Stride heard the whine of tires striking the steel deck of the bridge. He was startled to see a red Volkswagen speeding from the Point, with a dark-haired girl behind the wheel. She grinned at him as she roared by. He had a wild thought that it might be Rachel. Even knowing she was dead, he thought she could find a way to haunt him.
But it wasn’t Rachel’s car. It wasn’t……the Blood Bug.
Stride suddenly could see through the fog. And he knew. Rachel had been sending him a message all along.
51
Eleven hundred feet in the air, atop the saucerlike crown of the Stratosphere tower, the temperature was a comfortable fifteen degrees cooler than the Strip below. When Stride stepped out onto the open-air observation platform, he felt a disconcerting vibration under his feet as the tower swayed with the turbulent air. He had never been particularly afraid of heights, but being so far up, on what felt like an exposed catwalk, was enough to make him dizzy.
“Try the tower,” Cordy had told him.
Serena once told Cordy that when she couldn’t sleep, she sometimes drove to the Stratosphere and spent a few hours staring out at the city.
In the three weeks Stride had been gone, they had talked occasionally by phone, but he still wondered if the electricity would be there when they saw each other again. He worried that the few days they had spent together would already have been eclipsed in her mind.
Looking out on the panorama of Las Vegas, he asked himself if he could come to like this town, which was so unlike anything he had known. It was hard to take a creature of the wilderness and drop him in the neon jungle. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to live in Duluth anymore. He had done his time, enough for a full pension, and this was his chance to make a break with the past. Plus, as of last week, he had learned that Maggie was pregnant and that her husband had prevailed upon her to hang up her shield. The prospect of doing his old job without her seemed empty.
He found he could walk by the edge and look down without a sense of vertigo. He followed the platform to his right, which led him on a course overlooking the eastern half of the city, free of the long stretch of glittering casinos. As he made his way to the south side, he saw the hypnotic grandeur of the Strip, jutting into the desert like a bent laser beam. At first, he saw only a dazzling ribbon of colors, devoid of detail. But the more he stared, the more he found himself focusing on individual details, like the emerald glow of the MGM Grand or the superstructure of the faux Eiffel Tower at Paris. He was so taken by the view that he spent several moments before realizing that he wasn’t alone.
Serena stood a few feet away, watching him with a smile. She wore black jeans and a white mock turtleneck. He couldn’t help but remember that Rachel was wearing almost the same outfit on the night she disappeared. With her black hair and athletic body, Serena must have looked very much as Rachel did then, atop the bridge over the canal. It gave him a little bit of sympathy, understanding how easily Robin, Graeme, Kevin, and everyone else could have been seduced by Rachel. Serena, with the same beauty, had that kind of power over him.
Why does a man do anything? Robin asked. A woman.
With a quiet grace, she came and put her arms around his back and pressed her cool cheek tenderly against his face, which was flushed and warm. He reached up and stroked her dark hair. Holding her felt natural, as if they had been doing it for years. He never wanted to let go, and for a long while, it felt as if they never would. They could stand there, wrapped around each other in the breezy night, forever. The electricity was still there, as vibrant as it had been at the start.
“You came back,” she said, with a hint of surprise in her voice.
“I told you I would.”
“I know. But promises don’t always mean a lot in this city.”
He let go and studied her, becoming familiar with her face again. “You looked good on television,” he said.
Serena grinned. “You’re such a charmer.”
Two of the Minneapolis network affiliates had sent reporters to Las Vegas to do stories about Rachel’s death. They interviewed Serena and Cordy, took footage inside and out at the strip club where Rachel had worked, and did live feeds from the open spot in the desert where Robin’s trailer had been parked. The broken-down trailer had already been towed to the junk yard and its pest-ridden contents burned.
The television crews had no photograph of Jerky Bob to put on the air. Stride had seen to it that the only known photograph was lost during the investigation. So it was up to Serena to describe him, which she did. He was a vagrant. A nowhere man. There were a lot of them in Vegas, most of them mentally ill, and this one had nursed an obsession until it grew violent. Rachel had the bad luck to be the girl he couldn’t let go.
That was her story, and she was sticking to it.
“They picked up your line, you know,” Stride said. “‘Rachel Killed By “Nowhere Man”’ That was the headline in the paper.”
“I like it.”
“So what if it isn’t true,” he murmured.
“We talked about this,” Serena said. “You had to protect her.”
He placed his hands gingerly on the shield that prevented jumpers and peered downward, feeling dizzy again at the height. Serena joined him, laying a hand on his back.
“What else could you do?” she asked.
“I know. But I’m sorry I put you in the middle of it. I made you lie for me.”
“That was my choice,” Serena told him. She saw he was ready to say more, and she put a finger over his lips. “It’s over and done, Jonny. End of story.”
“Not quite the end,” he said.
He took a breath and thought about how to tell her the rest. He still blamed himself for not seeing the truth earlier, even though it would have made no difference. The deed was done.
Serena watched him, waiting.
“There’s still the relationship between Rachel and Graeme,” he said. “Something happened—something that made them blood enemies.”
“We know they were having sex,” Serena said. “Rachel wanted to stop. Graeme didn’t. I’ve been there, Jonny. If he raped her, or if he tried to, that’s enough to make a girl like Rachel get revenge.”
“Yes, it is. But Graeme got his revenge first.”
Graeme watched his hand tremble as he held a glass of brandy up to the light. He brought the drink to his lips and took a sip, hoping the alcohol would settle his nerves. The fumes filled his nose, and the brandy burned his dry throat. He swirled the liquor in the glass and took another swallow. But the quivering in his fingers refused to be quieted. He felt his desire rise.
Emily was at a church retreat in St. Paul. Rachel was in her room, waiting, knowing he would come. Graeme put the brandy down and slipped up the steps and down the hall to her bedroom door. He moved stealthily, measuring each step on the carpet to avoid a creak that would alarm her. A light came from under the door. He pictured Rachel on her bed, staring up at the ceiling with her head on the pillow. Thinking about the many times they had made love.
He twisted the knob silently and pushed. The door was locked.
“Rachel,” he called out, just loud enough for her to hear. “You know how much I need you.”
Nothing. She was inside, listening, but not saying a word.
“We’re made for each other, Rachel,” he told her. “You can’t run away from that. We’re like two sides of the same soul.”
He knew she was there. The lingering silence began to erode his control. He found himself clenching and unclenching his fists and breathing harshly through his nose.
“Open the door, Rachel,” he insisted, his voice quavering. “I promise I won’t hurt you. But I need to talk to you.”
His promise was a lie, and they both knew it. If she opened the door, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. He needed to touch her and be inside her, whatever it took. The thought of her naked body made him sweat and tremble with longing.
“Rachel!” he shouted, anger creeping into his voice.
He pounded the door with his fist, unable to restrain himself. “I need you!”
He threw his shoulder against the door with a jarring thud. He was willing to break it down to get inside. But it was a solid old house, and the oak door didn’t budge.
“Let me in!” he screamed.
He laid his cheek against the door and listened. Rachel’s voice, when it came, was so close it startled him. She was right on the other side of the door, separated from him by only an inch of heavy wood.
“I’ll let you in if you want, Graeme,” Rachel said. Her voice was like honey, without the slightest hint of emotion or venom. “If you need to rape me, you can rape me.”
“I won’t,” he murmured.
“It’s all right, Graeme. I understand. You have needs.”
“Yes,” he told her. “Yes, I need you so much. I want it to be like it was.”
“And I’m telling you that you can have me.”
He hardly dared to breathe. The thought of making love to her again overwhelmed him. “You’ll let me?”
“I will. But let me tell you what will happen then.”
Something in Rachel’s tone made his flesh creep with unease.
“If you come inside and touch me again, I’m going to take a butcher knife to you, and I’m going to cut off your balls. Got it? And then I’m going to cut off your cock. That’s a promise. Are you listening? Do you understand? You’ll never sleep another night in this house without wondering when I’m going to dismember you. And don’t even think about having your little darling reattached. Because once I cut it off, I’m going to flush it down the toilet where it belongs.”
Graeme sank to his knees, terrified. Nausea gripped his stomach.
“Do you believe me, Graeme?” Rachel asked. “Do you believe I’ll do it?”
He tried to talk but choked on the words.
“I can’t hear you, Graeme.”
“Yes, yes, I believe you!”
And he did.
“So tell me, do you still want to come inside?” Rachel asked.
Graeme fled without answering her. He had never felt so destroyed. She had proved once again that she was the one who held the real power. He returned downstairs and paced in the den, adrift. The trouble was that he was still enormously aroused. His penis was rock hard, and his desire for her was so strong that he wanted to go back upstairs and fuck her anyway, even knowing the consequences. But he knew Rachel wasn’t lying. She would do to him exactly what she promised.
He felt himself drawn toward something ugly and familiar, like a star caught in the inexorable gravity of a black hole. He told himself that he wanted to pull away, but the truth was that he needed it, wanted it, would do anything for it. He tried to be calm, but his fingers were jittery again, and sweat gathered at his armpits and on his skin like a clammy film. He felt something stirring in his soul, a door opening, a shadowy figure awakening.
Please, no, he pleaded with the monster inside.
But it wasn’t listening. It played with him like a child with a doll, making his limbs move and telling him what to do.
Rachel, this is your fault.
“Go,” the monster rumbled, sounding so unlike a monster, so like himself.
Sounding so…immoral.
Graeme grabbed his keys and went out through the front door. The air was fragile. On an August night, it shouldn’t have been dark so early, but the shroud of storm clouds overhead left the western sky almost black. The shifting wind made the oak branches whip angrily.
He made it almost to the detached garage before realizing the way was blocked. Rachel had parked directly across the two doors, trapping his van inside. Graeme cursed. When he glanced up at her bedroom window overhead, he saw her standing there, watching him with an icy smile. The very glimpse of her set his pulse racing. But he scowled, stretching his face muscles tight. His eyes were furious black dots. He kicked her rear fender, hard enough to leave a dent.
He stood outside, thinking furiously. Raindrops began to leave dark splotches on his clothes. Then he had an idea. The thought of it made him grin up at Rachel in the window. She frowned, reading his mind.
He stormed back into the house and panted as he ran up the stairs. In his bedroom, he rifled through Emily’s dresser, dumping jewelry cases and cosmetics on the floor. He pawed to the far back of the drawers, groping through the mess. Finally, he heard a jangle as his fingers touched them. He pulled them out, his excitement growing. Emily’s old spare keys.
He snatched them up and ran back outside, slamming the door shut behind him. He looked back up at Rachel’s window, but she was gone. At the car, he fumbled with the keys. The rain made his fingers slippery, and he dropped them on the driveway. He bent down, grabbing the key ring, and shoved one key into the lock. It turned. The car door opened.
Nervous, Graeme looked around. He was alone.
“Drive,” the monster growled. “Hunt.”
He gripped the wheel so fiercely that it grew sticky from the sweat on his palms. Nuisance rain spat on his windshield, a mist that the wipers couldn’t seem to wipe away. He sought out the back roads. His need was even more urgent being in the car, where the smell of Rachel was everywhere. She might as well have been seated next to him, teasing him with her cold green eyes. The memory of having sex with her was so intense he could still feel her fingers gliding over his skin.
“Hunt.”
He headed uphill from Lakeside, quickly leaving the developed areas behind him as he climbed. Within five miles, he was driving through a deserted stretch bordered closely by stands of birch trees on either side of the highway. It was now pouring and completely dark, forcing him to slow down and peer through his headlights to see.
He drifted onto the right-hand shoulder. At the last second, he made out a girl jogging on the shoulder, directly ahead of him, distinct from the shadows of the trees. He braked and swerved the wheel sharply to steer around her, catching a glimpse of fear in the girl’s eyes as she saw the car and dove off the road to avoid it.
Graeme pulled off and stopped, leaving the motor running. He hurried back and found the girl picking herself up and brushing dirt and mud from her skin. Her features were difficult to distinguish in the darkness, but she appeared to be about Rachel’s age, with long chestnut hair tied in a ponytail. She had an athletic build and was dressed in tight shorts and a sports bra.
“I’m so sorry,” Graeme said. “Are you all right?”
The girl took a few steps, favoring one ankle. “I’m okay. Probably just a sprain.”
His eyes adjusted enough for him to make her out more clearly. She was young and very attractive, with a sweet vulnerability as she perched gingerly on her good ankle, strands of hair falling loose from her ponytail, her clothes and skin soaked by the rain.
“Come on, let me drive you home,” Graeme said, holding out an arm to help her walk.
He smiled, reassuring her, hating himself for what he was doing. It’s not me. It’s the monster. There’s a difference.
She took his arm, steadying herself. He was conscious of her touch. Her body was close enough to envelop him in an aroma of sweat and rain. He unlocked and opened the rear door, taking a quick glance up and down the deserted road.
“Why don’t you sit in back so you can keep your ankle elevated?” he suggested.
The girl scooted inside. He leaned in, watching her get settled. The dome light illuminated her, sitting with her head propped against the opposite window. Her moist face had a rosy glow from her long run. Her eyes were bright. She stretched out her right leg on the seat and let the other dangle on the floor of the car. He saw her muscled calves and thighs and traced the Lycra where it met in a V at her crotch. Her chest rose and fell with her heavy breathing, and he watched her breasts swell. She smiled shyly.
“I’m getting the seats all wet,” the girl said.
“It’s all right,” Graeme replied. He let the moment linger a little too long, and her smile eroded into a nervous laugh. A
hint of uncertainty clouded her eyes. Suddenly, he felt that she could see through him and recognize his intentions.
Graeme shut the door and climbed into the front seat. He looked back and gave her a winning smile. “I have to make one stop, then we’ll head back to town. Okay?”
“Oh. Sure.” The girl bit her lower lip. He could see questions forming in her mind and the first glimmer of fear.
Put her at ease.
“I’m Graeme,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Kerry,” the girl said, squeezing some of the dampness from her hair. “Kerry McGrath.”
Serena’s eyes were lost somewhere, focused beyond the city. He knew it was Graeme she could see in her brain. Trolling the back roads, hunting the way a tiger hunts. Graeme, coming upon an innocent teenage girl whose only sin was to go running at the wrong time and in the wrong place.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Stride took a deep breath and nodded. “Graeme killed Kerry. Rachel knew. That was the beginning.”
“But after Rachel disappeared, your team went over Graeme’s van with a microscope. It’s hard to believe he didn’t leave something behind.”
“He did,” Stride said. “We were just looking in the wrong place.”
Serena’s brow furled in confusion. Then she exhaled in disgust as she put it together. “That son of a bitch. He used Rachel’s car.”
“Exactly,” Stride said. “That was what we missed all along. I remember listening to the testimony at Graeme’s trial and thinking there was something I hadn’t caught. It was right there in front of me, and I never made the connection. Kevin and Emily both testified about Graeme buying Rachel a new car to replace the old hand-me-down from her mother. I should have recognized the timeline—the red VW, purchased almost immediately after Kerry disappeared. And what did Rachel call it? The Blood Bug. Oh, yeah, she knew. She was going to pay him back—her way.”
“Did you trace the car?” Serena asked.
“We did. We tracked down the new owners in Minneapolis. We found a strand of hair and minute traces of blood in the back seat that we matched to Kerry, and semen we matched to Graeme. I told the McGraths. They were pleased to learn that, in an odd way, justice had already been served. At least they know now that Kerry’s killer didn’t get away.”
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