Sleep With The Lights On (20 page)

Dr. Vosberg gave a short bark of laughter. “I guess you’re right. This would sound insane to a judge.”

“Yeah.” Mason sighed. “Sounded insane to
me,
too, which is why I came to see you.”

“So that I could tell you it’s not insane at all? That I believe it’s entirely possible, and, in this case, even probable?”

Mason looked at him, waiting.

The doctor nodded. “In my opinion, it is both possible and probable, Detective Brown, that a patient who received body parts from a killer became a killer himself. And I think that if it happened once, it could happen again to other recipients of organs from this same donor.”

Mason was stunned. And scared. “A nurse told me one donor could be used to help over a hundred patients.”

Vosberg nodded. “I understand your alarm, but no, I don’t believe every one of them would turn to killing. Your visionary hasn’t, after all.” He shrugged, then he looked down at his tea as if reading answers there. “No, I would expect most people would not be compatible with such urges. Most would drown them out with their own moral compass, bury them, reject them. This killer would have to find a host that was compatible.” He nodded as the thoughts seemed to gel in his mind. “The man who committed suicide, he must have been receptive to the notion of committing murder but afterward couldn’t live with what he’d done, so he took his own life and the killer inside him moved on.”

“You say that like the killer’s a separate being.”

“He’s the evil part of the original donor. The part that lived on beyond him. The part that didn’t die. Or, should I say, parts. In times past, he might have been seen as a demon.”

Mason lowered his head, shaking it. “I don’t believe in demons, Doctor.”

“Neither do I. No, my research is leaning toward the notion that our habits, tastes and tendencies are largely due to unique mutations in our DNA. Mutations that make each of us different from every other human being. But don’t you see, Detective Brown? The DNA lives in every single cell. It goes with the organs into their new bodies. This is why so many organ recipients experience cravings for the donor’s favorite foods, have flashes of the donor’s memories and so much more. It’s all in my boo—”

“I know, I read it. Tell me, are any of your...colleagues on board with this theory of yours? About cellular consciousness?”

“No. No, but I’m gathering more data all the time.”

“I see.” So he was really nothing but a quack with a wild and unproven theory. Mason liked evidence, facts,
proof
. Until he had it, he would stick with the old adage that the simplest solution was usually the right one.

The doctor sighed. “This must be quite upsetting to the person having the visions. I imagine it would help her immensely if you would let her know that you don’t think she’s crazy.”

Mason nodded, started to get up, then stopped and turned. “How do you know it’s a she?”

“I believe I met her last Wednesday.”

What had Rachel said about last Wednesday? Right, that support group where she’d met Terry Cobb, or Terry Skullbones as she called him.

“You run the support group?”

Vosberg nodded. “Corneal grafts aren’t so common that there would likely be two in the same relatively small geographic area within such a narrow timeframe.”

Mason had no doubt that Rachel had sought out the support group and Dr. Vosberg for the same reason he had. To ask questions. To try to figure out what was going on. She was a wannabe sleuth if he’d ever met one. And she was a natural at it, too. He wondered if she’d managed to get any further than he had.

He got up from his chair, and the doc did likewise, extending his hand across the desk. Mason shook it. “Thank you very much for your time, Doctor. And again, this has to remain confidential.”

“Of course,” Vosberg said. “It’s not as if anyone would believe it, anyway.”

12

The Wraith lives on

Though Cobb is gone.

He’s entered Number Three.

To find out more

Best watch the whore.

Was blind, but now she sees.

T
he note was in Mason’s email when he arrived at the station later that morning, and it gave him chills right up his spine. There was no point in trying to delete or hide it. First, because Rosie came to his desk just as he opened the email and read it right over his shoulder, and secondly, because he was done covering things up or hiding the truth, however crazy it might sound. He was straight-up honest from here on.

“Sounds like he’s talking about Rachel de Luca, doesn’t it?” Rosie asked.

“It does.” Mason saw the chief’s office door open and waved him over to read the note.

“Gotta mean the de Luca woman,” Subrinsky said. “So she’s connected to all this somehow?”

Mason nodded. “Which we already knew. Her brother was one of the victims. She knew Terrence Cobb, though she’d only met him twice.”

“I want her under surveillance tonight,” the chief said. “We have no way of knowing what this means, and I’m not having the Queen of Nice murdered on my watch. Not with a warning flashing like a neon sign.”

“Queen of Nice?” Mason blinked in shock as the chief headed back into his office and slammed the door.

Rosie shrugged. “All that positive living stuff she spouts.”

“Trust me, she is not the Queen of Nice. She’s not even the Queen of Civil.”

Rosie grinned. “Not with you, anyway, huh? Then again, you didn’t make the best first impression.”

Mason took a deep breath and decided to withhold any further comment. “Let’s get the net guys to give us some help on this, see if it can be traced.”

“I imagine he’s too smart for that, but yeah, I’ll get them on it.”

* * *

Unmarked units had been following Rachel de Luca without her knowledge all day, because Mason had thought it would look fishy if he’d insisted he be the only one keeping tabs on her.

When he arrived to take his shift that evening, though, her house was dark and quiet, and apparently empty.

He drove on past, then pulled in beside the other vehicle, which was parked in a pull-off alongside the dirt road where it made a slight bend just past her house. The spot was one fishermen used to put their boats into the reservoir. He could tell by the way the tall grass and reeds on the downward sloping bank were flattened all the way to the water, with telltale tire paths on either side. Parked where he was, he had a good view of the house.

He rolled his window down.

Mark Richards, a twenty-year vet marking time until retirement, did the same.

“Anything going on?” Mason asked.

“She’s having dinner at Aiello’s.”

Mason blinked. “Then why are you here?”

“Dennison’s there. He wanted to get a pizza to take home for the family tonight, so he’s keeping an eye on her, said he’d text you when she left and follow her to the end of her driveway, then take off. Seemed okay to me.”

Mason nodded. “She alone?”

“No, looks like a date. Denny’s gonna see if he can get a look at the guy’s plastic when he pays up so we can run him.”

A date? Rachel was on a date? Why did that surprise him? Better question, why did it piss him off?

Mason nodded. “Anyone else in and out today?”

“Just her assistant, one Amy Montrose. She left a little after five.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, she walked her fucking dog before she left to meet her date. You want the full report before I go home, or do you think you can wait till it’s typed up?”

“Sorry. Go on, get out of here.”

Mason rolled up his window, cranked up his heat against the autumn chill and watched Richards’s taillights disappear. He was thinking that if she’d met this date at the restaurant, it couldn’t be very serious, and then thinking he was an idiot for thinking about it at all. She was tied up in a string of murders. She was, at the very least, the sister of a victim in an ongoing case. She had his brother’s eyes in her head, and she was perilously close to figuring out things that could cost him his career. Besides, he was a confirmed bachelor. There was no way this thing was going anywhere.

He got the text within ten minutes.
They’re leaving. Separate cars.

U get his name?
he texted back.

David R. Gray. CC # too. Shd I run it?

I will.
He paused with his finger over the keypad.
Kiss goodnight?
he finally texted. He had to know, and Dennison could think what he wanted.

There was a long pause before the reply came
. Yep, w tongue. :)

Not fucking funny, Mason thought. Not funny at all. Probably served him right for asking. He pocketed the phone, picked up his binoculars, turned off the engine and got out of his car, then walked along the dirt road so he could have a better view of her front door. He crouched in the bushes and waited.

She came home, alone, ten minutes later, and went inside. Another hour and the lights went out, all but one on the second floor.

Three hours crawled by with nothing more to show, and he was thinking about heading back to the car to sit with the heat on for a while when his thoughts were broken by the mechanical hum of the garage door rising, followed by the sound of her T-Bird’s engine starting up. Then the headlights flashed on and the car came rolling out.

He ran back to his own car, started it up and left the headlights off. She pulled out through her gate, which she’d left open as she usually did, and he followed, keeping his headlights off until they hit the main road and staying a good distance behind her even then. She didn’t take the highway but drove north using side roads that ran parallel to it, all the way to the small city of Cortland, where she turned onto Main Street, which was one-way. A minute later she pulled the T-Bird into one of the diagonal parking spots that lined both sides of Main, got out and started walking down the sidewalk just as bold as you please. She wasn’t wearing anything but a T-shirt and a pair of satiny blue panties.

What the
hell?
Was she
drunk
or something? She hadn’t been driving as if she was, and she was walking a fairly straight line.

As she moved beneath a streetlight he noticed that the shirt had two hands on it, one with its middle finger straight up and the other pointing at whoever happened to be looking. The message was clear and not even close to in keeping with her public image. Probably not a shirt she would normally wear in public.
Queen of Nice, my ass.

He tried to notice the crude logo instead of the long, lean legs and the dark blue satin that showed at the tops of them. But he noticed them, anyway.

He parked and got out, too, still giving her a little space but keeping her in sight. Then she stopped and just stood there, looking down at something on the sidewalk.

He walked a little closer, waiting for her to do something else. To go wherever it was she’d been heading or...hell, he didn’t know.

But she just stood there.

Frowning, he moved still closer and then decided to reveal himself, because a car or two had passed and somebody was gonna call a cop to report a suspicious beauty in her underwear on the streets in the wee hours. “Rachel?”

Nothing.

He got an odd inkling, a little shiver up his nape, and moved around to stand in front of her. He almost tripped over something on the sidewalk but ignored that and crouched a little to get a look at her face. “Rachel?”

Her eyes were wide-open and completely unseeing. He waved a hand back and forth close to them, but she didn’t blink or flinch. She was asleep.

Come on,
really?
Was that even possible?

But he knew it was. There had been cases of people doing all sorts of things in their sleep, including driving vehicles, cooking meals, committing murders.

Shit, could that be it? Was she dreaming of the crimes because she was committing them in her sleep? No, she’d been with him when one victim was abducted. But since then?

Had his brother’s parts taken control of her, the way they had—maybe—taken over Terrence Cobb?

Her arm came up and she pointed at his feet. He looked down, remembering the thing he’d nearly tripped over. And then everything in him turned icy cold, because a thin, black leather wallet was lying there, open. And the clear plastic slot where a man would keep his license was empty.

She hadn’t put it there. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

So how had she known?

And how was a killer who’d already died twice still taking victims?

He moved closer and put his hands on her shoulders, shook her just a little. She sucked in a sharp breath before her eyes came back online, blinking a few times, and then looking at him like
he
was the one losing it.

“What the fuck, Mason?” It was an accusation. She looked around, then down at her T-shirt, and finally seemed to get it. “Shit, where are we? How did we— I’m not even dressed!”

“We’re in Cortland, because you drove here in your sleep. And I’m here because I had you under surveillance tonight.”

She opened her mouth, no doubt to bitch about that, but he held up a hand. “It’s a good thing I followed you, Rachel, because you apparently drove here to find that.” He pointed. She saw the wallet and staggered backward, then spun around and grabbed hold of a nearby lamppost to hold herself upright. “Tell me it’s not missing the driver’s license.”

“Looks like it is.” He grabbed her shoulder. “Hold on, if you can. I’ve gotta call this in to the local P.D. as well as my own, since this isn’t my jurisdiction.” And then he had to figure out how to explain what the two of them were doing there.

Hands braced on the post, she leaned there for a second, then finally straightened and turned. She was calm, no longer on the verge of panic as she’d been a second ago.

“Did you have another dream?”

“No.” She wasn’t looking at him. Her huge blue eyes were glued to that wallet.

“Then how did you know?”

“I have no fucking idea. Aren’t you gonna pick it up or something?”

He crouched over the wallet, which lay open on the sidewalk, facedown. Using his car key, he managed to flip it over without the risk of contaminating evidence. A credit card had fallen out and had been lying beneath it. The open wallet had an empty spot where a license would normally go. “No license. Just like the others.”

“But who—”

“Hang on, hang on.” He turned his head to view the credit card at the right angle. “Dermott Allan Killian.”

“Mott,” she whispered. “Oh, my God, it’s Mott.”

* * *

It felt like a tornado inside my head when he said Mott’s name. I don’t remember falling, but I wound up ass-to-sidewalk, hands covering my face.

Mason was right there, though, scooping me up. And I thought he must be strong, because I wasn’t one of those pixie-stick chicks. At that moment I felt like one, though, and gave in for just about a nanosecond to the whole damsel-in-distress, head-on-a-strong-shoulder, damn-he-smells-so-good bullshit I would hate myself for later. He was carrying me. His arms were solid and his chest warm against me. I could have relished the sensations a lot longer than I allowed myself to.

But then I twisted free and landed on my bare feet on the sidewalk again. The concrete was cold, and so was the night air. I rubbed my arms to get the goose bumps to go down. “We have to find Mott. We can’t let this maniac kill him.” Then I shook my head. “How can there even still
be
a maniac? It was Terry Skullbones, and he’s damn well dead.”

He stood there blinking at me for an elongated second before his brain clicked on. I wondered if he’d been feeling all knight-in-shining-armorish, then corrected myself. Men didn’t feel mushy, men felt horny. Totally different thing.

And then I wondered if he’d been feeling
that
.

“So, you...know this one, too?” he asked once his system rebooted.

I nodded. “He was my best friend until I got my sight back. He was being a real dick about that. Because he thinks he’s the fucking Malcolm X of the blind. Oh, God. Mott.”

“Maybe this isn’t what it looks like, then,” he said, obviously thinking more clearly than I was. “Maybe he just lost his wallet. He’s blind, so he wouldn’t have a driver’s license, anyway.”

“Yeah, and I came straight to his lost wallet in my sleep just because he dropped it,” I said sarcastically. “Besides, he had a state-issued photo ID. You need one when you’re blind.”

“I didn’t think about that. So his ID is missing?”