Diabolical (8 page)

Bartlett glanced over to Vivian, who stared back at him with eyes that conveyed more than just a look.

“Vivian's agreed to explain the rest.”

Bartlett gestured to Edgar with a snap of his head. Edgar stood. He left Calvin on the chair and picked up the stone. After wrestling it into the satchel, he slung it over his shoulder and scooped up the HK. He gave Hatcher a toothy grin as he walked past.

Then all three of them walked out of the room. Calvin was hunched forward and a little shaky, but except for Bartlett's palm in the small of his back, he didn't get much help.

The door shut behind them, leaving Hatcher and Vivian alone.

Hatcher watched the door. Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched past a minute, extended through two, started bearing down on three.

“Do you think they're standing out there, listening?” he said.

Vivian shook her head, held up a finger as she cocked her jaw, directing an ear toward the door. After another moment, some of the tension seemed to dissipate from her body.

“I just wanted to be sure.”

She pushed herself off the bed. Her eyes grew shiny and her lips started to quiver with the intensity of a prayer. Then she rushed forward and threw her arms around Hatcher's neck. She cupped the back of his head, pressed her mouth over his. Her tongue twirled and flicked.

A few seconds later, she pulled back and took a breath. Squeezing him close, she rubbed the side of her face into his chest. Hatcher lowered his lips to her crown, inhaled her scent. Coconuts. Same shampoo she always used. He still had some left.

“God, I missed you,” she said.

THE THING ABOUT WATCHING THE CHILDREN OF BEAUTIFUL women play, Morris mused, was they way their squeals and giggles helped him visualize the exquisite agony that lay in store for them. A lifetime of it. Finding the corpses of their young mothers always had that effect.

That part was almost as exciting as anticipating the fun he was going to have with the mothers themselves. Almost.

The sun was just breaking over the horizon as he strolled the sidewalk. New town, as always. The walk from the bus station to what he assumed was the main commercial strip hadn't taken very long. He enjoyed the practiced routine, the ritual of arrival, of getting his bearings. And he liked this time of day, especially for scouting locations. The streets were mostly empty, the risk of someone trying to mug him was low, and police finishing their graveyard shifts or just settling behind the wheel of their cruisers with tall cups of coffee steaming in their hands always seemed uninterested in a white male in an orange windbreaker and orange cap. Most people in his situation would be inclined to dress inconspicuously, Morris knew. But he didn't care. He loved the color orange. So much so he couldn't stand to see anyone else wearing it. It was his.

Besides, he was practically charmed. Police rarely gave him a second glance. He often chalked it up to his attention to detail, his savvy way of defying expectations. But part of him knew it was more than that. He was special.

He spied a Laundromat on the other side of the street and crossed at the next intersection. Twenty-four-hour, coinoperated. Empty inside. He leaned close to the large windows and shaded his eyes, quickly taking in the rear corners, the spots near the ceiling. No cameras that he could see. Security cams weren't a disqualifier, but they did limit the amount of time he could safely spend in a place, particularly one like this. They also made him wary of his demeanor, and self-consciousness cramped his style. He didn't want to be watched while watching.

The air inside was warmer and damper than on the street. It smelled of fragrant soap and mildew. Two rows of machines. Dryers along the walls, washers back-to-back forming a row down the middle. Tables at each end and along the wall on each side where there was a break in the row of dryers. He glanced up at a clock above a wall-mounted vending machine selling tiny boxes of detergent and fabric softener. He could come back around three, if he decided to use this location. But the sun was going to be shining, and the day had clear and warm written all over it. Perfect park weather. And there was plenty of time to find a dog.

Laundromats were okay. They were especially reliable in rain or snow or just plain cold weather, a place he could loiter without drawing too much suspicion. All he needed was a cheap laundry bag and a book or magazine. Newspapers, he found, didn't really do the trick. Over the years he observed that women got a little chary around a solitary man reading the local rag. Maybe it was a cliché, maybe it was some false reality learned from spy movies, maybe in the internet age it simply marked you as unusual. All he knew was that something about it seemed to clue them in, make them notice him. Paperbacks were the best. Sports magazines worked almost as well. He was a harmless-looking guy. Most of him. He knew his mere presence wouldn't cause alarm, not if he seemed to have a reason to be there.

That was, as long as he could keep them from noticing his right hand, keep them from wondering why it never strayed from his jacket pocket, the one bulging like it was about to split a seam.

But finding attractive mothers with children in tow at a Laundromat was hit-and-miss. The most desirable location for that, bar none, was a park. The catch was, parks were ideal if and only if he had a dog in tow. This was a lesson he'd learned early on. Take a dog to a park, and nobody looks at you as being by yourself. Nobody even looks at you at all, just your dog. Walking a dog through a residential subdivision was a bit different. People in those tended to wonder why they hadn't seen you walking the dog before, always seemed to want to ask questions about whether you were new to the neighborhood. Most important, people in neighborhoods took notice. But in the park, a dog was like a backstage pass, letting you go where you wanted, get as close as you wanted. You were conspicuously invisible, cloaked in nonthreatening purpose. Like someone walking into an office building with a hard hat on his head and a phone handset hanging from a tool belt.

So all he had to do was find the nearest park and steal a dog before three. Easy peasy. And if that didn't work, he'd hang at the Laundromat.

The day was off to a good start. He could feel its potential with each breath, the morning air practically swollen with it.

He headed down the main strip, continuing away from the bus station. It was still quiet, but people were beginning to populate the sidewalk in places. Here and there, merchants were unlocking doors and setting items out in front of their shops. The angle of the sun was glistening off glass, creating long shadows and brightening an immaculate sky. Morris sucked in another contented breath as he saw a school bus turn onto the road and disappear over a crest far ahead. Something about this town felt tailor-made for him. Like he was destined to be there—like this was, as was so often the case with him, the right place at the right time.

About a mile and a half later, he reached a municipal park. Open, with expanses of grass dotted by a few clusters of trees. A brunette was sitting on a wood and concrete bench alongside a jogging path, flipping through a magazine. Large dark sunglasses. Scarf wrapped over her head, knotted below her chin. Very attractive. His eyes fixed on the creamy smooth flesh of her legs, crossed at the knee. He followed the lower line of the top one along its delightful slope, the shape hugged by her dress, curving into the tight round bulge of her ass.

Women were the greatest joys, he thought. So much fun in one package, so easy to dispose of. Every man should own one, and often.

A small dog paced a few feet away from the bench at the end of a leash, glancing about, looking a bit anxious. Morris immediately wondered if the woman had children. This town! He could hardly believe his luck. He veered onto the grass, set a course to pass directly behind her.

She stuck the end of the leash out in front of him as he was about to go by, causing him to stop abruptly. Her hand stayed there, the black canvas loop suspended near his navel. Morris stared down at the woman. She was still leafing through her magazine. Hadn't even glanced his way.

“This is what you're looking for, isn't it?” she said. After a pause she tilted her sunglasses down, swiveled her head toward him. Green eyes sparkled above the shades. “Well?”

Morris had a hard time following. Was she offering him her dog?

A roll of emerald irises. “Oh, good gobbling geezers . . . take the damn thing, will you?”

Slowly, Morris removed his left hand from his pocket. She dropped the end of the leash into it

“Thank you. Since I just saved you a considerable amount of prowling, why don't you take a seat? We need to talk.”

“I'm sorry. You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Do I? That's strange. I thought you were Morris Sankey. The Morris Sankey who murdered his mother by literally scaring her to death and has been living off her life insurance proceeds ever since. The same Morris Sankey who's roamed the eastern seaboard for the better part of a decade, raping and terrorizing women with his unique gifts and sodomizing their dead bodies. Loitering around the town for weeks afterward to revel in the misery he's caused, soaking up the local news accounts, sometimes even attending the funeral and wake, pretending to be a friend of the deceased. Changing up his MO each time just enough to keep the FBI from getting called in.”

The peaceful morning ambiance suddenly seemed less so. The chorus of songbirds, the whine and hum of cars, the scrape of the wind, all were screams and screeches now that echoed inside the walls of his head, taking on the rhythm of his pulse. He felt himself trying to pull out of his body, shrug it off like a piece of clothing and have it fall away as he floated into the sky.

This was it. She was a cop. Had to be. But how? He'd always believed he'd been immunized against getting caught. Protected. Even so, he'd never gotten cocky, been persistently careful, never testing his luck, never leaving anything to chance. At least, he thought that was the case. He bit down on his tongue, held it between his teeth. Clamped down hard, feeling the pain. Tasting the blood. Every beat of his heart felt like an icy squeeze, surges of adrenaline spurring it to anxious gallop.

So they were on to him, apparently had been for some time. Tracing his movements, anticipating his next stop. They had to know everything about him. Idiot! Always the same orange coat, same orange hat. What was he thinking?

The pain from his tongue was drawing him back into himself. There was no time for self-recriminations. Not now. He felt a tug and his eyes fell to the leash. The dog was pulling on it, circling and whining.

He could strangle her. Yes. Quickly, right here. Use the leash as a garrote. Or just crush her neck with his Hand, since there was no reason to be discreet. Do it and get the hell out of town. Yes, he could do that.
Shit, no
. What kind of plan was that? There had to be other cops watching.
Had
to be. But if there were, where were they? Why weren't they moving in on him? Was she wearing a wire?

“Will you relax, for goodness' sake?” The woman's lips stretched into a crimson slit. Her voice contained a hint of a chuckle, as if at her own joke. One she knew would bring a good laugh later when retold. “Sit down. Just pretend you're planning to rape and kill me, if it makes it easier for you.”

Morris stared down at her blankly. Exhausted from panic, and lacking a more attractive alternative, he circled the bench warily and sat.

“You know, you don't have to keep it hidden away like that. Not around me. What you have is a rare gift. A mark of distinction. Must have been hard growing up, though, huh? The other kids either ridiculing you or keeping their distance. Teenage years spent watching others have fun, while girls treated you like a disease. The stuff of urban legends. Quite a word, isn't it?
Deformed
.”

Morris said nothing. He pressed the Hand deeper into the pocket of his jacket.

“But enough pleasantries. You're a hard man to track down, did you know that? Of course you did. That was a silly question.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Katrina. Or Ashley. Or Melissa. What you call me doesn't really matter, but if it helps you can think of me as Deborah. What does matter is, I found you. And now . . . now we can get down to the business of helping you realize your full potential. Your true calling.”

“You don't sound like a cop.”

“I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear that. Now, if you'll just assure me I don't smell like one, either, you'll have made my day.”

Morris stared at her, saying nothing.

“I'm not a cop. Have you ever seen a cop that looked like me?” She swept her hand down the length of her body. “Like
this
? I mean, come on.”

“What do you want?”

The woman perched an elbow along the top of the backrest. Morris had the momentary impression of an angler setting a hook.

“I told you. To help you realize your potential.”

“I don't understand anything you're saying.”

“You, Morris. I'm talking about you. You and your one, allconsuming talent. A talent for torture and murder. For inflicting pain. For destroying lives without remorse.”

He started to toss out a denial but held it in check. There was something about the woman's manner, the way she spoke with such familiarity. And the way those sunglasses reflected his faces; twin images of himself staring back, like a snapshot of the way she saw him. The way he saw himself. There was a heaviness in the air, a gravity to the moment. This was too much. He needed to stand up and walk away. But then what?

“Would you like to see him?” she asked. “See what he looks like?”