“Preserve the smells,” I muttered. “The sandwich bags.”
Becton nodded, and he also grinned like a gawky, goofy teenager. Kate looked at the two of us as if we were both a little
nuts, which we were.
“There’s something else I think you should see, though. This, you’re going to appreciate. Come over to my office.”
On a plain wooden table next to the bed were some of the Gentleman’s treasures and souvenirs. Most of the paraphernalia had
already been marked. It takes an organized task force to catch an organized killer.
“Spooky good” Phil Becton emptied out one of the five-by-seven-inch envelopes so I could see the contents. A single photograph
fell out of the envelope. It was of a young male, probably in his early twenties. The condition of the photo, as well as the
male’s clothing, suggested it had been taken years earlier. Eight to ten years was my quick guess.
The hair on my neck was starting to rise. I cleared my throat. “Who’s this supposed to be?”
“Do you know this man, Dr. McTiernan?” Phil Becton turned to Kate. “Ever see this man before?”
“I… I don’t know,” Kate answered Phil Becton. She swallowed hard. The Gentleman’s bedroom was quiet. Outside on the streets
of Los Angeles, the orangish-red glow of morning had fallen over the city.
Becton handed me metal tweezers that he kept handy in his breast pocket. “Flip it over for
all the vital stats.
Just like those Topps baseball cards we used to collect as kids. At least we did in Portland.”
I figured that Becton had collected a lot more than baseball cards in his life and times. I carefully turned over the photo.
A neatly handwritten legend was on the back. It reminded me of the way Nana Mama identified every single old photo in our
house. “Sometimes you forget who people are, Alex. Even people in photographs with you,” she told me. “You don’t believe me,
but you’ll see as time passes you by.”
I didn’t think that Will Rudolph was likely to forget the person in the picture, but he had handwritten a legend all the same.
My head was spinning a little. We finally had an unbelievable break in the case. I was holding it right under my nose with
crime-scene tweezers.
Dr. Wick Sachs,
the handwriting on the photo read.
A doctor,
I thought.
Another doctor. Imagine that.
Durham, North Carolina,
the legend continued.
He was from the Research Triangle area. He was from the South.
Casanova,
Rudolph had written.
Twinning
N
AOMI CROSS was awakened by rock music blaring from the wall speakers. She recognized the Black Crowes. The overhead lights
flashed on and off. She jumped out of bed and quickly pulled on wrinkled jeans and a turtleneck and ran to the door of her
room.
The loud music and boldly flashing lights signaled a meeting.
Something terrible has happened,
she thought. Her heart was in free fall.
Casanova kicked open the door. He had on tight jeans, engineering boots, a black leather jacket. His mask was painted with
chalky streaks that resembled lightning. He was in a frenzy. Naomi had never seen him look this angry.
“Living room! Now!” he shouted as he grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the room.
The floor of the narrow corridor felt damp and cold under Naomi’s bare feet. She had forgotten to put on her sandals. It was
too late to go back for them.
She fell in step with a young woman. The two of them walked nearly parallel to each other. Naomi was surprised when the woman
quickly turned her head and stared at her. The eyes were large and deep green. Naomi had given her the name
Green Eyes.
“I’m Kristen Miles.’ The woman spoke in a hurried whisper. “We have to do something to help ourselves. We have to take a chance.
And
soon.
”
Naomi said nothing in response, but she reached out and lightly grazed the back of Green Eyes’s hand.
Contact was forbidden, but just to touch another human inside the horrifying prison was necessary now. Naomi looked into the
woman’s eyes and saw only defiance. No fear. That made her feel so good. Both of them had kept themselves together—somehow.
The captive women in the hallway glanced furtively at Naomi as they shuffled in silence toward the living room in the strange
house. Their eyes were dark and hollow. Some of them didn’t wear makeup anymore and their appearance frightened Naomi. It
was getting worse every day, ever since Kate McTiernan had managed to escape somehow.
Casanova had brought a new girl to the house. Anna Miller. Anna was breaking the house rules, just as Kate McTiernan had done.
Naomi had heard the woman’s cries for help and Casanova might have heard them, too. It was difficult to figure out when he
would be away. He kept very odd hours.
Lately, Casanova was leaving them without any contact for longer and longer periods. He wasn’t going to let them go. That
was one of his lies. Naomi knew it was getting dangerous for all the women.
Naomi sensed something desperate in the air. She could hear cries of alarm up ahead, and she tried to calm her own mounting
fears and panic. She had lived in the projects of Washington. She’d seen horror before. Two of her friends had been murdered
by the time she was sixteen.
Then she heard him. His voice was strange and high-pitched. He was a madman. “Come right in, ladies. Don’t be shy. Don’t stop
in the doorway! Come in, come in. Join the party, the
swinging
soiree.”
Casanova was yelling above the testosterone rock ‘n’ roll that blared through the halls. Naomi closed her eyes for a brief
moment. She tried to collect herself.
I don’t want to see this, whatever it is, but I have to.
She finally entered the room. Her body began to shake. What she saw was worse than anything she remembered from the projects.
She had to push her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming out.
A long, slender body twirled in lazy circles from the ceiling beams. The woman was naked except for silver-blue stockings
running up her long legs. A blue high-heeled shoe dangled from one foot. The other shoe had dropped to the floor and lay on
its side.
The girl’s lips were already purplish-blue, and her tongue protruded sideways from them. The eyes were stretched wide with
terror and pain.
It must be Anna,
Naomi thought. A girl had been calling out for help. She’d broken the house rules. She said her name was Anna Miller.
Poor Anna. Whoever you were before he kidnapped you.
Casanova turned off the music and spoke calmly from behind his mask; he talked as if nothing much had happened. “Her name
is Anna Miller, and she did this to herself. Do you all understand what I’m saying? She was plotting through the walls, talking
about escaping. There is no escape from here!”
Naomi shuddered.
No, there is no escape from hell,
she though. She looked at Green Eyes and nodded her head. Yes, they had to take a chance, and soon.
T
HE GENTLEMAN stopped to play the game in Stoneman Lake, Arizona. It was a beautiful morning for it. It was crisp and cool
and the smell of a wood fire was in the air.
He was parked in woods among the boulders, just off the rural road. No one could see him. He sat there and thought about the
way this should go down as he watched a cozy, white-shingled family house through hooded lids. He could actually feel the
beast taking over. The transformation. The strange
passion
that accompanied it.
Jekyll and Hyde.
He saw a man leave the house and get into a silver Ford Aerostar. The husband seemed in a hurry, probably late for work. The
wife was alone now, maybe still in bed. Her name was Juliette Montgomery.
At a little past eight, he carried an empty gas container up to the house. If anybody happened to see him, no problem. He
needed fuel for his rented car.
No one saw him. Probably nobody around for miles.
The Gentleman climbed the front proch steps. He paused for a moment, then gently turned the doorknob. He found it amazing
that people didn’t lock their doors in Stoneman Lake.
God, he loved this… lived for it… his times as Mr. Hyde.
Juliette was making breakfast for herself. He could hear her half humming, half singing as he made his way across the living
room. The aroma and the crackling sound of bacon frying made him think of his family’s house in Asheville.
His father had been the original gentleman. Army colonel and proud and arrogant about it. Inflexible asshole who was never
pleased about anything his son did. Big fan of the thick leather belt to instill discipline. Liked to scream at the top of
his lungs as he beat the shit out of him. Raised the perfect son. High school standout scholar and athlete. Phi Beta Kappa
undergrad. High honors in Duke medical school. Human monster.
He watched Juliette Montgomery from the doorway that led into her spotlessly clean kitchen. The window shades were up and
the room was flooded with sunlight. She was still singing… an old Jimi Hendrix song called “Castles Made of Sand.” Unexpected
tune from the pretty lady.
He loved watching her like this—when she thought she was alone. Singing something she’d probably be embarrassed to in front
of him. Carefully laying out her three strips of bacon on a paper towel that came close to matching the beige-and-brown kitchen
wallpaper.
Juliette wore a sheer white cottony negligee that fluttered around her thighs as she moved between the stove and table. She
was in her mid-twenties. Long dancer’s legs. Nicely tanned. Bare feet on the kitchen linoleum. Auburn hair she’d bothered
to brush before coming down to make her breakfast.
A set of knives in a butcher-block holder sat on the counter. He took out the cleaver. The knife made a soft ringing noise
as it lightly struck a stainless steel pot on the counter.
She turned at the sound. Very lovely in profile. Freshly scrubbed, radiant. Juliette liked herself, too. He could tell that
she did.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
The words came out in small gasps. Her face was as pale as her negligee.
Now move fast,
he told himself.
He grabbed Juliette and held the cleaver up high. Shades of Hitchcock’
Psycho
and also
Frenzy.
High-concept melodrama.
“Don’t make me hurt you. It’s all in your control,” he said softly.
She stopped the scream before it got out of her mouth, but
the scream was in her eyes.
He loved the look on Juliette’s face. Lived for it.
“I won’t hurt you as long as you don’t do anything to hurt me. Are we all right so far? Are we clear as a bell?”
She nodded her hear curtly. A couple of nods. Her blue-green eyes were tilted up strangely. She was afraid to move her head
too much for fear he’d slash her.
She sighed. Amazing. She seemed to trust him a little. His voice had that effect on people. His style and fine manners. Mr.
Hyde.
The Gentleman Caller.
She was looking deeply into his eyes, searching for some explanation. He had seen that questioning look so many times before.
Why? it said.
“I’m going to take your panties off now. No doubt this has been done for you before, so there’s no reason to panic. You have
the softest, nicest skin. I mean that,” said the Gentleman.
The cleaver slashed quickly.
“I like you, Juliette, I really do… as much as I’m able to like anyone,” the Gentleman said in his softest voice.
K
ATE MCTIERNAN was home again. Home again, home again, jiggitty-jig. First thing was to call her sister Carole Anne, who lived
far away in Maine now. Then she called a few close friends in Chapel Hill. She reassured them that she was perfectly all right.
That was total bullshit, of course. She knew that she wasn’t anything close to all right, but why cause them to worry? It
wasn’t Kate’s way to inconvenience other people with her unsolvable problems.
Alex didn’t want her to go back to her house, but she had to. This was
where she lived.
She tried to calm herself a little, to slow down the big bad world in her head, at least. She drank wine and watched late-night
TV. She hadn’t done that in years. Centuries!
She was missing Alex Cross already, and more than she wanted to admit to herself. Staying home and watching TV was a good
test, but she was failing miserably. She was such a schlump sometimes.
She had developed—
what?
—a schoolgirl
crush
on Alex? He was strong, smart, funny, kind. He loved children, and was even in touch with the child in himself. He had a
sculpted body, fabulous bone structure, a sensational torso, also. Yes, she had a crush on Alex Cross.
Understandable; nice. Only maybe it was more than a crush. Kate wanted to call Alex at his hotel in Durham. She picked up
the phone a couple of times.
No!
She wouldn’t let herself do it. Nothing was going to happen between her and Alex Cross.
She
was an intern, and she wasn’t getting any younger.
He
lived in Washington with his two children and his grandmother. Besides, they were
too much
alike, and it wouldn’t work out. He was a willful black man; she was an extremely willful white woman. He was a homicide
detective… but he was also sensitive and sexy and generous. She didn’t care whether he was black, green, or purple. He made
her laugh; he made her as happy as a clam in deep wet sand.
But nothing was going to happen between her and Alex.
She would just sit here in her scary apartment. Drink her cheap Pinot Noir. Watch her bad, semiromantic Hollywood movie. Be
afraid. Be a little horny. Let it get worse. That’s what she would do, dammit. Build her character.
She had to admit she was frightened to be in her own house, though. She hated that feeling. She wanted all of this shitty
madness to stop, but it wouldn’t. Not even close. There were still two horrifying monsters on the loose out there.