Cut and Run (8 page)

He had “Alice's” face committed to memory. Her body as well—what the photo showed of it. He made a point of slipping past the windows swiftly—a blur, a shadow.

He had the recent heat wave to thank for four of the six windows being either ajar or fully open. Two contained fans that spun noisily, helping to conceal his actions.

Apartment 3D would occupy the three right-hand windows. The first of these was open four inches and looked in on an empty galley kitchen. Paolo heard a woman's voice as well as synthesized New Age background music.
Not a human voice
, he discerned.
Electronic. A CD or television.
He hesitated just long enough to hear the instructions and realize it was yoga. “Tighten your abdomen, firm up the buttocks, and rock like a rocking horse . . .”

The next window was shut. Without exposing himself, he studied it from the side more closely:
locked.
But the third window—the bedroom—was also open.

He peered around the window frame, just far enough to see her. Facing away from him, and toward a television where an instructor went through the motions, “Alice” wore a black swimsuit or leotard that fit her lean frame tightly and was currently wedged up her buttocks and crotch as she rocked per instruction. She was damp with perspiration and some pubic hair escaped the edges. Paolo again felt the twinges of arousal.

He slipped the razor out from behind his belt buckle and sliced the nylon screen on the kitchen window.

A calculated risk. Nothing came without a price. If his diversion failed, things could get messy. Noisy. He might be forced to work incredibly fast. Nothing new in this world. The most promising situations often turned bad.

He reached through the slice in the screen and pushed a warm coffee mug off the counter. To his delight, it crashed to the tile floor.

His eye was to the second window by the time she came out of her pose, pulled her feet in front of her, and stood.

“Hello?” she called out.

She marched into the kitchen, pulling down on the backside of the leotard, her buttocks flexing nicely.

Paolo slipped past this window, cut the screen to the bedroom, and was fully inside within a matter of seconds. His heart beat wildly in his chest.

She was neat and tidy.
And dead before she knows it
, he thought.

He heard her picking up the pieces of the cup and dumping them into the trash. She ran water, probably for a sponge. She wouldn't see the cut in the screen, for his technique was to work the very edge, by the frame. With it tucked back into place as he'd left it, she'd have to push against the screen to reveal the damage. The cup falling would remain a curiosity. She'd blame it on wind, despite the weight of the cup and the air being still. She'd blame it on vibration from the dishwasher, though it was not running. People wanted to believe the easy explanations. If she had any fear, it was just now warming her. He hoped it might be pulsing strongly by the time he confronted her—he could work a person's fear like a potter with wet clay.

He hurried into the living room and drew the gauzy drapes shut, glad that on the television the forty-something, flat-chested instructor continued her smooth-voiced program. On the screen, the woman currently held both legs apart suggestively. Paolo was at the height of excitement, like an athlete before the starting gun.

He moved fluidly across the room, placing his back against the wall that joined the kitchen, awaiting her coming through the doorway. He was hungry now. He felt electricity sparking in the air.
I can smell her
, he realized.

Almost time.

It always ended too quickly. He hoped this time to drag it out as long as possible. It wasn't every day he did a woman, much less one as young and pretty as this one. One had to count one's blessings.

The woman stepped back into the small living space, prepared to reengage in her yoga, when Paolo collared her around the neck with a choke hold. The elbow and forearm grip cut off both her wind and the blood to her head. He lifted her off her feet as she kicked and struggled, putting up with her flailing elbows. He drove a knee into her back and, maintaining the choke hold, slammed her down onto her tailbone. He managed to secure her left arm and, releasing the choke hold, handcuffed both hands behind her back. He set the choke hold again to prevent a scream and dragged her into the center of the room, turning up the volume on the TV with his free hand.

Her nipples spiked under the leotard and he responded with an urge to have her. He grew excited by her frantic breathing, her heaving chest, and her legs slapping together. He decided to enjoy her before he killed her, or at least before she fully expired.

She shook her head side to side, eyes wide as saucers.

He abandoned the choke hold to cup her mouth and muffle the upcoming scream. At the same instant he used the razor to sever the leotard's shoulder straps, cutting into her skin as well. The pain from a cut of a sharp razor takes several long seconds to register.

A moment later, the trickles of blood began. He made no effort to expose her chest. Black and gray straps sagged down but the tight leotard held to her. He felt her shudder, the waves of fear quaking through her, and it pleased him. Saliva ran down the hand that covered her mouth.

“Say good-bye, Alice.”

“I'm not Alice,” the woman moaned. “I have money . . . a car . . . anything you want . . .”

A flash of heat filled his face. He would expect her to claim she wasn't Hope Stevens, but Alice? Could he possibly have the wrong woman? He spun her around to face him, and she must have known by the fact he didn't hide himself from her, what he ultimately had in mind. He struck her below the
V
of her rib cage and threw her back and onto the floor. “You say one word . . .” He hoisted the pink-edged razor to indicate his intention. He withdrew the photo and did a quick comparison. He looked for scars from implants or plastic surgery; he compared only the relationship of the eyes to the ears, not the look of them.

The eye color was wrong. Way off. He scrambled forward, pinning her beneath him as she writhed to be free. He liked the feeling of her warmth beneath him. Of her bucking to be free. The leotard slipped lower on her chest, a breast revealed. He grew hard as he steadied her. Then he reached toward her face, held her head in a tight grasp, and carefully spread open her left eye with his fingers, searching for a pigmented contact lens.

No lens
. . . Not possible.

He felt tormented by the possibility he'd screwed this up.

“I'm not Alice . . . I'm not Alice,” she repeated, in shock now, barely conscious. This was how he liked them. But the situation was not good. He tried to maintain his focus.

Her face was blotchy, snot all over her chin, tears oiling her cheeks. He used his bare hand to clean her up.

“Steady now,” he cautioned. “You wouldn't want me to slip.”

Again he produced the razor. As he lowered it toward her, she froze, obeying him. He cut into the fabric at her cleavage, and the stretch fabric came open like he'd lowered a zipper. This revealed a gray sports bra that he quickly cut and peeled back, exposing both breasts now. Her chest glowed an angry red.

“Much better,” he said, knowing the power he gained by working against embarrassment and shame. Her nipples and areolas were dark brown going on black, puckered, and nut hard. He felt some drool on his own chin; he was salivating.

She raked her head side to side, her eyes locked onto the bloodied tip of the razor he held in his right hand. By now her shoulder cuts would be stinging. By now she understood what he intended.

“Tell me about Alice. This is her apartment.” He knew enough to discern the spark of recognition. “Talk to me.” He lowered the razor again, pulling on the cut stretch fabric to continue the line he'd started. That line led down. He exposed her navel, a ridge of carefully trimmed pubic hair. The less of the leotard, the more of his arousal. He wasn't sure how long he could contain himself.

“Mrs. Blanchard!” the woman coughed up. “Neighbor . . . Mrs. Blanchard. Mentioned, Alice . . . Alice . . . Alice and her daughter. ‘Two peas in a pod,' she said. I . . . am . . .
not
. . . Alice. Please, God! Don't do this.”

Paolo had a thing about God's name being invoked during his work. It seemed everyone summoned up the courage to get religion when a razor flashed before their eyes. Paolo had a grim relationship with God that few would understand, but one that caused him deep resentment when his victims begged for saving.

He cut through the rest of the leotard, careful not to nick her. He didn't want her all bloody and dirty there. The leotard now stretched in a long
V
from armpits to the dark tangle of brown hair.

Her scent enveloped him, and he briefly swooned, like a patron in a pastry shop. This was fear. Pure fear. Heady. Heavenly.

The woman said, “I'm subletting. Alice . . . This Alice . . . IT'S NOT ME! I'm not her.”

“Shut up!” He backhanded her, meaning it more for himself. He contemplated the ramifications of his mistake. He loathed the idea of disappointing Philippe. He would not call to inform him of bad news. And what of this child? What
child
?
What daughter?
He'd been told nothing of this, knew nothing of this. He drew a line at doing anything bad to children. He'd been one himself.

“Mrs. Blanchard . . .” the woman beneath repeated. “Talk to her. She knew Alice.” The welt rose on her right cheek where he'd struck her. The dull look in her eye told him that she understood this was quickly coming to an end.

The television instructor was talking about “deep stretches,” and he had a little deep stretch of his own to give her.

His mind made up, he cut off a piece of the leotard, balled it in his fist, and crammed it into her open mouth as she summoned a protest. She tried to bite him, but to no use. Her eyes wild, they opened to where he could see the crown of the eyeball itself. Again he noted no contact lens, nothing to explain the wrong color. He felt dizzy, both from excitement and confusion.

He slipped the razor away, unfastened his belt and let his pants down. Let her see what he'd done to himself. If he had seen fear in her face before, now he saw terror.

She humped her way backward, thrusting her bottom off the floor, trying to distance herself, but the humping motion of her hips only served to stimulate him all the more.

“That's it,” he said. “Just like that. Don't run from me . . .”

Then he crawled forward and went to work.

Paolo rubbed a few small drops of blood deeper into the green fabric of his sweatshirt before knocking. An older woman he took to be Mrs. Blanchard opened the door. It had to be her: gray blue hair, cloudy ice blue eyes that sparkled with a hunger for companionship, even the companionship of a stranger knocking on her door.

“I think you may have known Alice . . . my dear, dear, friend,” Paolo said by way of introduction, speaking as politely and calmly as possible.

Mrs. Blanchard took note of his color; he'd seen that look a thousand times before. “Yes?” A fragile voice. He was reminded of little glass horses on windowsills.

“I wonder if you might be able to help me find her? I have no other address for her than this.”

“What dear girls, those two,” the old woman said.

“Do you know where I might find them?”

“No . . . no, I don't. Just up and left one day. Not even a good-bye.”

That fits
.

Paolo cocked his head slightly, inviting himself in. “Would you mind? I'd love to hear anything you can tell me about them.”

“I'm sorry,” she said as sweetly as possible. “But I don't admit strangers.”

“But with both of us their friends?”

She seemed to consider this. Then reconsidered. “I'm sorry. I'd be happy to meet you at Pete's—the diner next door. Say, twenty minutes?”

Her head tilted in curiosity as she heard the snap of latex on his left wrist, and she looked down. He calmly slipped his right hand into the second glove.

“What on earth?” She made a play to shut the door.

Paolo's shoe blocked it.

She looked up, her mouth gaping like a fledgling, too terrified to cry out.

“We just need to have a little talk.” He seized hold of her, the loose skin of her throat rolling over the latex, lifted her off her feet by her neck, and stepped inside, nudging the door gently shut behind him.

“Nice place you have here,” he said.

When it was all over, out of habit, Paolo chased down a vanilla milkshake and drank it slowly so that it wouldn't give him a headache. His temptation was to use the cell phone to call Philippe, but he could put that off a while. A second, much stranger compulsion overcame him: a desire to call
Mother
in Italy—a woman he hadn't seen in fifteen years. But the time zones were all wrong, and perhaps she wasn't even alive, though if she was he knew she'd be pleased to hear from him, just as she'd be pleased to hear from any of the dozens of boys she raised along with him.

Instead, following the milkshake, he gave in and placed the call he was required to make. The line rang three times and went silent. He typed in the code, *9645, waited for two beeps, and pushed 1.

“Go ahead,” said the male voice on the other end of the call. Philippe.

“It got wet. It'll make the news and bring the dogs.”

“Go on.”

“She's not here. Moved on. There's a daughter named Penny.” He knew this information would stun Philippe, so he gave that a moment to sink in.

“Do we know where she is? Where they are?”

“She worked at St. Luke's Hospital here. Maybe still does. I'm heading over there now.”

“The girl . . . the daughter. We just doubled our odds of finding them,” Philippe said.

“Yes,” Paolo agreed, still not liking the development.