Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 20

IT WAS GOOD to be home. It had been a tough day, but it was going to be a fine night. He sipped and savored the lava flowing to his gut, joining the fire that was always there. As he set the Scotch down on the bathroom vanity, he took stock of the reflection in the mirror. Fair hair and brightly colored eyes. Properly sized nose for the face. No real wrinkles and a minimal number of lines. Mouth a little too full and feminine, perhaps. Overall, it was a handsome face when viewed in the right light.

It was an amiable face that betrayed nothing of the tumult beneath the surface.

He reached down and scratched himself through the robe. Performing the music of Giuseppe Verdi, the voice of Andrea Bocelli washed from the master bedroom into the tiled cubicle. He dropped the bathrobe onto the floor and stepped into the stall. He closed the glass door and activated the hot water. A rain-shower spray needled his scalp.

While he lathered, he thought about the little blonde he’d met that day. So small he could hold her under with one hand.

Closing his eyes, he tilted his face up to the spray and imagined what it would be like not only to hold her under but to wrestle with her in the water. She would writhe and roll and push against his body. Scream and scratch and kick. The two of them would become a single entity, a multilimbed monster churning the waters in a magnificent death thrall.

While a heavy aria from Ernani provided the background, he reached down, wrapped his hand around himself, and worked his imaginings into an erection. He didn’t take it to completion; he needed to reserve himself for the woman waiting for him in the next room. He would do her differently from the rest; he would keep her around for a while. An extended courtship.

HIS CLOTHES SAT in a heap in a corner of the dim bedroom, the only light coming from the open door of the bathroom. Curled in another corner was what appeared to be a second mound of clothing.

The mound moaned.

He’d stuffed an oily rag in her mouth and twined her wrists together in front of her with fat, coarse rope that burned and scratched her skin every time she moved against it. She couldn’t see her ankles, but they felt bound together in the same fashion. To make her more cooperative, he’d shot her up with something that had caused her to pass out. When she awoke, she found herself bound and naked, curled up on her side in a fetal position. The blanket thrown over her body reeked of urine and feces. Was it her waste or someone else’s? As limp as a rag doll, she couldn’t lift her head or roll onto her back. Music floated over her and around her. She didn’t recognize it. An opera? She hated classical music.

Bastard was in the shower; she could hear the water running and the son-of-a-bitch humming. He was happy as hell. She wished he’d slip and fall and crack his crazy skull open. She prayed to hear the thud. Closing her eyes, she practiced the positive-thinking techniques that one of her therapists had taught her. She visualized a SWAT team in black bursting through the door, their guns drawn. She visualized his body riddled with bullets, oozing blood like a sieve. She visualized walking out of this place. Stupid cow, she told herself, and opened her eyes to her dark reality.

The worst part was that she’d come to him willingly. Eagerly! She should have guessed there was something wrong with him. His lovemaking had been too intense. Angry. Really, he’d seemed off to her from the moment they met, but she’d been desperate to have a man, especially one who seemed interested in listening. Now her desperation was going to get her killed. Most pathetic was that no one would notice her absence, at least not soon enough to do her any good. That was her fault, too. Having perfected her bridge-burning skills, she’d isolated herself from anyone who ever gave a damn about her personally. When it came to work and school, her boss and her classmates had grown accustomed to her spotty attendance. They’d write off her disappearance as yet another one of her psycho episodes.

The shower lurched to a stop, and the rag doll shuddered. He’d be back in the bedroom soon.

HE CAME OUT with a towel wrapped around his waist, his chest glistening with water. “You’re awake,” he said flatly.

Eyes narrowing into dark razors, she visualized a knife going into his back, stabbing him again and again. Die, you crazy fucker! Die right now! She flinched as he neared her corner, expecting him to pounce. Instead, he sat down cross-legged on the floor across from her.

“Do you know why you’re here?” He reached out and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.

She shuddered but didn’t have the strength to pull away. She felt her eyes start to close; she was going to pass out again.

He clapped his hands in front of her. “Are you listening?”

Her eyes snapped open, and she moaned a response. She visualized his head exploding in front of her. Gray matter flying. Hitting and sticking to the walls of his bedroom.

He trapped her chin in his hands. “Do you know why you’re here?”

She moaned and managed a small movement, a shake of her head. More a protest than a response.

“Not yet, though,” he said, uncrossing his legs and getting to his feet. He looked down at her. “We must get to know each other … intimately.”

She shook her head again.

He crouched down in front of her and wrinkled his nose. “First order of business is a bath.”

She grunted loudly in protest.

“A shower, then. Would you prefer a shower?” He smiled. “I’ll take your silence as acquiescence.” Using two fingers, he plucked the blanket off her and deposited it on the floor. He hooked his hand over the ropes tying her wrists together and started to drag her on her back across the wooden floor toward the bathroom.

Mustering all her strength, she thumped her heels on the floor and squeaked a muffled scream beneath the gag.

“That’s enough,” he said.

When he dragged her past a floor lamp, she kicked at the base with the bottom of her feet and toppled it.

He dropped the rope and grabbed a fistful of hair from the top of her head. “We’ll do it the hard way, then.”

While she continued screaming, he dragged her into the bathroom by the hair and backed into the shower stall with her. He released her head, letting it crack against the tile floor, and stepped around her body. Her legs were still sticking out. He picked them up and folded them into the stall. Reaching inside, he adjusted the showerhead so that it was aimed at her face and turned on the cold water.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, and snapped the shower door shut.

She gurgled a scream to the glass.

His response was to turn up the volume on his CD player.

On her back with her legs bent up, she shivered and moaned under the icy spray. Her head throbbed. Her wrists and ankles ached from the bindings. The gag in her mouth was collecting water. Instead of turning her face away from the shower, she closed her eyes and visualized herself dead in the stall before he got back. She started to drift off, and her head tipped to one side. The cold water continued to hammer her face while her ears drowned in a booming aria from an Italian opera.

Chapter 21

ABOUT HALF A mile long and a couple of blocks wide, University Grove was a swath of land huddled next to the University of Minnesota’s St. Paul campus, bucolic and agriculture-themed, noted more for livestock studies than for student demonstrations. The hundred or so single-family homes gracing the Grove’s curving, oak-lined streets were built specifically for university professors and administrators, which meant the compact community contained a good chunk of the state’s intelligentsia. Chemists. Economists. Physicists. Architects. Anthropologists. An economic adviser to Presidents Kennedy and Johnson had lived in the Grove, as had a member of the team that developed the atomic bomb.

Bernadette had learned about the neighborhood during her research on Professor Wakefielder. While waiting for this particular member of the intelligentsia to drag a body past a window—preferably one with open blinds and excellent backlighting—she gave Garcia an architecture lesson.

“Modern functionalism,” she said, pointing to a blocky home on their side of the street. “I also detect the strong influence of the Bauhaus.”

“What does that mean?”

“Hell if I know.”

Garcia looked across the street at the handsome homes on either side of the surveillance subject’s well-kept Tudor. They all had generous lots, offering plenty of room between neighbors. “I’d love to own here.”

“Actually the U owns the land,” she said. “The profs buy the houses and pay rent for the land.”

“What happens when they want to sell?” asked Garcia.

“It can’t be to Joe Six-Pack. It has to be to another university faculty member or staffer.”

“So you and I couldn’t live here,” he said.

“Even if they sold to regular slugs, we couldn’t afford it,” she said.

He grinned. “Hey. Maybe you couldn’t, but I—”

“Don’t go there,” she said.

“I suppose we’re not brilliant enough,” he said. “We’d feel out of place.”

“I always feel out of place,” she said cheerfully.

Dressed in jeans and jackets, the pair sat in the front seat of an undercover beater that looked remarkably like Garcia’s personal beater. Their heap did not look out of place. It was parked between two other junkers, one a weathered Toyota sedan and the other an old VW “hippie van,” as Garcia called it. It seemed the profs on this block did not put their money into their rides.

Garcia shifted the driver’s seat back and stretched out his legs. “Does anything suck more than a stakeout?”

“You’re the boss. You didn’t have to suffer through this.”

“Nothing else to do.”

“A Friday night, and you had nothing else to do?”

He looked through the driver’s side at the two lighted rectangles on the second floor of the house. Every once in a while, Wakefielder got close enough to the windows to reveal a shadow of movement. “Yeah, well … sometimes these things can get highly … entertaining.”

“You’ve been watching too many mermaid movies.” She looked through Garcia’s side. She couldn’t tell if the windows were dressed with sheer curtains, like the bedroom windows she’d observed through her sight. The blinds were down. Had been down since they’d relieved the first shift at eleven o’clock.

The agents they’d replaced—two buddies from the Minneapolis office who had plans to leave for pheasant hunting early the next morning—said they’d spotted the subject several times downstairs, through windows with blinds at half-mast.

“Traipsing around in his boxers, scratching his balls, having a cocktail,” one reported, adding: “My plans precisely when I get home.”

They had nothing more to relate other than the time the downstairs lights went off and the upstairs went on: “Twenty-two hundred hours on the nuts.”

It was now two on the nuts.

She yawned and shifted in her seat. “When is he going to go to bed?”

“I could call him up and ask.”

“Tell him to run us out a snack first. Cheese and crackers would be lovely.”

“There’s still half a pizza left,” he said.

“It’d make me thirsty.”

“I have pop.”

“Then I’d have to pee.”

“You girls do have it rough in that department. Guys can go in pop bottles.”

“Please. Who does that?”

“That’s what you do in a deer stand. Whiz in a bottle and put a cap on it so the odor doesn’t alert Bambi.”

“You’d better not plan on doing that while—”

“Car,” said Garcia, looking in the rearview mirror.

They ducked down as a cab cruised down the street and turned into the Tudor’s driveway. A long-haired woman got out, leaving the back passenger door open, and walked up the steps leading to the Tudor’s front door. She had a big purse slung over her shoulder. At first it appeared she wore a short skirt under her pea coat. When the woman raised her arm to ring the doorbell, Garcia and Bernadette realized that that wasn’t the case.

“Nice panties,” observed Garcia.

“I’m not big on animal prints,” said Bernadette.

“It’s a look, especially with those flip-flops.”

“What sort of gal would arrive by taxi at this hour, dressed like that?”

“Call girl?” Garcia volunteered.

“This is Minnesota. Even our hookers dress sensibly.”

The woman started attacking the door with both fists. Bernadette sat up to get a better look. She was young enough and slight enough to fit the physical profile of the fragile drowning victims. Her state of undress, combined with the hysterical way she was beating the door, fit the emotional profile of the unstable girls.

Garcia pulled Bernadette back down. “Sit tight. She’s fine. Let this thing play itself out.”

The cab was still in the driveway, the motor running. The woman turned as she stood on the stoop and looked at the driver.

“There’s stuff all over her coat,” noted Garcia. “What is that?”

After more banging and ringing, the Tudor’s downstairs lights flicked on and the storm door popped open. Wakefielder stood on one side of the screen door. He’d pulled on some sweats, but his chest was bare. For a guy in his early forties, he was pumped.

He opened the screen door, put a hand on the young woman’s shoulder, and pulled her inside, slamming the screen door but leaving the storm door wide open. Bernadette and Garcia sat up and peered into the house. The prof and the woman were standing nose to nose. The woman fell against him, and he put his arms around her.

“This is juicy,” whispered Bernadette.

“You think she’s a girlfriend? A student? His ex?”

“His wives are older than that. I’m laying money it’s a combination of those first two.”

The professor eased the girl off him, took his wallet off a foyer table, and went outside. Garcia and Bernadette sank down again while Wakefielder padded over to the driver’s side of the taxi. He and the cabbie talked through the driver’s window. The prof looked in the backseat of the sedan, shook his head, and reached inside. Extracted a skirt, holding it by two fingers, and slammed the passenger door.

“There’s her bottom half,” said Garcia. “Covered in puke.”

“Drunk or stoned or acting out some sort of bulimic behavior,” said Bernadette.

The prof handed the cabbie a couple of bills. The taxi pulled away, and Wakefielder padded up the steps, went inside, and shut both doors. The agents sat straight.

“Show’s over,” said Bernadette.

“Not necessarily,” said Garcia.

Through the half-open blinds lining the home’s front-room windows, they could see the leopard print creeping up on the sweat pants. Close. Closer. The next instant, Wakefielder peeled away from his guest and approached the windows. The blinds dropped down all the way.

“Crap,” said Garcia.

Ten minutes later all the lights in the house went dark.

The two agents stared at the black windows. “I’m not liking this,” Bernadette said.

“Neither am I.” Garcia reached into his jacket, pulled out a stocking cap, and yanked it on over his head. Then he turned around and snatched the pizza box off the backseat.

“Tony …”

He opened the glove compartment and rummaged around. Pulled out a pen.

“This is a neighborhood of rocket scientists. Literally. This isn’t going to work,” she said.

He checked the Tudor’s address and scribbled a number on the box that was ten higher. “It’s never failed me before.”

“You’re not serious.”

He popped open the driver’s side. “Watch me.”

“I intend to.” She opened the passenger door.

“Meet you at the end of the alley,” he whispered.

They quietly closed their doors, looked up and down the street, and dashed across the road to the house. While he went up the steps, she slipped between two evergreen bushes growing under the front-room windows. When she heard the doorbell, she unsnapped her holster, took out her gun, and crouched down. Garcia shot her a quick glance from his post on the stoop.

Another ring, followed by Garcia’s “Pizza.”

The lights in the front-room windows flashed back on, and the storm door cracked open. A young woman’s voice through the screen: “One sec … I don’t have any money on me.”

The girl disappeared for a minute. Garcia shuffled his feet and angled his head, trying to see inside through the screen door. Bernadette could hear the heavy thump of a man coming down the stairs. Wakefielder had apparently gone up for the night while his guest had stayed on the first floor.

Their man was at the door. “Jesus Christ! It’s two in the morning!”

“You didn’t order this?” asked Garcia, raising the box.

Scrutinizing the carton’s address through the screen, Wakefielder grumbled: “That’s at the end of the block.”

Playing dumb, Garcia scratched his head through the stocking cap. “Shit. I’m an idiot. Hope I didn’t—”

The door slammed in his face, and Bernadette could hear the deadbolt turn.

Casting a look over his shoulder as he went, Garcia took his time returning to the car. By the time he got behind the wheel, the lights on both floors were out. He started the engine, piloted the heap out of the parking spot, and rolled toward the end of the block.

Bernadette scooted around to the back of the house, crossed the prof’s backyard, and stepped into the alley. She looked up at the Tudor’s back windows. All dark. She jogged to the end of the alley, where Garcia picked her up. He steered to the next block.

“He’s got her camped out on the couch,” Garcia said as he hung a left and steered down the road that ran parallel with Wakefielder’s street. “She came to the door wrapped in an afghan.”

“Surprises the shit out of me,” said Bernadette.

“You thought he’d take advantage. Go for a roll in the sack.”

“And then kill her. Yeah. Why didn’t he take her upstairs?”

“Maybe he isn’t such a bad guy.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want Animal Print Girl throwing up on his bed.”

“She did stink like vomit. I could smell it through the screen.”

Bernadette wrinkled her nose. “What else did you notice about her?”

“Wrists like twigs. Eyes the color of a strawberry margarita.”

“From bawling or puking or a hangover?”

“All of the above, I would say.”

“Should we go back and park?” she asked.

“He might have seen me get in the car,” Garcia said. “Besides, they’re both tucked in for the night.”

“This whole thing … semihysterical, half-naked girl banging on his door in the middle of the night … the fact that he let her in and let her stay … how the chick fits the profile of the dead girls … I don’t like any of it,” she said. “Plus, when I used my sight, the woman I saw with the killer had long brown hair like Animal Print Girl. This could be that woman and that maniac.”

“You’re saying—”

“I’m saying I want the house watched all weekend.”

“You’re not going to be very popular around the office,” Garcia said as he navigated the car out of the neighborhood and headed for the highway.

She smiled tightly. “Tell me something new.”

Chapter 22

HELL ISN’T RED; it’s blue.

The first thing she saw after coming to wasn’t a person or an object but a color. Blue. Blue everywhere. Blue on the walls. Blue on the bed. Blue hovering over her and around her. Blanketing her. She blinked twice and tried to bend her legs but couldn’t. They were tied spread-eagled and anchored to the posts at the foot of the bed. Her head was heavy and hot and sore, but her body was so light and detached she wondered why it didn’t float away to freedom, leaving only her skull behind on the pillow. When she opened her mouth to ask the blue void why her head hurt, she felt something constricting her mouth. She tried to move her hand to her face and couldn’t. Her wrists were tethered to the posts at the head of the bed.

The questions washed over her, blue words roaring into her mind one after the other like waves crashing against rocks: Where am I? Why am I tied up? Who did this to me? Am I dead? Is this hell? Why was I sent to hell? What did I do that was so wrong? Why do I deserve this?

She heard footsteps and a soothing voice.

“We’re the Twin Cities’ classical radio station, providing more music and less commercial interruption. That was Mozart’s Sinfonia in B Flat performed by the New Zealand Chamber Orchestra. For your listening pleasure this chilly Saturday morning, we have a selection from …”

The voice would come if she hollered. She struggled to speak and wasn’t certain if she said the word or imagined she said it: Help. She closed her eyes and visualized herself adrift in this blue, the only survivor of a shipwreck. Help. She’d managed to climb aboard a life raft while the others had perished. All she had to do was hang on and wait for rescue. Help. The waters were calm and flat. There was music on this ocean. Violins. Flutes. Footsteps. Help. She opened her eyes, and the blue sea parted for a man. Big blond man. This had to be her savior, the body belonging to the soothing voice.

The man floated to her side, his face coming down to hers. “Awake already? You were dead to the world when I carried you to bed this morning.”

No savior, this man. She blinked back tears, fully remembering where she was and how she got there. The bastard had doped her and trussed her up good. A stupid cow ready for the slaughterhouse.

He brought his mouth close to her ear: “You fell asleep in the shower, and I didn’t have the heart to disturb you. I let you spend the night there.”

More than anything, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to say three words. Were she free, she would clamp his skull between her hands and beat the back of his head against the floor while she screamed the words over and over. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Then she would spit in his face and bang some more. Bang and bang until his head cracked open and his brains spilled out.

He hooked his hand over the blue sheet covering her and ripped it off. It floated away like a blue ghost. “You won’t see me for quite a while, and I apologize for that. I have things I need to do. Will you be all right without me?”

Leave, she pleaded in her mind. Please leave.

He cupped her breasts with his hands and squeezed. “I’d like to leave you with a smile on your face.”

No! She strained against the ropes, pulling all four limbs toward her body while lifting her head off the pillow.

He picked a damp curl off her forehead. “You know it’s futile. You’re expending all that energy for naught, and if you perspire, I’ll have to send you back to the shower.”

Her legs and arms and head collapsed back against the mattress with a dull thud. The words thundered inside her head. How could he not hear them? I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

Leaning closer to her, he cooed: “That’s a good girl. Relax. Just … relax.”

He reeked of soap and aftershave, and the sweet stink made her nauseous. Something sour snaked up her throat, and she wondered if she was going to drown in her own bile.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Before I go, let me tell you a story about the first one, the one I … encouraged after a phone conversation.” He crossed one leg over the other. “It was a cold night in April, late even for college students. I knew there’d be no one on the bridge.”

I don’t care about the fucking bridge. Let me go. Shut up and let me go.

“I headed to the east bank and parked behind the auditorium. If she went with my suggestions regarding the hour and the place, I had plenty of time. If she didn’t show, well … I had the benefit of a nighttime stroll. The campus had an almost ethereal shine from the lights lining its streets and sidewalks, but I saw no signs of life except for a student at the opposite side of the mall, hurrying with his backpack.

“The moment I set my feet on the bridge, I saw her planted at the midway point. She hadn’t let me down. Then things moved quickly—too quickly, really. She hopped up, put one leg over the rail, then the other. For a few seconds, she stood facing the river, her hands behind her back and locked over the railing. She let go, tipped forward, and sailed down. Disappeared into the blackness.”

You sick puppy, she thought. You didn’t try to stop her.

“I ran up to the railing. Had she survived the fall? It had to be a hundred-foot drop. Did she know how to swim? I couldn’t find her right away. Even with the waterfront lights, the river was like ink. I finally spotted her paddling clumsily. She was trying to save herself while the Mississippi swirled and churned around her. The sight of her struggling …”

His voice trailed off, and he reached down between his legs. She snapped her head to one side so she didn’t have to watch.

“A gust swept across the deck of the bridge … Was it wishful thinking, or could I really hear her cries carried along by the wind? What was she screaming? What were her final words? Did she call out someone’s name while the river dragged her? I watched while she went under, resurfaced, and went under again … I imagined it was … my beloved suffering, her mouth and nostrils filling with icy water. The river would enter her lungs, and she would sink … drown.”

The more graphic his story became, the faster his breath came. She closed her eyes. She wished she could close her ears.

“The familiar, guilty thrill sent a wave of pleasure washing over me, and I …”

She felt him relax against the bed, the panting gone. Twisted bastard.

“… I backed away from the rail. My foot bumped something, and I looked down. She’d left a note under an empty bottle of liquor. I put on my gloves, picked up the note, and gave it a read. I didn’t much care now that she was gone. I put the note back so the police could read it.

“At the far end of the bridge, a couple of pedestrians were starting their hike from the west bank. Would they see her letter, or would a hundred people go by before it was noticed? It wasn’t a blatant suicide note, but it showed her mental state. I wondered how long it would take for her body to turn up. I headed back to the car. At least she was no longer suffering.”

He turned on the mattress and dragged the tips of his fingers from between her breasts down to her navel. “I’ll end your suffering soon.”

She snapped her head and tried to hide in the blue of the pillows while he climbed on top of her. His body felt heavy and damp.

He trapped her chin in his hand and forced her to face him. “Look at me,” he ordered.

She closed her eyes tight and tried to concentrate on the soothing radio voice, her only friend in the blue hell.

“This offering is by Aleksandr Borodin. Nocturne for String Orchestra. It was recorded by the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Leonard Slatkin. The venue: Powell Symphony Hall in St. Louis. Listen carefully and you’ll hear …”

“Open your eyes.”

Drop dead, she thought, closing her lids tighter. Her eyes were the only things she could control, and she was damned if she’d surrender them.

“Open them.” He squeezed her chin hard. “I could staple them open. Would you like that? I have a stapler right here in this night-stand.”

Her eyes snapped open and stayed wide with fear. He smiled at her and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Much better.”

As he sprawled on top of her, the bile from her own stomach crawled all the way up her throat and filled her mouth with acid. She swallowed hard, wishing the sour fluid were poison.

“I prefer my partners thin. No food for you, just plenty of … fluids.”

While he moved his mouth down to her breasts, she stared up at the blue ceiling, wishing it would crash down on him and kill him.

“I’ve always loved you, Ruth,” he muttered.