He used two big, soft bath sheets to dry her, taking special care in all the crevices and underneath her. In the process, the table itself was dried, of course, so when he was finally done he used the controls to bring it back to horizontal. Then he used the programmed setting to lower the foot end of the table just a bit.
He stood between her feet and made sure she was looking at him with her wet brown eyes, and began unbuttoning his shirt.
She made a high-pitched mewling sound, and the muscles along her inner thighs twitched in sudden spasms.
"I'm already very clean," he told her. "Because I always am. But I'll rinse myself off first, just so you can be certain nothing dirty is going to touch you, Audrey."
This time a muffled wail escaped her, and her feet and hands jerked as she fought the restraints.
Hands on his belt, he paused. "Now, Audrey-do you really want another shot?"
He could see the delicious indecision in her eyes and savored it. Did she want to be largely insensitive to what was happening to her, but also completely helpless to stop any of it? Or was she willing to risk the terror, pain, and humiliation for the slim chance that she could exert some control over the outcome?
Her eyes closed briefly, and with a sob she went limp, acquiescing.
"That's my girl," he said, smiling as he began to unbuckle his belt.
The time he spent with Audrey was always energizing but draining as well, and he had to plan for regular breaks for himself to eat or nap or just rest for a while.
It was, he had discovered, another way to draw out the experience, to savor it.
It did seem to take a lot out of Audrey, however.
He left the room after their most recent session of love-making to take a quick shower, returning clean, dry, and naked; once Audrey had been scrubbed clean initially, he preferred to be naked.
She seemed to be sleeping when he padded silently back in, but when he pulled the tape from her mouth, she flinched and her eyes opened. Eternally wet eyes, pleading eyes, now sunken a bit and surrounded by darkening circles of faintly braised flesh.
Odd, that. He never struck her face, and yet those circles always appeared toward the end.
As if her eyes were dying first.
"Please," she whispered. "Please don't hurt me anymore. Please let me go. I won't tell anyone. I promise I won't tell anyone. Please-"
"Now, Audrey, we've discussed this. You're not going to tell anyone, we both know that. You don't have to promise me that. And we've discussed your punishment and the need for it."
"But I'm not Audrey. I'm not the one who abandon-"
He reached out a hand swiftly, almost completely encircling her delicate throat. He applied just a little pressure, tightened his fingers only until she began to choke.
He had learned to know and respect his own strength.
"Hush, Audrey," he said gently.
Her eyes grew huge and her naked body jerked. He waited until he was certain she understood, then removed his hand.
She gasped for air and coughed.
"Now, look what you've made me do," he scolded. "I've bruised your throat. So sorry, sweetheart."
She had to try twice before she could whisper. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-I didn't mean to be bad."
"I know you didn't. Hush, now. Be still while I clean you up."
Jordan met them at Venture Florist and was just getting out of his cruiser when they pulled up. "I checked with the deputies who followed up on those flowers Marie Goode found at her door," he told them. "Since two of our local grocery stores sell flowers in bunches like that, and those seemed the most anonymous places to buy flowers, the guys started there. And they found virtually identical arrangements at both stores, with cards identical to the one with the flowers. None of the clerks they've talked to so far remembers ringing up roses anytime in the last few days."
"And there were no prints on the card," Marc said. He looked at Paris, brows raised.
"All I can tell you is what I saw. I'm pretty sure this is the florist, but I'll know for sure once I'm inside. There was an odd arrangement to the right of the register, obviously for Halloween. I hope," she added as they stepped inside.
Dani could see what her sister meant. The small florist shop, filled to bursting with real and silk arrangements and various stuffed animals and vases and other accessories, looked perfectly normal and innocuous.
Except for the tasteful display to the right of the register, which contained, along with bright orange flowers, grinning skulls and black-widow spiders.
"This is the place," Paris said.
Miss Patty, who had owned the shop for as long as anybody could remember, emerged from the back room to greet them. "May I help-Why, hello, Sheriff. What can I do for you?" Her clear blue eyes, the single memorable feature in a face as softly wrinkled as old tissue paper, moved alertly from face to face, and she added, "Oh, dear. I expect it's about the murders, then?"
Feeling rather absurdly as though he were talking back to his grammar-school teacher, Marc said, "Miss Patty, you aren't supposed to know about the murders."
"Heavens, Sheriff, everybody knows about them."
Jordan asked, "Then how come nobody's talking?"
Miss Patty smiled at him. "Everybody's talking, Deputy," she said gently. "Just not to you."
"Or to the media?" Marc asked intently.
"Of course not to them. Out of respect to the families. And then, of course, nobody wants reporters and TV crews showing up around here. That wouldn't help you to solve the murders, and it surely would make our lives harder. Now," she continued briskly, "how can I help you?"
"Miss Patty, do you remember selling a dozen roses to-"
Dani.
Once again, she was aware of a stillness inside her, a waiting, a listening. To him. To his voice.
They can't help you. They can't protect you. He can't protect you. Because you're going to come to me. just like in your dream. It's inevitable. You belong to me, Dani.
"-so I'm afraid I really can't help you, Sheriff. He paid cash, and he was a very ordinary-looking man. I doubt I'd know him again if he walked in the door right now."
Dani was vaguely surprised that nobody seemed at all aware of the voice she had heard so clearly this time. Surprised that nobody was looking at her strangely or asking why she was breathing so unevenly, because surely she was, surely it was audible to everyone around her.
But no.
Even Paris seemed oblivious, intent on Miss Patty's conversation with Marc.
Patient, Marc said, "Can you tell me how old he was?"
"Well, I never was very good at estimating age, and I find it's even more difficult as I grow older. If you told me it was my ticket into heaven, the best I could say would be that he was probably a little older than you, Sheriff. About as tall. I suppose he must have worn a hat, or one of those hoodie things, because I can't recall what color his hair was."
She smiled apologetically. "You see, he wasn't in here long at all. Went straight to the refrigerator case and got the roses for himself. We usually have a dozen or two ready and that day it was red and yellow. He chose the red. He got the card, too, from one of our little cardholders here on the counter. And then he paid me in cash, wished me a good afternoon, and left."
"Miss Patty-"
"We were getting ready for a wedding, Sheriff. Very busy in the back, and so I wasn't really thinking about him, you understand. I am sorry. I wish I could help, I really do."
"Thanks anyway, Miss Patty. Oh, and-if you wouldn't mind?"
Her eyes twinkled. "Not talking about this? Of course I won't, Sheriff. You may count on my total discretion."
Outside, Jordan said, "So, who wants to bet me that Miss Patty isn't on the phone in the back room right this minute not talking about our visit?"