She blinked, surprised by the question. “Guns N’ Roses.”
Rood rather liked the way those words went together. Guns, roses. Guns meant death, and roses meant love. Death and love—he could hardly imagine one without the other.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with them,” he said mildly.
“They’re pretty famous. They’ve got a real unique sound, you know? They ...”
Her words trailed off as she appeared to grasp the absurdity of discussing the merits of Guns N’ Roses with a man whose leather-gloved hands were clamped on her shoulders like an animal’s claws.
“They
are
good,” Rood agreed, although in truth he found such ugly, discordant noise intolerable. “But that music is awfully loud. I’m afraid it’s giving me a headache. Would you do me a favor and turn it down?”
“Turn it down?” Miss Kutzlow echoed as if she were unfamiliar with the concept, which, all things considered, might very well be the case. Then she smiled and nodded with desperate affability. “Oh, sure. No problem.”
Rood released her shoulders. She turned toward the stereo, and in one practiced motion he plucked the garrote from his pocket, grasped the wooden handles firmly in both hands, and tossed the noose over her head. She staggered backward, her hands flailing wildly, fingers scrabbling at the garrote in a desperate, doomed effort to pry it free. Rood twisted the handles clockwise, and the wire bit deep, severing the carotid arteries. She whipped her head crazily from side to side, gargling bloody froth, while her reddish- blonde hair was stained a purer shade of red.
Blindly she thrust her hands backward, seeking to claw Rood’s face. Laughing, he dodged her stabbing fingernails. She balanced on one leg and kicked backward with the other, striking again and again with the ferocious determination of the dying. The heel of her bare foot bruised Rood’s ankles and shins, but he barely felt the blows; the momentary twinges of pain were lost in the buzzing, humming cicada song of euphoria rising in his brain.
Rood tugged harder at the garrote, choking off the last of Miss Jennifer Kutzlow’s blood and breath. He felt the burning strain in his forearms, biceps, shoulders, felt the muscles of his neck standing out in sharp relief, felt the pressure of his gloved fingers on the garrote’s wooden handles. Looking down through a mist of sweat, past the bloody mop of the woman’s hair, he saw the tanned and freckled cleavage exposed in the vee of her T-shirt, her small firm breasts jogging frenetically while her body spasmed and sunfished and jackknifed. Whose hands, he wondered, had fondled those lovely breasts? Whose lips had kissed them? What secret pleasures had she known in lovers’ beds? She would not know pleasure again, any kind of pleasure, ever.
She was still struggling, but more weakly now, her energy ebbing, life and strength spiraling away, her arms and legs moving sluggishly, with the slow-motion languor of an underwater dancer. Finally her knees buckled, her legs folding under her like broken flower stems. Her body sagged. For a last moment her lithe arms beat listlessly at air, and then her head lolled back on her shoulders, her hair matted and sticky with blood, her eyes open, her green gaze lifted to Rood as if in supplication. He stared down at her, studying those round hopeless eyes brimming with tears, the tongue protruding from her mouth as if in a last futile gesture of defiance, the freckles on her nose and cheeks standing out against the bloodless paleness of her skin. Her death rattle was swallowed by the stereo.
Rood lifted the garrote from around her neck, peeling the blood-slick wire free of the deep wound it had gouged.
“You’re mine now. Miss Jennifer Kutzlow,” he whispered, his voice suddenly husky and so low that the pounding music rendered it inaudible even to his own ears. “All mine.”
Tenderly he kissed her forehead. Slowly his mouth traveled down her cheek to her lips, then farther down, to her neck, her cleavage, the round hill of a breast. He licked her skin, tasting the salty sweat glistening there. He pressed his lips to the T-shirt, his tongue probing her nipple through the thin fabric. She was beautiful. So beautiful.
A sudden frenzied need possessed him, the same need he’d felt after every previous kill. With frantic haste he tore at the T-shirt, stripping it from her body, then ripped off her shorts and pawed at her panties till they shredded in his hands. He tossed the bloody rags of her clothes in a corner. Gulping air, heart pounding, he lowered her body to the carpet and kissed her naked breasts, her smooth belly, her tanned legs. His gloved hands fumbled with the zipper of his fly. He mounted her and thrust himself inside, grinding his hips and gasping. An instant later it was over; he was empty and flaccid and satisfied.
Exhausted, he lay atop her, breathing hard, planting more wet kisses on her face. After what seemed like a long time, he got to his feet and zipped his pants again.
“Thank you, my dear,” Rood breathed, smiling down at the corpse. “I hope it was good for you too.”
He’d shared something with Miss Kutzlow tonight, something so special it must be honored. Although she was not on his list, he wished he could leave a statuette with her; she deserved that tribute. But he had only one clay figure, and that one was for Miss Alden upstairs. Well, he could take her head, at least.
Rood shut off the stereo, grateful to hear the throbbing din finally subside, then reached into his bag and removed the hacksaw. He set to work, guiding the tungsten-carbide blade back and forth in swift, regular strokes. When the head was finally detached, he dropped it in the jumbo Baggie he’d brought with him, then tied the plastic bag shut with a wire tab.
He looked down fondly at Miss Kutzlow’s remains, lying in a tangle of limbs on the white carpet that was now a lake of blood. When he checked his watch, he saw that the time was nearly nine o’clock. He’d spent more than half an hour with Miss Kutzlow. At any moment Miss Alden might return home, if she hadn’t already, and the opportunity for the ambush would be lost.
Quickly he went around the living room, switching off all the lights. Normally, when leaving the scene of a kill, he left the lights on and the door open, proudly displaying his work to the timid, craven world of sheep and ants. But for the moment he wanted the apartment dark and uninviting, to discourage visitors. It would hardly do to have someone find Miss Kutzlow’s remains before Rood had taken care of her upstairs neighbor.
In darkness he returned to the front door, stepping carefully over the body in his path. He found the canvas bag and hefted it. The bag was heavy, bulging with the trophy he’d won.
Opening the door a crack, he peered out. He saw no one. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him, careful to leave it unlocked so he could return later to switch on the lights before he left.
The sack of garbage lay on the ground where Miss Kutzlow had dropped it. Afraid the sack might attract attention and curiosity. Rood picked it up, carried it around to the side of the building, and deposited it in a trash dumpster. Then swiftly he mounted the outside staircase and hurried to Miss Alden’s apartment. The side window was still dark; no sound was audible from within. As best Rood could tell, she wasn’t home yet. To make certain, he knocked loudly, rapping his gloved knuckles on the door. No answer.
Her door was protected by a common mortise lock with a spring-latch bolt and a dead bolt, both of the pin-tumbler type. Defeating the dead bolt would require a delicate touch. Rood took off his gloves and flexed his fingers rhythmically, then rummaged in his bag until he found a tension wrench and a homemade wire tool. The tool was a six-inch length of medium-gauge wire that he’d bent with pliers into a hooked shape. The design wasn’t original; he’d followed a diagram in a book on locksmithing he’d found in the public library, a book that had told him everything he needed to know about picking locks.
Carefully he inserted the tension wrench in the keyway of the dead bolt, applying gentle pressure with his index finger in the direction of the lock’s rotation. With his other hand he slid the wire tool into the keyway, then drew it back and forth in a rapid sawing motion.
In theory, what he was doing was quite simple. Inside the lock there was a row of pins set in tiny pin wells, holding the lock cylinder and the central plug together. The right key would nudge those pins up into the pin wells, liberating the plug from the cylinder and allowing it to turn independently, thus retracting the dead bolt. Rood, of course, had no key. But if his wire tool could bump the pins into the desired alignment just for an instant, the pressure of the tension wrench should be enough to turn the plug.
Yes, easy in theory. But although he’d practiced the technique on the locks in his own apartment for many hours, this was the first time he’d tried it in the field. Mrs. Julia Stern had not engaged the dead bolt before taking her shower. Miss Rebecca Morris had obligingly opened the garage door for him. And most recently he’d chosen to break Miss Elizabeth Osborn’s window rather than struggle to defeat the intimidating locks on her front door.
Rood was sweating now. His glasses slid down his nose. He jiggled the wire hook desperately. Nothing happened.
Suppose he couldn’t open the door. The only way he could then get inside would be to break the window, and that was no good; when his quarry saw the damage, she would never fall for his trap. No, he had to defeat the lock, simply
had
to.
With a click of tumblers, the plug rotated ninety degrees, and the dead bolt was released.
Rood smiled, expelling a shaky breath. He’d done it.
Now only the latch bolt remained.
From his bag he removed a small sheet-metal loid, which he slipped between the door and the strike plate. He pushed, exerting pressure on the bevel edge of the latch. The latch depressed, the doorknob turned, the door swung open.
He was in.
Before entering, he pulled on his gloves once more, then wiped off the doorknob and the locks, in case he’d inadvertently left prints. Then he crept into the darkness, closing the door behind him. The spring latch snicked into place automatically. Because he wanted to leave no sign that the locks had been tampered with, he turned the knob that slid the dead bolt back into its socket.
He didn’t dare turn on a lamp. If Miss Alden saw a light in her window, she would know someone was inside. Instead he removed the Micro-Lite miniature flash from his bag and switched it on, cupping the beam with his hand to narrow its focus.
He directed the flashlight at different parts of the living room. As best he could tell, the apartment’s layout was identical to that of the unit below. The same kitchenette, the same corner windows, the same hallway leading, presumably, to a bedroom and bath. He swept the faint funnel of light over a sofa, a coffee table, an armchair positioned beside a potted plant nearly as tall as he was. A man could easily hide behind that chair, concealed by its bulk and by the plant’s leaves. Perfect.
With nothing else to do while he waited, Rood prowled the apartment, examining the contents of closets and drawers, trying to get a sense of Miss Alden’s personal life. He noted few dates marked on the calendar in her bedroom, few scribbles on the notepad by her phone. Apparently she was not a very social person.
Returning to the living room, he observed a telephone answering machine on an end table by the sofa. The red LED was not blinking; no messages had been recorded since the machine had last been used. Still, there might be old messages on the tape, messages that had never been erased.
Curious, Rood pressed the button marked Playback. A man’s voice crackled over the speaker.
“Wendy, this is Jeffrey. Calling to see if you wanted to catch a movie tonight. There’s a Kurosawa film playing at the Nuart. I’ll be home all afternoon.” He gave his number, then hung up. The tape beeped. A prior message, partly recorded over, came on in midsentence. The same man’s voice “... thinking of checking out this Ethiopian place on Melrose.” As before, Jeffrey left his home number. Another beep, then the tail end of a still earlier message. “... not usually real big on these equity-waiver shows, but I’ve heard this one’s not bad.” Once more, his number, the click of a cradled handset, a beep.
Silence.
Rood wondered if it was only coincidence that all three messages had been left by this Jeffrey person. Didn’t Miss Alden have any other friends, any family?
He shook his head sadly. He had a feeling that the woman led a lonely life. Well, she would not be living it much longer.
The rumble of a car engine cut into his thoughts.
He padded across the living room to the corner windows. Pressing his face to the glass, he peered out. Through the scrim of the fig tree’s branches, he saw a blue Honda Civic park in a reserved space at the side of the building.
A moment later Miss Alden emerged from the car.
“You’re mine,” Rood told the distant figure. “All mine.”
Hastily he concealed himself behind the chair, shoving the potted plant out of the way to get into position, then pulling it back into place. With a stab of disgust he realized that the plant was fake, a plastic replica, a lifeless thing. Such artful imitations repelled him. He would no more have a phony plant in his home than take a mannequin’s head as his prize.
Crouching low on his haunches, hugging the drawstring bag close to him, running his hands over the lumpy shape inside, Rood waited.
Footsteps pattered up the stairs, then drummed on the gallery. A key rattled first in one keyhole, then the other, drawing back both bolts. The door opened. The lights came on.