He pushed the remote button a few more times until he came to Turner Classic Movies, where the original Dracula was playing, with a new score by Philip Glass. Lee watched as Bela Lugosi bent down over the prostrate form of a young woman sleeping in bed, his kohl-lined eyes shining with mad intensity. She continued sleeping soundly as he prepared to bite her neck, the camera focused on his obviously lipstick-covered mouth.
“Nice makeup,” Lee murmured. Lugosi seemed to be wearing more cosmetics than his leading lady. It was startling how blatantly sexual the image was, especially for the early thirties, when the movie was made. They were really playing up the notion of the count as an alluring and sexually ambiguous creature. Lee noticed that Lugosi pursued his male victims with an equally ravenous passion, drawing his long black cape over them at the moment of consummation.
The killer Lee sought was not a glamorous figure, except perhaps in his own twisted mind. But there was no comfort in his warped identity. Malformed by the heat of his suffering, the horrors of childhood replayed in his mind, over and over, until his behavior repeated his past.
Lee understood the terrible furnace that burned day and night in serial offenders’ brains, and he pitied them. But he was also prepared to hunt them down tirelessly, a Javert in an eternal search for his Jean Valjean. His pity was deep, but his need to avenge his sister’s death was greater. He, too, was caught in an endless loop, a drama replaying in his head that could not be stilled by time. He shared with his prey the inability to turn off a drive that burned deeper into his brain as time dragged on.
On the television screen, Count Dracula took another victim, and another soul entered the twilight existence between life and death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Davey stepped onto the subway and took a seat next to an elderly black woman clutching a well-worn cloth bag on her lap. She wore a dress with a green and orange floral pattern and a little matching hat. She looked weary and half asleep, and Davey felt sorry for her, riding the subway alone at this hour. No one on the sparsely occupied car looked happy. Anyone riding the train at this hour in the morning was either on the way home from a night of debauchery or on the way to work. Those people not gazing off into space or reading had the usual stony expression he thought of as the Subway Stare. The subways were not the glamorous part of the city. Rich people might not use them, but real people did—the ones who were the guts and bone and sinew of New York, who actually made the city run.
Davey liked the subways, especially at night. They were mysterious and spooky. He loved the unknowabil-ity of the subway tunnels, miles of man-made caverns, steel and concrete arteries twisting through the bowels of the city. He also loved darkened movie theaters and amusement park rides through blackened caverns and canals, the only light coming from bulbs that pulsed gently, casting a dim reflection on the surrounding walls.
He smiled to himself. The “glamorous” people weren’t better than anyone else. All their Madison Avenue furnishings and expensive tans and name-brand cookware couldn’t save them from the human condition. They suffered just like everyone else—and not always as nobly as their Guatemalan house cleaner with three kids to feed.
They might chase the wrinkles from their pampered faces with Botox, and tone their sagging flesh though constant vigilance at the gym, but inside, where it counted, everyone was the same. There was no magic in the moonlight reserved for the wealthy. We are what we do, he thought, and if what you do is spend money, then that’s what you are—someone who buys things. And it’s not much of a step from being someone who buys things to being someone who buys people. No one would ever buy him, though. He would show them—he would show them all.
He crossed his legs and turned his head to smile at the woman sitting next to him. She was one of the real people. After all, he thought, we’re all abandoned by the God who made us, left adrift on a cold rock in the cheerless vastness of space, just as Frankenstein’s monster was left to wander the arctic ice floes.
During the long ride home, Davey pondered what form his revenge would take. He had some ideas, and he took a perverse pleasure in lingering on the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the bar thug. He touched a finger to the graze on his forehead. The nice singer girl had offered to clean it off for him—but he refused. He didn’t like other people touching him; they might contaminate him. He clung to his bitterness like a life raft, as though it would save him from drowning in a deep well of self-loathing. Focusing on the wrongs of others was a welcome distraction from the hole deep in his center. And he vowed to make the man regret his cruelty. By the time Davey was done with him, the stupid bastard would be sorry he ever laid a hand on him.
He looked at the lady next to him with the worn cloth bag and jaunty little hat. He wondered what she would say if she knew she was sitting next to a monster.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Lying in bed sweating with fever, Lee couldn’t sleep, so he pulled out his laptop. Propping it up on his knees, he opened the web browser, Googled “steampunk,” and got 217,439 results.
He clicked on the first one, a Wikipedia article with pretty much the same information Sergeant Ruggles had already told them. There were some interesting pictures of steampunk attire, though. Goggles were ubiquitous, and so was leather—boots, corsets, hats, anything that could be made from it. He saw women in what looked like Victorian bondage outfits, men dressed as aviators, scientists, and explorers, sporting the ever-present goggles.
One of the links was to a steampunk chat room called The Victorian Adventurer Club. He decided to log in and join the chat. The first job was to create a User ID. After some thought, he chose “MastCaptain,” hoping it evoked a manly Victorian sailor and not a porn star.
After typing in a password, he joined the chat room. Steamgirl and MrJack were having a discussion about the quality of life in Victorian England.
Steamgirl: what makes u think it ws so dangerus?
MrJack: u hve no idea—chcks like u wld be dead
Steamgirl: sez who?
MrJack: throat cut in a back alley somewhere
At that point, Airshippilot intervened. He had apparently been lurking in the corner watching until now.
Airshippilot: leve her alone
MrJack: whats ur prob?
Airshippilot: u r my problem
MrJack: oo, Im so scared
Airshippilot: u totally shld be
MrJack: o really?
Airshippilot: u hve no idea who I am
Steamgirl: y dont u 2 dweebs stop fighting?
MrJack: u shld be grateful to ur pansy boy for rescuing u
Steamgirl: yeah, right
Lee had an impulse to join the conversation, but a stronger instinct told him to hang back, so he continued to observe from the shadows.
Airshippilot: i knw where u live
Steamgirl: me?
Airshippilot: no, him
MrJack: BFD
Airshippilot: u’ll see
MrJack: this is me quaking in my boots
Airshippilot: hey, Capt, wassup w/u?
Steamgirl: yeah, r u a weirdo or what?
Lee’s palms were sweating and he was feeling dizzy—though maybe that was from the fever. He wasn’t sure what to type—but just then the phone rang. The caller ID said FIONA.
He picked up. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, dear,” she said after a pointed pause. Fiona Campbell disapproved of caller ID. Lee knew this, but sometimes he couldn’t resist yanking her chain, as they said in certain parts of Jersey.
But her part of the Delaware Valley was considerably more upscale than places like Weehawken or Kearny or North Arlington, which had large Irish and Italian populations some of whose fathers and grandfathers still spoke the mother tongue. Fiona Campbell’s mother tongue was English, and though she grew up in the hills of Scotland, her ancestors were not potato farmers—or so she claimed. Her Scottish lilt gave her more cachet, if anything, in her Waspy community. People on the East Coast had a diff
erent attitude toward Scots and Brits than they did the Irish, who were still considered ruffians in some social circles.
“Did I wake you up?” she said, sounding peeved rather than apologetic.
“No. I was just resting.”
“Are you sick?”
It was an accusation. Her Fiona Radar was on full beam, zeroing in on him.
“No,” he lied. “I’m fine.”
She gave that little snort he was so familiar with. I don’t believe you, but I’m through with this foolishness.
“I just called to see if you were still coming out this weekend.”
“I’m planning to.”
“Good.” The slight pause told him she had something to tell him but was hesitant about saying it.
“Was there another reason you called?”
“No, why?”
Oh, God. Was this going to be one of these cryptic calls, where she expected him to coax it out of her? He didn’t have the energy to play that game right now, and he wanted to get back to the Internet chat room.
“Kylie’s looking forward to seeing you.” Kylie was his niece, Laura’s only child. She was a four-year-old when her mother disappeared.
“I’m looking forward to seeing her.”
Another pause.
“Look, Mom,” he said, “I have to—”
He was interrupted by a sudden coughing fit. He held the phone away, but Fiona had the ears of a bat.
“Look,” she said, “you’re obviously not well. Why don’t we talk about this another time?”
As curious as he was about what she had to say, Lee wanted to return to the online chat. Feeling guilty, he said, “Okay, Mom—I was just about to go to bed.” A half-truth: he was in bed already, but far from sleep.
“All right, dear,” she replied forlornly. That was a new one—Fiona Campbell sounding forlorn. “Call me tomorrow and let me know how you’re feeling.”
“I will, Mom.”
“Get some rest.”
“Thanks, I will,” he said, and hung up. Something was on her mind, he knew, but he didn’t have time to coax it out of her.
He logged back onto his computer, but when he got back to the chat room, all three of the others were gone.
“Damn!” he muttered, and popped a couple of Benadryl. He pulled the blankets up to his chin, lay back on the pillow, and the phone rang again. Without looking at the caller ID, he picked up. “Yeah, Mom?”
There was a brief pause, then a low chuckle. The voice by now was all too familiar. Lee sat bolt upright, all his senses hyper alert.
“So now I’m your mother?” the voice said. “How about that? Or are you having a drug-induced delusion?”
Lee took a deep breath. “If you have something to say to me, have the guts to say it face-to-face.”
“Oh, what would be the fun in that? Sweet dreams.”
The line went dead. Lee hit *69 but knew the results—the number was blocked. He carefully wrote down the conversation word for word, then he unplugged the phone jack, got up, and took a Xanax. For about twenty minutes he watched the headlights of passing cars slide across the wall, until drowsiness overcame him and he sank into a dead sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Elena Krieger finished the last of her coffee and washed the mug out in her gleaming kitchen sink, wiping it thoroughly with a newly laundered dish towel before hanging it carefully on the mug rack in her small, immaculate kitchen. She gave the spotless counters a quick wipe with a new sponge, then, satisfied, went into the bedroom to get dressed for work. She plucked a crisp white shirt from the closet and put it on. Her clothes were arranged by color, blouses to one side, skirts on the other. She chose a newly laundered navy-blue skirt and slid it over her slim hips, stepping into a pair of low matching pumps to complete the ensemble. She regarded herself with satisfaction in the mirror, then frowned when she contemplated the day ahead of her.
Lee Campbell was ill with a fever and chills, and Chuck Morton had persuaded him to stay in bed. That meant today’s meeting would involve only her and Morton and Detective Butts. She buttoned the top button of her shirt, smoothing her skirt over her trim thighs.
Hildegard Elena Krieger did not like Detective Leonard J. Butts. Even more, she disapproved of him. Everything about him ran counter to her own value system. She found his slovenly appearance disgusting, she disliked his use of profanity, and most of all, she thought his constant eating was repulsive. He always seemed to have something in his mouth, like a baby who can’t go without its bottle. She had always carefully controlled her own appetite, keeping watch over what she ate and drank, exercising regularly to maintain her tight, lean figure. People like Detective Butts angered her, partly because she disapproved of what she regarded as his undisciplined lifestyle, but also because she was envious—envious of anyone who could so blithely give in to his physical urges. He seemed to be enjoying himself (and life) in a way Elena Krieger couldn’t comprehend. She did not believe that life was for enjoyment. It was neither a sport nor a diversion—it was a task to be accomplished either well or poorly.
And in order to accomplish a task, what was called for was discipline. Detective Butts was so lacking in this virtue it took her breath away. Sometimes he would turn up at meetings looking as though he had slept in his clothes; sometimes he was unshaven; and worst of all, he usually had something to eat shoved into his pockets. She wouldn’t keep a dirty tissue in one of those pockets, let alone food—his jackets looked as though mice had bedded in them. Just thinking about it made her shiver all over. Some people might have said Elena Krieger suffered from OCD, but she preferred to think of herself as practicing good hygiene.
She sighed, slung her shoulder bag across her muscular back, and grabbed the apartment keys from the hook in the hallway. Double locking the door behind her, she headed out of the building toward the subway. It was going to be a long day.
When she emerged from the subway in the Bronx, the trees all had that dusty end-of-summer look—even more so than in Park Slope, where she lived. She had recently moved, and couldn’t really afford the rent in what was one of Brooklyn’s most fashionable neighborhoods, but she liked it there. It was no longer trendy—Williamsburg and DUMBO had usurped that label a while ago—but Park Slope had a thriving gay and lesbian community. Elena played both sides of the fence, but she thought of herself as a lesbian, so she felt at home in Brooklyn. And of course, wherever there was a gay community, there were good restaurants. Not that Elena had much spare time or money to eat out often, but she liked knowing they were there.
She walked the short couple of blocks to the Bronx Major Cases squad house and entered the lobby. There, at his post at the far end of the room, was Ruggles, Chuck Morton’s ever-faithful desk sergeant. He sat hunched over, his blond eyebrows knit in concentration, studying a document on his desk. Ruggles. The name fit him, somehow. She realized she had no idea what his first name was—it had never occurred to her until now that he might have one. She simply thought of him as Ruggles. He lifted his head as Krieger approached, his features expanding into a sunny smile.
“Good morning, Detective Krieger,” he proclaimed cheerfully, half rising from his chair. If he had worn a hat, she thought, he would have tipped it. But he was bald, his head as bare as a baby’s bottom.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” she replied, modulating her voice so as to seem friendly but not seductive. Elena Krieger was aware of her effect on men, and though she worked hard to be alluring, she worked equally hard not to lead them on needlessly. Her sexual ethics were as carefully thought out as all other areas of her life. She believed in responsibility, and one of her responsibilities, as she saw it, was not to toy with other people’s feelings.
It was painfully obvious that Sergeant Ruggles was taken with her. He didn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve; he had it tattooed on his forehead. He seemed to have no pride where his feelings for her were concerned. He doted on her, following her around like an eager puppy. Sometimes she
had the impulse to give him a pat on the head or a good scratch behind the ears. It was really quite touching, and a little annoying. He was a full half foot shorter than she was, ten years younger, and obviously came from a working-class background.
Hildegard Elena Krieger von Boehm came from noble German blood on both sides of her family, and considered it her duty to her ancestors to find a mate of similarly august lineage. She did not regard it as snobbery; she saw it as part of her responsibility as a descendant of kings, noblemen, and warriors.
“Commander Morton has just stepped out of his office,” Ruggles said, shuffling along eagerly behind her as Elena headed toward Chuck’s office. “But Detective Butts is there.”
Disgust gathered like bile in Elena’s mouth. She briefly considered spending some time with Sergeant Ruggles, to delay entering the office, but she was uncomfortable around him. She found his eagerness to please annoying, and was determined not to lead him on in any way. No, she was going to be working with Detective Butts on this case, so she did what Elena Krieger always did in the face of adversity—she faced her fate bravely. Squaring her broad shoulders, she pushed open the door to Chuck Morton’s office.
There, nestled behind Morton’s desk like a groundhog in a burrow, was Detective Leonard Butts. She saw to her horror that he had brought his breakfast and was in the process of eating it. Sandwich wrappings spread out in every direction like dirty yellow wings. Next to them was a paper coffee cup with greasy fingerprints. She squelched an involuntary shudder and closed the door behind her.
Butts looked up and wiped his mouth on a grimy napkin. “Hiya—how’s things?”
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