Dudley stumbled in his tracks, caught himself, flexed his grip around the haft of his knife. He liked to do things differently. Dudley ground his teeth. The abrasion made his jaw ache, the cords on his neck stand out.
She had always been disappointed that he was not more like the sleeping man. She had never said so directly to him, but Dudley knew. It scarcely mattered to him now. When the evening was over, he would feel a strange emptiness, a draining, a depression that he had somehow failed her again. It would matter then, because her acceptance of him mattered to Dudley.
He needed it.
It was all he had.
Dudley gritted his teeth again. The movement made him ache throughout his skull. He let himself burn. The sleeping man liked shadow. He would not stand for the fiery torch Dudley had become. Dudley drove him out, as he had time and time again.
He found himself standing on the back stairs. The building, without occupant or appliance, was preternaturally quiet. Sweat ran off his face, had pooled at his feet. His shoulder, braced against the internal wall, had gone numb as if he had tried to drive it into the newly painted plaster. How long had he stood there, putting demons to rest?
Too long.
There was a sound behind him, a choked noise. Dudley whirled and struck, without thought, all sinuous movement from his chin to his fingers.
The boy sank without a whimper, eyes wide, staring at him, at Dudley’s face obscured by the gear, the knife blossoming in the dead center of his childish throat.
Shit!
She would never forgive him this, never. Dudley pulled the knife free. There was a gurgling sound as the boy died, inhaling his own blood. Dudley scooped up the small frame and made his way back to the laundry room, where he dropped his burden on top of the other. A litany of lies ran like wildfire through his brain. The boy wasn’t there. The boy was there. The mother had beaten him. Nothing he could do. No. The boy wasn’t there, he’d run away. Or the boy was there. He’d tried to protect his mother. Dudley’d had no choice.
Maybe that last would suffice.
He decided it was time to build his fire.
Hands shaking, he searched inside his waistband for the homemade accelerator, a chemical which would ensure the results he wanted, without leaving a telltale trace. He brought the pouch up and shook it out.
Graciela smelled the faintest tinge of smoke. She paused, kitchen cabinet door open, and turned. The smell grew stronger as she did, then faded again.
She frowned and wiped her hands on a paper towel. Donnie was at that age. She decided to see what he was doing so quietly in his new bedroom. Matches were strictly off-limits for him, but she’d had trouble with him playing with them before. Parenting classes at the shelter had taught her it was normal. Not that she should allow it to continue, but that he would be curious.
As she passed through the living room from the kitchen, she noticed the front door ever so slightly ajar. She stopped.
“Donnie?”
No answer.
Her heart felt as if it had lodged somewhere in her throat. She ran to the bedroom. The door flung wide open before her. The room was empty.
“Donaldo!” Graciela tore through the tiny apartment and out the front door. She could smell smoke again, this time very definitely. She hesitated in the hallway. What if he’d set a fire? No phone yet. What could she do? Let it not be a fire. Her whole future hung before her. Her son, her new home. She ran in search of Donnie, praying for the best.
She did not know the building well yet. The hallway took her downstairs and around a corner, then sank into dimness. But she could smell the smoke again, and thought perhaps she could even see a wisp of gray puffing into the air.
“Oh, shit, hijo ,” she cried, and plunged down the basement steps.
She came to a halt as something dark and menacing moved at the foot of the stairwell, shadows coming together and taking shape. Something glinted in its hand.
Almost a man.
Almost a man, but not quite, a mask obscuring its face, a mask staring at her with glittery, shimmering lenses. A deathlike visage, ebony carved and grotesque, watching her.
And it carried a knife.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the being said.
Dudley had had all sorts of reactions, but he was not quite prepared for what she did. Without a sound, she turned and leaped like a gazelle up the stairwell, taking the steps, two and even three at a time. He thundered up after her, gaining the hall too late to see her slim form disappear.
But he heard the slamming of a door. He swung his head. The VR program overlaid the floor plan. That had to be the door to the interior stairs between floors. If she were returning to her apartment, she’d become confused. She was going the wrong way. And he knew exactly which way he had to go to cut her off.
He peeled his lips back off his teeth and sprinted down the hallway.
They met nearly face-to-face at the next T-intersection. Graciela slid to a stop, scrambling, her sneakered feet nearly slipping out from underneath her, her bosomy chest heaving under its T-shirt. She cursed, in Spanish, then flung herself away as he grabbed for her. He caught the worn sleeve of her shirt. It ripped away in his hand.
She would head back to the basement stairs again. The smoke would drive her away. This time she would be headed in the right direction, toward her apartment.
She would slam and lock the door, hoping to keep him out.
She might even try climbing out the window for help.
He would be there first.
Dudley moved swiftly.
She ran blindly, the smoke stinging her eyes, her shirt sliding off her shoulder. Her sneakers squeaked on the heavily polished floor. There wasn’t a thought in her head, not for Donaldo, not even for herself, except to flee. She careened away from the basement stairwell a second time. Thick, black clouds rolled up from below, and she smelled the unmistakable odor of the fire. She veered away, found a turn in the hallway, remembered it, and ran desperately for her apartment.
She slammed the door behind her and slid the two dead bolts into place and then the door lock. It would not hold the beast behind her for long. Graciela looked desperately around the empty rooms. The first floor was not really a ground floor, because of the basement level. She was up, maybe half a story. She had a veranda, a balcony off the living room, instead of ordinary living room windows. The jump wasn’t far.
She crossed the living room.
It came out of the kitchen.
Graciela sidestepped her attacker and flung herself at the sliding glass doors, screaming. He dug his free hand into her hair, pulling her back into his hard embrace, and said softly, “I don’t think anyone can hear you.”
She tore at his hand. The glove stripped away, knife clattering to the floor, and she sank her teeth into his flesh, tearing savagely. Dudley’s rage flared white-hot.
The sleeping man roused.
Chapter 26
“All right, so that’s her doctor. Who’s the buff guy standing with her, this guy here?”
Carter stood at the phone, staring at the editorial assistant, but not seeing him, listening to the drill as he left another page for Joyce. “She’s either out of range, or she’s got the damn thing turned off.” He slammed the phone down. “I can’t get in this late without her.” He scrubbed at his face in frustration. “What did you want?”
“I just wondered if you knew this guy with her.”
Carter perched on his chair as Dolan stabbed a finger at the screen. The picture was slightly out of focus beyond Susan Craig, but he could see the man Dolan asked about. He started to say, “DamnifIknow,” and stopped. Because he did know. “That’s a firefighter. I can’t remember his name, he was some kind of hero or something. Burning building dropped a beam on his head, but not before he got a baby and couple of kids out. They had to put his skull back together. He was working with her on some project. Let me think.” Carter paused. So many stories. He never thought he’d forget any of them w
hen he’d first started seeing his byline, but it happened. You couldn’t remember them all, no matter how you tried. Memory, like a drowning man, struggled to surface.
Dolan said, “I can always call the morgue, see what they’ve got on file.”
“He wouldn’t be listed. He’s not part of this story, just an escort.” Carter took a swig of the Tsing-Tao, which had begun to warm slightly. The beer seemed to loosen the old synapses. “I’ve got it. They were working on a virtual reality program for firefighting. Architectural imaging, hooked into high-tech helmet equipment for the firemen. It was like medical imaging—see the tip of the iceberg, project the entire structure.”
“I don’t get it. I know about the medical programs. They track tumors that way, other surgery. But I’ve never heard of architectural imaging.”
“Neither had anybody else. She didn’t get the funding for that, either. They wanted to project an overlay into the helmet visors. The image would give them the floor plan of the building they were about to enter. That way, even with no visibility because of the smoke and flames, the firefighters would have a good idea where they were and where they wanted to go.”
Dolan sat back in his chair. He let out a low whistle. “Impressive. It might work.”
“Nobody thought so two years ago. Nobody wanted to foot the bill to put blueprints into a database. The thought was that the programming wouldn’t be feasible. There was the question of manpower, and also access to the blueprints. If it would even work. You’ve got to admit,” and Carter drained the last of the beer. He rocked back in his chair, balancing it on the back two feet. “Virtual reality has come a long way since then.”
“Not that anybody could prove it by you.” Dolan put his hands into the air and wiggled his fingers. “You still type by hunt and peck.”
“I type a hell of a lot faster than that.”
“Sure.” Dolan moved back to the screen. “It wasn’t a bad idea. Scanning technology today could make building the database a lot easier....” He pursed his lips in thought. “They say going into a burning building is like going into a black hell. To know where you are, at all times, regardless—”
Carter was caught in a swirl of his own thoughts. To pit a killer like Mr. Blue, who liked to break into buildings and start fires and kill, against a man like that firefighter, who rescued lives and put out fires ... what was a man like that doing paired with Susan Craig, who was clearly, avidly, attracted by Bauer’s type?
What would a human predator do with a program which would give him access into any building he wanted? How well could he hunt and stalk then?
A cold chill went down Carter’s spine. He set his chair carefully down on all fours.
The phone rang jarringly. He leaped up from the computer desk and snatched it up.
Joyce said testily, “You’re beginning to bug me.”
“I’m sorry, Joyce, but I had to get hold of you. I want to get Mac out of Psychiatric.”
“Why?” Suspicion tinged her rich voice.
He had no proof to offer her. Even Nelson had had no proof of anything, just a nearly intangible lead to a serial killer long gone from the public eye. That did not make her an accessory to anything Bauer had done. It did not make her a suspect in Nelson’s killing. He had nothing but a spine that felt as though polar bears had decided to make a slide out of it.
“You’re taking too long to think, Carter. That means you’re going to tell me a story.”
“No. No stories. Honest to God, I can’t give you a reason. I just don’t think she belongs in the hospital. Can’t we get her into protective custody or something?”
“She committed voluntarily for forty-eight hours of observation. Even if I could get Moreno to budge, I couldn’t get her out before then. And if I could get her out tomorrow night, where would she go?”
Carter cleared his throat, and Joyce interrupted, “Uh-huh, boyfriend, no way. Don’t even say it.” She paused. “Come to think of it, I might have a place. New shelter, not open yet, but just about ready to go. I’d have to stay with her, but I think I could get the okay to go in for a couple of days. That’s what it’s there for. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“I don’t want anybody messing with her mind.”
“Or any other little bit of her, I expect.” Joyce chuckled. She stopped. “What’s up?”
“Nothing I can pinpoint. What do you know about Susan Craig?”
“ Doctor Craig? She works there, has her own unit within the unit, called CyberImago or some such. She does a lot with imaging. Self-esteem, biofeedback for nervousness and pain, virtual reality rehab for stroke victims.”
“Sounds diverse.”
“It’s all part of the computer technology. All of it uses virtual reality programming. I’ve seen her work. She’s good. No bedside manner, but she gets results.”
“I don’t like the result she got from Mac today.” Carter briefly described the emotional state in which he’d found McKenzie. “And I don’t like the fact that John Nelson came to L.A., hoping to find her.”
“Congressman Nelson?”
“The one they just shipped home in a box.”
“How do you know he was looking for her?”
“Because,” he told her, “John was hoping I might help him find her. Craig was a graduate assistant, working with Georg Bauer when he escaped.”
“My, my.”
Joyce knew a little of his obsession with Bauer. He said, “John never gave up either.”
“I guess not. Well, that doesn’t make Dr. Craig poison, either, but I’ll see what I can do. Just keep your trigger finger off my beeper. I’ll call you when I know something.” Joyce hung up.
The polar bears were still doing bobsled runs down his spine, but they’d slowed up some.
Dolan looked at him.
“She said she’d try,” Carter repeated.
Dolan nodded morosely.
The only good thing about going home for a late dinner was that the food would be chilled and the traffic thinner. The day had been hot and smoggy, and the roads congested, so Moreno guessed that everything evened out. The first thing he did when he walked in the door was grab the portable phone so he could check his voice mail while he stood in the glow of the open refrigerator door, enjoying the temperature as he decided what to eat. Margo called from the other room, over the television noise of her favorite series, “Don’t stand there with the icebox open.”
“Anything to eat?”
“It’s all to eat,” she called back.
Naturally. He punched in the office number and started listening to his mailbox. If he stayed in the office to pick up these messages, he’d never leave. Half of them were just fellow officers passing along grievances of the day or, in some cases, a tip or two. He pulled out a bowl of what looked to be tuna salad. On closer inspection, it was salmon salad, even better. He could tell it was leftovers, because the bowl was less than half full. He couldn’t get in too much trouble for finishing it. He would ask, but he was too fond of salmon salad to risk losing it.
He grabbed a fork, a bottle of chilled iced tea, and sat at the kitchen table to eat. The salad must have been dinner because the celery was still crisp. He munched in enjoyment as his messages rolled on.
Then he sat up straight, changed the handset to the other ear, and pulled his notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket. He pushed the bowl aside. Sarah Whiteside of Seattle had finally returned his call.
He copied down the number, and repeated the message to verify it. He used the office charge card to return the call. He went through two or three very worried people before he finally got Sarah on the line.
“Officer Moreno?”
“Yes, Mrs. Whiteside. You returned my call earlier tonight, and I’m getting back to you.”
He could hear a breathy sigh of relief on the line. “You’re not him. I can hear a faint accent, can’t I?”
“Not who, Mrs. Whiteside?”
“Jack Trebolt.” She made anoth
er breathy sound, and he thought perhaps she had been crying. “But you couldn’t really convince me long distance, could you?”
“I don’t know how I can try. I can give you my shield number and have you call the desk sergeant, if that would help.”
He heard a whispered conference, then she said, “No ... no, that’s okay. Please. Is McKenzie all right?”
“Yes and no. Before I get into that, I’d like to verify some information I have on Ms. Smith. Would you be willing to answer some questions?” He doodled on the page while there was a pause of consideration.
“She gave you my number?”
“Yes.”
Death Watch Page 29
