“Christ almighty, you can be exasperating. I’m not trying to say that I never looked at another woman. But the women I run into in my line of work are a pretty mixed bag”—he ran his fingers through his hair and looked perplexed—“and they’re not like you. You were—I don’t know—a problem.”

Eleanor shrugged and waved her hand dismissively. “What the hell. We can argue about that later. What are you doing now? Where are you living?”

He signaled the waitress for another round and sighed. “I sublet a one-bedroom apartment downtown for six months. It’s a strange sensation to walk in at night to an empty house. Sort of like the feeling you get after a toothache disappears—a feeling that something’s missing, but you’re not sure that you care. Anyway, I’m not really living anywhere, it feels like. Basically, I’m camping out behind my desk. We’re pretty busy most of the time, and now with King Kong out there—”

“King Kong?”

“Your local rapist. The one who kills them and then carries them around for a while before he dumps them somewhere. We’re going crazy. That’s two women in your area now.”

“Listen,” said Eleanor, “if someone else has already been attacked out in that ravine, why isn’t it filled with cops? How many women does it take before you start sending in patrols?”

“Patrols!” He choked into his beer glass. “We have so many guys in there the rummies are complaining about lack of space. We even have guys in old clothes, clutching wine bottles; armed to the teeth. He is obviously very cautious. He waits until there’s no one around—a patrol can’t be everywhere at once—and then attacks. For all we know, he goes out every day, checking four or five different areas. This guy is very mobile and, in his way, pretty smart.”

“Why don’t you let people know the ravines are being patrolled? Wouldn’t it make them feel better?”

“We don’t want them to feel better. We want them to stay the hell out of the way until we catch him. You may not believe it, but it’s turning me into a nervous wreck. When they called us to the ravine this morning I just sat in the car and let Dubinsky go in ahead. I didn’t want to walk in there and see a lot of red hair spread out on the ground. I’m beginning to lose my grip, I think.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” said Eleanor without a flicker of sympathy. “Everyone says that he likes them short. He probably couldn’t reach up high enough to hit me on the head. Besides, I told you, I’m so fast and strong now that I can handle anything. Look at that,” she said, flexing her right bicep.

Sanders laughed for the first time that afternoon. “Okay, Wonder Woman, show me.” He put his right elbow on the table, arm up, in classic stance. Eleanor solemnly moved the empty beer glasses out of the way and positioned herself to meet the challenge. Slowly their palms joined, and Eleanor started to push. For a second she gained ground, and then she felt her tortured muscles give slightly, and her arm being steadily dragged down from its position. Suddenly she noticed the waitress hovering over them, her tray heavy with filled glasses. Laughter robbed her of any remaining strength and she gave up just in time to avoid knocking over the next round.

“That’s no fair,” she said, as she caught her breath. “You’ve probably been sweating it out in some jock gym for cops for fifteen years, and I just started two weeks ago.”

“Naw,” he said, shaking his head. “Just my innate male superiority.” He ducked to avoid her fist. “No, really, I am just a bit bigger and stronger than you are. You’re not bad, though.” He picked up her hand again, almost absent-mindedly. “I wish you wouldn’t assume that this guy is a ninety-pound weakling. He can’t be that feeble, you know. It looks as though he might have carried some of those women a fair distance, while they were either dead or unconscious.” A new thought flickered across his mind, but he kept firm hold of her hand still. “Tell me something—why would a woman lift weights or run while she was pregnant? Wouldn’t she figure it was bad for her?”

“I’m not sure,” said Eleanor slowly. “I’ve known a couple of girls who kept up with their running while they were pregnant on the theory that it would keep them healthy. It seemed to work for them, anyway. But lifting weights—that sounds like another thing altogether. It puts quite a strain on your system, I think. But you shouldn’t ask me. I was the sort that just lay around and vegetated while I was carrying Heather. The guys at the health club probably know more about it than I do. Why do you want to know? I assure you I’m not pregnant.”

“Maybe not, but Jane Conway was. That’s why I was so surprised to hear that you had run into her at a weight-lifting establishment. But as far as I know, maybe all these places are filled with pregnant women bench-pressing three hundred pounds. I have trouble keeping up in some areas.”

“How pregnant was she? She didn’t look it to me, but then I didn’t examine her closely. Wasn’t she divorced or something? “

“Separated, according to the principal. And that doesn’t prevent women from getting pregnant, you know. Anyway, she was only two or three months along.” He took a long swallow of his beer. “We’d love to know who the father is, though. You’re pretty cosy with the teachers at the school. I don’t suppose you heard any gossip about who he might be?”

“I didn’t even know she was pregnant, remember? And I don’t see why you’re worrying about it. If she was killed by your King Kong, he wouldn’t care who got her pregnant, surely.”

“We can’t just assume that each one of these victims was killed by the same man—we still have to nose around and see what we can find. You wouldn’t like to keep those lovely ears open for any gossip, would you?” He looked up, and then shook his head. “God, but I’m stupid. Forget I said that. Thirty minutes ago you were barely speaking to me, and now I’m asking you to . . . I’m sorry. You must have things to do, and I’m keeping you here in ridiculous conversation.”

“Well,” she said, “I am pretty hungry. And if you aren’t going to go somewhere to dinner with me, I’ll have to go and get something to eat before I faint from starvation. It’s a long walk home on an empty stomach.”

Chapter 6

Friday, April 13, dawned before John Sanders’ day ended. He had spent a bleak and restless night, falling into profound slumber as the first light began to pick out the Toronto lakefront, the long-awaited sleep thus depriving him of a magnificent view from his downtown apartment. The alarm dragged him painfully to consciousness, and habit got him dressed and out of the door. By 8:45, as foul-tempered and foggy as the weather, he was facing Ed Dubinsky across their desks. He reached for the sheaf of papers on the Conway woman. His coffee spilled over two break-and-enters and some as yet unclassified mail. “Shit!” he muttered, looking wildly and haplessly around for something to mop the coffee up with. Dubinsky heaved himself out of his chair and disappeared, returning seconds later with a roll of paper towels.

“You don’t look all that bright this morning,” remarked Dubinsky. “Everything okay?” This was the closest he’d got to alluding to Sanders’ domestic imbroglios.

“Everything’s fine. I just didn’t get all that much sleep last night for some reason. Too much work, too much coffee—I don’t know.” He drank the half-inch left in the Styrofoam cup and threw it into the wastebasket. “Anyway, let’s see where we are, as of now. Any word on Parsons?”

“Collins was up there this morning.”

“And?”

“Nothing. She’s still unconscious. The neurologist thinks we’re wasting the taxpayers’ money keeping a man there.”

“So what in hell are we supposed to do? If she regains consciousness and there’s no one there to take a statement we’ll be in a helluva mess. Besides, she can probably identify him—and he must know that. And since he seems to be invisible, he could probably get in there and finish her off.”