Forever Mine (19 page)

“I’d like some tea.”

“Sure. Tea. Something hot…ah… sounds good.” His wary expression and tone seemed to indicate his uncertainty as to the brew’s soothing effects. He spread his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “I guess I could make some for you. Just tell me how.”

Allie’s tension lessened a bit under Sutter’s unexpected consideration. Although she could easily prepare the tea herself, she decided to let him have the duty.

“Making tea is the easiest thing anyone can do in a kitchen,” she said.

She wondered if he knew how to cook. He’d never asked permission to prepare anything in the oven or on the stove. He’d either brought a calorie-laced sandwich of the Subway variety or something from Colonel Sanders, which he ate cold. Maybe, since he was an invited guest, he’d looked upon messing up her kitchen as an intrusion.

“You just heat a mug of water in the microwave. Two minutes.” She snapped her fingers.

“Right, a mug.” His eyes did a quick search of the counters.

“You’ll find them in the cabinet above the sink. The tea bags are in the canister labeled
Tea
.”

“Gotcha.”

He seemed familiar with a microwave and easily went through the step of heating the water. The microwave dinged, and he set the steaming mug on the table without scald his hand as she sometimes did when she hurried. He handed over the tea bag.

“Do you take sugar or something in it?”

“Honey, please. It’s in the food cabinet.” She pointed to one adjacent to the sink. “And a saucer for the teabag, please.”

A sense of gratitude filled her, and she was glad he’d coaxed her into waiting upstairs with him. The kitchen had originally served as a bedroom when the house had been built decades ago. It had been her bedroom, too, when she’d lived with her grandmother. As kitchens went, it wasn’t very large but always seemed so cozy and welcoming. She’d had always felt safe here. Evil roamed the dark streets of the world and preyed on the innocent, but it had never entered her life. Until now.

Ben set a plastic Smokey-the-Bear-shaped bottle of honey and a saucer in front of her.

“Would you hand me a spoon, please? They’re in the drawer.”

“Yeah, I know where they are.” He fetched the utensil and handed it to her. Then he grabbed a glass, poured a Coke for himself and sat down in the opposite chair.

Allie went about the simple motions of steeping the tea. She let the bag sit in the hot water for a bit then removed it and stirred in a teaspoon of honey. The familiar activity, along with the pleasant aroma of peppermint mingled with the rising steam, brought a tiny measure of peace. She wrapped both hands around the mug, relishing the warmth, and sipped slowly.

The tea helped her relax, which came as a surprise, considering a monster was on the loose and headed to her door. Over the years, she’d read newspaper articles about serial killers but had only a vague concept of how most went about committing their crimes. She had even less of an idea about what motivated them to take a life. She set the mug down but kept her hands around the smooth porcelain.

Was it morbid to want to learn more about them? As a potential victim, she didn’t think so. Did serial killers stalk their prey or did they snatch people off the streets? Were their victims strangers or people familiar to them? It seemed ghoulish to even wonder, but she couldn’t stop wondering. Maybe she shouldn’t hold back. Maybe she should ask Ben. As the saying went, forewarned was forearmed.

She sipped from her mug again and savored the tea’s sweetness and minty flavor. Ben had chosen the blend, one of her favorites, at random. The few times they found themselves together in the kitchen, she doubted he’d noticed of her tea choices. Now, the relaxed posture he adopted seemed to indicate he was less stressed than earlier, so maybe he’d be more open to her questions.

“Ben, tell me what you know about serial killers. Have you ever run up against one before?”

He frowned. “Do you really want to get into all that?”

She sank down a little lower in her chair, pressed deeper into the tufted seat cushion. “I can’t help being curious. From my point of view, and, considering what’s happened over the past ten days, it seems only natural to want to know what I’m facing. Don’t tell me you’d feel any different if you were in my place.”

“No, I can’t argue that.” He took a long swallow of Coke then set the drink on the table. For a moment, he drummed his fingertips against one side of the glass, and she thought he’d dropped the subject. Then he leaned back and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his slacks. “No, I never had any involvement with a serial killer before. The closest I ever came was a criminal justice course at State that touched on a general profile and what motivates some of them.”

She kept her gaze on his face. Brows raised, she canted her head at a slight angle, signaling she waited for him to continue.

A pensive expression settled on his features, and he took a few moments seemingly to organize his thoughts. Finally, he said, “People who kill repeatedly, often have some commonality but not in every aspect. Sometimes, the victim’s race is a factor, or age, or it could be something as simple as hair color or body configuration. Studies indicate most serial killers are white males.”

She found even so small a bit of information disturbing but felt compelled to continue the discussion. “Like Dave.”

“Yeah. Usually, they’re the product of unstable families, who often leave behind a long trail of criminal behavior. More than likely, psychiatric and alcohol problems go hand-in-hand with their breaking the law. As kids, they’re usually cruel. Most often, they abuse animals.”

Allie bit down on the outside edge of her bottom lip. It was frightening to think such monsters roamed free. In the police sketch, Dave could have passed for a guy who lived down the street. Nothing in his face, and possibly his bearing, would have earmarked him as someone to fear. Mr. Everyman blessed with better than average looks. She remembered seeing a magazine picture once of Ted Bundy. He, too, was handsome and probably had found it easy to attract women. Like Dave. If one of Bundy’s victims hadn’t escaped, he might still be prowling and hunting women.

“If these men are never caught, do you think they continue to kill as they grow old?” she asked.

Ben leaned back in his chair, interlocked his fingers and made a pyramid with his thumbs. “It’s possible. I can’t quote statistics to prove whether or not they ever taper off. It seems reasonable to guess some must reach old age and die without anyone uncovering their crimes. They don’t always kill in the same city or state, so it’s sometimes hard to connect them with previous criminal acts. What I did learn in my class about serial killers is, according to many studies, they are generally young men. Not to say it’s beyond the scope for a woman to fit the pattern.”

“What do you remember the Seattle cops telling you about Dave?”

“There’s not much more to tell. He was born in Seattle and maintained an address there until two months ago. Maybe he was also couch-surfing at the time. Who knows? His last employment was with an Internet gambling site,
Double Down
. He worked there for a year. Nothing else turned up for the past six months. He has no current driver’s license, which is probably why he was driving the car of a murdered woman up in Seattle. It’s what brought him to our attention and the reason for the stakeout. He’d never run afoul of the law until recently. There’s no record of any marriages or divorces up north either.”

“He’s stayed pretty anonymous, hasn’t he?”

“The way he operates, he more or less has to.”

Allie sipped her tea, but kept her eyes on Ben. The last time she sat across her table from a young man, it was with a guy Michaela had introduced her to well over a year before. Allie had lost interest by the third date. On that occasion, they’d sipped white wine and talked about inconsequential things. Actually, she’d done most of the talking. Although he was reasonably good looking and well educated, she’d found he lacked excitement, which was something she could never accuse Ben of. Electricity surged from him and seemed to wrap itself around her. There was a kind of intensity in the way he spoke, in the way he moved, that excited her. And then there was the dimple, which pressed into his right cheek so often when he smiled or frowned.

He turned his eyes to hers and—zap. The intensity streaked straight across the table at her.

Chapter Twenty-One

Allie blinked and took a few moments to collect her thoughts to steer them away from Ben. She swallowed another sip of tea. The liquid had cooled but still retained some of its aromatic essence.

Her mind latched onto a question she’d meant to ask Ben earlier. One she knew would lead to other questions. Was she prepared for the answers? Would they simply satisfy her curiosity or would she open herself up to knowledge so dark that, once it touched her life, would bring only foreboding. She weighed the two sides and concluded her need to understand what spurred men like Dave to kill multiple times superseded simple curiosity.

“What do you suppose set those men on the path of serial murder?” she asked. “Certainly every child, who comes from a dysfunctional family or who suffers abuse of one kind or another, doesn’t become a killer.”

“No, and we can be thankful for it. Many factors shed light on why they kill over and over. These men are often abandoned by their fathers. It’s not unusual for them to be emotionally, physically or sexually abused. There are several other theories why they kill. Gratification is one. According to the FBI, they’re motivated by anger, are thrill seekers or have a way-off-the-charts need for attention. Money sometimes plays a part. At times, but not often, two will work in tandem.”

She thought about what he’d said for a moment. “You think Jimmy is involved in the murders of those women?”

Ben’s eyebrows rose in an anything’s possible gesture. “I don’t know him. You do. What do you think?”

Allie paused, had no ready answer. Jimmy always struck her as unmotivated, an undisciplined kid who roamed around without purpose. Not someone with a compulsion to kill another human being. She shook her head. “I don’t see it.”

“Let’s hope his only connection to Dave is as a traveling companion. One sociopath on the loose is more than enough.”

“I suppose those men could be looked upon as victims themselves. Are they so warped by their environment that they’re incapable of making good choices, of triumphing above their misfortunes?”

What, she wondered, had set Dave upon his path of murder? When had he decided to kill? Who had he chosen as his victims, and why those particular women?

She laced her fingers tightly around her mug. The crockery no longer offered the comforting warmth it had earlier. She wanted to reheat the tea in the microwave but sat frozen as if caught in Dave’s unyielding, malicious web.

“Nature or nurture,” he mused. “The age-old question still waiting to be answered. “I wish I could, but…” He shrugged.

Still, she suspected he knew a lot more than he was willing to tell her. At least tonight, he hadn’t completely shied away from her probing. It gave her the impetus to continue.

“How do they pick their prey? Do they already know the people they choose? Or do they act randomly?” She shivered, recalling the image of Dave as he’d appeared in the sketch Lt. Chase had provided. Had he had some prior acquaintance with his victims or had he reached out on impulse and snatched some poor unsuspecting person off the street? She wrapped her arms about her body and pushed aside the apprehension, which followed in the path of such dark thoughts.

Ben rose and walked over to the refrigerator. He pulled out another can of Coke and yanked the tab. Not bothering with the glass, he took a swig and leaned back against the kitchen counter.

“Look, there’s nothing to gain by us trying to psychoanalyze who fits the profile and why or who they kill. Drawing conclusions is for the experts, who spend years trying to figure out what motivates these psychopaths. And they are psychos. But they don’t walk around with horns or a third eye blinking on their foreheads. Some of these guys are professionals, have no criminal records and are considered pillars of their community. If they never slip up…”

He went over to the window and stared down into the dark garden. Without turning around, he said, “You should reconsider staying in the house. Or, at least, I should exercise my authority and force you to leave. For your own safety.”

“Are you saying you can’t protect me?” Her eyes bored into his back, the challenge there if only he could see it. If he knew anything, he must know her fierce objection to further disruptions in her life.

He swung toward her. “No, damn it, don’t twist what I meant to say. You’re putting yourself in harm’s way. By doing so, you’re making my job even harder.”

“I never meant to be difficult.”

She glanced down then back up at him, guilt spreading through her. She’d never considered herself much of a risk taker. Before she’d quit her job working for Eleanor, she’d made sure she could support herself by designing and selling her bridal creations. Yet, entering the competition had brought some serious risks, of which she was well aware. By closing her business for the past two months, she’d probably lost clients, who she might never regain. She’d gambled on her ability to set a course that would steer her down a life-changing career path. She didn’t expect her name to have world-wide recognition any time soon. She just wanted to make beautiful clothes. Giving up was not an option.

He shook his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound off on you like you were the one who’d broken the law. There’s no sense arguing about something you’re unwilling to change.”

“I won’t hide and risk everything I’ve worked so hard for. And certainly not before the semi-finals. After they conclude, I’d be open to relocating but only for a week, maybe two. If I advance to the finals, I could use the time to sketch designs and think about fabric. But everything else I’d need is here in the house.”