Because I'm Watching (11 page)

“Because you might kill me?” He snorted. “You should do me such a favor.”

“You want me to kill you?” Another section of hair, and she moved behind him and started work on the back. “Why?”

“Doesn't matter.”

She cut some more.

The coffeepot beeped that it was done.

As if that were some signal, he said, “Two people died because of my negligence, young people, one male, one female, and good men were brutalized.”

“After we met, I looked you up online and—”

“After we
met
? We didn't
meet.
You turned my living room into a garage.”

“You don't have to be unpleasant about it.” Placing her scissors on the table, she got out two mugs—ceramic mugs, not Melmac—and poured them full. “I apologized and my insurance is paying for everything.” She handed him his mug. “After it's done, you can go back to being a hermit.”

He thought longingly about that, about the darkness and the silence, the perfect hours of blank nothingness interspersed with blinding moments of pain … then he noticed the warm, savory odor of the coffee. The cup's heat warmed his palms. He watched her take a sip and grimace comically. She made him want to laugh.

Laugh. People were dead because of him, and he wanted to laugh.

Guilt bit at him. He didn't deserve a moment of sensory pleasure. He started to stand.

She put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. “I'm not done with your hair yet. If you want cream or sugar, I'll get it for you.”

“No. Black.” He took a sip and got a mouthful of grounds. Nasty. That eased his guilt. He swallowed carefully. “You might invest in coffee filters.”

“I noticed.” She looked doubtfully into the cup. “Do you want me to strain it?”

“No. Give 'em a minute. The grounds will settle.”

“I'll finish your hair.” She put down the cup and picked up the scissors. “You have scars from being shot.”

She'd seen his scars. She'd seen him naked.

He would not get an erection.

She continued, “The online article said you were responsible for saving five lives.”

Nope. No erection. “I shouldn't have had to save them in the first place.” Maddie's fingers slid through his hair and massaged. He thought she was trying to work the mats apart. But it felt good, and he didn't deserve that either.

“The article said you got five guys out of a North Korean prison, but it didn't say who they were or why they were imprisoned.”

“Because they shouldn't have been in North Korea in the first place.” He felt his throat began to close. He couldn't talk about this. He refused to talk about this. So he asked, “Tonight. What were you dreaming?”

She didn't answer right away; something about a hunk of hair close to his neckline occupied her so much she muttered about needing a professional. But she must have known he wouldn't allow that, so she kept hacking at it. When she had achieved some measure of success, she said, “I didn't think I was dreaming. I was sitting at my desk writing—I really was, I do that every night—and I could feel the fear begin to creep up on me. I heard noises behind me—”

“What kind of noises?”

“A creaking, like a window opening. A shuffling, like footsteps. The sound of leaves blowing on the wind.”

“Go on.”

“When I looked, there was nothing there. But I knew he was coming. I knew he was stalking me. I heard laughter, and I had to get out.” She put her trembling hand on his shoulder. “Then I was out on a lonely road that stretched forever into the darkness. I wanted to run, to get away from him, but it was so dark, I was afraid of where I was going. Then you woke me and I … I'm sorry about the screaming. I thought you were
him.
”

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Who is he?” Why was Jacob asking? He didn't care.

But he did. He was interested.

Maddie answered. “The man in the coat and the hat with a long fingernail filed to a point. And the knife.”

It sounded as if her nightmares contained about the same horror quotient as his. “The police told me about you. They said you've faced two horrific crimes.”

“I'll bet they told you more than that,” she muttered.

“Not much.”

“So you looked me up online.”

He pointed at his face. “Do I look like I give a shit?”

She actually came around and stared into his face. “I can't tell.”

“If I had Internet, which I don't, your car would have taken it out. So fill me in on the details of your life.”

“I thought you didn't give a shit.”

“It'll give me something to do while I wait for you to stab me to death.” He pointed at his jugular. “Right here.”

She gave a half laugh and went back to work on his hair. “When I was a freshman in college, I lived in the oldest dorm on campus. Me and four of my friends from high school decided we could share a suite, three in one room, two in the other, bathroom in between. No one thought we could make it work, but we did. We were really good friends.”

So she had lost all her friends at one time.

“The janitor in the building was this guy. We didn't pay any attention to him. He was, you know, in his thirties, skinny, ordinary. We didn't even know his name. I know it now. Chase Billingsly. But he called himself ‘Ragnor the Avenger.'”

Jacob caught her wrist. He swiveled to face her. “You are kidding.”

“I wish. After he was … dead, when the police went through his possessions, they found out he had a thing about old comic books. And they found out that he, um”—she cleared her throat—“he was obsessed with me and my friends.”

“Obsessed.” His law enforcement brain was already filling in the details.

“The police found photos. He'd cut holes in the wall. Photos of us undressing. Going to the bathroom. Sleeping. He had written love stories about us, bizarre fantasies about how we would all be obedient to him, fawn over him, take turns giving him … servicing him.” She wasn't blushing. Rather, her forehead and cheeks turned a blotchy red. “But we were normal girls. So he took photos of us with our boyfriends.”

“He was a pervert.”

She shook her head. “Worse. That night—Saturday night, we were getting ready to go out. Wearing our underwear or a robe or … Maggie was just out of the shower. He opened the door and stepped in. He wore a cape. None of us recognized him. We thought it was a joke or something. I mean … a cape? My friend, my best friend, Kathy. She was kind of bossy. Tall. Really pretty…” Maddie was losing focus, trying to avoid the story.

He pulled her back on track. “What did Kathy do?”

“Kathy told him to get out. He … he … he locked the door behind him. It clicked.” Maddie flinched as if, even now, the sound signaled the start of terror. “He announced we had betrayed him and that he would punish us. At first we were kind of … we didn't realize that he was … we didn't get it. Stuff like that doesn't happen. We didn't get it until Charlotte reached for her phone and he stabbed her in the shoulder. Then we screamed.”

“Didn't anyone hear you?”

“Saturday night. People were out. The ones who heard … thought we were watching a movie. A horror movie.” The red blotches faded to a ghastly white.

Jacob used his foot to push a chair away from the table. Still with his hand on her wrist, he guided her to sit.

She dropped into the chair.

“How did he control five women?”

“He pulled out two guns. He told us to be quiet or he would shoot us. Which was stupid, because if he had fired maybe someone would have realized what was going on and rescued us.”

“Or he could have killed you all.”

“That would have been better.” Beneath his fingers, her skin grew cold and her pulse faint and rapid. “Kathy handed me her phone and pointed under the bed. She attacked him. He killed her first. He was angry. Because she made him kill her fast.”

“Why didn't
she
get under the bed?”

“Dorm beds. Close to the floor. Small space. I fit.” Maddie quit talking.

He recognized the finality.

She did not want to remember. She did not want to talk about this. Yet she was caught in the web of memories. She couldn't get out. Not without his help. He had to respond. “Got it.”

Not much of a response, but it pushed her to the next memory, the next moment. “I couldn't … I was on my belly, arms out. Head sideways. I couldn't see the phone. I had to maneuver. I dialed 911. But he made them be quiet. My friends. He told them to shut up. They were afraid. They did. He didn't seem to realize … that I was missing. They didn't … didn't remind him. He gagged them. I called 911. I did. But I couldn't … couldn't talk. Was afraid to talk. Couldn't tell them what was wrong. Left the line open. They … the police … didn't realize … sometimes they got prank calls from dorms. You know? Until Georgia started screaming. She got the gag out and screamed and screamed. He said he would open us up a new way so he could get satisfaction while he killed us. And he did. I heard him. He raped my friends … while they were still warm.” Maddie leaped up. She ran for the bathroom.

Jacob heard her retching.

Okay. She had reason to be scared.

She had reason to be nuts, too … although some people would say he was the last person able to intelligently make that decision.

He got one of her kitchen towels, wet it, went in, and laid it across her neck.

“Thank you.” She propped her elbows up on the seat, held her head in her hands. Her complexion was tinted a pale green.

He leaned against the sink. “How old were you?”

“Eighteen.”

Now the inevitable question. “Did he find you?”

“When he was done with the others. He counted bodies. He dragged me out. I saw then that he had grown one of his nails long and filed it to a point. The campus cop started pounding on the door. He—Ragnor—used that nail to slice me from my breastbone to my belly.” Now her voice was steady, matter-of-fact. “Then he tried to stab me in the … in the uterus. I was kicking at him and screaming. The cop got the door open and shot him. His brains blew … they hit the wall. They splattered me. My face. Blood and brains and cruelty I could taste.”

“And rescue,” he reminded her. Then he realized—he sounded like his military trauma-recovery therapist. Like his goddamn stupid asshole of a therapist, saying goddamn stupid-ass shit that was supposed help.

Apparently it did. Or maybe Maddie had fought her way out of the web so many times she knew what to do, because she continued, “The school had to … close the dorm. No one ever stayed in our rooms again. A year later they tore down the building. Because no one would stay there.”

“Makes sense.”

She started to get up off the floor.

He put his hand under her arm to help.

She flinched away.

He could almost hear her inner shriek.
Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't touch me.

He let her go and walked out to the kitchen. He sat down in the same chair.

She came out, still pale, but steady. She walked over, picked up the scissors, and went to work on his hair again.

So he had the guy with the fingernail. But he wanted to know the whole of the predator who lurked on her drawings and in her subconscious. “Then your fiancé was murdered, too.”

She seemed almost cool about this death. “I saw the killer leave the house. He wore a coat and hat. It was Colorado in the winter, so that wasn't unusual. But the viciousness of the crime … that was. So the detectives said. That's why they decided it was me. Because I'd spent time in an asylum, so I must be a vicious murderer.”

Sarcasm. Good. She wasn't merely a passive victim. “Which killer do you fear?”

“It's not that easy. The thing that hunts me now is not one or the other. He is both. Or neither. He is evil. He thrives on terror. My terror. I fear he will come for me. I fear he will come for anyone who knows me.” She put down the scissors. “You shouldn't be here. You should go.”

“I would welcome a monster I could kill.” Jacob put his hand on her hip and pushed her around to face him. “Have you sleepwalked before?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You were headed over the cliff. Are you sure you were asleep? A plunge into that ocean is a pretty solid way to commit suicide.”

“I wasn't committing suicide! I don't want to die.” Her voice got softer, almost pleading. “But I don't want to live like this, either. When I moved here I thought I had left my demons behind. For six months, I thought the worst thing that could happen to me was being scolded by Mrs. Butenschoen for not deadheading my roses properly. Then things started happening. First my furniture moved by itself. I was working hard and I get absentminded, so I didn't think too much about it. I thought I had done it and forgotten. But then my food disappeared out of the refrigerator. I was still hungry, but I told myself it was more absentmindedness. I lost weight. Then the lights flickered, on and off, on and off, and I knew. I knew someone was after me.”

“Someone? Not your monster?”

“At the time, I suspected that someone in town was playing tricks to make me go away.”

Now
that
was paranoid. “Why would someone do that?”

She plucked at the neckline of her Rockies sweatshirt. “I couldn't stay in Colorado. After Easton was killed, I was accused of the crime.”

“I heard.”

“I was acquitted, but no one believed I was innocent. The people in my neighborhood requested that I move. My brother wanted me to get a house close to him. His neighbors petitioned to keep me out.” Tears rose in her eyes. “Like I was a child molester. I saw my best friends murdered. Witnessed it. Then the man I loved had his throat slashed in our home. I was grieving, and all anyone could think was that it was my fault. Somehow, my fault because I'd been in the loony bin. That's what one of Andrew's neighbors called it. The ‘loony bin.'” In a fierce voice, she said, “Crazy isn't a disease. I didn't catch it from the inmates who lived there because they were schizophrenic or delusional. I was there to recover. And I did!”