The Abduction of Mary Rose (22 page)

And then he spotted two of the fitness instructors from the centre, including the one called Charlotte, sitting at a corner table with two other girls. She might know where her friend was. In fact, he was almost certain she would know. They knew him from the centre, so it would be natural he'd go over and say hi. Maybe he'd ask Charlotte if she'd like to dance. He sauntered over to the table. Women were always wanting someone to dance with them.

He would have followed them from the gym today but someone might have noticed him leaving, and besides, they would have been long gone by the time he changed his clothes and got to his van.

"Hey, girls," he said, grinning down at them. He was wearing jeans, and a black shirt that showed off his physique. He felt confident.

They'd been deep in conversation when he approached. The girl with short, dark hair Blanche, he remembered suddenly, smiled up at him. "Hi, Mac." It pleased him that she remembered his name.

Charlotte echoed, "Hi, Mac." Asked him what he was doing here.

"Same as you girls," he said off-handedly. "Winding down after a rough day in the mines. Anyone up for a dance. Charlotte?"

The blonde at the table, wearing a pink sparkly top that showed off a generous cleavage, slid hard eyes over him.

"No, no thanks, Mac. I did two aerobic classes back to back. That's it for me. Just having a beer then heading on home. "Della, you like to dance." Charlotte picked up her glass of beer, exposing the wet ring on the table, and grinned at her friend before taking a swallow. He suddenly felt himself the butt of an unspoken joke.

The blonde was giving Charlotte a look that said 'I'll get you later', then with a sigh he perceived rather than heard, she pushed back her chair, gave him a horsey grin. He hadn't expected teeth as showy as her cleavage. "Sure, Mac, I'll give you a whirl around the floor."

The other two girls laughed, and Mac felt the heat crawl up his neck and face. As he guided the blonde to the middle of the floor, behind him, he heard the softly spoken words 'aging playboy'. Charlotte's voice.

It was Charlotte he'd wanted to dance with, an excuse to ask her a few questions, nothing more. She shouldn't flatter herself. He supposed he had no choice but to dance with the blonde. Leaving her standing in the middle of the floor would only draw attention to himself. He was still feeling the sting of humiliation at Charlotte's rejection. Their private joke that wasn't so private, followed by her spoken insult, shot his anger up a couple of notches.

Where was the other bitch?
he wondered again. He'd go back to her house later tonight. Maybe she'd be there then. He'd end this.

The blonde said something into his neck and for an instant he was surprised to find himself dancing with her. The music was so loud he couldn't make out her words, but not wanting to encourage further conversation, he managed some vague reply, a smile.

The dance ended none too soon, as far as Mac was concerned. He ordered a drink at the bar and finished it off almost before the blonde found her chair again. He hadn't bothered to walk her back to the table. He left shortly after, giving them a wave as he passed by their table. Damned if he'd let them think their opinion mattered to him, one way or the other. They stopped talking just long enough to wave back, an apathetic gesture, but he knew he barely registered with them. He was just the middle-aged guy who came to the gym. And apparently, who Charlotte thought of as an aging playboy. Horse-face had been doing him a favour by dancing with him. Bitches! Who in hell do they think they are? Bitches and whores, all of them. They didn't know who they were dealing with.

 
He'd worked himself into a mad fury by the time he reached his van. He got in and drove slowly around the parking lot until he found a parking place at the far end where he could see who came and went, but wouldn't be spotted. He'd been prepared to wait for however long it took, but less than a half hour later, the girls came out, hugged, and went to their separate cars. He watched Charlotte Bradley get into a silver Toyota and he followed her, keeping a safe distance behind the car.

Mac had no real plan thought out, but was just following instincts, wanting to hurt someone. Hurt them bad. He sat across the street from Charlotte Bradley's apartment building for more than an hour nursing the rage that coursed through him. His eyes remained riveted on the windows in the building from the moment she disappeared inside, and saw the light go on in an apartment on the second floor, and knew it was hers.

Every few minutes her silhouette would appear behind the blind as she walked past the window, and he fantasized about her, about taking her and letting her know he was much more than an aging playboy. He was her worse nightmare. He was still there, sitting in the darkened car, when she turned off the light.

When more time passed, he figured she was probably asleep. He pictured her in the bed, perhaps naked, trusting that she was safe. She was an athlete, a fitness trainer after all. She could take care of herself.

Two aerobic classes back to back, she had told him, so she wouldn't have to dance with him. Brushed him off on the blonde like he was a joke, a laugh. But he needed to find out where Naomi Waters was. That was the important thing. I could make her tell me. Then take her. See the fear on her face, her eyes widen. She'd fight him; she was the type, but he would enjoy that. It excited him more when they fought him, gave him a bigger rush to gain control over them. He'd gag her, tie her to the bed. He smiled, picturing her in his mind. It pleased him knowing he could get into her apartment if he wanted to. There was no place he couldn't get into if he chose. He had the touch. He could do whatever he wanted to do.

His breathing rapid, his fists clenched and fire in his loins, he already envisioned himself halfway across the street. Until the saner voice spoke to him:
You can't go up there. You can't touch her. Not tonight anyway.

The cops would have him if he did that. She'd been with two of her friends from the club, and they'd seen him, talked to him. One of them had danced with him. They would tell the cops about that. Tell them he asked Charlotte to dance with him and she turned him down. They'd figure out that he did exactly what he did do sat in the parking lot and waited for her to leave, then followed her home.

He sat for a few more minutes, then let out a long breath and turned the key in the ignition. The van purred to life. He'd keep Charlotte Bradley on hold for the time being. Her time would come and be all the sweeter for the wait. But he needed satisfaction tonight. For the moment, his urges were under his control. But he was ravenous, and his hunger needed feeding. His rage demanded release.

Mac went hunting.

And he knew exactly where he would find his quarry.

Chapter Thirty-Four

It was past midnight when he drove back to the house on Elizabeth Avenue, slowed the van, but it was still in darkness. Her car still gone. From there he took off for downtown, squealing the tires only a little.

The girl was standing alone on the corners of Station and Harcourt, smoking a cigarette. She was young, eighteen, an addict who prostituted herself to support her drug habit. She was a natural blonde and still had a pretty face in spite of the hard life. The work was shriveling her soul, would have gotten to her face in a few more years. Or maybe she would have got herself together, cleaned up and lived a happier life. Unlikely, but possible. All things were possible if you were still breathing.

Her name was Marie Davis. She came from a broken home, had lived with a cousin and her husband when she was thirteen. One night the husband raped her, and her cousin threw her out when she told her what happened, and kept the rapist. So much for family.

Marie wore the requisite micro-mini and too-high heels to show off long, shapely legs. Her face was heavily made up, even though, according to one or two of the nicer johns, she didn't need it. When she saw the van slowing down, she dropped the cigarette she'd been smoking, and crushed it out under her shoe on the pavement, wiped the boredom from her face, and smiled. Thought how good it would be to get off her feet. These heels were killing her. And she was cold. Unfortunately, sweaters and leggings didn't do much for trade.

The van had stopped, was idling at the curb. She sauntered over to it, hoped this one would at least not be a fat disgusting slob who smelled bad. She was pleasantly relieved to see a very nice looking man smiling back at her from the driver's seat. His square, white teeth gleamed in the light from the dash.

"I could use a little company," he said. "How about you, gorgeous?"

"Sure. You uh, gotta pay."

"How much?"

She hesitated. Bit her pretty lower lip. "You're not a cop, are ya?"

He laughed. "Nah. I hate cops. I do body work. Like you." He grinned obscenely.

She got the joke but didn't smile. "Fifty." She said it timidly, almost a question, like she was trying it on for size, ready to lower her price if she needed to.

"I like a girl who knows her worth." He reached over and opened the passenger door. "Hop in."

She paused only briefly as visions of Ted Bundy passed through her mind. He'd been good-looking too. "You're not a serial killer or something, are you?"

He threw back his head and laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. She laughed too, realizing how silly she had sounded.

"How do I know you're not another Aileen Wuornos?" he said, after she got in.

Her blue eyes widened. "That woman that shot all those men that picked her up in their cars? Wow, she was somethin' else, eh?"

Though Marie sort of understood how you could hate men that much, she was careful not to say so. "They made a movie about her, Monster. I got the DVD. That actress, Charlize Theron, was really good."

She moved closer to him, relaxed now in the warmth of the van, not worried, even amused that he'd thought he might be in danger from her. She toed the stilettos off her aching feet.

He pulled away from the curb. "Yeah," he said. "She was. Very good."

"You don't need to worry about me, Mister."

He smiled without looking at her. "I know."

She heard the locks on the doors click. And there was the briefest moment when Marie felt the icy chill of foreboding creep inside her skin. And then, it went away.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Lisa wouldn't let Naomi leave without having breakfast first. Scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice. "I could get used to this," Naomi grinned, a forkful of fluffy scrambled egg midway to her mouth, and Lisa smiled at her.

The sun was streaming in the window, warming her face, throwing a warm path across the floor. She could stay here forever being fed and fussed over, forget all the dark stuff.

"You need to stay healthy," Lisa said, as she poured their coffee into stone mugs. "But I must say, you're looking much better this morning. Bright eyed and bushy-tailed. "

"I slept great. Thanks, Lisa."

"You're more than welcome. So is Molly. She slept great too. Didn't you, Molly?"

Molly was curled up on an oval of sun on the floor, and merely blinked in contentment.

"You've got a plan to catch him, don't you?"

Naomi smiled mysteriously. "I've got a plan. And you're psychic."

"You're not going to tell me, are you? Please be careful, honey."

"I will. I don't know how I can thank you, Lisa."

"No need. I love having you here. Molly too. And besides, it makes me feel like I'm making up a little for … my lack back then."