Even in the blue heat of late summer, Nick felt a chill ripple on his skin. He swallowed hard; then he marched toward the shadows.
Chapter Three
Martin
Earlier
Martin would remember it forever, the first salvo in his campaign against the freak cop. He reveled in the memory…
When he followed them through the chilly parking lot to the mall, Martin wore what he thought of as his “writer’s clothes” under a light jacket. Even though it had been a mild winter, now it was almost too cold; the early-spring temperatures in this Midwestern city were rarely consistent from day to day or even hour to hour. But the comfortable deck shoes, khaki Dockers pants that were wrinkled just enough, and blue cotton golf shirt embroidered with a tiny loon he had purchased at a Midwest specialty store right in this very mall earlier in the week were altogether perfectly bland and academic. He carried a small notebook in his back pocket so he could stop to make entries in his logbook and take notes for his “book” at the same time. He carried a bulging shopping bag in one hand. He blended right in with the suburban fathers and lower-level executives he saw everywhere, hanging out at the Starbucks and the Gloria Jean’s, drinking majestic and overpriced paper cups of takeout coffee between trips to the washroom to void their bladders of the stinking swill coffee turned into.
Perhaps if he had a stroller and a baby, he’d just disappear into the faceless masses of suburban escapees.
But just as the thought crossed his mind, he felt the handle of the Gerber boot knife jab his back where it was clipped to his belt inside his waistband.
Maybe he wasn’t destined to ever fit in that well. He’d settle for just long enough to complete his mission.
What was his mission? Well, he reminded himself, he had intended to follow Corinne Devereaux and her friend—Wanda? Wilma?—on their off day and plan his final encounter. After several weeks of entries, he was fairly certain the two would traipse from mall to mall, groping and pawing the racks, trying on incredibly skimpy outfits balanced by the most bland of casual wear, befitting people whose shopping needs included both their public and secret lives. He had merely intended to follow and observe, but he had also begun to spin his plans into a semblance of order. There was little question in his mind as to how to gain his revenge, what to do to her that would enrage him to the necessary degree. But he had left open for debate the when and the where, until just now, when he remembered following Corinne and her friend here only a week before. Now the disparate elements of his plan were solidifying into a whole that he found more acceptable and more titillating every second he allowed it to play unchecked in his mind.
Maybe the when was today, and the where was right here…
He watched Corinne and her friend enter yet another department store and followed slowly, unobtrusively, hoping this time their destination would be the cosmetics counter.
Martin had always prided himself on his ability to map out and execute a flawless plan. He remembered well how easily he’d out-thought doctors, nurses, and orderlies for years, having his way with them even as they believed they had cracked his hidden shell and extracted the succulent meat inside, feasting on his tender thoughts and feelings. All the while he had enjoyed feeding them those bits of him he wanted them to have, doubling his guard on all the others. He had almost developed a two-track mind, as he saw it, one that he could allow access to, and one that he could wall away and protect from every prying technique they were likely to try. And try they had, but he had beaten them every time. The psychological games, the long sessions with various therapists, the drugs—even the drugs were ineffective in cracking him, though he wondered at times if the drugs hadn’t complicated his life by becoming too enjoyable. He’d ridden that tiger all too willingly.
Corinne and her friend—Winnie? Wally?—spun watches in their display cases, priced jewelry of various kinds and eventually bought a gold chain each, then headed for the rear of the store.
And stopped. They made a right turn and approached a white-coated cosmetics clerk who wore too much makeup for her poor, craggy skin, giving her the look of a mannequin under the bright lights.
Martin brought his forward motion to a hasty halt, looked around quickly, and made for the watch display where he became intent on a collection of sports models for divers—or people who want to pretend they look like divers—standing where he could see the two women as they spoke with the clerk.
From afar, they seemed like any other pair of women shoppers, but he had been close enough to see that Corinne’s great beauty was almost matched by her friend, who most certainly worked for the same high-priced escort agency.
Stacey, that was it.
Martin chuckled. He had no idea why he’d thought her name began with a W.
Stacey was dark blond, her hair curly where Corinne’s was straight, and much shorter than Martin liked. Her face was nearly exquisite, though, a turned-up nose over full lips—what escort girl doesn’t have full lips?—and a perfectly proportioned chin. High cheekbones and clear green eyes rounded out the picture, her skin as flawless as alabaster. Nordic and Celtic, perhaps, a nice blend. Her body spoke of interminable sessions at the gym but displayed a hint of baby fat she would never get rid of and which would always enhance her beauty. Men liked a bit of meat on the bones, and whether women realized it or not, rarely appreciated when their women were in better shape than they. Martin shook his head. There was so much women didn’t realize about men.
He saw a clerk hovering and quickly spun the display, affecting a thoughtful look that said, “I’m still thinking.” The clerk, an elderly woman whose perfume could knock out a horse at twenty paces, disappeared behind the cash register island to bother someone else.
As Martin watched, Corinne and Stacey worked their way down the counter pointing to this lipstick sample and that, each selecting several to try on. Martin couldn’t believe his luck.
He felt himself harden at the thought, the expectation of what he was about to watch. Bear witness to, he corrected. Perhaps it was an omen, a sign from whoever or whatever pulled the strings that today was indeed the day.
Huddled around the mirrors, Corinne and Stacey began their show. Martin fervently wished he could capture it all on film, but why be greedy? He spun the display and then moved to another, nearer the edge of the counter, hoping the old crone would leave him be.
Twenty feet away, Stacey selected a canister, uncapped it and spun it open, the colored tip gently rising to meet her ups.
Martin squirmed. He imagined it was his penis, which bulged in his pants to the point where he had to make sure he was facing the counter. Mesmerized, he watched as Corinne nodded her approval while Stacey colored her lips with a darker shade and then pouted into the mirror. Martin couldn’t quite see, but his imagination was capable of supplying the picture. His squirming was painful, and his hands itched as if they were on fire. He ignored the pain as much as he could, but felt sweat break out on his forehead.
Now it was Corinne’s turn. She opened one of her canisters, gave the miniature penis its erection, and proceeded to paint her lips with dainty, economic motions that made Martin quiver with need. Her shade was a deep, classic red, and Martin silently approved. Stacey nodded, too, taking the canister herself and trying it on after wiping her lips with a tissue. Both wearing harlot red, they then turned their attention to a bright violet. Corinne wiped her lips, then applied the violet in slow, sensuous strokes—upper lip middle to side and middle to other side, and then lower lip, same again, and then more, applying a thick coat that Martin wanted desperately to—
“Have you decided? Would you like to see one of those?”
Damn it!
He’d been so intent on the erotic display across the aisle that he hadn’t heard—or smelled—the crone approaching.
“No!” he said brusquely. He gave the display another spin. “I’ll call you if I need you.”
She sniffed and stalked away, a grimace on her pinched
lips.
Martin mentally kicked himself. He didn’t want to make an impression on anyone, not if today was the day. Now it was too late, and the old broad might remember him all too well when the time came. Though with his bland disguise and styleless haircut, didn’t he resemble a million other guys? He smeared his prints on the display wheel and stepped aside to ostensibly check out more watches, this time leaving his hands off the counter. But his eyes wandered.
Across the aisle, each woman was on her fourth shade. Damn, he had missed one. They were now wearing two shades of pink, from what he could see, though the color was too light to stand out from so far away. The violet and red had been bolder, much more erotic, though he supposed the pink would be just fine from up dose.
They switched from lipstick to mascara and eyeliner then, and Martin lost interest—while it was still erotic to see beautiful women apply cosmetics, it was lipstick he craved. He noted that they each purchased a couple canisters and couldn’t help wondering which shades ended up in their bags.
They headed away from him, and he disappeared among the counters and groups of browsing shoppers. He noted that the crone had moved to a different counter to help an elderly gentleman who was monopolizing her time with silk ties. Good, she’d be less likely to remember Martin now.
He shadowed them from store to store, both the large chain department stores at each end of the mall and a score of boutique-style stores located in between. Most of them were too small for him to enter, so he took up a post nearby at some center-court stand or cart, gazing at mindless artwork and leather products until he spotted them leaving one place for another. At the second large chain store, an uppity and expensive layout of designer clothes and other high-priced status items, the women once again made a stop at the cosmetics counter.
Martin chose men’s fragrances to entrance him this time, a counter that allowed him a clear view across to theirs. And this time there was no clerk present to interrupt him. Corinne laughed at something her friend said, and the fragile crystalline quality of her voice carried over to Martin and thrilled him with anticipation. It had to be today, he realized all at once, in a rush of awareness that made his extremities tingle. He was ready, and she was ready, and the plan was making itself known to him as his plans always did, almost as if they were created whole cloth by someone else and dumped into his brain all at once—downloaded, as today’s computer folk would say if given the chance. Downloaded into his brain. He liked that. It was so direct.
Corinne and Stacey wiped each other’s lips with tissues and then picked new lipsticks to try on, this time teasing him by applying the color to each other’s lips, drawing carefully so that the tiny penises wouldn’t stray. Martin found sudden difficulty breathing, watching the two begin what was perhaps their two-girl private show. He imagined them performing this lip ballet for some old geezer in a hotel room, or for a frat-boy bachelor party. He watched as male passersby reacted to the raw sexuality by doing double takes and as their wives shot them dirty looks and even dirtier words, tearing them away even as they wanted nothing more than to stop and gawk at the lesbian act in full flower.
Martin heard both Corinne and Stacey laugh as they admired their handiwork in twin mirrors, knowing they knew he was there, watching and appreciating. Rather than hiding, Martin felt emboldened and stepped away from the fragrance counter, stepping toward them and readying himself for the question he would ask.
Abruptly, the two women broke from their counter and made for the escalator in the center of the store, and Martin’s bold approach fizzled to nothingness.
He swore.
The bag was heavy in his hand, and so was the realization that his plan would have to wait, even if he was half ready to carry it out.
He followed them up the escalator, but three obese women on the metal steps stood in a cluster and would not let him through, so by the time he reached the second level Corinne and her friend were no longer in sight.
Martin looked around almost in a panic, attempting to avoid appearing desperate and perhaps not succeeding nearly as well as he hoped. He was standing in a main aisle, but his quarry had disappeared into a forest of clothes racks. He stepped aside when the escalator deposited a blue-suited shopper onto the platform behind him.
“Excuse me!”
The man looked at him as if he were an obstacle made entirely of excrement and stepped around him with a pointedly sarcastic whole-body gesture. Martin smiled wickedly. In the Institute, the man would have paid for his impoliteness, oh yes, he would have paid dearly. But now was no time to dwell on the healing qualities of revenge—ha! That was an ironic thought, Martin realized as the entire escapade revolved around the healing qualities of revenge. No, it was just a matter of picking his fights carefully and sticking to the plan that had formed so wholly and completely in his mind.
Then, almost as if to caress him with the silken hand of Fate, something made him turn and—illogically—look back down the escalator he had just climbed. There they were, having somehow doubled back and down the stairs, or perhaps one of those cleverly hidden elevators. In any case, Corinne and Stacey now perused a counter full of discounted accessories not far from the bottom of the down escalator, which Martin immediately negotiated, staring at them openly as the jagged moving steps brought him closer to where they stood.
He surveyed the sales floor and saw that the timing was perfect, all visible salesclerks otherwise occupied and very few shoppers hovering nearby. The moving stairs would deposit him mere feet from where the two women stood, and he boldly allowed the momentum to carry him to a spot just beside them.
“Well, hello!” he called out cheerfully as he allowed his face to light up with recognition. He knew it did because he had practiced the trick for years. He had been told it shaved age right off him, and made him seem friendly and uncomplicated. It was an essential maneuver in his current business.
Before the two women could even turn and acknowledge his presence, he was continuing on. “Imagine running into you here! What fun!”
The two lovely faces now peered curiously at him. It was clear he was speaking to them, yet neither recognized him.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he said with a wide smile. “The Hyatt, about a year ago?” He glanced around and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “We met after a certain phone call, and—” He stopped suddenly as Corinne nodded uncertainly.
Martin smiled wider, especially to himself. She had responded to over a dozen calls from the Hyatt since he had begun to log her activities, so he was safe—an out-call out of many relegated to the shadowy depths of her memory. And he did look familiar, after all. Her friend saw that Corinne seemed to struggle briefly with remembrance, then nodded as the connection was apparently made.
“Hello,” said Corinne quietly. It was clear she wasn’t thrilled to have her separate worlds collide in such a way, but business was business and you couldn’t afford to alienate what might be a repeat customer. “It’s nice to see you again,” she said, holding out a slender hand. She might have lied, but she was convincing—an actress to the end.
He shook it with honest eagerness. “I’ve also visited the Roxanne website, of course, but you know how it is—it’s easier for me to remember you than for you… In any case, I’m really happy to see you. It’s such a coincidence, because I was thinking of you just a few days ago.”
“Really?” Corinne said, sliding into her customer-service mode as easily as if she had slipped on a shawl.
Her smile widened, and for a moment Martin was so lost in her lips and the dark violet shade that colored them that he almost stuttered.
“I’m flattered you have such fond memories,” she said, as if reciting a speech practiced often and with great success.
Her lips turned up and he finally released her hand, which he just realized he had grasped longer than was necessary. Yet the blunder worked to his advantage, because she seemed to accept now that he had met her in a hotel room and that she had
satisfied his needs once, and now she hoped to do so again. Four hundred dollars an hour plus gratuity meant that she would always accept a broadening of her client list, even if it was awkward to chat about her business in this sterile environment.
Martin sorely wished he had indeed met her in a Hyatt suite, her lips employed for his pleasure and then—but no, he must not lose track of his goal, and here he had been handed a superb opportunity to bring his Phase One to fruition much earlier than expected.
“My dear, you were much more than a fond memory, and I am not just flattering. I have thought about you for a long time, and I had hoped the next time I was in town…that is, I had intended to call Roxanne and, well, ask you for a date.”
There, that was relatively naive and yet knowing. His hesitation was a supreme bit of acting brilliance.
“Do you have the number? Maybe I can give you a card and you can—” Her voice trailed off as she dug in her tiny purse, disentangling a business card from some sort of pouch and handing it to him with slim fingers tipped with long, wine-colored nails that made his mouth water.
He made as if to take it, but hesitantly. “I’ve only had a couple days here, and this was my first without a meeting. I have a flight out in a few hours,” he said with real regret in his voice. It was his conviction that always worked for him. He was convinced the words he spoke were true.
“Where are you heading?”
Making polite conversation. Unhappy to see a guaranteed transaction fade away.
He finally took the card and tucked it into his shirt. “Salt Lake City to put out a fire, as they say, and then Silicon Valley to light one under a certain project team!” He laughed.
Corinne laughed politely but with true humor at his little joke. Stacey smiled, her own lips delectable in their slightly different mauve shade and only a few feet away so he could smell the cosmetic smell that made his penis swell under the baggy pants.
“Well, maybe another time.” Her face showed some disappointment, though not enough to lead her to where Martin wanted to go.
Wolf's Trap (The Nick Lupo Series Book 1) Page 4
