Beautiful Maids All in a Row (16 page)

“If you're done here, there's another body about half a mile downriver,” I said as we both stood.

“I'll get down there,” he said with a nod. He picked up his black plastic suitcase with a groan and started up the path. I turned back to the body. Ranger Bruce lay there in the dirt, staring up at me. Poor guy—just doing his job and look where it got him. He must have been doing the rounds, keeping horny teenagers from necking in the woods and overzealous fishermen from sneaking in to get a head start.

The Woodsman must have heard the Jeep coming right after he finished his open-heart surgery. The crackling of the gravel underneath the tires could have been heard from a quarter mile away. It would have given the Woodsman plenty of time to prepare for the impending invasion, grabbing the gun he brought for just such contingencies. Ranger Bruce was just driving along, listening to the owls hoot and the crickets chirp, when he caught sight of a naked man covered in blood in his headlights. Bruce jumped from the Jeep ready to draw the gun he'd probably only used on a firing range, but the Woodsman was too fast for him. Plugged him twice in the chest. Such a shame.

Some days it paid to just stay in bed.

My day in the sun gave my pasty skin a nice bronze hue, so I no longer resembled Casper the Not-So-Friendly Ghost. The sun decided to come out in full force around noon, shining down like a great, big hot orange spotlight. The temperature went up from 72 to 90 in under two hours. I'd run out of things to do an hour and a half earlier, besides swatting mosquitoes every other second, so I sat in the backseat of a police cruiser with the door open and my body half in and half out, chomping on a disgusting bean burrito I bought from the food van that miraculously showed up around one o'clock. I felt like a displaced child watching my older siblings getting ready for a night out while I had to stay home and watch cartoons. They got to have all the fun while I sat around, one of my least favorite things to do.

I hadn't seen Luke since the river incident, and the rest of the team disappeared around one, with the massive horde of techs and other law enforcement members thinning out considerably around two. We went from close to twenty down to only five. I was the last of my group there. Forgotten and abandoned. The only familiar face was that of Linda, my good clothes fairy, loading up her car with equipment. I tossed the burrito on the ground, grabbed my semi-dry clothes and Luke's jacket, and climbed out of the car. I had always depended on the kindness of strangers. She drove me back to Richmond.

When I got inside the hotel lobby an hour later, a carbon copy of the attendant from earlier called to me. “Are you Iris Ballard?” he asked.

I walked over to the desk. “Yes, I am.”

He pulled out a few “While You Were Out” slips with various names written on them. One was from Carol, another from my mother marked urgent, and the rest from various reporters. The bloodhounds had tracked down my scent.
Bastards.

“Another guy called,” the man told me. “He wouldn't leave a message, but said he'd call back tonight.”

I thanked him with a smile and went up to my room. I kicked off my heels and wiggled my feet in an attempt to work the aches out. Heels, like wool suits, were never a good idea when one was traipsing around the woods. The rest of my borrowed clothes came off, replaced by pink pajama bottoms and a faded gray University of Pennsylvania t-shirt. I gathered up the dirty clothes and limped to the laundry room down the hall. Even when tracking a killer, certain household duties couldn't be overlooked. I read the new Barbara Kingsolver book while the woods and river were washed off my clothes.

It was nice to have alone time for a few hours, just lounging back with a good book. I used to be a voracious reader, reading on all my plane trips and during the few hours I was actually at home. Time was when I wasn't so drugged or drunk I couldn't concentrate. One of Hayden and my favorite things to do on days off was to just lie together on our couch, reading and listening to jazz. His arm would be around my back with his hand resting on my waist, tracing circles in my flesh with his finger. I'd rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat in time to the music. Heaven.

When I returned to my hotel room, I vegged in front of the television for an hour watching the news. We'd made every station. “Bodies found…no known suspect…Woodsman, blah, blah, blah.” At least my name wasn't mentioned again. It even made nationwide news. Since my mother called, I knew it had gotten to Grey Mills. I really should have called her back since she went to all the trouble of tracking me down—
thank you, Carol
—but I didn't. I wasn't in the mood to hear about how dangerous, how bizarre, how crazy my being there was. I knew she was my mom and it was her job to worry, but it would just end with her crying and babbling on about my safety. I just didn't want to make my mommy cry.

The telephone interrupted my train of thought. I climbed out of bed and went over to the desk to answer, limping the whole way. “Hello?”

“Good, you got back okay,” Luke said on the other end.

I pulled out the chair and took a seat. “No thanks to you. You abandoned me in the woods.”

“We left you a trail of bread crumbs.”

I scowled into the telephone. “Not funny. Where did you go?”

“The ME's. We're here now.”

“And?”

“And the time of death was between one thirty and two thirty last night,” he reported. “There were no fingerprints, no fibers, no hairs, and no fluids on either victim. Audrey was manually strangled by a right-handed man with her heart cut out postmortem. He dug the bullets out of the ranger with the scalpel. They found two blood types in his wounds, one matching Audrey's. Her tox screen came back positive for the barbiturate thiopental sodium and there was evidence of repeated sexual trauma. Extensive tearing and bruising to the vagina.”

“You can stop there,” I interjected quickly. “I get the idea. So when are you coming back?”

“We're waiting on the final report, but it shouldn't be too long. At the most, two hours.”

“Well, I'll leave the home lights a-burnin',” I said in a mock Southern accent.

“Cute,” he said. “ 'Bye.” The line went dead.

Cute? He thought I was
cute
? I may have been many things, but cute was not one of them.

Before I hung up, a yawn began and soon wracked my whole body. I figured I had better get into the shower before I passed out in the chair. The cool water soothed my hot skin and at the same time stung it. That happened when a person was sunburnt and covered in mosquito bites. I quickly washed the sweat and grime of Mother Nature off my body and stepped out. The sun really must have really taken it out of me, because I was asleep in bed ten minutes later.

I woke what felt like five minutes later to the sound of bells ringing across the room. The ringing happened twice before I fully comprehended that it was the phone making the noise. I checked the digital clock next to me. It read nine forty-three
P.M.
The phone rang for the fourth time as I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. I stumbled through the pitch-black room toward the ringing near the desk. I switched on the desk lamp and picked up the phone. “Hello?” I asked, still half asleep.

“Oh, did I wake you? I'm sorry,” a deep, unfamiliar voice said, sounding truly sorry.

“It's okay,” I yawned. “Who is this?”

“It depends on whom you speak to. I have many names,” he replied.

“Well, give me one of them,” I insisted, growing angry.

“I suppose you know me best as the Woodsman,” he said. “It's such a ridiculous moniker, don't you agree?”

Great, a crank. Just what I needed. “Look, why don't you go order a dozen pizzas and send them to your ex-girlfriend's house or something?”

“You think I'm a crank caller,” he said, sounding amused. “How interesting.”

“Look, buddy, go check your medication levels,” I snapped, “and leave me alone.”

I was about to pull the phone away from my ear when he said, “Do you want to know what I do with the hearts after I cut them out?” He asked the question with no emotion.

“What did you say?” I asked, my body tensing up.

“That tidbit was never released to the press, correct? For just this situation, I assume. I suppose if it was,” he chuckled, “I'd be called the Heartbreaker or something equally idiotic. Have your attention now?”

Hell yes.
“You could have easily found that out,” I said. “Leaks happen.”

“Then ask me something.”

I thought for a second. “Tell me the drug used.”

“It's called thiopental sodium,” he answered immediately. “It's an ultra-short-acting barbiturate used in brief surgeries, narcoanalysis, and narcosynthesis in psychiatric disorders. Care to know how many times I had to inject Audrey Burke and where? I can tell you.”

I pulled out the chair under the desk and sat down, unsure my legs could hold out. “How did you get this number?” I asked, trying to remain calm.

“I have my ways. I can be quite resourceful and tenacious when I put my mind to it.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk, of course. Why else do people call each other, Iris?” He chuckled again. “You would like to talk to me, wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“I thought so. The feeling is obviously mutual. But first some ground rules,” he said. “One: If I hear anything but your voice, I hang up. So no signaling to the boys in blue through the walls, and no tape recorder. I hear a click, I hang up.”

Shit!
“Fine.”

“Good. Two: No insults. We're both intellectuals. There's absolutely no need for name-calling. I can refrain if you can.”

“Anything else?” I asked through gritted teeth. I hated being spoken to like I was a kindergartner.

“Yes. Honesty. I intend to be honest with you, and I expect the same in return. Agreed?”

“You sure like control, don't you?” I snapped.

“Was that an insult, Iris?” he asked me like you would a child.

“Simply a question,” I assured him, regaining my composure.

“Then we're agreed. Good.” He paused for a moment. “I was surprised to hear you were involved in my case. As a matter of fact, I'm flattered you'd come out of retirement for me. It's quite an honor.”

“Glad you're happy,” I said, my words dripping with poison.

“Why did you, Iris? College students in North Carolina not thrilling enough?”

“You're killing people, and I want to stop you.”

“People are killed every day. What makes me so special?”

“You like that, don't you? Thinking you're special? Well, you're not. You're nothing but a psycho—”

“Insults, Iris,” he interjected quickly. “That's twice I've had to warn you. There will not be a third time. Answer my question. Why me?”

I bit my lower lip. “You killed someone I knew. Justine Romy.”

The other end was silent for a second. “Oh yes, the doctor. She put up a fight, that one. I'm still bruised. Quite a spitfire. But she broke, just like the rest of them. Cried out for her father, and her God.” He chuckled at his own private joke. “Neither came.”

Sick fucking bastard.
“Have you called just to gloat?” I asked, my voice even.

“I told you why I've called. But you're right; it's not polite to speak about one's conquests. I apologize. Was she a friend of yours?”

“She worked with my husband.”

“The late Dr. Hayden Sage, last victim of the Rosetta Ripper. Gunned down in his prime while his helpless FBI agent wife stood not five feet away and watched. If we were living in Ancient Greece, Euripides would pen a tragedy about it. It must have been absolutely devastating for you, Iris. I am truly sorry for your loss.”

“No, you aren't,” I said. “You have antisocial personality disorder. You feel nothing for anybody but yourself.”

“You're probably right, Iris,” he said sarcastically. “What a fantastic psychologist you are, telling all of that from just two minutes of conversation.”

“You'd have to be to do what you do,” I said, my voice hard.

“I'm not in disagreement with you, Iris,” he said, his voice going up an octave. “I have been diagnosed a sociopath on multiple occasions. They just never pick up on it so quickly. Tell me some more about myself. I'd love to hear what you think about me.”

“I'm afraid that would break the ‘no insults' rule. If you want me to, I'd be more than happy to tell you what I
really
think about you.”

“I can guess. No need to vocalize it. So, tell me why I'm doing this.”

“You enjoy hurting women.”

“Well, that is blatantly obvious,” he said. “No, I mean your profile on me. I want to see if you're as good as we both believe you to be.”

I pressed my temple to stop the throbbing. My blood pumped so fast the rest of my body couldn't take it. “You're white, age thirty-five to fifty. You have an apartment and may or may not live alone, but you have a girlfriend or wife. She's submissive and does whatever you want, including being tied up and feigning rape while you strangle her. Oh, and she's blond. Am I on the right track?”

“Frighteningly so. Please continue.”

“You live in or around New York City, where you have a job that either allows you to travel or lets you go away for extended periods of time. You trained in medicine, but you don't practice much anymore.”

“You're wrong there,” he cuts in. “I'm always practicing, just not in the way you think. Please continue.”

“You were raised rich but alone. Your father was gone and your mother worked all the time. She lived for her job. You didn't like that. You wanted her all to yourself even though she abused you. She was a cold woman.”

“My mother is off limits,” he snapped.

“Why? Sore subject?”

“Not important,” he countered.

“Isn't she? She's the reason at least six people are dead.”

“Get off the subject, Iris,” he commanded. “The past is in the past; we're in the here and now.”

Could he possibly be that deluded? “You do
know
these women are substitutes for your mother, don't you?” I asked incredulously.

“I took Psych 101 as well, Iris. I know what you're getting at. But I killed these women because they were beautiful, and when I looked at them…I wanted them. So I took them.”

“So the fact that they all had brown hair, light eyes, were all professionals, and had sons under seven is just some bizarre coincidence?”

“Time to move on, Iris. I'm not going to bring up your father,” he scoffed, “if he can even be called that. Doesn't even acknowledge you're his own child. That must sting.”

“It's your dime,” I said. “Just mull over what I said. The path to enlightenment is inside yourself.”

“Thank you, Deepak Chopra,” he said sarcastically before pausing. “Why do I tie them to the riverbank?”