He walked away from her, holding the knife low in his right hand, hefting it over and over so it bounced lightly against the cupped backs of his fingers. A lit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. The smell of the burning tobacco, along with the constant pain, nauseated Weaver.

The killer suddenly wheeled to face her, as if having made a decision.

“I’m going to give you something I never gave the others,” he said. “A chance.”

She said nothing, trying not to vomit.

“In exchange for that, I want a guarantee.”

“How can I give you a guarantee?” she asked, swallowing the bitterness at the back of her throat.

“We’re going to play a game,” he said. “I’m going to tie you tight and gag you, and put you in the trunk of my car. Then I’m going to drive it to a place where it can remained parked and unnoticed for days. If you’ve told me the truth about chipping away concrete and finding Bellezza, you’ll win, I’ll reveal to the police where you are. If I discover you lied to me, you’ll stay in the car’s trunk and die a slow and painful death.” He touched the bloody tip of the knife to her nose. “Do we have an arrangement?”

Anything was better than nothing. “Yes.”

He laid Weaver on her side in the trunk, her wrists bound behind her, her ankles bound together. A large rectangle of duct tape was slapped across her face and he worked it tightly with his thumbs so there was a good seal. She was breathing through her nose. He used the point of the knife to make a small incision in the tape so she could also breath through her mouth if she had to. At least for a while. What she couldn’t do was make a noise louder than a soft moan. She wouldn’t be heard outside the tightly sealed and locked trunk.

Before closing the trunk, he gazed down at her. He seemed calm and vaguely amused, as if they were discussing something other than her agonizing death.

“If you told me the truth,” he said, looking her in the eye, “you’ll see the light again. If not, it’s darkness the rest of the way. Understood?”

She managed to nod.

“You’re lucky I like playing games,” he said.

He closed the trunk lid, and she was in darkness.

This was exactly the sort of game the killer loved to play. He and Nancy both knew he wouldn’t keep his word and return after he’d secured Bellezza. But in her mind was a stubborn element of doubt. It had to be there. As the final minutes of her life ticked away, she would cling harder to his words. He’d promised to return and free her. Hadn’t he?

If he’d said so, mightn’t he?

Mustn’t he?

Not the slightest sound made its way into the dark and locked trunk. Not the slightest glimmer of light. With each passing second her terror and hope increased in proportion to each other, and eventually it would be impossible for them to coexist.

Hadn’t he promised?

She was sure she’d heard him promise.

68

With Weaver tucked away, the killer checked to make sure that what he might need was in place. He would return briefly and pick it up later tonight. There was an old shovel, and a rusty pickax that had broken halfway up its wood handle but would still be useful. A folded tarpaulin. More duct tape, just in case.

There was other, heavier equipment. A compressor with a muffled engine, a small jackhammer, a set of steel wedges. And there was clothing—a disguise.

It occurred to the killer that he could make a good television commercial about the duct tape, what a useful product it was. A testimonial.

Had any of the infamous serial killers done celebrity television commercials?

Hi, I’m Charles Manson (or the Zodiac killer, or Son of Sam). I’m not a sheep of the herd, but I’ve played one in the real world, and I wouldn’t set out on a kill without my duct tape.

Why not? It was all lies, anyway. Fun and lies.

He began cleaning up, taking his time. He didn’t simply wipe to eliminate fingerprints—he rubbed, sometimes leaning his weight into it. This had to be perfect one time around. There wouldn’t be a chance even for a quick cleanup later.

The last thing he did before leaving the building was to wipe the car down carefully, inside and out, still wearing his rubber gloves, so there would be no fingerprints. He had already wiped down the interior of the vehicle’s trunk, knowing it would soon contain Weaver.

A less careful man would say this overabundance of caution didn’t matter.

But a stray, neglected print might matter someday. A print that might match his own.

He would do as he told Weaver, parking the car, with her in it, at a desolate spot near the East River. There the vehicle would sit for quite a while before someone called the police about it, and it would be towed.

The first surprise for the police would be that the old car had stolen New Jersey plates and was a chop shop vehicle impossible to trace.

The second surprise would be the corpse of Officer Weaver.

Either way she played it, this would be the end for Weaver. If the killer could remove the birdbath and uncover Bellezza, why should he complicate measures by telling anyone about an untraceable parked car with a body in it?

The killer hoped she was telling the truth about Bellezza being contained in the concrete birdbath at the Far Castle, but one way or the other, Weaver would die of dehydration or suffocation in the car’s locked trunk. She hadn’t really believed he’d see that she was rescued. But he knew she’d convinced herself that she believed him. It was a shame he couldn’t be there to see it. Would she run out of hope before she ran out of air? Or would it be a tie?

He mentally removed her from the game board.

There was no sound.

No light.

And Weaver had no illusions. BMW trunks, even on older models like this one, were tightly sealed. She was sure now that the killer had lied to her. It was a simple horrendous fact. She knew she would soon be dead.

D.O.A. would return and dispose of her body. Or put it on grisly display, complete with carved forehead.

He’ll be one up on Quinn. On us.

Men! Damn them!

Men played their asinine games.

Men killed.

She tried moving her arms and legs and found them tightly bound with industrial duct tape. She could move her head slightly. Shift her legs if she moved them pressed together ankle to knee. There was only slight play in the tape. She could work it looser, but never loose enough to work her way free. And even if she were free of her bonds, would she be able to find a way to open the trunk?

She lay nude and sweating in the fetal position. Frustrated. Fuming. Fretting.

That’s it. Tape that will stretch only so far.

That’s what I’ve got to work with, if I’m ever going to leave here alive.

69

“Damned paddle!” Fedderman said.

He had somehow been knocked clear out of the canoe, all the way up onto the lake’s mud bank.

His brother. He had something to do with this.

Lights were flashing, red, blue, white. Fedderman’s clothes were stuck to him, soaking wet, and he could feel something, rain drops, tickling his bare ankles where his pants legs had worked their way up as he . . . what?

Fell?

He blinked, trying to remember. Above him, Batman hovered black and silent against the background flashes of light and darkness. Barely moving like a breeze-borne kite, this way, then that . . .

Not Batman—raining—a black umbrella keeping the light cool drops off his face. Fedderman moved slightly and a wedge of pain slammed into the side of his head, and he remembered.