The man who wanted to kill Sawyer and me had been enjoying the luxury of total anonymity.
The reality of serial killing is that most serial killers aren't identified until they're apprehended. But the crimes of serial killers are rarely misinterpreted as accidents or deaths from natural causes. From the discovery of the first brutalized body, the cops are usually out looking for a psychopathic killer.
And the killer, nameless or not, therefore, has to do his gruesome work while he's looking over his shoulder.
But not this guy who was after me.
He wasn't a typical serial killer, there were no sexualized or ritualized components to his atrocities.
His victims weren't strangers.
He wasn't a typical spree killer, either, there was no particular rapidity or impulsiveness to the murders, the victims weren't chosen based on serendipity or circumstance.
His victims weren't celebrities, he didn't appear to be concerned with infamy or notoriety. Quite the opposite.
And what's more, right now, today, he's not even the least bit worried about being caught.
This man thought he was so good at causing people to die that nobody was even looking for him.
As I moved to the kitchen and began to wrap dishes and glasses from the cupboards in old pages from the Daily Camera before packing them away in wine boxes I'd picked up at Liquor Mart. I began to puzzle about ways to use that fact to my advantage.
Lauren came home with take-out Chinese, we sat in the living room to eat. Things were still tense.
I said. "Help me figure something out, okay?"
"Okay."
"Prosecutor and wife?"
She smiled. "Sure."
"This guy"— I didn't know what else to call him— "thinks he's so smart and so good that nobody knows what he's up to, right?"
She thought for a moment, then said. "I'd say that's true, he's been at this project of his for years, with impunity so far. I'd be surprised if he thought anyone was wise to him. Yes. I'd say he's feeling pretty smug."
"So, is that good or bad? I mean, from our point of view. In terms of finding him, do we want him complacent, or do we want him nervous?"
She narrowed her eyes. "From an investigatory point of view, I think you could make an argument either way.
What are you suggesting?"
"Let's say, for instance. I get a bodyguard and we build a ten-foot fence around the house. If he's watching me, he's immediately going to know something's up, right? He'll know I'm protecting myself."
"Right. If you put up a billboard like that, he'll know that you've put two and two together and deduce that we have the pattern figured out— that somebody's killing people. But that doesn't mean he's going to assume that we're on to him, he's a very cocky guy; remember."
"Right. I agree. Now— today— he's working under the assumption that he has at least two levels of insulation from all these murders. One is that no one in authority has concluded that any of these people was murdered, the other, of course, is that no one is looking at him as a suspect in any particular crime. If I start surrounding myself with self-protection, he'll know for certain that his first level of insulation is gone and that the second one is, at the very least, in some jeopardy."
Lauren seemed to agree. "Makes sense, the question is, How will he respond? Will he back off? Or will he accelerate his plans?"
"Yes," I said, "that is the question. Simes doesn't think he'll give up if he's cornered." I shared Simes's impression that we were looking for a morph of Andrew Cunanan and the Unabomber. "So what do you think?"
She put down her chopsticks and kissed me with moo goo gai pan breath. "If we had a clue to who he is, alan, we might be able to make an educated guess about the answer to that question." She kissed me again, chewing lightly on my bottom lip. "So who is he?"
"I’ve been over it ten times, sweetie, and I don't have a clue. Nobody from back then seems to be right."
"But you don't remember them all, do you?"
"Not even close."
"It's probably someone who didn't make much of an impression, you know? Not too crazy. Not overtly threatening. Just somebody who felt that what you all did to him ruined his life."
"That makes it even harder. I’ve been thinking, what about going to the press? Get everybody looking for him?"
"I thought about that, too, But looking for whom? And is the evidence so compelling that the media will think that something is actually going on? I mean, there hasn't even been enough evidence to convince a single jurisdiction that something is amiss. Simes and Custer can't even convince their old colleagues at the FBI that some criminal genius is at work. If one of your mildly paranoid patients brought this story to you, what would you think? Would you believe him?"
"I don't know, maybe not."
"If a stranger walked into the DA's office and laid this out to us, we'd probably snicker at him after we sent him packing."
"It's funny. I hadn't thought about people not believing us. I was more worried about the consequences of the witch-hunt they would start on all those patients if they did believe us."
She reached down and scratched behind Emily's ears. "This guy., Alan, if he's killed all these people the way we think he has, don't you think he'd just view the scrutiny as another challenge? He'd still find a way to finish what he started."
"That's my take, too, he likes being the smartest, he likes the fact he's the most clever." I paused. "You're at risk, too, sweets. It's not just me."
"I know. Innocent bystanders die too."
"We can't just sit and wait for him to try to kill us."
She sat back against the seat cushions of the sofa and sighed deeply, she said, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but... I think the only answer is for you to go see Sawyer, damn it."
I held her gaze and dribbled rice grains from my chopsticks onto my lap. "You're sure that's best?"
"No." She shook her head with vehemence.
"You want to come with me?"
"No. I've decided to trust you with her."
I threw away the white take-out boxes and the disposable chopsticks and finished my beer before I picked up the phone and dialed the number in Santa Barbara that Simes had given me, the mailbox greeting at the other end was institutional, not personal. I was grateful not to have to listen to Sawyer's voice, yet.
At the tone I said. "Sawyer? This is Alan Gregory. Please give me a call." I left my pager number.
Lauren had been across the kitchen, filling Emily's bowl with fresh water, she said. "That's it? That's your whole message after all these years? 'Please give me a call’?"
"That's it." I touched her below the ear and leaned in and kissed her cheek. "We should have working drawings on the garage by the time the demo is over. Dresden doesn't think adding it to the project will slow him down much, if at all, he has a lot of confidence."
With her left hand she traced the line of my jawbone. "You need a shave,” she said.
"Probably."
"This garage is the same one we talked about a few months ago, right? It will hold two cars?"
Puzzled. I said. "Of course, that's what we decided."
Then I understood her meaning, she was making sure I was still planning on being around to take up one of the two slots.
My beeper vibrated at eight-thirty. I touched the tiny button to still the signal and left it anchored to my hip until Lauren moved to another room.
The number on the screen was local.
I called my voice mail, a patient had forgotten the new time of her appointment and wanted to know if it was eleven or one.
I called her back, told her the appointment time, and said that I would see her the following week.
She said, "We'll talk about this, won't we? Me begging you for a new appointment time and then immediately forgetting when it is?"
My silence allowed her to answer her own question.
Sawyer's call came in at eleven. Lauren was asleep beside me. My beeper
was still set to vibrate, not chirp, and it almost wandered off the nightstand before I was able to corral it.
The area code on the screen was 805.’ didn't know where that was. But I knew in my bowels that 805 was where Sawyer was.
I pulled on some sweats and a T-shirt and climbed upstairs. Emily followed me. I had the sudden awareness that this night would be the last time I would be sleeping in my old bedroom, ever. Tomorrow night we'd sleep at Lauren's old house on the Hill. When we came back to this house we'd be sleeping in the new bedroom we were building upstairs.
I carried the portable phone to the sofa and sat, scratching Emily under her chin and rubbing her ears before I punched in the number from my pager screen.
Maybe half a ring later. I heard. "Alan?"
My pulse was up, my breathing shallow, her voice sang for me the way it always had.
"Yes." I said. "Hi. Sawyer. Long time."
"I never thought I'd talk to you again as long as I lived. Didn't think I had the right."
Was I hearing remorse from Sawyer Sackett? I reminded myself how badly I'd always read her. "I never expected to talk to you, either. Figured that things had changed so much that it would just never happen. But here we are, right? And the circumstances couldn't be more strange."
When she responded to my words I didn't notice any of the pressure in her voice that I felt in my own, she asked "You've talked to those two, I take it? The FBI odd couple?"
"Custer and Simes. Yes, they're the ones who gave me your number in Santa Barbara. Where are you now?"
"Central Coast. In San Luis Obispo. In a hotel, a quintessentially weird place called the Madonna Inn. My bedroom looks like a stall in a medieval barn. Last time I was here I stayed in the flying saucer room. I think I prefer that one. This one's harder on my allergies."
I didn't know what to say. San Luis Obispo is a couple of hours north of Santa Barbara on the coast. Simes said that Sawyer traveled for her business. "You up there on work?"
"Yes, work. One of the facilities I visit is near here. So .., do you want to catch up a little bit or do you want to talk about all our dead friends?"
"Both. I think. How are you. Sawyer?"
"I'm.., peaceful, alan. Not joyful. Peaceful. Life has taken a lot of turns I never would have chosen, and I’ve managed to embrace this place where I've ended up. I feel good about that. You?"
What the hell did that mean? Me? "I was better a week ago. Sawyer. But things have been good for me. I'm married and... I have a good life."
"Kids?"
"Not yet. You?"
I thought I heard her swallow, her next words were "Do you believe them? Custer and Simes?"
Okay; we weren't going to talk about kids.
"Yes. I believe them. Not a hundred percent, but enough to make me crazy. You don't?"
"Actually— no— I believe them as well, as you can
probably guess, over the years I'd lost touch with everyone except for Susan, after she died in— when was that plane crash?— I really never knew what happened with everyone's lives. I never heard about any of the deaths."
"Did, uh, those two agents tell you about... Lorna?"
"No. God. Don't tell me."
I didn't.
She said "Tell me."
I did, concluding. "Custer is on his way to New Zealand tonight to check it out. I talked with him a few hours ago, he's hoping to be able to confirm the identification and the circumstances."
Sawyer's tone became wispy, lacy. "I really liked Lorna, she knew about us. I think she was the only one on the unit who knew what we were up to. Did you know that she knew?"
"No, I didn't. But I liked her, too, her death hurts a lot, there are times when I don't know whether I'm more sad or more scared about all this."
She said, "Yes, I know. Lorna, God. It's just you and me now, isn't it?"
"Of the professional staff, yes. Unless you include Kheri."
"Oh no. Do you think we need to worry about her? Oh my."
"I don't know. I haven't thought about her until right now. But if he targeted the social worker, maybe he'd go after the head nurse, too."
"Do you know where she is?"
"No: do you?"
"No."
"I can check with some people at the school. See if anyone has kept in touch."
Sawyer's tone lightened, almost playfully, she asked. "So are you going to save my life again, alan?"
"I didn't save your life, that man wasn't going to kill you, Sawyer."
"I wasn't talking about that crazy patient with the knife, Alan."
"What do you mean?" I said, and I tried to picture her right then, in her funky theme hotel room. How long was her hair? How had she aged?
"You saving my life— it had nothing to do with Arnie's patient and the pocketknife. It was something else that you don't understand. You couldn't understand. Because I never told you."
"What— ?"
"We have a decision to make, right now. You and me."
"You mean about whether to cooperate with Simes and Custer?"
"That, too, I meant about where to meet. Do you want to come here, to California? Or should I come to where you are? Or do you want to surprise me and leave me a note in my morning newspaper and let me know exactly where it is we'll rendezvous?"
I couldn't tell whether her tone was mocking or inviting. Jesus.
FOURTEEN
Friday evening, we finished moving out of Spanish Hills and moving into Lauren's old place on the Hill.
Saturday morning. Dresden's crew began to demolish the interior of our little house.
Saturday afternoon, at 3:46.’ was sitting in the exit aisle of a United 737 shuttle that was lifting off on its way from Denver to Las Vegas.
Sawyer had said she'd be waiting for me at the gate.
In my mind, of course, she hadn't aged, her hair hadn't grown, her body had lost none of the elasticity or allure of its youth.
In my mind, of course, she was still an enigma, she was still someone who could bring out every juvenile sexual urge I'd ever felt, she was the embodiment of every embarrassing immaturity it had taken me two marriages to outgrow.
As I waited for the jumble of passengers in front of me to clear the aisle. I reminded myself that I didn't blame Sawyer for what had happened that autumn.
I blamed myself for succumbing to her, actually, I hadn't succumbed; I'd thrown myself at her feet.
I reassured myself that I'd grown since then, a lot. I was stronger now. I'd learned to love and not merely fall to infatuation. I'd learned to insist that I be loved in return.
I was confident that I could handle Sawyer. This time I would be impervious to her charms.
Then I saw her standing there, and for a dangerous moment. I was an intern again. Breathless.
And stupid.
She was waiting across the concourse, and she didn't rush to greet me.
Though it penetrated. I didn't avoid her gaze, her hair wasn't as blond as I remembered and was much longer, almost to her shoulders, with a little outward curl at the ends, she stood proudly, her shoulders back, her hands loosely clasped together in front of her, she was wearing white jeans and sandals and a tight vest made of medium-weight denim, the denim was faded.
The most striking thing about her, though, was the change in her face, she'd aged, yes. But it was the difference in her smile that struck me. When Sawyer used to smile, her mouth and face had opened gloriously. When she smiled my way— and it wasn't a frequent enough occurrence— I remembered the brilliance of her front teeth and the radiance that seemed to glow from hea parted lips.
Now, though, as she smiled a greeting across the expanse of terrazzo, it was a smile borne only by her eyes, which were framed by pale sunglasses of a tortoiseshell almost as blond as her hair, her mouth didn't open at all, the smile seemed less joyful than I recalled, but somehow more sincere and serene.
I was still five feet from her when she said. "I’ve gotten fat and old, and look at you—
there's not an ounce of fat on your body."
I shifted my carry-on bag from my left shoulder to my right and moved forward to embrace her, she hesitated.
I hesitated, too, the resulting hug was polite.
I said. "I’ve taken up cycling. It keeps me in shape. I don't know about you getting fat, though. I think you look great. Sawyer." I stepped back and took her in. "I only wish the circumstances were different."
Wistfully, I thought, she stared into my eyes. "That's what I was wishing all those years ago, about us. I just wanted the circumstances to be different. It's funny how things come around, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Later. Come on— I'm not sure we should linger here, we don't really know what this man who's killing our colleagues is up to."
I had promised myself that I wouldn't say anythina inane. My next line, therefore, constituted a broken promise. "Your hair has gotten longer."
Her eyes widened into another smile, and she lifted her hair from her neck with the back of her hand. If Lauren had been beside me she would have been able to tell me whether or not the gesture was intended to be flirtatious. On my own, my wife maintained. I was clueless. Most of the time she was right.
"You like the flip? Or is it too retro? Makes me look a little like Doris Day; don't you think? Which is exactly why I used to keep it so short, and now the Doris Day look is back, maybe my time has come. One of the cons I work with told me that I look like Carmen Diaz's older sister, that's not bad, right? Better than looking like her mother."
"I think you look great." I hoped she heard in my voice that I meant it but meant nothing by it. "Where are we going? Should we get a car?" I asked.
"I don't think so. Do you gamble?"
"Gamble? Like slot machines? Not usually."
"Doesn't matter. I do. It helps me relax, we just need to find a public place to talk, and the casinos are as good a place as any. Come on."
Manner of Death Page 12
