "So... so your mother left you here," she said, trying to keep her voice steady despite how scared she was. "Did you ever hear from her?"
"No. She just left. I don't know where. Went to California and became a movie star, maybe." He looked at her. "She wanted to be a movie star."
"I like movies," Claire said.
He smiled hesitantly. "Me, too."
"But she could have just died a drunken drug addict whore in Baltimore, too," he snapped.
She waited, not sure how he wanted her to respond.
"That was what Granny said happened, but I never knew if I could believe her because she said a lot of things."
"She lied a lot, didn't she?" Claire pressed.
He nodded, studying the scalpel in his hand, watching the way the light from the camp lantern he'd placed on the picnic table reflected off the blade.
"How old were you when you came here to live?" she asked as he walked slowly toward her.
"Four."
"And you never saw your mother again?"
He shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Alan."
He lifted his head, meeting her gaze. "I almost think you are." He grabbed one of her wrists. "Now we have to get started."
Claire watched stunned as he lowered the scalpel and with the precision of a well-trained hand, split the pale flesh at her wrist. It barely even hurt as the first trickle bubbled up. And then the blood began to flow in earnest.
* * *
Graham opened the door and walked in, making an effort to appear calm. Ashley was seated cross-legged the end of a beat-up couch, barefoot in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
"Hey," Graham called.
She looked up.
"Heard you got caught taking your mom's wheels for a spin." He shook his head. "Can't wait to hear the explosion over that one."
Ashley wiped at her teary eyes, but smiled at the same time. "Can you hear her, now? I'll be on restriction until I'm a grandmother."
"Bet the flashing lights were cool, though." He sat beside her on the couch. "So, you have any idea how we can figure out who the man was?"
She looked at him. "You're asking what I think?" She touched her chest with a pointed finger.
He shrugged. "Everyone else out there is just guessing. No reason why you can't, too. Someone is bound to be right."
Ashley looked down at the floor. "It's him, isn't it?"
He saw no reason to lie. "Probably."
"So... didn't Mom have some suspects?" she asked. "I mean, I know she thought it was Chain, which obviously it wasn't. But he wasn't the only one she suspected, was he?"
Graham tried to calm his pounding heart. He needed some blood flow to his brain. Needed to think. "You get a look at this guy at all?"
She shook her head. "He was wearing a mask."
"No tattoos? Anything like that?"
Again, she shook her head. "Khaki pants. A long sleeve navy blue T-shirt. Just a guy."
"Did he speak to you?"
She nodded.
"But you didn't recognize his voice?"
"No," she said. Then she hesitated. "Well, kind of. Like I know I've heard his voice before, but I couldn't place it."
The door opened and Patrolman McCormick, dressed in civilian clothes, walked in. Graham was relieved to see him. It was a name to cross off the list.
"I brought you a Coke," he told Ashley. "You want something to eat?"
"No. Thanks." She accepted the soda.
"I'm going to go out to your house if you think you're okay here," McCormick said, hands stuffed into his jean pockets. He wasn't the tough cop Graham had seen before. He seemed like a concerned friend right now.
"I'm all right. I just want you to find my mother." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "Before..." She didn't finish the thought that was on everyone's mind.
Graham rubbed her shoulder, then let his hand fall. Ashley was holding up well, but he didn't want to push it. If he showed too much emotion, he was afraid she would lose control of hers and right now both of them needed to focus. "I'll stay here with her."
"We sent a car for her grandparents. They'll be here soon. They can take her home to their place."
"I'm not going to Grandma and Grampa's," Ashley said firmly. She popped the tab on the soda can. "I'm staying here. I have to stay here and help you."
"Look, Ashley," McCormick began. "The best thing you can do for your mother right now is—"
"I'm the only one who saw him," she cut in stubbornly. "I'm the best chance you have."
The strength of the teenager's conviction obviously took the officer by surprise. He didn't know what to say.
"I'll handle this," Graham told McCormick, holding up his hand.
"Right. Well..." McCormick backed out the door, passing Gallagher, who was on his way into the break room.
"We've got state troopers in the house, Ashley. Now if you could go over with me what happened again, just so I'm sure I have all the details." Gallagher pulled up a chair at the table in the center of the room and slipped a pen from the pocket of his wrinkled oxford shirt. "Maybe we can piece this all together."
"Have you started picking up the suspects on Claire's list?" Graham asked, impatient because there seemed to be a lot of mulling around going on in the station, but not a lot of action.
"We're sending out cars shortly, but—"
"He's got her now, Gallagher." Graham rose, gesturing at the floor with his finger. "That means she's still alive. He never kills them right off—"
"You want lighten up here, buddy?" Gallagher cut his eyes at Ashley.
Graham looked at the teen, then back at the cop. "What, you're going to pretend what's going on here, isn't?" He turned back to Ashley, the bruise on her cheek had not gone unnoticed. "How did you get away?"
"He came into my room and tried to put that stuff over my face, and then Mom came and she jumped on him and I ran." Her voice was shaky, but she continued. "Then I hid under this big pile of clothes on my bedroom floor until he was gone."
Graham glanced back at Gallagher. "She fought off the killer; she knows what's going on here, and after what she's been through, she deserves to be treated with a little respect."
"We don't use kids—"
"I'd say Ashley is pretty much past being a kid. At least after tonight, she is, wouldn't you say, buddy?"
Ashley smirked and looked away.
"Look." Gallagher set down his pen. "We let you in here
as a courtesy. To Ashley. To Claire. You were never a part of the investigation and you aren't now. So, you can either sit here quietly and be supportive of this young lady or you can—"
"Have you seen her new list?" Graham broke in. "The one from this week, since she's been investigating hospital employees?"
Gallagher spoke as if it pained him. "We briefly discussed her hospital investigation earlier this evening."
"But she didn't give you any names?" Graham thought for a moment. "You look in her office for this week's notes? She keeps them on yellow legal pads." He used his hands to show the police captain the size of the notepads.
"Already been in there. Old stuff."
"And there were pictures in her cruiser." Ashley wrinkled her nose. "Pretty gross."
Graham smiled sympathetically. "Did your mom bring her briefcase home this weekend?"
"Sure. I guess." Ashley shrugged.
"I bet the notes are in there," Graham told Gallagher as he got out of his seat. "Come on, Ash." He jerked his head in the direction of the door.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Ashley was already off the couch. She set her Coke can on the table beside Gallagher's notebook as she passed him. "We're going back to my house. Graham knows how my mom's sick mind works. If he and I both look at her notes, maybe we can help figure out who she might have thought it was."
Graham held the door open for her. "You know, it's got to be a hospital employee. She got too close and he went after her."
Captain Gallagher rose from the chair. "Ashley, you can't go with him. And you." He pointed to Graham. "I want you out of here, buddy."
"Going," Graham said, lifting his hand in a wave.
"You know, I don't have to let you into her house," Gallagher called, following them down the hall.
"I know you don't." Graham glanced over his shoulder as he waited for Ashley to catch up to him. "But that would be stupid, wouldn't it, Captain? Because what we all want here, is to get Claire back alive."
Chapter 16
"Claire? Can you hear me?"
She woke slowly, drifting in that place between sleep and consciousness that was soft and warm and pleasant. That place where you felt like you were floating.
"Claire?"
She could feel Alan holding one of her wrists, applying pressure. He rubbed her shoulder as if he were a concerned friend. "I'm sorry. That's never happened before."
Recollections of the last few hours floated through her head. She was hoping she was dreaming. That happened sometimes; she'd wake in a dream to find that she was still dreaming. But, as she lifted her weighted eyelids and connected with the voice, she knew there was no such luck in this case.
"There you go, that's right. Don't leave. Not yet. Gosh, I'm really sorry," he said anxiously. "I never make them that deep. I don't... know... what happened."
She tried to focus on Alan's face, thinking how bizarre his words were. He was apologizing, for God's sake. He had intended to slit both her wrists, but apparently the first cut had been deeper than he intended. She'd passed out. Maybe from blood loss, but more likely her fear mixed with her quick drop in blood pressure had done it.
"Alan," she whispered.
"That's right. That's right. I'm right here." He rubbed her hands between his gloved ones.
The concern for her in his voice surprised her. The last thing she remembered was him screaming at her like a madman. Calling her Granny, or calling to his grandmother. Alan was a complicated man and the circumstances that had led him to this place in his life were probably complex enough to fill a psychiatrist's bestselling book. Somewhere in that complexity maybe there was a way to save her own life.
"You don't want me to go?" she said, fluttering her eyelashes, purposely pretending to be drowsier than she really was.
"No." He sounded like a little boy. The madman she had seen a short time ago was gone. "Don't go yet."
She remembered what the FBI agents had said about these killers fulfilling fantasies. She still didn't know what his fantasy was, but she knew that the profiler had been right about his wanting to form relationships with the blond women before he killed them. She was no psychologist, but she could guess it was his relationship with his teenage mother that he was trying to reproduce. A relationship he had fantasized about, but that had never truly occurred because she had abandoned him when he was still so young.
She also recognized that when he had cut her, a few minutes ago—an hour ago—she didn't know how much time had passed—-he'd been angry with his grandmother and probably his mother, too. It had to be an emotion he'd long been repressing. He was one sick cookie.
"Alan, I think you let me bleed too long," she whispered, a plan forming in her head as she watched him through a veil of lashes. The plan had no real direction yet, but she didn't let that small detail stop her.
"I know. I know. It doesn't look like that much, though." He kicked the sawdust, stained with her blood, with his shoe that was covered in a plastic bootie. "I'm usually more careful than this. I don't usually make mistakes, but I guess I'm tired." He brushed his forehead with the back of his hand, still holding a white hand towel stained red. He'd been using it to staunch her blood flow, apparently.
"You've been working long hours at the hospital," she said. "I understand you're an exceptional employee, from what your supervisors say." She rolled her head back, opening her eyes a little farther. Her neck hurt like hell, more than her wrists, and she really needed to sit up and stretch, but this wasn't the time to be wussing out. She had to play the game—a game she didn't know any of the rules to—and play it well if she was going to walk out of here. If she wasn't going to end up in a dumpster on the boardwalk.
"Mr. McGary said that?" Alan's voice was a mixture of wonder and pride.
She nodded, letting her eyes drift shut again.
"Claire? Wait—don't go back to sleep."
"Alan, I'm really tired. I..." She hesitated long enough to make him lean closer with apprehension. If her hands had been free, she could have strangled him.
"Claire?"
"Maybe if we talk," she said. "Maybe that will keep me awake."
"Yes, yes, we can talk. It's what I like to do, really. Talk with my guests."
"Is that why you bring the women here, Alan? To talk with?"
"Sure. I just want to talk. Would you like a drink of water? I have some bottled water." He pointed to the picnic table that had been set very precisely with all the items he deemed necessary to bleed a woman to death.
She wanted to refuse the water, out of pride, but she knew that was silly. She had lost blood, how much she didn't know, but she was light-headed. Hydration might be important. "I am thirsty. Do you have any juice, Alan?"
"Orange juice, yes. In the kitchen." He pointed beyond the ring of light that had become her world. Then he looked back, hesitating. "But I can't leave you. That would be silly."
She half smiled and let her head roll forward. "Think I'll run away?" She tried to make it sound like she was teasing.
Honestly, she didn't know what she would do if he did leave her alone. She was duct-taped to a chair, for God's sake. She'd have to get her forearms loose first, to get herself out of the chair, and the tape was pretty tight. But it was also very warm tonight and she was sweating. The adhesive might loosen up with the dampness, if she was lucky.
He stood where he was, obviously contemplating what to do. She could tell he wanted desperately to please her, even for her to like him; he also didn't want to risk losing her. She held her breath, praying.
"I'm sorry," he said as he finally exhaled. "I just can't leave you."
She closed her eyes for a second, fighting a flutter of panic. She couldn't allow such a small defeat to overwhelm her. "Some water would be nice, then," she said.
He picked up a bottle from the picnic table, twisted off the lid, and brought it to her. He tipped it and she drank several mouthfuls. A little slid out of the corner of her mouth a
nd she moved her head slightly, hoping it might drip on her forearms and the tape.
"Some more?" he asked.
She shook her head. When he turned his back to return the bottle to the table, to the exact place where he'd found it, she let some water trickle out of her mouth. It ran down her arm and pooled at the tape.
"What do you like to talk about?" Claire asked.
"I don't know." He walked around to the far side of the table and sat down, resting his elbows on the table.
"Well, what did you talk about with Marissa and Brandy? The others?"
"I said I don't want to talk about them." His face grew stony. "We don't talk about them. Now they're gone. They were here with me, but now they're gone."
They 're gone, all right, disposed of, the way all women deserve, Claire thought. But she knew that dwelling on that subject wasn't going to get her anywhere. Right now, she just needed to get him to talk. About anything. She needed a chance to work on the tape. "You said you like movies." She closed her eyes again, keeping her voice low and weak.
"I do."
"What have you seen this summer? That action movie with the guy whose name sounds like gasoline, or something?"
"I don't go to the movies. I like TV," Alan told her. "Movies, documentaries. I have a satellite dish so I get a hundred and ninety-six stations."
"I like old movies. Ashley and I—" She let her voice catch in her throat, which wasn't hard to do right now, and she closed her eyes and was quiet.
"You and Ashley, yes?" Alan said, sounding nervous again.
He was falling for it.
"Is she all right, Alan?" she whispered. "I think I would feel better, stronger, if I knew she was all right."
"She's fine, I'm sure," he said quickly. "She climbed out her window and ran away. I'm certain she's fine. I mean, I know she's upset, but..."
Claire pressed her lips together, saying a prayer of thanks to God. If she didn't get out of this, at least Ashley was safe.
"Claire?"
She lifted her head and opened her eyes. "Did you watch a lot of movies when you were a boy?" she asked, trying to steer the conversation back toward the root of his psychosis. Obviously it had to do with his mother abandoning him, but there had to be more. "Is that what your grandmother and you did together? I used to love it when—"
She'll Never Live Page 21
