“That-that perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps this is not the way.”
“No!” The dark voice split his skull, knocking him to his knees. “You failed because your faith was weak.”
“That’s not true. I believed. I did everything I could to-”
“You failed because your offerings were unwilling. They withheld their spirit. You did not ascend.”
“I’ve done everything I know to do.”
“Why did you not take the doctor?”
“I didn’t get a chance. Another man-”
“That is the answer of the weak! The dissembler. The betrayer.”
“No! I-I-”
“Your faith is not strong. That is why Dream-Land did not accept your offerings. To succeed you must be strong.”
“Please-”
“From this moment forward, everything will be different. You will act as prescribed by your destiny. You will be my Instrument.”
“Yes. Yes!”
“Would you know the secret?”
He braced himself against the wall. The voice was so loud, so overpowering. “What-secret?”
“Would you know why you have failed?”
Tears came to his eyes. “Yes. Please!”
“Then I will tell you. But not until you have done what you know you must.”
“But I-I-”
“It is your Destiny. Do this and I will give you the knowledge that you seek.”
“I will. I swear to you. I will!”
It had taken almost half an hour to finish all the checks, sign the papers, and put the bodyguards at ease, but Harv and Dr. Spencer eventually entered the employee parking lot. It was ridiculously dark, Harv thought. Of course, he came out here every night and it had never bothered him before. But it was different when you were on the job. In this blackness, how well could he protect her? How could he know what lurked in the hedge beyond the north perimeter? How could he know who might be watching from one of the balconies? Maybe he should’ve asked those bodyguards to come all the way to the car…
“Best to get right to it, ma’am,” he said, trying to sound very official. Spencer pointed toward the far end of the third row of cars and they headed that way. “I’ve really enjoyed working with your team,” he added.
“I’m glad,” she replied, walking with determination and deliberate speed. “I’m grateful for your assistance.”
“This is a great thing you’re doing. A great thing. If you don’t mind my saying so… you do your daughter proud.”
“Well… thank you.” They rounded the end of the third row and started down it.
“I just wanted to tell you, while I had the chance… and I hope you don’t mind…”
“What is it?”
“Well, this security work, it’s a fine job and all, but it isn’t what I really want to do, you know? I mean, I’d hate to think of me ending up like one of those guys you see at the mall, gray hair and a paunch that stretches out a mile in front of the uniform. So old they don’t let them carry a gun.”
“We all get old, Harvey.”
“Yeah, but you’re doing work that’s important. Not just this but that… that stuff back in New York, helpin’ people find fulfillment and all. Anyway, I just wanted to say-after this is all over and you’ve caught the dirty bastard who took your daughter’s life, if there’s anything I can do for you-”
“If I ever need a security officer, you’ll be the first one I call.”
“Well… yeah. That’d be nice. Or anything. There’s a lot I can do. I’m good with a wood lathe and I make these pillboxes that my wife gives all her friends at Christmas. They really love ’em. I even play a little banjo…”
They reached her car. “You get in the passenger seat, ma’am. I’ll drive.”
“If you don’t mind.” She slid inside.
Harv walked around the back. Just as he came by the trunk, the headlights lit on a car at the far end of the row.
“Who the hell is that?” Harv muttered. He kept walking.
The car peeled out. Tires squealing, accelerating.
Heading straight toward him.
“Son of a bitch,” Harv muttered. “Stop! You’re under arrest!”
The car kept coming. Even faster.
Harv drew his weapon. “Stop!”
Despite the haze of the headlights, Harv realized-it was his own car.
And it was about to kill him.
He fired twice. Both shots hit the windshield. But the car kept coming.
Harv turned, trying to get out of the way. But he wasn’t nearly fast enough. The car surged forward, engine roaring, till it smashed into the back of Dr. Spencer’s car.
Bisecting Harv.
He unbuckled his seat belt and stepped out of the car. Then he paused, gazing down at what was left of his colleague. “Guess you’re not so tall now, huh?”
He opened the passenger-side door. Spencer was conscious, but her eyelids were fluttering. The twisted position of her body told him she had not been wearing a seat belt. A streak of blood ran down the right side of her head. She was breathing rapidly, panting, cowering, her hands clutched to her chest.
“Come,” he said simply. “We don’t have much time.” He held out his hand.
Spencer stabbed him with a pocketknife, ripping the flesh of his palm. Then she pushed him away and tried to scramble out of the bucket seat.
He grabbed her throat with his uninjured hand and squeezed. He knocked the knife out of her hand and shoved her forcefully back into the car, falling forward, halting his descent with a hand on the floor mat. She reached up and scratched the side of his face.
“Oww!” His face flushed red with rage. He pulled the syringe out of his coat pocket and jabbed it brutally into her neck. A few seconds later, the struggle was over.
His hand was bleeding. He had to be careful not to let it drip; the police would have a field day with a blood or skin sample and he didn’t have time to perform a thorough cleanup. Even this time of night, someone must’ve heard the crash. He pulled a tissue out of his shirt pocket and wrapped the wound, wincing at the hideous torn mess she had made of his hand.
He put the pain out of his mind. It had been a brilliant stroke, using Harv’s own car. Since the man had never been able to keep his mouth shut longer than it took to breathe, he’d known which car was Harv’s and where he left his keys.
He could not fault Dr. Spencer for attempting to defend herself. But he could fault her for what she had done before, how she had publicly and brutally maligned him. He could not let this offense pass. He had been told he must be strong, and so, like it or not, he had to act. For his honor. And for… for…
For the love of God, Montresor!
Yes, he thought, as he lifted her body and carried it back to his truck. For the love of God.
17
I saw him again. Standing at the foot of my bed, just like before. He was wearing pajama bottoms and no shirt. I always thought he was sexiest when he wore pajama bottoms and no shirt.
“Are you attracted to him?” David asked.
“I dunno,” I mumbled, still barely awake, if at all. “Maybe.”
“It’s okay, you know.”
“Well, yeah, we’re both consenting adults, even if he is-”
“I mean with me. It’s okay with me.”
“It is?” I tried to pull my head off the pillow, but my body wasn’t responding to commands.
“Of course.” He looked so strong, so manly, like when we were first married. Like a man who was capable of doing anything. “I don’t expect you to become a nun.”
“Well, sure, but still-”
“You have my blessing.”
“That’s damn straight of you.”
His face dissolved into that smile, that silly, toothy smile that used to turn my insides into goulash. “Well, I love you, you know.”
“You do? Even-”
“Even.”
It felt good talking to him, so warm and comforting. I fe
lt as if I could sleep forever after that, like I could smell him, right there next to me in bed. So you can imagine the shock I experienced when I blinked and saw Lisa peering down into my face.
“What the hell have you done to yourself?”
I tried to bring myself around, but my head was screaming and there are some levels of pain that are impossible to mask.
“You’re hungover.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Did I slur my speech? “I had a tough night.”
“I can see that.” And then the most horrible thing happened. Horrible and horrifying. She started to cry. “Damn it, Susan, you said you weren’t going to do this anymore.”
“I-I wasn’t-”
“I’m supposed to be looking after you. God, what a shitty job I’ve done. I mean, you’ve only been out of the hospital for-”
“Lisa,” I said, concentrating on proper pronunciation, “it’s not your fault. I was just feeling a little stressed.”
“Oh, spare me your rationalizations.” She pressed her hand against her forehead. Tears streamed around the palm of her hand. “I talked to Dr. Coutant yesterday. He told me you missed your appointment with him. That you haven’t been going to IOP.”
“I’ve been working.”
“They have night sessions.”
“I’ve been working nights, too. You don’t want me to lose this job, do you?”
“Frankly, I don’t care about your job, Susan. I don’t even think this is a good job for you, not now. What I care about is you!”
And she did, too. I could see that in her watery eyes, not that I needed additional proof. I felt like something someone might scrape off the heel of their shoe. “Look, Lisa, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Honest.”
“That’s such bullshit.”
“No, I mean it this time.”
She walked away from the bed and stared out the window. “It’s just like they told me. You’re an alcoholic. And alcoholics are liars. They’ll say and do anything. Because deep down, no lover on earth can take the place of a chemical addiction. Addicts will lie, cheat, and steal to get their fix.”
“Honey, please-”
“I’m moving in with you, Susan.”
“Now wait just a-”
“Don’t waste it. I should’ve never let you stay by yourself. That was stupid. I’ll pick you up at work and we’ll spend the evenings together.”
“I don’t need a damn babysitter.”
“You don’t know what you need. And you’ll start going to IOP at night, too, no matter how many crazed killers are on the prowl.”
“And supposing I don’t agree?”
Lisa sucked in her breath. “Dr. Coutant has been asked by Chief O’Bannon to report on your progress.”
“What?”
“So that O’Bannon can evaluate whether you’re ready for reinstatement. And I talk to Coutant. Often. So you see, Susan, if I give you a bad report-”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I sure as hell would.”
At this point in time, I think it would be fair to say I hated Lisa. She was my best friend and always had been-and I hated her. I knew that she was trying to help me, that everything she said was right. I knew how hard it was for her to play tough with me. But I still hated her.
“That sounds fun, Lisa. A sleepover. Maybe you can paint my toenails. We can braid each other’s hair.”
My sarcasm was wasted on her. “Clean yourself up and get dressed. I’ll drive you to work.”
“I have a car.”
“I’ll drive you to work.”
“Lisa, it’s eight o’clock in the morning. I wouldn’t-”
“I’ll drive you to work.”
I rolled out of bed, trying to pretend like I wasn’t hurting, thinking maybe I wouldn’t go into the office at all.
Then the phone rang.
I’d never expected this investigation to bring me back to the Transylvania. Thus far, the killer had been careful not to repeat himself. But I suppose he didn’t have much choice. She wasn’t coming to him. He had to take whatever chance he could get.
It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened here. Both cars were still attached to one another. The parked car was particularly damaged. Anyone who had been in there must’ve been injured, maybe seriously. Blood was everywhere. Maybe it was just the fact that I’d drunk all my meals for several days running, but it was getting to me. I was sick in so many ways I couldn’t enumerate them all.
The press was there in force. Not surprising, given who the abductee was. The news was already blanketing the airwaves. This was now the biggest story anywhere, everywhere, all across the nation. Maybe even internationally. The reporters were demanding answers that we didn’t have, acting as if it was our fault that we didn’t. They shouted questions at me as I passed, which I ignored. O’Bannon was dealing with them, or trying. He looked like a drowning man facing a tsunami.
Lisa dropped me off at the outer perimeter of the crime scene, where Patrick was waiting to brief me.
“How did he find her?” I asked.
Patrick shrugged. “Everyone on earth knew she was at the Transylvania. It had been on the news. She even mentioned it on her show. She was doing live remotes from the ballroom. He may have known what car she was using. Possible that he scouted all the parking lots-including this private one for employees and VIPs-found her car, waited for his chance.”
“Why go after the guard? He’s never killed a man before.”
“It was necessary to get to Spencer.”
“And why did he want to do that so badly?”
“She practically put out a hit on him.”
“Yeah, but so what? He likes attention. He’s been craving a challenging opponent.” I shook my head. “It wasn’t the reward money. It was the character assassination.”
Patrick didn’t get it. “Is it possible to assassinate the character of a serial killer?”
“It is in his mind. Remember-he’s a proper southern gentleman doing some kind of respectable, perhaps even sacred work. And then this woman goes on television and suggests that he’s a pervert. It’s an affront to his honor.”
Chief O’Bannon walked between us, a grim expression on his face. “They’re demanding a press conference, people. What can we tell them?”
“Stall,” I advised. “We need more time.”
“They’re very insistent.”
“Tell them to cool their heels.”
“That won’t cut it. In their view, we’ve let a serial killer snatch one of America’s most beloved television personalities. One who recently suffered a great personal loss-thanks to the same killer. All the news reports have been critical of us.”
“Okay, then promise them a conference-later. After we’ve had more time to sift through the evidence.”
He grunted. “Can I at least tell them whether we think Spencer is still alive?”
“There’s no corpse,” Patrick said. “Why bother taking her if he’s going to kill her?”
“He’s killed all the others.”
“But not right away,” I insisted. “There’s no reason to believe this will be different.”
“So there’s still a chance. If we move quickly.”
“But I wouldn’t say that to the press,” Patrick quickly interjected. And we all knew why. Because we didn’t want to be blamed if we didn’t find the killer in time to save her. As things stood, we weren’t even close.
“We’ve got to do something,” O’Bannon growled. “You bring Darcy out today?”
“No… I thought it would be best not to.”
O’Bannon nodded curtly. “He seemed pretty upset last night. Had to give him something to get him to sleep. Haven’t seen him that anxious in a while. You take him to an espresso bar?”
“No. He… saw something that bothered him.”
To my surprise, O’Bannon didn’t ask any more questions. Sighing heavily, he headed back toward the press corral.
Over by the smas
hed Chevy, I heard a cry. Either pain or exultation, I couldn’t tell. But a few moments later, I saw Tony Crenshaw running toward me.
“What?” I wasn’t going to get my hopes up, but his eyes were like Christmas lights. “What have you got?”
“You are going to love me so much,” Tony said, obviously pleased with himself. “You are going to fall down on your knees and kiss my feet. Perhaps even some more sensitive spots.”
I saw Patrick giving me a sidewise glance. “Cut the fantasy and tell us what you’ve got already.”
But he wasn’t giving it up that easily. “Most forensics would’ve missed it, of course. You do the outside of the car, sure. The upholstery. But how many would’ve bothered to check the floor mats? Especially with a guy who has been so scrupulous in the past?”
I grabbed him by the lapels. “Prints? Are we talking about prints?”
“It’s possible…”
“I’m not your joytoy, Tony. Don’t play with me. Have you got a print?”
“There’s definitely something there. I’ll take the mat back to the lab and try vacuum metal deposition. It’s great for lifting prints off plastic. I’ll get something for you.”
I couldn’t restrain myself. I pulled him closer and smacked him a big one, right on the lips. “But that’s as far as it goes,” I cautioned.
“Looks like there was a tussle,” Tony explained. “We found a few drops of blood in there that didn’t come from Spencer. I think she hurt him. He fell forward, his hand went down on the mat, he forgot to clean up. Maybe didn’t have time. The rental company tells me those mats were washed just before Spencer rented it, so…”
I couldn’t help myself. I kissed him again.
He arched an eyebrow. “Could we take this somewhere?”
I released his lapels. “Yeah, back to the lab. Now.”
She must’ve heard him coming. The steps leading to the basement were wooden and creaked when he stepped on them.
“Who is that? Let me out of here!”
The basement was dark, but he liked it that way. When he first moved in, he had been down almost every day, oiling hinges, wiping the walls with mildew remover, but at some point he had realized that was futile and foolish. He was denying the basement its true nature, its essential basementness, so to speak. Certainly the prophet would not have approved. So these days, he let things be what they were. As a result, the basement had acquired a distinctive odor, not noisome, but a lovely evocative mustiness. The air seemed thick and earthy; the walls bore a thin filmy layer of green growth.
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