The kitten pulled its head out of the slipper and sat on its haunches in the middle of the carpet, looking confused. They both laughed.
“I guess you’re right,” she said. “Do we ever really appreciate what we have?”
He gave her a squeeze. “I do right now, that’s for sure.”
“Mmm,” she said, snuggling against him, her cinnamon-scented hair tickling his neck. “What are you driven by in your line of work? The need to confront evil where it lives? Fascination with it?”
“I suppose. And the question of why some people turn out to be psychopaths and others don’t.”
“Their ability to dehumanize other people always stuns me,” she said, twisting a lock of his hair around her fingers.
“You might be surprised how many people have really disturbing fantasies. But for the serial offender, it’s that crucial moment when he acts on them. That’s when he leaves the human race behind and sinks into the seventh circle of hell.”
“We all take refuge in illusion sometimes, don’t we?” Gemma said. “I mean, women lie about their weight, men lie about their height, and everyone lies about their age.”
“That’s true. And we convince ourselves our illusions are true.”
“I think some illusion is necessary. I like science fiction, for God’s sake!”
“Not many people can take reality twenty-four hours a day,” Lee said. “But most of us don’t create an entire fantasy world of our own.”
“Right.”
“Well, for this guy the real world isn’t as real to him as the fantasies in his head. He lives more fully inside his fantasies than he does in reality.”
“Sounds like any number of science fiction geeks I’ve known.”
“Except that they generally know the difference between fantasy and reality—and, in any case, their fantasies don’t usually center on rape and murder.”
She bit his ear. “Do you feel guilty because you’re normal?”
He smiled. “You flatter me.”
“What do you mean?”
He raised himself up on one elbow. “How normal do you really think I am?”
“Well, you’re not a psychopath.”
“No.”
She cocked her head to one side, studying his face. “So?”
“Life is unfair,” he replied, setting his teacup on the bedside table. The kitten immediately attempted to leap onto the table—failing, it tumbled onto its back.
Gemma laughed and lifted the kitten onto the bed. “Does anyone really change? Or are we all pretty much formed by the time we’re adolescents?”
He finished the last sip of cold tea. “I think people can change, but it’s a long, painful process. Not this guy, though—he’s a full-fledged psychopath.”
“That’s too bad—for him and his victims,” she said, stroking the kitten.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
The kitten sunk its tiny sharp claws into her hand, biting it.
“Ow!” she said, pulling her hand away.
“See?” he said. “Nature’s a bitch.”
“Come kiss it and make it better,” she said.
She didn’t have to ask twice.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
When Lee arrived at the station house the next day, the others were already there. Their faces were grim, and they avoided looking at him. He wondered briefly if they knew where he had spent the night, or if he had violated some unspoken rule. Jimmy handed him a cup of takeout coffee but avoided eye contact. Without any preamble, Butts handed him a letter wrapped in a clear evidence bag.
Dear Dr. Campbell,
I’m afraid one of the things you’re forgetting is that we are playing what is referred to in game theory as a zero-sum game. To put it bluntly, only one of us can win. Here’s a nifty little chain of logic I thought I’d share with you. (I’ve made a small substitution, which I’m sure you’ll appreciate.)
1. All men are mortal.
2. Lee Campbell is a man.
3. Therefore, Lee Campbell is mortal.
Bye for now,
The Professor
Lee handed the letter back to Detective Butts. His hand shook a little, though whether from lack of sleep or fear, he wasn’t sure.
“It arrived this morning—by regular post?”
Butts held up a postmarked envelope, addressed with a laser printer.
Dr. Lee Campbell
c/o Detective Leonard Butts, NYPD
Thirteenth Precinct, NYC
“It was in with my mail,” said Butts.
“And addressed to Lee,” said Elena Krieger. She looked luscious as usual, in a short tailored jacket over navy blue slacks.
“But why send it here?” asked Jimmy. “From what you say, this guy is clever enough to get your address, even if your number is unlisted. He’d enjoy flaunting that he knew where you lived, right?”
“Maybe he wanted to make sure we all saw it,” Lee suggested.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Butts said. “He knew you’d bring it in the minute you got it.”
Lee had to agree he was right. He wasn’t thinking very clearly today, and his headache had returned. Maybe spending the night with Gemma had been a mistake. Saying no to her would have taken more willpower than he had, but maybe that was a flaw in his character. He took a gulp of lukewarm coffee, bitter and harsh.
“Same author as before?” he asked Krieger.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “The same person who wrote the others wrote this one.”
“He’s threatening you,” Butts said. “We can haul him in here for that, can’t we?”
Krieger crossed her arms and frowned, a single line appearing on her smooth forehead. “I don’t think this constitutes a legal threat. The language is too vague. To say someone is mortal isn’t to suggest you’re going to kill that person.”
“Oh, come on!” said Jimmy. “He’s obviously trying to scare Lee.”
“Oh, he’s trying to scare him, all right—but that’s not necessarily enough to convince a judge to issue a warrant for his arrest.”
“Crap,” said Butts. “You serious?”
“He’s carefully crafted this to avoid making an outright threat,” Krieger said. “Not only that, but do we have any concrete evidence that Dr. Moran wrote this letter? You suspect he’s the author of all the letters, but unless you come up with physical evidence . . .”
“Yeah, I know,” Butts growled. “I doubt there are any prints or anything on this one, but I’m sending it to the lab anyway.”
“Wouldn’t the combination of this letter and your interview with him constitute probable cause?” asked Jimmy.
“I don’t see how,” said Lee. “He admitted nothing in the interview.”
“He just sat there gloating,” Butts muttered.
“So what’s next?” Jimmy said. “We just sit and wait for him to go after someone else?”
“I’ve got a tail on him,” Butts replied. “You’re welcome to volunteer for a shift.”
“Count me in,” said Jimmy. “What about you, Angus—you in?”
“Yeah,” Lee said. “I’ll join you.”
“Okay,” Butts said. “Why don’t you take the next shift? That starts at—”
The phone on his desk rang, and he grabbed it.
“Butts here. You’re kiddin’ me!” he said after a moment. “Goddamn it, McKinney, what the hell! Okay, never mind, just . . . oh, I don’t know, just keep tryin’ to find him, huh?”
He slammed the phone down and ran a hand through his wispy blond hair. “Goddamn bastard managed to lose McKinney on the Columbia campus.”
“Should we go up there?” Jimmy asked.
“Hell, yeah,” said Butts. “Meanwhile, I’ll send a couple of uniforms to help McKinney. Christ, he could be anywhere. . . .”
They all completed the thought in their own heads: and doing anything.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Debbie fought her way through the blackness, dragging he
r reluctant body back to consciousness. She opened her eyes to a dim yellow light shining from the ceiling above her. Where was she? It looked like a cave or a grotto of some kind, with crumbling plaster walls and low ceilings. She moaned and instinctively tried to stretch her arms above her head.
That was when she felt the ropes around her wrists. Unable to budge her arms from their restraints, she tried moving her legs, but they, too, were bound. Panic flooded her veins as she jerked against her bonds, arching her spine and snaking her torso back and forth. But she only succeeded in getting rope burns, as the cords cut deeper into her flesh.
Worse, she attracted his attention. She smelled him before she saw him—a cool, green smell with a hint of musk, like rainwater on a midsummer lawn. Her brain was so foggy . . . she had trouble focusing on his face as he bent over her. When she did, a shiver of fear rippled through her body as everything came rushing back. How she had gone to his office, how he had opened the door even before she knocked and beckoned her in with his usual courtly manner. That’s when the memory stopped, though, as though someone had drawn a curtain between the past and the present. It was clear she had been drugged, though. She wasn’t much of a party girl, but she knew a drug hangover when she felt one—the heaviness in her limbs, her hazy thinking, the pounding headache. It must have been in the tea he gave her.
“How are you feeling, my dear?” he asked, his eyes brimming with concern, the irises so dark, they appeared black. His body cast a long, thin shadow, blocking out the light, his bony, raked shoulders hunched over her like those of a great bird of prey. He reminded her of the turkey vultures who huddled at the edges of her father’s farm fields when one of the cows was sick or dying. Her father always said those birds could smell death before it came. She shuddered. She hated turkey vultures, with their wrinkled crimson heads, hooked beaks and beady black eyes.
“W-water, please,” she said, her tongue thick.
“Why, certainly,” he replied, moving away. She twisted her head to look at what she was lying on and saw that it was a metal hospital gurney. “Here we are,” he said, holding up a bottle of Evian water.
“I w-want to see you open it,” she rasped, suddenly suspicious. He had drugged her once—he could easily have put something into the water bottle too.
“Afraid it’s been spiked?” he asked, smiling. “Good for you—you’re learning. Though it’s too bad caution came too late,” he added, twisting the cap on the bottle. She was relieved to hear the familiar snap of the plastic seal breaking. “See?” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”
He held it to her lips. She sucked at the bottle greedily, pulling the clear liquid into her body, swallowing it in great gulps, even as she fought her panic and dread. Too late . . . The phrase darted through her mind like an evil drumbeat. She knew it was a bad sign, that her situation was desperate and that he did not plan for her to survive. She also knew the fact that he was giving her water meant he wasn’t in any hurry and that he was going to take his time doing whatever it was he planned to do to her. That thought brought her so close to the edge of despair that she had to draw on everything inside her—everything dear and close and meaningful—to keep from losing her mind.
She thought of her little sister, Clara, riding her broad-backed roan pony across the fields of her father’s farm as Debbie followed on her swaybacked chestnut, Old Nathan. She thought about Clara’s untidy blond braids bouncing as they trotted over ditches and creeks, through birch forests and dirt lanes bordered by poplar trees. She imagined Nathan loping along under her, with his sideways gait and lopsided canter, her knees tight against his warm flanks.
She imagined the smell of alfalfa in the spring and summer clover and a barn full of fall hay and field corn, the kernels deep yellow and as hard as the pellets of her brother’s shotgun. She thought of the smell of her mother’s canned peaches simmering in syrup, of the jars of her dill pickles lined up like sentinels in the pantry, of the rough, cracked flesh of her father’s hands as he pulled on his tractor cap to go out and harvest the winter wheat. She thought of the hoarse braying of her beagle pup, Charlie, when her brother rode his bike into the driveway, the loose gravel crunching under the tires setting the dog to howling.
The strength she took from these memories allowed her to push down the scream forming in her throat. She swallowed it along with her panic, determined to keep up the appearance of calm. Debbie Collins knew little about sadistic serial killers or sociopaths, but some survival instinct deep inside her told her it was her fear he needed to see, her humiliation and desperation. And she resolved that she wouldn’t give it to him. He could do what he liked, but he would not see fear in her eyes. She steeled herself to look at him, to study his face for what it might betray in the way of weakness or hesitation, uncertainty or doubt—anything she could use to gain an advantage, to stall for time, to play on his emotions in any way she could.
But looking at him was like gazing into a void. There was no life in those empty eyes; it was like looking into the face of a wraith. The warmth of human kindness had long ago evaporated from the shriveled, blackened remnant of what had once been his soul. Looking at him, Debbie felt hope wither and fade away, and in its place a despair descended such as she had never known before.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
The NYPD trip to the Columbia University campus accomplished little except to annoy and alienate the administration, to say nothing of the other professors, who were irritated at being summoned out of their classes and tutorials for interviews. A search of the grounds turned up nothing; the last time Professor Moran had been seen by anyone around campus was the day before. The fall term was almost over; with Christmas only a week away, most of the classes had already ended in preparation for finals and the winter break. The address on East Seventy-fourth Street in the university’s file for Moran had turned out to be fake—Jimmy reckoned that the numbering put it somewhere in the East River.
“Beats me why the idiots in personnel couldn’t figure that one out,” Butts muttered as he trudged toward the next fruitless interview.
Lee returned home late that evening, exhausted and discouraged, to find Chuck’s suitcase sitting in the foyer. He found his friend putting clean sheets onto the guest bed.
“I washed all the bath towels too,” Chuck said, tucking in a corner of the sheets, military-style. Chuck was the most regimented person Lee had ever known; it was a wonder they were such good friends.
“What’s up?” Lee said.
Chuck busied himself putting on the blankets. “Oh, didn’t you get my message?” He was clearly trying to sound casual, as though it was no big deal, but Lee wasn’t buying.
“I just got off the damn subway,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve decided to give it another try with Susan,” Chuck replied, fluffing the pillows before plopping them onto the bed.
“Did something happen?”
“I just felt so miserable knowing I wasn’t there for her during her cancer scare, and I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t concentrate at work; I was losing sleep, having trouble eating.” He straightened up and patted his flat stomach. “I’ve lost five pounds since I left. I can’t live like this.”
“You’re depressed,” said Lee. “It’s not forever—it passes.”
“Well, if I’m this depressed being away from her, then I guess I’m meant to be with her.”
“It’s not that simple,” Lee insisted. “You’re depressed because you’re at a difficult crossroad in your life. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re supposed to—”
“I’ve made up my mind!” Chuck yelled, his neck reddening. “Can we just leave it at that? If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it, okay?”
Lee retreated a step. “I get the message.” He turned around and started to leave the room, then turned back. “Oh, what were the results of the ultrasound? Did she have a biopsy? Does she have cancer?”
Chuck didn’t look at him. “No,” he muttered. “It was
an adenoma—a benign cyst.”
“Well, good. I’m glad to hear it,” Lee said, and he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Later, he heard the sounds of Chuck leaving, the door opening and closing, his key turning in the lock; then all was quiet. A lethargic, heavy snow had begun to fall outside. He lay down on the bed and drifted off to sleep listening to the slow patter of wet flakes on the air conditioner outside the bedroom window.
He dreamed that he and Laura were in the street outside her Greenwich Village apartment at twilight hailing a cab. As they stood in the dimming evening, the concrete turned into mud, and they sank in up to their knees. The more they tried to extricate themselves, the deeper they were pulled into the muck. Panicked, he tried to call for help, but they suddenly seemed to be the only ones on the street. Greenwich Village had turned into a desolate country road—gone were the buildings, stores, people and vehicles. They were alone at dusk on a road stretching into an endless horizon, slowly sinking down, the earth itself sucking them into an embrace of death.
Their eyes met, and the look on her face was sad but knowing—knowing what?—but neither of them could speak. They could only gaze at each other, sharing their last moments of life as the earth closed in around them....
He stirred and opened his eyes. Every detail of the dream was seared into his brain. There wasn’t much mystery about the meaning; he had long imagined that his sister was buried deep in the earth somewhere, possibly in the countryside surrounding the city. Ever since 9/11 his dreams had taken on a more tragic tone. The look he and Laura had exchanged reminded him of last, frantic messages typed or phoned to loved ones from people whose lives had ended in that smoldering pile of rubble.
He shivered, glad to be out of the world of his dream, and lay listening to the faint street sounds outside. His bedroom was in the back of the building, with no windows looking out on East Seventh Street, the quietest room in the apartment.
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