Dark Eye (35 page)

I covered the talk end of the receiver and mouthed: “What?”

One of them held up a note he’d scribbled furiously on a legal pad. WE’VE TRACED THE CALL.

Why the hell tell me? Just go already.

Then came the follow-up message. HE’S IN YOUR APARTMENT.

I felt my heart stop. I uncovered the receiver, breathless. “Edgar?”

The line was dead.

Of course, he was long gone by the time the police arrived. True to form, he had gotten in and out without leaving a trace of himself behind. All he’d left was a paperback Dover Press edition of
Eureka: A Prose-Poem
by Edgar Allan Poe, which the techs were treating to a microscopic scrutiny. I knew they wouldn’t find anything-nothing useful, anyway. Although he’d left no evidence, we could tell where he had been. Footprints in the carpet. My underwear drawer left open. An indentation on my bedspread.

None of my neighbors had seen him. One reported spotting a nondescript meter reader, so we were guessing Edgar had used that disguise. But he’d only seen the man from a distance, so he had no useful information.

“I don’t get it,” Patrick said. “He’s been so careful before. So calculated. Why would he come here? Why take the risk?”

I thought about that. In the early days, all his actions had seemed well planned. Careful. But he was becoming increasingly impulsive, or at least more varied in his approaches. Acting on emotion. Kidnapping Fara Spencer, essentially for spite, even though she didn’t fit his profile. And now this. How could burglarizing my apartment fit into his fabulous master plan?

Of course, there had been other cases of serial killers who became involved, even obsessed, with one or more of the officers trying to catch them. But just as there was something very different about this killer, there was something unusual about the attention he was paying to me. Like I’d told Tony before, I didn’t get the sense that he was perpetuating a cat-and-mouse game for his own amusement. It was more like he was trying to… win me over. Seduce me. Even this in-your-face power play had an element of seduction about it.
I have only your best interests at heart.

“You’re getting round-the-clock security,” Patrick said. “Don’t bother arguing. Should’ve done it after those damn teeth arrived with your name on the package.”

“Does this mean you think-”

“You already know what I think. He’ll only be content with presents and phone messages for so long. He’s working up his nerve. Till he comes after you.”

He could almost pity her as she lay on the table, her eyes closed. If only he could forget all that she had said and done. Forgive. But he could not. That power was no longer his.

At last she awoke, blinking, a dumbfounded expression creasing her brow.

“Am I dead?”

“Of course,” he said, leaning into her face. “Welcome to Hell.”

She gasped. “You.”

“Did you enjoy your nap, Dr. Spencer?”

“But I-I thought-”

“I know. You thought you were dead.”

“I remember the wall. And…” Her words came slowly, as she retrieved them through a dense fog. “It was hard to breathe. And then-hard to think.” Lines formed around her eyes. “Then I don’t remember anything.”

“You passed out,” he explained. “All but asphyxiated. Yes, you were a goner, as the moderns say.” He opened his black bag and began laying out the instruments. “But I rescued you. Am I your hero?”

She tried to struggle but soon realized it was useless. She had regained control of her body, but she was firmly affixed to the table. “Why?”

“What fun would it be simply to kill you? A mere two hours of torment. When you deserve ever so much more.” He held the instruments up before her face. They glistened in the light from a large overhead lamp. “Do you recognize these?”

She squinted. “Are those-surgical instruments?”

“Indeed. Have you ever seen a straight razor?” he asked, swishing a scalpel in the air. “One sometimes reads about them in books-an orangutan did great damage with one in ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’ ”

“What-what are you going to do with that?”

“Don’t you know? You’re the doctor.” He smiled. “Ah, but you’re one of those odd television doctors who aren’t actually doctors.”

“I want to know what you’re planning to do!”

“Apologies in advance. I don’t have a hospital gown for you.”

She craned her neck, realizing for the first time that she was naked. “Why have you taken my clothes?”

“Standard pre-op procedure,” he replied.

She closed her eyes tightly. She was trembling, but despite her fear, she kept her voice remarkably strong. “Is this another pathetic attempt to scare me?”

“Alas, no. I have to move on to other responsibilities. This time you’re going to die.”

“Of course you have to say that. To terrorize me.”

“Believe whatever makes you happy, Doctor.”

“Listen to me-you’re a sick man. Ill. You’re-”

He pressed the razor against her throat. “
Stop it!
”

She quieted. But her eyes continued to peer at him, refusing to look away.

“I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of open heart surgery, as I’m sure was that orangutan,” he said jauntily.

“Please don’t do this.”

“I must admit I have butterflies in my tummy. I’ve done a lot of reading on the subject, mind you. But this is my first attempt.”

“Please.”

“Tell me if I have this correct,
Doctor.
Are you knowledgeable about cardiopulmonary bypass? Percutaneous transluminal coronary angioplasty? Can you say that three times fast?”

The doctor did not respond.

“I gather the typical heart operation begins with the all-important opening of the chest to expose the heart. Is that right?”

“God, no. Please.”

“And the most common way to do that is to slice down the middle of the chest, dividing the breastbone. Am I going to need a bigger knife?”

“I’m begging you.”

“Then I expose the heart by dividing the protective covering-the pericardium.” He clapped his hands together. “This is going to be delightful.”

“At least put me out. Show me that mercy. I know you have the drugs for it.”

“Ah, but that would spoil the fun. Tell me, Doctor-do you use a pump oxygenator? I’m fascinated by those little machines.”

“This is wrong. You’re not thinking rationally or you wouldn’t want to do this.”

“I’m not sure where to make the first incision. My books don’t show. Do I go through the rib cage? I think I’ll try. I’ll start here. Then here.” He stair-stepped the scalpel down her rib cage, stopping to press in at the valley between each rib. “Then here, then here, then here. And when we’re done, your lungs will be thoroughly punctured. Will your heart stop? Because I know it’s important that the heart stop before we take it out.”

“Come now, Doctor-you didn’t think I’d go to all this trouble and not come away with a souvenir, did you?”

“Please listen to me. You need help.”

“Don’t presume to psychoanalyze me. You’re the one on the couch.”

“I’m not qualified to psychoanalyze you, and I don’t really believe in all that bullshit anyway. But you should see a professional.”

“Doctors. Always making referrals.”

“I can’t believe anyone wants to live as you do. I know you must be tormented. Do you have hallucinations? Do you hear voices?”

“I’ve had about enough of-”

“We can block out those voices. We can suppress the irresistible impulses. We can help you.” She strained against her bonds. “I will personally ensure that the finest doctors are-”

He poured a drink down her throat and then, when the convulsions ceased, he raised the blade of the scalpel and thrust it downward, cutting between her top and second ribs. A terrible hissing sound followed as air escaped from her lungs. Blood rushed up her throat and out her mouth.

“Where is that heart?
Where is it?
”

The razor plunged again, this time between the second rib and the third.

Her body rocked. Gases seeped out of the gaping wounds. Despite the restraints, she jerked and spasmed as if she were in seizure. Blood gushed from the openings in her chest, her mouth, even her ears.

“Where is it?” he cried. “Where is it?” He stuck the blade into her body again and again, until blood streamed from more than a dozen places. “ ‘Dissemble no more!’ ” He slashed wildly with the knife, cutting her arms, her legs, her torso, slicing open her chest, drenching himself, staining everything in sight.
“ ‘I admit the deed! It is the beating of the hideous heart!’
“

I didn’t get free of the cops till midnight, and even then, since my apartment had turned into a crime scene, sort of, I was going to have to stay at a hotel for a few days, with security detail in tow. Which was all right with me. As long as it wasn’t the Transylvania.

Thank God, Patrick agreed to meet me at The White Feather. I made some excuse about why we should go separately-the real reason, of course, was so I could leave the security guys posted outside the front door, dash to the bar in the back, grab a fifth, then down it in the ladies’ room. I knew I’d promised Lisa I wouldn’t, but these were pretty damn extenuating circumstances. I mean, the man had been on my bed, for God’s sake. He’d gone through my drawers. When I thought about this psycho pawing my underwear, I got physically ill. I felt like a rape victim, even though he hadn’t laid a finger on me.

Patrick was very good about it, very sweet. I knew he was tired and probably wanted to go home, but he stayed with me just the same. God, I wanted his arms around me. I just wanted to feel safe. I just wanted to feel.

The waitress came by. “Another whiskey?”

I stiffened. “I’m drinking club soda.”

“Okay. Want another one?”

I shook my head. Patrick got another beer. Half an hour later, we were still talking.

“You were pretty tough on the boys,” I said. “Back at my place.”

“With good reason. Someone does a home invasion on a member of the team, that’s serious business. We have to take care of our own.”

“Thanks for sticking up for me.”

He shrugged. “It’s what partners do.”

God, he was handsome. I felt an itching I couldn’t scratch and suddenly I didn’t want to be in this bar anymore. “Patrick? You did tell me you were unmarried, right?”

“Ye-es.”

“Do you think you could get rid of those security guys for a while?”

“I could, but why on earth-”

“Tell them you’re going to stay with me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I am?”

I gave him my best big long lusty. “Unless you still think it would damage our working relationship.”

“Probably would. But at the moment, I’m not sure I care.” He pushed himself out of his chair. “I’ll go talk to the uniforms.”

I’m sure he thought we were going back to his motel room, but we never made it that far, at least not at first. I led him by the hand to his car out back, slid onto the hood, and reeled him in.

“Now, wait a minute,” Patrick protested.

“What?” I said, grinning in what I hoped would seem a lascivious expression. “Don’t you wanna make a girl happy?”

“We’re professionals. We shouldn’t-”

“Don’t be a spoilsport.”

“But someone might come…”

“Who cares?” I bit him on the side of the neck.

He pulled away slightly. “It would be wrong of me to-”

“Oh, don’t be so damn good. Just this once.” I unbuckled his belt and reached inside. After that, I knew I had him. He didn’t care who was watching. I pulled him inside me and felt the warmth, felt the glow, felt good, felt safe. For a little while.

Oh, Susan. Oh, my dear, sweet Susan. I wanted so much for you. I wanted to elevate you, to cherish you, to escort you through the gates of Dream-Land. I tried to win you over, to help you see the light, to seduce you with the truth.

But now I see that you have been seduced by another master altogether.

I followed you because I wanted to help you, to learn more about you. Because I cared for you. And I was concerned, genuinely desperately concerned when I saw you enter that bar, knowing your weakness as I do. But that was nothing compared to the abject horror I experienced when you emerged. How could I know you had an addiction worse than alcohol, an addiction to decadence, to evil? I could never have believed it-until I saw you roll onto your car like the most debased jezebel, like the village harlot, an impure woman less worthy than the dust. Yes, I know you’ve been drinking again. But that is no excuse. There is no excuse.

I know now what I must do.

I must show you the error of your wanton ways. I must show you the result of indulging your passions, let you see your ultimate destiny if you continue on this wicked path. I must crush the spiritual depravity, modify your behavior with an experience so ghastly those old instincts will be dissipated, now and for all time. You must hit rock bottom before you can be cured.

I know you will not come of your own accord. You are willful, stubborn, eternally contumacious. But I can break you. And I will. Not because I want to. Not because I will enjoy it. But because it must be done.

I have only your best interests at heart.

I was used to waking up groggy, disoriented, not knowing where I was. I was used to a throbbing head, pulsing temples, dry cottony mouth. I was thoroughly familiar with finding I had forgotten to put on my jammies. And I was not altogether unaccustomed to finding myself in a strange bed.

But being handcuffed to it? That was different.

“Wha… tha…” My eyes felt as if they had been pasted shut, and I couldn’t wipe them clear since both wrists were cuffed to the headboard. What the hell had happened to me? Could I have been abducted by-