F Paul Wilson - Secret History 02 (48 page)

           
He gathered up his photos. The guy
was guilty. Rob could smell it. A grim, cold determination crowded out the
anger that had built up during their exchange. He was going to nail Gates, or
lose his badge trying. He headed for the door.

           
"Be seeing you."

 
 

           
At
last! The punishment is over!

           
This
was by far the worst ever. So weak I can barely write. Not physically weak, but
weak in the spirit, in the mind. This time he brought me to the precipice of
madness. I know my grip on sanity has been tenuous at best, but this time
nearly undid me. A few hours more of his torture and I fear I'd have been
irretrievably mad.

           
And
I failed! That's the worst part. Got my warning to her but she didn't heed it!
Maybe the little fool deserves what's happening to her! Maybe
—

           
No.
That's unfair. It's too much to ask anyone to believe something so far beyond
her own capabilities, something without precedent in her own experience or
knowledge, something that should be impossible.

           
But
perhaps I haven't failed completely. He's disturbed about something.
Something's gone wrong. Don't know what it is, but he's upset. Detect ripples
on the customarily serene surface of his sublime indifference to the world. His
supreme confidence in his ability to deal easily with whatever the lesser mortals
around him might do appears to have been challenged.

           
Am
I responsible for that? I pray so.

           
Also
sense that tonight he will answer that challenge. I hope his opponent is
mentally agile. A survivor.

           
I'll
be cheering for him. I hope the opponent kills the swine! Or maybe I'll get the
chance. If I can, I'll do it. I know I can do it now!

           
I
won't be punished again!

 
 

           
Gates was playing it cool. He came
out of his townhouse and didn't even glance around. Walked up to Seventh and
down to his office, just like every other night since Rob had been watching
him.

           
Which made Rob a little uneasy.
Gates was going to pull a stunt tonight. He could smell it in the air. When and
how were both up to Gates, which put Rob at a disadvantage. He had to be ready
for anything.

           
Rob parked on Seventh and settled in
for his watch. He locked his car doors and checked to make sure the safety
strap on his holster was undone.

           
You enter her mind so easily now,
like sliding down a smooth, lubricated chute into a warm spring. You settle
into a familiar groove within that warmth. It fits you perfectly. But of
course, it should. It's custom made to your personal specifications. You lock
her consciousness into sleep and take over.

           
There's an instant of shock when you
open her eyes. You're not in Kelly's apartment. You turn on the light. It's a
small room, tastefully and expensively furnished. Is Kara staying over at the
Aunt's she talked about? That would seem to be the case.

           
Well, that should present just a
minor difficulty. If everyone in the apartment is asleep, you can slip out and
be on your way.

           
You're going to miss this body. It's
the best you've ever had. Not that you're going to harm it in any way. That
would be a sin. But what you've got planned for it tonight will take it out of
circulation indefinitely.

           
For you've decided how to take care
of the impudent Detective Harris. A suitably ignominious end. Not only will he be
stabbed in exactly the same manner as the man whose murder he is investigating,
but it will be by the very same hand—the hand of the woman he seems to care so
much about.

           
The irony of it appeals to you. And
as he's dying you will tell him in the voice of his lover who you really are,
and what you can do, and why it is impossible to follow you when you do not
wish to be followed.

           
And then you will laugh in his face.

           
After that, Kara Wade will
undoubtedly be tried for murder. She may get off on an insanity plea, and you
will gladly testify on her behalf about her multiple personality disorder, but
even so, she will be institutionalized. She will not be free to come and go as
you wish. However, you might look in on her from time to time to see if there
are any interesting sexual experiences to be had in a maximum security
institution.

           
You throw on some clothes and glide
to the door. If the apartment is dark and quiet you'll slip to the kitchen for
a knife then out into the city. You turn the handle and pull.

           
The door won't budge. You rattle it—not
too loudly—and pull again. It's locked. You look and see that it's one of those
old fashioned doors with a keyhole and a lock bolt. And the key's not there.

           
It's got to be somewhere. You turn
the room upside down but you can't find it.

           
Has Kara had herself locked in her
room for the night? You wouldn't put it past her. It's an ancient, simple, and
effective solution. And it has you stumped.

           
You're tempted to punish her body,
damage it, even disfigure it as you abandon her, just to show her who's boss.
But that will interfere with your plans. You need her in good condition. If you
stay away for a few days, she'll let down her guard. And then you'll make your
move.

           
But now it's time to return to
Chelsea where Detective Harris is watching. You don't need your special ability
to outwit a cretin like Harris. There are other ways short of killing him to
demonstrate that he is no match for a mind of your caliber. This might be an
even better way to prepare him for his end. Humiliate him first. Confound him.
Lose him when he tries to follow you. Night after night, demonstrate his
impotence against you.

           
And when he's completely
demoralized,
then
you drive the knife
home with Kara's hand.

           
This will be fun. You can start
tonight.

           
You neaten up the room, turn off the
lights. You hurry back to bed and leave Kara Wade's body in sleep.

           
Rob raced down Twenty-first Street.
He sighed with relief when he saw Gates walking up the steps to his front door.
The doctor had left his office unusually early tonight and Rob had been afraid
he had something sneaky planned. If he did, he would have pulled it during
Rob's end run with the car. But there he was. Home sweet home.

           
Was this it for the night? Rob
didn't trust Gates enough to think so. He'd give him another couple of hours
before quitting.

           
He got the car settled into its
customary spot by the fire hydrant and zipped up the battered, fleece-lined
leather bomber jacket to ward off the cold. He was just lighting a cigarette
when he saw Gates bounce down his front steps and head back toward Seventh
again.

           
Maybe he'd left something at the
office. Rob started up the car. He wasn't going to let Gates out of his sight
this time. He didn't wait for him to get to the end of the block but pulled out
and crept the car along behind him. No need for subtlety anymore. Each knew
where the other stood.

           
At the corner, Gates suddenly turned
right instead of left. He began hurrying
up
Seventh Avenue. And the traffic ran downtown only.

           
Here
we go!

           
Rob found another hydrant on the
corner and pulled in next to it. He jumped out and sprinted after Gates.

           
The doctor had a half-block lead. At
the corner of Seventh and Twenty-second he got into the rear of a waiting cab.
It lurched away, heading east on Twenty-second.

           
Rob grinned. That sly bastard! Must
have called from his home and had a radio cab waiting for him! Rob paused long
enough to get the cab's number off the roof light, then he searched Seventh
Avenue for a cab of his own. None in sight. He kept running, past Twenty-second
on to Twenty-third which was a two-way. Better chance to find a cab there.

           
He did. He flagged it down and
flashed his shield as he leaped inside.

           
"Police. Put on your 'Not in
Service' sign and move it up to Sixth! Fast!"

           
The driver was dark, his voice
thickly accented.

           
"Begging your—"

           
"You'll get paid.
Move it
!"

           
The driver moved it. The card on the
visor said his name was Achmed Moustaffah. Rob didn't care if he was Colonel
Qadaffi as long as he could handle his rig and knew the streets.

           
The light was green ahead at Sixth.
Rob directed Achmed to the curb at the corner. Now the hard part. Was Gates
continuing east or turning uptown? When the red came, he watched. He'd give the
other cab twenty seconds to—

           
Suddenly a radio cab went by on
Sixth, heading uptown.

           
"See that cab?" Rob said.
"Forget the light and follow it."

           
Achmed turned to him and grinned.

           
"Really? This is true what you
say? 'Follow that cab?' Four years I have driven and so many movies have seen
and have prayed that someone would say this to me! You are making me so
happy!"

           
"If you don't shut up and start
driving, we'll lose him!"

           
With a screech of balding tires,
Achmed wheeled through the red light onto Sixth.

           
"Have no fear! We shall not be
losing him!"

           
Rob slid over on the back seat until
he was behind Achmed. He crouched down and watched Gates' cab ahead through the
space between the driver and the window post.

           
The smart way to do this, of course,
would have been to have a back-up ready. But Gates was not officially a
suspect, so there was no back-up to be had. And even if there were, Rob
wouldn't have used it. This was between him and Gates. Anybody else would get
in the way.

           
Okay,
Doc. You've made your move. Let's see where it takes us.

           
You look through the rear window of
the cab and see no one following. A delivery truck, an off-duty cab. Easy to
spot a tail at this hour of the morning.

           
You face front and settle back in
the lumpy seat. You're disappointed. That was too easy. You almost wish for a
decent challenge. This is like beating a street urchin at chess.

           
Well, no sense in following through
with the rest of the route you had planned. No need for it now. You've achieved
checkmate on the first move.

           
You tell the driver to let you off
at the Plaza. He drops you on the Central Park Side. You walk in the bar
entrance, past the stairway down to Trader Vic's, and into the Oak Bar with its
dark paneling, the ornate white ceiling, the tiny lamps in sconces on the walls
and pillars. You notice the sign. "Occupancy by more than 240 persons is
dangerous and unlawful." You can't imagine sharing this room with 239
people.

           
You take a table by the window where
you can see the park, and order a snifter of Remy Martin. You swirl it in the
glass and inhale the vapors as the liquid warms, savoring the irony of sitting
completely unnoticed in a place where only weeks ago, in a different body, you
were notorious.

           
You are about to drain your snifter
when the waiter sets another on your table.

           
"I didn't order this," you
say.

           
The waiter smiles and nods his head
toward the other end of the room.

           
"Compliments of the gentlemen
at the bar, sir."

           
Startled, you scan the bar. Your
eyes freeze on a man in a brown leather jacket standing with his foot resting
casually on the brass rail. He smiles and hoists a glass of beer in your
direction.

           
Harris!

           
The insolent pup! How did he find
you? You were certain you left him gawking on that street corner back in
Chelsea.

           
Well, never mind that now. He was
lucky this time. And you did want a challenge tonight, didn't you?

           
Time for the second phase of your plan
to elude him.

           
You leave enough money for the drink
and a tip, then you exit the bar and rush through the small lobby toward the
main entrance, the one by the fountain, facing Fifth Avenue. You turn left
toward Central Park South. As soon as there's a break in the traffic, you hurry
across the street toward the Park.