The Seventh Victim (27 page)

“You like that, don’t you?” he said. “I knew you would. I knew you would.”

He pinched her nipple hard and the pain reached into the darkness and pulled her closer to the surface. His fuzzy, wavy features came closer to focus and for an instant she thought the image would clear, but it didn’t.

His hand slid from her breast over her flat belly and then below the waistband of her panties. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time, Lara. After tonight you will be a part of me forever.”

She felt the weight of his naked body and erection pressing against her body. As much as she wanted to claw and scratch and scream for him to get off of her, her limbs would not move. Her voice was silent.

Her alarm blared, shattering the image and jerking her up in her bed. She shoved trembling hands through her hair and wildly searched the room for signs of an intruder. Lincoln remained at the base of her bed, one eye open as he stared sleepily at her.

Her heart racing, she smacked her hand on the alarm and shut it off. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed she let the coolness from the wood floor rise up through her body and clear her mind. She glanced at the clock. Four
AM
.

“No one was here. It was a dream. Just a dream.”

It was a dream she’d never had before. Never. And it left her with a tangible sense of filth and violation.

Lara pushed the sheets off and hurried to the bathroom. She turned on the water and pulled off the oversized T-shirt that doubled as a nightgown. She took a long hot shower, hoping the hot water and soap would wash away the lingering fears, but she couldn’t shake the sense that the dream had been more than a dream.

Could it be a memory? Had today’s session wrestled free something deep from the shadows of her mind?

Lara closed her eyes leaning into the spray and suddenly a memory fluttered forward.

She lay on a gurney as the emergency room nurses assembled a rape kit. A female detective stood by Lara and spoke all the right words. It’s not your fault. You didn’t deserve this. But the woman’s clipped tone made the words sound wooden, as if read from a script. And despite a nurse’s gentle coaxing, humiliation burned in Lara as she put her feet in stirrups.

And then the moment was gone.

Lara tipped her face up into the water, letting the heat and wet wash over her, hoping her subconscious might whisper its darkest secrets. But it remained silent.

No answers materialized. And her feelings of failure gained strength.

Lara shut off the hot water, toweled off, and within ten minutes had donned clean blue shorts, a simple colored shirt, and sandals. Her blond hair hung around her face, damp but already drying and curling at the edges.

In the kitchen she buttered bread. She glanced at the clock. Nearly 5
AM
. Her afternoon class didn’t begin until four, but she’d never reach the spot she’d already visited three times before sunrise. There was always work to be done in the darkroom, but she didn’t want to be in the dark alone. She craved the sunshine and people.

After she ate, she grabbed her purse and called Lincoln. Though it was just around six thirty in the morning, she decided on a visit to Cassidy. She owed her cousin after yesterday’s unannounced Lincoln drop-off.

As she drove farther down the road, the window open and the morning breeze blowing, she saw the dream with a more analytical mind. Of course, the dream may have been her mind’s way of sorting the facts, as she knew them. She had been taken. Raped. Dressed in white. Strangled.

Yet as terrifying as the facts were, they’d never been as emotionally charged as the nightmare. She had the sense of a floodwall cracking and springing its first leak. The more she poked and prodded the dream, the more it receded.

The drive into Austin took thirty minutes. She parked behind Cassidy’s gallery, and she and Lincoln hopped out of the truck and entered through the unlocked back entrance. It was just past seven, but her cousin had been an early riser since her mother’s suicide. “Cassidy?”

“Lara?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you get in?”

“Back door.”

“It was locked.”

Cassidy rounded the corner, frowning. She wore a peasant skirt and blouse, a big chunky silver belt, and brown cowboy boots. Dark hair was swept up into a ponytail that was meant to look casual but had likely taken her an hour. “I thought I locked it last night.” She inspected the undamaged lock. “Shit. That’s not smart of me to leave it unlocked.”

“You’ve got to be careful.”

Cassidy nodded as she tossed one last look at the lock. “Yeah.” Sighing, she rubbed Lincoln on the head. “Hey, Cujo. Come to dump more dog hair in my apartment?”

Lara smiled. “He’s not staying.”

“The hound is growing on me. Reminds me somewhat of Rex.”

“Grandma’s dog?”

Cassidy’s expression softened. “Big old goofy hound.”

Lara smiled at the memory of Rex begging for scraps of table food. It had been impossible to deny him when he looked at her with such doleful eyes. “What happened to Rex?”

The nostalgia vanished. “He ran off right after you left to go back with your mom. I think we were about fourteen. I offered to go looking for him, but Grandma said no.”

Sadness tugged at her. She patted Lincoln on the head and smiled. “I remember asking about him when I called Grandma, but she’d always change the subject.”

Lincoln sat and then settled on the floor as if he now lived here.

Cassidy studied the dog, her expression not so stern. “He’s taking over.”

Lara laughed. “He does that.” The two walked toward the front of the gallery. “So you tell me you had some sales?”

Cassidy waggled her brows. “No, darling, we had four sales. Big sales. Come and see.”

Excitement bubbled inside Lara. It had been a long time since she’d felt the thrill of victory. The last time she’d felt this good she’d been in Seattle, and she’d been offered the buyer’s job. For a flash, worry tempered the excitement, and then she shrugged it off. She followed Cassidy to the front of the studio.

Each time she walked into the gallery and saw her photos on the walls, pride surged. Her life had been in shambles, but she’d rebuilt it.

“So which sold?”

Cassidy crooked her finger. “Come and see the blank space on the wall and the sold sign in place of your picture.” They moved through the gallery past the black-and-white images. The first blank space had belonged to the piece she’d taken in Maine. The waves crashed against the rocky shore, spraying water over the rocks in an almost joyful way. The beautiful rugged coast had been the scene of the double homicide, but to look at the print you’d never know violence had marked the land.

The next to sell was a scene in Virginia. The body of a young woman had been found along the banks of the Potomac River. Again, to the unknowing eye it was the image of the rising sun and sailboats on meandering waters.

“These were the two nice sales, but the big kahuna is the picture you took in Seattle.”

Lara didn’t need to see the picture to imagine it. She had been the victim of this crime. Police had found her along the twisty road that fed into the distant mountains.

It had taken Lara six years to get up the nerve to return to Seattle and shoot. She’d started trembling the instant she’d crossed into Washington state. At the scene, she’d sat in her car for almost an hour, before she’d found the courage to get out and set up her equipment.

Her hands had quaked so badly, the collodion hadn’t entirely reached the edges of glass so the negative had had an uneven edge that instead of detracting had enhanced the dark, moody quality.

She’d glared at the scene countless times before the show opened, willing it to talk to her.
Who did this to me? Who?
But it had remained as stubbornly silent as her mind.

“Isn’t this the one you said was the jewel and you priced it the highest?” Lara said.

Cassidy managed a smile. “I know when a piece is going to sell for a good price.”

As she imagined the piece she could feel the cool Seattle breeze thick with rain. The ground had been wet that day and her feet had been soaked by the time she’d crawled back in the truck.

“Who bought the piece?”

“A Mr. D. Smith of San Antonio. And he paid full asking price. Which means,” she added in a singsong voice, “you can get a new truck.”

Lara barely heard what Cassidy said. “Did he come to the show?”

“I didn’t ask. He purchased the image online.”

“Did he read the article about me?”

“Didn’t ask. When someone is offering to buy it’s best just to say thank you.”

Tension inched up her spine. “I don’t feel so good about selling this one.”

“What do you mean? It is the most expensive image in the collection.”

“It just feels odd selling it now. The article. The murders. It feels like I’m profiting from another death.”

She’d never expected to feel this way. The images had begun as a form of therapy for her. She wanted to see through photography what her naked eye did not.

But she’d come no closer to understanding violence.

“I don’t want to sell it.”

Cassidy blinked, her tone annoyed. “It is not about what you want anymore, Lara. It’s a done deal. I processed his credit card and shipped the image. It’s gone.”

Sickness twisted her belly. “That soon?”

“He was willing to pay extra to take possession of the photo before the show closes next week. And considering your battered truck and my upcoming mortgage payment, I agreed. The money has been spent. We can’t go back.”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“This is just one of those artist moments. You all get attached to a work of art and when the sale goes through you have a moment of panic. Like surrendering a child.”

It wasn’t that at all. She was happy to let the other pictures go. But not this one and not to a man who might be a killer. “I almost didn’t include the piece,” she said more to herself.

“I’m glad you did.”

“I’m not.”

He was glad to see the latest killing had finally made the paper. He’d started to think the cops would try to hide his work from the public. He wanted Lara to worry and fear. He wanted her to admire his cunning and intelligence.

Poor little Blair Silver. She’d been so full of fire and spit, like she was better than him, when in fact she was nothing more than his little plaything.

He’d kept the police guessing for almost seven years. Who was the Strangler? Why did he choose his victims? Why go dark? Why return?

Before he was finished the police would look like fools, and Lara would be a terrified mess. He would crush her hoity independence and she would never make him feel ignored again.

He glanced at the article in Sunday’s paper, traced the line of her jaw in her photo image, and looked at his most recent purchase—her gallery photo.

He took pride in knowing that his actions then and now had totally shaped the course of her life. She might claim independence, but her life had been completely controlled and manipulated by him.

After he’d chosen not to kill her, he had been furious with himself. Why hadn’t he killed her? He had been tempted to go after her in the hospital, but he held back, telling himself it was better to let her live in fear. Soon he’d have a second chance with her.

He held up a necklace that had belonged to Lou Ellen Fisk. The waitress/student had told him proudly she was going places. She wanted out of Texas and wanted to see the world. He’d listened quietly. Later that night, when she’d been driving home, he’d been waiting for her at her house. When he’d pinned her to the ground that first time, the shock in her gaze had been priceless. And when he’d wrapped his hands around her neck and started to squeeze, he’d imagined Lara, and had felt a sweet rush he’d not known for a long time.

Lou Ellen. Gretchen. Blair. Seeking his satisfaction with others had its own reward, but soon the games would end.

And it would be Lara’s turn.

Chapter 16

Wednesday, May 30, 11
AM

Danni’s head pounded when she showed up for her shift at the café. Her eyes felt gritty and dry, and her muscles ached. She needed sleep but found it had been damn near impossible to nap for more than minutes at a time in her mother and stepfather’s house. Her stepfather, a.k.a. Mr. Creepy, had been wandering the halls last night. He’d tried her bedroom door several times, but found it locked. As she’d sat in bed and watched the handle jiggle, she’d gotten up and pushed her dresser in front of the door. Mr. Creepy had laughed.

She now glanced at her reflection in the stainless door of the refrigerator and grimaced at the dark smudges under her eyes. Her blond hair looked like a bird’s nest and her cheeks sallow.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Mack joked.

She glared at him. “Very funny.”

He grinned as he set a stack of dishes on the wash station. “Too much partying?”

“Too much studying. Exams coming.”

Shoving her purse in her locker, she grabbed her apron.

He laughed. “Studying? Is that what they call it these days?”

“No. Really. Studying. Got to make the grade if I hope to win the scholarship.”

He shook his head. “You, a scholarship?”

“Yeah, I’m going places.”

His grin faded. “What’s so wrong with here?”

She rolled her eyes. “Everything.”

His lips flattening into a grim line, he carefully and deliberately wiped his hands on his apron. “So what are you gonna study in college?”

“Whatever gets me out of Texas.”

He sniffed. “Texas ain’t so bad. It’s been good to me.”

She didn’t answer, not trusting her surly mood. Mack loved Texas, his old football days, and anything to do with the past. “Yeah.”

Feeling his glare on her, she stepped out onto the restaurant floor one minute late. The next half hour was a buzz of people, food orders, and dishes. All the while her head pounded in the back of her skull, making her wish she’d taken five aspirins instead of two.