Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories (33 page)

And besides, William Koenig was in a padded cell, or however they kept maniacs confined in that new facility.

She put her key in the door and turned it. As the lock clicked and the handle turned, she felt a firm hand cover her mouth. The door opened, and she was propelled inside the house. “Haven't we met before?” Koenig whispered.

•  •  •

Jack Carroll went back to his office, his mood angry and disgruntled. Snap out of it, he told himself. He had a case to prepare for trial,
and the boss would hardly thank him if he messed it up because he'd been spending time on his hunch about Koenig.

It would have been nice to be able to look forward to meeting Emily for a drink, but he did understand that she had to burn the midnight oil. When Jack reflected on his privileged upbringing in Rye and the struggle Emily had always known, he felt humbled. Her parents dead. Raised by a grandmother who'd been ailing for years and was now terminally ill. Partial scholarships to good schools and lots of hard work. And now, instead of going for the big bucks, Emily wanted to spend her life taking care of people who needed legal assistance and could not pay for it.

And she's the one who had to have that nut attack her, Jack fumed to himself. He admitted that after seeing Koenig today, what he really wanted to do was put his arms around Emily and make sure she was alive, close, safe, out of danger.

The hours passed as he immersed himself in preparing his opening statement for the trial that would begin next week. In other small offices, other assistant DAs were doing the same thing. Brothers all are we, they joked to one another.

And sisters, the women assistant DAs would remind them.

At eleven-fifteen his phone rang. Dr. Stein sounded surprised when he answered. “Mr. Carroll,” she said, “I didn't really expect to find you at the office.”

The strain in her voice made Jack's throat close. “What's happened?”

“It's Koenig. The guard assigned to his unit has been found strangled in Koenig's cell. The orderly who cleans around the locker room was found in the closet. We're searching the grounds, but we think Koenig got away in the orderly's car. He's been gone at least two hours. Does he know where Emily Winters lives now?”

“He might. I'll call her and get protection around her.” Jack jiggled
the disconnect and dialed Emily's number. Emily, answer, please answer, he begged. As soon as he heard her voice, he'd tell her to bolt and lock the doors. Then he'd call the private security guards and have them rush over until he could get the squad cars there. Until he could get to Emily himself.

The phone rang twice. With a vast sense of relief he heard it being picked up.

“Emily?”

“No, Mr. Carroll, it is I, Simon Guiness, Kate is with me. She has agreed with me that, yes indeed, we have met before.”

•  •  •

The panic button on the security panel was the star-shaped button. It would have been easy to hit it with the tip of her finger as she disarmed the system, but Emily had made an instant decision not to do it. He was watching her too closely. He'd have known, and the rope he had slipped around her neck would have been tightened.

She had only one chance, and that was to get him to talk. It would have taken him at least half an hour to get from the hospital to here. By now they must know he had escaped. By now Jack would be on his way to her.

“That was a wise decision. You have bought yourself a few minutes' more existence in this lifetime.”

They were both in the kitchen. It was a large room with a fireplace at the far end, faced by a couch and two comfortable chairs, with a television set to one side. When the Adamsons were home, Mr. Adamson would frequently tell Emily that with all the rooms in this great barn of a house, this spot was his favorite. They often ate dinner there, with Mrs. Adamson doing the cooking. He would sit content, reading the paper and watching the news.

Emily realized that she was in shock. Why else would she be
thinking of the Adamsons as William Koenig guided her to Mr. Adamson's chair and stood behind her? She felt the rough rope scrape the skin of her throat.

Please God, she thought, don't let me show him how scared I am. He needs that. Let me try to keep him talking to me. Jack will be here. I know he will.

She struggled to remember all that Jack had told her about Koenig. “I know you are going to kill me,” she said, “and I know I caused your death. But it was because I loved you so much, Simon, and you rejected me. A woman scorned can surely be forgiven because of such great love.”

“I did scorn,” Koenig agreed. “But that was no reason to lie.”

Emily's mouth was so dry she didn't know whether or not she could force the words from her throat. “But you see, Simon, you encouraged me. Don't you remember? I know I flirted with you, but you said you desired me. You were the most handsome man in the village. All the girls wanted you.”

“I didn't realize that.” Koenig sounded pleased.

Keep him talking, she warned herself. Keep him talking.

“Am I the first person you have punished for offenses against you in your lifetimes?”

“Oh no, Kate. You are the eleventh.”

“Tell me about the others.”

Jack is right, Emily thought. He is a serial killer. If I can just get him to boast.

The phone rang. When Koenig answered and spoke to Jack, Emily knew that she had only seconds to live. Jack would call the security guards and they would break in.

Koenig knew that too. He hung up and smiled at her. “If you're wondering if I expect to get away, of course I don't. They'll take me back to Haviland. But that's all right. It's not a bad place, and you're the last one I needed to find. My revenge is complete. Stand up.”

He pulled at the noose as she stood. Emily began to gasp. Oh God, please, she prayed.

“Stand on that chair.” He indicated the kitchen chair under the crossbeam.

“No.”

She felt a vicious yank. Do it! she screamed to herself. Buy another second or two. Maybe they'll get here in time.

With seemingly effortless movement he tossed the end of the rope over the crossbeam. “Scared, aren't you? My sole regret, Kate, is that I believe I also knew you in another, different lifetime. Your name was Eliza Jackson. I'd like to have known what happened between us then.”

Emily felt herself begin to black out. “I remember that lifetime,” she whispered. “I
was
Eliza Jackson. I went to a parapsychologist. He hypnotized me, and when I regressed, I told him I was Eliza Jackson.”

“I don't believe you.”

“There's a tape in that drawer. The recorder is next to it. Please, listen. We did know each other in 1861.”

“I'm not letting go of the rope. Even if they try to break in, it will be too late for you.” He reached into the drawer and pulled out the tape recorder. With one hand he dropped in the cassette and pushed the “On” button.

Emily saw faces at the window: the security guards. But Koenig had seen them too. With a lightning gesture he wrapped the end of the rope around his left hand, braced himself and began to pull it toward him.

Emily couldn't breathe. Her hands clawed at the rope around her neck as she felt herself being pulled up, her feet rising from the chair.

“My name is Eliza Jackson.” The tape was rolling, the volume high.

William Koenig froze, dropped the rope and rushed to the recorder as Emily's voice, dreamy and reflective, filled the room.

“We
did
meet in another lifetime!” Koenig shrieked.

The second hesitation was all that was needed. The window shattered. The guards were in the room.

One grabbed Koenig. The other gently lifted Emily from the floor, where she had tumbled when Koenig let go of the rope, and removed the noose from around her throat.

Koenig was being clapped into restraints. “I want to hear the rest of the tape!” he screamed. “I need to know what you did to me as Eliza Jackson!”

Emily looked straight into Koenig's eyes. “I don't know what Eliza Jackson may have done to you,” she told him, “but I do know this: She just saved my life.”

F
red Rand did not need to read the list of the four people whom he was compelled to kill to know their names. They had been engraved on his soul for fifteen years. He had come back to Long Island from Florida hoping to learn that they had suffered in some way, that their comfortable, self-centered world had been altered, that life had treated them harshly.

I would have accepted that, he thought. I could have made it do. I would have gone back to St. Augustine and lived out my life.

But to his dismay, they were all functioning very well, very well indeed.

Genevieve Baxter. Known to her friends as Gen. She was the first on the list who would be punished, because she would be the easiest. She had contributed to the chain of events that ended in the tragedy that had destroyed his life. Gen was now seventy-five years old and had been a widow for several years, a sadness but, under careful consideration, nothing he would deem as sufficient punishment. He had been following her on and off for the past few weeks and had a very fair idea of her present activities.

From all appearances, Gen was leading a busy, contented life.
Two of her children lived in nearby towns. She was active in the affairs at her church, Our Lady of Refuge.

There is no refuge for me, he thought.

Six grandchildren.

Gen lived in the house she had shared with her husband. One of those pleasant imitation Tudors that had been a favorite middle-class design in Long Island suburbs in the 1950s.

He knew. He had lived in one of them only a few towns away until fifteen years ago.

This afternoon he had stood at the next checkout counter from Gen Baxter in the supermarket and heard her talking to the clerk. She was planning to go to her granddaughter's ballet recital tonight.

She would never see another one.

•  •  •

Vinnie D'Angelo. The second person on the list. Vinnie had been reprimanded for dereliction of duty after it happened. That hadn't stopped him from being promoted a year later. He'd retired as head of security at the Long Island Mall, the very place where his goofing off had cost a life. He spent winters in North Carolina now. But in March he came back to Babylon and put his boat in the water. Vinnie was an avid fisherman.

Babylon was only half an hour away. He'd watched Vinnie at the dock, his step jaunty as he cast off the lines and revved up the motor.

He already had his plan in place. He'd take a boat out, get close to where Vinnie was fishing, and pretend to be stalled. Then when Vinnie, helpful Vinnie, offered to tow him in, he would have his chance to even the score.

Lieutenant Stuart Kling of the Manhasset police force might be the hardest one to corner. He'd been a brash young cop anxious to fill his quota of speeding tickets when he could have prevented a murder. He would not get the chance to prevent his own death.

And finally . . . regretfully . . . Lisa Monroe Scanlon. After following her for several weeks he had impulsively decided to speak to her. He'd pretended to be astonished when he passed her in the Island shopping center. Her three children were with her. Seven-year-old twin boys and a baby girl. He still wasn't sure if it had been a good idea to make that contact, but he'd kept the conversation very casual, even to the point of saying he was only up from Florida on business and going back the next day.

Lisa had become an interior decorator, married Tim Scanlon, and was now balancing work and children. “Busy, but lots of fun,” she'd said, smiling.

Lots of fun. I bet, he'd thought.

And her parents were fine. Doting grandparents.

Isn't that grand?

The acid in his throat had almost choked him as he'd walked back to his car.

If Lisa hadn't been so happy, so fulfilled—that was the word,
fulfilled
—he might have changed his mind. Smiling, happy Lisa had been the catalyst.

Tonight was Genevieve Baxter's turn.

•  •  •

Gen Baxter locked the door and turned the alarm on. It was almost ten-thirty and she was tired. She'd attended her nine-year-old granddaughter Laurie's ballet recital. Afterward the family had gone out for pizza.

The last few days had been warm for March, but tonight had turned sharply colder and the arthritis in her hands and ankles was sending throbbing pain throughout her limbs. I feel every day of my age, she thought ruefully as she changed into a warm nightgown, tied the sash of her robe, slid her feet into comfortable old slippers and went back downstairs.

The hot cup of cocoa was a longtime tradition. Sip it propped in bed with a book or watching the eleven o'clock news.

At the foot of the stairs Gen hesitated. It had been three years that she'd been alone in the house, but until lately she'd never felt nervous. The house was so familiar that she was sure she could go through it blindfolded and never make a misstep, but for some reason tonight was different.

Oh stop it, she told herself. You're imagining things. Why would anyone want to follow me? Of course it was silly. She knew that. It was just that she'd had an impression of being near the same person a couple of times in the last few weeks.

I never was good at remembering faces unless I see them regularly, she reflected as she measured the cocoa into a cup and filled it with milk, then placed the cup in the microwave oven. That's why today when that man was in line at the next checkout counter I knew that I'd seen him at least three or four times lately and that maybe I should recognize him.

Today she'd been so sure that he was following her that she'd sat in the car until she saw him carry out his groceries and walk across the parking lot. She'd watched him load the groceries in the trunk of his car and start to drive toward the exit at the other end of the mall.