Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) (35 page)

"So, as soon as the surgery was over, he demanded that I set his glasses over his eyes and show him a mirror so he could look at the work before we bandaged. It was really not a pretty sight, but McAllister actually seemed genuinely pleased. It was so creepy."

"What about after the surgery?"

"We were all so relieved it was over, but he didn't go away. As soon as he was out of the hospital, he started calling the office all the time. Said he wanted his chart and his file. He wouldn't leave us alone."

"Did he follow you outside of work?" Casey asked.

Nina's gaze shot up to meet Casey's, and she blinked hard before nodding.

"We read the police report about the stalker," Jordan said.

She exhaled. "I started getting strange calls and then threats in the mail. They didn't say anything about work, so I didn't make the connection. But I was having trouble concentrating at work. I called the police and asked for help. They told me it was a kid, playing a prank. But I didn't think so."

"And how did you end up leaving your job?"

"I wanted to take a couple of weeks off, go see my sister in Chicago just to get away. Ballari was under a lot of stress, too. He needed me to be there. He said if I had to go, I shouldn't come back." She shook her head and pushed the coffee away. "I went. I figured that I would be able to talk to Dr. Ballari when I got back. I never imagined..."

Jordan nodded. "You did the right thing."

Nina looked up with surprise. "I feel like I let them down. Michelle, one of the other nurses, was my best friend."

Casey laid her hand on Nina's. "There's nothing you could've done."

She stared at her for a minute and then exhaled, a long, deep breath. "I know. I just can't help blaming myself for not doing something else—" Nina smoothed her dark hair back. "We were all in danger, and I think I sensed it more than the others."

"What about the fire?" Jordan asked.

"I heard about it from Chicago. I'd tried to call Michelle and reached her mother, who had come from Detroit to deal with her things. I came right home, of course. But as soon as they said arson, I knew what had happened."

"Did you tell the police?"

She met his gaze and looked away.

"It's okay."

"I was too scared. He was already following me. The police weren't helping. I thought if I told them, he'd kill me."

"You think he was the stalker," Casey said.

"I know it was him," she said. Her voice held the edge of someone who had been doubted before.

Jordan knew what the police were facing, though. They got so many phony reports. It was sometimes hard to tell the imagined situations from the real ones. "Did you see him?"

She shook her head, looking upset.

"Then, how did you know it was him?"

"Because when he attacked me from behind, he whispered in my ear."

"You recognized the voice?" Casey asked.

"That was partially it. But it was more what he said."

"What did he say?" Jordan prompted.

"He said, 'If you think that fool Ballari was an artist, wait until you see what I can create.' I was scared, terrified, but I thought it was him. I just had to be sure. So, I asked, 'Who are you?'" Nina looked up and met Jordan's eyes. Her expression showed the strength of someone who had survived.

"What did he say?" Jordan pressed.

"He laughed and said, 'I'm da Vinci.' "

Chapter 30

Casey stared down at the plate the waiter had set before her. She thought about the fear she'd seen in Nina Rodriguez's face the day before. It was all fitting together. Officer Jones had discovered the apparent stressor for the killing of George Allister's mother and sister. Three days before their murders, Indiana University had sent a letter of rejection to George Allister for their premed program.

According to a nurse who had worked with Karen Allister, she had been going home to celebrate her birthday with her mother. Casey still didn't quite understand the significance of birthdays, but somehow she was sure it tied in with the party hats.

After disposing of his mother and sister, George Allister became Roy McAllister and worked somewhere successfully for almost five years. Nina had told them he had confessed to driving recklessly because he'd been fired from his job. Again, it made sense. The stressor of losing his job might have spurred him to kill again. Either that, or the freedom the reconstructive surgery had brought him. After unsuccessfully stalking Nina Rodriguez, he'd gone to Cincinnati and hunted easier prey. That was when Casey had been called into the picture. All of it fit. The only missing piece was the present. What the hell was he up to now?

"Are you going to eat that or just stare at it?" Billy asked.

Casey focused on the burger and pushed Leonardo from her mind. "I can't believe I ordered this," she whispered.

"Why? You've been craving a burger for months."

She nodded. "I have, but how the hell am I going to eat it?"

A couple at the next table glanced over at her and began whispering. Casey did her best to ignore them. The popular restaurant hummed with Sunday afternoon traffic. Waiters wore starched white shirts and aprons. Linen dressed the tables, yet the TV blaring a game and the easy banter of the bar gave the restaurant a casual, relaxed feel.

"Pick it up," Billy prompted.

Casey scowled in his direction, then focused on the plate. The hamburger patty sat open-faced, and the smell was killing her. After retrieving the ketchup from the center of the table, Casey fought to open the bottle, using the center of her palm, and poured the red sauce over the fries.

With the fork held awkwardly in her fist, Casey stabbed at the mound of fries.

"Use your fingers."

She ignored him, wishing it were so easy.

"Try it," Billy pushed.

Laying her fork on the table, she glanced around to be sure no one was watching. The couple at the next table seemed to be occupied watching a man and woman make out at the bar.

Like a child eating finger food for the first time, Casey pushed the fries around on her plate and then caught one between her forefinger and thumb and lifted it to her lips. A french fry had never tasted better.

"Ha! I told you," Billy exclaimed.

"Will you shut up," she hissed. "I feel like a fool as it is."

The couple glanced over at her again. Casey sent them a scalding stare.

"Now try the burger," Billy said.

Casey scowled.

"You've done a lot tougher things than eat a burger."

"Don't push," she warned, smiling.

Billy grinned. "Pushing's my job."

Casey smoothed her hands over her napkin, wiping off the ketchup. With both hands, she reached for the burger, gripping it in an awkward clutch and bringing it to her mouth. A dollop of mustard landed in her lap, missing the napkin by a full inch. "Shit."

"Ignore it," Billy said, watching her. "Half the people here have dripped mustard in their laps."

She brought the cheeseburger to her mouth and took a bite.

"Good?"

She nodded. Setting the burger down, she wiped up the mustard stain, feeling strangely triumphant. As she rubbed at the yellow spot, she noticed her fingers obeyed her.

"It's easy, isn't it?"

"Not easy."

Billy smiled. "You got hungry enough to do it."

Casey rolled her eyes and reached for the burger again. Billy was right about one thing. She was starving. She took another bite and swallowed, setting the burger back down and reaching for her iced tea.

The waiter stopped beside her. "How is everything here?"

"Great," Casey answered, picking up her glass.

"Can I get you anything else?"

The glass slipped, and Casey tried to right it, but her fingers couldn't catch it quickly enough. The glass went over, pouring the full iced tea down the waiter's front.

"She could probably use some more iced tea," Billy said, laughing.

* * *

"You should drive us home," Billy said, dangling the keys.

Casey laughed and shook her head. "No way."

"You did a great job—once you put your mind to it."

Casey rolled her eyes to downplay his enthusiasm, though they both knew this was a small triumph.

"We should have ordered cake to celebrate. You could've eaten it with your fingers."

"You're intolerable."

Billy grinned. "You sure you don't want to drive?"

"Positive," she insisted, fighting her hands to pry the passenger side door open and then collapsing on the seat from the effort.

Billy got in and started the engine, the Volvo stirring to life. "I think that waiter thought we were insane."

"Hey, it was your idea. I told you months ago eating out with me would be trouble."

"You were great." He touched her hand.

"Thanks." She pulled the seat belt across her lap and fumbled to get it into place, noticing how Billy watched her from the corner of his eye but made no move to help her.

When she was safely belted in, Billy pulled out of the parking spot. Though he looked better than he had, Casey noticed he was still pale and seemed more than a little lethargic, especially for someone who normally had the energy of a dozen ten-year-olds on M&Ms. "You should lie down when we go home. Take a nap."

Billy waved a finger. "You're not getting out of your exercises that easily."

"I can do them on my own. You look tired."

He nodded. "A little. What I'd really like to do is take some bread to the park and feed the ducks."

Casey smiled. "You're getting transparent, Billy."

"What do you mean?"

"Going to the park means breaking up the bread and that means finger exercise—I know what you're up to."

With a smile, he shrugged. "It was worth a try." His smile, even his shrug, lacked his normal enthusiasm. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he added, "I am a little tired."

"Maybe we shouldn't have gone out."

"No," Billy said. "It was wonderful. I've heard great things about Crogan's. I appreciate you treating." He glanced over at her. "And it was time for you to get out, Casey. You're ready to get back."

Casey waved the comment off. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm serious. You're ready. You don't need me anymore. It's like you said—you can do the exercises yourself."

"Stop talking like that, Billy."

"Casey, it's the truth. I see it in your eyes. Whether or not you admit it to yourself, you want to get back to work. Inspector Gray's been good for you. As scary as this killer is, the situation has proved that you can do it."

She shook her head. "I still can't do it, Billy. All I can do is sit at a table and think about a killer's M.O., give my suggestions about what he will do, and maybe why." She paused and thought about Cincinnati. There was no way she would ever be that strong again.

As much as she hated to admit it, he had destroyed parts of her she couldn't even remember. She pushed the thought from her mind. "I can't hunt like I used to. It's not the same."

"Because you've convinced yourself it won't be. I've seen you when you're determined. You can do anything you want to. You've started to run on that knee. And look at your boxing."

Casey stared out the window. She wasn't ready to go back. She never would be. How could she be a profiler? She couldn't tie her shoelaces, or drive. Even boxing was nothing like it had been.

And most importantly, she couldn't shoot a gun. The Bureau had shooting requirements she would never pass again. Despite the access Jordan had gotten her to the shooting range, she still couldn't shoot. The three times she'd gone to the range, she'd tucked herself in the far stall and stood, hands shaking while she tried to get her fingers to cooperate. She'd gotten a few shots off, but none had come close to a target. Beyond that, she was just plain weak, and in her job weak meant vulnerable. And vulnerable meant dead. There was no future for her with the Bureau. She still didn't see much of a future at all. Working with Jordan was a distraction from her life over the last year. But it was only that—a distraction.