He hooked his hand over the blue sheet covering her and ripped it off. It floated away like a blue ghost. “You won’t see me for quite a while, and I apologize for that. I have things I need to do. Will you be all right without me?”
Leave, she pleaded in her mind. Please leave.
He cupped her breasts with his hands and squeezed. “I’d like to leave you with a smile on your face.”
No! She strained against the ropes, pulling all four limbs toward her body while lifting her head off the pillow.
He picked a damp curl off her forehead. “You know it’s futile. You’re expending all that energy for naught, and if you perspire, I’ll have to send you back to the shower.”
Her legs and arms and head collapsed back against the mattress with a dull thud. The words thundered inside her head. How could he not hear them? I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!
Leaning closer to her, he cooed: “That’s a good girl. Relax. Just…relax.”
He reeked of soap and aftershave, and the sweet stink made her nauseous. Something sour snaked up her throat, and she wondered if she was going to drown in her own bile.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Before I go, let me tell you a story about the first one, the one I…encouraged after a phone conversation.” He crossed one leg over the other. “It was a cold night in April, late even for college students. I knew there’d be no one on the bridge.”
I don’t care about the fucking bridge. Let me go. Shut up and let me go.
“I headed to the east bank and parked behind the auditorium. If she went with my suggestions regarding the hour and the place, I had plenty of time. If she didn’t show, well…I had the benefit of a nighttime stroll. The campus had an almost ethereal shine from the lights lining its streets and sidewalks, but I saw no signs of life except for a student at the opposite side of the mall, hurrying with his backpack.
“The moment I set my feet on the bridge, I saw her planted at the midway point. She hadn’t let me down. Then things moved quickly—too quickly, really. She hopped up, put one leg over the rail, then the other. For a few seconds, she stood facing the river, her hands behind her back and locked over the railing. She let go, tipped forward, and sailed down. Disappeared into the blackness.”
You sick puppy, she thought. You didn’t try to stop her.
“I ran up to the railing. Had she survived the fall? It had to be a hundred-foot drop. Did she know how to swim? I couldn’t find her right away. Even with the waterfront lights, the river was like ink. I finally spotted her paddling clumsily. She was trying to save herself while the Mississippi swirled and churned around her. The sight of her struggling…”
His voice trailed off, and he reached down between his legs. She snapped her head to one side so she didn’t have to watch.
“A gust swept across the deck of the bridge…Was it wishful thinking, or could I really hear her cries carried along by the wind? What was she screaming? What were her final words? Did she call out someone’s name while the river dragged her? I watched while she went under, resurfaced, and went under again…I imagined it was…my beloved suffering, her mouth and nostrils filling with icy water. The river would enter her lungs, and she would sink…drown.”
The more graphic his story became, the faster his breath came. She closed her eyes. She wished she could close her ears.
“The familiar, guilty thrill sent a wave of pleasure washing over me, and I…”
She felt him relax against the bed, the panting gone. Twisted bastard.
“…I backed away from the rail. My foot bumped something, and I looked down. She’d left a note under an empty bottle of liquor. I put on my gloves, picked up the note, and gave it a read. I didn’t much care now that she was gone. I put the note back so the police could read it.
“At the far end of the bridge, a couple of pedestrians were starting their hike from the west bank. Would they see her letter, or would a hundred people go by before it was noticed? It wasn’t a blatant suicide note, but it showed her mental state. I wondered how long it would take for her body to turn up. I headed back to the car. At least she was no longer suffering.”
He turned on the mattress and dragged the tips of his fingers from between her breasts down to her navel. “I’ll end your suffering soon.”
She snapped her head and tried to hide in the blue of the pillows while he climbed on top of her. His body felt heavy and damp.
He trapped her chin in his hand and forced her to face him. “Look at me,” he ordered.
She closed her eyes tight and tried to concentrate on the soothing radio voice, her only friend in the blue hell.
“This offering is by Aleksandr Borodin. Nocturne for String Orchestra. It was recorded by the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Leonard Slatkin. The venue: Powell Symphony Hall in St. Louis. Listen carefully and you’ll hear…”
“Open your eyes.”
Drop dead, she thought, closing her lids tighter. Her eyes were the only things she could control, and she was damned if she’d surrender them.
“Open them.” He squeezed her chin hard. “I could staple them open. Would you like that? I have a stapler right here in this night-stand.”
Her eyes snapped open and stayed wide with fear. He smiled at her and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Much better.”
As he sprawled on top of her, the bile from her own stomach crawled all the way up her throat and filled her mouth with acid. She swallowed hard, wishing the sour fluid were poison.
“I prefer my partners thin. No food for you, just plenty of…fluids.”
While he moved his mouth down to her breasts, she stared up at the blue ceiling, wishing it would crash down on him and kill him.
“I’ve always loved you, Ruth,” he muttered.
Chapter 23
EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, THE DOOR TO THE PROFESSOR’S attached garage lifted with a metallic groan, causing Thorsson and his partner to bolt upright in the front seat of their van. Peering into the bowels of the garage from their parking spot across the street, the agents saw a young woman in a pea coat and baggy jeans exit through a service door and slide into the front passenger seat of a Saab sedan. A purse was slung over her shoulder, and a paper grocery bag was in her arms. Ten seconds later, Wakefielder walked out of the service door, went over to the driver’s side of the sedan, and got behind the wheel. The Saab started up with a smoky cough and backed out of the garage. After a stall in the middle of the street—during which the two agents flattened themselves on the bench of the dry cleaner’s van—the Saab restarted and chugged south down the street.
Thorsson called Garcia at home while his partner—a young, freckled redhead who always looked startled—turned on the van’s engine and steered out of their parking spot.
“He’s on the move,” Thorsson said into his cell. “The woman’s with him. She’s carrying something in a sack.”
“Probably the puke clothes,” Garcia said. “Where are they right now? In what direction are they headed?”
A pause while Thorsson got his bearings. “They just turned onto Cleveland. Heading south.”
“Keep me apprised. Any big moves, give me a call immediately. Need help tailing them?”
Thorsson said, “Red and I have it under control, sir.”
“The kid’s behind the wheel?”
“He’s from these parts, sir.”
“I know. Good. That’s good.”
Thorsson, with great reluctance in his voice, asked, “Should I give Agent Saint Clare the heads-up?”
“I’ll do it,” said Garcia. “You two just keep your eyes on the prize.”
Thorsson closed his phone and snarled, “That Breast Fed is leading Garcia around by the short hairs.”
As he navigated the dry-cleaning van, Red kept the Saab at a distance of about a block. “Why do you say that?”
“She’s got him convinced that there’s a serial killer running around. What a
bunch of bullshit. I hope she falls on her ass on this one. Right on her bony ass.”
“I think she’s got a nice ass, actually,” said Red.
“I’m not talking to you for the rest of the day,” said Thorsson.
BERNADETTE FLOPPED onto her stomach, reached over to her night-stand, and knocked the ringing object to the floor. She felt as if she’d just fallen asleep. Stretching her arm down, she fumbled around on the floor until her fingers found the phone. “What?” she croaked into the cell.
“Wakefielder and the girl are on the move. Thorsson just called it in.”
Kicking off the covers, Bernadette jumped out of bed and scooped her jeans off the floor. “Where’re they headed?”
“South on Cleveland.”
She danced into her jeans while cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder. “Could be they’re going to the Minneapolis campus. If she’s a student, she might live around there.”
“Aren’t they taking a roundabout way?”
She stepped into her sneakers. “Yes and no. They’d go from Cleveland to Raymond to University Avenue. It works, especially if she lives close to the St. Paul border.”
“What do you want to do?”
She picked a sweatshirt up off the floor, grabbed her gun, and started spiraling down the stairs. “Did you say Thorsson is doing the tailing?”
“The kid is driving.”
“There’s some hope we won’t lose them, then.”
“Yeah. My thoughts.”
“I’m going to tool on over to the east bank,” she said. “I might luck out and get in on the fun.”
“Stay in contact.”
BERNADETTE HAD GUESSED the professor’s path exactly. The Saab went along Cleveland Avenue and followed the fork onto Raymond Avenue. The tree-lined residential area gave way to a stretch of neighborhood storefront businesses. Thorsson ogled a coffee shop as they rolled past it and ran his tongue over his top lip. “I’d love a cup of java.”
“Then you’d have to pee,” said Red.
“I got an empty pop bottle in back.”
Wakefielder, in the right lane, braked at a red light at University. A Saturn compact in the right lane separated the van from its target. When the Saab’s turn signal started flashing, Thorsson called Garcia. “We’re on Raymond at University, and he’s preparing to take a right.”
“The east bank of the U is a couple of miles from there,” Garcia told him. “Saint Clare’s thinking that’s where they’re headed. She’s on her way over.”
Silence on Thorsson’s end. Then: “We’ll be glad for the help, sir.”
The light turned green, and the Saab hung a right. The Saturn did the same, and the van followed. “Here we go. We’re on University heading toward the Minneapolis border.”
“I’m gonna call Saint Clare and update her,” said Garcia.
“You do that, sir.” Thorsson closed his phone and growled, “That little witch.”
Red gave his partner a quick sideways glance and kept driving. For a Saturday morning, traffic was heavy. At a red light, Red propped his elbow on the van’s door and rested the side of his head in his hand. “I’m starving.”
“Me, too. I could go for a Whopper. Let’s hit a Burger King after we turn over the baby-sitting duties.”
Red checked his watch. “That’s hours away.”
“Christ. I feel like we’ve been on the road for a week.” Thorsson glared past the Saturn at the Saab. “What has he been doing? Ten under the limit?”
“He’s had traffic in front of him,” said Red.
After the light turned green, the Saab, the Saturn, and the van paraded through the intersection. The Saturn swerved into the left lane and hung a left, vanishing down a side street. Trying to keep his distance, the agent slowed to a crawl. An Audi pulling out of an office building’s parking lot slipped between the Saab and the van. To be safe, Red hung back a little more and let another car join the motorcade.
“Careful,” cautioned Thorsson.
“I know what I’m doing,” said his partner.
A couple of blocks to the Minneapolis border, the agents saw the Saab ease to the curb and stop in front of a duplex. “Now what?” wondered Thorsson.
Hanging back half a block, the van pulled to the curb. There were no other vehicles parked between them and the Saab. Red fished a clipboard out from under the driver’s seat while his partner reached behind and grabbed a shirt encased in dry cleaner’s plastic.
Red asked, “Should we call Garcia back so he can call Saint Clare?”
Thorsson said, “We don’t need her holding our dicks for us.”
“I guess we could wait and see what’s up first.”
The Saab’s front passenger and driver’s doors popped open in unison. Wakefielder got out, went around the car, and offered his hand to the girl. Ignoring his gesture, she got out of the car and headed for the front door of the duplex, weaving a bit while she walked. The professor reached inside the Saab, took out the paper bag, and followed the girl, standing at her elbow while she foraged in her purse. She dropped the purse, and the professor picked it up. She snatched it out of his hand and resumed her digging, swaying while she did so.
“Is she drunk or what?” asked Red.
“Fucking early for that shit,” said Thorsson.
She finally produced a key, worked the lock and knob, and pushed the door open. She ripped the bag from the professor’s hand, went inside, and slammed the door in his face.
Even from half a block away, the agents could see the tension. “Trouble in paradise,” said Thorsson.
Red craned his neck while scratching on the clipboard. “I got the address.”
“Good,” said Thorsson.
Wakefielder got back into the Saab and started it up.
“Do we stay with her or go after him?” asked Red.
“We call the boss,” said Thorsson, tossing the dry cleaning behind him and picking up his phone.
“He’s pulling away,” said Red.
“Don’t move,” said Thorsson, punching his cell.
Wakefielder did a U-turn in the middle of University Avenue, cutting in front of two eastbound cars. The drivers laid on the horns. Red didn’t like the aggressive move. “Do you think he saw us?”
“He didn’t see shit. He just drives like a putz.”
“What if we lose him?” Red asked worriedly.
“We can catch up.”
Garcia answered after one ring. “What?”
“Girl got dropped off at home.” Thorsson took the clipboard out of his partner’s hand and gave Garcia the address. “This might be a good time to pump her for information.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Garcia.
Thorsson said authoritatively: “She had a fight with the man. Slammed the door in his face. On top of that, she might have had a couple. Tongue should be good and loose.”
Garcia asked, “Booze this early? You sure?”
“She was swaying and dropping her belongings.” Thorsson cleared his throat. “Uh…I’d be willing to go inside and talk to her.”
“Saint Clare’s in the neighborhood, and I’m thinking she’s going to want to visit with the young lady. Besides, you’re tailing the professor.” Garcia paused. “You are still on him, aren’t you?”
“Like white on rice, sir.” Thorsson looked at his partner and thumbed over his shoulder.
Shaking his head with worry, Red checked his rearview mirror and looked through his windshield. He pulled out of their parking spot and did his own U-turn in the middle of University Avenue. He looked up ahead. Lots of traffic but no Saab.
Seeing what his partner was seeing, Thorsson ran a hand over the top of his head. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but are you sure we should bother with surveillance the whole weekend? How certain are we that this is the right guy? That’s a lot of man-hours based on a hunch.”
“Agent Saint Clare’s got more than a hunch, Agent Thorsson,” Garcia said brusquely.
>
“Yes, sir,” said Thorsson, his face knotted with anxiety.
“Well, nice work, Greg,” said Garcia. “Pass it on to Red. I know it wasn’t the most exciting assignment.”
Thorsson rubbed his face with his free hand. “Yes, sir.”
Garcia said, “Hang in there. Your relief should be showing up at noon.”
Thorsson closed his phone and turned on his partner. “Fuck! How did you lose him?”
Red came up on a minivan in the left lane and stopped at a light. He veered into the right lane and blew through the intersection, barely missing a station wagon crossing in front of him. A cacophony of horns followed. “It’s your fault. You told me to wait.”
“You know what you’re doing, right? That’s what you told me, you little shit.”
Weaving in and out of traffic, the frenetic delivery van finally reached Raymond, where it took a screeching left. “He’s gotta be back home.”
“He’d better be home,” snarled Thorsson.
“What if he’s not?” squeaked Red.
“Then you’re fucked, my friend.”
SPEEDING BACK to University Grove, the two agents didn’t hear the wails of a police car and a paramedic rig coming down University Avenue from the west.
The squad and the rig took a hard left and screeched into the duplex’s driveway. Ten seconds later, Bernadette pulled up in front of the building. They’d all arrived too late. Animal Print Girl—Zoe Cameron to her family and friends—was already dead.
Chapter 24
“WHAT’S HE DOING RIGHT NOW? FIND OUT!”
“Calm down, Cat. You’re going to pop a vein.” Garcia punched a number into his phone. “You know, Greg and the kid have been on top of him the entire time. They’ve been real good about calling in.”
“Find out.”
Garcia held up his hand to silence her while he spoke into his cell. “Give me the latest on Wakefielder…Good…Good…Don’t let him out of your sight.” Garcia closed his phone.
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