Gladyss of the Hunt (23 page)

I took a deep breath and unrolled my mat. This time, the pajama-clad elders had been conversing when I entered. I discreetly listened to their strange Engskrit chatter: “When he wished me a happy birthday, my
Buddhibuddheh
latched onto my
Anaditvam
with his own
Abhinivesa
. . .”

During a pause I asked one of the older women, “Do you think Kundalini can be used to combat injustice?”

“Absolutely,” the other woman spoke up. “After all, it was originated by the warrior class.”

“Is there anything I can do to develop this skill more quickly?”

“One is always one's own greatest hindrance,” one of the males said. I couldn't tell which.

“How do you mean?”

“The ego is always an obstacle,” said the Renunciate axiomatically. He had entered the room without me noticing.

It must've just been a meditation class, because the next sixty minutes were mainly taken up with mantras and hyper shallow breaths. Nevertheless, when we chanted our three final Oms, I was so exhausted and covered in sweat I just lay there trembling and twitching like a freshly hooked fish. The others thanked the Renunciate and left, but he remained seated as I finally peeled my mat off the floor.

“On one hand, I wish you could find peace with where you are instead of only focusing on where you want to be. On the other hand, it's so rare to see such enthusiasm from a weekend practitioner.”

“Thanks,” I said uncertainly.

“What you want is called
Shaktipat
—it's the transmission of power from one person to another.”

“You can pass along Kundalini?”

“Some say it can be transmitted in a breath, others say with a flower, but in your case Grinlik has offered his inspired services.”

“Is he a Sikh?”

“They all are. But he's also a swami, and from time to time he has performed Shaktipat.” A swami sounded to me like the equivalent of a captain in the yogi police, and a Shaktipat sounded like a good exorcism.

“Let's do it.”

“The thing you should know is that it is probably going to seem a little disappointing. It's not that dramatic, and it doesn't always take.”

“We can only try.”

“You'll be working alone with Grinlik. Are you comfortable with that?”

“Does Grinlik have any priors?”

He misunderstood. “Oh yes, he's done this many times.”

“Fine.”

The Renunciate stepped out and a moment later the oldest male yogi in the group, the great Grinlik, entered. He'd been in tonight's class; his tight turban looked like a brain tourniquet.

“So does this mean. . .”

“Shhh.”

Over the next twenty minutes or so, he instructed me to perform fire breaths—deep and intense inhalations—with my eyes closed. When I finally thought I was going to collapse, I felt his cool hand on my sweaty back. Slowly he pushed me back and forth, swaying me in my seated position, like a buoy, and directing me to take short shallow breaths. After about ten minutes, when I was about to pass out, he gently smacked me across the face.

I didn't feel any different.

“Try it again,” I whispered with my eyes still closed. “A little harder.”

After a long, suspenseful minute, I opened my eyes to discover I was all alone in the darkened room. When I rolled up my mat and
went out, I could hear the Renunciate talking with the others, but I didn't want to bother him. Either I had been Kundalinied or I hadn't.

I staggered home and opened my front door just as my phone rang.

“Hi,” Noel said. “I just wanted to say goodbye before leaving. I'm going to LA tomorrow.”

“I wish I could run off with you. I'm having a hell of a time here.”

“Why?”

I explained that another victim had just been found and her head had literally been twisted off.

“Yuck,” he said softly. “And yesterday you got assaulted by some guy.”

“That was nothing much. A veterinarian from Texas was just looking for a little human companionship.” I paused and added, “He went back to his hotel afterward and hung himself.”

“You know, I played a police captain in an episode of
Law and Order
who was suspected of abusing perps. It turned out my character was suffering from post-traumatic stress due to a shooting.”

“I never heard of a captain having to draw a weapon, except in movies. They're usually administrators.”

“I'm only saying it sounds like you might be suffering from it.”

I didn't answer. I was depressed enough that I thought his diagnosis might actually be right.

“I'm sending a car to pick you up,” he said.

I told him I'd come in on my own, but I couldn't stay long. I showered, put on a sexy dress, then touched on some make-up and perfume. I grabbed a cab to his apartment, which was at Seventy-sixth and Central Park West, ten blocks north of Miriam's mansion.

Noel greeted me at the door wearing a burgundy satin robe that revealed a chestful of curly black hair. He handed me a dirty martini and gave me a tour. It was one of those prewar luxury apartments with spacious rooms and unobstructed views to all four points of the compass. If I wasn't already drawn to him by his celebrated good looks, I could now worship him just for his place. It was the kind of apartment that middle-class characters in the movies live in.

When he led me out to his balcony, I looked westward over Jersey. He offered me a cigarette. Though I feared cancer, my greater concern right then was of possibly losing the romantic momentum, so I
snatched it. He lit it with the derringer cigarette lighter he had given me earlier. I must've left it at Miriam Williams house.

Soon we were seated on his divan. Without any prompting he started telling me how one time when he was a kid he had wound rubber bands around a cat's front paws.

“I really didn't mean to hurt it. I swear, it belonged to my neighbor. I was just teasing it, watching it trying to shake them off. Well next thing I knew the cat ran off. I don't know what I was thinking. I was a dumb kid. A few weeks later, my mother told me the neighbor's cat had to have its front paws amputated.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“Guilt,” he said. “To this day I feel awful about that poor kitty cat.”

If that was the worst thing he had done in his life, he was still better than most.

His voice grew fainter, as his touch became more substantial. His fingers stroked along my arm and shoulder. My heart fluttered as he kissed his way up my neck. When his sharp but delicate lips reached my jawline, he backed off. I remembered what Maggie had told me. He was hooked, but I still had to reel him in—and this was usually where I lost them. Before he could yawn or say it was late, I leaned forward and kissed him.

Just like I had practiced with Maggie, I pretended I was some he-man and he was a shy little schoolgirl I had just picked up. A moment later I had him backed up against the armrest and was darting my predatory tongue into his scared little mouth. The next moment, I grabbed his thick shock of hair and led his angular face down to my non-cleavage.

Taking the cue, he unbuttoned my shirt, popped open my bra and proceeded to lick and nibble my eraser tips. Then, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I pushed away all my instincts as I lowered my panties.

He gently pushed me back on his over-upholstered sofa, parted my legs and took charge. Unlike O'Ryan, he knew his way through the untamed forest. Gradually, I found myself rushing down a stream of licks. By the time I collapsed over the frothy falls, I had enjoyed my first orgasm ever administered by someone other than myself.

“My God!” I said, leaning down to kiss his slick face. It was hard
to believe: one of the hottest actors alive had just gotten me off.

Although I was nervous, I decided now was not the time to retreat, and reached down to reciprocate. He took out his cock and began to move his hips toward my exposed position.

“Why don't we just . . .”

I desperately wanted to lose my virginity, but I suddenly decided I didn't want it to be like this, a hit and run followed by him dashing off to LA. I delicately took his bowed flesh in hand and said, “Let's wait till you get back.”

“Oh,” Noel groaned, and in an amusingly agonized voice sang the opening lines of “Don't Leave Me This Way.”

I lowered myself and slowly tried to take him in my mouth, but found myself choking. I closed my eyes and heard the Renunciate's voice instructing me how to achieve self-control through breathing. As he rocked back and forth, I was able then to suppress my gag reflex and service him until, after several minutes, he reached liquid nirvana.

CHAPTER TWELVE

After our erratic, erotic episode of oral gratification and role swapping, Noel drove me home. In his car, I drifted in and out of sleep as he rambled on about being back in town in a couple days for the Rocmarni Fashion Show, at which time we could “finalize things.”

“Sure, great,” I said dreamily. As he kissed me, his car screeched to a halt. I wished him
bon voyage
on his flight and he sped away. I floated up the stairs to my apartment and jumped into bed, where I fought to get him out of my head.

Early the next morning my phone woke me up. I would've let the call go, but I knew it had to be Noel calling from LA to say he couldn't wait to be back in New York.

It was Bernie. He was with the rest of the squad at the latest crime scene. Victim number six was resting in pieces at the King's Court Hotel, a decent, upscale place on Forty-fifth and Eighth. This was on the outer rim of the killer's original hunting ground.

“How the hell did he pay for the place?”

“He didn't,” Bernie said. It turned out that the killer had again changed his MO. He managed to find an empty room after the maid had cleaned it and he took the vic there. Just an hour ago, a family from Wichita had opened the door and discovered the mutilated corpse.

“Should I meet you there?”

“We're just wrapping things up. Meet us back at the precinct.”

Showering, dressing, and grabbing a cab, I walked into the squad room just as they were returning from the scene.

“Big meeting in a half hour,” Bernie said before I could ask anything. “The captain and Chief of Detectives are going to be there. I'd appreciate everyone keeping quiet about my getting mugged.”

“‘Course.” He didn't even need to ask.

“Why is the chief coming here?” I asked.

“These murders have put our com stat rates through the roof,” Bernie said, referring to the weekly meetings, which the mayor is known to attend, where the top brass discuss crime levels throughout the city.

“I don't want to blame the victim,” Alex said, “but why the fuck would even the dumbest blonde hooker in Midtown go out with a john hours after the Police Commissioner issued a warning?”

“Prostituting isn't a career choice,” Annie said. “They're usually hooked and just trying to pay for their habit.”

“Whatever,” Bernie said.

“Did Raj trace where the photos were sent from?” Alex asked.

“A laundromat on West Thirty-eighth Street that sold five minutes of internet access for a buck. No surveillance cameras, and the attendant is an illegal who don't remember nothing.”

“He sent pictures again this time?” I asked. “To the Marilyn web site?”

“Oh right,” Bernie said. “Yeah.”

“So that brings us to six,” Annie said.

“Mary Lynn MacArthur, Denise Giantonni, Nelly Linquist, Jane Hansen, Tabetha Sayers”—Alex intoned the roll call of the dead—“and now . . .”

“We don't have the name of number six yet,” Annie said.

“This is getting ridiculous,” I said.

“Hey, this is nothing,” Bernie said. “Ten years ago, Bert and I did some of the post mortem investigation on the Joel the Ripper case. Rifkin killed three times as many, and no one even suspected there was a murderer at work. Hell, the moron only got caught when a state trooper smelled a decomposing corpse in the back of his pick-up.”

“This guy is deliberately doing it like this just to embarrass us,” Alex said.

“Yeah,” Annie added, “Why can't he just quietly dump the bodies in the river like everyone else, then we'll leave him alone.”

Instead of showing me the new jpegs, Bernie pointed to a pile of new paperwork he had saved for me. It swallowed up time until I realized
everyone else had vanished. They had gone to the big meeting without even telling me.

I sneaked into the big conference room and quietly took a seat next to Annie at the round table along with Bernie, Alex, our profiler Barry Gilbert, and a couple of suits I didn't know. They were all listening to a lieutenant I didn't recognize, who was saying the cost of this investigation had now topped a hundred thousand dollars. He started itemizing the number of man-hours that had already been spent on the case, in addition to all the lab work and other expenses.