Authors: Elizabeth Adler
He studied Blake’s credentials again. He was forty-eight years old, and for such a comparatively young doctor, he had held a lot of different positions, moving around the country from San Francisco, to Los Angeles, to Chicago, to St. Louis, to Boston. He had impeccable credentials from good medical schools, and he had been employed by the City of Boston as a medical examiner for
the past three years. On the personal side, he had been a widower for seven years, lived alone in an apartment in Cambridge, and drove a gray Volvo.
Something clicked in Harry’s mind. He remembered the Volvo in the hospital parking lot and Squeeze frantically trying to get in there, barking and snarling. He even remembered the number. Did it belong to Blake? But it couldn’t be him—he worked with the cops, they all knew him.
He said uneasily to Rossetti, “What do you know about Dr. Blake?”
“Bill Blake?” Rossetti looked surprised. “He’s okay, I guess. Kinda odd, you know, but that’s just a personal feeling. Any guy who does what he does for a living seems odd to me.”
Harry pictured the chilly white-tile autopsy room with the air conditioning blasting and Blake humming with the knife poised over Suzie Walker’s naked body.
Something wasn’t right. He felt it in his bones.
Acting on a hunch, he called the Seattle hospital where Mal had told him Wil Ethan had worked as an intern. He asked them to double-check on a William or Bill Blake. An hour later, they got back to him. A Dr. William E. Blake had been an intern there many years ago.
“William
Ethan
Blake,” Harry said triumphantly to Rossetti.
“He’s our man.”
Dr. Blake parked the gunmetal Volvo in his usual spot. He strode into the hospital and walked straight into a uniformed cop.
“Sorry, sir.” The uniform stepped back respectfully, and Blake breathed again.
“What’s happening?” he asked, looking nervously over his shoulder.
The cop knew Dr. Blake was the medical examiner—he had seen him at several homicides and had no reason not
to trust him. “The chief placed guards on all the entrances, Dr. Blake,” he replied. “There’s a young patient he wants protected.”
“A student?” Blake knew the answer before he even replied.
“That’s right, doctor.”
“I guess Detective Jordan must be in charge,” Blake said coolly. “We’ve done a lot of work together. I hope it’s not going to be another disaster for him.”
“We hope not, sir.”
“Jordan’s not here, is he?” he asked, perfectly at ease.
“No, sir, he’s back at the precinct. But we’re expecting him.”
“I wonder, is Miss Malone with him?”
“She flew in from New York, sir, a couple of hours ago.”
He walked as calmly as he could down the hall, then exited by the fire door and sprinted back to the parking lot. He sat in the Volvo thinking about what to do. He knew it was over and he wondered how long he had before they got on to him. He didn’t care—all he cared about was the bitch who had ruined him.
D
R. BLAKE CRUISED SLOWLY
down Charles Street, keeping an eye out for patrol cars. He swung right on Pinkney, pulled into a no-parking zone on the corner of Louisburg Square, and slapped an “Emergency Doctor” sign on his dashboard.
From where he was parked, he could see the house. Only one light was showing, and it came from Harry’s garden-level apartment. If Harry was on his way to the hospital, she must be in there alone.
He pulled off his nice tweed jacket and threw it onto the passenger seat.
Rage welled inside him, as he thought of what Mary Mallory had done. She had exposed him, spoiled his master plan, ruined his meticulous life. His hands were trembling. He thrust them into his pockets, and his fingers closed around the knife in its plastic sheath.
He watched the house for a few minutes until he was sure no cops were lurking in the shadows. No one came in or out; nobody was around. He strolled across the street. Light shone from the big bow window on the left; the curtains were drawn, and the sound of Sade singing “Cool Operator” filtered into the night. He smiled grimly—it was an appropriate choice.
At the top of the shallow front steps, he rang the bell, glancing uneasily over his shoulder into the lamp-lit street. Inside, a dog barked.
“Quiet, Squeeze,” Mal said, clutching his collar. She stared nervously at the door, wondering who it could be. It rang a second time. Squeeze was on his hind legs, barking his head off. “Who is it?” she called out shakily.
“Police, ma’am. Officer Ford. The Prof called the chief, asked him to put a guard on you. If you don’t mind, Miss Malone, I’d like to come inside for a few minutes, check the rear entrance, make sure you’re secure.”
Mal breathed a sigh of relief. He must be all right because he had called Harry the Prof.
She shut Squeeze in the bedroom. She could hear him whining as she hurried back across the hall and opened the front door.
His foot was inside. He thrust the door into her chest, pushed her backward, slammed the door shut. He had her in an armlock, her back pressed to him, his hand over her mouth. From the bedroom, the dog barked loudly.
She struggled, and he smiled, enjoying her helplessness. It was one of the parts he always liked best.
“You opened your big mouth, Mary Mallory,” he whispered into her ear. “I warned you what would happen if you told. Everything was fine. I left you alone, you left me alone. Now you’ve gone and spoiled it all.” He was scowling like a petulant schoolboy whose treat had been taken away from him. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he murmured, sliding the knife from his pocket.
His grip relaxed for a split second, and she jammed her elbows back as hard as she could. They sank into something soft, and he gasped for air.
She had got him in the solar plexus, the area just below his sternum, with a vulnerable network of nerves. He doubled over in pain, letting go of her as the air whooshed out of him.
She was screaming, making for the door, and the dog was barking loudly. He panicked. Someone was sure to hear, to come running….
He threw himself after her in a rugby tackle, grabbing her by the ankles. She crashed to the floor, twisting, pulling herself away. He gripped his fingers into her short crop of hair, jerked her head back, and thrust his knee into the base of her spine. “Be quiet,” he snarled.
The knife was at her throat, but she was still screaming. He was sweating with the effort. The others had not been like this—she was stronger than he had expected. He ran the knife across the soft flesh along her collarbone.
Mal felt blood oozing and the cold steel against her throat. She was catapulted back in time to that long-ago night, on the deserted road with the mist wreathing through the leafless trees. The ugly image of him, half naked after he had violated her, flashed through her mind. She remembered the press of cold steel against her flesh then, and his calmness as he had run the blade across her throat, testing it….
Now she could feel his eyes burning into her, willing her to see, to look at him, before he killed her…. They drew hers like a magnet.
She had to look at him
. He stared into her eyes.
He knew he finally had her. He was in control again.
“So, Mary Mallory,” he said, relaxing and beginning to enjoy himself. “I see you’ve learned a thing or two since we last met.” He gave a sneering little bark of a laugh. “What a pathetic little nobody you were. The surprise of it was that you actually thought a man like myself would be interested in you.” He laughed again. “Cheap feminine vanity was what brought your downfall, not me, Mary Mallory.”
Mal stared into the eyes that had haunted her dreams for almost two decades. They were drilling into hers as he told her what a poor imitation of a woman she had been when he met her, how he had known she would be easy, how he had despised her.
Hatred bloomed like a giant flower inside her. The
knife was at her throat, but she was no longer afraid. She felt immune from his taunts, immune from his evil.
Closing her eyes, she prayed for strength, telling herself to remember what this man had done to her, how he almost ruined her life, the anguish he had caused her. She thought of Rachel and of Mary Ann, of Summer Young and Suzie. And then of her own unknown daughter, who had so nearly been his next victim. And she knew somehow she had to kill him.
He was enjoying himself, telling her what he was going to do to her. He wanted her to hear every detail of what was about to happen to her, the pain she would suffer, the hell she was about to enter.
“Remember, I’m a pathologist,” he whispered. “I’m an expert. Except I usually dissect people
after
they are dead.” He laughed at his own joke as he told her graphically exactly which parts of her he was planning to cut out and what he would do with her.
Mal shut out his obscenities and concentrated on gathering her strength. Somewhere in the background, she could hear Squeeze barking and his claws on the bedroom door, but this was no time to tell herself what a fool she had been to shut him in.
She was going to die …. Oh Harry, Harry
, she thought.
I want so badly to see you again
.
He looked up, frowning. The dog was becoming a problem. The neighbors would be sure to hear him and come over to complain or call the police. He had to get her out of here. He was on his knees, bending over her. “Get up, bitch,” he said, grasping her arm and pulling at her.
It was her only chance. She twisted round and stabbed her fingers in his eyes. He cried out in pain, let go of her. She kicked out at him—he grabbed her foot, and she fell to the floor. She screamed, fighting with her elbows, knees, fists. The rug twisted under his feet, and he came
crashing down next to her. Lashing out with the knife, he caught her on the cheek, but she didn’t even feel it. She was engulfed by rage.
She was no longer fighting for her life. She was fighting for his death.
Squeeze made a final leap at the door handle. He zapped it with his paw the way he did the snooze button on the alarm clock, and at last it swung open. He hurled himself down the hall, fangs bared in a snarl.
Too late, Blake saw him coming. Squeeze launched himself through the air and sank his teeth into Blake’s shoulder.
Mal scrambled to her feet. Harry had told her the dog was like Houdini—he could squeeze out of anywhere, including his bedroom. But she wasn’t finished yet—she was crazy to kill him, to kill…. She ran to the kitchen to get a knife.
The dog sank his teeth into Blake’s throat, and he screamed. His fingers scrabbled on the carpet, he found the knife. He told himself he was cleverer than the dog, he was cleverer than all of them. And he drove the knife into the dog’s chest.
Mal came running from the kitchen with Harry’s butcher’s knife. She heard Squeeze whimper and saw him stagger backward. His legs trembled, his head drooped, and with a whimper he sank to the floor.
“Oh, God,” she screamed, horrified. Tremors ran through the dog’s body, rippling his thick silver coat. Blake was hauling himself to his feet. He was covered in blood, and she could see where the dog had ripped his neck open.
They stared at each other for what seemed an endless moment.
Mal stood, the knife lifted, ready to strike. She could kill him now, while he was weak. He turned and staggered
to the door. His eyes were full of hatred as they met hers again. Then he was gone.
The knife dropped to the floor with a clatter. She put her head in her hands, moaning. She couldn’t do it—
she just could not do it. If she did, then she would be evil like him
. She ran to the door, slammed it, and locked it.
Tears pricked her eyes as she looked at Squeeze. Blood was seeping into the rug all around him. Dropping to her knees, she touched his soft fur. His beautiful pale blue eyes looked at her. He was panting, in quick short breaths, his tongue lolling from his mouth.
She ran to the phone, dialed the emergency police number, and said that Dr. Blake had just been there. He had tried to kill her but had almost killed the dog instead. They should tell Detective Harry Jordan the killer was on the loose again. And she was going to need a vet right away.
Dr. Bill Blake knew he did not have much time if he was to complete what he had to do, but he had promised his mother, and he always kept his promises to her.
He got in the Volvo, wrapped the expensive silk scarf over the wound in his neck, put on his jacket, and smoothed back his hair. It was imperative that he look normal and calm, a regular citizen on his way home. They had his license number, but it would lead them to his Cambridge pied-à-terre, because that was the only address listed on his records. Still, the concierge there would be sure to tell them where his home was, so he had to get there first.
Traffic was minimal, the green lights were with him, and he did not encounter a single patrol car. It was as though his mother were helping him, he thought with a little smile. Blood was seeping through his sweater, and he pulled the jacket tighter. He tried not to think about the pain, concentrating on his driving.
It seemed no time before he was turning into his manicured suburban street. There were no patrol cars with flashing lights, and he felt invincible again as he drove into the garage. He was home. He had beaten them after all.
He locked the garage and let himself into the house, bolting the door after him. Staggering into the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and took out the vodka, filled a tumbler with it, and took a long drink. He felt lethargic and weak, and his hand shook. He had lost a lot of blood. He was a doctor, he knew what was happening to him, and he knew he had to hurry. He downed the rest of the vodka, then he walked, step by slow step, up the stairs.
At the door to the special room, he sank to his knees. He was breathing heavily. Blood flowed freely from the wound in his neck, spattering the carpet, but he no longer cared. He fumbled in his shirt for the key and scrabbled at the lock trying to fit it in. It took all his effort to turn it.
The room was in darkness, except for the dim greenish glow from the big aquarium along one wall. He was on his hands and knees now, crawling painfully toward the shining sea-green tank. The liquid gurgled gently, soothingly, and the light in the tank had a strange underwater radiance.