Precious Blood (40 page)

He was silent for a second. She had to have blood all over her T-shirt from her bleeding fingers.

He sniffed again, then said, “Use newspaper. You won’t be here much longer, anyway.”

The light went off her face, then flickered back onto it; he was looking around. She held her breath, then spoke again.

“Please. I really need cloth. I have very heavy periods.”

“I don’t care. Use newspaper.”

He sounded disgusted; he quickly pulled the door shut behind him, and she heard the latch close.

She almost laughed—she could read that fucker like a fucking book.

Farrar didn’t trust her at all. And he didn’t like that she was bleeding; for reasons he couldn’t explain, it repelled him.

Disturbed
him. There was something unclean about it, un-healthy, unholy.

He was glad it wouldn’t be long now. He was going to take his time with her, start in the late morning, stretch it out over the day. She was tough, and even though she now looked thin and drawn, he figured she’d go the distance.

He hadn’t settled on the final details. He’d sharpened every cutting tool he had, from the hooked carpet knife he’d used to mortify himself for Father Martin all those years
390

j o n at h a n h ay e s

ago through to an ax—not the little hatchet he’d used on the Chinaman, but a full-sized ax.

He could do it almost any way he wanted. With Anastasia there was plenty of room for artistic license. He had starved her, of course, had fed her bread and water and salt. Now it was a simple question of how to cut her, where to put her up, where to burn her. Ideally, she should be found while she was still in flames. Night would be best, but the location was important, and he still hadn’t figured it out.

He leaned back against the girl’s door, listening. He could hear nothing, but he was sure the little bitch was up to something.

The bells at St. Stanislaus were tolling half past four.

Of course. St. Stanislaus. Behind the old granite church, there was a small cemetery with a large oak tree, hidden behind high, graffiti-covered walls. He could prepare her in the warehouse and then, when it was dark enough and late enough, move her to the church in the handcart, under a tarp.

A couple of tarps, maybe, to stop any blood from soaking through. There would be risk, but at that time on that night, it would be fairly small.

He began to pull lengths of four-by-four together, laying out the main upright and the crossbeam strut for what would be the cross, checking the proportions.

It looked good. It had come together like something that was just meant to be.

He started up the generator and listened with satisfaction to the coughing roar as the nail gun compressor warmed up.

As Jun closed his front door, Jenner heard the muffled sound of his phone. Perhaps they’d found something . . . He hurriedly opened the door and picked up.

“Jenner, it’s Dan Israel. You were supposed to be here at
Precious Blood

391

the courthouse by three p.m.! You’ve got about fifteen minutes to get here, otherwise the judge will leave, and you’ll be completely screwed.”

“Sorry, Dan. I don’t have time.”

“Make the time! You don’t show up, they’ll send out a bench warrant and bring you in in cuffs. It’s really important that you make it down here.”

“I understand. I just can’t make it.”

“Maybe I can get the judge to stay a little longer, until a little after five o’clock.”

“It’s not going to happen, Dan. I really appreciate your help, but I just can’t come down.”

As he hung up, he heard the buzzer for the building entrance. He grabbed his coat and nodded his head toward the elevator.

“We’ll get it on the way out.”

When the elevator doors opened, they found a tall black woman in a FedEx uniform in the lobby, running her finger down the occupant list, a small package in her hands.

“You know what apartment Dr. Jenner is?”

He identified himself and took the package, looking it over warily. She waited for him to sign, glancing around the small lobby, once again cluttered with flyers. She tutted and said, “You guys need a new super. I was so sad about Pete—

he was such a nice guy.” She took the receipt and went out onto Crosby.

He turned to Jun.

“It’s from Snowden, where Farrar comes from.”

Don Slater’s handwriting was surprisingly precise, with fat, looping o’s and a’s written with a fountain pen.

Dr. Jenner. Father Michael found these in drawer of writing desk after you left. Please forward to appropriate local agency when you have examined. Best, D.

Slater.

392

j o n at h a n h ay e s

It was a small sheaf of watercolors on the same heavy cream card stock he’d seen in Father Martin’s drawer. More views of Manhattan, the skyline rising across the water.

They were well done, the buildings readily recognizable, the outlines of the skyscrapers and bridges not weakened by the softness of the brushstrokes.

“They’re not bad,” murmured Jun.

Jenner was about to stick them in his mailbox when he stopped, looking at them more closely.

“Look at this . . . He’s not dating them, but you can see these have the World Trade Center, while
these
. . .” He fanned the cards out on the lobby table, separating several of them. “These don’t.”

Jun said, “So these ones are more recent?”

Jenner nodded, scanning them more carefully.

“Wait a second . . .” He pointed at one of them. “Look—

here you can see the Cortland Iron Building—you remember it? That huge fight between the preservationists and the developers, then six months ago, the developers demolished it during the night?”

He held up two of the views. In the first, the Cortland Iron Building, a battered brick warehouse with original painted advertising still visible along one side, was in the near fore-ground; in the second it was gone, replaced by low fencing covered with some kind of netting, reduced to another pile of rubble like the warehouse across from it.

“Father Dominic was wrong about when the letters stopped—Farrar was here, at this location, within the last six months.”

He turned and walked to the elevator, turning to add, “We need an address for the Cortland Building; I’ll go online. If we find the view in the postcard, we’ve found him.”

And she was through.

She pulled up the last plank, rolling to lift it across her
Precious Blood

393

body. Her clothes were torn, her hands raw, every muscle was quivering, but she could get out of the room. She could escape.

She wriggled back onto the mattress and reached for the water jug. Don’t want to get too dehydrated. She drank, then forced herself to finish the bread from the morning.

She flashed her watch. Six o’clock.

She breathed out. The crawlspace couldn’t be much deeper than a foot. Sixteen inches at the most. She could get into it, but the floor above would be right on top of her face, pressing down on her.

She imagined writhing her way under the floor, slowly being buried alive under rotting wood and the grime of a century, her every movement spraying more dirt into her hair and eyes and mouth, packing her nostrils and closing her throat. She wanted to be sick.

She drank more water.

She would crawl down into the hole, she would pull the mattress over it, and she would crawl or wriggle or writhe as long as she had to. She would escape.

But what if she got stuck? She imagined herself panicking, screaming as her mouth filled with dirt, her chest unable to suck the thick air down into her exploding lungs. Then the feeling of his rough hands as he grabbed her wrists and dragged her back.

Oh God—could
he
fit into the crawlspace? He was muscular, but he was wiry. He might. It would be a tight fit, but he might.

She took another gulp of water, then drained the bottle.

She breathed in, and then out, wriggling until her back was against the wall. She tucked her knees up, and then twisted to her left, easing her legs down into the hole. Her feet disappeared under the floorboards as she let her legs straighten, pushing herself gradually away from the wall.

Her hips started to slip under the floor, catching a little on the edges. Her back slid down the wall, shoulders scrap-394

j o n at h a n h ay e s

ing. Her knee locked as she tried to straighten, and there was sharp stinging as her stomach scraped across the broken nails. But she was now sitting in the crawlspace, her neck and upper chest and arms still in the room.

She stopped.

Had she heard him?

She listened.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

She didn’t like that. When he made noise, she knew where he was—his fucking grinding wheel was like the bell on a cat. But it was quiet, the building silent except for her panting. He could be moving toward her on tiptoe, ready to drag her out.

Then she thought of something worse: what if he’d been expecting her to do this, and was waiting under the floor for her? Waiting for her with a knife, or a cattle prod or meat hook or something.

Tears streamed down her face. She was losing it—the notion was ridiculous. She had to hold it together.

God, give me strength!

She closed her eyes and thought it again. God, give me strength. I’m scared and I’m all alone, and it’s dark, and he wants to hurt me, and I don’t know what I’m doing. Please help me. Jesus. Please help.

She thought of all the bad things she’d done, the lying, the cheating. The drugs. The men. The women. And she thought about how far she was from everything, just floating in this death-filled black void, trying not to die, trying to stay alive just a bit longer. The tears came faster now.

Help me, Jesus.

Her frozen fingers interlaced as she let her head bow down. Help me to find strength. Help me fight back. Help me to live. Let me live. Let me live and I will be good.

Her hands relaxed into the bonds, and as the tension in
Precious Blood

395

her muscles dropped, she felt the bonds slip a little on her forearms.

They were looser. She might be able to get them off.

She tugged them apart, worked her arms together and then apart, trying to coax some more give into the ropes.

She knew she had to leave right then, get out while she could. She could work on the bonds inside the crawlspace.

Now she had to get out, go, start crawling. Because she was going to escape. She was going to get away, and lead back men who would kill this man.

The fucker. The fucker. The fucker. He was not going to kill her.

Time to go.

She stiffened her arms and swung them forward. With shaking fingers, she flashed her watch one more time, shone the feeble orange light around the room, fixing it in her memory. It would give her drive, it would push her on. The light failed and she pressed it again, turning her wrist now toward the door. The pictures.

There they all were, the girls he’d taken, the girls he’d taken and cut up and butchered and killed. Andie. All of them.

She was different. He was not going to kill her.

She slipped completely under the floorboards, sliding along, letting her arms follow her in an almost graceful curve, Ophelia sinking into the annihilating crawlspace.

She was escaping. Time to go.

Jenner couldn’t get through—the Inquisitor Task Force line stayed busy. He finally reached the desk sergeant. Jenner tried to give his information, but the cop wasn’t interested.

“Sorry, sir, Dr. Jennings, but we have a situation right now.

There’s been an incident at the Union Square subway station, and we’re having a Level Four contingency response. If you
396

j o n at h a n h ay e s

have information for the squad or the Task Force, please call back and leave a message on the voice mail.”

Jenner felt cold. An incident at Union Square requiring an All Hands response—
now
what?

He shook himself. He was out, he wasn’t involved, it wasn’t up to him to make decisions, to set up triage, to worry about the implications. Not his problem. He had to find Ana.

He turned to Jun. “Where’s your car?”

“At the Lexus shop over on Eleventh Avenue. Routine maintenance.”

Jenner shook his head. “We’ll get a cab.”

On the street it was mayhem. Ambulances were snarled in the jam of last-minute shoppers, and the air was filled with honking horns and yelping sirens. People streamed from the subway entrances as police officers waved away confused commuters.

On the corner of Houston and Crosby, they asked a cop directing traffic what was going on.

“Explosion at Union Square. They’re shutting down the subway. Bridges and tunnels will probably be closed, too.”

He turned his back to them, pointing both arms at a white box van idling at the light. He yelled, “You!
You!

Keep it moving! Wake up, buddy! I’m talking to you! Keep moving!” pointing his fingers at the driver and jerking both arms toward himself as he urged the van forward into the gridlocked intersection.

It was hopeless. Even if they could find a taxi, the streets were so choked now that nothing was budging.

He turned to Jun. “We have to walk. We can cut through the Lower East Side, over to Delancey, then go across the Williamsburg Bridge. Keep an eye out for taxis—maybe we can get across the bridge before they close it to traffic.”

They walked quickly, setting off down Lafayette. After about twenty minutes, Jun spotted a livery cab that had just dropped off a passenger, an old black Lincoln Town Car with T&LC plates.

Precious Blood

397

Jun waved at the driver, who flashed his lights. He was the tiniest Haitian man Jenner had ever seen, completely bald, without eyebrows, his trim little frame clad in a boxy black suit. The passenger-side window slid down smoothly. He leaned slightly toward them.

“Where do you want to go?” He had a thick accent, and pronounced the syllables with elaborate care, as if he was rolling marbles in his mouth.