Mister X Part 6

"See, you do do know." know."

"Was a long time ago."

"It'd seem like yesterday if you were one of the victims. If they'd had any tomorrows."

"Why would you want us to back away from that one, Harley? It must be in the NYPD cold-case files."

But Quinn knew why. The politically attuned Renz, who at the time of the Carver murders had been a police captain overseeing the investigation, didn't want one of his notable unsolved cases dredged up from the past to bedevil him in the present and future.

"There's been enough human suffering over those murders," Renz said. "The families should be left alone."

"My impression is that the families would still like to see the killer found and brought to trial."

"Yeah, yeah. Closure and all that." Sensitive Harley. "We both know what the families really want is for us to kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"That, too," Quinn said. "What you you really really don't don't want is for somebody to break this case, after you and the rest of the NYPD and your political hacks worked the publicity pump and made it bigger than Son of Sam and then failed to get anywhere with it." want is for somebody to break this case, after you and the rest of the NYPD and your political hacks worked the publicity pump and made it bigger than Son of Sam and then failed to get anywhere with it."

"How cruel and direct," Renz said. "And accurate. Right now I'm especially vulnerable, with the wolves after my job. My political enemies within the department are breathing hot air down my neck. That p.r.i.c.k n.o.bbler would love to have a big unsolved case that happened during my tenure as police captain to use against me. He'd use it to nail me to the cross." n.o.bbler was Captain Wes n.o.bbler, an NYPD bureaucratic climber with apparatchiks throughout the department. n.o.bbler was almost as cynical and ambitious as Renz.

"Always political reasons," Quinn said. Political infighting was one of the main reasons he was no longer with the NYPD.

"Everything's political."

Like having a maniac sit on your chest and slice off your nipples.

"Not everything, Harley."

"Don't stand on principle here, Quinn. There are plenty of people in and out of the NYPD who don't want the Carver case reactivated and will do whatever's necessary to keep it where it belongs-in the past. I'm talking powerful people, Quinn."

"Like you?"

"Like me. Be glad I'm your friend. Listen to me on this one."

"How did you know I was on this case, Harley?"

"Get serious. I'm the G.o.dd.a.m.ned police commissioner, and I didn't inherit the position. I came up out of the streets just like you did, only I rose higher because I was more realistic. I understood the realities of the job. I've got eyes and ears everywhere in this city."

"I owe something to my client," Quinn said.

"You owe your client jack s.h.i.+t. You owe something to yourself. The idea is to stop this train before it builds up steam and the media notice the smoke. If you don't help do that you might wind up under the wheels."

"Along with you."

"Naw, I know the engineer. I might even become become the engineer." the engineer."

"These railroad metaphors are getting on my nerves. Can we try the airlines?"

"No. Let's keep the airlines grounded and speak plainly: Drop the Carver investigation or you'll regret it. Whether I regret it too shouldn't make any difference to you. Think about yourself instead of your dreamland ethics. Give your client her money back, if that's what's bothering you."

"How do you know it's a she?"

"You and your other two monkeys have talked to people, and we've talked to the same people. Didn't it occur to you some of those victims' families might contact us after you stomped all over their peace and well-being and reminded them of their grief?"

It had occurred to Quinn, only he doubted that Pearl or Fedderman had mentioned the ident.i.ty of their client. And he was sure he hadn't. It was possible that Renz was keeping a loose tail on Quinn and his detectives, even possible that a search without a warrant had been done at the office. Quinn made a mental note to be more careful locking up, and to make sure the office computers hadn't been violated.

"It's the twin sister," Renz said. "Full of all that psychic bulls.h.i.+t about twins being so close they can read each other's thoughts even if one of them's dead." Renz made a mock s.h.i.+vering sound. "Spooky, spooky. Take my advice and return the b.i.t.c.h's retainer, tell her it's no use. Once this s.h.i.+t gets into the news it'll be too late. The River Styx'll be crossed."

"I think you mean the Rubicon," Quinn said. "That's the river you cross when you can't turn back. The Styx is the river you cross when you're dead."

"Never mind that. Can I be sure you got my message?"

"Sure, Harley. I'll sleep on it."

"That'll have to be good enough for now," Renz said. "But let me know early tomorrow morning so I can be sure. Not that you got a choice, but you're a stubborn b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"I'll call you."

"I'll be waiting. And Quinn, I know my rivers."

13.

Mary attempted to scream, but the sight of the man from the subway right there, in her apartment, turned her throat to stone. She couldn't breathe, much less scream.

And he was was the subway man. The same wrinkled, soiled clothing. The same baseball cap with its bill worn low so he seemed to be staring at her with half eyes. The same bristly beard stubble. The same horrible, frightening stench of stale sweat and urine. Of the street. Of everything about New York that was raw and dangerous. the subway man. The same wrinkled, soiled clothing. The same baseball cap with its bill worn low so he seemed to be staring at her with half eyes. The same bristly beard stubble. The same horrible, frightening stench of stale sweat and urine. Of the street. Of everything about New York that was raw and dangerous.

He seemed as shocked as Mary for a moment; as if he could hardly comprehend finding her in her own apartment. It was as if she'd she'd surprised and frightened surprised and frightened him. him. As if As if she she didn't belong. didn't belong.

He actually smiled. His teeth were crooked and yellow, one of the upper incisors broken half off. As he stared at her, he ran his tongue over his lower lip.

He bent low at the waist and removed something from just inside his pants cuff. When he straightened up, Mary saw that he was holding a knife with a long, thin blade. A boning knife, she knew. She had one something like it in her own kitchen drawer.

Was it her knife? it her knife?

No. Hers had a wooden handle. The handle on this knife-what she could see of it inside the man's hand-was steel, like the blade.

Mary inhaled again to scream, and the man moved quickly toward her. It was all so fast, as if film frames had been skipped. Suddenly his forearm was pressed vertically against her upper body, between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was the arm that held the knife, and she could feel the cold steel of the blade against her throat. The knife point probed eagerly beneath her jaw, not quite breaking through flesh. If he pushed upward the knife would go into her mouth, through her tongue and the roof of her mouth, into her brain. She could imagine it. Could almost feel feel it. it.

Mary was still too paralyzed with fear to scream. She felt her bladder release and the warmth of her urine trickling down her legs.

The man with the knife became aware of her mixture of terror and humiliation, and his smile broadened. She was his entertainment, and she was performing well, his smile said. He wasn't tall and didn't seem particularly muscular, but Mary could feel his strength like a current as he moved her a step backward with a s.h.i.+fting of his slender but powerful arm.

Any second he might use the knife.

She managed to make a few gasping, hoa.r.s.e noises, almost like a bagpipe bellowing, but muted. She had never known such fear was possible.

Leaning his body weight into her, he walked her backward, through the living room, down the short hall to her bedroom. Her entire body was trembling as if electric shocks were running through it.

The bed! Once I'm on the bed I'm lost!

Without warning he shoved her hard, and she staggered backward, catching her heel on the carpet, losing her balance.

She was on her back on the hard wood floor before she knew what had happened, and the back of her head ached as if her skull had fractured in a thousand fragments.

He straddled her, seated on her stomach, waving the knife before her eyes so she'd be sure to see it.

He clutched the front of her blouse and ripped it away, sending b.u.t.tons flying. She wasn't wearing a bra. With his free hand he clamped her nipple between thumb and forefinger and squeezed hard.

Then his weight was lifted from her, and she could breathe easier.

Through her pain and dizziness Mary realized she was looking up at the man's back, at the dark crescents of perspiration stains on his s.h.i.+rt beneath his armpits. She watched him move quickly toward her bedroom window, knowing as she did so that the air was different in the room. Warmer and more humid.

The window's open. I left it unlocked, and now it's open.

She s.h.i.+fted her gaze and saw that she was right. He'd left the window open where he'd gained entrance from the fire escape.

He looked back at her, and their gazes locked. His unblinking eyes were hypnotic. Snake to mongoose.

With a surprising grace and confidence he let himself out through the window, moving backward and not taking his sullen, greedy eyes from her. Beneath the half-moon eyes was the broken-toothed grin, as if he had her completely in his power and knew every evil thing about her, all the secrets of her body.

She was his for the taking, that grin said. And when he was ready, he would take.

Mary understood that and knew she was helpless to do anything about it.

Still lying on her back, she managed to prop herself up on her elbows and watch the man outside the window. He turned away from her, and began his descent on the black iron fire escape. She could barely hear the leather-on-metal sc.r.a.ping of his shoes as he scrambled down and away from her. She was safer with each of his hurried steps.

She dropped so she was flat on her back again and lay silently for a while, then rolled onto her side. When she tried to stand up her headache exploded behind her eyes, and she sat down on the floor near the bed.

Using the mattress to lean against, she finally managed to pull herself up to where she was sitting hunched over on the bed. She stretched out her hand and without looking found the phone on the nightstand, dragged the receiver from its cradle, and held it in her lap. She pressed it between her thighs so it wouldn't drop to the floor. Her head flared with pain again as she turned slightly and focused her bleary vision on the base unit. She pecked out nine-one-one on the keypad.

Her voice was strangled, but she was sure she'd included her address in her rambling, choking conversation with the 911 operator.

Mary heard herself begin to sob. Her body shuddered, and she leaned back into deeper and deeper darkness.

There was a clock by the phone. Though it had seemed like seconds, she knew that fifteen minutes had pa.s.sed and the police were pounding on her door.

14.

He'd dropped silently from the iron fire escape into the courtyard and made his way through the narrow pa.s.sageway on the side of the building to the street. No one had seen him, he was sure. And even if someone had noticed him, they'd never be able to recognize him. He was away clean. Things hadn't worked out as he'd planned, but he was safe.

He hadn't wanted to hurt her. Not at this point. He'd only wanted to learn more about her.

Her name was Mary. Mary Bakehouse. He knew that much from riffling through the contents of her desk. He knew where she banked, how much she owed, where she left her laundry, that she had family in G.o.dforsaken South Dakota. He'd seen photographs of her and her country relatives, the Bakehouse clan, and a close-up of lovely Mary wearing a white blouse b.u.t.toned to her throat and grinning with every tooth. Desk drawers could be so revealing.

He'd been about to switch on her computer and learn even more about her when he heard her out in the hall, fumbling for her door key.

He'd barely had time to sweep everything back into the drawers and push them shut, then conceal himself before she'd entered.

She'd diligently searched the rest of the apartment before returning to the living room, where he'd decided to reveal himself.

He'd known she'd be frightened but not so exquisitely. She was his, and she knew it immediately. The knowledge had stopped her throat and silenced her with its terrible truth.

That was why he'd taken his time. He wasn't going to harm her, but she didn't know that. He was in control. He could manage an orderly exit. She wouldn't have much of a description to give to the police. Probably not enough to pick him out of a lineup and certainly not enough to make a positive identification. He'd be well away and in the clear.

Dressed in clothes from his respectable wardrobe and clean shaven, his artificial dentures removed, he was reasonably confident he could pa.s.s her in the street or sit opposite her on the subway, and she might suspect he was the same man but she couldn't be sure.

From now on, uncertainty would be her constant companion. Even in her dreams she would doubt.

Thoughts. She would be the victim of her thoughts, just as he was of his. Thoughts couldn't hurt anyone, but she wouldn't know that. Not in her heart. Not for sure.

Walking swiftly toward the corner where he could hail a cab, he smiled. Mary Bakehouse might never be sure of anything else in her life.

That he could do such a thing to her, and so easily, the special power that he had, gave him a partial erection. He bent slightly forward as he walked so no one would notice. And if they did, so what?

The power and control...

His erection persisted. Mary would find the mess in her desk drawers and know he'd examined their contents, but that was okay. He wanted her to know. Ultimately, that would work for him.

She'd probably report their encounter to the authorities, but she'd soon find out they really couldn't do anything about it, and they certainly couldn't guarantee it wouldn't happen again.

That would make her feel even more powerless.

Within a few minutes he was seated comfortably in the back of a cab, the incident with Mary Bakehouse fading behind him.

Thoughts were all they'd dealt with tonight, not blood. Later might come the blood. He knew that. He could deny it. He could fight it. But he couldn't be sure of the outcome.

Maybe he'd pay Mary Bakehouse another visit, and maybe he wouldn't. She knew that he might, and that made the night a triumph.

He hadn't set out to hurt her, and he hadn't. Still, in a way, their encounter had been a success for him. Ask Mary Bakehouse, and if she could bring herself to be honest, she'd admit that.

Whether she lived or died depended entirely upon his whim. He remembered her complete loss of control, the warm urine escaping her body. They both recognized at that moment her fetid, trickling surrender.

She belonged to him. She understood that in the very depths of her soul, in the dark recesses of her brain where the demons played.

That was enough for now.