Touching Evil (12 page)

"So she'll stick it out as long as she can bear it," Quentin said. "Deliberately opening herself up to pain and emotions none of us would choose to feel—if we had a choice. Fighting herself and her own instincts harder than she'll ever have to fight anyone or anything else."

"In other words, she's a loaded gun," John said.

"More like nitroglycerin in a paper cup."

John sighed. "But she can help us?"

Quentin nodded. "Oh, yeah, you were right about that. She can help us. She might even be able to help herself, by the time this is over. But the duration is apt to be ... painful for everyone concerned."

"I buried my sister a few months ago," John said steadily. "More painful than that?"

Quentin hesitated, traded a quick glance with Kendra, then said, "Could be, John. I know that's hard for you to believe, but the truth is that when new pain follows old pain, the weight of the whole tends to be a hell of a lot heavier than any individual wound."

Her eyes once again on the forensics file, Kendra said, "Four victims so far, and the rapist has left us virtually no hard evidence to consider. Nothing even remotely objective for us to concentrate on. That means our investigation is going to have to focus on the people involved. Victims, their backgrounds, friends and families. People in pain, all around us. Frightened, angry, grieving, hurting people."

John looked from one to the other of them with a frown. "Are you two trying to persuade me to leave Maggie out of this?"

"We never attempt the impossible," Quentin said.

"Almost never," Kendra corrected.

Quentin considered that, then shrugged and said to
John, "Anyway, what we're trying to do is warn you that things are likely to get a lot worse before they get better, even for you."

"How could things get worse?"

Wincing, Quentin replied, "Never, never ask that question. Things can always get worse—and usually do. We've got a vicious madman roaming around out there, and he hasn't exactly left us a trail of bread crumbs to follow in order to stop him. We have four victims so far and no sign whatsoever that there won't be more. We don't know how he's choosing said victims, who appear to have virtually nothing in common except that they're female and white—which gives us about half the population of a major city to worry about. We have a police lieutenant with political aspirations in charge of a police department that seems to have just about reached the limits of its resources. We have a frightened city, an increasingly militant press— and we have to walk on eggshells while trying to investigate this because we're not supposed to be involved."

Quentin drew a breath, traded another glance with Kendra, then finished, "How could things get worse? Jesus, John—how could they not?"

"All right, point taken."

Quentin didn't press it. "When Kendra finishes our database, we'll run a comparison with everything the Bureau has on unsolved aggravated rape cases; even though most such seemingly isolated crimes aren't technically FBI territory, we've begun in recent years keeping track of as many as possible simply because sexual predators tend to grow more and more violent the longer they remain at large. And they usually have a history—if we can find it and track it."

"What do you mean?"

"He's been active here in Seattle for about six months, as near as the police can estimate. But his ritual is too well-established for him to be that new at it."

"I thought you weren't a profiler."

"I'm not the best at it. But I work with a few of the best, and I've picked up a thing or two. Kendra agrees with me on this. Our guy is no rookie."

"So he's been . . . active . . . somewhere else?"

"Probably."

"Wouldn't the police have checked for that?"

Quentin nodded. "Sure. According to the reports, they did. But in checking NCIC and VICAP and various other sources, it looks like they only listed the most obvious similarities between these attacks: that he blinds and maims his victims, never speaks to them, dumps them somewhere else in a fairly isolated place when he's finished with them. Not nearly enough specifics and similarities to provide for a thorough search of all the available files, in our experience."

"What other similarities are there?"

It was Kendra who replied. "He goes to extraordinary lengths to make certain these women can never identify him, yet it's clear he watches them for at least a period of time before he grabs them. He has very specific reasons for taking the women he takes, and it has nothing to do with how easily he can get his hands on them. He's varied his methods of blinding, becoming arguably more adept and skilled at it, which indicates it's a fairly recent part of his ritual. He may well have begun by simply blindfolding his victims or knocking them unconscious before raping them: a possibility that must be noted. The fact that he blinds
them now could be a natural evolution and escalation of his ritual—or it could be because at least one victim in his past saw him and was able to identify him."

After a moment, John said, "You mean this bastard might have been caught at some point? Jailed?"

"Possibly."

"And—what? Escaped?"

"Maybe. Or maybe served his time. I'm estimating he's between thirty and forty now, so he certainly could have served time in prison at some point."

"Do you believe he did?"

Kendra paused in her typing long enough to turn to a new page in the report she was studying, then replied, "No, somehow I don't think he's seen the inside of a jail. I think he moves around, changing location after some specific period of time or specific event or point of transition in his ritual."

"So," Quentin said, "we'll run all the information— and educated guesswork and skilled speculation—we can muster and compare it to the Bureau files drawn from police departments all over the country. If we're very lucky, we just might find enough to be able to build a history on this bastard. And with a history we can study, there's a better chance of figuring him out, of knowing where and how to look for him."

Kendra said, "Once the database is set up, it'll probably take a day or two to run the comparison, at least with the information we've got, and that may only give us a long list of possibles we'll have to narrow down."

John looked at Quentin. "How does she do that? Type and talk at the same time?"

"Her uniquely flexible mind," Quentin murmured.

"It's a little scary," John noted.

"Yeah. I think she does it just to unnerve me." Kendra smiled but didn't look up from the file. "It would also probably be wise to check in with the police and find out if they have anything new."

"That's why I asked Maggie to meet me at the station," John said. "Not that I expect them to have anything new, but Andy would sure as hell start to wonder if I didn't keep turning up there to ask every day or two." He was looking at Kendra, but when she stopped typing suddenly and looked at Quentin, he followed her gaze and felt an odd little chill.

Quentin didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular, except perhaps something only he could see. His eyes were unfocused yet curiously fixed, unblinking, and he was very, very still.

"Quentin?" Kendra's voice was quiet. "What is it?" He didn't answer immediately; it was a full minute of silence before he stirred and looked at them, saw them. His expression hadn't changed, but there was something bleak in the depths of his eyes. Slowly, he said, "The police will have something new, John. Any minute now."

Hollis knew that Maggie was relaxed; she could hear that in the other woman's casual tone. It was an interesting voice, oddly compelling for something so soft and pleasant, and as deceptively benign as the surface calm of a deep pool. But what lay beneath the surface? Something always did.

"We can talk about anything you like," she was saying. "Just like when I came back yesterday. Pick a topic. The weather, sports—cabbages and kings."

Hollis smiled. "My favorite quote was always the one about believing six impossible things before breakfast. That always seemed like a good attitude to have."

"I know what you mean. The way the world is these days, it's almost incomprehensible how anyone could have a closed mind. It seems like most every day there's a story in the news about one of our certainties being turned on its ear."

"Maybe that's what it means to be human," Hollis offered. "Forever questioning our certainties."

"Maybe," Maggie agreed. "It's as good a definition as any other, I guess." She paused, then said, "Only a few more days until the bandages come off. How do you feel about that?"

"You sound like the hospital shrink," Hollis noted, neatly avoiding an answer.

"Sorry. Occupational hazard, I suppose; I spend so much time asking people how they feel about one thing or another. But I am curious. If the operation was successful and you can see again, do you think that will help you to get past this and move on with your life?"

Hollis didn't really want to answer but heard herself answering anyway. "In some ways, sure. If I can see, he won't have . . . destroyed everything. I'd still have my art, and still in the same way, so that'd probably help. Give me something to concentrate on."

"But your art is going to be different no matter what," Maggie said. "Nobody experiences violence without coming out of it fundamentally changed."

"You mean the dreams?" Hollis asked the question jerkily.

"Yes." Maggie's voice remained quiet, easy, as if nothing she said was at all unusual. "Your dreams have become more violent and far more vivid, with nightmares common. You wake up often in the night, suddenly, even without nightmares. Most of your senses have become sharper, and you'll be quicker to react to them. And it'll be a long time—if ever—before you feel completely safe again."

"You're more blunt about it than the shrink was."

"I don't see any reason to soft-pedal it. You're an intelligent woman, and you've had plenty of time to think these last weeks. To wonder. To ask yourself what is and will be different now. Your art will be. I don't have to know what you drew or painted before to be certain of that."

"Yeah, I know." Hollis gripped the arms of the chair, her fingers clenching and unclenching restlessly. "But how will it be different?"

"There's no way to be sure until you find out for yourself. I'd guess that if you paint you'll discover a tendency toward starker images, more vivid colors. You may choose subjects you avoided before, or even fixate on one or two images to the exclusion of most others."

"Images like the scalpel he used to take my eyes?"

"Maybe. Or some other image that represents violence or loss to you. It might have no connection at all to what happened to you—at least to all appearances. But it will be connected. And you'll know how or will have to figure it out. The images won't leave you alone until you deal with them." Maggie's voice remained matter-of-fact but was not without compassion or understanding.

Hollis drew a shaky breath. "My mind was always preoccupied with images before this. But how will
there be images, visible images, from this? What happened to me was all ... darkness. I never saw anything at all."

"Your other senses will fill in the blanks. What you heard and felt, what you smelled, what you touched and what touched you."

"Evil touched me. How will I paint that?" "I don't know. But you'll know. Eventually, you'll know. And you'll have to paint it or somehow give it form. That's what artists do."

"Is that what you do? Give evil form?" "I ... suppose I do. Or at least try to give it a face." Hollis half laughed under her breath. "You know what's most ironic about all this? I came out here for a whole new start. I inherited enough money to be able to quit my crass commercial-art job and spend a few years finding out if I had enough talent to be a real artist. And I'd barely got my studio set up when this happened. Fate just loves to kick us in the ass."

"Yeah, I've noticed." Maggie paused, then added, "I suppose it's useless to ask you if you remember anybody watching you before the attack. Following you." "I don't remember anything out of the ordinary. So if he was watching me, I never saw him. Which is a very, very creepy thought. Why did he—do you know why he picked me?"

"The police haven't found a helpful common denominator among the victims. Different physical appearances, different jobs and lifestyles, a fairly wide range of ages—though he does seem to lean toward women in their twenties. It was probably nothing you did, Hollis, and it certainly wasn't your fault. You just fit whatever requirements he's put together in his twisted mind."

"Do you think . . . he'll do it again? Attack another woman?"

"Yes."

The immediate, calm answer made Hollis hesitate, but only for a moment. "Until he's stopped. Yes, of course. But why? Why is he doing this?"

It was Maggie's turn to hesitate, but then she replied slowly. "I'm sure a psychologist or profiler could develop all sorts of motivations. And I'm sure they'd be right. There are always reasons, at least explainable—if not understandable. Even for monsters."

"But there's only one real reason, isn't there? One real motivation behind his acts?"