Count to Ten (30 page)

He lifted his head, met her eyes, and she saw that he spoke truth. “I wasn’t. All I knew was that if I didn’t have you I’d explode. I hoped you’d say yes. I’m hoping you’ll say yes again.”

She nodded soberly. “Yes. Again.”

Thursday, November 30, 12:30 A.M.

He was ready. He felt the energy flow through his body, like a fine hum. He’d worked through his plan. Their hotel room couldn’t be located any better. All the room doors opened to the outside, but theirs was on the first floor, parking places only yards away.

He gently shouldered his backpack. It held three eggs. One was for the Doughertys’ bed. He’d studied and now knew exactly how he’d bypass the sprinkler in their room. He’d investigated stairwells and exit paths and laundry rooms and knew exactly where he’d place the two other bombs for maximum burn, turning the whole hotel into hell. There would be mayhem as people streamed out in their pajamas, crying and terrified. Since there’d be no gas for an explosion, a little mayhem was only fair. The fire department would send three, maybe four trucks. There would be ambulances and flashing lights. The newspeople would come, film would roll. They’d frantically check to be sure everyone was out. Then they’d find two bodies.

His system was revved, still charged from before. He’d killed once tonight. He was on a roll. He’d bagged the bloody coat hours before. He now wore a pair of coveralls he’d stolen from the hotel’s laundry room. Master key cards were useful things.

He stood at the Doughertys’ motel room door, confident no one would give him a second look. Not that it would matter if they did. Thanks to a wig and a little padding, he looked like a different man. His right hand gripped his very sharp knife. In his left was Tania’s master key card. He swiped it and gently tested the door, frowning when it caught. The Doughertys had used the swing bar for extra security. But no worries. He had considerable experience with these devices. Nothing was truly secure if you knew how to get around it. Sliding the thin blade of his knife through the narrow opening of the door he dislodged the swing bar and slipped in the room, carefully closing the door behind him. It was quiet except for the sound of gentle snoring coming from the bed. He stood still, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.

And became instantly aware of two things. There were no flowers in this room. And there was only one person in the bed. A young woman, not more than twenty-five. A spear of panic went through him. He had the wrong room.
Run.

But the woman opened her eyes and opened her mouth to scream. He was too quick. Too powerful. He yanked her head back as he already had once that evening. He held the knife at her throat. “You will not scream. Do you understand?”

She nodded, a whimper of terror escaping.

“What’s your name?”

“N-N-Niki Markov. Please...”

His hand tightened in her hair. “What room number is this?”

“I—I don’t kn-know.” He yanked harder and she let out another whimper. “I can’t remember. Please. I have two kids. Please don’t hurt me.”

His blood was pumping, pounding in his head as he fought to contain the sudden rush of fury. Damn women. None of them stayed with their kids. “If you have two kids, you should be home”—he yanked again—“with your two kids.” He switched on a light and looked at the phone. The room number was the right one. “When did you get here?”

“T-tonight. Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t hurt me.”

They were gone. Goddammit they were gone. He’d missed them. Fury bubbled. Boiled. Spilled over, eating like acid. “Come on,” he snarled. She stumbled when he dragged her toward the bathroom.

“Please,” she was sobbing now, hysterical.

He yanked at her hair, bringing her up on her toes. “Shut up.” Another whimper crawled from her throat. He couldn’t ruin any more clothes, he thought. But he couldn’t let her live. She’d tell. He’d be caught. Which was not going to happen.

So he pushed her in the tub, held the tip of the knife to her throat as he turned on the shower, full blast, which was really a piss-poor trickle. He grabbed her hair again, twisting her to her stomach. Then he pulled the knife across her throat savagely.

And stood, watching as the trickle carried all her blood down the drain.

As her blood drained, his rushed. Rage seethed until he trembled from the force of it. He’d been denied his satisfaction. He’d been robbed of his revenge.

The Doughertys had managed to elude him once again. He’d find out where they went but he was running out of time. His jaw clenched as he waited for the woman in the tub to bleed out. He’d had plenty of time, until the cops showed up.

Because of Brooke Adler. Because of her stupidity, he would be discovered. It was a matter of time. He didn’t have the Doughertys, but by God, he’d have his satisfaction. He still had three eggs in his backpack and he’d be damned if he’d let them spoil.

First, he needed to take care of this one. If he left her here, she’d be discovered by noon tomorrow. The police weren’t so stupid as to not make the connection between a dead woman who just happened to occupy the Doughertys’ old room and a dead woman who just happened to occupy the Doughertys’ empty house. She had to go.

He could drag her out, but she was big enough to make it awkward. So he’d have to make her smaller. He held his knife under the miserly stream of water and washed it clean before testing it against his thumb. Good. It was still sharp enough for what he needed to do.

Chapter Fourteen

Thursday, November 30, 3:10 A.M.

W
hat the hell are you doing?” Startled, Brooke looked up from the computer. Her roommate stood in the hall, her iPod in her hand. “It’s three a.m.,” Roxanne said.

“I don’t know what to do,” Brooke murmured.

Roxanne sighed. “You can’t do any more tonight, Brooke. Go to sleep.”

“I tried. I can’t. All I can think of are bills and loans and debts. I can’t sleep.”

Roxanne’s expression softened in sympathy. “It’ll be okay. You’ll find another job.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been searching all night. There’s nothing open around here.”

“You’ll find something. Now go to bed, Brooke. You’ll just make yourself sick with worry and then you really won’t be able to find a job.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right. But without a recommendation from Bixby, it’s going to be close to impossible to find anyone who’ll even consider me.”

“I still think you should sue the bastard, no matter what Devin’s lawyer friend thinks.”

Devin had called his lawyer friend from Flannagan’s, but the friend had told him that her claim would be hard to prove and it would take a long time. She didn’t have a long time. She only had forty-two dollars in the bank. “I might. But that doesn’t help me now. I’m almost broke.” She closed her eyes. “You may need to find another roommate.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. I’ve got to get to sleep. Bach’s lullabies work. You should try it.” Pressing the earphones to her ears, she headed to her room.

It’ll take more than Bach to relax me,
Brooke thought. She went into the kitchen and found the brandy she saved for special occasions. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was strong enough to do the trick. She downed a glass, then poured herself another and sat at the kitchen table. She sipped at the second glass, despair overwhelming.

She had no money. She couldn’t call her parents. They were living on next to nothing as it was. Hate surged. Bixby was a bastard.
I did nothing wrong.
She gulped more brandy, bitterly resigned. It didn’t matter. She’d be out of a job just the same.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat brooding when she heard it.

Click.
She looked up, trying to place the noise. Then walked to the kitchen doorway to stare at the front door. It was opening. With a key.
Somebody has my key.

Call 911.
Where was the cordless? She stumbled to the counter, pulled a butcher knife from the block.
Oh God.
She ran to the living room.
Where was the phone?

Then her mouth fell open as the man came through the door. He held a knife. Recognition was instantaneous, but she had no time to even say his name before his hand flattened over her mouth and he twisted her wrist. Her butcher knife fell to the floor.

Eyes wide with horror, she saw the metal of his long, thin blade before it swept down and pressed against her throat.
He’s going to kill me.
She struggled and the blade pressed a little harder. Abruptly she stopped struggling and he chuckled.

The hand left her mouth, but the knife continued to press and a stifled sob rose in her throat. “I’ve cut two throats wide open tonight,” he said. “Say one word and I’ll make it three.” He yanked, making her walk on her toes to her bedroom. He threw her down on the bed, drove his knee into her ribs and shoved a ball of cloth into her mouth.

She fought him when he grabbed one wrist and tied it to her headboard, then cried out when he slammed his fist into her jaw. But her cry was muted, she could barely hear it herself. He leaned into her body with his knee, tying her other wrist.

“You’ve ruined my work, Brooke,” he hissed in her face. His eyes were wild, crazy. He couldn’t be the same man she knew. But he was. “Now I’ll have no time to finish and you’ll pay for that. I told you to let it go, but you wouldn’t listen. You’ll listen now.”

He came to his feet and she kicked, hoping to make a noise Roxanne would hear. He bent to his backpack and when he straightened, he held a pipe wrench in his hand.

No!
She screamed it, but nobody heard. When the first blow struck she moaned. With the second she wished she was dead. With the third, she knew she would be.

Grimly satisfied, he zipped the used condom in a baggie, just as he’d done with Penny Hill. He recalled how Hill’s eyes had glazed over from the pain and halfway through she’d closed them, robbing him of the pleasure of seeing her suffering.

He stood over Brooke, sweat dripping down his face. He slapped her cheeks hard and a muffled moan escaped her throat. Good. She was still conscious. He wanted to be sure she had felt everything he did to her, and that she heard every word. “You ruined my work. I may never get my justice. So tonight you’ll take her place.”

He worked quickly, applying the gel to her body as he’d done to Penny Hill. He placed the egg between her knees, ran the fuse past her feet. There wasn’t any gas in this house—only electric, so he’d have to compromise.

He’d already decided to place a second egg at the apartment’s front entrance. Just another little hoop for the firemen to jump through. He ran a second fuse and laid that egg next to his knife on the night table. Then pulled out his lighter and leaned down to Brooke’s face. “You’re like the others. You say you care, but you betray their trust. You say you want to help those boys, but the first chance you get, you give them to the police. You’re just as deceitful and just as guilty. When I light this fuse, start counting.”

Her eyes flickered, focusing over his shoulder. He turned, a split second before a violin would have come crashing on his head. It struck his shoulder instead, splintering into pieces. A woman stood, eyes wide, breasts heaving as she panted. She held the neck of the shattered violin in her fist, then she swung it at him again. He caught her forearm, but she twisted free. He barely dodged the little chair she swung at him.

He grasped his knife from the nightstand and in one fluid motion plunged it into the violinist’s gut and ripped, his eyes locked on hers. Her face contorted and she dropped to the floor on top of her splintered instrument. His heart was pounding, his blood rushing. He felt alive. Untouchable. Invincible. He flicked the lighter, lit the fuse at Brooke’s feet, then leaned over her ear. “Count to ten, Brooke. And go to hell.”

He grabbed his backpack, the knife, and the other egg, and ran from the apartment, down the stairs. He lit the second fuse and placed the egg in the corner of the lobby. The carpet was threadbare, but it would burn quickly. Then he bolted out the front door.

And nearly had heart failure. Two police cruisers were turning into the complex, lights flashing, sirens blaring.
The violinist had called the cops. Fucking bitch.
He ducked behind the building and ran to the parking lot behind the next row of apartments. At least he’d had the good sense to case the place when he’d first arrived. Keeping to the shadows, he chose the easiest car to steal. A minute later he was driving away.

He’d almost been caught. He struggled to catch his breath and smelled the violinist’s blood. It covered his coat, his gloves. She hadn’t been in the plan, but... Wow. It was an incredible feeling, taking a life like that, looking into her eyes as he stole her very soul. He chuckled. The English teacher had rubbed off on him.

The he sobered. And wondered how much of him had rubbed off on the English teacher. The fire would be going by now, but without the gas, it might not be enough to destroy everything. He’d used a condom. He’d worn gloves. But he might have dropped a hair. Still, in order to use it against him, they’d have to find him first.

He didn’t have much time and he still had to find Laura Dougherty. Then there were four more. They were the worst. They hadn’t been merely involved in Shane’s death.
They’d killed him.
One was in Indy. He’d find the other three, then he’d be finished.

He’d roll into a new life just as he’d rolled into this one, make new friends, find another woman to serve his needs at home. He’d have to think about his next job. He’d never thought about doing the one he had now. It had been the right time and place, so he’d snatched the opportunity. But he’d been good at it.

Who needed a college degree? He was the master chameleon.
Like in that movie where the guy impersonates a doctor and a lawyer and a pilot.
Maybe he’d try his hand at one of those jobs next time around.

Thursday, November 30, 3:50 A.M.

“Holy shit.” The words wheezed from Mia’s chest as she lay limp and lax and sated.

Beside her Solliday chuckled. “I love your way with words, Mia.”

She pushed up on her elbow and smiled down at him. “You know we’re going to be wrecks tomorrow. Today,” she corrected, glancing at the clock next to her bed.

“I know, but it was worth it. I don’t think I realized just how much I needed this.”

She slid her palm across his hard belly, feeling the muscles quiver. “How long has it been?” she asked quietly.

His eyes flicked up to hers. “Six years.”

Her brows went up. “Holy shit,” she said and he laughed. She raked her fingers through the coarse hair on his chest, sobering. “I needed it, too.”

He studied her for a long moment. “I want to know why you didn’t want to want this.”

“And I’ll tell you.”

“Just not now?” She nodded, her eyes solemn. “Tonight?” he pressed and again she nodded wordlessly. “It’d be better if you could come to me, after Beth’s in bed. That way I don’t have to ask Lauren to watch her like I did tonight.”

“Somehow I didn’t get the impression that she’d mind,” Mia said wryly and his expression changed. He hadn’t told Lauren where he was going. His sister thought he’d been called to a fire. The realization stung a little. “You don’t want her to know.”

“Not yet.” He sat up and she rolled to her back. The night was officially over.

“Tomorrow,” she started. “Today, I mean. We’re colleagues. Nothing more.”

The look he sent her was level. “Nothing more.” Then he surprised her by leaning down and kissing her with a hunger that stole her breath. “Tonight, though, much more.”

He was buckling his belt when his cell phone rang. “-Solliday.” He got down on one knee to find his socks. “Was there a gas explosion?... Fine then. I’ll proceed to 2026 Chablis Court. Thanks, Larry. I should be there in -fifteen to twenty.”

“It’s way past midnight,” Mia observed and he threw a look over his shoulder.

“There was no gas explosion, so it’s probably not our guy. It’s an apartment fire, so they’ve called four companies to the scene—Larry’s is one of them.” He slipped his feet in his shoes. “There’s no reason for us both to lose sleep. I’ll check it out and call you. Can you give me a hand with the buttons on my shirt? It would be faster that way.”

She helped him, making quick work of the buttons. “I do hot dogs, too.”

He lifted one eyebrow and now she could admit that had turned her on from the beginning. “You are a very bad girl, Mia.”

“Mustard, Solliday.” She smacked his ass as he walked away. “Think
condi
ments.”

“Very bad girl.” He was almost to the front door when it struck her—
2026 Chablis.

“Reed, wait.”
She ran after him. “Did you say 2026 -Chablis Court, like the wine?”

He frowned. “Yeah, why?”

Her heart skipped a beat, visualizing the records check she’d run yesterday. “That’s Brooke Adler’s address.”

His expression went grim. “Meet me there,” he said. “Hurry.”

Thursday, November 30, 4:15 A.M.

The fire was contained to one apartment building, the end of a row of five. To the untrained eye it might seem chaotic but it was under control. People stood on the edge of the parking lot, huddled in small groups. Many were crying, child and adult alike. The apartment fire he’d worked last year came back and with it the horror for the victims.

And while every one of them was important, one victim was at the front of his mind. Reed found Larry Fletcher and immediately knew it was very bad. “What’s happened?”

“We were still en route when you called back, told us about the Adler woman.” Larry’s voice was flat. “The 186 was doing search and rescue in the building, but Mahoney and Hunter wanted to go in. Wanted to win this time. Chief of the 186 said it was my call, so I let them. Now I wish I’d said no.”

“They’re hurt?”

“Not physically. They pulled out Adler and her roommate. It was bad, Reed.”

Reed looked over his shoulder. Mia was turning in from the main road. “Alive?”

“One was DOA. The other’s on her way to County.”

Ten cruisers surrounded the perimeter, uniforms controlling the crowd and passing out blankets to the victims. “What about the cops who were first on the scene?”

Larry pointed to the cruiser farthest away. “Jergens and Petty.”

“Thanks.” He jogged over to the cruisers. “Solliday, OFI. Jergens and Petty?”

“I’m Jergens, this is Petty,” the officer on the left said. “We were first on the scene.”

Mia was walking toward him. Reed gestured for her to hurry and she closed the distance at a run while he took out his recorder. “This is Detective Mitchell.” He turned to her. “Two women pulled out of the fire, one dead, one en route to County.”