“No,” Bondurant said, his face a vacant, bony mask as he reached for the receiver of the sleek black telephone that sat beside the sculpture. “You won't get the chance. I won't have my daughter's memory dragged through the mud. If I see one word in one paper about what happened to Jillian in France, I'll ruin you both.”
Kovac blew out a breath and moved away from the table. “I'm just trying to solve these murders, Mr. Bondurant. That's my only agenda here. I'm a simple guy with simple needs—like the truth. You could ruin me in a heartbeat. Hell, anything I ever had that was worth anything at all went to one ex-wife or the other. You can squash me like a bug. And you know what? I'll still want that truth, 'cause that's the way I am. It'll be easier on all of us if you give it to me sooner rather than later.”
Bondurant just stared at him, stone-faced, and Kovac just shook his head and walked away.
Quinn didn't move for a moment, watching Bondurant, trying to measure, trying to read. They had been so close to drawing him out. . . . “You brought me here for a reason,” he said softly, one-on-one, man-to-man. He pulled a business card from his pocket and laid it on the table. “Call me when you're ready.”
Bondurant hit a direct dial button on the phone and waited.
“One last question,” Quinn said. “Jillian liked to write music. Did you ever hear her perform? Ever see any of her stuff?”
“No. She didn't share that with me.”
He looked away as someone answered on the other end of the line.
“This is Peter Bondurant. Put me through to Edwyn Noble.”
HE STOOD IN the hall and waited for a long time after the rude rumble of Kovac's car had died away. Just stood there in the silence, in the gloom. Time passed. He didn't know how much. And then he was walking down the hall to his office, his body and mind seemingly working independent of each other.
One floor lamp burned low in a corner of the room. He didn't turn on more. Night had crept up into the late afternoon and stolen the clear light that had fallen in through the French doors earlier in the day. The room had a gloomy cast to it that suited his mood.
He unlocked his desk, took a sheet of music from it, and went to stand by the window to read, as if the farther the words were away from the light, the less harsh their reality.
Love Child
I'm your love child
Little girl
Want you more than all the world
Take me to that place I know
Take me where you want to go
Got to make you love me
Only one way how
Daddy, won't you love me
Love me now
Daddy, I'm your love child
Take me now
—JB
17
CHAPTER
THE MEETING IS in his honor, in a manner of speaking. He sits in the crowd, watching, listening, fascinated and amused. The people around him—he estimates 150, many of them with the media—have come here because they fear him or are fascinated by him. They have no idea the monster is sitting beside them, behind them, shaking his head as they comment on the frighten-ing state of the world and the vicious mentality of the Cremator.
He believes some of them actually envy the Cremator his boldness, though they will never admit it. None of them have the nerve, the clarity of vision, to act on their fantasies and release the dark power within.
The meeting comes to order, the spokesman of the task force stating the alleged purpose of the meeting, which is a lie. The meeting is not to inform, or even to offer the community a show of action. The purpose of the meeting is Quinn's.
“More important in this ongoing cycle of murders, I told them, was to begin going proactive, using police efforts and the media to try to lure the guy into a trap. For example, I suggested the police might set up a series of community meetings to ‘discuss' the crimes. I was reasonably certain the killer would show up at one or more of these.” —John Douglas, Mindhunter.
The purpose of the meeting is to trap him, and yet he sits here, cool and calm. Just another concerned citizen. Quinn is watching the crowd, looking for him, looking for something most people won't recognize: the face of evil.
“People expect evil to have an ugly face, a set of horns. Evil can be handsome. Evil can be ordinary. The ugliness is internal, a black, cancerous rot that consumes conscience and moral fiber and the controls that define civilized behavior, and leave an animal hiding behind the normal facade.” —John Quinn, in an interview with People magazine, January 1997.
In his sharp tailored gray suit, Quinn is obviously a cut above the local stiffs. He has the bored, superior expression of a GQ model. This stirs anger—that Quinn has finally deigned to acknowledge him in public, and he looks as if he couldn't be less interested.
Because you think you know me, Quinn. You think I'm just another case. Nothing special. But you don't know the Cremator. Evil's Angel. And I know you so well.
He knows Quinn's record, his reputation, his theories, his methods. In the end, he will have Quinn's respect, which will mean more to Quinn than it does to him. His dark, true self is above the need for approval. Seeking approval is weak, reactive, induces vulnerability, invites ridicule and disappointment. Not acceptable. Not allowed on the dark side.
He recites his credo in his mind: Domination. Manipulation. Control.
Lights flash and camera motors whir as Quinn takes the podium. The woman sitting next to him begins to cough. He offers her a Life Saver and thinks about cutting her throat for disrupting his concentration.
He thinks about doing it here, now—grabbing a fistful of blond hair, pulling her head back, and in one quick motion slicing through her larynx and her jugular and her carotid—all the way back to her spine. The blood will flood out of her in a gushing wave, and he will melt back through the hysterical crowd and slip away. He smiles at the thought and thumbs off a piece of candy for himself. Cherry—his favorite.
Quinn assures the people the full services of the Bureau are at the disposal of the task force. He talks about the VICAP computers, NCIC and the NCAVC, ISU and CASKU. Reassurance through confusion. The average person can't decipher the alphabet soup of modern law enforcement agencies and services. Most people don't know the difference between the police department and the sheriff's office. They know only that acronyms sound important and official. The people gathered here listen with rapt attention and sneak glances at the person sitting beside them.
Quinn gives away only the barest details of the profile he's building, experience allowing him to make a little information seem like the mother lode. He speaks of the common killer of prostitutes: an inadequate loser who hates women and chooses what he deems the worst of the lot to exact revenge for the sins of his mother. Quinn speculates this is not an entirely accurate profile of the Cremator, that this killer is special—highly intelligent, highly organized, clever—and it is going to take the diligence of not only the law enforcement community, but of the community itself to catch him.
Quinn is right about one thing—there is nothing common about the Cremator. He is superior rather than inadequate. He cares so little about the woman who spawned him, he could never be inspired to revenge against her memory.