“Sometimes, Noah, it’s just out of your hands.”
“You promised,” he warned, but wearily and without
bite.
“Yeah, I did. But sometimes fate steps in and kicks
your ass. You think you know what she needs. Hell,” she scoffed, “you don’t
even know what you need.”
“What I need is sleep.” He kissed the tip of her nose.
“Go, before you get sick.”
Monday, February 22, 4:00 a.m.
Christy had been sitting in the booth by the window
for over an hour. She’d had five cups of coffee, having finished the waffles
she’d ordered when the waitress got testy.
He didn’t dare go inside. Unlike the coffee shop where
he’d watched Martha, in this diner he’d stick out like a sore thumb. The diner
served all night, but most of their clients were truckers and the occasional
hungry traveler. And Christy Lewis.
“Who is finally tired of waiting for John,” he
murmured as she dug into her purse. She paid her bill before disappearing for
several minutes, which he assumed was a trip to the ladies’ room. Reappearing
with her face blotchy, which he assumed meant she’d indulged in a fit of tears,
she walked to her car, her head down against the wind.
One hour, twenty minutes, and fifty-five seconds. So
far Christy Lewis had waited longer than any of them. He might have enjoyed
that fact, except that the car he was driving was too small, even for him. But
the little car was part of the plan, just like the choice of this particular
diner. More “clues” for the Hat Squad. It was going to drive them crazy. That
Christy had consumed food while she’d waited seemed an unfair autopsy freebie,
but he couldn’t change that now.
With a defiant tilt of her chin, she pulled down her
visor mirror and slashed on fresh lipstick before capping the tube and throwing
it hard at her windshield. He hoped her anger would carry her home faster. He
got a shiver of anticipation, just thinking about what lay ahead, and pulled
out of the diner’s parking lot behind her.
Monday, February 22, 4:35 a.m.
Christy slammed her car door, the noise echoing in the
night.
I am so stupid.
How many times had she heard about lies online?
You
should know. You tell them yourself.
That was different. That was
Shadow-land. This was real life and he’d lied.
Maybe he was there. Maybe he took one look at you and
ran the other way.
“Goddammit.” She stumbled up the sidewalk, tripping in
the heels she’s spent next month’s grocery money on.
You’re a stupid idiot,
just like Jerry said
. She struggled with her keys, hands shaking as her
ex-husband’s voice rolled through her mind.
Clumsy, ugly
.
You’ll
never find anyone else willing to look at your face every morning
.
He’s right. There’s nobody out there for somebody like
me
. She’d been suckered tonight,
waited like a fool for an online asshole that never showed, who’d probably
never intended to show. “John,” whoever he was, was probably laughing at her
right now.
Just like Jerry had when she’d caught him with that
slut.
In my bed.
She shoved the front-door key into the lock, her eyes
narrowing at a new thought.
“Jerry.” It made sense. Her ex knew computers, but he
wouldn’t even have needed to hack in. She hadn’t logged out of Shadowland in
God only knew how long. She’d changed the locks, but that wouldn’t have kept
him out. He’d broken into the house. Her cheeks flamed.
Read my Ninth Circle
conversations
. Why on earth had she saved them? So, like a loser, she could
read them again and again, pretending to have a life.
“He set me up,” she hissed. “Sonofafuckingbitch set me
up.”
She pushed the door open, furious. She’d get him, the
lying, screwing SOB, if it was the last thing she— A hand clamped over her
mouth and her heart froze.
Jerry.
Fury supplanted the fear. This was
taking it too damn far.
I’ll kill you for this
.
Then fury evaporated away as she was viciously yanked
back, her head smacking against a hard shoulder.
Not Jerry
, she thought
wildly.
It’s not Jerry
.
“Hello, Gwenivere,” he crooned into her ear and she
thrashed against him.
Get away. Get away
. She felt the jab of a needle
into her neck. “Welcome to Camelot.”
She could hear him calmly counting back from ten as
her body went numb. He let her go and she teetered for a split second before
collapsing on the floor.
“Snakes,” she heard him say, from a distance. She was
floating now.
Get away. Must get away
. But she couldn’t move. She heard
him kneel beside her, felt his breath in her ear. “A pit of vipers slithering
over your skin, Christy. No escape. No escape.”
No. No. Everywhere, they’re everywhere.
It was a deep pit. Twisting snakes, all around.
Hissing. Her heart pounded and cold sweat drenched her skin.
Don’t move.
Don’t breathe. Oh God
. One slithered across her foot, and she clenched her
eyes shut. Another dropped from above to her shoulder and she screamed.
Run.
Get away
.
Help me
.
Christy Lewis heard the shrieking and was suddenly aware it came from her own
throat. She opened her eyes, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air.
Just a
dream
. She was in her own living room.
But not
. Her eyes darted side
to side as she took it in. Her furniture was moved. Pushed against the wall.
She lunged.
But not.
I can’t move
.
She struggled wildly, her mind fighting to clear the haze.
No snakes
,
she told herself.
Just a dream. But I still can’t move
. Her arms hugged
her body, her ankles burned like fire, her head… God, her head hurt.
Stop.
And think
.
She blinked hard, but her living room was still
changed. Her arms… She was sitting up, bound shoulder to waist, warm.
Trapped
.
Horror flooded her mind as the mist cleared away. Her ankles were tied to her
chair with rope and there was hideous pressure on her temples, like a… “A
vise?” she whispered in disbelief.
“Indeed, my dear. And a straitjacket,” he said and it
came back in a rush.
She’d gone to meet John. She’d waited for him, but
he’d never come.
But he was here
. She jerked around to see, crying out
at the shearing pain in her head.
“I suggest you not try to move,” he said dryly, still
behind her.
“Why?” she begged, agonized. Tears filled her eyes and
she blinked them away.
“Maybe because your empty
head
is in a
vise
?”
he said with contempt.
“No.” She wanted to sound angry, but instead she
whimpered in fear. “Why me?”
“Because I needed you,” he said logically. “And
because you’re here. And because I can. Pick one, it doesn’t matter which. Did
you like the snakes, Christy?”
She shuddered. It was her very worst fear. How did he
know? “Go to hell.”
He chuckled, sending another shiver racing coldly down
her spine. “Ladies firssssst,” he whispered, hissing into her ear. Her insides
rolled at the memory, at the total, immobilizing fear.
No. Stay focused. You have to get away. Pay attention.
Remember important things to tell the police. When you get away.
“They weren’t real,” she muttered.
“Those weren’t,” he agreed. “But
he
is.” A
gloved hand came into her peripheral vision, pointing. She could see a gold
ring through his opaque latex glove.
Remember the ring. Tell the cops about it.
But
he
is
.
His words suddenly registered as did the metal box on the floor. The size of a
tool box, it had holes in the top. Tied to the latch was twine that ran along
the floor, ending somewhere behind her. Behind her he moved and his hand
reappeared in her line of vision, holding one end of the twine. He yanked and
was then that she heard it.
A rattle. Ominous. Quiet. Her breath began to hitch.
“Not happening. Not real.”
“Oh, he’s real,” he whispered, “and he’s hungry and he
won’t like being disturbed. Shall we disturb him?”
“No,” she whimpered. She clenched her eyes closed but
he forced one of her eyes open, pinching her eyelid hard. He smeared something
cold under her eyebrow and quickly pressed her eyelid against it.
Glue
.
She struggled to blink, and could not.
“You’ll watch,” he said, angry now. “Because I say you
will.” He glued her other eye open, then brought something around her head. A
cage. Inside was something white, and completely still. A mouse. “Not dead,” he
said. “Blood’s still nice and warm. He’s sedated with the same drug I gave you.
I wonder if he’ll be half as terrified as you.”
He took the mouse from the cage and placed it against
her foot. She could feel its fur tickling her skin. She tried to flinch away,
but her ankles were tied too tightly. He yanked the twine again. Again she
heard the rattle. She panted, trying to fill her lungs.
Breathe. Can’t breathe. It’s coming. Run
. She struggled, tried to draw a breath to scream, but
all she could manage was a terrified mew.
Trapped. I’m trapped.
He yanked the string again and the front of the box
lowered with a clatter.
It
lifted
its head and stared.
At me
. Frozen, she could only stare back.
“It’s coming,” he whispered, his breath hot in her
ear. “For you.”
Monday, February 22, 6:15 a.m.
Harvey Farmer was tired. He’d followed Noah Webster for
hours, only to return home to an empty house. Dell was AWOL again. Unable to
sleep, he was staring stonily at his front door when it opened. Dell closed it,
surprise flickering in his eyes. “Where have you been?” Harvey asked, not
kindly.
“Out.”
Abruptly Harvey lurched to his feet. “Don’t you talk
to me like that, boy.”
Dell took a step back. “I’m not a boy. I can go where
I like.”
Harvey’s eyes narrowed as he smelled leftover perfume.
He grabbed his son’s arm, stunned when Dell grabbed it back. “Who is she?”
Harvey growled.
Dell’s smile was tight. “No one you’ll ever meet. Now
if you’ll excuse me…”
Harvey watched his son’s retreating back, his anger
rising. “If you fuck up what we’re doing because of some slut…”
Dell didn’t stop. “I won’t. Now, I’ve had a long
night. I’m going to sleep.”
Monday, February 22, 7:25 a.m.
Captain Bruce Abbott stopped at their desks. “You two
are here early. Progress on the Brisbane investigation? Did you get the report
on Dix’s victim? The first hanger?”
“Samantha Altman,” Noah said, “was thirty-five, lived
alone, recently divorced and recently unemployed. She was found by her parents,
who said she wasn’t depressed.”
“Parents always say that,” Abbott said. “It’s a coping
mechanism.”
Jack rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wake
up. “Dix is ripped up, Captain. He kept going over his scene, trying to figure
out what he’d missed.”
“Dix did what most of us would have done,” Abbott
said. “It quacked like a duck, so he called it a duck. Did he remember anything
that wasn’t in his report?”
“Only that the parents swore the clothes weren’t
hers,” Jack said. “Dix gave them back the dress and shoes. We’re hoping the
Altmans haven’t thrown them out.”
“Any connections between the two women?”
“Not so far,” Noah said. “Martha was a little older,
self-employed. Samantha was downsized from a manufacturing job and found two
days after she died, by her parents. Martha was dead at least a week, but no
one reported her missing. We didn’t find an address book, but whoever hung her
probably took it. Her desk was too damn clean.”
“The lab’s going over her computer, checking emails,
contacts,” Jack added. “She was a computer consultant, so we should at least
find a client list on her PC.”
“Motive? Any suspects?”
“Martha’s mother knows something,” Noah said. “We’ll
pay her another visit today.”
“And we still haven’t heard from Mrs. Kobrecki, the
building manager,” Jack said.
“Grandmother of the panty pervert,” Abbott said.
“He’s got a jacket,” Noah said. “Three complaints from
former building residents, all improper advances. Nothing came of them. It was
always he said, she said.”
“Go get the ‘she said’ from the women who lodged the
complaints. See if anything pops. And find out if the grandson would have any
contact with the first victim.” Abbott hesitated. “So for the million-dollar
question. Do we think there are any other victims?”
“No,” Noah said. “We’ve gone through the reports on
all the suicides in the Twin Cities going back two years. No scenes resemble
the two we’re dealing with.”
Abbott looked relieved. “That’s something, at least.
Have you heard from the ME?”