The Search

by Нора Робертс

  “For leaving him.”

  She sat back. “For leaving him,” she repeated. “I got away. I ran away. I didn’t stay where he put me, or... accept the gift. The scarf. All right, say that’s true, what does it tell me?”

  “He’s never forgotten you. You left him, and even though he managed to scar you, he was the one who was punished. He can’t get to you, can’t close that circle, tie off the thread. Not with his own hands. He needs someone to do it for him. A stand-in. A proxy. How does he find one?”

  “Someone he knows, another inmate.”

  “Why would he use someone who’s already failed?”

  Her heart knocked at the base of her throat. “He wouldn’t. He waits. He’s good at waiting. So he’d wait, wouldn’t he, until he found someone he believed smart enough, good enough. The women he’s killed—this proxy—it’s a kind of building-up. I understand that. They’re a horrible kind of practice.”

  “And they’re bragging. ‘You locked me up, but you didn’t stop me.’ ”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Good.” For an instant those tawny eyes went fierce. “Be scared, and think. What motivates the proxy?”

  “How can I know?”

  “Jesus, Fee, you’re smarter than that. Why does anyone follow someone else’s path?”

  “Admiration.”

  “Yeah. And you train someone to do what you want, how you want, when you want?”

  “Praise and reward. That means contact, but they’ve searched Perry’s cell, they’re monitoring his visitors—and his sister’s the only one who goes to see him.”

  “And nobody ever smuggles anything into prison? Or out? Did Perry ever send a scarf before he abducted a woman?”

  “No.”

  “So this guy’s deviated. Sometimes you follow another person’s path because you want to impress them, or outdo them. It has to be someone he met, more than once. Someone he was able to evaluate, and trust, and speak to privately. A lawyer, a shrink, a counselor, a guard. Somebody in maintenance or prison administration. Somebody Perry looked at, listened to, watched, studied and saw something in. Someone that reminded him of himself.”

  “Okay. Someone young enough to be maneuvered and trained, mature enough to be trusted. Smart enough not to simply follow instructions, but to adjust to each particular situation. He’d have to be able to travel with nobody questioning him about where he’d been, what he’d done. So, single, someone who lives alone. Like Perry did. The FBI must already have a profile.”

  “He’d have to have some physical stamina, some strength,” Simon continued. “His own car—probably something nondescript. He’d need enough money to carry him along. Food, gas, hotels.”

  “And some knowledge of the areas where he abducts them, and where he takes them. Maps, time to scope it all out. But under it, doesn’t there have to be more? The reason why. Admiring Perry? Nobody could unless they were like him. What made this person like that?”

  “It’ll be a woman, or women. He’s not killing Perry’s mother. My guess would be she’s his proxy.”

  It made sense, though she didn’t know what good it did her. Maybe the fact that it made sense was enough. She had a theory about what she was facing—or who.

  She supposed it helped that Simon pushed her to think. No promises that nothing would happen to her, to protect her from all harm. She wouldn’t have believed those claims, she thought as she tried to soak out the tension with a hot bath. Maybe she’d have been comforted by them, but she wouldn’t have believed them.

  He didn’t make promises—not Simon. In fact, he was very careful not to, she decided. All those casual see you laters rather than just saying he’d be back. Then again, a man who didn’t make promises didn’t break them.

  Greg had made promises, and kept them when he could. It occurred to her now that she’d never worried about Greg or wondered or doubted. He’d been her sweetheart before the abduction, and he’d been her rock after.

  And he was gone. It was time, maybe long past time, to fully accept that.

  Wrapped in a towel, she stepped into the bedroom as Simon came in from the hall.

  “The dogs wanted out,” he told her. He crossed over, flicked his fingers over the hair she’d bundled on top of her head. “That’s a new look for you.”

  “I didn’t want it to get wet.” She reached up to pull out pins, but he brushed her hand aside.

  “I’ll do it. Did you finish your brood?”

  She smiled a little. “It was only a partial brood.”

  “You had a rough day.” He pulled a pin out.

  “It’s done now.”

  “Not quite.” He drew out another pin. “Scent’s the thing, right? How you find someone. I’ve got yours inside me. I could find you whether I wanted to or not. Whether you wanted me to or not.”

  “I’m not lost.”

  “I still found you.” He took out another pin, and her hair tumbled after it. “What is it about the way a woman’s hair falls?” He speared his hands through it, locked his eyes on hers. “What is it about you?”

  Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers, but softly, testing and easy. She eased into him as she had the bath, with every muscle sighing its pleasure.

  For a moment, just a moment, he simply held her, with his hand stroking down her hair, her back. It undid her, the offer of comfort she hadn’t asked for, the gift of affection she hadn’t expected.

  He slipped the towel off, let it fall, and even then just held her.

  “What is it about you?” he repeated. “How does touching you calm me down and excite me at the same time? What is it you want from me? You never ask. Sometimes I wonder, is this a trick?” His eyes on hers, he backed her slowly toward the bed. “Just a way to pull me in? But it’s not. You’re not built that way.”

  “Why would I want anything I had to trick out of you?”

  “You don’t.” He lifted her, held, then laid her on the bed. “So you pull me in. And I end up being the one who’s lost.”

  She framed his face with her hands. “I’ll find you.”

  He wasn’t used to tenderness, to feeling it spread inside him. Or this need to give her what she never asked of him. It was easier to let the storm come, let it ride over both of them. But for tonight, he’d embrace the calm and try to soothe the fears he understood hid behind those lake-blue eyes.

  Relax. Let go. As if she’d heard his thoughts, she sank into the kiss that offered quiet and warmth. Slow and easy, his mouth tasted hers, changing angles, gently deepening in a seduction that shimmered sweet.

  She’d been wrong, she realized. She was lost. Floating, untethered, in an unfamiliar space where sensation layered gauzily over sensation to blur the mind and enchant the body.

  She surrendered to it, to him, yielding absolutely as his lips gently conquered hers, as his hands trailed over her—tender touches soothing a troubled soul.

  The softly lit bedroom transformed. A magic glade steeped in green shadows silvered at the edges with moonlight, with the air thick and still and sweet. She didn’t know her way, and was content to wander, to linger, to be guided.

  His mouth grazed down her throat, over her shoulders until her skin tingled from the quiet onslaught. He tasted her breasts, patiently sampling until on a groan she arched and offered.

  He feasted, but delicately.

  Hands and mouth skimmed down in whispering trails, inciting sighs and shivers that rolled into a slow rise, a gilded peak, a breathy fall.

  He was with her in the magic, steeped in her, in the rich glow of the moment, in the slow glide of movements. Seduced as he seduced, enraptured by the sound of his name murmured from her lips, the slide of her hands, the taste of her skin.

  She welcomed him, warm and wet, took him in—into her body, into her arms. The need stayed slow and sweet, tender as an open heart even as it climbed.

  And when he fell, he fell into her eyes.

  Sixteen

  In the shabby ex
cuse for a rented cabin squatting in the magnificence of the Cascade Mountains, Francis Eckle read Perry’s letter. They had, many months before, determined the route, the timing, the towns, colleges, burial sites.

  Or Perry had, he thought.

  The preplanning made it a simple matter to obtain a mail drop for the letters Perry smuggled out of prison. The answers returned by a similar method—mailed to Perry’s minister, who believed in his repentance.

  In the beginning, he’d been thrilled by the correspondence, the exchange of details and ideas. Perry’s understanding, guidance and approval meant so much.

  Someone, finally someone who saw him.

  Someone who didn’t require the mask, the pretense, but instead recognized the chains required to keep them in place. Someone, at last someone who helped him gather the courage to break those chains and release what he was.

  A man, a friend, a partner who offered to share the power that came from throwing off the shackles of rules and behavior and embracing the predator.

  The teacher had become a willing student, eager to learn, to explore all the knowledge and experiences he’d so long denied himself. But now he believed the time had come for commencement.

  Time to move beyond the boundaries and the tenets he’d been so meticulously taught.

  They were rules, after all, and rules no longer applied.

  He studied the two fingers of whiskey in his glass. Perry had decreed there could be no drugs, no alcohol, no tobacco during the journey. The body and mind remained pure.

  But Perry was in prison, he thought, and sipped with the pleasure of rebellion. The journey no longer belonged to him.

  It was time to make his own mark—or the next mark, as he’d detoured from the plan already by sending the Bristow bitch a little present.

  He wished he could have seen her face when she opened the mailer. He wished he could have smelled her fear.

  But that would come, soon enough.

  He’d detoured as well by renting the cabin—an expense dearer than a dingy motel room, but he felt it earned the cost with its privacy.

  He needed privacy for the next detour from his mentor’s carefully drawn route.

  Perry had given him a new life, a new freedom, and he would honor that by finishing what his mentor hadn’t and killing Fiona. But there was much to be done in the meantime, and it was time to test himself.

  To celebrate himself.

  He took another sip of whiskey. He’d save the rest until after. He moved quietly through the room into the bathroom where he removed his clothes, admired his body. He’d removed all the hair from it the night before, and enjoyed the smooth, sleek skin, the muscles he’d rigorously toned. Perry was right about strength and discipline.

  He stroked himself, pleased anticipation hardened him, before sliding on a condom. He didn’t plan to rape—but plans could change. But in any case, protection was key, he thought as he drew on leather gloves.

  Time to let himself go. To explore new ground.

  He stepped into the bedroom, switched on a low light and studied the pretty girl tied to the bed. He wished he could rip off the duct tape over her mouth, hear her screams, her pleas, her gasps of pain. But sounds carried so he’d have to content himself with imagining them.

  In any case, her eyes begged him. Her eyes screamed. He’d let the drug wear off so she’d be aware, so she’d struggle—so her fear would perfume the air.

  He smiled, pleased to see she’d abraded her wrists and ankles fighting the cords. The plastic under her crackled as she cringed and writhed.

  “I haven’t introduced myself,” he said. “My name is Francis Xavier Eckle. For years I taught useless cunts like you who forgot me five minutes after walking out of my class. No one saw me because I hid myself. But as you see”—he spread his arms as tears spilled out of her eyes—“I stopped hiding. Do you see me? Nod your head like a good girl.”

  When she nodded, he stepped to the side of the bed. “I’m going to hurt you.” He felt the heat spread in his belly as she struggled, as her wild pleas piped against the tape. “You want to know why? Why me? you’re thinking. Why not you? What makes you so special? Nothing.”

  He got on the bed, straddled her—considered the rape dispassionately as she tried to kick, to turn. And rejected it, at least for the moment.

  “But you’re going to be special. I’m going to make you famous. You’ll be on TV, in the newspapers, all over the Internet. You can thank me later.”

  Balling his gloved hands, he used his fists.

  Fiona hesitated and backtracked. Her bag was packed and in the car. She’d made arrangements for everything. She’d left lists—long lists, she admitted—carefully detailed. She’d devised Plan Bs for a number of items—Plan Cs for a few.

  Still, she went over everything in her head, again, looking for anything she’d left out, miscalculated, needed to cover more fully.

  “Go away,” Simon ordered.

  “I’ve still got a few minutes. I think maybe I should—”

  “Get the hell out of here.” To solve the matter, he took her arm and steered her through the house.

  “If one of the dogs gets sick or injured—”

  “I have the name and number of the vet who’s covering for Mai. I have your number—hotel, cell, Mai’s cell, Sylvia’s cell. So does James. We have everything. In triplicate. Between us I think we can handle anything short of nuclear holocaust or alien invasion.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Shut up. Go away. If I’m hauling four dogs home with me this morning, I need to get started.”

  “I really appreciate it, Simon. I know it’s a lot. James will pick my guys up—”

  “After work. It’s on the list, with the time, his cell phone, his house phone. I think all that’s missing is what he’ll be wearing. Beat it. I’m finally going to have three days without having to listen to you.”

  “You’ll miss me.”

  “No I won’t.”

  She laughed, then she crouched down to pet the dogs, to hug them. “You’ll miss me, won’t you, boys? Poor things having to spend the day with King Cranky. It’s okay. James will save you later. Be good. Be good boys.”

  She straightened. “Okay, I’m going.”

  “Thank Christ.”

  “And thank you for letting them hang out with Jaws during the day.” She gave him a quick buss on the cheek, opened the car door.

  He spun her around, yanked her into a long, hard kiss. “Maybe I’ll miss you a little, if a stray thought of you happens to cross my mind.” He brushed her hair behind her ears. “Have a good time.” Then he grabbed her hand. “Really. Have a good time.”

  “I will. We will.” She got in the car, then leaned her head out the window. “Don’t forget to—”

  He used the palm of his hand to push her head back in.

  “Okay. Okay. Bye.”

  He watched her go with the dogs plopped down beside him. “All right, guys, it’s man-time. Scratch your balls if you’ve got them.”

  He walked back to the house, did a quick walk-through check. “It never smells like dog in here,” he muttered. “How does she pull that off ?”

  He locked up, strode to the truck. “Everybody in. Going for a ride.”

  They scrambled up, except for Newman, jockeying for the passenger side or the narrow bench seat behind it.

  “Come on. Gotta go,” Simon ordered as the dog sat and studied him. “She’ll be back in a couple days.” He patted the seat. “Up, come on, Newman. Don’t you trust me?”

  The dog seemed to consider the question, then apparently took Simon at his word and jumped in.

  He had a stray thought of her—maybe a couple of them—as he worked through the morning. He ate lunch with his feet dangling off the porch of the shop, tossing bits of salami (Fiona wouldn’t approve) to the dogs and watching them field. He took another twenty minutes, tossing sticks and balls on the beach, laughing his ass off when every one of them bounded into the
water.

  He went back to work, radio blasting and four wet dogs snoring their way dry in the sunlight.

  He didn’t hear them bark, not with AC/DC screaming, but looked over as a shadow crossed his doorway.

  He set his tool aside and picked up the remote to cut the music when Davey stepped in.

  “Got yourself a gang of dogs out there.”

  “Fiona’s away for a couple days.”

  “Yeah, I know. Girl trip with Syl and Mai. I thought I’d run by her place a couple times a day, just to check. Listen... What is that?”

  Simon ran a hand down the side of the stump. He’d stripped off the bark, done the first of some rough sanding. It stood, roots up.

  “It’s a sink base.”

  “It looks like a naked, upside-down tree stump.”

  “It does now.”

  “I gotta tell you, Simon, that’s pretty fucking weird.”

  “Maybe.”

  Davey wandered the shop. “You’ve got a lot going on in here,” he commented, winding around chairs, tables, the frame of a breakfront, doors and drawers glued and sporting clamps. “I saw the built-ins you did for the Munsons. They’re nice. Real nice. Hey. This is a beauty here.”

  Like Davey, Simon studied the wine cabinet he’d designed for Fiona. “It’s not finished. You didn’t come by to critique my work.”

  “No.” Face grim now, Davey shoved his hands in his pockets. “Shit.”

  “They found her. The girl who got taken last week.”

  “Yeah. Early this morning. Crater Lake National Park. He kept her longer than the others, so the feds thought maybe she got away, or it wasn’t the same guy. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe. Jesus, Simon, he beat the hell out of her before he killed her. Perry never messed them up that way. The other three we know of weren’t beaten. But everything else matches. The scarf, the position of the body. She had the number four written on her hand.”

  Because he wanted to pummel something, Simon walked over, opened his shop fridge. He took out two Cokes. Tossed one to Davey.

  “He’s finding his own way. It’s what you do. You learn, you emulate, then you create your own style. He’s experimenting.”