Whatever she was selling, he wasn't interested.
He worked his billfold from the back pocket of his jeans, flipped it open, and pulled out a piece of folded newspaper.
"What's that?" the woman asked, hanging over his shoulder.
"Something I saved."
He'd been closely following the Lucia Killer—which was what one of the local papers was now calling the guy. The other major paper, in a lame attempt to be original, had decided to call him the Scarlet Pimpernel since it was rumored that his signature had something to do with red roses. Gavin had read the killer's profile in the paper, trying to find some kind of connection, trying to find something that might spark a memory. It seemed familiar. But maybe that was because he'd read it so many times. . . .
How was a guy to know?
He unfolded the paper; it was soft and creased. And even though he'd read it a million times, he read it again.
It could be him. Almost everything about the profile sounded like him.
"That an article about the Lucia Killer?" the woman asked. "I'm getting sick of hearing about him, aren't you? Every time I turn on the TV, they're talking about it."
For a moment he'd forgotten about her, forgotten he was in a public place. She didn't fit the victim profile. She was blond, but she was too old.
"Yeah." He refolded the clipping and put it back in his billfold.
Gavin was tired of the place. He shoved himself to his feet and pocketed the pile of wadded-up bills from the counter, tucking them deep into the front pocket of his jeans. Without another word, he left.
It was a Friday night. Campus bars would be packed with much more interesting possibilities.
He took University Avenue west, to the U of M campus, in search of music and alcohol and young blondes. He would find some and see what happened. See if he got the urge to do anything weird, then maybe he would have the answer everybody was seeking, then maybe he would know.
Gavin wasn't a great-looking guy, but he'd been told there was something dangerous about him that appealed to the opposite sex. It must have been true, because within ten minutes of stepping into the first club, girls began hitting on him. College girls who were drunk and horny—and not shy about letting a guy know it.
He bought drinks and had drinks bought for him. He even danced, mostly slow dances that involved rubbing and making out. At one point, a bouncer came out to the floor and told him and the chick he was dancing with to cool it or he'd throw them out.
That's when Gavin looked at the girl he was holding tightly to his crotch. She was young and tan and blond. Perfect. He asked her if she wanted to come home with him, and she said yes.
This is easy, he thought. Like picking dandelions.
Maybe I am the killer
.
On the way to his place, he stopped at a coffee shop where, if the right question was asked, a guy could buy his drug of choice. Gavin's drugs were pot and heroin. After the purchase, he slipped them into his pocket and made his way back outside, where the girl was waiting in the passenger seat of his car.
"You didn't get me anything to drink?" she whined, pouting.
"You want something?"
She stuck out her chest and cocked her head to one side. "Yeah."
He went around the block and pulled into the parking lot of a liquor store, where he grabbed a fifth of cheap whiskey. "I'll take one of these too," he said, pulling a red rose from a container next to the cash register. He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter.
The rose sure made up for any slacking off on his part. She sniffed it, and stroked it against her cheek, then against his face. She began to get so hot for him that he could barely drive. She had her hands all over him. When she started fiddling with the zipper on his pants, he pushed her away.
"Ten more minutes," he said. "We'll be there in ten minutes."
They stumbled into his house. He poured whiskey into glasses and handed her one. She dropped the rose on the table next to the portable phone, took a long swallow, and then began pulling off her clothes. He did the same, and pretty soon they were lying naked on the couch where he'd attacked Gillian, except that this girl was digging the hell out of him, screaming and clawing and biting. When it was over, they were both sweating and panting like two wild animals.
"Wanna do some smack?" he asked.
She shook her head and reached for the whiskey. She drank straight from the bottle, her head tilted back. When she straightened, the brown-tinged liquid ran down her chin, onto her bare breasts. Her eyes were glazed, her lips swollen, her blond hair hanging wet in front of her face.
He grew hard and took the bottle from her. He helped her to her feet and led her into his bedroom, where they fucked again. This time she didn't seem to enjoy it. This time she was almost comatose.
And he thought in amazement and disgust—for him, for her, for both?—
This wasted chick whose name I don't even know is somebody's daughter. Somebody's little girl.
He left her passed out on the bed, tugged on his jeans, and went to the living room to smoke some pot and drink the rest of the whiskey. Time became weird. He forgot the girl was in his house. Then, a little later, he remembered her.
I'll bet it's me. I'll bet I'm the one.
The idea of being a famous murderer suddenly appealed to him. It made sense.
He got to his feet and stood there swaying for a few moments before spotting the wilted rose on the floor. Smiling, he picked it up and staggered to the bedroom. The girl was where he'd left her—naked and passed out. She was disgusting. She made him sick. He couldn't believe he'd fucked her.
He rummaged around and found some rope. He tied her hands to the headboard, then took the rose and rubbed it between his palms, the petals breaking and falling across her body. He got out his camera and took some pictures.
She slept through it all.
Killing her.
That's what came next.
He found a knife in the kitchen. He turned it in his hand, admiring it. The size and shape were remarkably similar to the knife left on the floor next to his murdered grandmother.
Kill her, he told himself. Kill her now.
He stood at the foot of the bed for a long time, clutching the knife in his hand, staring at the blond chick, feeling nothing for her. In his mind, he pictured Fiona Portman lying on the ground, blood pouring from a gash in her head. He could see his own hands on a massive rock, holding it high. . . .
The heroin.
He hadn't done the heroin yet.
He returned to the living room to snort the heroin he'd bought. He hadn't done any in a long time, but the rush, when it came, was well remembered. Well appreciated.
Nice. So nice.
Why didn't I do this before?
Niiiicccceeee . . .
He toppled headfirst across the table he'd made out of a door and cement blocks. He and the door crashed to the floor. He lay there for a long, long moment, staring, his gaze finally moving along the floor, under the couch, falling upon the piece of paper Gillian had left the day he'd attacked her.
He stretched out his arm, trying to reach it, his fingers finally coming into contact with the scrap of paper.
In case you need to get in touch with me, she'd said.
The paper felt weird. Thin and dry as moth wings.
It seemed to take days, weeks, months, but he finally rolled onto his back and unfolded the paper.
Gillian's phone number.
Gillian's pager number.
He should give her a call. Gillian, sweet Gillian.
Sinking. He was sinking, melting into the floor.
Find the phone. Find the phone and call Gillian.
It was like fighting a fit, holding it back as long as he could before finally allowing it to overtake him. Lying on his back, he twisted his head, looking around. There was the portable phone beside him.
He tried to pick it up—it slipped from his fingers. It took three tries, but he finally got it in front of him. He lifted the paper to his face. The numbers weren't in a line. Instead, they looked like they'd been thrown down in no order at all. He blinked. He blinked again. The numbers straightened. Before they began marching around again, he punched in the phone number, then waited through four rings to end up getting Gillian's voice mail.
"Fu-uck." The word came out funny, with a kind of "whoa, dude" cadence that reminded him of his high school days. He would have laughed if he'd had the strength.
He lay there with the phone to his ear, breathing, listening to the silence. "Fu-uck," he repeated, and then hung up. The hand with the phone dropped to his stomach. He was drifting away when he remembered that Gillian had left her pager number too.
Chapter 20
Gillian's beeper went off.
Automatically, she reached out and silenced it. Pressing the button, she checked the caller's illuminated number.
Gavin.
The digital display read 3:46.
Not wanting to wake up Holly, she fumbled in the dark for her mobile phone. On her back, head against the pillow, she flipped it open and pressed the button to check her voice mail. There was one message, sent at 3:41. She punched in her PIN code, then listened to a long silence followed by a mumbled "Fu-uck."
According to the caller ID, the message was also from Gavin. No surprise there. He was known for his eloquence.
But had that fuck sounded strange? Thick? Groggy?
She sat up cross-legged in bed and punched his number. He didn't have voice mail or an answering machine, so she listened to endless ringing. She hung up and tried again. "Come on, you idiot. You just paged me."
No answer.
She sat there, trying to figure out what to do.
She could call the police and request that someone check up on him, but it could be nothing, just another one of the weird things Gavin did. Or he could be smoking pot. If that were the case, he'd be sent back to prison.
With a resigned sigh, she got out of bed and searched for the clothes she'd worn earlier.
After getting dressed and strapping her Smith & Wesson to her ankle, she gave Holly a gentle shake. That was followed by a much harder shake when the girl failed to respond.
"Huh?" Holly said groggily.
Gillian leaned close and whispered, "I have to go look in on a friend." She mentally calculated how long it would take to get to Gavin's. "I should be back within two hours. If not, I'll be here before school starts."
Holly didn't answer.
Gillian shook her again. "Holly? Did you hear me? Don't leave the house without me."
"Uh? Oh, yeah. Back before school starts. Gotcha. Ten-four, Eleanor."
Gillian grabbed her coat and hurried from the room. Outside, she spotted the detectives parked halfway down the block. The night was cold and silent, and she could see her breath as she hurried to her car.
On the way to Gavin's, she pulled out her phone and tried his number again. Two miles later, when she didn't get an answer, she disconnected.
At least the traffic wasn't bad. She made it to Gavin's in under fifteen minutes.
She pulled to an abrupt halt next to the curb. All of the houses in the block were dark except for Gavin's. She hurried to the door and knocked. She hadn't expected an answer and didn't get one. She tried the doorknob.
Unlocked.
"Gavin?" She opened the door—and let out a startled gasp.
Lying on his back in the middle of a broken table was Gavin. Dressed in nothing but a pair of tattered jeans, he was unconscious, his face white, his lips blue. Beside him was an empty whiskey bottle. In the air hung the earthy, cloying scent of pot.
She ran to his side and dropped down next to him, grabbing him by the arm. His skin was ice-cold. "You idiot!" she shouted. She examined his hands: his fingertips were blue. Trembling, she felt for a pulse and thought she detected a weak flutter. She lifted his lids and checked his pupils. Pinpoints.
She pulled out her phone and dialed 911.
"This is Agent Cantrell of the BCA," she said when the operator answered. "I have an overdose victim with me. Request immediate transport."
"Do you know what the victim has taken?" the operator asked.
"No." She looked around and spotted a square of tinfoil in the litter surrounding him. Inside was a white powder residue. "Cocaine, maybe. Or heroin."
The operator double-checked the name and address and dispatched an ambulance.
Gillian disconnected. It could be too late by the time they got there. It could be too late already.
She punched number three on her speed dial: Mary's mobile phone.
Fortunately Mary slept with her cell phone on; she answered before the second ring.
"I'm at Gavin's house," Gillian said, shaky and breathless. "He's overdosed."
"Have you called 911?" Mary's voice sounded sleep-tinged but alert.