Sleep Tight (33 page)

"At Gillian's house." She gave him the address and directions.

"I'll be there as soon as I can." He folded his phone and slipped it into the pocket of his black trench coat, retrieved his luggage from the carousel, and cut over to the car rental counter.

The heavy afternoon traffic hadn't yet hit. He was able to get on 35W without any trouble. He headed north, toward downtown Minneapolis, the U of M, and Dinkytown.

He had a problem with the one-way streets and ended up finding the address after two wrong turns.

Cars were parked in front of the house. The yard was surrounded by yellow crime-scene tape. Beyond the tape were clusters of people, reporters, video camera technicians, some just hanging around, taking in the sights.

The day was brilliantly sunny, about fifty degrees. When he stepped into the street, the crisp air was welcome after the stuffiness of the car. His stomach growled, but he ignored it as he edged through the mob of people, flashing his ID when necessary.

"Ooh, FBI," a black girl said, pausing between each letter and batting her eyes in mock admiration. She had a hundred-dollar braided hairdo and fifty-dollar, mile-long, curved red fingernails. "Lookie. FBI."

Her lack of respect didn't make him mad. Quite the contrary. He admired her don't-take-shit attitude. She would never be a victim.

"Excuse me, ladies." He squeezed past while they continued to check him out.

In the yard, a team of workers had established a string grid and were going over every square inch, raking and vacuuming the grass for anything that may have dropped from the kidnapper. Another officer was crouched on the ground, making a cast of a footprint.

Anthony found Mary inside. She was wearing jeans, a white shirt with untucked tails, and a gray sweater. Her hair hadn't been brushed, and she wasn't wearing any makeup. As soon as she saw him, she hurried over.

He grasped both her cold hands and rubbed them between his.

"Anthony—thank you so much for coming."

It was unsettling, seeing her in the role of the victim's family member. A battle was going on inside her between professional FBI agent and hurt, bewildered sister. The bewildered sister was winning. He wanted to put his arms around her. Instead, he released her hands and asked, "Have they found anything?"

"Fibers that they've taken to the lab. They were navy blue, like the others. Officers are going door to door, conducting interviews. A couple of witnesses identified a photo of Tate, saying they saw him hanging around on more than one occasion. They found some minute bits of mud on the carpet that they're sending to the University of Minnesota's agricultural campus to see if anyone there can determine where the mud came from."

"Fingerprints?"

"All over the place. They lifted one set that didn't match anybody we know of who's been here. Those are being fed to databases right now."

"What about the footprint outside?"

"Left by a work boot. They think it might belong to a man. Any man. Maybe our man. You know how that is. This house is next to a college campus. A lot of traffic goes through the yard."

"Where's your mom?"

"Home. Agents and police are there tapping the phone and setting up recording equipment in case he tries to call."

"He won't."

"I told them that, but we have to do something. They're also going to tap Gillian's phone."

Exhaustion was written on her pale, drawn face, and he asked, "When did you last eat?"

"I don't know. Yesterday, I guess. I haven't even thought about it."

"Let's go down the street and get something. You can fill me in at the same time."

"I don't think I even brushed my hair."

He smoothed out a couple of strands. "You look fine."

They were leaving when Ben came bursting in. "Is it true? Did he take Gillian?"

"Yes," Mary told him.

"Oh, man!" Ben put both hands to his head. "I can't believe it! I fucking can't believe it! This can't be happening! Shit! Oh, shit!"

"Calm down," Anthony told him.

"Calm down! How can you say that? How can you both stand there looking so ... so not busy? When you know as well as I do what is happening right now! She's being tortured! Her fucking eyes are being cut out! Do something! You have to do something!"

Mary's face turned ashen, and Anthony thought she might pass out. Before Ben could do any more damage, Anthony grabbed him roughly by the arm and steered him out the door, practically throwing him down the steps. "In your present mental state, you have no business being here," he said coldly. "You aren't helping anybody."

"Neither are you! How could this happen? You said the guy was in jail! You said everybody was safe. That Gillian was safe. Well, you were wrong! Wrong!"

"Hitchcock confessed," Anthony said. "He fit the profile. Evidence pointed to him."

"You people are supposed to know more than the rest of us!"

"You're overreacting."

"Overreacting? You're underreacting." He began to cry. "She's dead! You know it and I know it! She's already dead!" Sobbing, he turned and ran.

The door slammed, and Mary came to stand beside Anthony on the porch. "Should somebody go after him?" Her voice sounded tight, as if she might fall apart any second. He'd never seen Mary cry. He didn't want to.

In the distance, two blocks away, Ben was still running. "Let him go," Anthony said angrily. "Let him run himself into exhaustion."

"He was just saying what everybody else is thinking."

"Well, he's wrong." Anthony turned so he could see her face.
Don't cry. Please don't cry.
"About Gillian. You know that, don't you?"

Mary pressed trembling fingers to her mouth. Tears filled her eyes.

Anthony put his arms around her and pulled her close. He wanted to say they would find her, and when they did she would be okay. But that would be a foolish promise to make. Mary, more than anybody, knew things could get bad. Really bad.

He pressed his lips against her hair, against her head. She was almost his height, but she was so frail, so vulnerable. "Come on." With his arm around her, they walked down the sidewalk.

The cafe wasn't crowded, and Anthony ordered sandwiches for both of them. As they waited for their food to arrive, Mary composed herself enough to fill him in on what she knew.

"Gillian was able to talk him out of killing Holly," Anthony said. "Which means she has some influence and control over him."

"I know. I keep telling myself that."

When her food arrived, she grimaced. She wasn't sure if she could get any of it down, and even less sure she could keep it down.

"What we have working for us is Gillian," Anthony said. "She read the profile. She studied him. She knows him. She also knows who he wants her to be. She can be his ideal woman. She can be perfect for him. She's going into this armed with knowledge the other girls didn't have, and I think her chances of coming away are good."

"That's what I've been thinking, but I needed to hear you say it."

Anthony waited until she looked up and met his gaze. "You probably still see her as your little sister, but I saw a young, capable, smart woman who can stand up to this guy."

Mary nodded, her expression strained. Then she pulled out her phone and entered a speed-dial number. "Mom? Anthony's here with me. He has something to tell you." She handed the phone to him. "Tell her what you just told me."

Chapter 28

The whir of a shutter woke her.

The man in the ski mask loomed above her, a camera in his hand while the lamp beside the bed cast tepid light into the room. As she watched, he adjusted the aperture and took another shot. There was no flash—he must have been using fast film and a slow shutter speed.

Gillian's head throbbed. A rotten taste filled her mouth. She shifted her weight—and realized she was tied to the bed by her wrists. A second ago she'd been in the bathroom. . . . How had she gotten from there to here?

Confused, she looked down . . . and the feeling was one of total disconnection—like looking at someone else's body.

She was decked out in a pink shirtwaist dress with a flowered apron—the kind of apron she remembered old ladies wearing when she was little, the kind that crossed and tied in back. On her legs were thick black hose, on her feet a pair of clunky black shoes.

A sound escaped her—a sound she couldn't believe she'd made. It was a whimper, coming from deep in her chest.

He looked over the camera. From behind the ski mask, two cold eyes watched her. He was tall—probably over six feet. He wore a plaid shirt with tails that hung out. On his legs were brown canvas pants. The ski mask was gray with a red stripe—ratty, stretched out, and snagged.

He continued taking pictures, posing her, turning her in different directions.

Finally he untied her. "Put your hands like this." He demonstrated.

Her arms were asleep. She couldn't lift them.

He sighed and placed her hands on her hips, then stepped back and took a shot. Apparently finished for the time being, he put down the camera and asked, "Are you hungry?"

The thought of food made her stomach lurch, but she nodded. Anything to move to another scenario.

"Come into the kitchen." He motioned for her to follow.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, then sat and waited for the room to stop spinning. When it did, she got to her feet.

The shoes were too small. Her toes were crushed, but she managed to wobble to the kitchen, dropping into the chair he pulled out.

The table had been intimately set for two. Place mats and cloth napkins had been arrayed, along with a single tapered candle and a red rose. So that no one could see in, the windows had been covered with floral wallpaper.

In front of her was a bowl of tomato soup and a glass of milk. His setting was empty.

Slowly, she pulled her napkin to her lap, unfolding it. She reached for the spoon. Fingers still wooden, she accidentally dropped it on the floor, where it landed with a clatter. She flinched, afraid he would hit her.

So this is how it happens, she thought. It's easy.

Without conscious thought, she was already doing all she could to keep from making him angry, all she could to keep from being punished. In a few short hours, the person known as Gillian had vanished, replaced by someone who existed on an instinctual level.

He picked up the spoon and placed it next to her bowl. He reached for her, and she drew away. But he merely caught her arm and began rubbing it. His palms were as rough as sandpaper, those of someone who worked outside. She'd never felt Tate's hands, but she couldn't imagine that he'd done much physical labor in his life. He grabbed her other arm and did the same. "Better?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Good."

He sat down across from her. She picked up the spoon again, and this time didn't drop it.

The salty soup stung her lips and the inside of her mouth. She forced herself to swallow, forced herself to take another bite.

"My name is Mason."

What's that rattling sound? Like dice?

While he talked, he kept one hand buried deep in the pocket of his pants.

Dice. He has dice in his pocket. Dice that he kept nervously fiddling with as he watched her eat.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Was this a test? she wondered. Was she supposed to answer or keep quiet?

"You can speak."

She was at a disadvantage since she couldn't read his face, but he sounded pleased.

"I give you permission."

"Gillian." Her voice came out a rough croak. She cleared her throat and tried once more. "My name is Gillian."

"Gillian."

That rattling again.

"Mason and Gillian. I like that."

Wouldn't he already have known her name? Wouldn't he have heard it on the news? Yes, he was testing her to see if she told the truth.

Blythe must be out of her mind with worry. And Mary. What was Mary doing? She'd be pissed at her for getting herself into such a mess. What would Mary do if she were here? Gillian wondered. If she were sitting across the table from a killer?

"Eat some more," Mason demanded.

It was hard to think of him as someone with a name. The mask over his face made him seem inhuman.

While he watched, she ate a little more soup and drank some of the milk. The numb, thick-lipped feeling started coming over her once more. She was staring into her bowl, watching the tiny bubbles of orange oil gather at the edges, when he said something.

Hmm? She lifted her head. It was heavy. Her whole body was heavy, and she realized she'd been drugged again.

"Are you finished?"

She nodded, her eyelids weighted.

"Would you like to dance?"

She suddenly imagined him doing the twist in the middle of the kitchen. She started to giggle, but at the last moment was able to turn it into a hiccup.