„Say what?“
„Don’t tell me to go to a hotel. This is my home. I will not let him make me leave.“
He picked up their cups and put them in the sink. „I wasn’t planning to. I was planning to offer to run to the drugstore and get you something to help you sleep.“ She closed her eyes, one hand clutching the back of the chair.
„Why are you being so nice to me, Detective?“ It was a damn good question. Because she seemed so alone? Because he’d seen her scared and vulnerable when the face she showed everyone else was confident and brave? Because he wondered why there were no party dresses in her closet and no family pictures on her nightstand? Because he found her fascinating and couldn’t get her out of his mind? Because her laugh was like a sucker punch to his gut?
„I don’t know,“ he answered grimly. „Why won’t you call me by my first name?“
Her eyes flew open, suddenly wary. „I… I don’t know.“
„Fair enough.“ He pulled on his coat, conscious of her eyes following the movements of his hands as he buttoned up. When he reached the button at his throat, her eyes rose to meet his and he could see she was still troubled by his question. Good, because he was troubled by hers as well. „I’ll swing by the courthouse tomorrow morning to pick you up. I’d like to visit the rest of the original victims before the families of our five dead guys make a connection with tonight’s report and contact your friend Richardson.“
At the mention of Richardson, her lips thinned. „I’ll be ready.“
Thursday, February 19,
10:30 p.m.
He was cold. Very cold. His hands ached and he glanced longingly at the fur-lined gloves sticking up out of his bag. Soon. For now he’d have to make do with the thin leather gloves. The warm gloves were so thick he couldn’t feel the trigger.
He wriggled a little on his stomach, trying to get comfortable on the hard concrete. Fought the urge to check his watch. No more than an hour could have passed since he arrived. He’d spent three times that long crouched in duck blinds on cold mornings waiting for feathered prey. He could wait a little longer for a prize infinitely more valuable.
He expected his guest to show at any moment. That Trevor Skinner wouldn’t show up hadn’t even entered his mind. The bait was entirely too enticing.
So enticing that even a man like Skinner would risk coming at night, to a place like this. He’d staked out this place weeks and weeks ago. Location, location, location, he thought. This one had it all. Deserted, dark alley. Commercial property. A two-story abandoned building with easy roof access. And a neighborhood bad enough to discourage anyone who actually did hear anything from coming out to investigate.
He heard the car before he saw it pull around the corner, headlights dimmed. He watched, silently waiting as Skinner stepped out of his Cadillac. He dipped his head, checked the sight. Ensured it was the man he sought.
It was.
Quickly he dropped the sight to Skinner’s knees and pumped the trigger – once, twice – and Skinner went down with a scream. Just as King had. He felt the surge of triumph, dismissed it, his eye still on the sight, still on Skinner so when Skinner’s hand moved, he pumped again. Skinner’s hand went flying in an arc to the pavement, empty. He’d been going for something in his coat pocket, but he wasn’t any longer.
He waited another half minute until he was satisfied Skinner wasn’t moving. Quickly he gathered his things, including his shell casings, wincing as they burned his hand. The police were going to catch up to him sooner or later, but he didn’t intend to make it any easier for them than he had to. In another minute he was at street level, stowing his gear in the small hidden compartment in the back of his van. Again, the cops would find it if they looked hard enough, but a passing glance revealed nothing but the hollow inside of a delivery van. Now he did check his watch – so that he could time the rest of the act. Lifting from the back of the van the platform on rolling casters that he’d made just for this purpose. Lowering the ramp. Rolling platform to the mark, sliding the writhing body onto the platform, click, click, buckling him down. Seat belts saved lives, he thought, patently ignoring Skinner’s moaned insistence to know who he was. Skinner’s weak curses of retribution made him smile.
No, if anyone would have retribution this night, it was to be himself. And the young woman whose brutal rape went unpunished a year ago. Renee Dexter.
And, of course, Leah.
He rolled the platform up the ramp into the van on top of the thick plastic he’d laid down. Bloodstains were so difficult to remove from carpet fibers, and the police had ways of detecting trace amounts even after a carpet had been thoroughly cleaned.
As a final step, he patted down Skinner’s pockets, retrieving a set of keys, an electronic organizer, and a gun that looked more like a water pistol than a real firearm.
„Why… why are you… doing this?“ Skinner demanded, his face a contorted mask of agony. „Take… my wallet… please…just… let me… go.“
He chuckled, closed the van doors, pocketed the organizer, and tossed Skinner’s keys onto the front seat of the Cadillac. Left with the keys in view, the car would be gone by dawn.
He checked his watch a final time. Less than seven minutes for the whole second act. King had been eight minutes twenty. He was improving.
Thursday, February 19,
10:30 p.m.
From his car Abe stared up at his apartment building, at the dark concrete that seemed to loom into the sky. In reality it was only a twenty-story building. His apartment was on the seventeenth floor. He had a bed, a recliner chair, and a television set. With cable – 250 channels. He hadn’t turned the television on in more than six months. It was an empty shell, a place he came to sleep.
He sighed, the sound rife with frustration. He didn’t have pictures of family in his place, either. They were all in boxes, in storage. He’d put them there himself the day before he’d transferred the keys to the house to its new owners. The house he’d bought with Debra, with the swingset in the yard and the nursery Debra had just started to decorate in baby blue.
Kristen Mayhew had her little shed in the backyard.
He had the Chicagoland U-Store-It in Melrose Park. I am a first-class hypocrite.
He glanced at the clock on his dash, then at the empty bowls on his passenger seat. His mom stayed up late sometimes, usually when Aidan or his dad were pulling night patrols. Or me, he thought, remembering all the times he’d dropped by for breakfast after his shift to find her dozing in her favorite chair, the movie she’d started watching long since over.
Without another glance up, he backed out of his space. Twenty minutes later he pulled into his parents’ driveway. Sure enough, the light was still on and his key still worked in the front door. It had been a long time since he’d let him-self in after midnight, before he and Debra were married. Sure enough, his mom was dozing in her favorite chair. Some things truly didn’t change. He put the empty bowls in the kitchen sink, then covered his mother up with an afghan. She stirred, then jerked awake, her eyes widening at the sight of him.
„What’s wrong?“
He crouched down. „Nothing. I needed to bring back the bowls.“
Her eyes narrowed. „It could have waited till Sunday. What’s wrong?“
He took her hand, linked his fingers through hers. „Nothing. I just missed you.“
She smiled, squeezed his hand. „I missed you, too. How was your meeting?“
„Busy. Your cabbage casserole was a big hit.“
„Good. Nobody teased you about your mommy bringing dinner?“