The thought of the wolf lurking in the forest for Little Red made her think, unaccountably, of Hanson among the trees. She glanced in his direction again, but he was gone.
Must have changed his position. Where he’d been standing hadn’t afforded him a very good view of the driveway or the gate. The trees screened most of the area from his sight. Of course, they had concealed him, as well. She had hardly seen him. If she hadn’t known he was stationed here, she might have thought he was Faust. She might—
It struck her like a slap—the simple, obvious truth.
She grabbed for the SIG Sauer in her side pocket.
And a hand seized her wrist, steel at her throat, a breathy voice in her ear.
“Tess McCallum. How thoughtful of you to arrange my ride.”
* * *
To Raven it remained a dream. She had been in the little hidden room so long that she could barely believe in a world outside. Even when the ambulance came and the paramedics were lifting her onto the stretcher, she still expected to blink and find herself shackled to the headboard with the strap squeezing her neck.
The man named Michaelson had stayed with her, awaiting the ambulance. As the attendants started to leave, he asked which hospital they were headed to.
“Cedars-Sinai,” one of the pair said.
“I want one of my men to ride with her. She’s not to be left unprotected until her assailant is caught.”
“The guy’s still at large?”
“We believe he’s somewhere on the grounds.”
“Better shut the front gate, then,” the other paramedic said.
“Wait a minute. The gate is open?”
“How’d you think we got in?”
“I stationed a man out front. I assumed he opened up for you.”
“We didn’t see anybody.”
“Shit.” Michaelson was fumbling with the controls on his radio when another man in a suit entered the room. “Sir, we have a situation.”
“I know. We need to make contact with Hanson.”
“He just called in. Said he was coldcocked from behind. One of the Bureau cars is missing. Your car, he thinks, though he still sounds a little woozy.”
“Where’s McCallum?”
“He hasn’t seen her. He got KO’d right after he was told to expect her.”
“Send everybody to the front yard. I want an immediate grid search. You two stay here,” he added, speaking to the paramedics. “I don’t want you out there until we’re sure the area is clear.”
“Who the hell is this guy, anyway?” the first paramedic asked.
“He’s Peter Faust,” Michaelson said, leaving.
Raven had never heard the name. It meant nothing to her. She was almost disappointed that her captor’s name was so ordinary. She would never have thought of him as Peter. Peter was a saint’s name. Wasn’t it?
She lay on the stretcher thinking of nothing. Outside there were shouts and footsteps and the distant crackle of radio static. After a long time, a cop in uniform came into the room to tell the paramedics it was safe to leave. They asked if the missing woman, McCallum, had been found.
“We didn’t find anything. He’s got her. He took her alive, probably. Though she may not be alive for long.”
They carried the stretcher through the house. It was much larger and nicer than Raven had guessed. A mansion. She found it outrageously unfair that this man Peter Faust should live in a house like this.
As they brought her outdoors, she felt the breeze on her skin for the first time in days. She saw a few stars overhead, glittering feebly through the heavy urban air. She saw trees.
That was when she knew it wasn’t a dream. Even in a dream she could not have imagined seeing stars and trees again.
Michaelson was consulting with the others, saying loudly, “How should I know? Hostage. Plaything. He met her once before. She assisted on the Roberta Kessler case. He may feel he has a score to settle. Who the hell—”
He saw her and stopped talking. He left the group and walked alongside the stretcher as it was borne to the waiting ambulance.
“You’ll be okay, Jennifer,” he promised. “And you’ll be protected the entire time.”
“The woman he took,” she said in the hoarse whisper that sounded nothing like her voice. “Was she the one who talked to me?” “Yes.”
“She’s ... she’s nice.”
“Agent McCallum is the reason we’re here,” he said quietly. “The reason we rescued you.”
“So ... who’s going to rescue her?”
Michaelson had no answer.
46
Abby didn’t know how long she stayed with Wyatt, holding his hand in silence. She only knew that at a certain point she couldn’t be with him anymore. Couldn’t be in the hospital. Couldn’t deal with it, any of it.
Somehow she remembered the number of the parking space where the feds had left her car. She slipped behind the wheel, thinking that the last time she’d driven the Miata, Wyatt had been alive.
Was that how it was going to be from now on? Was every daily activity, no matter how routine, going to spark some painful memory? And how was she going to handle that? How would she keep herself from going insane?
Maybe she was insane already. Maybe she’d snapped when Wyatt was shot, or when she learned he was gone. It was possible. Only a crazy person would be having the thoughts that had been running through her head.
Thoughts of killing Tess.
She keyed the ignition and drove out of the garage, going nowhere, just needing to put distance between herself and the place where Wyatt had died.
She wouldn’t really do it, of course. Go after Tess. Hunt her down and take her out. She didn’t honestly want Tess dead.
Did she?
That was the thing. She wasn’t sure. She could imagine herself doing it. She could see herself putting the gun to Tess’s head, could feel the squeeze of her finger on the trigger, could hear the gunshot and the soft splash of brains.
One bullet. That was all it would take. A life for a life.
Tess had ignored her phone call. Tess had worked on Wyatt and coerced and manipulated him into arranging the rendezvous. Tess was responsible for the dead body under the sheet.
A few pounds of pressure—that’s all it would take to pull the trigger.
Abby glanced at her face in the rearview mirror. Her eyes did not look crazy. Except that they didn’t blink. Didn’t blink at all.
She didn’t know if she had lost her mind or not. She might be having a psychotic break.
Or maybe she had never been so sane. Had never seen things so clearly.
Ever since Tess had come into her life, things had gone wrong. She’d been arrested twice and could have gone away on a murder rap each time. Her anonymity had been compromised; the FBI had known all about her since the Medea case.
Now she’d lost Wyatt. She’d lost everything. Why shouldn’t Tess lose, too? Why should she always be the hero, the savior cheered by the public, while Abby vanished into shadows? Tess coasted from triumph to triumph and left Abby with the broken pieces of a ruined life.
She ought to pay. She had to pay.
At the very least, she had to know that Wyatt was dead. Had to hear it, right now.
As she switched from the 210 Freeway to the 118, she removed her cell phone from her purse. She punched in the number of Tess’s cell from memory. The phone rang three times. She began to worry she would be transferred to voice mail. That wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to speak to Tess. She wanted—
On the fourth ring, the call was answered.
“Yes?” a voice said. A man’s voice, edged with a German accent.
She couldn’t quite believe it, couldn’t understand. “Faust?”
“Miss Sinclair. This is rather a surprise, though a welcome one, I hasten to add.”
“What the hell are you doing with Tess’s phone?”
She heard him chuckle. “You might more intelligently inquire what I am
doing with Tess herself. Her phone is about to be destroyed, to ensure that its signal cannot be traced. The destruction of Agent McCallum will follow shortly thereafter.”
Abby felt everything drop away—hatred, grief, confusion, all of it—and there was only a sudden stillness inside her. “What’s going on, Faust?”
“It appears I am on the run. But I do have company. Regrettably, your friend cannot come to the phone. She is, may you pardon the expression, rather tied up at the moment.”
“She’s not my friend.”
“I would have guessed otherwise. You believed she had recommended your services to me. And now you are calling her cell phone.”
“It wasn’t a friendly call.”
“No matter. Whatever the particulars of your relationship, you will not have to concern yourself with it any longer. You will never see her alive again.”
Which was what she’d wanted. Tess, dead. And it was better this way, with Faust as the killer. He would take his time with her, make her suffer. As Emily Wallace had suffered.
She thought of Emily, her mutilated body displayed in the photo section of Faust’s memoirs.
Tess could end up like that. Cut apart.
It’s what she deserves, a voice in her head whispered, cruelly jubilant.
But that was wrong. Tess didn’t deserve this. No one did.
And she couldn’t let it happen. Couldn’t let Tess die. It wasn’t an option. Had never been an option.
“Are you there?” Faust asked.
She realized she had been silent for a long moment. “What’ve you got against Tess, anyway?”
“She has exposed me. My secret career has been found out.”
“What career?”
“Killing women. Do you remember my telling you that death is art? I would be a poor artist indeed were I satisfied with only one masterwork.”
So there had been others. Other Emily Wallaces. “How many have you done?”
“Twelve in all. Tonight would have made thirteen. Still, Agent McCallum will substitute nicely. I only regret you cannot join us. I would like to arrange, how do you say, payback for your maltreatment of Elise.”
“I didn’t hurt her.”
“You scared her. And she is a delicate thing.”
“Okay, then. You’re gunning for revenge? Just give me an address. I’ll go mano a mano with you.”
“It would be most enjoyable,” he said in a wistful tone. “Sad to say, it is not to be. You would lead the authorities straight to me.”
“No, I wouldn’t, Faust. Right now I’d like a shot at you all by myself.”
“Would you?”
“Damn straight. I’m in a nasty mood. A mood for ... tasting blood.”
He caught the reference. She almost heard him smile. “You know my book. How flattering. I might almost believe you. But, of course, you are a master deceiver, and I cannot take the chance. You have betrayed my trust once already.”
“The police and the feds will be hunting you. They’ll track you down without any help from me.”
“I do not think so. I need lie low for only a short time. Procedures have been set in motion to ensure my safe delivery from the arms of the law.”
“What procedures?”
“You cannot possibly expect an answer to this question. Now I really must go. Tess grows restless, as do I.”
She needed to keep him on the line. “It’s no use, Faust. There’s no place you can hide in this city.”
“Then find me, Abby Sinclair. Find me if you can.”
Click. The call was over. She redialed, frustrated, but there was no answer. Probably he’d destroyed the phone, as he’d promised.
From background noise and the varying quality of the transmission, she was sure he’d been on the move. Driving someplace—a hideaway where no one would seek him out, at least for the next few hours.
Cafe Eden? It would be closed for the night. He could sneak inside, hole up there.
Too obvious, maybe. He was a regular. But he might be counting on the police and feds not to know that. And maybe they didn’t. Brody knew, but he’d been working solo, and he was dead. Hauser might know, but no one would be talking to him. And Elise ... Elise would protect Faust. She would say nothing.
He could be inside the cafe. It was possible. An idea, anyway. A chance.
At least now she wasn’t driving aimlessly anymore. And at this time of night, Hollywood would be only minutes away.
47
Faust kept driving even as he methodically smashed Tess McCallum’s cell phone to pieces against the dashboard.
He had discovered the phone in her pocket after striking her unconscious with the haft of his knife. Then he had parked at a strip mall and placed a quick local call from a pay phone, using coins pilfered from the sedan’s glove compartment. The mall shops were closed, and no one was around—a good thing, since his robe, silk pajamas, and bedroom slippers would draw stares even in Los Angeles.
The call was the first and most critical step in preserving his freedom. The use of a public telephone ensured that it could never be traced to him.
When he returned to the car, Tess McCallum was beginning to stir. He pulled off the belt of his robe and cut it in two. The longer piece was wound around her wrists in her lap, while the shorter piece, knotted at the back of her head, made a serviceable gag.
The phone started ringing only moments after he had resumed driving. He answered it, expecting to hear from someone from the FBI. Instead it was Abby Sinclair’s voice on the line. He almost wished he could have arranged a meeting with her. What she had done to Elise was unforgivable. But he had more urgent priorities.
Beside him, Tess was now squirming in her seat. She had regained consciousness during the phone call and had been restless ever since.
“Quiet yourself,” he said. “I would not want to render you unconscious a second time. A repeat blow might pose a serious risk of cerebral hemorrhage.”
She did not appear to appreciate his advice, but she did settle down a bit.
“Much better.” He smiled. “It is good to know that you can be reasonable.”
He guided the car through empty streets. The city was asleep, and only nocturnal creatures like himself were on the prowl.
“You cheated me of Raven,” he said in a gentle conversational tone. “I had completed all my preparations. I had broken her spirit. That is what I do, you see. Anyone can kill the body. I kill the will to live. Or perhaps it is truer to say that I allow it to die of attrition over many days. The young typically have more of a will to live and thus pose more of a challenge. You are not so very young anymore, are you? Yet you do wish to live. You wish, no doubt, to add me to your own roster of victims, to place my name beside those of Mobius and the Rain Man and the long-forgotten drug dealer in Miami. You will not have the opportunity to do so.”
He found the familiar street and pulled into a rear alley. The FBI car would be safely out of sight here. It might be spotted by a cruising patrol car, but this was a risk he had to accept. He would need the car soon. In less than an hour he would be on the move again.
But then he would be alone. Tess McCallum’s ride—and her life—ended here.
He escorted her out of the car and down the alley to a rear door. He knew the combination to disarm the security system. And in the cabinet in his secret room he had kept a spare key set, which he had taken along with the knife. One of the keys on the ring opened the door.
“Inside,” he said, switching on the pocket flashlight he had removed from her coat.
She entered, and he followed, closing the door behind him. It clicked shut, locking automatically. He could not rearm the alarm system, or their own movements would set off the motion detectors. But it was all right.
The Unblinking I would be perfectly safe while he was here. He was not going to steal anything. He was a partial owner of the art gallery, after all.
“You do not know this place,” he said as he walked Tess McCall
um to the front of the building, the flashlight’s narrow funnel of light bobbing ahead of them. “I know it well. It is appropriate that I will kill you here.”
He looked for a reaction from her. In the dim glow of the flashlight he could see no flicker of expression. Her eyes were wide and dull. Perhaps he had struck her harder than he had thought.
“Although I could not kill Raven,” he said, “I did leave my mark on her.” He arrived at the front desk in the foyer, where the master control switches were located. “And I will do the same to you.” One set of switches for the track lighting, another for the minispots focused on the holograms. “In your case, as I lack a branding iron, I will carve the wolfsangel into your flesh.”
Leaving the room lights off, he flipped the second set of switches. In the darkness a bevy of small, faint spotlights blinked on, and the holograms came to life, smudges of color glowing in the adjacent exhibit room and in more distant rooms beyond.
“Images of death,” he said. “Your body will be found among them, Tess. Another work of art.”
* * *
The blow to her head had left Tess spacey and uncoordinated for a while, but slowly her strength had returned. Getting out of the car and moving about had helped. She could focus her eyes again, and her fingers responded when she willed them to flex.
She tried not to let him see any change in her. He had to think she was helpless.
But she was never helpless. Never,
Faust was not experienced in physical confrontations. He was an intellectual, whose victims had been chosen for their inability to fight back. Yes, her hands were tied in front of her, but she could still use them. All she needed was a weapon.
The telephone on the desk. A large, rectangular office model with multiple lines and a built-in answering machine and speaker.
Final Sins Page 29