The Devil's Menagerie (34 page)

“And?” She heard the thread of excitement in his voice.

“I’ve been waiting all day to hear.” Braden’s Chevrolet had both a police radio and a car phone, she reminded herself. “Can you patch me through to Quantico on that phone? Maybe through the dispatcher?”

“I think so. But it’s Sunday night. Even Quantico must be shut down Sunday night.”

“I have Buddy Cochrane’s home number.”

When the call went through it was picked up on the first ring. Karen pictured the oak-paneled library she had seen on her only visit to Cochrane’s home, a room lined with walls of books and memorabilia—one whole wall filled with framed photographs that offered a biography of one man’s lifetime career with the FBI—Cochrane with Hoover, Webster and other directors, Cochrane shaking hands with Jack Kennedy, Cochrane with Nixon, Reagan, other presidents and senators.

“Yes?”

“Director? This is Agent Younger. Have your people been able to run those lists I requested?”

“You have another victim?”

“Yes … the girl who disappeared Friday night.”

“That’s three consecutive Friday nights. That’s a clear pattern—”

“I don’t think the nights are important,” Karen said. “He’s not going to wait another week. I need those lists as soon as I can get them.”

“I’ll see what we have. Stay on the line.”

Karen and Braden rode in a tense silence, Braden slowing along Washington Boulevard as he neared the center of town and traffic thickened. “I was going to drop you at your motel, but I think Captain Hummel’s gonna have something to say to us when he sees the special news bulletins on TV.”

Before she could answer, Buddy Cochrane was back. “Those lists you asked for came in earlier this evening. The faxes went out about an hour ago. You have your portable fax with you?”

“No,” she admitted, chagrined. “It’s in my room.” And the phone had been ringing with Braden’s call when she returned to her room. In her haste she had not checked the fax machine.

“I can have them sent again.” There was no rebuke in Cochrane’s measured tone.

“That shouldn’t be necessary, sir.” She looked at Braden as she rang off. “How fast can you get me there?”

B
RADEN USED THE
siren and his turret lights. In less than five minutes they saw the sign for the Red Roof Inn ahead. Braden careened into the circular drive in front of the motel as his car radio squawked.

“Ten-four, this is Braden. Whatcha got?”

“A radio car picked up a woman some people brought in from the beach. They flagged the patrol car. Woman claims assault and attempted murder. Officer reports someone worked her over pretty good, smashed her face in.”

“Where is she now?” Braden cut in.

“Officer reports taking the woman to Little Company of Mary. They’re baby-sitting her.”

“I’m on my way,” Braden said tersely. He stared at Karen. “My gut tells me it’s him. You coming, or do you want to follow up on your thing?”

“That’s a long shot,” she said dubiously. Would their serial killer have attacked someone on Sunday at the beach?

“You said this guy’s unraveling. If it was him at the beach, and this is one who got away, his luck’s running out. The son of a bitch isn’t invincible anymore.”

Karen nodded. “I’ll be here checking those faxes from Quantico. Let me know what you find.”

Braden’s tires squealed as he shot back onto the street, red and blue lights a miniature carnival against the darkness. For a moment Karen stared after him. Then she rushed inside.

G
LENDA
L
INDSTROM HALF
listened to the sound of the television set in the den. Unable to remain still, she paced between the kitchen—where she wondered if Richie had eaten dinner—and the living room, knowing that it was too soon to expect to see the headlights of Dave’s Nissan returning.

Richie was safe, that was all that mattered. He was coming home—he
wanted
to come home.

What had Ralph done to reduce the boy to hysterical tears? She dreaded the answer to the question. Glenda understood well Ralph’s desire to torment her by keeping Richie with him, but she also knew how short-lived that pleasure would be—and how any change in Ralph’s mood might cause him to turn on Richie …

“… interrupt this program …”

… and take out his anger on the all too human and vulnerable reminder of his reason for coming to San Carlos.

“Detective Timothy Braden—still known to many of our viewers as the Corkscrew Cop—revealed that the serial killer who has stalked and terrorized San Carlos for the past three weeks has left a grisly signature on each of his victims, carving their first initials on their abdomen.”

Glenda stopped pacing the living room, riveted by the television newsman’s voice from the nearby den.

“The latest victim, Nancy Showalter, joins two other San Carlos College students who have been murdered on successive Friday nights. Like the first two victims, Edith Foster and Natalie Rothleder, Nancy Showalter was described by friends this evening as a beautiful, warm-hearted and generous young woman without an enemy in the world. True to the stalker’s pattern, her initial N was cut into her flesh by her brutal assailant …”

Glenda stood rigid. A quiver ran through her body.

N-E-N, she thought.

“Police believe that the killer is spelling out a hidden message concerning the motive behind his horrific crimes. This reporter has learned that the Federal Bureau of Investigation is entering the case with an expanded task force …”

“Not N-E-N,”
Glenda whispered aloud.
“E-N-N.”

She swayed, her legs turning to jelly. She had to put a hand out blindly, grabbing the arm of a wing-backed chair to keep from falling.

She was suddenly clammy, cold, as if she had come down with the flu or a fever.

She stumbled along the short hallway to the door of the den and stared across the room at the television set. But the cheerful duo of TV anchors had already moved on to other news. Researchers in Pennsylvania had discovered a fat gene previously unknown. Soon, they speculated, it would be possible to gorge on chocolates and remain thin. The false camaraderie of the doll faces on the screen seemed grotesque, like the orchestra playing as the
Titanic
sank into the icy waters of the North Atlantic.

It was a coincidence, Glenda told herself. It had to be. What she was thinking was unthinkable.

She knew instantly that there was no mistake. The full horror of what she comprehended enveloped her like a cloud of noxious gas. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart pounded.

Unable to stand, she sank into a chair facing the TV set, but she no longer heard the words above the roaring in her head. What had she started all those years ago? All she had wanted was to be free, a chance to be herself. Instead she had thrown open one of the gates of hell.

In a dark corner of her mind she had always known that Ralph would keep his promise—that it would never be over for her. But never in her most anguished moments had she dreamed that innocent women would die because of her.

Edith. Natalie. Nancy. E-N-N.

For Lennie. Ralph, who had never liked the name Glenda—it sounded snooty, he said—was spelling out the nickname he had given her. He was the only one who had ever called her Lennie.

Spelling the name in bodies.

Her pain was unbearable, but it could not silence the shrill dartings of her mind. And one of those thoughts brought Richie’s babblings back. In their brief time over the phone the boy’s words hadn’t seemed to make coherent sense. Something about a woman and a flower. But he hadn’t meant a flower—he was telling her a name.
Iris!

Glenda moaned aloud. Something had happened to Iris.

E-N-N-I. Only two letters missing. Could there be another victim, her ravaged body yet undiscovered, whose name began with L? Or was that letter reserved for Glenda herself? That left only the last—

Oh my God! Elli!

She screamed her daughter’s name. “Elli!”

The reply came almost immediately, oddly plaintive. “Mommy?”

Glenda bolted to her feet. “Elli? Where are you? I’m coming!”

Glenda’s fear momentarily paralyzed her. Where had the cry come from? Not upstairs—closer. The kitchen?

“Mommy?”

The child’s cry came from the kitchen—a small, frightened voice. Glenda knew what she would find even before she got there. It was as if she had always known.

She rushed into the kitchen. Her whole world seemed to stop, like a moment in a movie when the soundtrack goes silent and the actors freeze in place. Glenda Lindstrom, housewife, mother, her anguished cry locked in her throat, standing rigid in the doorway. Pretty fair-haired child, image of her mother, her blue eyes brimming with tears, gazing up apprehensively at the man who holds her by the hand. Ralph Beringer, tanned, athletic, at ease, his eyes obscured behind the tinted lenses of his glasses, smiling as Glenda bursts into the room.

“Well, well—Lennie,” he said. “Isn’t this a surprise?”

*    *    *

B
RADEN FLASHED HIS
shield and had himself buzzed through the locking door to the emergency room’s treatment area at Little Company of Mary Hospital in San Carlos. Iris Whatley was sitting on a table by herself behind a drawn curtain. When Braden’s eyes met hers, there was an instant flash of recognition.

“I know you,” he said. “The Bright Spot.”

“Everybody’s favorite punching bag,” Iris said with a lopsided smile.

Braden identified himself, studying her closely. Her face was badly bruised, one cheek and the area around her left eye swollen. Her full lower lip had been cut. It was puffy but no longer bleeding. She was holding some kind of pack against the side of her head. She was wearing a pretty flowered print blouse and matching skirt, as if dressed for a special occasion. No pantyhose or stockings. Braden wondered what had happened to her shoes.

“You’ve been in the diner a few times. Coffee straight, am I right? Cinnamon roll?”

“That’s right. You want to tell me what happened, Iris?”

Her face went blank for a moment. “You’re a homicide detective?”

Braden nodded. “If the man who attacked you is the one we think he is, you’re very lucky to be sitting here.”

“Oh jeez, you don’t mean … he’s not the one who’s been …” The words trailed off. The blood drained from her face. “It was on TV tonight—I saw it out there in the emergency room while I was waiting—after they brought me in here.”

“I’m hoping you’ll be able to help us find him. Tell me what happened. Start at the beginning. How did you meet this man?”

“Same way I meet any guy,” Iris said with a trace of weariness. “Same way I met you, Detective … at the diner.”

She described her first meeting with the man she knew as Ted, though she now doubted that was his real name. A boy had been with him the last time he came in—Saturday, that was—a cute kid named Richie. She was pretty sure that was the boy’s real name because the man had used it several times. He was Richie’s father. The boy was the real reason she had agreed to a date with the stranger, Iris said—because he had brought his son to the diner to meet her. Who would expect a problem after that?

Braden tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. “You had a date with him tonight?”

“We went out to dinner, the three of us.” When she came to the scene in the apartment after dinner, Iris could not meet Braden’s eyes. “He forced me—forced the kid. Threatened me if I didn’t do what he said. I should’ve stopped right there, but … he’s scary.”

“Don’t start blaming yourself,” Braden said.

“It didn’t go down the way he wanted, so Ted was really pissed off. He locked Richie in the bathroom, which should’ve told me something if I needed anything more, and we went down to his car. We weren’t talking then. He was so mad he was grinding his teeth, but I was just as mad. I thought he was going to dump me at the diner, but when we got there he just kept driving. I knew I was in trouble then—that I was with a real crazy. I tried to open the door and jump out while we were moving—I didn’t care what happened. That’s when he grabbed me by the hair and started playing hit-the-nail on the dashboard with my head as the hammer …”

When Iris had finished describing her escape along the beach with her attacker in pursuit, Braden wondered if she really understood how close she had come to dying.

“You should be proud of yourself,” he told her.

“After what happened with the kid? I guess not.”

“You had no choice.” He was not sure if he completely believed that, but it seemed important for Iris to believe it. “You were dealing with a psychopath—a man who likes to hurt people.”

Iris stared at him. One hand went to her swollen cheek, fingers trailing along her jaw.

“Where is this apartment? The one where he locked the boy in the bathroom?”

“I can’t give you the number but I could take you there. It’s on San Anselmo, right near the mall. Vista something.”

“You’re in no shape to be going anywhere. Describe it.”

Iris remembered the building, what side of the street it was on, approximately how far it was from the mall—the second block north, she insisted. More importantly, she also remembered the apartment number: 110.

An emergency room doctor pulled the curtain aside and stopped, scowling at Braden. “Are you a relative?” he asked.

“I’m a homicide detective,” Braden said, fishing out his shield. “Asking her some questions.”

“This woman has a concussion,” the doctor said. “She also needs stitches for that cut on her scalp. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Braden gave him a cool, level stare. Then he turned to Iris. “I’ll talk to you again later. Remember what I said—you did fine.”

“Hey, come by for a cup of coffee, okay?”

K
AREN
Y
OUNGER STARED
at the name: Ralph Beringer.

It was on not one but four computer-generated lists. The United States Air Force was looking for him because he had gone AWOL four years ago while stationed in Germany. Air Force Intelligence was investigating him for suspected black-market dealings and illegal surplus weapons sales. Interpol wanted him for questioning on a drug distribution charge. Ralph Beringer was bad news.