Prey (27 page)

The doors opened and Winter got out. Two seconds earlier the platform had been empty. Now it was a crush of bodies, everyone anxious to get wherever they were going. He pushed his way through the crowd and pressed himself up against the wall to wait for things to ease off. If he was being pulled along by a sea of bodies it would make it much harder to spot Amelia. The train pulled away from the platform, quickly picking up speed. The last car rattled and sparked into the dark, leaving a large silence in its wake.

Winter gave it another thirty seconds then followed the signs and the crowds to the upper level. There were plenty of people heading the same way, but at least he could move without constantly bumping elbows and arms.

The main concourse reminded him of a cathedral. Solid stone, large windows and a massive vaulted ceiling. He walked slowly into the middle. With every step, he checked faces. Left, right, in front, behind. There were too many to track. Grand Central was one of the world’s largest stations. Tens of millions of passengers used it each year, tens of thousands every day. Winter could feel his senses overloading. There was just too much information to process.

He stopped walking. Straight ahead were the three massive windows that the photographers loved. He turned a slow three hundred and sixty degrees, looking for Amelia, and saw too many possibilities.
The brunette in the jeans and leather jacket. The blonde winding through the crowds. A redhead in a business suit
. They were all the right height and the right body-shape and the right sort of age, but none of them were Amelia.

He found the cell phone. There was only one number in the call log. He hit the button to connect the call and pressed the phone hard up against his ear, to try to block out as much of the station noise as possible. The call connected and his heart beat a little faster. It rang a second time, a third. By the fifth ring she still hadn’t picked up.

He let it ring out. Just because she said something, it didn’t mean it was true. Like Mendoza kept saying, she was a psychopath and psychopaths were known to lie. It was all about control. By telling him that she might or might not answer his call, she was trying to put him on the back foot. She wanted him doubting himself. She wanted him to keep dialling her number until she deigned to pick up.

Winter pushed the cell phone back into his pocket. If she wanted to play control games, then that was fine with him. To kill time he turned in slow circles, checking out faces. He wouldn’t put it past her to try and sneak up and tap him on the shoulder.

One minute passed, two. No calls, no taps on the shoulder. Five minutes came and went, six. The cell phone started to buzz in his pocket and he pulled it out. He didn’t answer it straightaway. Instead, he turned through another three hundred and sixty degrees, eyes searching the crowds. He saw plenty of people with phones pressed up to ears, plenty of people texting, plenty of people with their eyes fixed to phone screens. No Amelia, though.

He connected the call. ‘I’m here.’

‘I know. And you came alone.’

Which meant that she was here now, watching. Or maybe she’d watched him until she was satisfied he wasn’t being followed then gone to another part of the station to make her call. He pressed the phone harder against the side of his head, listening for anything that might give some idea where she was, but there was just too much ambient noise. He turned through another full circle. No Amelia.

‘You said you wanted to meet here. So where are you?’

‘No, I told you I wanted you to come here. You really need to pay attention to those details.’

Winter sighed into the mouthpiece. ‘Enough with the games, Amelia.’

‘Or what? You’re just going to walk away?’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to head on over to Brooklyn. Take the 4 train to Fulton Street, then switch to the 2 train and get off at High Street. I’ll text through details of where I want you to go after that. Now, in case you’re tempted to call in backup, I’ve paid someone to follow you.’

‘No you haven’t. It’s one thing to get that kid on skates to deliver a cell phone, it’s something else entirely to get someone to follow me. They’d need to know about surveillance, which they won’t. Not unless they’re ex-cops or PIs, and I can’t see you hiring someone like that. As for someone who wasn’t trained, well I’d spot them in two seconds flat.’

‘You didn’t see me when I followed you to the diner.’

‘I wasn’t looking. Big difference.’

‘See you soon, Jefferson.’

A click and the line went dead.

Winter held the cell phone as high as he could and hurried up the subway steps, searching for a signal. An electronic beep sounded halfway up and he checked the screen.
Brooklyn bridge park, pier one. Call me when you get there.
He broke into a run, taking the remaining steps two at a time. At the top, he stopped and used his phone to get directions. Five minutes later he was jogging towards the park entrance.

Winter took a moment to straighten his clothes and run a hand through his hair. Appearances were important. The last thing he wanted was for Amelia to arrive fresh and breezy, and find him looking as though he’d just run a marathon.

He counted slowly to three, psyching himself up, then walked into the park. Within a couple of strides he was struck by the same sensations he sometimes got when he walked into a murder scene. That familiar tightening in his stomach, the way his heart felt uncomfortably big for his chest. The rational part of his mind knew these were physiological responses to the excess of adrenaline flooding his system, but the irrational part was searching for ghosts.

Winter glanced around quickly, looking for Amelia. There was no sign of her. Up ahead the Manhattan skyline twinkled and glittered in the dark, and off to his right was the bridge. He had the impression that the park hadn’t been here long. The trees dotted around the large grass lawns looked young, as though they still had plenty of growing to do, and there was a sense that this whole stretch of the East River was slowly coming back to life.

He did another scan of the park, more slowly this time. There were a couple of women who were the right sort of height and age, but neither one was Amelia. He took out the cell phone and made the call. It was answered on the third ring.

‘I’m here.’

‘I know. You just strolled right past me.’

Winter fought the urge to glance over his shoulder. ‘No I didn’t.’

‘And you’re sure about that?’

‘If you’d been planning on being here when I arrived, then you wouldn’t have needed me to call.’

‘I’ll meet you down by the waterfront.’ There was a smile in her voice. ‘Five minutes.’

The line went dead and Winter put the cell phone away. He walked down towards the river and found a bench, then sat and looked out over the water and waited. It was closer to six minutes before she finally appeared. Winter recognised her straightaway because she was dressed in the same clothes she’d worn at the diner two nights ago. She stopped fifty yards away from the bench and had a quick look around. The impression she gave was that she was taking a moment to appreciate the view, but she was actually checking one last time to make sure he’d come alone. Satisfied, she walked over to the bench and smiled down at him.

‘Hi Jefferson, it’s so good to see you again.’

Winter studied her for a moment, his eyes taking in everything. He was wrong. This wasn’t the same outfit she’d worn when they first met. It was close, but there were differences. The wig was the same platinum-blonde colour, a colour that was almost white. Same battered Levis, same scuffed Converse sneakers. The first difference was that she had a laptop bag slung over her shoulder. Secondly, she’d swapped the baggy leather jacket for a suede one that was lined with sheepskin.

‘Hi Amelia. So who are you pretending to be today?’

Amelia’s smile widened to show the tips of her teeth. Her fake green eyes met his. ‘Do you like my new jacket? I found it in a thrift store. Then again, I’m guessing that’s where you buy most of your clothes.’

‘You haven’t quite got the hair right. It should be white.’

‘Artistic licence. I didn’t want to stand out too much.’ She fluffed the wig with her hands. ‘This was as close to white as I felt comfortable going. So what do you think? Just like looking in a mirror, right?’

Winter said nothing. He looked at her and wondered what the hell she was up to. Why go to all this trouble?

‘Okay,’ she said eventually, ‘I want you to stand, and I want you to do it slowly. Then we’re going to hug like we’ve really missed each other.’

Winter got up and stepped into Amelia’s open arms. He felt her hands moving efficiently across his body as she patted him down. A couple of people glanced over, but all they saw were two lovers meeting up, or perhaps a couple of close friends, nothing more suspicious than that. Amelia stepped back and held her hand out.

‘The cell phone please.’

Winter gave her the phone. He watched as she worked the screen with her thumb, watched as it disappeared into her laptop bag. She sat down on the bench and patted the space next to her. He sat down. Amelia moved the laptop bag to her side and rested one hand protectively on top of it. Winter found his cigarette pack and tapped one out.

‘Didn’t you see the signs at the entrance?’ she asked him. ‘No smoking.’

He pushed the cigarette back into the pack but kept the lighter out.
Click, click, flick
with the flame. He did this a second time, a third time. He felt her watching him.

‘What’s the story with the Zippo?’

‘Who says there’s a story?’

‘There’s a story.’

He clicked the lighter closed and looked at it for a moment. The brass was pitted and scratched. The combination of the park lights and the moon made the metal appear yellow. He pushed the Zippo back into his pocket.

‘It belonged to my partner in the FBI. When she quit smoking, she gave it to me. Like I said, there’s no story. Not really.’

She leant towards him, eyes locked on his and kept going until the tip of her nose touched his cheek. Slowly she moved her head upwards, her nose dragging across his stubbly skin. Winter sat dead still, staring straight ahead. She reached the top of his cheek, paused a moment, then settled back into her own space, a hint of perfume trailing in her wake.

‘You’re lying. I can smell lies, you know.’

‘There’s no story, Amelia. She quit smoking and gave me the lighter. That’s all.’

‘This partner meant something to you. You wouldn’t have kept it if she didn’t. That’s a story in itself right there. So where did she get it from?’

Winter hesitated. ‘Her father. He gave it to her when he quit smoking.’

‘See, it’s not just a lighter, it’s an heirloom. You two were as close as family. Close enough for her to want to give you an heirloom. So what happened? Did she die of lung cancer?’ When Winter didn’t respond, Amelia put her hands up. It was a gesture that could have been contrite or apologetic, but was neither. ‘You don’t want to talk about it, don’t talk. I get it. Personal is personal.’

‘Why did you want to meet?’

‘I wanted to see your reaction. It was dark the first two times we met, and I didn’t quite have the jacket right. This one’s much better, don’t you think?’

‘Okay, you’ve seen my reaction. Can I go now?’

‘What’s the hurry? It’s a beautiful evening. I thought we might chat for a while.’

‘You want to chat, fine. Tell me about your father.’

Amelia smiled. ‘How about you tell me about your father first?’

Winter smiled back. Move and countermove, just like a chess game. In another world, another life, it would have been so easy to be disarmed by her.

‘My father was one of America’s most notorious serial killers. Over a twelve-year period he murdered fifteen young women. He kidnapped them then took them out into the forest in the dead of night and hunted them down with a high-powered rifle. He was highly intelligent, but obviously not intelligent enough, because he got caught. He spent twenty years on Death Row and then he was executed. Okay, your turn.’

Amelia shook her head. ‘You’re going to have to do better than that. You haven’t told me anything I couldn’t find out online. I want something that I can’t read on a computer screen.’

Winter took out the Zippo and lit it. A thousand and one random images were flooding through his mind, pictures from the years before the arrest. Good times, fun times. Happier times. He narrowed the list down to six, then picked the memory that shone the brightest. He clicked the lighter closed and put it away.

‘He made the best banana pancakes you’ve ever tasted.’

‘Banana pancakes!’ Amelia shook her head. ‘Is that the best you can do? Your father was one of the world’s most notorious serial killers and you give me pancakes.’

‘Up until I was eleven my dad was my dad. He could be distant at times, controlling at others. Sometimes I hated him, sometimes I loved him. Like I say, he was my dad, the guy who made the best banana pancakes in the world.’

She considered this for a moment, then nodded to herself. ‘You didn’t have a clue what he was, did you?’

‘No I didn’t. I should have, though.’

‘And this is where I’m supposed to tell you that you were just a kid? I mean, how could you have known? That’s what everyone else says, right?’ Her face brightened. ‘Yes, you should have known, Jefferson. You should have seen him for what he really was. But what then? Would you have turned him in? The guy who made the best banana pancakes in the world? Not a chance.’

‘Okay, your turn.’

Amelia didn’t say anything straightaway. She broke eye contact and watched a middle-aged guy walk by, trailing a golden retriever on a lead.

‘My father loved music,’ she said eventually.

Winter waited for more, but there wasn’t anything. ‘A lot of people love music. I love music. With all due respect, you’re not exactly giving me banana pancakes here.’

Her eyes moved away from the guy with the dog and back to Winter. She smiled one of the most disturbing smiles he’d ever seen. ‘His favourite composer was Strauss. He had one LP that he would play continuously while we ate dinner. Over and over and over. As soon as it finished, he’d get up and put the needle back to the start again.’

‘I saw the CD player and the table in the bomb shelter. I’m guessing you carried on the tradition, right? You ate at the table, your father ate out of the dog bowl, and Strauss played gently in the background.’

‘Wrong again, Jefferson. Well, mostly wrong. Dinner time was quiet time.’

‘So what was the CD player for?’

‘That was so he didn’t get lonely in the dark.’

The statement didn’t make sense to start with, and then it did. ‘The stockpile of batteries in the cellar was for the CD player, wasn’t it. Day and night, you made him listen to that same CD. Over and over and over.’

‘I told him that I’d turn it off if he burned his eye out. It took a while to convince him, but eventually he believed me. It took longer to convince him the second time.’ She paused. ‘When I was little I wanted to be a dancer. When my father found out, do you know what he did? He made me dance for him every night after dinner, and he’d just sit there laughing at me. I hate Strauss almost as much as I hate him.’ Another pause. ‘Okay, your turn. When we were in the diner, you wanted to kill that cook, didn’t you?’

For a split second the world shrunk down until all it contained was the bench that the two of them were sitting on.

‘You’re way off the mark,’ he said evenly.

‘Liar. I saw the way your pupils dilated. I saw your breathing speed up. You were imagining what it would be like to stick that knife into his eye.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Go on, admit it.’

‘You’re wrong.’

Amelia leant in close, closer. Her nose touched his cheek and she sniffed. She let out a long breath that warmed his skin, then settled back into her own space again.

‘You’re wrong,’ he repeated.

‘We could kill someone right now, you know.’ Her left hand moved in a loose arc that seemed to take in the whole park and everyone in it. ‘Pick a sheep, any sheep.’

‘I’m not playing this game.’

‘Come on, Jefferson, loosen up a little. Okay, how about that guy over there wearing the red NYC ball cap? So tacky, and the way he’s staring up at the bridge, he’s got to be a tourist. He deserves to die just for that, don’t you think?’ She dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. ‘What about that old guy over there near the next bench? He must be at least a hundred. If we kill him, we’d be doing him a favour. He’s probably riddled with cancer.’

Winter said nothing.

‘I could make you choose, you know.’ She patted her laptop bag. ‘I’ve got a gun in here. Either choose one or I’ll shoot both. I’d happily waste two bullets to put those little sheep out of their misery.’

Winter sighed and shook his head. ‘Amelia, you’re not going to shoot anyone, so let’s drop it. How far do you think you’re going to get before you get taken down? Sure, you might make it out of the park, but I can’t see you getting much further than that. A gun goes off around here and someone’s going to call the cops. This isn’t exactly the Bronx.’

‘The question isn’t how far I’m going to get, it’s how many people will I kill before that happens?’

‘Both questions are irrelevant. Yes, you’re a psychopath, but you’re not a killer. At least you’re not one who likes getting their hands dirty. It’s much more fun to get other people to do the killing for you, right? That’s what happened with Nelson and Ryan McCarthy, wasn’t it. You wound them up then stood back and watched. Control and manipulation, that’s what you get off on.’

‘I killed Omar.’

‘But why did you kill him? That’s the crucial question here. Why? You didn’t do it because you wanted to see him suffer, or you wanted to hear him scream, or you needed to right some perceived wrong. You did it to get my attention. Basically, he was collateral damage. If you could have got my attention another way, you would have, but you knew that would work. What’s more, you were right. It was probably the only thing that could have stopped me catching my flight to Paris.’

‘But that’s not the only reason? People always hide from their true selves. They keep their secret desires locked down inside their heads. Nelson did that. Ryan, too. I just helped them to reach their full potential.’

‘Maybe so, but that doesn’t explain why you killed Omar.’

‘What secret desire do you keep locked away, Jefferson? Or, let’s put it another way, what do you fantasise about? I couldn’t find any online interviews with you, but I managed to find some that had been done with the people you’d worked for. The common theme was the way you got into the heads of your prey. So the question I’m asking myself right now is: how do I help you to reach your full potential?’

‘I know where you’re going with this, and you’re way off the mark.’

‘I don’t think so. It starts with the fantasies and progresses from there. One day you’re daydreaming, the next your hands are covered in blood. And it’s not as though you’ve never killed. Sure, you can try telling yourself that it was in the line of duty, that the kills were righteous, but we both know the truth. Killing someone is easy. The trick is getting away with it. With all your training, you know all the tricks, don’t you? So would you like to know what it felt like to kill Omar?’

‘No, Amelia, I wouldn’t’.

She stared at him for a second, then her face broke into a wide smile. ‘Liar.’

Winter took out the Zippo and lit it. He snapped the lid shut and put the lighter away. She was trying to rattle him. What’s more, she’d almost succeeded. He forced himself to put his personal feelings aside, forced himself to inject some ice into his thoughts, forced himself to look at what she was actually saying without taking it personally. Amelia said that she was helping Nelson, but that was bullshit. The only person that she was looking out for was herself.

‘What did Melanie do to you?’

The smile slid away. ‘Melanie didn’t do anything to me.’

‘Then why did you want her dead? Was it because she was the popular girl at High School, and you were the girl everyone despised?’

Amelia laughed. ‘Do you really think that I care about other people’s opinions?’

‘Okay, not that.’ Winter glanced over the water at Manhattan then looked back at Amelia. ‘How about this then? Nelson got a crush on Melanie and you couldn’t handle that. When you latch on to someone, you need to be the only person in their universe. You did that with Nelson, and Ryan McCarthy, and your father. And you’re trying to do it with me.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Yes I do. What’s more, it’s working. Right now, you’re right at the centre of my universe. You’re pretty much all that I’ve thought about for the last two days. But what happens when the object of your obsession starts to stray? How does that make you feel? Angry, I bet. Absolutely furious. I’m figuring that you filled Nelson’s head with poison. You took his love for Melanie and turned that into hate, then convinced him to kill her. You’re lucky Nelson didn’t turn on you.’

‘Nelson would never have hurt me.’

‘And you’re sure about that?’

Amelia said nothing.

‘You lost control of him, didn’t you? But that’s the thing with fantasies. When they become real it’s never quite how you imagine. So why didn’t you stop Nelson killing himself? My guess is that it’s because you didn’t trust him not to implicate you. He was too unstable for you to trust with a secret that big.’

A sly look came over Amelia’s face. It was an expression that Winter had seen during those FBI prison interviews. He was circling close to the truth. She wanted him to know, but she was going to make him work for it.

‘Where are you going with this?’ she asked gently.

‘You told him to kill himself. That was your idea. It’s the ultimate control game. Manipulating people into killing is one thing, manipulating them into killing themselves takes it to a whole new level.’