I pull up outside my building, with Montana and Sargent behind me.
Sargent leans his head out the window. “Want one of us to come up?”
“Nah. I won’t be long.”
“I’ll come up,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt.
“I’ve just got to grab a few papers. I’ll be five minutes, tops.”
Sargent settles back in, then thinks better of it.
“Not by yourself.”
I can’t help but resent my babysitters. I haven’t had time alone in days.
He shrugs. “I need the exercise.” He gets out of his car and pats his sizable stomach. How does he pass his yearly physical?
I manage a laugh.
I walk into the building foyer and start up the stairs, slowly. Sargent follows close behind. I know I should strike up a polite conversation, but I don’t have the energy. Physical and emotional exhaustion are catching up with me. Even the three flights of stairs wear me out, as does the thought of having to see Darren or Josh; or worse, both of them at the same time. It’s gotten so complicated. I don’t know what I feel for either of them, and I still can’t put my mind at rest about Josh. It all seems too coincidental.
I walk into the apartment and leave the door open for Sargent.
I get distracted on my way to the bedroom and lean over the dining-room table, taking another look at the map. It still bothers me.
Sargent stands at the door, but I notice he’s unclipped his gun holster. He’s ready for action, if need be.
I shift each photo to where the victim was found. Still nothing. I reluctantly add Sam’s photo. I maneuver photos around, checking out different angles. And that’s when I notice it. I rummage through the main D.C. photos on the other end of the table, and consult the relevant crime-scene reports to determine the positioning of the bodies in relation to the locations. I replicate the way the victims’ heads were facing on the map, using the passport-size photos. They’re all facing toward the same direction, as though they’re looking at something. This can’t be a coincidence. I trace the eye lines to find the point of intersection. Maybe this is his special place. He wants the victims, his ex-girlfriends, to keep watching him. I need to check it out.
I grab the map. “Come on. We’ve got a lead to track down.”
I jump in the car with Montana and Sargent, sitting in the back with the map. As far as I can tell, the women are all looking at one particular area. I navigate, taking us into D.C. and through the busy streets.
I lean over and show Sargent the map. “Tell me about this area,” I say, pointing to the map.
“Not much there. It’s a poor area. Lots of housing projects, a couple of abandoned warehouses and St. Anne’s Hospital.”
“A hospital?” I remember my impression that the women were tied to gurneys.
Sargent continues. “It’s abandoned now.”
It would be a perfect hiding spot. “Let’s go there.”
In terms of evidence the killer’s been careful at the abduction and dump sites, but would he have been that careful in his lair? In his private place? The hospital may contain evidence, evidence that will also eliminate or confirm Josh as a suspect. And now is the best time to look; with Sam recently killed and the perp targeting me, the building will be empty.
We arrive at the front of the redbrick building about twenty minutes later. The whole area is surrounded by a six-foot fence, with Do Not Enter signs hanging on the fence every few feet. The three of us climb over. I drop to the ground, bending my knees to soften the impact.
“What are we looking for?” Sargent asks.
“Evidence. This may be where the D.C. Slasher took his victims. I’m hoping he left something behind for us.”
I draw my gun, as do Montana and Sargent. The hospital is five stories high. Most of the windows are broken and there’s no roof. The building is covered in graffiti.
“How long has this place been closed?” I ask.
“Years. It was supposed to be fixed up. Then they were going to tear it down and build a new hospital, but it never happened,” Montana explains.
I move to the nearest window and knock out the remaining glass with my gun. I climb up onto the window-sill and drop down into the room. Glass crunches underneath my shoes as I land. Sargent and Montana are hot on my heels. Once we’re all through, we move into the nearest corridor.
“Let’s split up,” I say.
Sargent shakes his head. “One of us needs to stick with you.”
Montana motions toward the end of the corridor, where it ends with a T-intersection. “I’ll take the left, you guys take the right.”
We make our way to the end, checking the five rooms off the main corridor, and then we split up.
Sargent and I move through the old emergency department. The hospital looks like a war zone, with broken glass, chipping paint, graffiti and even some of the old fittings still here, broken and strewn across the floor. But no evidence of murder. Soon we reach what looks like the children’s ward. An old, faded painting of a clown is pinned to a board.
“Did you hear that?”
Sargent stops and listens.
The unmistakable sound of voices, but they’re too far away to make out. Then silence.
“Must be Montana,” Sargent says. “Maybe he’s found something.” Sargent flips his cell phone open and punches in a number. We can hear the phone ringing down the corridor we came from. But Montana doesn’t answer his phone.
“Shit!” Sargent and I start running back the way we came. Within a few minutes we’re standing over the still figure of Agent Montana. Blood is spreading underneath him. I bend down to check his pulse. It’s there, but weak.
“He’s alive,” I say. “We need backup. There’s more than evidence here.”
Sargent nods and flips his cell phone open again. But as he’s about to dial, I hear a slight thud. I know that sound. It’s a gun with a silencer. Sargent’s eyes widen. As I stand up, he folds. He must have been shot in the back.
I look up but can’t see the shooter. I dive for cover, launching myself across the corridor toward the nearest room. But I’m too slow. I hear the thud again and then a sharp piercing pain in my side. I look down at my rib cage, confused, then black out.
I wake up, disorientated and groggy. I remember being shot, then realizing it was a tranquilizer. I was hit by a tranquilizer. I open my eyes, hoping to find nurses around me, but instead I’m tied to something. Tied to his gurney. I’m naked.
Panic engulfs me. My biggest fear realized. I think about all the bodies I’ve seen, all the women who’ve been in this situation.
I tug on my ropes. They’re tight, very tight. I can’t move my limbs more than half an inch in any direction. It’s cold and only a small bar heater takes the chill off the room. I take another look around. The room’s still a little hazy, but gradually things start to take shape. It’s dark, but I can make out shapes and some colors around me. The floors are covered in white tiles that spread halfway up the wall, like a bathroom or kitchen. But some of the tiles are broken. One corner of the room is filled with building materials. A piece of plywood with nails sticking out, a broken chair and electrical wires, coiled. I’m still at St. Anne’s. The gurney is ice cold and I look down at it—stainless steel. Next to my head is a tray of surgical instruments. That fucking bastard.
There are no windows and only one door. Part of the door is covered in hessian; there must have been glass there at some stage.
The swinging door opens and a man in a balaclava comes in.
“Hello, darling. You’re awake.”
“Josh?”
A hollow laugh rings out. “You think Josh is man enough for this? He’s pathetic.” He hangs his head close to mine and smiles through his balaclava. “Oh, and by the way, he won’t be mounting any rescue mission, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve made sure of that.”
“What have you done to him?”
He shakes his head. “Poor Josh. No girl, no badge, no gun. But it gets worse.”
Josh’s ID would have been taken away with his gun when he was suspended. “What have you done to him?” I repeat.
The balaclava moves with the killer’s grin. “It’s terrible when an FBI agent goes bad, isn’t it?” He shakes his head. “First it was Sally-Anne in Arizona, then those other poor women. Michigan, Chicago, D.C. and even his coworker. Sorry, two coworkers.”
“You bastard.” I struggle against my restraints. “The Bureau will realize you’re framing Josh.”
“You think? Even after they find your body and Josh’s DNA at the scene of the crime.”
“Josh will find out who you are!”
“How? He’s cut off from the FBI, a disgraced agent. No one wants to help him. They just need someone to pin Sam’s death on.”
“You fucking bastard. You’ve been framing him all this time.”
He laughs. “He had everything. I had nothing.”
I start to cry.
He looks at me and what I can see of his face changes. He smiles a more genuine, sympathetic smile. He reaches out and strokes my hair.
“There, there, darling. It’s just the two of us now. I’ve got the one thing Josh wants the most. You. I’ve never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you.”
“Who are you? Who are you, you freak!”
He pulls his head back and stands upright. “Temper, temper.” His eyes follow the length of my body, from my toes to my head.
His eyes are cold, dead.
He stares at my stomach. “I loved it when Detective Carter came to D.C. Josh was so jealous. It was about time he suffered.” He puts a hand on either side of my waist and leans over me. “What a loser.”
He stands back up again, moves to the end of the gurney and places his hand on my foot. I cringe at his touch and move my foot.
“Never, never do that again!” he screams. “You like it when I touch you!”
He puts his hand back on my foot and I play along, resisting the urge to shrink from his repulsive touch. There’s no point anyway. I can’t get away. Not yet. His fingers move up and he runs them along my leg up to my hip. I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else. He does a small circle on my hip before continuing his journey. His hand passes over my waist and finally comes to rest on my head.
“I thought you were different, special. You must be if Josh wants you so bad.” His stroke becomes harder and he pulls his fingers through my hair. I wince in pain and my eyes water.
He’s oblivious. “But you’re no different from the rest.” He pulls my hair harder and then reaches for the tray of instruments.
“You’re a slut!” He pauses, casting his eyes over the choice of knives. “Josh and Carter?”
I brace myself.
The cold point of a knife touches the top of my inner thigh. Then he pushes and the coldness turns into burning pain. I scream. The knife keeps digging into my flesh and I feel blood trickle down my leg. He withdraws the blade.
I think fast. “I don’t clot. I’ve got a blood disorder.”
“Really? We’ll see about that.” He returns the knife to one end of the cut and pushes down, lengthening the incision.
I scream. The pain is almost unbearable. I concentrate on not passing out. The knife is sexual for him—penetration—and I’d rather the knife than any part of him.
I watch his hand…his hand. “You’re not left-handed,” I say.
“Very good. Aren’t you a clever girl.” He pulls the two sides of the wound apart and I scream in pain once again. Now blood surges down the side of my leg. Everything goes a little hazy. I’m about to pass out.
“Your blood looks normal to me, Sophie. Nice try, though.” He puts the bloody knife back on the tray. He stands silently, looking at the wall for a few seconds, then he turns back to me. “Don’t ever lie to me again!”
What am I going to do? Think. Think.
He tears off a piece of paper towel and picks up the knife. He slowly wipes the knife clean, all the while focusing on the blade. “It doesn’t have to be like this. I want to be kind to you, even though you don’t deserve it.” He throws the paper towel into the bin and places the knife back on the tray. He positions it so it’s exactly centered. “Carter was a mistake is all.”
The faint feeling eases. “Nothing happened with Carter, I swear.” I hope to diffuse his anger.
“Really?” He leans in to my face again.
“I promise. Absolutely nothing.” I fight the pain.
He moves over to the cabinet and grabs a bandage. He applies the tourniquet. Good, it’ll stop the bleeding.
“Nothing happened with Carter,” I repeat.
He grunts and leaves the room.
There’s got to be a way out. There has to be. I’m not going to die. Not at the hands of this son of a bitch. I move my restraints, testing the give again. There’s not much. Not enough to slip my hands through. Next I try my legs again. I can still only move my legs and arms about half an inch in any direction. Okay, what about the task force? This guy must be on our list. They’ll question him soon enough. And maybe someone else will work out the significance of the body positioning and where all the victims are looking toward. Surely Darren will notice the map’s missing from the dining-room table.
I start to cry. “No,” I whisper, defeat taking over. Sam’s dead. And I’m next. I bite my lip. I can’t cry. He kills them when they break. I push the tears away. I don’t know what to do. There must be a way out. I can’t accept that this is how I’m going to die. I can’t. The tears start again, but I fight them back. I think about my parents. I want to be at home, sitting in front of the fire with Mom and Dad. I don’t want to die.
I steady my breath. I need to focus. My restraints…I need to keep working on the rope. I start with my hands. I need my hands free. I wriggle and twist my wrists around. I pull against the rope. I keep this up for about ten minutes and then stop. The rope burns have become almost unbearable. I need to rest. I need to get my strength back and think of a way out. But my escape plans will have to wait…the grogginess finally takes over and I pass out.
I wake up with a start, disorientated. Then I realize where I am. I’ve got no idea how much time has passed. An hour? A day? The door creaks open.
“Oh, thank God.” I lift my head up. “You found me.”
I knew the Bureau would be on to this guy and find me. It was just a matter of how long it would take them. Thank God they found me in time.
Marty reaches over me, going for my arm ropes. But his reach falls short and his hand rests on my face.
“I never lost you.”
It can’t be.
“No. No,” I say. Not Marty. I close my eyes, not wanting to look at his face. I’m still in the killer’s hands.
But it all makes sense. The perfect crime scenes, the knowledge of the cases. His relationship with Josh. And if he ever left DNA or other trace evidence at a crime scene, he’d be able to get rid of it after the fact, during the investigation. I think about Sam’s profile. The age and race are right, the occupation, marital status, his current living situation, education level…I mentally cross the items off, one by one.
“You’re surprised.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” I hide my anger, only letting him see my shock.
“Surprised at how clever I am.”
“No. I always knew you were clever.” I play to his ego.
He smiles. “I sent them all off in the wrong direction.”
“But you’re not left-handed,” I say, still trying to put the pieces together.
“No.” He grins. “I’m ambidextrous. The original report said that the killer was probably ambidextrous. But I made a few amendments when I collated the information. The evidence had to point to Josh.”
I think back to the report Marty left in my tray. At the time I thought how kind it was of him to collate the reports and hand them directly to me.
And his handwriting was on the Post-it note. I didn’t even think to look at that. To really look at it. If I had, perhaps I would have noticed that the handwriting was similar to the note left for Sam.
He strokes my hair, tender. “Enough. We could admire my handiwork for hours. But I want to know how your day was.”
He must be joking. But I play along. My options are limited.
“I missed you.” I try to sound sincere. I hide the hate.
I hope these are the words he wants to hear. Is he aware that I’m going along with his role-play, or does he actually think this is a normal relationship?
He comes toward me and kisses me passionately. I respond, trying not to show my revulsion. He rests his right hand on my breast.
“None of that. Later,” I say, like I’d sometimes say to Matt when he was in the mood and I wasn’t.
“Why?”
“Because I want our first time to be special, Marty.”
He nods. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you.”
But of course it’s not true. He “loves” me because I’m something of Josh’s that he can possess.
“The other women meant nothing to me. Nothing to Josh either.” He strokes my hair.
I hide a wince, thinking of Sam and the others. Nothing. They died for nothing? “Josh knew them all?” I ask.
“Not all. But they were all his type. Our type. Apart from Sam, he only knew Sally-Anne.”
I can’t hide my surprise. Josh was actually seeing SallyAnne? Romantically? If he was involved with an underage girl his father definitely would have wanted to keep that quiet.
“Ah…no. Of course, he didn’t tell you, did he?”
“No.”
“I was hoping Josh would incriminate himself by keeping quiet. So egotistical that he didn’t think anyone could possibly believe he was the killer. His DNA will seal the deal.”
I ignore him. I’ve still got questions. “So how did you lure Sally-Anne?”
He breathes deeply, excited. “I phoned her and pretended to be Josh. I organized a little meeting. But she wanted Josh, not me.”
“So you punished her?”
“I had to. The little slut was giving it out to everyone else, why not me? I was certainly more worthy than Josh.”
“So you knew Josh?”
“Yes. But that was when I was Matthew Lande. Josh thought I was nothing. A nobody. Josh was just like my brothers.”
“Older?”
He smiles. “Yes. Sam’s profile was right. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? That’s why you’re asking all the questions.”
I don’t respond.
“Josh.” He spits the name, then chuckles. “He didn’t even recognize me in Michigan. And not even when we worked together in D.C. See how stupid he is?”
I have to play along. “Yes. I’m glad I’m with you and not Josh.” I’m not sure if the lie is convincing.
He rests his head on my breast and I move my chin down in an intimate gesture. I move my right hand.
He jerks his head up. “What are you doing?”
“I only wanted to touch you.”
He looks at me suspiciously then gently undoes my right hand. My heart beats faster and I hope he can’t hear it. I think about escape, but I can’t do anything. Not with only one arm free. No, this is a trust game and, like it or not, I’m in for the long haul. I run my hand along his arm and gently pull him back down to my chest. I play with his hair and caress his neck as though he really is my lover.
But soon my touches excite him sexually.
“Don’t spoil it,” I say.
He moves away. “You’re right. We’ve waited this long, we should wait until we know each other better.”
“Yes, let’s make it special.” I hold his hand.
“I’ll make us some dinner.” He disappears out the door.
My hand’s free. My hand’s free!
But the door opens again and he ties my hand back up. I don’t show my disappointment. If I can get that hand free again, I should be able to undo my ropes. I wonder if any of the other girls managed to get their hand untied. Maybe they did but still couldn’t get out, or maybe he’ll never untie me again. I push these thoughts away; I must try to stay positive.
My leg still throbs, but I can feel the tightness of a scab. The wound is healing. I lift my head up and stare at the door. I imagine myself walking out.
He returns later. I don’t know how much later, because all sense of time seems to be gone. He carries two bowls of pasta and two candles. He lights the candles and puts them both on the instrument tray next to my head. I pretend not to notice the ghastly assortment of knives. He undoes my hand again and pulls it up to his face. He uses my hand to caress his face.
I smile. “How about some wine?”
“Of course. Wine.” He leaves the room. Can I be this lucky? I look at the instruments. They’re lined up precisely and I stare at one of the sharp implements, trying to decide whether to grab it or not. He’ll notice if one is missing. I hear footsteps outside the door and lie back down quickly.
The door opens. “I got us a Merlot,” he says.
The glasses clink together as he puts them down. He opens the wine and the liquid gurgles into the glass. I reach my hand out to take the glass.
“No,” he says. “I’m going to feed you.”
I lay my hand by my side and open my mouth.
“That’s a girl,” he says and a spoonful of pasta slides into my mouth. I chew.
“Good?” he asks.
I finish my mouthful. “Delicious.”
“Better than Josh’s beef bourguignon?”
“Definitely.” But it’s a lie.
“I knew you’d love me more than Josh. I just knew it.”
I don’t respond. I chew the next mouthful. His hand slides under my hair and he raises my head enough for me to take a sip of wine. The cool glass touches my lips and I gulp greedily, wanting alcohol to numb myself.
“Take it easy,” he says.
“It’s a beautiful wine.”
He lowers my head back to the table and sips some wine. He takes several mouthfuls of food himself.
“Open wide,” he says. The fork is on my lips. I open my mouth and eat. But I don’t want any more. I feel sick. Sick to my stomach that he is feeding me. That I’m going along with it. I start my internal dialogue: It’s all right. You’re doing the right thing. This will get you out. Somehow.
“It’s very filling,” I say.
“You need the nourishment.”
What for? To lie here and be raped? I push the tears away.
He presses the fork on my closed lips. I take another mouthful. “Thank you,” I force myself to say.
He feeds himself.
“Can I have some more wine?” I ask. Again, when the glass touches my lips I take several large gulps. “Beautiful.” I take another few mouthfuls of food, until I’ve had as much as I physically can. “I’m full.”
“But you’ve only eaten half of it.”
“You know me and my appetite.” I hope the familiarity will stop him from pushing the matter.
“Yes. Yes, you eat like a little sparrow.”
I watch as he finishes his meal and his glass of wine. What will he do to me when he finishes?
He takes my hand and ties it up again. I get ready to go somewhere else mentally. To be someone else. It’s the only way I’ll be able to cope. But instead of climbing on top of me, he leaves.
I did it. I stopped him from raping me. For now.