Blind Pursuit

by Michael Prescott

  “You’re working so hard to establish a rapport with me, lull me into a false sense of complacency. See how well you’ve succeeded?”

  Oh, sure, she thought bleakly. I’ve got you right where I want you.

  Seated in the chair, a sheaf of embossed paper balanced on her knee, she composed the letter in a few sparse lines. There was no suggestion of her own personality in the message. A robot could have written it.

  Annie would never believe any of this garbage, of course. Each of them knew the other far too well to fall for such an obvious trick.

  Possibly, however, the letter was intended not to deceive Annie, but to defuse any police investigation that might be under way. Tucson P.D. could hardly pursue a missing-person case when the person in question had expressly stated that she’d left town voluntarily.

  And if no one was looking for her, she would never be found.

  “Make out the envelope, too,” he ordered as she put down the pen.

  Writing the address, she had an idea. A sizable risk for a minimal gain, but she would dare it.

  Annie lived at 509 Calle Saguaro. Erin wrote 505, carefully rounding the fives.

  SOS.

  Would Annie notice? Would it matter even if she did? Impossible to say.

  “Now place the letter and envelope on the other chair, and put on the blindfold again.”

  Knotting the cloth in place, blacking out her world, she tried another conversational ploy. “I’m glad you want me blindfolded. That way your identity will be safe.”

  “It will be safe, anyway—if I kill you.”

  A frighteningly logical answer, which raised an all-too-obvious question.

  Well, ask it, then. Be direct. “Is that what’s going to happen?”

  “Not necessarily. You’re right about the blindfold, Dr. Reilly. As long as you haven’t seen my face, you’ve got a chance of surviving our relationship.”

  Our relationship. She supposed she should be glad he’d phrased it that way, implying a connection between them.

  This time she didn’t hear the door open, but somehow she knew the precise moment when he stepped into the room. His presence chilled her like a cold draft from an unseen window.

  The other chair protested as he sat down. He must be facing her across a distance of six feet. She waited through a long silence, thinking hard.

  This would be their first extended encounter—very likely a period of maximum danger. She was something new in his world, destabilizing, threatening. It was possible he’d never been alone in a room with a woman before. He was almost certainly under more stress than his outwardly cool manner would suggest.

  How to handle it?

  Even though he’d seen through her efforts to form a bond between them, she had to keep trying. It was imperative that he not be allowed to objectify her, to reduce her to the status of a mere symbol. She had to be a person in his eyes, preferably a person who mattered to him.

  Best to be agreeable, cooperative—but not overly friendly, or he would sniff out the lie.

  He was perceptive, not easily deceived. He would know she had to be angry and scared. There was no need to conceal those feelings completely, even assuming she could. But she needed to tone them down, feign a comfort level she hadn’t achieved, and perhaps soothe his own anxieties also.

  “Very good,” he said finally. She heard the crinkle of folding paper. “The letter, I mean. You were smart not to try anything clever. I would have used the Ultron on you for sure. Or done something worse.”

  Proper response—subdued or combative? She chose a middle course, hoping to distract him while he slipped the letter in the envelope. She didn’t want him to notice her pitiful SOS.

  “You really don’t have to keep emphasizing your control over me,” she said mildly. “It isn’t necessary.”

  “Isn’t it? I take it, then, that my control is understood.”

  Acknowledge his power—a subtle compliment to him. “You’ve got the stun gun.”

  “I’ve got more than that.” The chair scraped the floor. Two quick footsteps. She felt him near her. “Hold out your hand.”

  Hesitantly she obeyed. Touched something smooth and cylindrical. The barrel of a handgun.

  “It’s a nine-millimeter.” He pulled the weapon away. “Fully loaded. I can kill you at any time, Doc. I can put a bullet in your heart”—click of a safety’s release—“or in your brain.”

  “I told you, it’s not necessary—”

  She tasted metal. The muzzle of the gun, thrust between her teeth, blocking speech.

  “Bang,” he whispered.

  Breath stopped, she sat rigidly, hands gripping the edges of the chair.

  If he pulled the trigger, she would never even know it. That thought scared her worst of all.

  “I don’t like you lecturing me on what is or is not necessary.” Fury clawed at the polished smoothness of his voice, shredding it at the edges. “And I don’t need to hear any of that crap about ‘control.’ I’m simply trying to establish guidelines for our relationship. Rules for you to live by. Literally.”

  The gun withdrew. The pounding violence in her ears was the racket of her own heart.

  “From now on, I—and I alone—will determine what’s necessary and appropriate. That’s acceptable to you, isn’t it, Doc? Or would you prefer to suck my pistol till it comes?”

  The ugly sexual imagery, the explicit connection drawn between violence and intimacy, frightened her worse than the gun itself.

  Show contrition now. No trace of defiance, nothing to set him off. “I’m sorry ... really ... if I said the wrong thing.”

  “That’s better.”

  He sat down again. She fought to suppress the tremors shivering through her body. The dampness on the inside of the blindfold was a sprinkle of tears.

  “I honestly don’t mean to hurt you.” He spoke in a gentler tone. “I will if I have to, but that’s not the way I want things to work between us. See, I have plans for you.”

  His pause solicited a question. She obliged. “What plans?”

  He didn’t answer directly. “I have a problem, Doc.”

  This time she waited, asking nothing.

  “A problem,” he said again, gently. “I guess you’d call it a compulsion. I’ve yielded to it more than once.”

  “What sort of compulsion?”

  “I kill people. Women. I kill women.”

  Don’t lose it now. Come up with a response. Something noncommittal, until you know what he wants you to say.

  Erin held her face rigidly composed. “I see.”

  “Three women so far. Three over a period of fifteen years.” The chair creaked as he leaned forward. “You probably think I enjoy it. That violence gratifies some twisted desire of mine. But it’s not true. I don’t kill for fun. I get no pleasure from what I do. It makes me sick.”

  His voice dropped with each of the last four words, ending in a whisper.

  “I do it”—he spoke so softly she had to strain to hear—“because I can’t stop myself. I’ve tried. But I can’t. I swear I can’t. I hold off as long as I can, and then I cruise the streets and ... and I do it again.”

  “You weren’t cruising the streets tonight,” Erin said slowly. “You targeted me specifically.”

  “Because I need you.”

  “What for?”

  “You’re going to treat me, Doc. Cure me. Fix it so I don’t have to kill anymore. You’re going to set me free.”

  9

  Erin let the echo of his words settle in the room’s stillness. Though she knew what she had heard, somehow it seemed unreal to her, a ridiculous joke.

  “That’s why you brought me here?” she said finally.

  “Yes.”

  “For ... therapy?”

  “It was the only way.”

  “If you were to turn yourself in, you’d receive comprehensive treatment—”

  “No.” She’d pressed one of his buttons. Watch it. “I’ve got no intention of
ending up in the nuthouse or on death row. I’m sorry for what I’ve done, but I’m not willing to submit to ... punishment.”

  His voice quavered on the last word. Erin wondered what sort of punishment had been inflicted on him in the past, and by whom.

  “Anyway,” he added, “it would be unfair.”

  Careful now, no hint of judgment: “Would it?”

  “Of course. I told you, I can’t help what I do. It’s outside my control. So why should I be held accountable?”

  Pointless to argue. Better to change the subject, reinforce the connection he was looking for.

  “And you feel I can help you,” she said.

  “You’re a shrink. You’ve got the training. And unlike the so-called experts on TV, you won’t be engaged in armchair analysis. You’ll be working with me directly. Besides, you have specific qualifications for treating me.”

  “Do I?”

  “I’ve read your articles. Some of them, anyway. The one in the Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology was particularly interesting.”

  How had he gotten hold of that? The Journal was a scholarly publication, not available at newsstands.

  The university library carried it, though. Was he a professor? A part-time student?

  “I’m not certain,” she said cautiously, “that my writings suggest any particular expertise in the area of ... multiple homicides.”

  “You’ll see things differently once you’ve read the details of my case. It’s all there, in that folder you were so curious about.”

  She remembered the sheaf of newspaper clippings. His resume, apparently. The public record of his crimes.

  “Anyway,” he added coolly, “you don’t want to convince me that I picked the wrong person for the job. That would be counterproductive from a survival standpoint.”

  Nice way of putting it. “You’re right.”

  “Okay, then. Here are the terms of my deal with you. I’ll come in every night, for as many hours as necessary—intensive psychotherapy.” Every night. Presumably he had a day job. “You’ll get to the root of my problem and help me resolve it. After that, I’ll let you go, unharmed. You haven’t seen my face, don’t know where you’re being held, so you won’t be able to lead the police to me. It is possible for you to live through this ... if you can cure me.”

  “I see.”

  “But try any funny business—any more nonsense like that possum act—and you’ll pay for it. You’ll pay very dearly.”

  “I won’t try anything.”

  “Even assuming you cooperate fully, you’ll have to get results. If the treatment goes nowhere ...”

  The chair squealed like an untuned violin under the restless shifting of his weight.

  “Let’s just say I’ve been feeling it again the past couple of months. Stronger and stronger. My ... compulsion. I’ve found myself making preparations, buying certain equipment, without even realizing it. Just like all the other times.” He took a breath. “My point is, I don’t know how long I can hold off doing what I’ve done three times before.”

  She didn’t need to ask who his fourth victim would be. “How much time do I have?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You can’t expect immediate results.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can or cannot expect.”

  “I’m just trying to be realistic. Therapy normally doesn’t work overnight.”

  “Well, you’ll have to speed up the process, won’t you? Push the envelope. I’d say you’ve got a powerful incentive.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said quietly. “There is, however, one potential ... complication.”

  She hated to raise this issue, but she had no choice.

  “Complication?” His tone was a blend of skepticism and impatience.

  “You looked in my purse. You must have seen the little bottle of pills I carry.”

  “Birth control. So what? You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

  “They aren’t birth control. They’re carbamazeprine—brand name, Tegretol. Two hundred-milligram tablets.”

  “None of that means anything to me.”

  “Prescription medicine ... for epilepsy.”

  “Hell.” Disgust in his voice, and anger at the unplanned, the unanticipated. “You’re not going to start pitching fits on me, are you?”

  “I haven’t had a seizure since I was in high school. I’ve been on medication ever since. Nearly all cases of grand mal epilepsy can be controlled pharmaceutically.”

  “So you’ve got your pills. What’s the problem?”

  “The bottle is almost empty. I’ve got enough for twenty-four hours, but that’s it.”

  “You mean—oh, Christ—you need to refill your prescription?”

  “I already did. The new bottle is in my medicine cabinet at home. I see you took some things from my bathroom—but you didn’t take that.”

  “What happens if you run out of this—this ...?”

  “Tegretol.”

  “Right. What then?”

  “I’d have a serious problem. To go off the maintenance dosage overnight would almost certainly bring on a seizure. Possibly something worse than a grand mal episode.”

  “I thought grand mal was as bad as epilepsy gets.”

  “No, there’s what they call status epilepticus. It means a prolonged seizure that doesn’t end naturally. It can continue for hours, even days. If it’s a violent episode, it can kill you.”

  “Shit.” He fell silent, and she let him think.

  It was a risk, telling him this. He might conclude she was more trouble than she was worth. Might dispose of her and find another psychologist to do the job.

  But she wasn’t lying. The danger of renewed seizures, even of a sustained status episode, was all too real.

  “Well, what can I do about it?” he asked finally.

  She was grateful for the question, which implied that he wanted to keep her alive. “Get me the other bottle.”

  “In your apartment? Go back there?”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “I can’t take that kind of chance. You want me to get caught. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You’re trying to trick me—”

  “Look at the pills in my purse if you don’t believe it. Check the label. Tegretol. I’m not playing games.”

  Another long beat of silence.

  “All right,” he whispered. “I’ll get your damn medicine. How long will the new prescription last, anyway?”

  “A month.”

  “That’ll be more than enough time. One way or the other.” The legs of his chair scraped on the concrete floor with a raw, throat-clearing sound. He was up. “You catch my meaning, Doc?”

  “Fully.”

  She listened as his footsteps receded.

  “I’ll bring your meds this evening,” he said from what had to be the doorway. “That’s when our work together will start. And, Doc ... you’d better be real good at what you do.”

  Slam, and she was alone.

  10

  A long-held breath shuddered out of her. She sagged in the chair, fumbling weakly at the blindfold until it came loose.

  On the other side of the door, a key rattled in a keyhole. A moment later, footsteps thudded up the stairs. Creak of floorboards overhead; the distant closing of a door.

  The house was empty. She waited, straining to hear, until faintly the growl of an engine reached her from far away. It grew slightly louder, perhaps as the vehicle pulled out of the garage, then quieter again; seconds later, it was gone.

  Her abductor didn’t live here, it seemed. His home was somewhere else, and this place was simply a holding pen for her.

  She stood, then sat again, surprised at the loose, watery trembling of her knees. Silently she counted to twenty, drawing slow, measured breaths. When she felt strong enough, she crossed the room to the door.

  No doorknob on her side. The smooth sheet of wood mocked her.

  On tiptoe she looked through the
peephole. The fish-eye lens revealed only darkness.

  Crouching, she examined the clearance between the door and the jamb. It was wide enough to expose part of the bolt drawn into place by the turning of the key.

  A dead bolt? Or a latch bolt, the kind with a beveled edge?

  A latch bolt could be defeated with a credit card. There were some in her wallet. The cash had been removed, but not the plastic.

  She tamped her MasterCard out of its acetate pouch, then knelt by the door. Her heart kept up a hard, steady beat as she inserted the rectangle of plastic into the crack between the door and the frame.

  The MasterCard’s leading edge slipped past the gain of the faceplate and bumped up against the bolt. She pushed, trying to make the card flex. The trick was to snake it along the angle of the latch bolt, between the faceplate in the door and the striker plate in the jamb. Pop the latch, and the door would open.

  “Come on,” she breathed, jiggling the card. “Come on, please, just do this for me, and I’ll never complain about the finance charges again.”

  Nothing.

  The card wouldn’t do the job. She removed her laminated driver’s license from the wallet and tried that. It was thinner than the MasterCard, more flexible, but it had no greater success.

  Finally she gave up. The door must be secured either by a dead bolt or by a latch bolt with the diagonal edge facing away from her. Regardless of which was true, loiding the lock was impossible.

  She wasn’t surprised, really. The man holding her prisoner was smart—too smart, possibly, to leave the charge cards and license in her wallet if they could be useful in opening the door.

  There was a way of defeating a dead bolt, though. She had learned of the technique years ago, while living in a low-rent district near the university, earning her graduate degree. The other unit in her duplex had been broken into, her neighbors’ place cleaned out. She remembered the T.P.D. detective at the scene explaining how the dead bolt on the front door had been released.

  Simple enough, he’d said. They just pried the bolt open with an ice pick. Happens all the time.

  All she needed was an ice pick. Too bad she didn’t happen to have one available.