by Nora Roberts
She paused, letting her fingers brush over picture frames, the arm of a chair.
“Most people don’t really want to hear what people say, but she did. Her questions weren’t a ploy to wheedle an opening to talk about herself. She had such plans. Teaching was an adventure to her. All those minds to feed.”
She walked past Cade and Carl D. Though she was aware of them, they were becoming less important to her, their presence less real.
“She loved to read.” Tory spoke quietly as she wandered toward a cheap, brass-plated shelf filled with books.
Images floated through her mind of a pretty young woman tucking books on the shelf, taking them out, curled up with them on the chair on the patio with a big, shaggy dog snoring at her feet.
It was easy to blend into those images, to open to them, become part of them. She tasted salt—potato chips—on her tongue, and felt a lovely wave of contentment.
“But that’s just another way to be with people. You slide into the book. You become a character, your favorite character. You experience.
“The dog gets up on the sofa with you, or in the bed. He leaves hair everywhere. You swear you could make a coat out of the hair he sheds, but he’s such a sweetheart. So you run the vacuum most every day. Turn the music up so you can hear it over the motor.”
Music pulsed inside her head. Loud, cheerfully loud. Her foot tapped to it.
“Mr. Rice next door, he complained about that. But you bake him some cookies and bring him around. Everyone’s so nice in this town. It’s just where you wanted to be.”
She turned from the bookshelf. Her eyes were blurry, blank, but she was smiling.
Cade’s heart skipped a beat as her smoky gaze passed over him. Passed through him.
“Jerry, the little boy from upstairs, he’s just crazy about Mongo. Jerry’s just as cute as a bug and twice as pesky. One day you want a little boy just like him, all eyes and grins and sticky fingers.”
She turned in a circle, her lips curved, her eyes blind.
“Sometimes in the afternoon after school they’ll go out and run around together, or he’ll throw Mongo tennis balls. Fuzzy yellow balls that get all wet and messy. It’s fun to sit on the patio and watch them. Jerry has to go in, his mother called him in to do his chores before supper. Mongo’s just plain worn out, so he’ll sleep out on the patio. You want the music on, loud as you can without bothering Mr. Rice, because you’re feeling so happy. So hopeful. A glass of wine. White wine. Not really good wine, but you can’t afford better. Still it’s nice enough and you can sip and listen to the music and plan.”
She walked to the patio doors, looked out. Instead of dark she saw early twilight. The big dog spread out on the concrete like a shaggy welcome mat and snoring lightly.
“Lots to think about, so many plans. So much to do. You feel so good about things and just can’t wait to get started. You want to have a party, have the rooms crowded with people, and flirt with that gorgeous vet, and that slick-looking Cade Lavelle. My, my, they sure grow them handsome in Progress. But now you should make a meal. You have to feed the dog. Maybe another glass of wine while you’re putting it together.”
She strolled into the kitchen, humming the tune she heard in her head. Sheryl Crow. “A salad. A nice big salad, with extra carrots because Mongo likes them. You’ll mix them in with his kibble.” She reached down, brushed her fingers over the handle of the cupboard, then let out a gasp, stumbled back.
Instinctively Cade moved toward her, but Carl D. gripped his arm. “Don’t.” He spoke in a whisper, as though in church. “Let her be.”
“He was there. Just there.” Tory’s breathing came in quick, short bursts now. She had both hands fisted at her throat. “You didn’t hear him. You can’t see him. There’s a knife. He has a knife. Oh God, oh God, oh God. His hand’s over your mouth, squeezing. The knife’s at your throat. You’re so scared. So scared. You won’t scream. You won’t. You’ll do anything if he doesn’t hurt you.
“His voice is at your ear, soft, quiet. What did he do with Mongo? Did he hurt him? It’s all tumbling in your head. It’s not real. It can’t be real. But the knife’s so sharp. He pushes you and you’re afraid you’ll stumble and the knife …”
She shuffled out of the kitchen, braced a hand on the wall when she swayed. “The blinds are drawn. No one can see. No one can help. He wants you in the bedroom, and you know what he’s going to do. If you could only get away, away from the knife.”
Tory froze at the door to the bedroom. Nausea rolled into her in short, choppy waves. “I can’t. I can’t.” She turned her face to the wall, struggling to find herself through all the fear and violence. “I don’t want to see this. He killed her here, why do I have to see it?”
“That’s enough.” Cade shoved away Carl D.’s restraining hand. “Goddamn it, that’s enough.”
But when he reached for Tory, she stumbled away. “It’s in my head. I’ll never get it out of my head. Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me.”
She pressed her hands to her face, trapping her own breath, and let it claw back inside her.
“Oh. Oh. He pushes you on the bed, facedown. And he’s on top of you. He’s already hard, and feeling him, feeling him pressing against you, you struggle. The fear’s wild inside you. Huge, choking. There’s a heat to it. Fear burns.”
She moaned, went down to her knees beside the bed. “He hits you. Hard. The back of the neck. The pain’s so sharp, it rushes through you, stuns you. He hits you again, the side of your face explodes with it. You taste blood. Your own blood. Blood tastes the same as terror. The same. He yanks your arms behind your back, and the pain of that’s just another layer.”
Tentacles of that pain slithered and groped inside her, tangled with a horror so huge it seemed the mass of it all would burst out of her brain. She pressed her face to the side of the mattress, dug her fingers into it.
“It’s dark. The room’s dark, and the music’s playing and you can’t think over the pain. You’re crying. You try to plead with him, but he’s tied a cloth over your mouth. He hits you again and you start sliding away somewhere. Half conscious, you hardly feel it when he cuts your clothes away. The knife nicks you, but it’s worse, so much worse when he uses his hands on you.”
Tory doubled over, wrapped her arms around her belly, and began to rock. “It hurts. It hurts. You can’t even cry when he’s raping you. Just let it be over, but he keeps beating himself into you and you have to go away. You have to be somewhere else. You have to go away.”
Exhausted, Tory laid her head on the side of the bed, closed her eyes. It was like being smothered, she thought dimly. Like being buried alive, so the blood rings in your ears like a thousand bells and the sweat that coats your body is cold. So viciously cold.
She had to fight her way back into the air.
Back into self.
“When he was finished with her, he strangled her with his hands. She couldn’t fight anymore. She cried, or he did. I can’t tell. But he cut the rope from around her wrists. He took it with him. He didn’t want to leave any of himself behind, but he did. Like an ice rime on glass. I can’t stay here. Please get me out of here. Please get me away from here.”
“It’s all right.” Cade bent down to gather her into his arms. Her skin was cold, slicked with sweat. “It’s all right, baby.”
“I’m sick. I can’t breathe in here.” She lay her head on his shoulder and let herself drop away.
He drove her home. She didn’t speak, didn’t move throughout the drive. She sat like a ghost, pale and silent, while the wind through the open windows of the truck blew over her face and hair.
There was an anger in him that had lashed out at Carl D. when the chief said he would follow them back. But she’d said to let him come. That was the last thing she’d said. So his anger had no target or release and built steadily inside him. His silence was like a bruise, gathering dark and full of violence.
He pulled up to the Marsh House, and she was out
of the truck before he could come around to help her. “You don’t have to talk to him.” His voice was clipped, his eyes brutally cold.
“Yes, I do. You can’t see what I see, then not do whatever you can.” She shifted her exhausted eyes toward the police cruiser. “He knew that, and used it. There’s no need for you to stay.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he snapped, and turned to wait for Carl D. as she walked to the door.
“You watch your step.” Cade faced the chief the minute he was out of his cruiser. “You be very, very careful with her, or I’ll use whatever comes to hand to make you pay for it.”
“I expect you’re upset.”
“Upset?” Cade took a fistful of Carl D.’s shirt. He felt he could break the man in half. One quick snap. “You put her through that. And so did I,” he said, dropping his hand in disgust. “And for what?”
“I don’t know, not yet. Fact is, I’m a bit shaken by this. But I gotta use whatever comes to hand, too. And right now, that’s Tory. I’m feeling my way here, Cade.”
There was regret in his voice, in his eyes, a veneer over duty. “I don’t want to hurt that girl. If it makes you feel any better, I’m going to be careful. As careful as I know how. And I’m going to remember, probably the rest of my life, the way she looked back there.”
“So will I,” Cade said, and turned away.
She was making tea, an herbal blend she hoped would soothe her stomach and stop her hands from trembling. She said nothing when the two men walked in, but got out a bottle of bourbon, set it on the counter, then sat.
“I could use a shot of that. Ain’t supposed to on duty, but we got extenuating circumstances.”
Cade got out two glasses, poured doubles.
“He came in through the back,” Tory began. “You know that. You’ll already know a great deal that I can tell you.”
“I appreciate it.” Carl D. scraped back a chair. “You just tell me, how it feels best to you, and take your time.”
“She was alone in the apartment. She had a couple of glasses of wine. She felt good, excited, hopeful. She had music playing. She was in the kitchen when he came in. Fixing a salad for dinner, getting ready to feed the dog. He took her from behind, used the knife she’d set aside when she pulled out the dog food.”
Tory’s voice was flat, dull, her face expressionless. She lifted her tea, sipped, set it down. “She didn’t see him. He kept behind her, kept the knife to her throat. He’d closed the blinds to the patio. I think he locked the door, but it doesn’t matter. She didn’t try to run, she was too afraid of the knife.”
Absently, she lifted her hand to her throat, skimmed her fingers along her windpipe as if nursing a sting. “I don’t know what he said to her. Everything she felt was so much stronger than what he felt. He didn’t particularly want her. What was left of him there was rage and confusion and a kind of horrible pride. She was a substitute, a handy outlet for a … a need he doesn’t even understand. He took her into the bedroom, kept her facedown on the bed. He struck her several times, the back of the neck, the face. He tied her hands behind her back, good strong rope. He closed the curtains, so that they could be private, so that it would be dark. He didn’t want her to see his face, but more, I think more, he didn’t want to see hers. He sees another face when he rapes her. He uses the knife to cut off her clothes, he’s very careful, but he still nicks her, on the back, and up by her shoulder.”
Carl D. nodded, took a long drink. “That’s right. She had two shallow cuts, and there were ligature marks on her wrists, but we didn’t find any rope.”
“He took it with him. He’s never done this inside before. It’s always been out-of-doors, and there’s something exciting about doing these things to her in bed. When he hits her, it gives him pleasure. He likes to hurt women. But more than pleasure it provides him with a kind of relief for this pent-up hunger in him. This need to prove himself a man. He’s a man when he makes a woman bend to his will. While he rapes her he’s happier, someone stronger inside himself, than he is any other time. He celebrates his manhood this way, in a way he can’t in any other.”
Trying to see him, to crawl inside him, hurt her head. She rubbed at her temple, pushed harder. “It is sexual for him, and he believes she was meant to be taken, to be dominated. He’s convinced himself of that, and still he’s careful. He uses a condom. How does he know who she’s fucked? She’s a whore, like all the others. A man has to look out for himself.”
“You said he didn’t want to leave any of himself behind.”
“Yes, he won’t leave his seed inside her. She doesn’t deserve it. I—this isn’t what I feel from him, I feel almost nothing from him.” Her fingers drilled at her throbbing temple. “There are blanks and dead ends. Turns in him. I don’t know how to tell you.”
“That’s fine,” Carl D. told her. “Go ahead.”
“This isn’t an act of procreation, but of punishment for her, and ego for him. During the process, she ceases to exist for him. She’s nothing, so it’s easy to kill her. When it’s over, he’s proud, but he’s angry, too. It’s never exactly what he hoped it would be, it never completely purges him. Her fault, of course. The next time will be better. He cuts the rope, he turns off her music, and he leaves her in the dark.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t see his face. I can see some of his thoughts, some of the more desperate of his emotions, but I don’t see him.”
“He knew her.”
“He’d seen her, I think he’s spoken to her. He knew enough to know about the dog.” Tory closed her eyes a moment, tried to focus. “He drugged the dog. I think he drugged the dog. Burger laced with something. Risky. This was all very risky and that added to the excitement. Someone might have seen him. All the other times there was no one to see.”
“What other times?”
“The first was Hope.” Her voice broke. She lifted her tea again, calmed herself. “There were four others that I know of. I had a friend look into it. She found out there’ve been five over the last eighteen years. All of them killed in late August, all of them young blondes. Each one was the age Hope would have been if she’d lived. I think Sherry was younger, but she wasn’t the one he wanted.”
“A serial killer? Over eighteen years.”
“You can verify it with the FBI.” She looked at Cade then, for the first time since they’d sat down. “He’s still killing Hope. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She rose, and her cup clattered in the saucer as she carried it to the counter. “I’m afraid it could be my father.”
“Why?” Cade kept his eyes on her face. “Why would you believe that?”
“He has—when he hurt me, it aroused him.” The shame of it sliced through her, shards of glass jagged and edged with bitter heat. “He never touched me sexually, but it aroused him to hurt me. I think, looking back, I can’t be sure he didn’t know of my plans to meet Hope that night. When he came in for supper he was in a good mood, a rare one. It was as if he was waiting for me to make a mistake, to open the door so that he could pounce. When I did, when I told my mother she could find the canning wax up in the top of the cupboard—such a stupid mistake—he had me. He didn’t always beat me that bad, but that night… When he was finished he could be sure I wasn’t going anywhere.”
She came back to the table. “Sherry was in the store when he came in yesterday. He asked her about her dog, and she’d just filled out an application for a job. I had the paper on the counter. Her name, her address, her phone number. He would have been certain of me, certain I’d be too afraid to tell anyone I’d seen him. He wouldn’t have expected me to go to the police. But he couldn’t have been sure of her.”
“You believe Hannibal Bodeen killed Sherry Bellows because she’d seen him?”
“It would have been his excuse, his justification for what he wanted to do. I only know he’s capable of it. I can’t tell you any more. I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well.”
She walked away from
the table and closed herself in the bathroom.
She couldn’t fight off the sickness anymore and let it come. Let it empty her out. Afterward she lay on the floor, on the cool tiles, and waited for the weakness to abate. The quiet seemed to echo in her ears along with her own heartbeat.
When she could she got to her feet, and turned the shower to blistering hot. She was chilled to the bone. It seemed nothing could warm her, but the water helped her imagine all the ugliness, the smear of it being washed off her skin if not out of her mind.
Steadier, she wrapped herself in a towel, dosed herself with three aspirin, and stepped out, prepared to curl into bed and lose herself in sleep.
Cade was standing by the window, looking out over the moon-washed dark. He’d left the lights off so that silvered glow silhouetted him there. She could hear the flutter of night beyond the screen, the wings and whines that were the music of the marsh.
Her heart ached for everything she couldn’t stop herself from loving.
“I thought you’d gone.” She walked to the closet for her robe.
He didn’t turn. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Hardly that. I just want to know if you’re any better.”
“Yes.” Decisively, she belted the robe. “I’m better. Thank you. You’re under no obligation here, Cade. I know what to do for myself.”
“Good.” He turned, but his face remained in shadows. She couldn’t read it, refused to try to see anything else. “Tell me what to do for you.”
“Nothing. I’m grateful you went with me, and that you brought me home. It’s more than you had to do, more than can be expected of anyone.”
“Now back off? Or is that just what you expect? For me to go, to leave you alone, to take myself off to a nice comfortable distance. Comfortable for whom? You or me?”
“Both, I imagine.”
“You don’t think any more of me than that? Any more of us?”
“I’m awfully tired.” Her voice wavered, shaming her. “I’m sure you are, too. It couldn’t have been pleasant for you.”