He stopped pacing and faced her, propping his butt against the edge of the kitchen table. “Which one, though? Which brother?”
“I came home to try to figure that out.”
“You’re going to use your sight.”
“That’s the plan. I’ve still got the scarf. All I need is the venue.”
He loosened his tie. “The urinal downstairs again, or should we find a church?”
“The basement’s good. I want to do this quick.”
Garcia took off his blazer and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Let’s get to it.”
“One more thing: I got a call at the office.”
“Yeah?”
“Professor said he’s got a student missing.”
“Is he up to something?”
“I think I believe him. He said her name is Regina Ordstruman. Gone since Friday. Maybe since Thursday.”
“He volunteered that information?”
“That’s about all I could get out of him before his lawyer friend made him hang up the phone.”
Garcia yanked off his tie. “Fucking lawyer.”
“Forget about him. We might have a missing girl, and my sight could find her.”
He threw his tie on the table. “Right. That’s right.”
“I’ve got to run upstairs and get the scarf.” She headed for the steps spiraling up to her sleeping loft. “Mind if I quickly throw on some jeans while I’m at it?”
“Go ahead,” he said. “Wish you had a pair that fit me.”
While she changed, she heard him opening her refrigerator. Bernadette liked that he felt at home in her condo. It took her only a couple of minutes to change, but he was finished with his sandwich by the time she came down. “Superb salami.”
She held up the bagged scarf. “Ready?”
He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “Let’s rock.”
Chapter 35
THE DUCT TAPE was a bitch.
While the stretch of tape at her wrists developed a small tear, she’d made little additional progress in her bid to free herself. The stuff kept sticking to the shower door’s edging, forcing her to stop and start again. Her knees ached, and at the same time her taped ankles were losing sensation, making it difficult to keep her balance. She’d gone from perspiring to shivering as the sweat coated and cooled her body. The lack of food was making her light-headed. As her concentration wavered, so did her determination to escape.
She repeatedly rested her forehead against the edge of the shower door. Was she in the middle of a bad dream? Of all the rotten men in her life, why had she picked this bastard to star in her nightmare?
THE BASTARD was in the kitchen making a sandwich to settle his nervous stomach. There was something comforting in the mechanical assembly of layers. Bread. Mayo. Cheese. Meat. Tomato. Lettuce. Bread. On the counter, between the jar of mayo and the bag of sliced whole wheat, was a handgun. He’d brought it out of storage for reassurance.
He’d been startled by the information on the six o’clock news. While the suspect sketch was vague, the very fact that there was a description told him there was a witness to worry about. Switching from station to station, he’d waited for a name, but the police were holding that card close. Thankfully, no one had connected the most recent incidents to the earlier ones—not publicly at least. The diminutive FBI agent was the only one near to getting it right.
As always, he’d selected his prey carefully. With her frail form and fragile psyche, she’d been easy to manipulate and overpower. No one in her life cared enough about her to register her absence immediately. Those who did notice would dismiss her disappearance as a continuation of her pattern of unstable behavior. He had plenty of time to play with her before releasing her into the water.
Admittedly, with each woman he was feeling less and less satisfied. Rather than increasing his pleasure, pacing them closer together had frustrated him. He’d have to see if keeping one around before finishing her intensified his satisfaction.
Feeling generous, he fished two more slices of bread out of the bag and worked on assembling his guest a ham and Swiss. She’d need to keep her energy up for what he had planned. While he worked, he eyed the gun. Silly to take it out. Everything was fine. He’d put it back in the drawer before going upstairs.
BY THE TIME she heard him, it was too late for her to play possum. He stepped into the bathroom and gaped at his captive kneeling in front of the stall. He dropped the plate and in two strides was on top of her. She opened her mouth to scream, but all that escaped was a squeak. He slapped a hand over her open mouth, wrapped his arm around her nude body, and yanked her to her feet. “You’ve made a serious mistake,” he hissed into her ear as he held her body to his.
She felt his erection through his pants, pressing into her back. It terrified her, and she bit down hard on his palm.
He pulled his hand off her mouth. “Bitch!”
“Help!” she screamed, her voice bouncing off the walls of the tiled cubicle. “Help me!”
“Go ahead! There’s nobody close enough to hear you.” Hooking his hand over her throat, he growled, “If I strangled you right now, nobody would care. You’re of value to no one.”
“Fuck you,” she breathed.
His hand closed around her throat. “I could snap that skinny chicken neck like a matchstick.”
“Please … don’t,” she wheezed. “I—promise … I—”
“What do you promise? Hmmm? Tell me.”
“I’ll give you—”
“Give me what? What can you possibly offer that I haven’t already taken?” He cupped one hand over her breast and bunched the mound of flesh. “This is the only appealing thing about you, and even that is beginning to bore me.”
“Please,” she panted. She spotted her own reflection in the bathroom mirror and saw a pitiful stranger, her face red and contorted and her eyes wide with terror. Spittle dribbled down her chin. Her hair was a tangled bird’s nest.
He caught her looking at herself in the mirror. “You used to be such a pretty, classy girl. Now look at you. You’ve let yourself go, darling.” He released her, letting her fall forward on her face with a thud. “What was I thinking? You’re nothing like her.”
She moaned on the floor. A puddle of red was forming on the tile beneath her. She’d broken a tooth or her nose or both. Her entire face throbbed, and she wondered why the fall hadn’t mercifully knocked her unconscious. As she turned her head to one side, she felt the blood smear across her cheek. The bastard was standing over her, examining his bitten hand. She wished she could have taken a chunk out of his testicles. “Let me go,” she slurred, spraying blood along with the words. Eyeing the food spilled on the floor, she licked the blood off her lips and said, “I’m hungry.”
“Good. I made you a light supper.” He kicked the plate, smashing it against the wall.
She cringed as the stoneware shards ricocheted around. “Please. I’ll eat it.”
He stepped on the bread and meat, grinding it into the floor with the bottom of his shoe. “Bon appétit, ungrateful bitch.”
She rolled onto her back and coiled her bound legs back, preparing to deliver a kick. “Fucker!”
“That’s quite enough theatrics.” He stepped into the shower stall and returned with the bar of soap, dotted with his pubic hair. He held it over her face.
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, trapping her chin with one hand and stuffing the soap in her mouth with the other. “Eat that instead of the sandwich.”
The feel of his hair in her mouth repulsed her more than the taste of the soap. She gagged and coughed out the soap, sending it bouncing across the tiles. The white bar was streaked with red.
He stepped over her to get to the tub. “You need a bath.”
“Why?” she groaned, and closed her eyes tight. The question was addressed not to the man brutalizing her but to God. “Why?”