The more graphic his story became, the faster his breath came. She closed her eyes. She wished she could close her ears.
“The familiar, guilty thrill sent a wave of pleasure washing over me, and I …”
She felt him relax against the bed, the panting gone. Twisted bastard.
“… I backed away from the rail. My foot bumped something, and I looked down. She’d left a note under an empty bottle of liquor. I put on my gloves, picked up the note, and gave it a read. I didn’t much care now that she was gone. I put the note back so the police could read it.
“At the far end of the bridge, a couple of pedestrians were starting their hike from the west bank. Would they see her letter, or would a hundred people go by before it was noticed? It wasn’t a blatant suicide note, but it showed her mental state. I wondered how long it would take for her body to turn up. I headed back to the car. At least she was no longer suffering.”
He turned on the mattress and dragged the tips of his fingers from between her breasts down to her navel. “I’ll end your suffering soon.”
She snapped her head and tried to hide in the blue of the pillows while he climbed on top of her. His body felt heavy and damp.
He trapped her chin in his hand and forced her to face him. “Look at me,” he ordered.
She closed her eyes tight and tried to concentrate on the soothing radio voice, her only friend in the blue hell.
“This offering is by Aleksandr Borodin. Nocturne for String Orchestra. It was recorded by the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Leonard Slatkin. The venue: Powell Symphony Hall in St. Louis. Listen carefully and you’ll hear …”
“Open your eyes.”
Drop dead, she thought, closing her lids tighter. Her eyes were the only things she could control, and she was damned if she’d surrender them.
“Open them.” He squeezed her chin hard. “I could staple them open. Would you like that? I have a stapler right here in this night-stand.”
Her eyes snapped open and stayed wide with fear. He smiled at her and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Much better.”
As he sprawled on top of her, the bile from her own stomach crawled all the way up her throat and filled her mouth with acid. She swallowed hard, wishing the sour fluid were poison.
“I prefer my partners thin. No food for you, just plenty of … fluids.”
While he moved his mouth down to her breasts, she stared up at the blue ceiling, wishing it would crash down on him and kill him.
“I’ve always loved you, Ruth,” he muttered.
Chapter 23
EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, the door to the professor’s attached garage lifted with a metallic groan, causing Thorsson and his partner to bolt upright in the front seat of their van. Peering into the bowels of the garage from their parking spot across the street, the agents saw a young woman in a pea coat and baggy jeans exit through a service door and slide into the front passenger seat of a Saab sedan. A purse was slung over her shoulder, and a paper grocery bag was in her arms. Ten seconds later, Wakefielder walked out of the service door, went over to the driver’s side of the sedan, and got behind the wheel. The Saab started up with a smoky cough and backed out of the garage. After a stall in the middle of the street—during which the two agents flattened themselves on the bench of the dry cleaner’s van—the Saab restarted and chugged south down the street.
Thorsson called Garcia at home while his partner—a young, freckled redhead who always looked startled—turned on the van’s engine and steered out of their parking spot.
“He’s on the move,” Thorsson said into his cell. “The woman’s with him. She’s carrying something in a sack.”
“Probably the puke clothes,” Garcia said. “Where are they right now? In what direction are they headed?”
A pause while Thorsson got his bearings. “They just turned onto Cleveland. Heading south.”
“Keep me apprised. Any big moves, give me a call immediately. Need help tailing them?”
Thorsson said, “Red and I have it under control, sir.”
“The kid’s behind the wheel?”
“He’s from these parts, sir.”
“I know. Good. That’s good.”
Thorsson, with great reluctance in his voice, asked, “Should I give Agent Saint Clare the heads-up?”
“I’ll do it,” said Garcia. “You two just keep your eyes on the prize.”
Thorsson closed his phone and snarled, “That Breast Fed is leading Garcia around by the short hairs.”
As he navigated the dry-cleaning van, Red kept the Saab at a distance of about a block. “Why do you say that?”
“She’s got him convinced that there’s a serial killer running around. What a bunch of bullshit. I hope she falls on her ass on this one. Right on her bony ass.”
“I think she’s got a nice ass, actually,” said Red.
“I’m not talking to you for the rest of the day,” said Thorsson.
BERNADETTE FLOPPED onto her stomach, reached over to her night-stand, and knocked the ringing object to the floor. She felt as if she’d just fallen asleep. Stretching her arm down, she fumbled around on the floor until her fingers found the phone. “What?” she croaked into the cell.
“Wakefielder and the girl are on the move. Thorsson just called it in.”
Kicking off the covers, Bernadette jumped out of bed and scooped her jeans off the floor. “Where’re they headed?”
“South on Cleveland.”
She danced into her jeans while cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder. “Could be they’re going to the Minneapolis campus. If she’s a student, she might live around there.”
“Aren’t they taking a roundabout way?”
She stepped into her sneakers. “Yes and no. They’d go from Cleveland to Raymond to University Avenue. It works, especially if she lives close to the St. Paul border.”
“What do you want to do?”
She picked a sweatshirt up off the floor, grabbed her gun, and started spiraling down the stairs. “Did you say Thorsson is doing the tailing?”
“The kid is driving.”
“There’s some hope we won’t lose them, then.”
“Yeah. My thoughts.”
“I’m going to tool on over to the east bank,” she said. “I might luck out and get in on the fun.”
“Stay in contact.”
BERNADETTE HAD GUESSED the professor’s path exactly. The Saab went along Cleveland Avenue and followed the fork onto Raymond Avenue. The tree-lined residential area gave way to a stretch of neighborhood storefront businesses. Thorsson ogled a coffee shop as they rolled past it and ran his tongue over his top lip. “I’d love a cup of java.”
“Then you’d have to pee,” said Red.
“I got an empty pop bottle in back.”
Wakefielder, in the right lane, braked at a red light at University. A Saturn compact in the right lane separated the van from its target. When the Saab’s turn signal started flashing, Thorsson called Garcia. “We’re on Raymond at University, and he’s preparing to take a right.”
“The east bank of the U is a couple of miles from there,” Garcia told him. “Saint Clare’s thinking that’s where they’re headed. She’s on her way over.”
Silence on Thorsson’s end. Then: “We’ll be glad for the help, sir.”
The light turned green, and the Saab hung a right. The Saturn did the same, and the van followed. “Here we go. We’re on University heading toward the Minneapolis border.”
“I’m gonna call Saint Clare and update her,” said Garcia.
“You do that, sir.” Thorsson closed his phone and growled, “That little witch.”
Red gave his partner a quick sideways glance and kept driving. For a Saturday morning, traffic was heavy. At a red light, Red propped his elbow on the van’s door and rested the side of his head in his hand. “I’m starving.”