The Maze

by Catherine Coulter

  “Not much, as it turns out. So, I’m having MAX look where they didn’t look. I’ve inputted just about everything I can think of into the program so we’ve got a prayer of turning up something helpful.”

  She didn’t say anything, just looked at him. She felt hope well up, but she was afraid to nourish it. She saw that he was rubbing his neck.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I worked out too hard last night after you left and then spent too much time hunched over MAX. No big deal.”

  “If you’re not too macho, you might consider some aspirin. On the other hand, I hesitate to say anything at all now, given that you and MAX together are such a great team and MAX has got the bit between his teeth.”

  “Yeah, he’s got a great byte.”

  “That was funny, Dillon, if you spelled it right.”

  “Trust me. I did.”

  “You look like you’re ready to burst out of your skin and you can still be funny.”

  “You’re not laughing.”

  “I’m too scared.” And it was the truth. She was terrified he would kill again, terrified that he would escape and there would never be justice.

  He watched her walk away from him across to the far windows that looked down eight floors to the street below.

  “You want to tell me what else happened seven years ago?”

  She actually flinched as if he’d struck her. He rose slowly and walked to her. He reached out his hand, looked at it, then dropped his arm back to his side. He said only, “Sherlock.”

  She didn’t turn, just shook her head.

  MAX beeped. Savich pressed the PRINT button. After a moment, he picked out one sheet of paper from the printer. He began to laugh. “MAX says our person may be in building supplies.”

  She whipped around so fast she nearly fell. “As in a lumberyard?”

  “Yes. He says that odds are good that with all the building materials the killer left behind, the type of hardware the killer used, the type of nails, the wood, the kinds of corkboard, the brackets, etcetera, that our guy works in lumber. Of course, the cops in the SFPD looked at every prop he left behind at every murder. It turns out that the wood wasn’t traceable, that all the brackets, hinges, and screws were common and sold everywhere. They came up dry. Now, they never specifically went after men who worked in lumberyards. MAX thinks we should look again.”

  Her eyes were sparkling. “MAX is the greatest. It’s brilliant.”

  “We’ll see. Now in addition to a guy who works in lumber, we’ve also got a psychopath who hates women and cuts out their tongues. Why? Because he himself has taken grief from them or seen other men take the grief?”

  She said slowly, not meeting his eyes, “Just maybe he cuts out their tongues because he knows they bad-mouth their husbands and curse a whole lot. Maybe he doesn’t believe women should curse. Maybe that’s how he picks out the women to kill.”

  She’d known that all along, he thought, but how? It was driving him crazy, but he let it go for now. He knew she was right on the money. It felt right to his gut—no, perfect. He said easily, “That sounds really possible. Weren’t there some profiles drawing that conclusion?”

  “Yes, certainly there were. The guy’s not in the theater or anything sexy like that?”

  “Nope. I’ll called Ralph. He can check to see who’s arrived during the past year in Boston who works for a lumberyard.” Now that he thought about it, perhaps he had seen some speculation about that in some of the reports and profiles he’d read. Still, there was a whole lot more to all this. He looked at her. She looked away. Trust was a funny thing. It took time.

  Marlin Jones was the assistant manager at the Appletree Home Supplies and Mill Yard in Newton Center. He was in conversation with his manager, Dude Crosby, when a pretty young woman with thick, curly auburn hair came up to him, a piece of plywood in her hand. There was something familiar about her.

  He smiled at her, his eyes on that foot-long piece of plywood. He said before she could explain, “The problem is that the plywood’s too cheap. You tried to put a nail through it and it shredded the plywood. If you’ll come over here, I’ll show you some better pieces that won’t fall apart on you. Have we met before?”

  “Thank you, er, Mr. Jones,” she said, looking at his name tag. “No, we haven’t met before.”

  “I’m not very good at remembering faces, but well, you’re so pretty, maybe that’s why I thought I’d met you before.” She followed him out into the lumberyard. “What are you doing with the plywood, ma’am?”

  “I’m building props for my son’s school play, and that’s why I need to use plywood, not hardwood. They’re doing Oklahoma! and I’ve got to put together a couple of rooms that can be easily disassembled then put back up. So I’ll need some brackets and some screws too.”

  “Then why’d you pound a nail through it?”

  “That was just experimentation. My husband, that fucking son of a bitch, won’t help me, drinks all the time, won’t take part in raising our son, won’t show me any affection at all, well, so I’ve got to do it all myself.”

  Marlin Jones stared at her, as if mesmerized. He cleared his throat. “I can help you with this, Mrs.—?”

  “Marty Bramfort.” She shook his hand. “I live on Commonwealth. I had to take a bus out here because that bastard husband of mine won’t fix the car. Next thing I know, that damned car will be sitting on blocks in the front yard and the neighbors will call the cops.”

  “Mrs. Bramfort, if you could maybe draw what you need to build, then I could gather all the stuff together for you.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll help me put it all together?”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m awfully busy.”

  “No, never mind. That’s my jerk husband’s job, or it should be. It’s not yours. But I would appreciate your advice. I already made some drawings. Here they are.”

  She laid them out on top of a large sheet of plywood. Marlin Jones leaned over to study them. “Not bad,” he said after a few minutes. “You won’t have much trouble doing this. I’ll cut all the wood for you and show you how to use the brackets. You want to be able to break all the stuff down quickly, though. I know just how to do that.”

  She left the Appletree Home Supplies and Mill Yard an hour later. Marlin Jones would deliver the twelve cut pieces of plywood to the grade school gymnasium, along with brackets and screws, hinges, gallons of paint, and whatever else he thought she’d need.

  Before she left him, she placed her hand lightly on his forearm. “Thank you, Mr. Jones.” She looked at him looking at her hand on his forearm. “I bet you’re not a lazy son of a bitch like my husband is. I bet you do stuff for your wife without her begging you.”

  “I’m not married, Mrs. Bramfort.”

  “Too bad,” she said, and grinned up at him. “But hey, I bet lots of ladies would like to have you around, no matter if they’re married or not.” When she walked away from him, she was swinging her hips outrageously. “Who knows what building props can lead to?” she called out over her shoulder, and winked at him.

  She was whistling to herself as she walked from where she’d parked her car toward the Josephine Bentley Grade School gymnasium. It was Ralph Budnack’s car, a 1992 Honda Accord that drove like a Sherman tank. Toby, the temporary school janitor and a black cop for the Sixth Division, opened the door for her.

  His voice carried as he said, “Jest about done, Mrs. Bramfort?”

  “Oh yes, very nearly done now. You going home, Toby?”

  “Yep, just waiting to let you in. Don’t forget to lock up now, Mrs. Bramfort.”

  “I won’t.”

  She was alone in the gymnasium, a vast room that resounded with her breathing, with every step she took, filling the empty air with echoes. All the nearly built props were neatly stacked in the corner. She’d been doing this a good five evenings in a row now. She unstacked all of them, laying them out side by side. Not much more to do.

  She began wo
rk, her right hand turning the screwdriver again and again, digging in new holes through the plywood. Some of them were L shaped, most flat. The brackets were just to support the two pieces of plywood. She didn’t have all the lights on; just the corner where she worked had lighting. It wasn’t much. There were deepening shadows all around her, growing blacker as the minutes passed. Soon it would be nine o’clock. Dark outside. Darker inside.

  It was the fifth night.

  There wasn’t much more to do now except paint. Everything he’d sent over she’d used. She rose and dusted her hands on her jeans. She’d been to see Marlin Jones several times. He was always polite, always eager to help her, seemed to like it when she flirted with him. He had dark, dark eyes, almost opaque, as if no light ever shined behind them. He had dark brows, a thin nose, and full lips. He was good-looking, built well, if a bit on the thin side. He wasn’t all that tall, so perhaps then he could be called scrawny. After each time she saw him, she thought that he was just a plain man who earned his living cutting wood.

  “There,” she said aloud, wishing something would happen soon, praying it would happen, knowing she wasn’t going to like being conked on the head, but not caring. A drop of pain behind her ear, a headache, were nothing compared to what he was going to get. “Done. Now let’s see how easy it is to undo all this stuff.”

  “It’s real easy, Marty.”

  It was his voice, Marlin’s voice. He was right behind her. She’d never heard him come in. She wanted to leap for joy. Finally, he’d come.

  Her heart pounding, she whirled about, a gasp coming out of her mouth. “Oh goodness gracious, Marlin, you scared the stuffing out of me. Oh yeah, you scared me shitless.”

  “Hi, Marty. I just came by to see how you were doing with the props. You know, you really shouldn’t curse like that. Ladies shouldn’t. It just doesn’t sound right.”

  “Everyone does, Marlin, everyone. You should hear that scum bucket husband of mine cut loose. Look at this. I’m all done. I just need to paint, but I forgot which colors go on which piece so I’ll have to go home and get the drawings.”

  “Not bad,” he said after a couple of minutes. He had run his fingers over the brackets, frowning when they weren’t straight, frowning even more when the screws weren’t all the way in.

  He turned to smile down at her. “How’s your husband?”

  “That asshole? I left him drinking Bud in front of the television. I’m going to leave that jerk, anytime now, I’m going to tell him to haul his saggy butt out of there and—”

  It came so fast, she didn’t have time to do a single thing, even be frightened, even to prepare herself for it. The lights went out. At nearly the same instant, she felt a shock of heavy pain just behind her left ear. She wanted to cry out, but there wasn’t any sound in her throat, nothing at all, and she simply collapsed where she stood. She realized just before the blackness took over everything that she hadn’t hit the floor. No, Marlin was holding her. Where was Toby? Well hidden, she hoped. Please, don’t let him freak out and ruin the plan. No, he wouldn’t. Everyone knew she had to take a hit.

  She’d begged for it.

  14

  SHE WOKE up to dull, thudding pain behind her left ear. She’d never been hit in the head before. She’d only known what to expect in theory. The reality of it was that it wasn’t all that bad. Marlin knew what he was doing. He didn’t want her incapacitated. He wanted her up soon, panicked, scared, and begging. He didn’t want her crawling around puking up her guts from the nausea.

  She held perfectly still until the pain lifted. She knew this time that she was lying on the floor, a raw-plank floor that smelled like old rotted wood, decades of dust and dirt embedded deep, and ancient carcasses, withered and stale, probably rats.

  It should have been pitch black, but it wasn’t. She knew what was going to happen and still she felt such terror she doubted she could even get enough saliva in her mouth to yell. She thought briefly of the other women—of Belinda—the terror of waking alone, head pounding, knowing something was desperately wrong, and it was made all that much worse because it was unknown. She was scared to her very soul even though she knew what would happen.

  She wanted to kill Marlin Jones very badly.

  It seemed there were some hidden lights giving off just enough light so she could see just about a foot around her. She knew she was in a big deserted building. She also knew she wasn’t alone. Marlin Jones was here, somewhere, watching her. With infrared glasses? Maybe so.

  She rose slowly to her feet, rubbing the back of her head. She had a slight headache, nothing more now. Oh yes, Marlin was good at what he did. She wondered how long he’d keep quiet. She called out, her voice credibly shaky, rife with rising panic, “Is anyone there? Please, where am I? What do you want? Who are you?”

  Hysteria bubbled up, making her voice shrill now, raw in that silent air. “Who’s there? You cowardly little bastard, show yourself!”

  There was no answer. There was no sound of any kind except for her hard breathing. She didn’t bother checking the boundaries of the building. Let him be disappointed that she was shortening the play, shortening his fun. She looked down to see the string lying where her hand had lain. It disappeared into the distance. She leaned down and picked it up. Skinny, strong string, leading her to the maze. It was fastened to something a goodly distance away. She slowly began to follow it. As she walked the dim light behind her disappeared, and the darkness ahead of her became shadowy light. Slowly, so slowly, breathing hard, she walked.

  Suddenly a light snapped on just overhead, fiercely white, blinding her momentarily. Then she saw a woman staring at her, a woman whose mouth was hanging open, a wild-looking woman, pale as death, her hair tangled around her face. She screamed at her own image in the mirror staring back at her, frozen for an instant in time and terror.

  Slowly she backed away from the mirror, one short step, then one more. She saw that there were walls, props, really, some fastened together with hinges, others with brackets, not amateurish like the ones she’d made. No, Marlin’s props were professional all the way.

  Then the bright light snapped off as suddenly as it had come on, and she was left again in the narrow dim light.

  It was then she heard breathing. Soft, steady breathing, just to her right. She whirled to face it. “Who’s there?”

  Just the breathing, no voice, no answer. An amplifier of some kind. She whimpered, just for him, then again, making it louder, hugging herself, then started following the string again. Suddenly the string ran out. She was standing in front of a narrow opening that had no door. She couldn’t see beyond the opening.

  “Hello, Marty. Come in, I’ve been waiting for you.”

  His voice. Marlin Jones.

  “Oh God, Marlin, is it really you? How did I get here? You’ve come to save me?”

  “I don’t think so, Marty. No, I’m the one who brought you here. I brought you here for me.”

  She felt rage pour through her. She pictured Belinda standing here, not knowing what was happening or why, so frightened she could scarcely breathe, and here that maniac was talking to her in a voice as smooth and gentle as a parish priest’s.

  “What do you want, you pathetic bastard?”

  He was silent. She’d taken him by surprise. He was expecting tears, pleading. She yelled, “Well, you fucking slug? What do you want? You too scared to talk to me?”

  She heard him actually draw in his breath. Finally he said, his voice not quite as smooth as it had been, but calm enough now, “You were fast coming here. I expected you to search around, to check for a way out of the building, but you didn’t. You looked down, saw the string, and followed it.”

  “What the hell is the damned string for? Some sick joke? Or are you the only sick joke in this silly place, Marlin?”

  His breath speeded up; she could hear it. His breath was wheezing with anger. Push him. She wanted to push him. Let Savich curse her, let all of them curse her, it didn’t matter. Sh
e had to push him to the edge, she had to defeat him, then obliterate him. “Well, you fucking little pervert? What is it for? Something to excite your sick little brain?”

  “Now, Marty, don’t mouth off at me. I hate it when a woman has a foul mouth. I thought you were so sweet and helpless when you first came to me, but then you talked filth. You opened your pretty mouth and filth spewed out. And your poor husband. No wonder he drinks—anything to escape that horrible language. And you put him down, you tell the world how horrible he is just because he was unlucky enough to marry you.”

  “I might spew out bad words, but at least I’m not a fucking psycho like you. What do you want, Marlin? What is this string bit?”

  His voice was now a soft singsong, a gentle monotone, as if he were seeing himself as an omniscient god and she as a child gone astray, to be led back. Led back to hell. “I’ll tell you everything when you find the center of the maze, Marty. I build props just like you do only I’m better because I’ve done it more. I want you to come in now, Marty. You’ll win when you find the center of the maze. Even though you say bad things, you’ll still win if you find the center. I’ll be timing you, Marty. Time’s always important. You can’t forget about the time. Come along, now, you’ve got to come in or else I’ll have to punish you right now. Find the center, Marty, or you won’t like what I’ll do to you.”

  “How much time do I have to get to the center of the maze so you won’t punish me?”

  The gentle monotone was now tinged with impatience. “You ask too many questions, Marty.”

  “I’ll find the center if you’ll tell me why the string bit.”

  “How else am I supposed to get you to come here? I didn’t want to paint signs. That would have been too obvious. FOL-LOW THE ARROWS. That’s tacky. The string is neat. It’s tantalizing. Now my patience is running out, Marty. Come into the maze.”

  There was sudden anger now, cold and hard. “Marty? What are you doing?”

  “My sneaker was untied. I was just tying it. I don’t want to trip over myself.”