In for the Kill

by John Lutz

More quietly than last time, he worked the screen loose and leaned out to prop it against the house, well alongside the window where it wouldn't trip him up when he was leaving.

  As an afterthought, before climbing out the window, he arranged some wadded clothing and his pillow so it looked at a glance as if he might be sleeping in his bed. He'd seen it done plenty of times on TV, and it might work.

  Making only a soft scraping sound as the sole of his right moccasin slid over the sill, he wriggled from the window and lowered himself a few feet to the ground.

  Ahead of him loomed the blackness of the swamp. Though his heart rattled up into his throat, he didn't hesitate. He began walking toward the dirt road that wound between the lush foliage and the canopy of vines and moss-draped branches. The night sky was cloudy, with only a sliver of moon, so the swamp was almost at its blackest. This morsel of luck buoyed Sherman's spirits as he passed into darkness.

  Behind him there was an explosion, and something like a flight of birds rushed through the leaves very near him.

  Sherman knew it wasn't birds--it was buckshot.

  "Sherman, you come back here!"

  His mother! With the shotgun!

  He bolted and ran down the narrow road, now and then splashing through spots where the swamp had spread fingers of water across it. His back muscles were bunched so he could barely move his arms. Any second the old double-barreled twelve-gauge might loose another load of shot his way.

  But there was no second shot.

  He heard instead a grinding sound, and the engine kick over on the old pickup. The truck had a poacher's searchlight mounted just outside the driver's side window, and he knew his mother would use it to locate him.

  There was a loud roar, then a metallic grating noise, like a mechanical monster clearing its throat. Sherman knew what it was. First gear.

  The truck was coming.

  The roar of the truck engine drowned out the other sounds of the swamp. Headlights played over the trees and undergrowth. Sherman's heart was a banging drum in his chest. The only reason the headlights hadn't picked him up was because the road was curved. He knew he had only seconds.

  Without hesitation he veered off into the darkness of the swamp. The water was at his ankles and he had to slow down. His mother wouldn't hear him over the roar and rattle of the truck, but she might see any ripples he stirred up.

  Still moving swiftly, he was careful to lift his feet high and place them easily almost straight down to minimize roiling the water. Soon he was in deeper water, and foliage that grabbed at his legs and scratched his face, as he moved faster, plowing ahead.

  The truck motor dropped to a rumbling idle, and the spotlight beam danced like a phantom over leaves and moss and gnarled roots. Now and then something dark and formless moved swiftly away into blackness, as Sherman must if the beam found him.

  "Sherman! You come back here!"

  The dancing phantom light was closer. He knew his mother was creeping along the dirt road in the old truck, checking the swamp on both sides with the spotlight.

  "Sherman!"

  In waist-high water now, he moved cautiously around some twisted banyan roots. When he looked up he could see only blackness. The canopy of growth obscured the moon and whatever stars were out. Pressing his back against the mossy coolness of a tree trunk, he listened to the truck engine barely turning over, the loose left fender vibrating and rattling as the vehicle tilted and jounced over ruts and holes in the road.

  Movement caught Sherman's eye off to the left, and he saw the rough black hump of a gator glide away into deeper darkness. He was accustomed to gators and knew they probably wouldn't attack him if he kept his distance. Probably.

  Something cool and quick darted across his bare arm and he fought not to cry out in surprise. Snake?

  Whatever it was moved on, but Sherman had bit his lower lip so hard it was bleeding.

  The loose fender ceased its rattling as the truck seemed to stop, the rumbling of its exhaust and the click and clatter of its idling engine unchanging. The spotlight darted closer, moved away, swooping back and forth like a live thing in the swamp.

  Right now the blackness of the swamp Sherman had feared so much in his dreams seemed like his friend. Its thick foliage sheltered him. The snakes and gators that he knew were around him in the night were less menacing. They were in their element and so was he, because here in the dark, in deep water where the truck couldn't go, he was safe from his mother.

  As long as the spotlight beam didn't find him.

  The truck engine roared briefly, as if in anger.

  "Sherman! You come back here! Come back to your mother!"

  30

  New York, the present

  Anna had changed from the skirt and blazer she'd worn to work to an old pair of jeans and an untucked T-shirt lettered COMMIT RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS. She'd decided the skirt needed to go to the cleaners, but the blazer was good for another wearing. She'd just hung it up in the closet when the intercom buzzed.

  She hurried barefoot to the hall and pressed the button to ask who was there.

  She was puzzled when the scratchy voice on the intercom said there was a Federal Parcel package for her. She wasn't expecting anything. On the other hand, the shopping network where she often ordered things sometimes sent free gifts. God knew she was a good enough customer to have one coming. There was also the possibility--one she didn't like to admit--that she'd ordered something and forgotten about it. Anna didn't like being reminded that her shopping and her charge card balance were somewhat out of control.

  She buzzed the deliveryman up, then returned to the bedroom and put on her slippers before going to the door to open it so she could sign for the package.

  The deliveryman wasn't out of breath, as they usually were after taking the stairs. Must be in great shape. He wasn't wearing the usual Federal Parcel uniform and looked vaguely familiar to Anna. Had she seen him recently? At the office? In the subway? Nice-looking guy, worth wondering about.

  But her attention was focused mainly on the large white package he held beneath one arm.

  He smiled. "Anna Bragg?"

  "Uh-huh." She returned the smile, focusing now mostly on his amiable brown eyes.

  He extended his free hand, only it didn't hold a pencil or clipboard, and he'd made it into a fist.

  Barely had that registered in Anna's mind when the fist slammed into her stomach, just beneath her ribs.

  Her breath rushed out in a raspy whoosh!

  She wanted only to curl into a ball and would have fallen, but the man deftly placed an arm beneath her and held her up, her body doubled over but her feet off the floor. He effortlessly carried her back inside her apartment.

  Pain and panic were simultaneous. Anna gasped desperately, sucking in nothing because her body wouldn't respond to her mind's command. It was impossible for her to breathe out, because she had no breath to exhale. She was made mute by her lack of oxygen and by her agony.

  Even in her terror, she tried to gather her thoughts. Tried to comprehend what was happening.

  Who was he? Why had he done this?

  What's he going to do now?

  The man was maybe slightly older than she was, handsome in a regular way. Studying him through her tear-blurred eyes, she was sure they'd never met. Not formally, anyway. But there was still that feeling that she'd seen him somewhere before.

  He placed her gently on the sofa and she drew up her legs even tighter and groaned as she attempted again to draw air. She was going to suffocate; she knew it.

  Her cheek pressed to the sofa, she watched the intruder go to the front door and make sure it was locked, and then fasten the chain. He stooped to pick up the white box and carried it nearer the sofa, then laid it on the end cushion where her drawn-up feet didn't reach it.

  Her feet were pressed together and she realized she couldn't separate her ankles. She heard a loud ripping sound.

  Her clothes being torn?

  No. She recognized the
sound now. It had been made by tape being ripped. He'd taped her ankles together. Now she felt the tape wrapping tightly around her calves.

  He propped her up on the sofa, maneuvering her so she was on her knees. She'd hurt her neck turning her head sideways so her face wasn't pressed into the soft cushion. I don't want to suffocate! Please! She was still gasping, making wheezing sounds, struggling to recapture the great gift of being able to breathe. She knew her rear end was jutting up in the air. Was he going to rape her? Take her from behind?

  She didn't think so, not with her legs taped so tightly together. And that frightened her even more.

  Something worse?

  Her arms were yanked behind her back and her wrists were taped. It had been accomplished quickly and expertly.

  He's done this before. More than once.

  He turned her around so she was seated on the sofa, bent forward and unable to move.

  Anna was breathing in great gulping gasps now, and glimpsed the man in profile. She understood why he didn't seem a complete stranger. He looks familiar because he's been following me!

  In her new sitting position she could see into the white box at the other end of the sofa.

  Suddenly she knew who the man was. Why he'd been stalking her.

  She took a deep breath, managed the brief beginning of a scream, before there was another loud ripping sound and a rectangle of gray duct tape was slapped across her half-opened mouth and pressed firm.

  He approached her with something metal then, worked his thumb on it, and a razor blade appeared.

  She began to tremble as slowly, with practiced skill, he began slicing and removing her clothes.

  The muted shrill scream of a dentist's drill in Nothing but the Tooth made its way through the wall, followed by three loud thumps.

  Seated at his desk, Fedderman said, "We could give somebody the third degree in here and nobody'd notice."

  "Tempting," Pearl told him. She glanced over at where Quinn was seated behind his desk, studying a sheet of paper she figured was the killer's tantalizing note.

  Fedderman had been studying the same thing. "The 'gold' in the note might mean blondes," he said, making a sour face after sipping his morning coffee. "Our sicko's been killing brunettes. Maybe he's hinting to us he's gonna start murdering blondes."

  "That wouldn't fit the profile," Pearl said. "He wouldn't be set off by blondes the same way he is by brunettes."

  Quinn said, "Hmm." She wondered if that was agreement.

  "You're assuming it's the hair that's triggering his choice of victims," Fedderman said. "Maybe he's focusing on something else about these women."

  "Such as?" Quinn asked.

  Fedderman shrugged. "In what other ways are the victims similar? Eyes, legs, the way they dress, their noses, height, boobs? There are lots of possibilities."

  Pearl felt somewhat offended but couldn't say why. "A bit of a reach," was what she said.

  "It is," Quinn agreed, "but it might be true that his next victim doesn't necessarily have to fit the profile."

  Pearl knew how little faith Quinn put in profilers. She didn't quite agree, but now wasn't the time to argue with him.

  "He might have read all those books and watched those TV shows about serial killers and he's decided to run counter to type," Quinn said. With his free hand, he absently toyed with a wrapped cigar in his shirt pocket. Pearl knew he didn't dare.

  "It's happened before," Fedderman said. "Blondes," he repeated thoughtfully. "Gold...blondes. The time when he displayed the pubic hairs to make sure we knew he'd really killed a brunette, maybe that's when he started to deliberately change his profile. First make-believe blondes, then on to the real thing. He wouldn't be the first."

  "What the hell does that mean?" Pearl asked.

  Fedderman sipped coffee and shrugged.

  "There's enough to what you say about the possibility of some commonality we haven't struck on," Quinn told him, "that I'm going to study the morgue shots and photos of the women while they were alive to see if they might share something other than general type and hair color." He laid the killer's note on the desk. "You and Pearl take another look at where they were killed."

  "Their apartments?"

  "See if there might be some common denominator there. Their tastes in art, the way the places are furnished. And if it's still possible, look at their wardrobes. Maybe there was something about the way they dressed that turned them into victims."

  "I thought I'd talk again to some of the victims' friends or neighbors," Pearl said. "When they get tired enough of us, they might remember something just so we leave them alone."

  Quinn thought about it. "Okay. Catch up with Feds later. I'm going to worry over this note a while longer, then go see if Renz has anything new. He's got a meeting this morning with the profiler, so it'll probably be mostly bullshit."

  Pearl went into the washroom and waited until Fedderman had left, then returned to where Quinn was still seated behind his desk.

  "You check on that Wormy guy?" he asked, organizing the Marilyn Nelson murder book before closing it.

  "We don't have a sheet on him. I contacted Buffalo, where he grew up. He's clean there, too. Might as well be an Eagle Scout."

  "He looks like a damned junkie. If he's not a known user, he must be on something legal, like glue or gasoline." He bowed his head and gazed thoughtfully at the killer's note lying in the center of his desk. "Some of them just don't get caught."

  Pearl didn't know if he meant junkies or serial killers. "I had another talk with Lauri," she said.

  He glanced up at her, surprised. "Duty above and beyond. Thanks."

  "It was her idea."

  Quinn leaned back in his chair so he could see her without craning his neck and began to swivel inches this way and that, as if experiencing the beginning of uneasiness. "Lauri's idea?"

  "Yeah. We met at a restaurant near the Hungry U and had sodas, then walked around the Village a while. She's a great kid, got more sense than most her age."

  "But not enough sense."

  "Well, at that age, no. Even thee and me. If you can remember back that far."

  "She told me she likes you," Quinn said. "Really admires you."

  "She used those words?"

  "Verbatim."

  "That's nice to know." Pearl was surprised by how pleased she felt. "It partly explains why she wanted to tag along with me while I work."

  Quinn stopped swiveling gently back and forth in his chair. He looked mystified. "Tag along?"

  "That's what she wanted. Why she phoned and asked to meet with me."

  "You mean she wants to hang out with you, even while you're working?"

  "She wants to watch and learn, Quinn. She told me she wants to become a cop."

  Quinn sat stunned. Lauri? A cop? His own little girl? She had no idea what that meant. What she'd see and do, and how it would change her.

  "She damned well better not tag along with you," he told Pearl.

  She smiled. "That's exactly what I told her, Dad. Almost verbatim." She went to the door and looked back at him. "Still, I'm flattered she thinks highly of me."

  "I don't want her hurt," he said helplessly.

  "Neither of us does, Quinn."

  "Jesus, what would May say if she knew?"

  "I guess you're gonna find out."

  He watched Pearl go out into the already steamy morning.

  For a long time he sat staring at the closed door. Being a father--a close-by father--wasn't easy. Nothing seemed to work out as he planned. Lauri didn't act or react the way he imagined she would. Hardly ever. Turning up unexpectedly at his door, the job at the restaurant, going out with that Wormy misfit. What next, a tattoo?

  He'd tried to act in her best interests, got Pearl to talk with her, the better to understand her. That had sure as hell backfired. Now his daughter wanted to be like Pearl. A cop.

  Like me.

  His brief flush of pride became a stab of pain.

  A life li
ke mine.

  Quinn noticed he was squeezing the desk edge with both hands so hard that his fingers where white.

  Daughters!

  He could barely contain his frustration.

  31

  Pearl sat in the unmarked parked across the street from the Waverton Hotel and watched a sprinkling of raindrops dot the windshield. Rain wasn't in the forecast and she knew it would stop soon. A brief summer spritzing that would juice up the humidity and make the day even hotter.

  She wasn't much concerned with the weather. Pearl hadn't yet visited any of the victims' apartments, per Quinn's instructions. She was holding her cell phone loosely in her right hand, hefting it as if contemplating throwing it.

  But she didn't throw it. She used it.

  Jeb Jones was in his room at the Waverton when Pearl called. When he picked up on the third ring and said hello, she said, "This is Detective Kasner, Mr. Jones."

  "Ah, Pearl."

  "Detective Kasner," she repeated.

  "Sorry. I shouldn't have assumed we were on a first-name basis."

  Pearl felt frustrated. Already she'd botched this up. "I didn't mean to sound unfriendly, just professional."

  And just distant enough.

  "We'll make it professional, then. I'm ready and willing to answer all your questions." He sounded more amused than miffed.

  "When can we meet?"

  "You don't want to do this by phone?"

  "No. I like to see people when I talk to them in the course of an investigation." She sounded like a bureaucratic prig even to herself.

  "Suspects, you mean?"

  "For God's sake, no."

  Too fast. And I shouldn't have told him that.

  He laughed, gaining confidence. "I figured you were about to tell me that at this point everyone's a suspect."

  "No, it's not like on television."

  "Well, I can meet with you just about any time."

  "Now?"

  "Sure. Where?"

  "How about the lobby?"

  He laughed. "You like to surprise people, don't you?"

  "I guess I do. It's part of my job."

  "Let's meet in the hotel coffee shop in ten minutes."