Blind Rage (23 page)

Bernadette scooted around to the back of the house, crossed the prof’s backyard, and stepped into the alley. She looked up at the Tudor’s back windows. All dark. She jogged to the end of the alley, where Garcia picked her up. He steered to the next block.

“He’s got her camped out on the couch,” Garcia said as he hung a left and steered down the road that ran parallel with Wakefielder’s street. “She came to the door wrapped in an afghan.”

“Surprises the shit out of me,” said Bernadette.

“You thought he’d take advantage. Go for a roll in the sack.”

“And
then
kill her. Yeah. Why didn’t he take her upstairs?”

“Maybe he isn’t such a bad guy.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want Animal Print Girl throwing up on his bed.”

“She
did
stink like vomit. I could smell it through the screen.”

Bernadette wrinkled her nose. “What else did you notice about her?”

“Wrists like twigs. Eyes the color of a strawberry margarita.”

“From bawling or puking or a hangover?”

“All of the above, I would say.”

“Should we go back and park?” she asked.

“He might have seen me get in the car,” Garcia said. “Besides, they’re both tucked in for the night.”

“This whole thing…semihysterical, half-naked girl banging on his door in the middle of the night…the fact that he let her in and let her stay…how the chick fits the profile of the dead girls…I don’t like any of it,” she said. “Plus, when I used my sight, the woman I saw with the killer had long brown hair like Animal Print Girl. This could be that woman and that maniac.”

“You’re saying—”

“I’m saying I want the house watched all weekend.”

“You’re not going to be very popular around the office,” Garcia said as he navigated the car out of the neighborhood and headed for the highway.

She smiled tightly. “Tell me something new.”

Chapter 22

HELL ISN’T RED; IT’S BLUE.

The first thing she saw after coming to wasn’t a person or an object but a color. Blue. Blue everywhere. Blue on the walls. Blue on the bed. Blue hovering over her and around her. Blanketing her. She blinked twice and tried to bend her legs but couldn’t. They were tied spread-eagled and anchored to the posts at the foot of the bed. Her head was heavy and hot and sore, but her body was so light and detached she wondered why it didn’t float away to freedom, leaving only her skull behind on the pillow. When she opened her mouth to ask the blue void why her head hurt, she felt something constricting her mouth. She tried to move her hand to her face and couldn’t. Her wrists were tethered to the posts at the head of the bed.

The questions washed over her, blue words roaring into her mind one after the other like waves crashing against rocks:
Where am I? Why am I tied up? Who did this to me? Am I dead? Is this hell? Why was I sent to hell? What did I do that was so wrong? Why do I deserve this?

She heard footsteps and a soothing voice.

“We’re the Twin Cities’ classical radio station, providing more music and less commercial interruption. That was Mozart’s Sinfonia in B Flat performed by the New Zealand Chamber Orchestra. For your listening pleasure this chilly Saturday morning, we have a selection from…”

The voice would come if she hollered. She struggled to speak and wasn’t certain if she said the word or imagined she said it:
Help
. She closed her eyes and visualized herself adrift in this blue, the only survivor of a shipwreck.
Help
. She’d managed to climb aboard a life raft while the others had perished. All she had to do was hang on and wait for rescue.
Help
. The waters were calm and flat. There was music on this ocean. Violins. Flutes. Footsteps.
Help
. She opened her eyes, and the blue sea parted for a man. Big blond man. This had to be her savior, the body belonging to the soothing voice.

The man floated to her side, his face coming down to hers. “Awake already? You were dead to the world when I carried you to bed this morning.”

No savior, this man. She blinked back tears, fully remembering where she was and how she got there. The bastard had doped her and trussed her up good. A stupid cow ready for the slaughterhouse.

He brought his mouth close to her ear: “You fell asleep in the shower, and I didn’t have the heart to disturb you. I let you spend the night there.”

More than anything, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to say three words. Were she free, she would clamp his skull between her hands and beat the back of his head against the floor while she screamed the words over and over.
I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!
Then she would spit in his face and bang some more. Bang and bang until his head cracked open and his brains spilled out.

He hooked his hand over the blue sheet covering her and ripped it off. It floated away like a blue ghost. “You won’t see me for quite a while, and I apologize for that. I have things I need to do. Will you be all right without me?”

Leave,
she pleaded in her mind.
Please leave.

He cupped her breasts with his hands and squeezed. “I’d like to leave you with a smile on your face.”

No!
She strained against the ropes, pulling all four limbs toward her body while lifting her head off the pillow.

He picked a damp curl off her forehead. “You know it’s futile. You’re expending all that energy for naught, and if you perspire, I’ll have to send you back to the shower.”

Her legs and arms and head collapsed back against the mattress with a dull thud. The words thundered inside her head. How could he not hear them?
I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

Leaning closer to her, he cooed: “That’s a good girl. Relax. Just…relax.”

He reeked of soap and aftershave, and the sweet stink made her nauseous. Something sour snaked up her throat, and she wondered if she was going to drown in her own bile.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Before I go, let me tell you a story about the first one, the one I…encouraged after a phone conversation.” He crossed one leg over the other. “It was a cold night in April, late even for college students. I knew there’d be no one on the bridge.”

I don’t care about the fucking bridge. Let me go. Shut up and let me go.

“I headed to the east bank and parked behind the auditorium. If she went with my suggestions regarding the hour and the place, I had plenty of time. If she didn’t show, well…I had the benefit of a nighttime stroll. The campus had an almost ethereal shine from the lights lining its streets and sidewalks, but I saw no signs of life except for a student at the opposite side of the mall, hurrying with his backpack.

“The moment I set my feet on the bridge, I saw her planted at the midway point. She hadn’t let me down. Then things moved quickly—too quickly, really. She hopped up, put one leg over the rail, then the other. For a few seconds, she stood facing the river, her hands behind her back and locked over the railing. She let go, tipped forward, and sailed down. Disappeared into the blackness.”

You sick puppy,
she thought.
You didn’t try to stop her.

“I ran up to the railing. Had she survived the fall? It had to be a hundred-foot drop. Did she know how to swim? I couldn’t find her right away. Even with the waterfront lights, the river was like ink. I finally spotted her paddling clumsily. She was trying to save herself while the Mississippi swirled and churned around her. The sight of her struggling…”

His voice trailed off, and he reached down between his legs. She snapped her head to one side so she didn’t have to watch.

“A gust swept across the deck of the bridge…Was it wishful thinking, or could I really hear her cries carried along by the wind? What was she screaming? What were her final words? Did she call out someone’s name while the river dragged her? I watched while she went under, resurfaced, and went under again…I imagined it was…my beloved suffering, her mouth and nostrils filling with icy water. The river would enter her lungs, and she would sink…drown.”

The more graphic his story became, the faster his breath came. She closed her eyes. She wished she could close her ears.

“The familiar, guilty thrill sent a wave of pleasure washing over me, and I…”

She felt him relax against the bed, the panting gone. Twisted bastard.

“…I backed away from the rail. My foot bumped something, and I looked down. She’d left a note under an empty bottle of liquor. I put on my gloves, picked up the note, and gave it a read. I didn’t much care now that she was gone. I put the note back so the police could read it.

“At the far end of the bridge, a couple of pedestrians were starting their hike from the west bank. Would they see her letter, or would a hundred people go by before it was noticed? It wasn’t a blatant suicide note, but it showed her mental state. I wondered how long it would take for her body to turn up. I headed back to the car. At least she was no longer suffering.”

He turned on the mattress and dragged the tips of his fingers from between her breasts down to her navel. “I’ll end your suffering soon.”

She snapped her head and tried to hide in the blue of the pillows while he climbed on top of her. His body felt heavy and damp.

He trapped her chin in his hand and forced her to face him. “Look at me,” he ordered.

She closed her eyes tight and tried to concentrate on the soothing radio voice, her only friend in the blue hell.

“This offering is by Aleksandr Borodin. Nocturne for String Orchestra. It was recorded by the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Leonard Slatkin. The venue: Powell Symphony Hall in St. Louis. Listen carefully and you’ll hear…”

“Open your eyes.”

Drop dead,
she thought, closing her lids tighter. Her eyes were the only things she could control, and she was damned if she’d surrender them.

“Open them.” He squeezed her chin hard. “I could staple them open. Would you like that? I have a stapler right here in this night-stand.”

Her eyes snapped open and stayed wide with fear. He smiled at her and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Much better.”

As he sprawled on top of her, the bile from her own stomach crawled all the way up her throat and filled her mouth with acid. She swallowed hard, wishing the sour fluid were poison.

“I prefer my partners thin. No food for you, just plenty of…fluids.”

While he moved his mouth down to her breasts, she stared up at the blue ceiling, wishing it would crash down on him and kill him.

“I’ve always loved you, Ruth,” he muttered.

Chapter 23

EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, THE DOOR TO THE PROFESSOR’S
attached garage lifted with a metallic groan, causing Thorsson and his partner to bolt upright in the front seat of their van. Peering into the bowels of the garage from their parking spot across the street, the agents saw a young woman in a pea coat and baggy jeans exit through a service door and slide into the front passenger seat of a Saab sedan. A purse was slung over her shoulder, and a paper grocery bag was in her arms. Ten seconds later, Wakefielder walked out of the service door, went over to the driver’s side of the sedan, and got behind the wheel. The Saab started up with a smoky cough and backed out of the garage. After a stall in the middle of the street—during which the two agents flattened themselves on the bench of the dry cleaner’s van—the Saab restarted and chugged south down the street.