Last Breath (11 page)

Caitlin was not like that. In the month that Treat had watched her, she had slept with no one in her home, and she had never been out all night, except when she was working. Treat owned a police scanner and recognized her unit’s call sign; he knew when she was on the street.

She had been celibate for this month—perhaps for much longer. And yet, to Treat, she was the most alluring one of all. And he was not the only one who felt that way. Miss January had garnered more votes than any other contestant.

He supposed it was the appeal of the unknown.

Miss November had left nothing to the imagination. She had depersonalized herself until she was merely a hunk of flesh, not only in the eyes of those who watched her, but in her own eyes as well. Treat was sure of that. He had looked long and hard into those eyes before he killed her, and he’d seen nothing there beyond dumb fear and an animal’s helpless confusion.

Caitlin could not be objectified that way. She had maintained her dignity. Thus, paradoxically, she made a better victim. Killing animals was stupid, ugly work. Killing a genuine person, a person of self-respect and integrity, a person with an uncorrupted soul—well, that was ever so much more satisfying.

With a secret smile at this thought, Treat rose from the floor and began to pack, transferring tonight’s necessities from his bureau to the tote bag on his bed, ticking off each item on his inventory.

Set of tattoo needles in different sizes.

Two bottles of ink—one maroon, the other black for line work.

Homemade stencil in an hourglass pattern.

Flashlight.

Knife—for self-defense only.

Bottle of chloroform and a rag.

Syringe filled with succinylcholine, a paralytic drug—in case the chloroform failed to subdue her.

Roll of tape to pinion her wrists and ankles.

Eyeless hood to cover her head during transit.

And gloves, of course—black leather gloves for his strangling hands.

Finished, he zipped up the tote bag. He checked the computer screen again. Caitlin was stowing the exercise rig under her bed. He watched as she took off her workout clothes and tossed them into a laundry basket, then toweled herself dry in the bathroom. She spent a few moments selecting an outfit to wear, and during that time she was naked on the screen of his computer—and, no doubt, on other screens as well. There were others who liked to watch.

But only one who was not content with mere watching.

She chose a yellow blouse and beige cargo shorts. Treat studied her as she dressed. He did not turn away even when she sat on the edge of her bed and laced up her sneakers. It gave him a peculiar feeling of intimacy with her to know that he was preparing for his evening just as she made preparations for hers. Almost like a real couple.

Soon they would share an intimacy purer and more intense than any lovers’ tryst. They would know the closeness of predator and prey, of torturer and victim. They would share the wordless language of suffering, and together they would experience the final delicious frisson of death.

Treat shook his head, dispelling the vision his imagination had conjured. He looked around him. No more daylight filtered through his shuttered windows. Darkness had come.

He entered his walk-in closet and began to select his attire for the evening’s entertainment. A formal affair, so he would wear black.

For Miss Osborn, on the other hand, the event was strictly come-as-you-are.

C.J. was making dinner when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock on the stove. Ten minutes to six. Salesperson, probably. She almost didn’t answer, but on the third ring she picked up the cordless unit mounted by the fridge. “Hello?”

“It’s me. Rick Tanner.”

Tanner had never called her. “Hey, Rick. What’s up?”

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“How I’m doing?” Carrying the phone, she returned to the stove and used a wooden spoon to push around some stir-fry vegetables in her frying pan. “We just talked at the station a couple hours ago.”

“Yeah, but at the time I didn’t know what had gone down in that hostage situation. How you climbed in through the rear window and took away the guy’s piece.”

She turned down the flame under the saucepan. The broccoli was starting to scorch. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Pedro’s. I’m finishing up a Code Seven right now.” Completing his dinner break, he meant.

Pedro’s was a Tex-Mex diner frequented by Newton cops and Sheriff’s deputies who worked the Florence area. “Some guys from your division have been talking. I think you impressed them, Killer.”

“You’re not supposed to call me that, remember?”

“It was a slip.”

“Anyway”—she ladled the cooked vegetables onto a plate—“I wasn’t trying to impress anybody. I just didn’t want ... well, you know ...”

“Another SWAT screw-up? Like the warehouse in Long Beach?”

She took a long moment before answering. Sometimes Tanner really could surprise her. “How’d you know I was thinking of that?”

“I didn’t. My partner did. He had to walk me through it real slow. I caught on eventually.”

“I’ll bet you caught on sooner than you’ll admit. You’re not so dumb, Tanner.”

“That’s what I keep telling everybody. But do they listen? Nah.”

There was an uncomfortable pause when both of them realized they had temporarily run out of conversation.

“Look,” Tanner said, “that’s all I called to say. And, uh, I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Ask away.”

“Is it a problem for you—me being SWAT? I mean, is that why ... well, you know?”

“Why I’ve been sort of unfriendly?”

“Right. Not that I don’t deserve it. I probably do. I’m an asshole. Even my best friends tell me so.”

“They might be underestimating you.” She looked out the kitchen window, into the darkness. The sun was long gone. Again she found herself wishing night didn’t come so early in the winter. “Look, you SWAT guys have a job to do, and most of the time you do it well. Anyway, you had nothing to do with the warehouse. That was LAPD Metro’s deal.”

“Sure but, you know, once we put on our vests and goggles, we pretty much all look alike.”

She laughed. “I don’t have anything against you. Rick. I’ve just been ... cautious since my divorce.”

“Yeah, I can understand that. And, uh, I’m sorry if I’ve been, you know, coming on too strong.”

She was touched. He had never apologized to her before, for anything. “Is this your sensitive side coming out?” she asked with a smile.

“Could be. I wouldn’t know. I’m not too familiar with my sensitive side. But if I’ve been, well ... acting like a jerk ...”

“Maybe a little. But I goad you into it, I think.”

“I guess I just need to, you know, chill out a little. Around you, I mean.”

“Maybe we could both play it that way. You don’t go for any three-point shots, and I won’t try so hard to block.”

“Basketball metaphors. I like that.”

“First
rakish
, now
metaphors
. I’m starting to think there’s more to you than you let on.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Uh, sorry—that was the old Rick Tanner.”

“The old Rick Tanner’s not all bad. Actually, I kind of like talking to him.” This was true, though she hadn’t realized it until right now.

“You’ll like the new guy even better.”

“I just might.”

“So we’re cool?”

She smiled. “We’re cool.” Absurdly she wondered if he was wearing his sunglasses right now, in the dark.

“Glad to hear it. Guess I’d better be going. Me and my partner are officially back on duty.”

C.J. surprised herself by holding him on the phone a minute longer. “Can I ask
you
something?”

“Sure.”

“You ever hear anything about the Four-H Club?”

“Bunch of farm kids trying to raise the world’s biggest tomato?”

“No, I mean—well, it’s sort of crazy, but I got this e-mail message welcoming me to the Four-H Club. Unsolicited and unsigned. I wondered if it meant anything.”

“Like a threat?”

“It’s probably nothing. But on my way home, I could’ve sworn there was somebody tailing me.”

“Description?”

“White van, cargo style, California plates. That’s all I got.”

“When did you receive the e-mail?”

“Today.”

“So first you’re followed, then you get this message?”

“It might not mean anything.”

“I’ll ask around. See if it rings any bells.”

“No, don’t bother.” She was sorry she had mentioned it. “It’s nothing. I’m being paranoid.”

“In this city, with the work we do, paranoid is a good way to be.”

“Don’t go to any trouble. I’m sure it’s a joke or something.”

“I’ll ask anyway. If I find out anything, I’ll call.”

“I think I’m just going crazy, that’s all.”

“I’ve been crazy for years. I can relate. Hey, Chang’s telling me we’re taking a one-eighty-seven in gangland. Gotta roll, Killer.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, smiling, but Tanner had already hung up.

She replaced the cordless handset in its charger, then carried her meal into the dining area. Picking at her veggies, sipping ice water, she thought about Rick Tanner. It seemed his playful come-ons weren’t so playful, after all. He really did care about her. Underneath the macho facade, there could be a person worth getting to know.

Or maybe not. It could be just another act, a subtler come-on. She wasn’t sure what to think. The divorce had left her wary, hypervigilant.

Still, calling had been a nice gesture on his part.

To be honest—she smiled sadly—it was more than Adam would have done.

Treat kept his white van in the underground parking garage of his apartment complex. The van, a Ford Econoline, was parked neatly between the stripes, flanked by a snazzy black Miata and a dented Honda Civic, a mix of vehicles that reflected the egalitarian mix of tenants in his building—rising corporate stars and showbiz types waiting for a break, recent college grads still living off their parents and senior citizens surviving on fixed incomes.

When he signed his lease six months ago, the landlord had boasted that the building represented a rich diversity of people. Treat remembered thinking that his own particular skills would no doubt broaden the spectrum of this diversity by more than a few degrees.

He had moved often in his life—from one apartment to another, from one city to another, from one state to another. A man like him could not afford to stay rooted in one spot. Before long, no doubt, he would be on the move again. He had learned not to press his luck. One more killing after tonight—he had already selected a delectable Miss February, and a hidden camera was installed, the feed ready to be sent to the Web site whenever he wished.

After February, his contribution to the site would end, and the Hourglass Killer would be no more.

Another persona discarded. Another performance completed.

He boarded his van and switched on the engine and headlights. The vehicle rumbled under him as he guided it out of the garage, into the street.

Caitlin’s home, which he had observed on many reconnaissance missions over the past month, was twenty miles from his apartment building. He put on a little speed, aware that he had to catch her before she left for her community service program.

Oh, yes, he knew all about that. He had watched her closely, learned the ins and outs of her schedule. It had been the same with Nikki Carter and Martha Eversol. When the time had come for their abductions, he had known their weekly routines intimately.

This was the thing that people—average people, simpleminded people, the people who surrounded him every day, who had been part of his world for all the forty-one years of his life—this was the thing that such people never understood. Because his approach to murder was random, they assumed it must be impersonal, a faceless stranger killing an equally faceless victim.

But there was nothing impersonal about it. He knew his victims. He remembered each one in exquisite, sensual detail. He even cherished them, in his way. Not that he would ever be so stupidly sentimental as to visit their graves or mail a consoling note to their bereaved. Such gestures were pointless—worse, they were dangerous. He thought of himself as a professional, and as such, he maintained an appropriate distance from the subjects of his work.

Still, he did care for them. This was, in fact, the only way he had ever learned to care for anybody. He had never understood what movies and songs were all about when they addressed the topic of love. He could not imagine wanting to share his life with another human being or even with a pet, except perhaps for his arachnids, who required nothing from him save the occasional cricket to feed on. The idea of devoting himself to another person, diluting the purity of his self-contained consciousness in the tepid waters of another soul, was revolting to him.

And yet ...

He did not seek to be entirely alone in the world. He sought a connection with others, a way to relate to fellow members of his species.

He had found that way, in the intimacy of homicide.

To select his victim ... to learn her name, study her movements, observe her friends and family, live her life vicariously for days or weeks ... then move in for the kill and
take
her, take her in the full meaning of the word,
possess
her more completely than any lover, force her submission to his will, his power, subjugate her utterly, then extinguish her life and leave only the rag doll of her body ...

This was the only closeness he knew, and all he ever wanted to know.

Treat smiled, aware that he would know that intimacy with Caitlin very soon. He would enter her house via the back door, where he was least likely to be observed. Render her unconscious with a whiff of chloroform—marvelous stuff, delightfully aromatic, safe in moderate doses, even used as an anesthetic in an earlier century. Of course he would remove his Webcam and other incriminating gear before leaving with Caitlin in his van.