by Dean Koontz
Eventually he switched on the light. “You need a sedative.” He swung his legs out of bed.
“I’ll get it,” she said.
“Stay put.”
A minute later he came back from the bathroom with a glass of water and one of the capsules that she too frequently required.
“Maybe I shouldn’t take it on top of liquor,” she said.
“You drank only half of your Scotch.”
“I had vodka before that.”
“The vodka’s through your system by now.”
She took the sedative. It stuck in her throat. She choked it down with another swallow of water.
In bed again, he held her hand. He was still holding it when the chemically induced sleep finally began to creep over her.
As consciousness spun away from her like a child’s ball rolling down a hillside, she thought about how wrong Alan was about Max, how terribly and completely wrong.
Tuesday, December 22
6
“ANAHEIM POLICE.”
“Are you a police officer, Miss?”
“I’m the receptionist.”
“Could I speak to an officer?”
“What’s the nature of your complaint?”
“Oh, no complaint. I think you people do a wonderful job.”
“I meant, are you reporting a crime?”
“I’m not sure. A very strange thing happened here.”
“What is your name?”
“Alice. Alice Barnable.”
“Your address?”
“Peregrine Apartments on Euclid Avenue. I’m in apartment B.”
“I’ll connect you with someone.”
“Sergeant Erdman speaking.”
“Are you really a sergeant?”
“Who’s this?”
“Mrs. Alice Barnable.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Are you really a sergeant? You sound too young.”
“I’ve been a policeman for twenty years. If you—”
“I’m seventy-eight, but I’m not senile.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“So many people treat us senior citizens as if we’re children.”
“I don’t, Mrs. Barnable. My mother’s seventy-five, and she’s sharper than I am.”
“So you better believe what I’ve got to tell you.”
“And what’s that?”
“Four nurses share an apartment above mine, and I know they’re in some sort of bad trouble. I called up there, but no one answers the phone.”
“How do you know they’re in trouble?”
“There’s a puddle of blood in my spare bathroom.”
“Whose blood? I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“You see, the water pipes that serve the apartment above mine are exposed, and they run up one corner of my spare bath. Now, I don’t want you to think I live in a cheap place. The pipes are painted white, hardly noticeable. The building’s old but elegant in its way. It’s not cheap. It’s quaint. My Charlie left me enough to let me live very comfortably.”
“I’m sure he did, Mrs. Barnable. What about the blood?”
“Those pipes run through a hole in the ceiling. The hole’s a tiny bit bigger than it needs to be. Just a quarter of an inch of space all the way around the pipe. During the night, blood dripped out of that hole. The pipes are streaked with it, and there’s a large sticky spot on my floor.”
“You’re sure it’s blood? It might be rusty water or—”
“Now you’re treating me as if I’m a child, Sergeant Erdman.”
“Sorry.”
“I know blood when I see it. And what I wondered—I wondered if maybe your people should take a look upstairs.”
Patrolmen Stambaugh and Pollini found the door to the apartment ajar. It was spotted with fingerprints that were cast in dried blood.
“Think he’s still in there?” Stambaugh asked.
“Never can tell. Back me up.”
Pollini went inside with his gun drawn and Stambaugh followed.
The living room was inexpensively but pleasantly furnished with wicker and rattan. On the white walls were colorful framed prints of palm trees and native villages and bare-breasted, nut-brown girls in striped sarongs.
The first body was in the kitchen. A young woman in black and green pajamas. On the floor. On her back. Long yellow hair streaked with clotted red bands spread around her like a fan. She had been stabbed—and kicked in the face more than once.
“Christ,” Stambaugh said.
“Something, huh?”
“Don’t you feel sick?”
“Seen it before.”
Pollini pointed to several items on the counter by the sink—a paper plate, two slices of bread, a jar of mustard, a tomato, a package of cheese.
“Important?” Stambaugh asked.
“She woke up during the night. Maybe she was an insomniac. She was making a snack when he came in. Doesn’t look like she put up a fight. He either surprised her, or she knew and trusted him.”
“Should we be talking like this?”
“Why not?”
Stambaugh gestured toward the rooms that they hadn’t yet investigated.
“The killer? He’s long gone.”
Stambaugh greatly admired his partner. He was eight years younger than Pollini. He’d been a cop only six months, while the older man had been on the force for seven years. In his view, Pollini had everything that a great lawman required—in—telligence, courage, and street wisdom.
Most important of all, Pollini was able to do his job without letting it touch him. He didn’t flinch at the sight of shattered bodies, not even when he encountered the most pathetic victim of all—the battered child. Pollini was nothing less than a rock.
Although he tried to imitate his mentor, Stambaugh usually got sick to his stomach in the midst of too much spilled blood.
“Come on,” Pollini said.
He led Stambaugh back through the hall to the spare bath, where the harsh light glared on blood-splashed porcelain and on the hideously stained white vanity top.
“There was a struggle this time,” Stambaugh said.
“But not much of one. It was over in seconds.”
Another young woman, wearing only panties, was curled fetally in a corner of the bathroom. She had been stabbed repeatedly in the breasts and stomach, back and buttocks. There were between fifty and a hundred wounds.
Her blood had pooled around the pipes that came up from Alice Barnable’s first-floor apartment.
“Funny,” Pollini said.
“Funny?” Stambaugh had never seen such slaughter. He could not comprehend the violent mind behind it.
“Funny that he didn’t rape either of them.”
“Is that what he should have done?”
“His kind does, ninety percent of the time.”
Across the hall the spare bedroom contained two unmade beds but no bodies.
In the master suite they found a nude redhead on the bed nearest the door. Her throat had been cut.
“No struggle at all,” Pollini said. “He caught her while she was sleeping. Doesn’t look like he raped this one either.”
Stambaugh nodded. He was unable to speak.
Both women in the master bedroom appeared to be Catholics who were, if not devout, at least attentive to their faith. A number of religious objects were scattered on the floor.
A damaged crucifix lay beside the redhead’s nightstand. The wooden cross had been broken into four pieces. The aluminum image of Christ was bent at the waist, so that its crown of thorns touched its bare feet; and its head was twisted around so that Christ was looking over his shoulder.
“This wasn’t just broken in a scuffle,” Pollini said, stooping over the remains of the icon. “The killer pulled this off the wall and spent a good bit of time demolishing it.”
Two small religious statues had been on the redhead’s dresser. These were also broken. Some of the pieces had been ground in
to chalky dust; there were a few white heel prints on the carpet.
“He sure has something against Catholics,” Pollini said. “Or against religion in general.”
Stambaugh reluctantly followed him to the last bed.
The fourth dead woman had been stabbed repeatedly and strangled with a rosary.
In life she had been beautiful. Even now, naked and cold, her hair matted with blood, nose broken, one eye swollen shut, face dark with bruises, there were still traces of beauty. Alive, her blue eyes would have been as clear as mountain lakes. Washed and combed, her hair would have been thick, lustrous. She had long shapely legs, a narrow waist, a flat belly and lovely breasts.
I’ve seen women like her, Stambaugh thought sadly. She would have walked with her shoulders back, with evident pride in herself, with joy apparent in every step.
“She was a nurse,” Pollini said.
Stambaugh looked at the uniform and cap that were on a chair near the bed. His legs felt weak.
“What’s the matter?” Pollini asked.
Stambaugh hesitated, cleared his throat. “Well, my sister’s a nurse.”
“This isn’t your sister, is it?”
“No. But she’s about my sister’s age.”
“You know her? She work with your sister?”
“Never saw her before,” Stambaugh said.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“This girl might have been my sister.”
“You cracking up on me?”
“I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“You’ll get used to this stuff.”
Stambaugh said nothing.
“This one was raped,” Pollini said.
Stambaugh swallowed hard. He was dizzy.
“See that?” Pollini asked.
“What?”
“On the pubic hair. It’s semen.”
“Oh.”
“I wonder if he had her before or after.”
“Before or after what?”
“Before or after he killed her.”
Stambaugh hurried into the master bath, dropped to his knees before the toilet, and threw up.
When his stomach spasms passed, he knew that in the past ten minutes he had learned something important about himself. In spite of what he’d thought this morning, he never wanted to be like Ted Pollini.
7
MAX CAME BACK to the room at eleven-thirty, just as she finished dressing. He kissed her lightly on the mouth. He smelled of soap, shaving lotion, and the cherry-scented pipe tobacco that he favored.
“Out for a walk?” Mary asked.
“When did you wake up?”
“Only an hour ago.”
“I was up at eight-thirty.”
“I slept ten hours. When I finally managed to throw myself out of bed, I felt dopey. I shouldn’t have taken the sedative on top of liquor.”
“You needed it.”
“I didn’t need to feel the way I felt this morning.”
“You look wonderful now.”
“Where have you been?”
“At the coffee shop downstairs. Had some toast and orange juice. Read the papers.”
“Anything that’s connected with what I saw last night?”
“The local paper has a nice story. You and Barnes catching The Slasher. They say Goldman is already off the critical list.”
“That’s not what I meant. The dead women in the vision. What about them?”
“Nothing in the papers.”
“There will be this afternoon.”
A worried look crossed his face. He put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got to relax once in a while. You’ve got to let your head clear out now and then. Don’t run after this one, Mary. Forget about it. Please. For me?”
“I can’t forget,” she said unhappily. She wished desperately that she could.
Before leaving town, they stopped at an appliance store, chose and paid for an electric range and microwave oven for Dan Goldman.
Later they got off the freeway at Ventura to have lunch at a restaurant they knew. They ordered salads, manicotti, and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon by Robert Mondavi.
From their table they had a view of the ocean. The slate-gray water looked like a mirror reflecting the turbulent sky. The surf was high and fast. A few gulls swooped along the shoreline.
“It’ll be good to get home,” Max said. “We should be in Bel Air before two o’clock.”
“The way you drive, we’ll be there long before.”
“We can go over to Beverly Hills for a few hours of Christmas shopping.”
“Since we’re going to get home in time, I’d rather see my analyst. I’ve got a four-thirty appointment. I’ve been missing too many of them lately. I’ll do my shopping tomorrow. Besides, I haven’t given any thought to Christmas gifts. I don’t have any idea what to get you.”
“I can see your problem,” he said. “I am the man who has everything.”
“Oh, are you?”
“Naturally. I have you.”
“That’s corny.”
“But I mean it.”
“You make me blush.”
“That’s never been difficult.”
She put her right hand to her cheek. “I can feel it. I wish I could control it.”
“I’m glad you can’t,” he said. “It’s charming. It’s a sign of your innocence.”
“Me? Innocent?”
“As a baby,” he said.
“Remember me in bed last night?”
“How could I forget?”
“Was that innocence?”
“That was heaven.”
“So there.”
“But you’re still blushing.”
“Oh, drink your wine and shut up.”
“Still blushing,” he said.
“I’m flushed from the wine.”
“Still blushing.”
“Damn you,” she said affectionately.
“Still blushing.”
She laughed.
Beyond the window thick curdled clouds continued to roll in from the ocean.
Over the spumoni and coffee Mary asked, “What do you think of adoption?”
He shook his head in mock despair. “We’re too old to find parents now. Who would want kids as big as us?”
“Be serious,” she said.
He stared at her for a long moment, then put down his spoon without eating the spumoni on it. “You really mean you and me ... adopting a child?”
She was encouraged by the wonder in his voice. “We’ve talked about having a family,” she said.
“And since I’ll never be able to have a baby of my own...”
“But maybe you will.”
“No, no,” she said. “The doctor made that very clear to me.”
“Doctors have been known to be mistaken.”
“Not this time,” she said, almost too softly to be heard.
“There’s too much wrong ... inside of me. I’ll never have a baby, Max. Never.”
“Adoption ...” Max thought about it while he sipped his coffee. Gradually he began to grin. “Yeah. It would be nice. A cute little baby girl.”
“I was thinking about a little boy.”
“Well, sure as hell this is one thing we can’t compromise on.”
“We can,” she said quickly. “We’ll adopt a girl and a boy.”
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“Oh, Max, you really do like the idea. I can tell. We could talk to an adoption agency this week. And if—”
“Hold on,” he said, his smile fading. “We’ve been married only four months. We should take our time, get to know each other and ourselves better than we do. Then we’ll be ready for children.”
She didn’t hide her disappointment. “How long will that take?”
“It’ll take as long as it takes. Six months ... a year.”
“Look, I know you. You know me. We love each other and we like each other. We’ve got intelligence, common sense, and
loads of money. What else do we need to be good parents?”
“We need to be at peace with ourselves, in ourselves,” he said.
“You don’t fight anymore. You’re at peace with yourself.”
“I’m only halfway there,” he said. “And you’ve got things to face, too.”
Defiantly, although she knew the answer, she said, “Like what?”
“You’ve got to face up to what happened twenty-four years ago, remember what you’ve refused to remember ... every detail of the beating you took ... everything about what that man did to you when you were six years old. Until you come to terms with that, you’ll continue to have the nightmares. You’ll never know real peace of mind until those memories are confronted and exorcised.”
She tossed her head, throwing her long hair over her shoulders. “I don’t have to face what happened then to be a good parent now.”
“I think you do,” he said.
“But Max, there are so many kids without homes, without hope or a future. Right now we could give two of them—”
He squeezed her hand. “You’re playing Atlas again. Mary, I understand you. There’s more love in you than in anyone I’ve ever known. You want to share it; that’s the meaning of you. And I promise you’ll have the opportunity. But adoption is a big step. We’ll take it only when we’re ready.”
She couldn’t get angry. She smiled and said, “I’ll wear you down. I promise.”
He sighed. “You probably will.”
Mary didn’t like to drive fast. When she was nine years old her father died in an accident. She’d been in the car when it happened. To her, the automobile was a treacherous machine.
As a passenger, she endured high speeds only when Max was at the wheel. With him in command, she was able to relax and even to feel exhilarated as the scenery whipped past her window. Max was her guardian. He watched over her and protected her. It was inconceivable that anything bad could happen to her when she was with him.
He took great pleasure in handling the Mercedes at speeds that tested his skills and his ability to avoid police detection. He enjoyed the car as much as he did his gun collection; and when he drove, he was as single-minded as when he made love. On a long, uncrowded straight stretch of freeway, with all his attention riveted on the car beneath him and on the blurred pavement that succumbed to him, he rarely had patience for conversation. He looked like a bird of prey, flint-eyed, silent, hunched over the steering wheel.