The Resurrectionist (31 page)

There are a lot of fish in the sea,
Dale thought.
If I leave now I might find someone even more beautiful than Sarah.
But Dale had never seen a woman more beautiful than Sarah, not even on television.
She should be mine,
Dale thought.
It isn’t fair. Why can’t I have a woman like that? Why does that big hockey-playing blackjack dealer get to have her? It isn’t fair!

Dale punched the dashboard and wiped more tears from his eyes. He knew he was falling apart, losing his grip. All he needed was Sarah and he would be okay. Everything would be good again. Maybe he could kidnap her and take her away with him somewhere. Maybe he would just make love to her one last time. No violence this time. At least not until the end. Then he would strangle her sweetly, lovingly and this time when she woke up, Dale would be gone forever. It
sounded perfect. Almost romantic, but Dale wasn’t sure he could really leave her. It was too much to think about now.

The sun was high in the sky before the black detective finally appeared. It was nearly noon. He had been sitting in front of the police station for over six hours. He was hungry and dehydrated. His mouth felt like he had been drinking dust. He licked his chapped lips and squinted through eyes blurred from lack of sleep. The detective was wearing a pair of tan high-waisted pants and a white blouse with billowing sleeves buttoned all the way to the top. She was wearing a pair of black pumps. She looked like she should have been carrying a riding crop. It was definitely her. Dale started his engine.

The detective pulled out of the parking lot in a sleek black BMW sports car with large chrome rims on the tires. If he hadn’t known that she was a cop he would have thought she was a drug dealer or a stripper. She had obviously picked up her taste in cars from the suspects she dealt with.

Dale followed her to the 215 freeway staying two or three car lengths behind as they traveled south toward Henderson. The BMW exited at Green Valley Parkway, then continued south past the Green Valley Ranch Casino and The District retail shops and restaurants. Dale studied the happy couples, the families, the groups of teenage friends, all enjoying themselves shopping, talking, laughing, and embracing. It was a life that Dale could scarcely imagine. He had never had a best friend let alone a group of friends to hang out with. He had never been part of a couple. His family had never gone out for a fun afternoon of dining and shopping. His mother and father had been too busy
chasing the next high to take him on any fun family outings.

The BMW turned into a small gated community on Horizon Ridge. Dale waited until she’d turned the corner before stepping on the accelerator and racing to catch the gate before it closed. He just barely made it through the gate and caught a glimpse of the BMW as it turned the next corner. Dale piloted the Sonata through the maze of cul-de-sacs one block behind the detective’s BMW. Dale spotted the BMW pulling into a garage and he stopped his car at the end of the block. He hopped out of the car and jogged down the street toward the detective’s house. The garage door began to close and Dale broke into a full sprint. He slipped under the door just before it closed. The detective wasn’t in the garage. The fire door slammed shut and Dale jumped, startled. She had gone into the house. Dale crept slowly toward the fire door. His hand trembled as he reached for the handle and his heart pounded like a
taiko
drum. He could not be sure that she had not seen him slipping under the garage door. The detective could have been crouched on the other side, aiming her weapon, prepared to shoot him the minute he opened the door.

Dale placed his ear against the door. He could hear water running in the kitchen and the detective hum-ming and singing some gospel song. Dale inched open the door. The detective had her back to him. She was washing dishes and singing. It was not the gospel tune Dale had thought it was. You didn’t shake your ass like that to gospel.

The door was open a quarter of the way. Dale knew he couldn’t open it much wider without the tightly wound springs in the bomber hinges squealing. He
stood in the doorway, a few short feet from the detective, breathing hard. He had the old hippie cop’s .40-caliber Glock in his hand. He could have just shot her in the back. He pulled the hammer down on the pistol and the detective whirled around, reaching for the pistol on her belt.

“Don’t do it, Detective. I
will
kill you.”

The detective had her gun out of the holster. All she had to do was raise it six inches and it would have been pointing directly at Dale’s chest. He knew she was probably a better shot than he was. Dale had never even fired a gun before but he already had his gun aimed at her stomach, and with her so close, he could hardly miss. All he had to do was pull the trigger. He could tell by the look in her eyes, the doubt, the fear, that she knew he had her. Dale wished that he was a sharpshooter like the cowboys on TV and could have shot her in the arm or something just to get her to drop the gun.

He saw the look in her eyes change from fear to anger.

“Aw, shit!” He knew she was about to shoot him. He knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt. This was why he preferred to ambush his victims rather than confront them face-to-face. You could never guess how someone would react to being attacked. Some became terrified, passive, and compliant. Others, like this detective, fought.

The detective raised the gun. Dale closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The bullet went low, hitting the detective in the belly instead of the chest. The detective paused for a second, wincing and grimacing and belching up blood. Dale waited for her to fall or scream or run. He was still pointing the gun at her.
The black woman’s eyes widened in shock, then hardened.

“Oh fuck.”

She started moving forward again, aiming her nine-millimeter at Dale and pulling the trigger. Bullets struck the fire door, the doorjamb, and whizzed past Dale into the garage. One dug a searing furrow along the side of Dale’s head, barely missing his left eyeball. She was aiming at his head. Dale dove behind the kitchen island and returned fire. He struck her in the chest, the thigh, her right arm. She continued moving forward. The large woman dove on top of Dale and began punching and clawing at his face. He felt her hands clamp down on his throat and squeeze his windpipe shut. He was already breathing heavily from the adrenaline racing through his veins after being shot at. With the large black woman’s hands clamped down on his esophagus he could not get any air into his lungs. He still had the gun in his hand and he aimed it at the detective’s chest and pulled the trigger until the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Blood sprayed Dale’s face and arms as each bullet bore a new hole in the detective’s torso. Finally, she rolled off him and collapsed onto the kitchen floor, bleeding out on the ceramic tiles, dead.

Dale coughed and wheezed, then took several deep breaths trying to slow his breathing. His lungs burned with each breath. His heart hammered in his chest. Dale’s arms and legs trembled uncontrollably. He tried to stand but the trembling in his legs almost dropped him back to the floor. He held on to the kitchen island and waited for the trembling to stop. Dale looked down at the dead detective.

Jesus, that was one tough bitch,
Dale thought. Even with
almost an entire clip in her chest and stomach she had nearly killed him. Dale grabbed her by her legs and dragged her toward the fire door. He spotted her car keys on the kitchen island and grabbed them. He dragged the detective out into the garage, opened the rear door of her BMW, and pulled her up onto the backseat. Dale shut the rear door, slid into the driver’s seat and shoved the detective’s key into the ignition. There was a garage-door opener attached to the visor and Dale pressed the remote. The garage door rattled and squealed in its tracks as it rose. Dale started the engine and put the BMW in reverse. He pulled out of the garage and drove off down the street. Several of the neighbors had come out of their houses. An elderly couple carrying a dachshund and wearing what looked like matching pajamas and slippers tried to wave him down as he sped off down the street. He was less than two blocks away when two police cars raced by him heading back toward the detective’s house with their sirens and lights blaring. If he had been even two minutes slower, they would have caught him.

Three more police cars raced by as Dale exited through the gate and turned back onto Horizon Ridge. Soon he was back on the freeway, headed home, the dead detective bouncing around on the backseat. Blood rolled out from beneath the driver’s seat and pooled under Dale’s feet, sloshing onto his shoes. Dale took the 215 and headed toward North Las Vegas. Back to the abandoned house where he’d left the old detective with the ponytail.

The road began to blur as the pain in Dale’s skull roared like a forest fire. Blood dripped into his eye and Dale wiped it away quickly, squinting to try to bring the road back into focus. Another white-hot flare of
agony tore through Dale’s skull and he struggled to keep the BMW from swerving into the opposite lane. Another drop of blood dribbled down Dale’s forehead into his left eye. He wiped the blood away with his wrist and then reached up to touch his forehead. The entire left side of his head was wet with matted blood and there was a neat round hole in his skull just above his temple. The detective hadn’t missed after all. Dale felt around and found the exit wound, a jagged hole in the back of his skull on the right side of his head. The bullet had gone straight through his skull and come back out on the other side. He should have been dead. Dale smiled and rolled his eyes skyward.

“Thank you, God,” he whispered.

Dale looked over his shoulder at the body rolling around the backseat. That black bitch had almost killed him. He had gotten lucky. Not lucky—blessed. God had been on his side. He was on a mission of love, and love was the most powerful force in the universe. He would bring the black detective back and then he would make her talk and then he and Sarah Lincoln would be reunited. He didn’t care if it took all night. This time he would be patient. He wouldn’t rush it. He would start with her fingers and keep cutting until she told him everything he wanted to know. She was tough, but everyone had their limits and he was determined.

Sarah watched a couple fighting in the courtyard only a few feet from her door. The woman had an infant in her arms and was feeding him a bottle even as she continued to berate the man Sarah assumed was the baby’s father. The man was clearly intoxicated and was swaying and staggering as the woman poked a finger at his face and yelled in a shrill voice that felt like it was peeling the skin off the inside of Sarah’s ears. The woman had apparently found another woman’s phone number on her husband’s cell phone and then he had come home several hours late from work reeking of perfume and alcohol. The woman was so angry she was practically screaming. Her voice rose to such a high pitch that Sarah could not understand a single word and doubted that the woman’s husband could either.

The man smiled drunkenly and closed his eyes as if reliving some pleasant memory, clearly not listening to whatever the woman was trying to communicate to him. That further aggravated the woman, who slapped him hard across the mouth with the baby’s bottle, splitting his lip and dropping him down onto the seat of his pants. That woke him up. He staggered to his feet and began shouting back at her. That was apparently what the woman had wanted. She continued to
yell at her husband, pointing the bottle she had just slapped him with as she berated him about all his failures as a man, only now she was smiling.

Sarah watched a little longer, then turned back to her empty room. Detective Torres had come to the room a couple hours ago to drive Josh to work. Sarah had been trying to amuse herself and keep her mind off her situation ever since. She had tried to work on her dissertation but still could not get into it, so she had given up on it after writing, and then deleting, two pages of research notes. Then she had gone to the window to spy on the neighbors. She watched a short Latino woman with gorgeous legs and a pair of breasts every bit as full and perky as her own lead a middleaged man in a crinkled suit into her room. The man in the suit was nervously looking around to make sure no one was watching him as he crossed the courtyard with the woman. Sarah was pretty sure that the Latino woman was a prostitute working out of her motel room. She watched kids playing soccer and Frisbee in the courtyard and mothers carrying armloads of laundry and groceries. Then the couple had started fighting and the entire courtyard had stopped to watch.

Sarah was scared. This was about the worst time she could have ever imagined for her to be alone in a strange motel room. Sarah picked up her cell phone and dialed eleven for Detective Lassiter. The phone rang five times before the voice mail answered.

“Hello, you have reached Detective Trina Lassiter with the North Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. I am unavailable right now. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message and I will return your call.”

Sarah hung up the phone and hit redial. Again the phone rang five times.

“Hello, you have reached Detective Trina Lassiter with the North Las Vegas…”

Sarah hung up the phone and tossed it onto the bed. She looked at her running shoes and sighed. It had been days since she had gotten in a good run. She still did not really feel like running but sitting around the motel room was driving her crazy. Sarah grabbed her Asics running shoes and sat down on the edge of the bed. She considered calling Josh to tell him that she would be out jogging in case he called and could not get a hold of her, but she knew that his cell phone would probably be in his locker at work and by the time he got the message she would already be done with her run. She decided to try Detective Lassiter one more time. She picked up the phone and hit the speed dial. Once again she got the voice mail greeting. This time she left a message.