Alex Cross 02 - Kiss the Girls (18 page)

Odd as it seemed, I found myself smiling. “You were probably on the planet Weirdness for a while. It’s nice to have you back.”

“It’s really nice to be back,” she said in a whisper. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Sorry,” she said. “I tried so hard not
to cry in that horrible place. I want to cry now. I think I will.”

“Oh, please, you just cry your eyes out,” I whispered, too. I could barely talk or keep back tears myself. My chest felt tight.
I went over to the hospital bed, and I lightly held Kate’s hand as she wept.

“You don’t sound like you’re from the South,” Kate McTiernan finally spoke again. She was grabbing control of herself. It
amazed me she could do that.

“I’m from Washington, D.C., actually. My niece disappeared from Duke Law School ten days ago. That’s why I’m down here in
North Carolina. I’m a detective.”

She seemed to see me for the first time. She also appeared to be remembering something important. “There were other women
at the house where I was kept prisoner. We weren’t supposed to talk. All communication was strictly forbidden by Casanova,
but I broke the rules. I talked to a woman named Naomi—”

I stopped her, cut her off there. “My niece’s name is Naomi Cross,” I said. “She’s alive? She’s all right?” My heart felt
as if it were going to implode. “Tell me what you remember, Kate. Please.”

Kate McTiernan grew more intense. “I talked to a Naomi. I don’t remember a last name. I also talked to a Kristen. The drugs.
Oh, God, was it your niece? … Everything is so hazy and dark right now. I’m sorry…” Kate’s voice trailed off as if someone
had let the air out of her.

I gently squeezed her hand. “No, no. You just gave me more hope than I’ve had since I came down here.”

Kate McTiernan’s eyes were fixed and solemn, staring into mine. She seemed to be looking back at something horrifying that
she wanted to forget. “I don’t remember a lot of it right now. I think Marinol has that side effect…. I remember that he was
going to give me another injection. I kicked him, hurt him enough to get away. At least I
think
that’s what happened…

“There were thick, thick woods. Carolina pines, hanging moss everywhere…. I remember, I swear to God… the house… wherever
we were being kept, it disappeared. The house where we were being held captive just
disappeared
on me.”

Kate McTiernan slowly shook her head of long brown hair back and forth. Her eyes were wide with astonishment. She seemed amazed
at her own story. “That’s what I remember. How could that be? How could a house disappear?”

I could tell that she was reliving her very recent, terrifying past. I was right there with her. I was the first one to hear
the story of her escape, the only one so far to hear our witness speak.

C
ASANOVA WAS still disturbed and highly agitated about the loss of Dr. Kate McTiernan. He was restless and had been wide-awake
for hours. He rolled over and over in bed. This was no good. This was dangerous. He had made his first mistake.

Then someone whispered in the darkness.

“Are you all right? Are you okay?”

The woman’s voice startled him at first. He
had been
Casanova. Now he seamlessly switched over to his other persona:
the good husband.

He reached out and gently rubbed his wife’s bare shoulder. “I’m okay. No problem. Just a little trouble sleeping tonight”.

“I noticed. How could I not? The human Mexican jumping bean strikes again.” There was a smile in her sleepy voice. She was
a good person, and she loved him.

“Sorry,” Casanova whispered, and kissed his wife’s shoulder. He stroked her hair as he thought about Kate McTiernan. Kate
had much longer brown hair.

He kept stroking his wife’s hair, but he drifted back into his own tortured thoughts again. He really didn’t have anyone to
talk to, did he? Not anymore. Not around here in North Carolina certainly, not even in the highfalutin Research Triangle belt.

He finally climbed out of bed and trudged downstairs. He shuffled into his den and quietly shut and locked the door.

He looked at his wristwatch. It was 3:00 A.M. That would make it twelve out in Los Angeles. He made the call.

Actually, Casanova
did
have someone to talk to. One person in the world.

“It’s me,” he said, when he heard the familiar voice on the line. “I’m feeling a little crazy tonight. I thought of you, of
course.”

“Are you implying that I lead a wanton and half-mad life?” the Gentleman Caller asked with a chuckle.

“That goes without saying.” Casanova was feeling better already. There
was
someone he could talk to and share secrets with. “I took another one yesterday. Let me tell you about Anna Miller. She’s
exquisite, my friend.”

C
ASANOVA HAD struck again.

Another student, a bright beautiful woman named Anna Miller, had been abducted from a garden apartment she shared with her
lawyer-boyfriend near the State University of North Carolina in Raleigh. The boyfriend had been murdered in their bed, which
was a new twist for Casanova. He left no note, and no other clues at the crime scene. After a mistake, he was showing us he
was letter-perfect again.

I spent several hours with Kate McTiernan at the University of North Carolina hospital. We got along well; I felt that we
were becoming friends. She wanted to help me with the psychological profile on Casanova. She was telling me everything that
she knew about Casanova and his women captives.

As far as she could tell, there had been six women held as hostages, including herself. It was possible that there were more
than six

Casanova was extremely well organized, according to Kate. He was capable of planning weeks and weeks ahead, of studying his
prey in amazing detail.

He seemed to have “built” the house of horrors by himself. He had installed plumbing, a special sound system, and air conditioning,
apparently for the comfort of his women captives. Kate had only seen the house in a drugged state, though, and she couldn’t
describe it very well.

Casanova could be a control freak who was violently jealous and extremely possessive. He was sexually active and capable of
several erections in a night. He was obsessed with sex and the male sexual urge.

He could be thoughtful in his way. He could also be “romantic,” his own word. He loved to cuddle and kiss and talk to the
women for hours. He said that he loved them.

In midweek, the FBI and the Durham police finally agreed on a secure place in the hospital for Kate McTiernan to meet with
the press for the first time. The news conference was held in a wide entrance corridor on her floor.

The all-white hallway was jam-packed to the glowing red exit signs with reporters clutching their notepads, and TV people
with minicams hoisted on their shoulders. Policemen with automatic weapons were also present. Just in case. Homicide detectives
Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes stayed close to Kate during the course of the TV taping.

Kate McTiernan was well on her way to becoming a national figure. Now the general public would get to actually meet the woman
who had escaped from the house of horrors. I felt sure that Casanova would be watching, too. I hoped he wasn’t right there
in the hospital with us.

A male nurse, who was clearly a bodybuilder, pushed Kate into the noisy, crowded hallway. The hospital wanted her in a wheelchair.
She had on baggy UNC sweatpants and a simple white cotton T-shirt. Her long brown hair was full and shiny. The bruising and
swelling around her face was down a lot. “I almost
look
like my old self,” she had told me. “But I don’t
feel
like my old self, Alex. Not inside.”

When the nurse wheeled the bulky chair almost up to a stand of microphones, Kate surprised everyone. She slowly stood up and
walked the rest of the way.

“Hello, I’m Kate McTiernan. Obviously,” she said to the assembled reporters who now pushed in even closer to the prime witness.
“I have a very brief statement to make, then I’ll get out of everybody’s hair.” Her voice was strong and vibrant. She was
very much in control of herself, or so it seemed to all of us watching and listening.

Her light touch and subtle humor drew smiles and laughter from the crowd. One or two of the reporters tried to ask questions,
but the noise level had risen and it was hard to hear them. Cameras flashed and buzzed up and down the packed hospital corridor.

Kate stopped speaking, and it became relatively quiet again. At first everyone thought the press conference was too much for
her to handle. A nearby doctor stepped forward, but she waved him away.

“I’m fine. I’m really okay, thanks. If I’m woozy or anything, I’II sit right down in the chair like a model patient. I promise
you I will. No false bravado from me.”

She was
definitely
in control of this moment. She was older than most medical students or interns, and in fact she looked like a doctor.

She peered around the room—she was
curious,
it seemed. Maybe a little amazed. Finally, she apologized for the momentary lapse. “I was just gathering my thoughts… What
I would like to do is tell you what I can about what happened to me—and I will tell you everything I can—but that will be
it for today. I won’t answer any questions from the press. I’d like you all to respect that. Is that a fair deal?”

She was poised and impressive in front of the TV cameras. Kate McTiernan was surprisingly relaxed under the circumstances,
as if she could have done this for a living. I’d found her to be very self-assured and confident whenever she needed to be.
At other times, she could be as vulnerable and afraid as the rest of us.

“First, I would like to say something to all the families and friends who have someone missing. Please, don’t give up hope.
The man known as Casanova strikes only if his explicit commands are disobeyed. I broke his rules, and I was badly beaten.
But I did manage to escape. There are other women where I was kept captive. My thoughts are with them in ways you can’t imagine.
I believe in my heart that they are still alive and safe.”

The reporters pressed in closer and closer to Kate McTiernan. Even in her battered condition she was magnetic, her strength
shone through. The TV cameras liked her. So would the public, I knew.

For the next few moments, she did everything she could possibly do to allay the fears of the families of the missing women.
She stressed again that she had been hurt only because she broke the house rules set down by Casanova. I thought that maybe
she was sending a message to him, too.
Blame me, not the other women.

As I watched Kate speak, I asked myself some questions:
Does he take only extraordinary women? Not just beauties, but women who are special in every way? What did that mean? What
was Casanova really up to? What game was he playing?

My suspicion was that the killer was obsessed with physical beauty, but that he couldn’t bear to be around women who weren’t
as smart as he was. I sensed that he craved intimacy also.

Finally, Kate stopped speaking. Tears were shining in her eyes, like perfect glass drops. “I’m through now,” she said in a
soft voice. “Thank you for taking this message out to the families of the missing women. I hope that it helped a little bit.
Please, no more questions for now. I still can’t remember everything that happened to me. I’ve told you what I can.”

At first there was an unnatural silence. There wasn’t a single question. She had been clear about that. Then the reporters
and the hospital personnel began to clap. They knew, just as Casanova knew, that Kate McTiernan was an extraordinary woman.

I had one fear. Was Casanova there clapping, too?

A
T 4:00 A.M., Casanova packed a spanking-new, green-and-gray Lands’ End knapsack with necessary food and supplies. He headed
out to his hideaway for a morning of long-awaited pleasures. He actually had a favorite catchphrase for his forbidden games:
Kiss the girls.

He fantasized about Anna Miller, his newest captive, on the car drive there, and then as he hiked through thick woods. He
visualized over and over what he was going to do with Anna today. He remembered something, a quite wonderful and appropriate
line, out of F. Scott Fitzgerald:
The kiss originated when the first male reptile licked the first female, implying in a complimentary way that she was as succulent
as the small reptile he had for dinner the night before.
It was all biological, wasn’t it?
Tick-cock.

When he finally arrived at the hideaway, he turned on the Stones full volume. The incomparable
Beggar’s Banquet
album. He needed to hear loud, antisocial rock music today. Mick Jagger was fifty, right? He was only thirty-six himself.
This was
his
moment.

He posed naked in front of a floor-length mirror and admired his slender, well-muscled physique. He combed out his hair. Then
he slipped into a shimmery hand-painted silk robe that he’d bought once upon a time in Bangkok. He left it open to expose
himself.

He selected a different costume mask, a beautiful one from Venice, originally purchased for just such a special occasion.
A moment of mystery and love. At last he was ready to see Anna Miller.

Anna was so haughty. Absolutely untouchable. Exquisite physically. He needed to break her quickly.

Nothing could match this physical and emotional feeling: adrenaline pumping, heart beating loudly, total exhilaration in every
part of his body. He brought warm milk in a glass pitcher. Also a small wicker basket with a special surprise for Anna.

In truth, it was something he’d been planning for Dr. Kate. He’d wanted to share this moment with her.

He had put on the loud rock ‘n’ so that Anna would know it was time to get ready. It was a signal. He was certainly ready
for her. Pitcher full of warm milk. Long rubber tubing with a nozzle. Cuddly present in the wicker basket. Let the games begin.