Glen’s heart began to pound, harder than it ever had before.
CHAPTER 3
The building in which Richard Kraven had spent the last two years was a simple rectangle of reinforced concrete, thirty feet wide and sixty feet long, its foot-thick walls jutting out into the prison’s enormous central yard from the otherwise blank facade of a much larger structure at the annex’s western end. Its roof was sheathed in metal, and the only features that broke its drab monotony were the two high rows of glass blocks whose function was to allow a certain amount of natural light to come into the cells during the daytime hours, while at the same time preventing the inmates from obtaining any view at all beyond the confines of the building.
Inside, the cell block seemed to have been specifically designed to reflect the bleak connotations of the phrase “Death Row,” for its interior was nearly as featureless as its exterior. There were two rows of cells, six on each side, each cell ten feet square, the two rows facing an eight-foot-wide corridor that ran the full length of the structure. Though the one-man cells were barred in front and on top, they were separated from each other by walls of solid steel plate, so although the prisoners could talk among themselves, they couldn’t see one another. Each cell was equipped with a bed, a chair, a table, a toilet, and a sink. All the cells were harshly lit by long fluorescent fixtures hung from the high ceiling in three rows: one above each of the rows of cells, and one above the passageway. Completely overwhelming the few glimmers of daylight that made it through the glass blocks of the windows, the fluorescent fixtures threw a harsh glare into every corner of every cell, creating a shadowless world that totally confined without providing the slightest sense of shelter.
The cell in which Richard Kraven had lived for the last two years differed from the others in the block in only one way.
It was occupied.
The others, all eleven of them, sat empty and silent, for Richard Kraven was the only man Connecticut had deemed worthy of execution in nearly forty years. Indeed, until Richard Kraven’s sentencing, the building had been scheduled for demolition, but when the warden, Wendell Rustin, was informed that Kraven would be delivered into his hands for safekeeping until such time as the legal processes finally and irrevocably approved the killer’s sentence, Rustin stayed the cell block’s own execution. Before the prisoner’s arrival, Rustin himself spent a night in one of the cells, to emerge the next morning convinced that the harsh reality of living in the building would be nearly as terrible as the specter of death, for the warden had found that the cell block itself induced a feeling of abandonment and loneliness that nearly overwhelmed him during the eight silent, empty hours he had forced himself to endure.
Yet, if Richard Kraven had experienced any terror in his two years in the otherwise empty cell block, he had never given any sign or uttered any complaint. He had endured the waiting the way he had endured his trial, maintaining a silence that his guards found arrogant but which his supporters thought of as dignified, and granting interviews only in attempts to convert people to his cause.
“They may execute me,” he would repeat over and over again, “but they cannot punish me, for it is impossible to punish an innocent man.”
Now, on the day of his execution, Richard Kraven was — as always — sitting impassively in the chair in his cell. Today a book of Victorian poetry lay open in his lap, and to a casual observer it would have appeared as if this morning were no different from any other. When the heavy clang of the bar on the door at the far end of the corridor echoed through the cells, Kraven finished the poem he was reading, closed the book and looked up, his handsome face expressionless. His line of sight restricted by the cell’s heavy steel side walls, he waited, motionless, staring straight ahead until he saw Anne Jeffers appear within his field of vision. Then, deliberately, he placed the book on the table and rose, moving toward the front of the cell and extending his hand through the bars.
Anne glanced at Kraven’s hand for a moment, her eyes fixing on the long, strong fingers, the heavy tendons, and the thick veins starkly etched against Kraven’s pale skin. An image rose in her mind of those hands sunk deep into the organs and entrails of his victims. Involuntarily, she took a step back.
Pulling her eyes away from Richard Kraven’s hands, Anne forced herself to look directly into his face.
Though he was past forty, Kraven looked to be no more than thirty. The coal-black, wavy hair that had given his features a vaguely Byronic look had been shaved off the night before, but his face was exactly as Anne remembered it from his trial.
The softly curved, almost voluptuous lips; the straight, aquiline nose and wide-set eyes — movie star eyes, Anne had always called them — were the same as they had always been. No lines showed in his pale skin, no creases had formed around his eyes or mouth. When he spoke, it was as if he’d read her mind.
“If I were guilty, don’t you think it would show in my face by now? Don’t you think just the knowledge of what I’d done would have started to change me?”
Even his voice was the same, soft and reasonable.
“Did you ever hear of Dorian Gray?” Anne countered.
Kraven’s lips tightened slightly, but the flatness in his eyes didn’t change at all. It was that look that Anne remembered most, the cold flatness that had been the first thing she noticed about Kraven when she met him four years ago, after he’d been arrested in Bridgeport and it seemed as if every reporter in Seattle had gone to Connecticut on the same plane. It was those eyes that made his face a terrifying mask of almost alluring cruelty back then, and now, as he trained them fully on her, their effect hadn’t changed.
“Shouldn’t you be a bit more gracious?” he asked. “After all, you’ve finally convinced them to kill me.”
Anne shook her head. “I wasn’t on the jury, and I wasn’t the judge. I wasn’t even a witness. Neither at the trial nor to any of the things you did.”
Richard Kraven offered Anne Jeffers the smile that had convinced so many people he was innocent. Had it not been for the flatness in his eyes, his expression would have looked almost wry. “Then how can you be so sure I did anything?”
“The evidence,” Anne replied. Her eyes flicked toward the closed door at the end of the hall, and the guard, who was watching through a glass panel. How quickly could he open that door? Again it was as if Kraven could read her mind.
“Surely you don’t think I’m any danger to you?” he asked, his voice taking on a warm concern that would have soothed Anne if it had come from anyone else.
How does he do it? Anne wondered. How does he make himself sound so normal? Except for the shaved head and the prison clothes, Richard Kraven still looked exactly like the popular young electronics professor he had once been, back when his star was still rising at the University of Washington. “I think if you had the chance, you would kill me right now,” she said, keeping her voice level by sheer force of will. “I think if you weren’t behind those bars, you would strangle me without so much as a second thought, and then take my body apart the way you did with all the others.” As she stared into his expressionless eyes, Anne felt fury rising up in her. Why wouldn’t he admit what he was, what he’d done? Her voice rose a notch. “How many were there, Kraven? Besides the three you were convicted of, how many? How many just in Seattle? Five? Seven?” There was still no reaction at all in Kraven’s eyes, and Anne felt her rage building. There had to be some way to get through to this — this what? Man? But Richard Kraven wasn’t a man. He was a monster. A cold, unfeeling monster who had never acknowledged what he’d done, let alone shown any remorse. “Have we even found all the bodies yet?” she demanded. “For God’s sake, Kraven, at least tell me that it’s all finally going to be over!”