CHAPTER 30

R.J. was down the stairs and out on the sidewalk in less than a minute. He sprinted up to the corner and flagged a cab. “Twenty bucks if you get me there in under ten minutes,” he said, knowing it was impossible, knowing it didn’t matter, it was too late, Casey was dead, Hookshot was dead, the killer was gone already.

“Get you where in ten minutes?” the cabbie asked.

R.J. froze. He had no idea where.

His brain whirled furiously. The killer was most likely holed up someplace safe, quiet, someplace R.J. could never find.

He realized he was panting and his palms were sweating. Think, goddamn it. But there was nothing to think about, no way to figure out where he had taken them.

Except…

R.J. knew the killer was really after him. Not Hookshot, not Casey—him. He’d known since the attempt on Casey. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he knew it with certainty anyhow. He was the target.

That meant Casey and Hookshot were just the bait.

And bait had to be left in the open where it could be sniffed out.

Which meant the killer had taken them someplace that R.J. could find, would find—not right away, maybe not on the first try, but the killer wanted R.J. to find him eventually. Wanted to torture R.J. with a search, certainly, tantalize him with the knowledge of what was happening to Casey and Hookshot while he scrabbled around, hopelessly looking for them; he wanted it to drag on as long as possible.

But, ultimately, he wanted R.J. to find them.

He wanted to be found. He wanted to do whatever he did and he wanted to do it to R.J.

R.J. was as sure of that as he’d ever been of anything. The killer was out there someplace, waiting to be found.

But where? Not Casey’s apartment; he had used it once already. Not the office, or he would have used some personal item of Wanda’s.

Where?

“There’s other people want the cab, mister,” the cabbie said. “You want to go someplace or what?”

Someplace he would not expect, but a place that he would eventually have to come up with. Someplace—personal.

“Where to, buddy?” the cabbie said again.

R.J. blinked. Of course.

* * *

It is going so beautifully. Just as he planned it; everything is perfect. Now, though, he must simply wait. It isn’t so hard, the waiting, not with everything in place. In the theater, one learns patience. He will practice it now. Waiting for his supporting player.

He will just check his props one last time, as he does before every performance.

Look at them, the two of them. His two little rabbits. Rabbits set to catch slightly bigger game.

The sight of them is deeply satisfying. Nodding quietly to himself, he reaches for his camera and takes a few more pictures. First the man, straining against his bonds, eyes blazing, thin muscles knotting with effort. Good. Wonderful. He could not have posed it better.

Now her. The woman. Oh, what a study she is. So much more interesting—much like the other woman, the mother. All cold fury and patience.

She is much tougher than he thought she would be. Perhaps there will be time to explore her, later, after the scene. It would make a fine epilogue to the larger drama.

It might be very fulfilling.

* * *

The cabbie did not make it in under ten minutes. It was closer to fifteen by the time they pulled up in front of R.J.’s building.

R.J. paid him too much anyway. He leaped out of the car and flung the first bill out of his pocket, a twenty, at the front seat and sprinted into the building.

Just let me be on time, he prayed silently. He hadn’t prayed for twenty years, but this seemed like a good time to start. Please, just let me be on time.

He went up the stairs without even noticing them. By the time he hit the landing of his floor he had his gun out and cocked.

He paused in front of his door and took a deep breath, steadied his gun hand.

One, two—

Smash!

He hit the door with everything he had, and it flew inward on its hinges, the lock a tattered thing.

R.J. flung himself through the doorway and stood at a crouch in the center of the room, gun ready. He looked to his left, to his right; in the kitchen. The bedroom. The closet.

Nothing.

Just to be certain, he stalked carefully into each room, letting the gun lead him, every sense quiveringly alert. But he knew it was no good.

The place was empty.

The killer was someplace else.

But where?

He sank onto the couch. He had been so sure this was the place. The killer was one jump ahead of him again. Had been the whole time. The guy seemed to know everything about him, what he was thinking, what he would do next.

So what would he do next? Think, damn it. Where else could he take them?

R.J. closed his eyes, rubbed his temples, tried to think like the killer. Where would he hole up?

Someplace quiet, someplace that R.J. would guess sooner or later, but not too soon. Someplace personal. But what could be more personal than his own apartment?

As it hit him, he was up and out the door before the thought really registered.

The shattered door flapped shut, open, half shut behind him.

He was already halfway down the stairs when the telephone rang. After three and a half rings the answering machine picked it up.

“Hello, R.J., it’s Uncle Hank. I’m at your office. I came right over here because I got a complete profile for you, and it’s a doozy.

“I think I know what the guy will do next, R.J. And it will happen soon. In the next day or two. So if you get this message, get ahold of Miss Wingate and sit tight. I think he will try to hit you through people close to you. I’ve sent your secretary out of town for the rest of the week, so she’ll be okay.

“R.J., above all else, don’t try to take this guy alone. When he’s in his fugue state he’ll be about five times as strong as you are. Please, son, be careful. Tengas cuidado, hombre.

“I’ll see you soon.”

* * *

It was quicker this time getting across town. The cabbie had at first refused to go through Central Park. He’d changed his mind when R.J. held the gun to his head.

R.J. threw the guy another twenty, but he didn’t look happy. That didn’t seem too important.

Tony didn’t open the door of the cab. That was a first, and it made R.J.’s pulse hammer even harder.

Nobody was there to open the front door of the building, either. R.J. went in fast, gun ready.

Tony was sound asleep in a chair over in the corner of the lobby. R.J. swore and ran for the elevator. Except—

Except that Tony was an ex-cop. The good kind. Tony would never sleep on the job. No matter what.

R.J. backtracked quickly and knelt beside the seated doorman, putting a finger to his throat.

He had a strong pulse. R.J. slapped his face.

Nothing. Then he noticed a very slight trickle of blood behind Tony’s left ear.

R.J. took off the doorman’s cap. Hidden by the hat, there was a welt above the ear the size of a Thanksgiving turkey. R.J. stood up.

The killer was here, upstairs, in his mother’s apartment.

There could be no possible doubt.

* * *

She is teasing him, he is sure.

The way she just lies there. She refuses to squirm or plead with him. Difficult to plead, of course, with her mouth filled and taped shut. Still, she must feel helpless, naked and trussed like that.

The eyes are magnificent. She has not taken her eyes off him, not for a moment. She’s hardly blinked.

And it is not fear with which she looks at him. It is simply a steady gaze. What strength; it gives him shivers. The possibilities of this woman!. He must find time to get to know her. Absolutely must!

After. When he is done with the main event, her time will come.

Meanwhile…

He takes another picture.

* * *

R.J. did not take the elevator. He did not want the sound to alert the killer. And as hyped as he was now, he ran up the stairs as easily as if he was running downhill.

At the landing on his mother’s floor he paused. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but he forced himself to wait just a few seconds, to let his breath steady, to gain complete control.

He had to be like ice, to go in cold with every nerve steady and primed. If he let this guy get him rattled before the party even started, it was as good as over already.

A deep breath; let it out slowly. R.J. checked his gun one more time. The feel of it in his hand was a comfort, more than it had ever been before. Another deep breath; he drew back the hammer.

Moving as quickly and silently as he could, he went to the door.

R.J. listened at the door as hard as he could. He heard nothing. He hadn’t really expected to. And he didn’t need to. He was sure they were in there.

He braced himself across from the door.

One, two—

Smash!

He was into the small foyer, crouched, ready for anything—

And there was nothing. R.J. stood for a moment, his nostrils quivering, as if he could pick up the smell of the killer.

Which way?

Right down the hall—to the kitchen, the office?

No: R.J. knew how this guy was thinking. He would make it as personal as he could. And the most personal, insulting, maddening room would be—

His mother’s bedroom.

Again following his gun barrel, R.J. slid down the hall. Past the closet, to the door of the bedroom. It was standing half open. R.J. let out a careful breath and eased up to it. He looked inside slowly.

Like some medieval painting of Hell, the scene in the bedroom assaulted him.

His mother had been proud of that massive headboard. It had been carved three hundred years ago. She’d brought it back from Italy and taken meticulous care of it. It had a beautifully made scene of Madonna and child carved into it.

And right now it had Hookshot tied to the top like a gargoyle.

He was wearing only his boxer shorts. His wrists and feet were tied behind his back and then looped over the point at the top center of the headboard, so he hung out over the top of the bed.

His eyes bulged out and all the veins in his face and neck were knotted and standing out like the ropes that bound him. And as he saw R.J. peer cautiously into the room, he frantically swung his eyes around, trying to draw R.J.’s attention to something. But R.J. was not looking at Hookshot any longer.

Beneath Hookshot lay Casey.

She was completely naked, tied up like a Christmas goose. Her hands were tied to the headboard and her ankles bound together. A piece of duct tape covered her mouth, but her eyes were clear. Frightened, yes, but not panicked, not shattered. She looked back at him with cool intelligence.

Around her head, spread out like a hand of cards, were half a dozen Polaroid pictures.

For a moment R.J. forgot everything: forgot where he was and what he was doing and why he was there with the gun in his hand.

All he could see was Casey.

His woman.

The fight was forgotten now. Someone had done this to his woman.

The same somebody had killed his mother. Hurt his friend. Flattened his childhood bicycle, haunted his dreams, tried to kill him, given him this scar on his chin.

“And here I am,” said a voice as soft and cold as a snowflake.

Before R.J. could whirl and fire, a very sharp steel point appeared at his throat and pushed lightly, just hard enough to break the skin and get the message across.

“Wonderful entrance,” the voice said. “Just perfect. But I’ll take that now.”

And the man plucked the gun away as if R.J. was as weak as a child.