Shiver

by Michael Prescott

  “You there?” Sanchez asked.

  “I guess I am.”

  “Feeling a little better?”

  “A little.” She studied herself and found that the shivering had stopped. “Yes, definitely. You ought to be a shrink.”

  “The pay’s not good enough. Policework is where the real money is.”

  She grinned at that, and then she just sat there, in the park. Not long afterward a nurse summoned her.

  “Porter and I will still be here when they get done looking you over,” Sanchez assured her. “We wouldn’t leave without you. Miss Alden. Believe me.”

  She doubted that the average crime victim received such personalized service from the LAPD. It was funny, wasn’t it? The Gryphon had attained a twisted kind of celebrity status in this city; as his intended victim, Wendy had become a celebrity of sorts as well. She wondered if her picture would be in the papers, if she would be interviewed on the news. Maybe there would be a TV movie about her. Who would be cast in the lead? Somebody blonde and much better looking than she was. Meg Ryan, maybe.

  The nurse led her into a ward lined with examination tables separated by pleated privacy curtains. Wendy reclined on a table, resting her head on a pillow, and asked for a mirror.

  “This isn’t a beauty parlor,” the nurse said testily. “You don’t have to fix your hair for the doctor.”

  Wendy fingered her throat. “I just want to see what ... what he did to me.”

  The nurse softened. “Of course you do. It’s not too bad, honey. Believe me, I’d trade my looks for yours any day.”

  She hurried off and returned with a hand mirror. Nervously Wendy raised it to her face. The eyes that gazed back at her were not the eyes she’d seen in her bathroom mirror this morning, the eyes of a woman who’d always looked younger than her years. The fragile innocence they’d always reflected was still there, but overlying it she saw anger and determination and something more—a hard, glassy quality midway between ice and steel.

  She tilted the mirror to examine her throat, neatly bisected by a thin red line still oozing droplets of blood. For some reason she was reminded of Elsa Lanchester in The Bride of Frankenstein, her head sewn onto her body, the stitches plainly visible. The comparison disturbed her. Wendy Alden, the living dead.

  Her hands were shaking as she put the mirror aside.

  A doctor looked her over, pronounced the wound superficial, and treated it with antiseptic before applying medicated adhesive strips. “No need to worry,” he said briskly. “It won’t leave much of a scar.”

  Wendy knew better. There would be a scar. A bad one. A scar, not on her body, but on her soul.

  When she returned to the waiting room, Sanchez and Porter revealed said they had orders to deliver her to the West L.A. station, where she would meet with a Detective Delgado. The name seemed vaguely familiar. She couldn’t quite place it. She was too tired to try.

  As the squad car cruised west on Santa Monica Boulevard, Wendy sat with her head thrown back against the seat, listening to the beat of her heart in her ears. It was a sound she hadn’t expected to hear ever again.

  “Aw, shit,” Porter said as the car turned south onto Butler Avenue.

  She blinked alert. Looking past the two cops, she saw a row of TV news vans and a milling crowd of reporters.

  “Knew our luck couldn’t hold out forever,” Sanchez said. “We got a break just getting out of Cedars without those pricks hassling us.”

  “But”—Wendy swallowed—“how could they have heard about me so soon?”

  “They monitor the radio chatter,” Porter replied. “Of course, they probably don’t know your name or any of the details. That’s why I used the landline—the telephone, I mean—at Cedars. A little more privacy that way.”

  She looked down despondently at her robe and pajamas. “Am I going to have to be on TV like this?”

  Sanchez shook his head. “Uh-uh. Don’t you worry, ma’am. Situation’s under control.”

  Halfway down the block, he spun the wheel, guiding the cruiser into the station-house parking lot. Slant-parked patrol cars and unmarked sedans glided past, leeched of color by the glareless sodium-vapor lights.

  “Cop cars are pulling in and out of this place all night long,” Porter said. “One more won’t make any difference. Anyway, those camera jockeys can’t come in here. Restricted area.”

  At the rear of the windowless two-story building, safely out of sight of the street, Sanchez parked. He and Porter escorted Wendy inside via a back door.

  Now here she was, in the detective’s office. She looked around slowly, trying to make the room real. A noteboard littered with incomprehensible diagrams was mounted behind a neat, uncluttered desk. A pair of battered file cabinets stood near an unmade cot in a corner; apparently Delgado slept here sometimes. On one wall hung a map of Los Angeles, studded with three red pins in West L.A. area. With a small shock Wendy realized that each pin must mark the location of one of the murders.

  There could have been a pin for me, she thought numbly. A marker for my life. What else would have marked it? Anything? Anything at all?

  The door creaked open. Into the office stepped a tall, whipcord-thin man in a brown suit. He nodded at her, bowing slightly, a gesture suggesting an air of formality alien to L.A.

  “Miss Alden, my name is Delgado. Detective Sebastián Delgado.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she answered automatically.

  “Not half as pleased as I am to meet you.”

  She studied him as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it on a coat rack in the corner. He was in his mid-thirties, she guessed, though at first glance his face made him look older—a long, narrow, angular face, vaguely patrician, lined with worry and saddened by heavy-lidded gray eyes under finely traced brows. His skin was dark; his hair, swept back from his forehead, was a deep lustrous black.

  She’d seen that face before. Suddenly she knew why his name had been familiar.

  “You’ve been on TV,” she said, then instantly regretted it. What a stupid thing to say.

  But Delgado didn’t seem to think so. Turning to face her, he smiled, a surprisingly warm smile made of small white teeth. Quite an attractive smile, really.

  “I’m afraid I’ll never have my own series, though,” he answered. The trace of a Spanish accent tinged his words; she liked it.

  He kept looking at her, and she realized he was studying her, sizing her up. His eyes were alert, perceptive, intelligent. They were his best feature, she decided. Well, that and his smile.

  She shifted nervously in her chair.

  “I’ve never met a detective before,” she told him, for no particular reason except that she felt the need to say something, anything, right now.

  “Well, I’ve never met anyone who survived an encounter with the Gryphon.”

  “I came pretty close to not surviving.”

  “Close doesn’t count. You made it. You’re alive.”

  “I guess I am. It seems hard to believe. In fact, I’m not sure I do believe it yet. Any of it. It’s like ... like a dream.”

  He grunted. “I wish it were. For your sake and mine and ... everybody’s. How’s your throat?”

  She touched the bandage self-consciously. “It hurts a little. But it’s not serious. The garrote”— she drew a quick breath—“didn’t cut very deep.”

  “Garrote?” He sat on the edge of his desk, leaning forward, and flipped open a memo pad. “Is that the weapon he used?”

  “Uh-huh. Why? Does he usually do it some other way?”

  “We’ve never known what the weapon was. I’d assumed it was a knife for, uh, for various reasons. But there was no way to tell.”

  “Oh. Of course.” No heads, she remembered. Her stomach rolled.

  “Can you tell me anything more about the garrote?” Delgado asked.

  “I didn’t really get a look at it, but ... but he described it to me. See, the garrote was around my neck, and he was standing behind me and whisper
ing in my ear. He said it was a foot and a half of steel wire.” A shiver radiated through her as she remembered his low voice, his hot breath, the garrote’s chilling touch. “And he said—let’s see—he said it was homemade, and it had wooden dowels at both ends, for handles, and he could tighten the wire by twisting the handles.”

  Delgado nodded slowly, scribbling in his notepad. “Homemade. That makes our job more difficult. If he’d bought it on the street, we might be able to ... well, never mind.”

  Wendy sighed. “I take it you don’t have any idea who this man is. No clues, no leads ... ?”

  “Clues and leads, yes, a few. But if you’re asking me if we have a specific individual in mind, or even a list of individuals, the answer is no.”

  “Must be tough to track down a killer with no motive.”

  “Tough?” Delgado chuckled without humor. “Yes, you could say that. But perhaps you can make it a little easier. Did your assailant give any indication of why he’d chosen you?”

  “No.”

  “Did he suggest in any way that you might have met him previously?”

  “You mean at a party or something?”

  “Perhaps. Or in some business connection.”

  “No. No, he didn’t say anything like that.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sure I’ve never met him. I couldn’t have.”

  “You didn’t recognize his voice?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t answer too quickly. Think for a moment. Are you sure his voice didn’t remind you, even slightly, of someone with whom you might have come in contact, either in person or over the telephone? Perhaps an anonymous phone caller ... or the mailman ... or a neighbor you barely know.”

  She shook her head. “It didn’t remind me of anyone. But he was whispering. I guess everybody’s voice sounds pretty much the same in a whisper.”

  “Did any of his statements reveal personal knowledge of you?”

  “Well, he knew my name.”

  “How did he refer to you?”

  “Miss Wendy Alden. Or just Miss Alden. He always said it that way, very polite.” She clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Doesn’t that sound crazy, calling him polite? But you know what I mean.”

  “Yes.” His gaze was suddenly faraway. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

  Delgado stared into space a moment longer; she wondered what he was thinking of. Then with sudden energy he stood up.

  “All right,” he said briskly. “What I’d like to do is go over this from the beginning. I want to know everything in detail, as much detail as you can remember, starting with ...”

  “Wait.” She swallowed. “There’s something I have to know first.” She took a breath, then asked the question that haunted her. “Who was killed in my apartment building tonight?”

  Delgado looked down at his desk, his lips pursed, and made no reply.

  “I know somebody was,” she went on urgently. Despite the water Sanchez had brought, her mouth was suddenly dry. “I heard about it in the police car, on the radio. Homicide, they said. A homicide at my address.”

  “Miss Alden,” Delgado said slowly, “you’ve already been through a lot tonight. Wouldn’t it be better if ... ?”

  “No, it wouldn’t be better. I need to know.” She would not be put off. Yesterday she would have meekly dropped the subject, but not now. She had faced the Gryphon. She could face this. “Who got killed instead of me? Tell me. Please.”

  Delgado met her gaze. “As best we can determine, her name was Jennifer Kutzlow.”

  Wendy stared at him, trying to take in what he’d said. A rush of blood thrummed in her ears with a conch-shell roar.

  Jennifer.

  Jennifer, who was always playing her record albums at a million decibels. Jennifer, who’d smiled at her just this morning, making small talk about the weather, before hurrying off to the airport. But Jennifer couldn’t be dead in her apartment; she was in Seattle, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she? She couldn’t have gotten back this soon. And, anyway, if she’d been home tonight, she would have been making a racket, like always.

  Unless she was dead already ... Unless he’d killed her first ...

  Did he kill Jennifer because he thought she was me? Wendy thought in trembling horror. Is that it? Did he think she was me?

  “Miss Alden?” The voice was Delgado’s, and it came from some great distance. “Are you all right?” She couldn’t answer. “Miss Alden?”

  “Don’t call me that,” she heard herself say. “That’s what he called me. Just say Wendy. That’s my name. Wendy.”

  A hand was touching her arm. “Are you all right, Wendy?”

  She looked at the hand. His hand. She realized he was leaning over her. Concern showed in his gray eyes.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I ... I’m fine.”

  “I’m very sorry,” he said gently. “Was she a friend of yours?”

  “No. Not really. Not at all, in fact. To tell you the truth, I thought she was kind of a bitch ...” She hitched in a breath. “Oh, God, I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

  “You’re doing just fine.”

  She lowered her head. Her eyes were burning. “I hate this. I hate this so much.”

  “I know it’s hard,” Delgado said softly. “But at least you got away. You made it. You’ve got to hold on to that. You’re alive.”

  She looked at him. A new thought entered her mind.

  “For how long?” she asked quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s still out there. He wants to kill me. He’ll try again.”

  “Not necessarily. You gave him a lot more trouble than he bargained for. After tonight he may not want to tangle with you a second time.”

  “Or he may want to get me back. Even the score.”

  Delgado nodded, not with his head but with his eyes, dropping the heavy lids in a way that signaled assent. “I won’t argue the point. Anything is possible. We won’t know for certain what he’s thinking till we find him.”

  “How will you do that? You don’t know who he is. You don’t know anything about him.”

  “Sooner or later he’ll make a mistake.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “I’ll assign uniformed officers to watch you around the clock on triple shifts. You’ll be constantly protected. You won’t have to face this thing alone.”

  She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But she knew Delgado was wrong.

  Of course she would face it alone.

  She was always alone.

  13

  Rood arrived home at eleven-twenty. He parked the Falcon at the curb, then staggered across the courtyard of his apartment complex, lugging the heavy canvas bag.

  Once safely inside his apartment, he went immediately into the bathroom. He placed the bag on the counter by the sink, took out the bloody knife, and held it up to the ceiling light. He smiled as he read the words STAINLESS STEEL printed on its handle. Already he was much relieved. Stainless steel didn’t rust, thus reducing the danger of tetanus.

  He stripped off his clothes. Naked, he examined himself. The wound was still bleeding slightly. In his medicine cabinet he found a package of sterile cotton balls. He used them to sop up the blood, tossing each one in the toilet as soon as it was soaked through.

  When the wound had been thoroughly cleaned, he stepped under the shower, parted the skin flaps of the bloody cavity, and let icy water stream inside. He stood there, gritting his teeth against the pain, thinking of nothing, while blood and water streamed down his bare legs.

  After a full five minutes, he turned off the shower and toweled himself dry. He was not bleeding anymore.

  He rummaged in the medicine cabinet till he found a tube of bacitracin ointment, then spread the antiseptic around the edges of the gash, though not in the cavity itself.

  Those precautions ought to minimize whatever risk of infection he faced. Now to dress and bind the wound.

  He got out more of the cotton balls,
placed them directly on the cut, and glued them down with Band-Aids. Next, he found an old bed sheet in his hall closet, tore it into strips, and wrapped the strips tightly around his waist, a makeshift bandage.

  That ought to do it for now, although he might need to repeat the whole procedure two or three times until the wound healed. His side still ached; it would probably hurt for days. He swallowed two aspirin tablets, then tried to put the pain out of his mind.

  His clothes were blood-spotted and useless. He tossed them in the garbage and selected a new outfit, retaining only his white Reeboks and his coat.

  Once dressed, he carried the drawstring bag into the kitchen, removed Miss Kutzlow’s head from the jumbo Baggie in which it was sealed, and placed the head carefully in his freezer. He looked slowly from Miss Kutzlow to Miss Osborn. They made a pretty pair.

  Then he considered his options.

  He was reasonably certain Miss Alden was at the police station on Butler Avenue right now. Detective Delgado, after all, would be anxious to speak with her. Rood doubted she could identify him; he didn’t think she’d ever gotten a look at his face, and he’d kept his voice in a whisper the whole time.

  Sooner or later she would leave the station. Perhaps, Rood thought hopefully, he could ambush her then. But no, that wouldn’t work. The detective was sure to arrange a police escort. Besides, with the news media watching for any sign of her departure, the cops would have to spirit her away unobserved. Rood could neither attack her nor follow her under such circumstances.

  Well, where would she go? Back home? Impossible. For one thing, detectives and forensic technicians would be combing her apartment for the rest of the night in search of clues. For another, still more members of the news media would congregate outside her apartment building in an all-night vigil. And because the police would expect him to return to the apartment and strike again, no doubt Miss Alden would be told to avoid going home not only for tonight but for several days.

  She would need a place to stay. A motel, perhaps. Or a friend’s home. A friend ...

  Three messages had been left unerased on the reel of tape in Miss Alden’s telephone answering machine. Three messages from the same man. A man named Jeffrey.