From behind a mesh of leaves. Rood stared at Miss Wendy Alden. She paused in the doorway, glancing nervously around the living room in a way that reminded Rood of a startled doe scenting the woods for danger. For a second he was sure she sensed his presence; then he realized she must always enter a room this way, alert to any possible threat.
A moment later she relaxed visibly, and Rood knew she had no inkling anything was wrong.
She entered the apartment, shut and locked the door behind her, and vanished down the hallway immediately to his left. Rood remained hidden, even though he knew it would be easy enough to kill her now. He wanted to watch her a little longer.
As he awaited her return, his right hand crept into the pocket of his coat and closed over the garrote, gripping it tight.
A considerable length of time passed before Miss Alden emerged from the hall. When she did, she was wearing white satin pajamas, a blue terry-cloth robe, and slippers, an outfit that made her look girlish and vulnerable and appealing. Her hair had been unclipped to fall loosely over her shoulders. Idly Rood reflected that she ought to wear it that way all the time. The advice would do her no good now, of course. But he would keep it in mind when he prepared her head for display.
She crossed the living room, taking dainty steps, soundless as a shadow. Entering the kitchenette, she turned on the overhead light, then fixed herself something to eat. Rood peered out from behind the chair, observing her over the chest-high counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. The portable TV on the counter came on, and a newscaster’s voice said something about the Gryphon; with surprising abruptness Miss Alden snapped the TV off. Rood frowned, disappointed; he would have liked to hear that report.
He watched as she put a sliced apple on a plate, poured a glass of milk, and carried her snack to a table in the far corner of the room. She sat with her back to him, eating and looking out the windows at the leaves of the windblown fig tree scraping the glass. He wondered what she was thinking.
After a while he became aware of a certain stiffness in his legs, bent in a half-crouch. Slowly he bobbed up and down, trying to exercise his muscles and loosen his joints. His right knee creaked loudly in protest.
Miss Alden stiffened in her chair.
She heard that, Rood thought, dismayed. She must have.
He sank down, well out of sight, and remained there for a silent count of fifty. His heart was beating fast, his body charged with tension. He was ready to leap into action if she showed the slightest hint of alarm.
But when he looked out from behind the chair, he found she’d gone back to her snack.
He breathed easy once more.
A few moments passed, during which time Rood promised himself he wouldn’t shift his position again no matter what, for fear of making another telltale sound and bringing this most pleasurable round of the game to a premature conclusion. But he couldn’t help it. He could think of nothing but the numbness in his ankles where blood was pooling, the tingly pins-and-needles sensation stitching pain up his calves. His legs seemed to be going to sleep below the knees, and he knew he couldn’t allow that; it was imperative he have the mobility to strike at will.
As quietly as possible he flexed his knees to restore his circulation. But his caution was wasted. His right knee creaked as it had before.
Damn.
He decided to risk a peek in her direction to see if she’d heard. As bad luck would have it, he peered over the top of the chair in the exact moment when she was turning in her seat. He ducked. He didn’t know if she’d seen him or not. She might have.
There was nothing he could do but wait. If she showed any sign of alarm, he would have to finish the job right now.
But she did nothing suspicious. She merely sat there for a few minutes, then carried her plate and her glass into the kitchen. Rood heard running water and the low clatter of dishes. She was humming softly, some tune he didn’t recognize, a pleasant, soothing melody, perhaps a love song or a lullaby. Whatever it was, he much preferred it to Miss Kutzlow’s high-volume noise.
Still humming to herself, she left the kitchen and recrossed the living room. Rood huddled behind the chair, feeling the floorboards vibrate gently under the soft tread of her slippered feet.
Then suddenly, shockingly, she broke into a run, racing for the front door.
She’s onto me, Rood’s mind screamed.
And she was quick, yes—but not quick enough. Rood leaped to his feet, covered the distance between them in two strides, and kicked the door shut as it was opening under her hand. Then the garrote was around her neck, and everything was fine, just fine.
He had great fun making her say the words he liked to hear; her stammering terror, her confusion, her inability to remember the lines he fed her, all served only to increase his enjoyment of the ritual. And her pathetic little monologue listing all the trivial, inane reasons that justified her continued existence—that was deliciously amusing as well. Rood was almost sorry to end their encounter. But he was tired; though tonight’s game had gone wonderfully well, it had taken a lot out of him. He was ready to go home and put the two new heads in the freezer next to Miss Osborn’s, then relax in bed with his memories and smile himself to sleep.
Rood slowly pulled the garrote tight, taking care not to gouge deeply enough to open her arteries, not yet; first he wanted to hear her choked, gargling protests, wanted to get them on tape. He was still reveling in the effortless pleasure of the kill when silver flashed in Miss Alden’s right hand. Her fist arrowed backward. Pain hit him. A shaft of hard, steely pain in his side, like a hot wire plunged into his flesh. He looked down in numb bewilderment and saw a knife jutting out of his body at a crazy angle.
A knife.
She’d stabbed him—drawn blood—the bitch. The evil, butchering little
bitch
.
The jolt of mingled shock and agony loosened his grip on the garrote. The handles slipped from his fingers. Miss Alden pulled free of him, leaving the knife embedded in his side, and lunged for the door. Rood watched as if in a trance. He knew she was getting away, knew he ought to stop her, but he seemed unable to react; he stood staring as if from some great distance as she yanked the door open and ran outside onto the gallery. Her footsteps beat a ragged tattoo on the stairs, then faded with distance, diminishing to silence. She was gone.
Gone
.
Blinking, Rood snapped alert.
Slowly he closed his fist over the handle of the knife and pulled the blade free. Blood leaked from the wound. His own blood. The sight sickened him. He coughed, doubled over, as black spots flickered before his eyes. He was going to pass out. But he couldn’t. If he did, they would find him here. They. The police. They would find him, arrest him, throw him in a cell. And when he regained consciousness, he would find Detective Sebastián Delgado staring down at him, smiling in triumph.
No. No.
No
.
Steadying himself. Rood forced down the waves of faintness that threatened to wash him away. After a few moments he was certain he was all right. He felt a trifle light-headed, and there was a liquid looseness in his knees he didn’t like, but he was still strong, still in control.
He had no idea how long it would take Miss Alden to summon help, but he surely wasn’t going to hang around and find out. He retrieved the garrote from the floor and slipped it in his pocket, then dropped the bloody knife in his canvas bag. Carrying the bag, he lurched out the door and down the staircase.
He reached Miss Kutzlow’s apartment, pushed open the unlocked door, then quickly circled the living room and the kitchen, switching on all the lights. Part of him knew it was absurd to waste precious seconds on this ritual, so meaningless now, when the police might be racing to the scene. But he didn’t care. He would not run like a rabbit before the hounds. He would depart with dignity—at least, as much dignity as possible under these trying circumstances. He would show them that despite his regrettable failure in the apartment upstairs, he was still a man to be feared; he was still the Gryphon.
He left Miss Kutzlow’s door wide open, the light spilling out onto the walkway, inviting any passerby to look inside and get a glimpse of hell. Then he staggered down the street to his Falcon, climbed behind the wheel, and sped off.
For twenty minutes he drove aimlessly, putting distance between himself and the crime scene, before finally parking on a quiet street to examine the wound. It was not bleeding too badly. He had been lucky, he saw; the blade had missed his abdomen and merely passed through the small fold of fat at his waist—what some people would call a love handle. The injury was painful, but not serious; no arteries or internal organs had been damaged.
Of course he ought to go to the hospital anyway, but he didn’t dare. The police would alert the staffs at all the local emergency rooms to be on the lookout for any man with a stab wound. No, he would have to deal with this little problem on his own. Like the physician of the proverb, he was obliged to heal himself.
He removed the knife from the drawstring bag and held it up to the glow of a streetlight, studying it. A common kitchen knife. Kitchen. So that was where she got it. When she was in the kitchen, humming to herself and pretending to do the dishes. She must have hidden the knife in her robe. Then, when he ambushed her, she in turn had ambushed him. And had beaten him, quite literally, at his own game.
But how could she have been capable of a deception like that? He’d seen no evidence of icy coolness or low cunning or even simple courage in her. Quite the contrary. She’d been so witlessly flustered and starkly terrified she couldn’t even get her lines straight. Unless her fear had been only an act. Yes. That must be it. She’d never been afraid at all. She’d been toying with him, feigning innocence and helplessness, while poised to strike and kill. Kill ...
For the first time. Rood realized how close he’d come to dying tonight. If she’d stabbed him in the stomach ... or the heart ...
Suddenly his hands were shaking. For a moment, just one moment, he considered forgetting all about Miss Wendy Alden. He could count Miss Kutzlow as his victim and call tonight’s contest a success.
Then he shook his head, angry at himself. The rules of the game were clear. Miss Alden, not Miss Kutzlow, was the player he’d selected. Now he must play out the game to its conclusion.
Besides, he wanted revenge. He hated that bitch.
She’d tried to
kill
him, for God’s sake.
But she’d failed. And that was her mistake. A fatal mistake. He would not rest until he had her in his hands again. And when he did, he would take her life slowly, not with the garrote, but with the knife she’d used on him. He would cut her to pieces while she grunted and groaned, unable to scream; it was hard to scream without a tongue.
“You’ll be sorry, Miss Wendy lying-slut Alden,” Rood said aloud, his voice hollow in the confines of the car. “Oh, yes, I swear, you’ll be oh-so-very sorry you fucked with me.”
12
The police station on Butler Avenue was a bedlam of ringing telephones, clacking typewriters, and screams. The screams were in Spanish, and they came from a man in handcuffs as he was led away toward a lockup area. His head whipsawed crazily; streamers of spit sprayed from his mouth. Wendy stared at him in paralyzed fascination.
Patrol Officer Sanchez touched her arm. She jumped.
“This way, Miss Alden.”
She followed obediently. Sanchez showed her into a small, windowless office smelling of stale coffee. One of the two fluorescent panels was out, leaving the room half in shadow.
‘“Would you like something to drink?” Sanchez asked, then smiled. “I mean coffee, tea, juice. I can’t offer you the hard stuff.”
“Just water would be fine.”
He returned with a glass of water and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said, sipping it gratefully.
“The detective will be with you in just a minute.” Sanchez left, shutting the door.
Wendy sat in a straightback chair. She shivered, feeling wet and cold. Her pajamas and robe, tacky with sweat, clung to her skin in damp patches.
Her bare toes poked through a hole in the one slipper she was still wearing. She wrapped herself more tightly in the blanket she’d been given, then sneezed.
Wendy, she told herself, are you ever a mess.
But at least she wasn’t dead.
The garrote had been tightening around her neck when she remembered the knife. The knife she’d used to carve and core the apple. The knife she’d stowed in a pocket of her robe before leaving the kitchen. In her panic she’d forgotten it. Forgotten the only weapon she had.
Her right hand dived into her pocket and closed over the handle. With all her strength she thrust her arm backward and drove the blade into the killer’s body.
He made a sound that was more than a croak, not quite a shout. The garrote fell from his hands. She flung open the door and fled.
The gallery streaked under her feet like a sheet of ice. She bounded down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, an act of sheer recklessness she’d never attempted before in her life, not even as a child. When she reached ground level she shot a terrified glance over her shoulder, certain the Gryphon would be following her, wielding the bloody knife in one fist and the garrote in the other. No one was there.