Chapter 11

September 15, 4:15 PM

A pillowcase reduced Emily Palmer's existence to blurred gray, and she couldn't even lift her hands from the armrests.  She strained to listen as his footfalls diminished and then ceased.  After several minutes of dead silence she was beginning to think that he had gone out through the back.  A loud ‘tick' made her jerk.  A sulfurous odor assaulted her nostrils.  A moment later she smelled cigarette smoke.  A sigh very, very close made her recoil as the man's face brushed the fabric covering hers.  She struggled violently, but couldn't so much as rock the chair, and her attempt to scream produced only a weak muffled protest through the gag. 

Mic knelt motionlessly and silent, savoring her helplessness as she bucked and strained against her bonds.  He closed his eyes for a moment to listen:  the creaking of the chair, the rapid breathing, and the choked sobs.  All good, but he longed to see her eyes.

Not this time.

A movement at the window!  It was only a black cat on the brick sill outside, sliding back and forth, brushing first one and then the other side against the glass.  Like a familiar spirit, the preening beast evoked a childhood memory.

The mewling had drawn him to the big maple behind the house.  A huge black cat crouched and growled menacingly.  Between its paws was a fledgling robin.

Mic took the cord from his pocket and moved behind the chair.  He lowered a loop carefully.  When it touched the bare skin below her collarbone she flinched.  Slowly he eased it up under the pillowcase, setting off a renewed spate of futile struggling.

The cat sank its claws possessively as Mic neared.  With baleful eyes it bit almost tenderly into its captive.  The hapless bird fluttered in pain and terror.  The cat lingered, delaying the inevitable while its yellow eyes blazed with wild passion.

Mic tightened the garrote experimentally, eliciting a satisfying fit of thrashing panic.

Fascinated, he poked at the cat with a stick.  It bit down, and the fluttering increased as the doomed victim tried vainly to break free.

With closed eyes he savored the feel of her life in his fingers.  He maintained a steady light tension, just enough to block the blood flow and build up pressure in the blood vessels of the face without cutting off oxygen to her brain.  He eased off before she lost consciousness.

After she gasped in two deep breaths, he tightened the noose again, applying more force.  Her panic brought the familiar build up, like a roller coaster pushing higher and higher as it approached the peak before hurtling downward.  The sudden descent into mayhem beckoned.

Not this time.

The girl coughed as he eased up and released the breath that he had been holding.  He looked down at his "little bird."  Suddenly, he jerked the garrote up viciously, pulling the chair from the floor.  Holding her suspended, he calmly checked his watch.

Twelve minutes.

Lowering her to the floor, he released the cord and drew deep drags on the cigarette as she coughed around the gag.  When her breathing had approached a normal pace, he knelt in front of her.  She craned straining to determine where he was.  It amused him that she could think it mattered.  He took a last deep drag, removed the cigarette from his lips, and studied the malevolently glowing coal at its tip.

After he had done what he came to do, he emptied her purse onto the couch and took the money from the wallet.  A quick look at his watch told him that it was time to go.  At the last second he snatched up the girl's cell phone.  On his way out the back, he took one last look at her and saw through the front window that a car had pulled up.  He was still in the back yard when he heard the man scream.

4:50 PM

Since the crime had taken place in an unincorporated subdivision sole jurisdiction fell to the Sheriff's department.  JR stopped on a sheet of plastic just inside the door and looked in.  The living room was as immaculate as a layout for Better Homes and Gardens except for an armchair festooned with duck tape sitting in the middle of the floor.  The head of the processing team looked up briefly to acknowledge him before feeding a pillowcase into an evidence bag.

"Finding anything useful?" he asked.

"Except for the tape, nothing else appears imported.  The ligature was cut from the blinds over there, and the pillowcase he slipped over her head came from the bedroom.  We'll dust and look for trace, but the scene looks pretty sterile.  Our best bet is to get a print from the tape."

"Know how he got in?"

"Not sure.  She says he was waiting for her when she got home.  No jimmy marks, so either she forgot to lock up, he had a key, or he picked the lock.  If the old man hadn't come home she'd be dead.  You should see her neck."

"How much of the scene is cleared?" asked JR.

"None.  This room's been photographed, but nothings been vacuumed and we're not through dusting for latents.  So stay where you are or put on booties."

JR noted the dumped purse.

"That been cataloged?"

"Yeah, but no one's checked with her to see if anything's missing.  The wallet's empty though."

"Give me your list.  I'll go out to talk to her."

"Oh.  We may have something in the kitchen," he said as he handed it over.  "A cigarette butt and scuff-mark where the perp ground it out.  Careless.  We might get DNA from the cigarette.  A scraping of the scuffmark for chem analysis might be useful if we find shoes with a consistent chemical composition.  It's not much, but it could help in court if you can find us a suspect."

"I'll get right on that," said JR over his shoulder as he went back outside to get the victim's story.

The tall, thirty-year-old deputy stepped from the van and slid the door closed as he arrived.

"She gonna be okay, Gwen?"

The department's rape counselor shrugged.  "Depends on what you mean by ‘okay.'"

"Can I see her yet?"

"I wish you'd hold off a bit.  Besides, I don't know what she could tell you.  She didn't see anything.  He slipped something over her head as soon as she stepped through the door.  Besides saying he was strong, she couldn't tell me anything---not if he was big, small, white, black.  Maybe she'll remember something later.  Right now she's in forget mode."

"She can't tell us anything about him?"

"According to her, he didn't say a word.  I know.  He had to say something---make a threat or something.  She says he was quiet---didn't even make enough noise for her to guess his age."

"Lead me through the sequence of the attack."

"He pulled something over her head as soon as she came in, took her straight to the chair, tied her to it with tape.  By the way, he had already placed the chair in the middle of the room.  After he immobilized her he played at killing with her---those are my words, not hers.  What he did was put a noose around her neck and tightened it enough to make her think he was killing her.  He did it repeatedly.  The bruising confirms that.  I'm taking her to the clinic in a minute.  Something else:  the sadistic bastard even held a cigarette to her.  One of her fingernails is as red as a beet.  Poor little girl.  He had just started on her with the cigarette.  Good thing her daddy got home when he did."

"After you get her settled, I need your report.  Sooner rather than later I'm gonna have to talk to her."

He pulled the notepad sheet from his breast pocket.

"Before you go have her look at this to see if he took anything from her purse."

She took it and went inside the van where Emily Palmer sat huddled against her father.  After a few minutes she emerged and handed it back.

"Her cell phone's missing.  She thinks that's all."

"Tell them not to cancel service on it."

"For what it's worth, you've got the crime scene for as long as you want.  Her dad's taking her to his sister's place.  Says he'd burn this house to the ground if he could.  He also says he's going to find the guy."

"I can understand that."

5:20 PM

She stood with arms crossed and shooting him a look that made Mic want to take her by the throat.

"I got held up in traffic," he said, baring his teeth in a smile he couldn't summon the energy to make look sincere.  "Did you get what I wanted?"

"You said to be here at four forty-five.  That was half an hour ago."

"Sorry," he said as he took a bite.

"If it's cold," she stepped closer, the fabric of her blouse touching his chest.  "Maybe you'd like something a little warmer."

Brushing up against me like a whore, he thought.  Trying to play me. 

He ran his hands up her back, thinking about what he'd done and what he still had to do.

I pity the poor slob who would marry one like her.  She's the kind that would blow up like a pig as soon as she got a meal ticket.

"I know what you want," she whispered.

He crushed her to him.

"That's more like my man," she breathed huskily.

"I got something special for you," he whispered.

"What is it?"

"It's not here.  Come on.  You'll see when we get there.  We'll take your car and I'll fill it up with gas for you on the way back.  First go put on that dress I like."

Breton County Courthouse, September 16, 2:00 PM

"This is a fishing expedition," said Judge Clarke as he laid aside the petition.

"Your honor, the suspect had a relationship with strangling victim, Rose Ford," replied the prosecutor.  "And two other women whom he knew were strangled likewise.  The method was the same as that which would have resulted in the death of Emily Palmer had her father not interrupted him."

"You mean the perpetrator," corrected the judge.  "This strains probable cause.  I'm going to have to narrowly define the warrant, and you're lucky to get that.  You can look for the Miss Palmer's cell phone."

"But, your honor, we need to be able to seize the rest of it.  If we don't there's a good chance that the search will just tip him off and give him an opportunity to destroy vital evidence for other cases against him."

"Then maybe a search warrant is premature, especially for this . . ."  The judge paused to read the list aloud.  "Bondage and sadomasochistic paraphernalia, violent pornographic materials, diaries, paper and computer files, computer storage devices, photographs, video tapes, women's clothing, jewelry items . . .  Tell me how any of that pertains to the Palmer case?"

5:30 PM

Mic smirked at the warrant.  "Phone cops, huh?"

He looked past JR toward the street.  "When will the mattress tag officers get here?"

"I have a few questions for you before we conduct the search, if you don't mind," said JR as he placed a small tape recorder on the kitchen table.

"You are suspected in the assault of Emily Palmer yesterday afternoon.  Anything you tell me could be used as evidence against you.  Want a lawyer?"

"I got nothing to hide.  Emily who?"

"So you understand that you have a right to a lawyer and that you don't have to say anything---"

"Yeah, yeah," said Mic as he reached for a cigarette.  "And you've got a right not breath my secondhand smoke, so you can leave anytime you want."

As Mic withdrew the cigarette to blow a smoke ring in his direction JR noticed the color of the filter.

"You are William McCulloch Boyd, correct?" he said.

"Yeah."

"Where were you yesterday afternoon?"

"Let's see---out to the lake, I think.  Alone."

"So from four to six yesterday afternoon no one can verify where you were?"

"If I need an alibi, I guess I'm just out of luck.  I kicked around out at the lake, picked up something to eat on the way back, and then I was alone all night.  I got nothing else to tell you---except I don't know anybody named Emily."  He gave JR a tight smile.  "I used to have a bitch named Emily---you know a female dog."

"Go stay in the living room while we execute the search," said JR as he clicked off the recorder.  "You noticed the warrant mentioned your car too."

Boyd appeared irritated but unconcerned.  "Just get on with it."

JR scanned the checklist and then walked through a cursory inspection, noting that the house looked more like a motel room than a home.  No pictures decorated the walls or dresser tops.  No magazines were scattered about.  Nothing personal warmed the place.  The living room contained only the couch on which Mic sat smoking, and a dust covered TV hooked to cable, but with neither VCR nor DVD.  There was no computer.

He had Boyd stand up and then checked under the cushions before running his hands into the crevices beneath.  Turning the sofa on its back, he checked to see if the lining underneath had been pulled loose.  Finding nothing, he checked the TV stand.

In the bedroom he found butts in an ashtray.  Like the one Mic was smoking, they had beige filters instead of the white filter on the butt from the Palmer house.  The closet contained clothes hung with military precision:  shirts to the left, pants to the right, and all hung at equal intervals.  A pair of leather soled black shoes sat on the closet floor.  He had noticed earlier that the athletic shoes Mic wore had an off-white, not black, tread.  The dresser drawers contained neatly folded clothes, segregated by type and color.  Socks were bundled military style, and aligned as if in anticipation of an imminent inspection.

The kitchen wasn't spotless, but nothing appeared out of place:  no dirty dishes, no empty glasses or cups, and an empty trash bin.  He found a half empty six-pack of San Miguel, an unopened quart of milk, and a white paper bag in the refrigerator.  Inside the bag was a partially eaten cheeseburger.  The ticket stapled to it identified it as purchased at Burger Town at 4:29 the previous day.  It was suspiciously convenient, but an alibi nonetheless.

The preliminary search completed, JR scanned the checklist used as SOP when conducting a search.  Xeroxed from an FBI handout obtained at a workshop two years earlier, it cataloged both obvious and unusual hiding places room by room.

He began with the kitchen cabinets.  They held nothing of interest, and there appeared to be no hidden doors or compartments.  He checked behind and under the refrigerator and stove, examined the light fixtures and outlet covers for signs of a hiding place, and turned over the metal frame table to see if the feet attached to the hollow metal legs had recently been removed.  After carefully checking the baseboards for seams betraying a hidden panel to the interior of the wall, he examined the vinyl flooring and ceiling tiles.  Finding nothing, he went back to the bedroom.

In the closet he found a ceiling panel giving entrance to the low attic.  Standing on a chair, he used a flashlight to examine the dark space overhead.  A thick layer of undisturbed dust covering the foil-backed insulation told him that nothing had been hidden there, at least not for several years.  He climbed down and began examining the dressers, removing drawers and checking for things taped to their bottoms or inside the frames.

Behind the bureau mirror he found something that quickened his pulse, a small faux-leather diary of the type sold in discount stores.  He read through its three filled pages quickly and then put it back.  He finished the other rooms and then went outside where the deputies had finished with the car.

"Nothing in the car, JR," said Hal as he handed over the clipboard.

"Nothing in there either, boys," he replied.

Because he was looking for it, he saw just a twitch of surprise in Mic's face, before it settled quickly into a blank expression.

"You guys can go on home," he said.  "I'll sign you out when I go back to write this up."

As the patrol car disappeared around the corner, Mic lit another cigarette, flipped the spent match past JR, fixed him with a stare.  Then he smiled.

"I haven't done a damned thing to you, but you're taking this personal."

"I'm just doing the job, Mr. Boyd."

"No.  You're making this---."

"Wait," cut in JR.  "I'm curious about your remark---that you haven't done anything to me.  Why would you say that?"

"Because you've been out to get me ever since Rose Ford disappeared.  Now you're trying to nail me for this woman I don't even know.  What is it?  Am I going to be your suspect every time you can't figure out what's going on?"

"Like I told you, I'm just doing the job.  If you haven't done anything then you don't have anything to worry about."

"Right.  If we haven't done anything then none of us have anything to worry about---not me, not Ricky, not Jill, not you . . . and not Betty."

At the sound of his wife's name, JR's hand drifted unconsciously to the butt of his nightstick."

Mic thought it hilarious.  "Lighten up, JR.  It was a joke."

"Get near my wife, and I'll blow your damned head off!" he shouted.

Mic laughed.  "Well, I'm sure you feel all better now."

It wasn't the words, not even Boyd's dismissive manner that bothered JR.  It was the feral, alien look in the man's eyes.  It made his skin crawl.

September 17

It took an unusually long train to block Lowell Street, but apparently that's what they had because a string of motionless boxcars blocked their way three blocks from the Palmer house.

"I've got to be back in two hours," said Richard.  "Jill's third class is out at the north campus.  I don't want her walking that far alone."

"I'll get you back in time," replied JR.

A crescendo of clangs rang out as the switch engine tugged slack from the couplings.  Graffiti covered boxcars began creeping toward the switchyard.

"Hand me that thermos at your feet, Richard."  He poured a cup for Richard and a capful for himself.  "I came across two interesting items in Boyd's house.  There was a sack from the drive-in over on Market with a ticket that shows it was bought about the time the attack."

"Someone else picked it up."

"Most likely his girlfriend.  I also found a sort of . . . diary.  It had a bunch of vague references to the three of you."

"The three of us?"

"He makes it sound like there was some kind of weird . . . triangular affair going on."

"You know that he dated Jill for several months last year before she and I got together.  We all hung around at the college together, but there weren't three of us.  There were four.  Marta was with us.  Is that what he was writing about?"

"Not exactly.  He makes it sound like you and him had something . . . like a bisexual thing going when you were in the Marines together."

"That's laughable," said Richard.

"It would be except one of the entries implies that you let a . . . a sex thing get out of hand . . . like maybe you accidentally killed a prostitute over in Africa."

"That's ridiculous!  You can talk to anyone who knew us in Somalia.  I had nothing to do with him over there that wasn't duty related.  I certainly never went whoring with him, not that much of that was going on over there.  We were all so afraid of contracting AIDS that Somalia was probably the most celibate military operation in history."

"Maybe he was talking about female military personnel?  Don't tell me there was none of that kind fraternization going on?"

"There was, only not for me."

"Do you remember a woman getting killed?"

"One of us?  No.  And I would have heard.  Everyone would have heard.  The media would have been on it like flies on roadkill."

The last of the boxcars cleared, and JR put the car in gear.

"The diary also suggests that you may have killed Rose Ford, and that he was worried that you might kill Jill.  My opinion is that he's trying to muddy the waters---and he's doing a damned good job of it.  Without physical evidence connecting him to any of the crimes, discrediting you and confusing people as to the real relationship between you two is a good tactic.  No telling what a jury would make of it."

"What do the rest of them think about it?"

"The diary?  I didn't take it in.  Wasn't on the warrant.  Neither was the bag in the refrigerator," he said with a laugh as they pulled to the curb.  "He brought it in this morning.  I guess I'll have to testify that I saw it in the refrigerator during the search if this goes to trial, but I didn't tell him that."

JR unlocked the door.  They ducked the crime scene tape and went in.

"His alibi isn't as good as he thinks.  In fact it cuts two ways.  If you assume he cooked it up then it shows premeditation.  And whoever picked it up for him is open to charges of abetting which could be used to drive a wedge between them.  Anyway, that's the prosecutor's business," mumbled JR as they walked to an armchair positioned at a forty-five degree angle near the center of the cold room.

"You see why he put her here?" he asked as he took a position behind the chair.

"The chair faces the door.  It's the first thing you'd see when you came in.  Using a chair fits, doesn't it?  He taped victims to one in West Virginia and in Walker."

"The men weren't his victims, JR.  They were his audience.  This is different."

"Maybe a variation on his theme---she was strangled from behind just like the others."

"It's not right," Richard insisted.  "She was fully clothed.  The others were strangled nude."

"Who knows exactly what he did to the others before he killed them?  Maybe he stripped them after they were dead."

"I don't understand the pillowcase either, JR---unless it's like standing behind them so he won't see their faces.  Maybe he visualizes another face, pretends that they're someone else."

"Leave that for the shrink to ask him while he's waiting for lethal injection," said JR.  "Oh.  He added one other thing this time.  Her dad interrupted him as he was torturing her.  Besides repeatedly strangling her to the point of unconsciousness, he held a cigarette---"

"To one of her fingernails," Richard interrupted.

"How did you know that?  That wasn't released to the media.  Knowing that could make you a---"

"He did the same thing during an interrogation in Mogadishu.  This is crazy, JR.  But I think maybe he did that to make sure that Jill and I knew that he did this."

"Why would he deliberately point a finger at himself."

"Because we would know it was him and have no way to prove it.  He told me once that it didn't matter what people knew if they couldn't prove it.  Now I understand the pillowcase.  It wasn't that he didn't want to see her face.  He didn't want her to see his because he planned to let her live."

"These guys don't de-escalate," objected JR.  "Besides, you should see the marks on her neck.  He got real close to killing her."

"But he didn't.  Try this out:  he knows her schedule, so he breaks in waits for her to come home.  He gains control of her without letting her see his face.  Then he ties her here in the chair where he can watch the street.  Then he spends . . . what?  Maybe half an hour tormenting her, acting out strangling her?  But he doesn't kill her because that's not part of the plan this time.  He knows her father's schedule too, so he stretches it out to make it look like he was interrupted before he was through."

"Again, why would he leave her alive?"

"I don't know.  Maybe to break the pattern and make it look like he's being persecuted."

"I think you're giving him too much credit.  The simple explanation is that the old man came home before he expected, or maybe he didn't know that she lived with her father."

"No.  This was like a raid.  He scouted it first and then picked his time, and set a timetable.  I think this went down just like he planned."

"I still don't buy it.  These guys are about one thing, and one thing only."

"A forensic psychologist told me that it was foolish to think they were all alike.  If it was only blood lust that motivated him, he would have stuck to the script.  You'd have found both of them in the bedroom, the old man in this chair, and the daughter on the bed."

As he thought it through chill certainty gripped him.

"He's sending me a message.  He's saying, ‘It's me, and you can't stop me.'  But he's wrong, isn't he, JR?  I mean the circle of people who suspect him now is getting wider and wider."

"That circle bothers me, Richard.  It bothers me because you're at the center of it.  It was created by you."

"You suspect me?"

"Of course not, but a defense lawyer would have a heyday with all this.  Everything connecting Boyd to a victim is related to something you've said or done.  You went to Missouri to dig into the death of that high school girl and you convinced the West Virginia people to consider him for the Scott homicides.  The topper is that you came to me about Rose Ford, and now you tell me this story about the cigarette torture.  I'm a friend of yours, Richard.  Any decent lawyer would have that out of me before my butt warms the witness chair."

"You see, it could be painted as you conducting a jealousy-inspired vendetta with me misusing my authority to help you do in your rival."

"A jury would never believe that," said Richard.

"Well, they wouldn't have to, would they?  All they'd have to do would be to develop a reasonable doubt.  Speaking of which, there's a ready made alternate suspect for them to use in the Palmer case---namely you."

"How am I a suspect?"

"Got an alibi?"

"I was at home with Jill."

"So it's back to the triangle he wrote about in his diary:  two violent guys obsessed with the same girl.  Actually, it's not all that unbelievable if you think about it.  The accusations you guys are making against each other go back to some really nasty stuff in Somalia.  How's a jury supposed to wade its way through all that to return a guilty verdict?"

"Just tell me that you still believe me, JR."

"Yeah.  You got Boyd to thank for that.  After the search, he deliberately mentioned Betty.  I almost lost it."

"Did he make a threat?"

"No, but I showed her a picture so she would know what he looks like, and I got my brother's German Shepherd staying in the house with us."

2:30 AM, September 18

He awoke suddenly with a feeling that something was wrong.  Jill sat on the edge of the couch, silhouetted against the window.  It was beginning to be a habit.

"Something wrong?" he asked, trying to still the rapid beating of his heart.

Stupid question.  Of course there was something wrong.

"I cannot sleep," she said.

In the dark, her voice sounded like that of a frightened child---not at all like her.

"I should never have told you what JR said.  You've got enough to worry you without the hypothetical stuff about the trial.  You want to stay out here with me tonight?"

"I kept hearing things.  I thought someone---he was in the house with us.  It is foolish."

"Not at all.  It's like when we were---"

"Please," she said, interrupting him.  "I am in no mood for another of your military analogies.  Just come into the bedroom so that I will know where you are and that nothing is happening to you.  Maybe I can sleep then."

"Are you mad at me?"

"I am not angry with you, Richard.  I am angry with the situation."

"The situation I have caused."

"We both helped cause it," she said, standing up.  "Perhaps if you or I had done things differently he would not be doing this.  Or perhaps he would be doing it to someone else.  We must deal with what is, not what might have been.  Bring your pillow."

As he arranged his pillow and bedclothes on one side of the bed, she locked the bedroom door and propped a chair beneath the knob.  She took the .45 from the nightstand.

"Keep this tonight," she said.

He removed the clip.

"With that hair trigger, I don't think having a round ready to fire is a good idea," he said.  "Don't worry.  I can slam in a round in a split second."

After removing the round in the chamber, he reinserted the clip and placed the automatic under his pillow.

"Besides, if he does try to get in, the sound of a round being chambered might give him second thoughts."

Settled down and bundled in his blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon, he had almost drifted into sleep when she spoke.

"I was angry with you," she said.  "I kept thinking about the Palmer girl and that he wishes to do the same to me.  Then I thought that he would never have even met me if not for you.  I know that you are protecting me, but I should not need protecting.  Why does this have to happen?"

He wished he could think of new words to reassure her, but nothing came to him. 

"Jill, I'm---"

"Do not apologize again.  It changes nothing.  Besides, you are no more to blame than I.  Aunt Mirabelle says that one cannot help what happens, but one can help where one is.  I went to the wrong place, Richard."

"To Cartier?"

"No.  To Mic.  I knew better."

She turned her back to him, adjusting the covers as if to signal an end to the conversation.  After a few minutes of silence, he thought she had fallen asleep.

"We must find a way to end this soon," she said suddenly.  "I cannot do this much longer."

"I think we're well on the way to doing just that.  Everyone's convinced that he's responsible for both the Walker thing and Rose Ford."

"Then why does someone not arrest him?" she asked bitterly.

"Acting prematurely could ruin any chance at prosecution.  When you arrest someone, then you have to charge them.  Without enough evidence to convict, you're just wasting you time putting them on trial."

"I know how the legal system works," she said.  "I know about habeas corpus.  But you said he would stop!"

Now she was crying.

"You said he would go away if the police got interested in him.  It is not happening, Richard.  It has only made him angry.  Now I cannot even run away and be safe.  He will follow me."

He wanted to hold her, to protect her, to comfort her and make her know that everything was going to be all right.  But was that for her sake or his own?  Suddenly he was more afraid than he had ever been, not of Mic, but of his own weakness.  He had been fooling himself---and her.  He was unequal to the task, and had been from the beginning.

"No, he won't," he said.  "I'll tell you what you're going to do.  You're going to go home.  Tomorrow I'll get the money for you.  I want you to go back the Brittany and find a good school there.  I promise that I'll send you the money you need to finish your education.  You can count on it."

A long silence followed.

"I cannot go back," she finally said.

"Sure you can.  I want you to."

"But I do not want to---and you cannot make me," she said, turning back toward him.  "So we continue doing what we are doing until it ends.  If I go back I will be all alone when he comes.  Here there are two of us.

In the night he woke to find her curled against him.  He thought about putting his arm around her, but didn't.  Jill awoke later and thought about moving back to her side of the bed, but she didn't.  Of course neither of them spoke about it in the morning.

6:50 PM, September 19

He started the car again to clear the windows.  Then he lit a third cigarette and leaned on the headrest, resuming his surveillance in the rearview just as they came down to the car.  He slid down and listened until they drove past.  When they reached the corner he slipped the car into gear and followed.  When he was sure of their destination, he turned around on a side street, came back, and parked to wait.

What he was doing was reckless, more reckless than anything he had done.  The smart thing to do was leave before he attracted more attention, but he could no more leave than stop breathing.  He lit another cigarette and cracked the window.

The Cougar came back sooner than he expected.  Marta was in the back.  He followed them out to the cinema, and on impulse drove past when they stopped to study the marquis.  Light glowed from Jill's cheek, and he clenched his fist, shivering in anticipation.  When they parked, he lingered at the edge of the lot until they were inside.

The entrance lock was a snap, but he couldn't get enough leverage with the picks to budge the deadbolt.  The back was easier.  Before going in, he went back to his car for the graphite.  He didn't like using it because it exponentially increased the chances of leaving useable fingerprints, so he slipped on latex gloves before he went back.  He sprayed only the front deadbolt, and then carefully wiped away the excess from the keyhole, reminding himself to dispose of the gloves when he left.  He could burn them when he burned the clothes and tape.  

The interior door from the laundry room opened with an irritating creak.  He almost decided to take care of it later, but that was the way details got overlooked, and on an op, there was no such thing as an unimportant detail.  Among the household products neatly lined upon a shelf above the washer, he found a small can of Three-In-One oil.  The less one imported to a scene, the better.  Had he known it was there, he wouldn't have used graphite on the deadbolt.  After applying oil, he worked the hinges until the door swung silently.  Then he wiped down the oilcan and put it back in its place.

Once inside the living room, he stood still in the darkness to absorb their aura.  The thrill of home invasion was as strong now as when he had first done it as a child.  Of course it was infinitely better when someone was there.  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noticed the pallet on the couch.  He laughed aloud at the absurdity of it.

All this time, and she's still teasing you with it.  I'll show you how to deal with her.

He imagined how humiliating it would be for Richard to wait all that time just to be beaten to the punch.  Intoxicating images ripped through his mind, each better than the last.

Tonight, he thought as he continued his recon.

A walkthrough familiarized him with the layout enough that he could find his way without bumping into things.  He tried to imagine all the contingencies, but he knew unexpected things always came up and had to be managed.

"Bathroom off the hall, kitchen back there, the back room, idiot on the couch there, and untouchable virgin in here," he said as he entered the bedroom.

Leaving the bedroom door ajar, he engaged the lock, and pushed a pick into the hole on the outside eliciting a loud click.  It would wake her up, so he would have to immobilize Richard quietly which was what he intended anyway.  He pulled the curtain closed and shut the door before turning on the light to search the room for surprises.  The gloves were getting uncomfortably hot, so he stripped them off and put them in his pocket before continuing his search.  In the nightstand he found the pistol.  After removing the clip, he slid the slide back to eject the round in the chamber only to find that there wasn't one.  Shaking his head in wonder, he flipped the rounds out of the clip and then slammed it back into the grip.  He pocketed the rounds, wiped the gun clean, and replaced it in the drawer precisely the way he'd found it.  Then he wiped down the nightstand he had touched.

Just in case, he reprogrammed two numbers on the house phone.  Wiping it also, he searched the other drawers, feeling carefully for other weapons, but careful not to disturb anything.  Finished, he wiped down all the drawer pulls, the top of the nightstand, the doorknob, and the light switch.  He thought he had wiped down the phone, but wasn't sure, so he did it again.  After turning off the light, he reset the curtain to the precise position it had been, and retraced his steps through the kitchen toward the back room.

As he went through he felt a spongy spot and heard a floorboard squeak softly.  He noted its exact position and carefully tested the floor without finding more of the same.  It worried him.  One creaky board meant there were probably others.  A thorough examination of his intended route failed to turn up one, however, so he went to the back room and sat on the floor to wait in the dark for them to return home.

The kitchen door rattled in response to a pressure change, waking him.  He glanced at his watch.  Eleven-thirty.

"Marta," he heard Richard say, but the rest of what he said was too faint to hear.

What the hell is she doing here? he thought indignantly as he heard footsteps coming into the kitchen.

"I think she enjoyed it a lot.  Thank you for thinking of her."

Good.  The snooty whore isn't going to mess everything up.

A sudden creak from the loose floorboard told him that Jill was just outside.  He stood silently and shrank back into the corner behind the door.  As he pulled a switchblade from his pocket, he heard something fall to the floor.

The damnde gloves!

"I thought we could all use a little light entertainment like that," said Richard, coming into the kitchen.

"I was afraid that she would leave college," said Jill.  "But the security system reassures her so maybe she will stay."

"Alberto told me to get the best available.  The keypad can't be bypassed without alerting the company, and they've got a direct line to the police.  All the doors and windows have . . . I forget what you call them, but they're these continuity strips.  If a glass gets broken or a window forced open it breaks the circuit and sets off the alarm.  There's a battery backup in case the electricity goes down.  As far as I can see, it's foolproof."

"I wish you had let Alberto pay for a similar system here."

"I told you.  We can't keep anyone out who knows how to pick a lock, but with the deadbolts and chains, no one is going to get in while we're here without giving us plenty of warning.  Not even Mic would be that foolish."

"I suppose you are right."

He heard the water running in the kitchen.

"I have school work to do, but I'm so tired.  I did not sleep well last night."

"You ought to be able to sleep better now that things are turning our way," said Richard as he swung the door back to check the locks in the utility room.

It bumped into Mic's shoe, but Richard dismissed it as a bottle of laundry detergent on the floor by the washing machine.  Mic squinted as the fluorescent lights flickered on.  Standing upright in a thin wedge of space bounded by the washer, the wall, and the open door, he held the switchblade ready for the inevitability of Richard seeing the gloves on the floor.

Seeing that the deadbolt was secure, Richard switched off the light and closed the door.  He turned back just in time to see Jill tiptoeing to reach something in the top shelf of the cabinet.  She popped the cap on the aspirin bottle.  As she took the aspirin she noticed his expression.

"You are staring at me," she said self-consciously.

"Sorry.  The last thing you need is to start worrying about me.  I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You are a transparent man, Richard."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Transparent is honest."

"Like I said, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You did not.  Under other circumstances it would be flattering."

"Well circumstances are everything I suppose."

"Yes.  Yes they are."

After they left the kitchen, Mic sat in the dark thinking about the bizarre situation she had maneuvered Richard into.  It was all he could do to keep from laughing aloud.

How could you be so stupid, Ricky?  They live to be looked at.  "Look, but don't touch," or "Look and touch, but not now."  "I'm not in the mood."  And you take it because you're "in love!"  Idiot!

He had decided long ago that love was nothing more than mutually reinforced lust with a shiny coat of pretence applied to make it seem less biological.  Like marriage and monogamy, it was a woman's invention.

"If they weren't split tails there'd be a bounty on them," he whispered, as he lowered himself to the floor to wait with the silent patience learned through long predawn hours of still-hunting squirrels as a boy.

Then as now, he filled the time daydreaming. 

At daylight the hickory trees suddenly came alive as if the tree rats had hatched full-grown from the nuts upon which they were feeding.  He drew down on one and blew him from the tree.  The rest scattered, but he picked them off one-by-one, catching the second as it ran along a branch, the next peeking around the trunk, and another leaping from limb to limb.

Their little bodies were satisfyingly warm and wet with blood as he stuffed them in the pillowcase to "give" to Mrs. Hollida on the way home.  He settled down on the hill above her house just as her light came on.  As she came from the shower, he scanned her naked body in his scope.  He held her right in the cross hairs, slipped off the safety, and slowly increased the pressure on the trigger.

A sudden thump startled him.

Just the sound of the refrigerator compressor kicking off, he told himself as he pushed the button to light his watch dial.

It had been nearly an hour since the sliver of light at the bottom of the door had winked out.  He stood slowly, careful not to knock anything over.  Turning the knob slowly, he managed to open the door without the slightest sound.  He listened for movement anyway.

Nothing.

Careful to detour around the creaky board, he crossed the kitchen, caressing the sap in his pocket.  The house was too quiet.  Each tick of the electric clock sounded distinctly as he made his way through the kitchen on tiptoes.  At the doorway he stopped, held his breath and listened warily.

No one was on the couch!

He dropped into a crouch, swiveling his head in case Richard had slipped into the kitchen to ambush him.  The light coming in from the window was meager, but enough to reassure him that no one was there.

The bathroom of course.  Okay.  It happens.  Change of plans.  He'll probably go to the kitchen for a drink before settling back down.

Rising, he moved quickly across to the couch and squatted behind it.

After ten minutes without hearing anything, he stood.  Inching along warily, he crossed to the hall, and then paused once more to listen.  Hearing nothing, he went down the hall to the bathroom.  The door was open.  A night light over the lavatory was on.  No one was there.

Frowning in surprise, he went back to the living room.  He approached the bedroom door.  Carefully he turned the knob.  It was locked.  She was still holding out on him.

You're in there . . . and the door's still locked.  What's going on?

He didn't know if it was a trap or just some more weirdness.  Whatever it was, there were too many unknowns.  Richard could have checked the .45 and found out that he had unloaded it.  There was only one smart thing to do.  It was not until he had used the picks to reset the deadbolt with a loud click that he realized that Richard would have had no reason to check the pistol to see if was still loaded.

"Richard?"

"Something wrong?" he said, coming awake at the sound of her voice.

"I heard something I think.  Maybe it is only my imagination."

"I'll check it out," he said, unwinding from his blanket.

Richard went through the house without turning on a light.  The only thing he found amiss was that the front security chain was unfastened.  He had been in the habit of setting it since Jill came, but had never done so before, so he decided that he had just forgotten.  The deadbolt was set, so he fastened the chain and went back to the bedroom, deciding that he didn't need to tell Jill.

"It was probably just the wind.  You know how old houses are."