“You sold me the necklace.”
“It wasn’t much of a sales job. You wanted it quite badly. And it looked lovely on you too. I saw you wearing it when you came home last night.” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Shame you don’t have it with you.” His face brightened. “Hey, I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy you a new necklace, just like the old one. And a beautiful new dress too; we can’t have you wearing that plain gray skirt in here. Not that there’s anything wrong with your outfit, but I want you to look your very best for me. What’s your size?”
“Four.”
“I’ll remember that. Tomorrow, when I’m in the department store, I’ll buy you a gorgeous evening gown, and then when I come here after work, you can dress up for me. Won’t that be fun?”
“I’m sure it will. I love getting new clothes.”
“Women always do. They need to feel pretty and feminine. It’s in their nature, the same way a man needs to feel strong.”
Smiling happily, he shrugged off the brown coat and tossed it on the futon, next to the drawstring bag. Despite the uniform, he looked nothing like a policeman to her now. She wondered how she could ever have been fooled.
“In a moment I’ll fix you something to eat. I’ll bet you’re hungry.”
She had no appetite whatsoever. “Starved.”
“First, however, I have a little chore to take care of. It won’t take long.”
He lifted one of the shopping bags off the floor and set it down on the card table. Holstering the Beretta, he turned his back to her and leaned over the bag.
She tensed.
He’d just made a mistake.
The pistol’s checkered plastic grip shone in the candlelight. Almost within her reach.
“Unfortunately,” he was saying, “lunch won’t be anything fancy. You see, I’ve got no electricity here, no refrigerator or stove, so I’m limited in what I can prepare. I’ve been meaning to buy one of those portable generators, but I never seem to get around to it.”
“I’m sure”—her voice was steady—“whatever you make for me will be fine.”
She took a step toward him.
“Well, it won’t be as tasty as what you’re used to, I’ll bet.” He reached into the bag with both hands. “You must be a wonderful cook.”
“Not really.”
Another step.
The holstered automatic was inches away.
“Oh,” he said pleasantly, “you’re just being modest. I’m sure you can cook the pants off me.
Hey, that’s a funny way of putting it, don’t you think? Cook the
pants
off—”
She lunged for the gun. Her fingers closed over the handle. He spun to face her, and his hands flew free of the shopping bag and scrabbled at the holster—too late.
Wendy aimed the pistol at him from a foot away.
I did it, a voice in her mind exulted from a great distance. I did it, did it, did it.
“All right,” she said tensely, “put your hands up.” The words a legacy of every TV crime drama she’d ever watched.
He stared at her, his eyes almost comically wide, his mouth hanging open. Then he took a shambling step backward and thumped into the card table. The shopping bag fell over with a thud and whatever was inside rolled toward the edge.
“Come on, come on.” She was losing patience. “Put them up in the air.”
He went on staring, staring.
“Do it!” she screamed. “Do it, or I’ll shoot!”
His eyes narrowed. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. A calm, almost beatific smile.
“No, you won’t, Wendy,” he said with quiet certainty.
“Raise your hands.” A tremor skipped lightly over the words. She noticed that the gun was shaking. “Goddammit, raise them right
now
.”
He shook his head. “It’s no use. I know you won’t kill me. You can’t. And do you know why? Because, deep down, you love me, just as I love you. Oh, you may not want to admit it yet, even to yourself. But your heart knows how you really feel.” He reached out with one hand. “Now give me the gun, and let’s quit all this foolishness.”
She drew back the hammer with a sharp click. The sound was loud in the room.
He froze. She could read the bewilderment in his face, the hint of fear.
“Hey, Wendy, come on. Don’t joke around.”
She looked into his eyes.
“Hands up, you asshole,” she whispered. “Or I’ll blow a fucking hole in you. I swear to Christ I will.”
He swallowed. She saw his adam’s apple jerk once.
Slowly, very slowly, he began to lift his hands from his sides.
“Come on,” she breathed. “Get them up there.”
His hands were level with his shoulders.
“Over your head.”
As she watched, he raised his hands higher, still higher.
Wendy was sure she had him now. Oh, yes. She’d done it, all right. She’d taken control of the situation. The only thing left to do was—
A sharp crack, like a handclap in the silence.
Automatically she glanced down. An object was rolling on the floor. Something large and round and horribly familiar, which had dropped from the shopping bag on the card table. It came to rest at Wendy’s feet, staring up at her with green eyes. Jennifer’s eyes.
Her head. Jennifer Kutzlow’s
head
.
For one second Wendy was paralyzed by shock, and in that instant the Gryphon struck.
He grabbed the Beretta and jerked it sideways. Her finger squeezed the trigger reflexively. The gun went off like a bomb. She screamed. The recoil kicked her backward, loosening her grip, and the gun was ripped out of her hand. She stared into the black hole of the muzzle at point-blank range. The killer’s face loomed behind it, twisted into an extremity of hatred.
“Bitch,” he whispered. “Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.”
He shoved her against a wall, then pressed the muzzle to her forehead, bearing down painfully hard, as if trying to push the gleaming blue-black barrel right through her skull.
Why didn’t you shoot him when you had the chance? she was screaming to herself in helpless, hopeless terror. Why, Wendy? Why?
She waited for the gun to explode in her face. She could feel his index finger bearing down on the trigger. Could
feel
it.
Then, incredibly, the pressure on her forehead eased. Slowly he withdrew the pistol, then jerked his head in the direction of the card table.
“Sit down,” he snapped.
Heart thumping, she sat in one of the folding chairs.
“Now I’m going to look at my trophy. The one that fell on the floor because of you and your ... your irresponsible behavior. And if I find that it was damaged in any way, why, then I’ll just have to find myself a substitute, won’t I? Guess what that means, Wendy. Just guess.”
She didn’t have to guess.
Holstering the automatic once more, he knelt and examined Jennifer’s head with a connoisseur’s eye. Wendy stared at the head as he turned it over and over in his hands. It looked almost unreal, a wax replica, the smooth skin shiny in the candles’ wavering glow. The long neck, severed at its base, was stiff and straight like the stem of a mushroom.
Finally he rose to his feet, cupping the head in both hands. She waited for his verdict.
“You’re lucky,” he breathed. “She’s still fine. Still beautiful.” A smile flashed, lizard-quick. “Of course, not as beautiful as you.”
Wendy said nothing. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
Gingerly he placed the head on the table. From the second shopping bag he removed another head. Wendy recognized the woman’s face from TV news reports. Elizabeth Osborn, the Gryphon’s third victim.
Then it occurred to her that she had carried those bags into the trailer, had felt their contents swinging lightly against her calves as she mounted the stairs. She shuddered.
The Gryphon opened the hinged doors of the storage cabinet and took out two large glass jars half-filled with a colorless liquid. He unscrewed the lids and dropped the heads in.
“Formaldehyde,” he told her conversationally. The anger was gone from his voice. “Strictly speaking, formalin. Mixture of formaldehyde, water, and methyl alcohol. They use it to preserve biological specimens. You know, frogs and stuff.”
And stuff, she thought numbly. Yes. And stuff.
He replaced the lids and left the jars on the table. Wendy shifted her gaze from one to the other, unable to stop looking at the pale dead things inside. With their floating strands of kelplike hair and mushroom white flesh, the two pickled heads no longer looked human at all; they reminded her instead of some bizarre species of plant life cultivated in the darkness of this trailer like fungus in a basement.
The Gryphon admired his specimens for a long moment, then turned to her. He was outwardly composed, though a little sad.
“You really were going to shoot me, weren’t you?” He seemed astonished, as if he couldn’t bring himself to fully accept the idea. “You were ready to pull the trigger.”
“I ... I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Wendy. Remember, love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
She tasted something bad at the back of her mouth. She kept silent.
“I’m not asking for an apology. I simply want to know why you chose to act the way you did. I’ve said I love you. Don’t you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“Then ... why?”
“I’m afraid of you,” she answered. She didn’t know what else to say.
Her answer didn’t seem to offend him. If anything, he looked vaguely pleased.
“I understand. They all are. They should be,” he added, lowering his voice to inject a brief, stressed note of menace. “They. But not you. I won’t hurt you, my darling.”
She shivered, hearing those words from his mouth.
“I would never, ever hurt you,” he said. “Unless ...” He looked at her with less fondness than before, his glasses glinting in the candlelight. “Unless you make it necessary.”
“I understand.”
“Good. You’re a fighter, Wendy, and I admire that, but even so, there
is
a limit to what I’ll put up with.”
“I don’t blame you.”
He sighed. “I wish I hadn’t been so rough with you a few minutes ago. But I had to get hold of that gun before one of us got hurt.”
“Of course.”
“And I’m afraid I did lose my temper. I shouldn’t have called you ... that word. Such an ugly word. I didn’t mean it. I was upset, that’s all. But I think you knew that. Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
He reached out and ruffled her hair. She bit back the urge to scream.
“Friends again?” he asked.
She tried to answer, nearly choked, finally got the word out,
“Friends,” she said. Somehow she managed a smile.
“I’m glad.” Then the sadness returned to his face. “Even so, I’m afraid I just can’t trust you, Wendy. I can never tell when you might pull another one of your silly stunts.” He shrugged heavily. “It looks like you’ve given me no choice but to do something I’d very much hoped to avoid.”
“What’s that?” she whispered.
He ran his hand through her hair again, his fingers crawling over her scalp like beetles.
“I’m going to make sure you give me no further trouble, Wendy. No trouble at all.”
He removed a roll of heavy black electrician’s tape from the drawstring bag.
“Put your hands behind your back, please.”
She obeyed. A strip of tape was wound snugly around her wrists, binding them.
“That’s awfully tight.” She tried to keep her voice level, not to betray her mounting panic. “I think it’s cutting off my circulation.”
“Well, I suppose that’s what you get for being such a bad girl. I don’t take kindly to people using guns on me, Wendy. I don’t take kindly to it at all.” He pressed his mouth to her ear. “Better be glad I’m in love with you. Otherwise you could be in real trouble.”
She made no reply.
“Now how about if I fix you that lunch I promised?” He thrust his fist in front of her face and worked his thumb like a mouth. “Sorright?”
She nodded weakly. “Sorright.” The word came out like a cough.
Whistling, he busied himself with the preparations for their meal. Wendy sat in the chair and tugged uselessly at the tape, knowing there was no hope of working her hands free.
She’d been given one last chance, and she’d blown it.
No way out now. No escape.
29
Delgado drove fast, Lionel Robertson at his side. Hugging their tail was a second motor-pool sedan carrying Donna Wildman and Tom Gardner. Four black-and-whites loaded with eight patrol cops took up the rear.
The trip would be short; Rood’s address was less than half a mile from the station.
“Right in our backyard,” Delgado muttered as he steered the Caprice onto Nebraska Boulevard, heading west. “Right under our damn noses.”
Robertson glanced at him. “You say something, Seb?”
“Never mind. Look, when we get there, I want you to cover the rear exit, if there is one. I’m going in through the front door with Wildman and Gardner.”