John Lutz Bundle (187 page)

He was reading where he’d left off on the pad:

As he was about to put pencil to pad, Thel arrived to top off his coffee. She squinted down at the pad as she poured.

“What’s that? You writing a book?”

“Sort of,” Quinn said.

“Either you are or you ain’t,” Thel said.

“Who said that? Plato?”

“Plato’s our Greek salad, right at the top of the menu.”

The coffee ran over, and Quinn had to move the pad fast to keep it dry.

“Sorry,” Thel said. “I was philosophizing.”

Quinn hadn’t had any dessert. “Are there any doughnuts left from this morning?”

“Sort of,” Thel said, and retreated with the glass coffeepot.

Quinn returned his attention to his legal pad, figuring either he’d get a doughnut or he wouldn’t.

He wrote:

Then he crossed that out. It had nothing to do with the investigation.

He took a sip of coffee and resumed writing with his stubby yellow pencil:

Thel reappeared and placed a plate containing a damaged cake doughnut in front of Quinn.

“Last one,” she said.

“It looks as if mice have been at it.”

“They know what’s good,” Thel said. “You want a warm-up on your coffee?”

“No thanks.” He was staring at the legal pad, trying to pull some sort of pattern or meaning from it.

“Book got you stumped?” Thel asked. To her, the pad was upside down. “Looks like a mess. Like you don’t know how it’s gonna end.”

“I don’t,” Quinn said.

“What kinda book’s it gonna be?”

“Mystery.”

“Right up your alley.”

“Should be,” Quinn said.

“I wouldn’t try to dunk that doughnut.”

The uniformed doorman at Yancy’s building was half a block down the street, chatting with a woman trying to control a huge fluffy dog on a long leash. The leash was looped around one of the doorman’s legs.
Some security
, Pearl thought, as she pushed through the glass double-door entrance to the lobby.

Yancy was due back later tonight. He’d be surprised to find her in his bed, but he wouldn’t mind. He liked those kinds of surprises. He’d no doubt wake her up. That was the kind of surprise she didn’t mind.

As she rode the absolutely silent elevator, she mused that she was moving up in the world literally as well as figuratively. Yancy had money and, like Fred Levin, would probably always have it. The similarities between the two charm dispensers were still kind of unsettling. But she loved Yancy. She was sure that would be impossible with Levin. The differences between the two men might have to do with the heart. Something about Levin hinted that he harbored malice, that he found a subtle sadistic enjoyment in being detached and purely pragmatic. Yancy might have the substance of shadow, but there wasn’t the slightest hint of maliciousness in his carefree soul.

After stepping out of the elevator, she walked soundlessly down the carpeted hall. There was no one else in sight. She still hadn’t met her and Yancy’s neighbors on either side. Hadn’t seen them in the halls or even heard them through the walls. Maybe rich people were like that, leading lives insulated by their wealth.

She keyed the apartment door and pushed it open. It made a soft brushing sound over the thick throw rug in the foyer in a way she liked. Careful not to muss her hairdo, she lifted her purse strap over her head and laid the purse on a small, marble-topped table. Then she removed her blazer and held it in her right hand, planning on draping it over the sofa arm before going to the kitchen and getting something cold to drink.

Two steps off the foyer tile and onto the living room carpet, Pearl knew something was wrong.

But she didn’t know what. Didn’t know how to react.

She did know with a thrill of fear that she wasn’t alone.

Something struck her hard just above the small of the back, causing the breath to
whoosh
out of her, momentarily paralyzing her. She dropped to one knee, bending over as if trying to find something on the floor. She tried to breathe but couldn’t. Her brain was struggling to work, to comprehend what was happening.

…Gun’s in my purse.

She was thinking self-preservation and self-preservation only. All she knew for sure was that she was in deep trouble. The rest of her mind was a muddle.

A hand from behind cupped her chin and yanked her hard so she was lying on her back on the floor. She involuntarily drew up her knees, still trying to breathe.

He was standing over her, slender but strong-bodied, wearing a loose-fitting dark sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Jogging shoes that were black but for their white soles and toe caps. He had on a black knit balaclava so that nothing of his face was visible other than his eyes. Pearl thought the eyes might be familiar, but she couldn’t be sure.

She also, for a moment, thought about the careless doorman. That carelessness must be how the man had entered the building and found his way to Yancy’s apartment.

The intruder straddled her, yanked her arms sideways, and kept them that way as he scooted forward so he could place his knees on her upper arms and bring his full weight to bear on them, pinning them, and her, to the floor.

Pearl immediately recognized the method and knew who he was—the Carver. She knew how much danger she was in and how precious life was.

At first she thought he had no fingernails, and then she saw that he had on skin-tight latex gloves that were flesh colored. From the pouchlike pocket of his sweatshirt he drew a knife with a long, slender blade.

Moving her arms only feebly from the elbows down, Pearl helplessly clawed the air. The strength had left her arms quickly in her awkward position under the man’s weight. She was starting to regain her ability to breathe and considered screaming, but she was sure that if she made any noise he’d use the knife. He was leaning slightly forward, staring down at her and slowly waving the knife blade back and forth before her eyes, as if trying to hypnotize her. She somehow got the impression that beneath the balaclava he was smiling.

He wants my full attention. He wants me to grasp what’s going to happen.

Not the eyes this time, but something about the man seemed familiar. It was in the way he moved.

Who is this bastard?

She kicked out with her feet, trying to loosen the crushing weight on her arms. He simply bore down harder with his knees. Her upper arms ached so badly they began to go numb.

Think, Damn it! You’re running out of time. Out of life.

Think!

If I can’t use my arms, I’ll use my legs!

She brought both knees up sharply and suddenly, and did manage to make contact with his back with one knee. But it wasn’t enough to do anything but anger him. Or perhaps amuse him. He held the point of the knife close to her right eye and shook his head no, letting her know she’d better not kick again.

From beneath the black knit that covered his mouth, he said in a deep muffled voice, “I’m going to explain to you what I’m doing while I’m doing it.”

He used his free hand to yank up her blouse, and then with the knife he deftly sliced through the material between the cups of her bra. He flicked the cups away right and left with the point of the knife, and her breasts were bare.

Pearl knew the ritual, and knew that once he began it the pain and terror would render her completely helpless.

She was determined to keep struggling as long as possible. She controlled her breathing, drawing air deeply so she could muster her strength for one more attempt to buck the man off her and somehow try to put up a fight. Maybe she could kick him in a vital spot, slow him down, and reach her gun in her purse.

Slowly she drew her knees up as far as she could, then kicked straight out with her legs and dug her heels and elbows into the carpet.

Her sudden, spasmodic effort had some effect. She heard the man’s grunt of surprise and felt his weight shift inches forward so his crotch was almost in her face. His weight had lifted slightly, and she thought she might be able to free one arm.

She clenched her eyes shut with the effort of trying to work her arm free, kicking out again with her legs. The killer’s weight rose from her almost completely, as if he might be positioning his body and seeking balance, maybe getting ready to hit or kick her.

She opened her eyes and looked up into the perspiring, determined face of Yancy Taggart.

Yancy’s eyes were wide with surprise and anger, but not fear. He was gripping the Carver’s sweatshirt with both hands, pulling him off Pearl.

“Got the bastard!” Pearl heard him say.

Then she saw the flash of the knife as the killer writhed and twisted his body to gain leverage. The blade winked through the air, and Yancy made a sound like a harsh intake of breath. Pearl felt something warm on her face, and saw what the CSU techs called a slash pattern of blood on the wall.

The killer was standing completely upright. He kicked Pearl hard in the side of the head, and she went blank for a few seconds with pain. She saw in slow motion the killer conceal the knife again in his sweatshirt pocket and then pirouette like a ballet dancer toward the door.

Then he was out the door and into the hall.

Pearl crawled over to where Yancy lay on his back. His throat was sliced almost ear to ear. He was staring at the ceiling, making soft gurgling sounds and desperately feeling with his fingers the edges of the gash in his throat, as if trying to piece himself back together.

Pearl was sure he saw her and that he tried to say something, but he went silent, and the life in his eyes dimmed.

She heard herself whimpering. Her limbs wouldn’t move as directed. She managed to stand up and take a few steps before stumbling. The room lurched, and she fell hard on the carpet, bumping an elbow. Fighting dizziness and nausea, she crawled the rest of the way toward her purse on the table. Like an infant who could walk some but still found crawling the easiest and most direct way to a destination.

She wanted her cell phone now, not her gun.

Quinn sat on the floor with her, holding her so close and tight that it hurt her ribs.

Pearl was infuriated because she couldn’t control her sobbing. Each breath she drew caught in her throat and turned into a deep, wretched moan. Tears tracked down her cheeks so freely she could feel them spatter on her forearm. Grief was so real, like a horrid creature that had taken up residence inside her.

She couldn’t help it; she dug her forehead into Quinn’s shoulder and sobbed. Fedderman was somewhere nearby. The CSU techs were bustling around, and a couple of paramedics were waiting to remove the body. Remove Yancy. For now, everyone was giving Pearl and Quinn a wide berth.

“It’ll be all right,” Quinn crooned to her, his huge right hand patting her back ever so gently. “All right…all right…all right…”

“It won’t be!” Pearl managed to blurt. “Goddamn it, it’ll never be all right!”

“Better, then,” Quinn said, not breaking the rhythm of his patting. “It’ll be better in a while. Better, Pearl…”

I’d settle for tolerable! Oh, God, just tolerable!

She sobbed for a while longer, as Quinn patted and crooned.

Finally, when she’d managed to calm down enough not to completely lose control if she attempted to speak, she told him what had happened. So much more than she’d said over the phone.

“That’s all for now,” Quinn said softly when she was finished. “You don’t have to say anything more, Pearl.”

But the words, suddenly freed from her constricted throat, kept spilling out of her. “Yancy came home early,” she said in someone else’s voice. Grief was pulling her strings. “Came home early and didn’t know what he was walking into. Didn’t know…”

Is this the new me? Forever?

“He came home early and saved your life,” Quinn said. “He was a good man, Yancy. Worthy of you.”

“Oh, Quinn, damn it! Will you stop with the Hemingway bullshit? Yancy’s dead. I want him alive!”

“We all do, dear, but that’s impossible.”

God! Oh, Jesus!

She heard and felt Quinn sigh. The heft and heat of his body shifted. “There’s nothing I can say that will help enough, Pearl. We both know that.”

Pearl nodded and pushed away from him. He leaned toward her, and she felt him kiss her forehead, the furnace heat of his breath.

“But you helped,” she said. “I’m grateful.”

She was speaking in her own, familiar voice now.

Quinn noticed the change, too. Her voice was so calm it was jarring. But it didn’t surprise him.

He understood Pearl. She was in hell. She wouldn’t burn for an eternity, but the embers would never really die.

Quinn looked at her seated next to him, so small, so crushed, and yet somehow more vivid than ever. It was as if she were lighted in some ghastly way from within.

He felt a chill and thought about pulling her close to him again, but he didn’t. He knew what she was thinking. Knew the world she was in. In some ways they were like twins. He knew her reactions by blood and by brain. Knew her passions and obsessions.

If the Carver didn’t have something from hell after him before, he did now.

The killer sat on the end of a bench in Washington Square Park, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. His hands seemed to be steady enough except for the tips of his fingers, which were trembling.

It had been so close. All his planning, his reading of fate, and then a door opened and everything had spun out of control. It was frightening that this sort of thing could happen to him.

Of course, he knew that it happened to other people who made no mistakes.

They cross with the light and are struck and killed by a car. They get on a plane, and it reaches the end of the runway and rams into the ground. They take a bite of food they anticipate enjoying, and a heart attack kills them before they taste it.

That was the sort of thing that had
almost
happened to him. That, in fact
had
happened to the man whose throat he’d cut.

You open a door and step inside and you die.

Not that he could complain about his reaction to the intruder. He’d identified the new and unexpected threat immediately. Body obeyed mind. Blade obeyed body. So fast had he been moving that not a drop of blood had gotten on him.

He rocked back and forth for a moment on the bench.

Pearl. He’d so wanted Pearl.

She’d been concerned about her lover. So concerned with him that she hadn’t given chase.

He knew that for a while, anyway, he’d have to leave Pearl alone. She and his other pursuers would be on their guard. Continuing to stalk Pearl wouldn’t be smart. Besides, his failure to claim her as one of his victims would dull the pleasure of having her.

He found solace in the knowledge that the assault on Pearl hadn’t been a complete failure.

If his pursuers’ time and anxiety would now be wasted protecting Pearl instead of hunting him, that was fine. The attack on her had at least served a purpose.

The bench bounced slightly, jouncing him out of his thoughts. Its iron legs weren’t resting on level ground, and someone had sat down on the opposite end and created the seesaw jolt.

He looked over and saw a small woman with dark hair and eyes. Her hands were working to open a white paper sack that was tightly wadded at the top. She was wearing jeans and a sleeveless pink T-shirt. Her arms were smooth and tan and strong looking. Her breasts were ample.

She got the sack open, dipped in a hand, and, with an arm motion as if she were sowing seeds, tossed an arc of popcorn out in front of the bench. Pigeons appeared immediately and began flapping and strutting about, pecking at the unexpected feast. The woman tossed out more popcorn, causing more pigeons to materialize. Feeding them seemed to please her immensely, judging by her smile.

Then she glanced over, and the smile was for him.

Something in his heart moved. The woman was not unlike Pearl.

Not unlike her at all.

He smiled back and introduced himself with the name he was now using. “I’m Gerald Lone.”

She seemed a bit surprised by his impulsive introduction. After all, this was New York. He could see her appraising him. He might have been jogging in the park and was resting on the bench. He looked respectable enough. A handsome man (or so he saw himself) in a big and lonely city. This was the way lives casually intersected. This was the way things began.

Would she take a chance and acknowledge that he existed? Would she be polite and reply?

How could she be cool to him while proffering her heart to pigeons?

“I’m Elana Dare,” she said.

“As in take a chance?”

“It’s spelled that way.”

Her voice was like Pearl’s.