The patrol car rounded the turn at the end of the parking lot and headed toward a block-long stretch of identical apartments in the west complex. Merselus knocked on the hollow metal door to apartment 102 and positioned Sydney so that anyone who peered out through the peephole would see only the face of a frightened young woman. There was no answer, but a light inside set the closed draperies aglow in the window. Merselus banged harder on the door, and he kept pounding until a sleepy and shirtless old man wearing only pajama bottoms opened it.
“Girl, what the hell are you-”
The old man choked on the rest of his words as Merselus whipped himself around the door frame. In a blur of motion, the knife pierced his skin, and the serrated blade tore a two-inch opening between his ribs. His mouth was agape in a futile effort to cry out in pain as the blade twisted and ripped an even bigger hole in his punctured heart.
Merselus pulled out the knife and let his victim drop to the floor-first to his knees, then onto his side. He lay motionless, the gray hairs on his chest awash in so much crimson. Sydney stood frozen and wide-eyed with fear. Merselus shoved her through the open doorway, dragged the old man farther inside the apartment, and shut the door. The blood-soaked carpeting squished beneath Merselus’ feet as he stepped around the lifeless body.
“Tough luck, old man,” said Merselus. “Already got all the hostages I need.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
The SWAT leader’s voice was in Andie’s ear, and he wasn’t happy.
“Henning,” he said via microphone, “tell Miami-Dade to stop patrolling the parking lot before they get my men killed!”
Andie was standing outside the communications van in a dimly lit parking lot behind a vacant warehouse. The black FBI SWAT van was parked beside the van. The chosen location was strategic: two buildings downriver from the apartment complex. The way the Miami River bent to the north, Andie actually had an unobstructed view from the parking lot behind the warehouse to the waterfront apartment units. It was the FBI’s makeshift command post-close, but not too close, to Merselus’ apartment. Andie was in constant communication with the SWAT leader in the field, in position and ready to begin negotiations if a hostage situation developed.
“Are the officers on foot or in vehicles?” asked Andie.
“I’ve seen two squad cars. Don’t know if there’s a foot patrol. But I’ve got four team members in stealth on a yellow-light site sweep. If MDPD officers in uniform start knocking on doors, it’ll be a disaster.”
A yellow-light sweep meant no busting down doors, no gunfire-just a pass through the area to collect information and assess the situation.
“I’ll shut it down right now,” said Andie.
Merselus switched on the TV. The television media’s obsession with breaking news could be his friend in a situation like this. Nothing quite like the local Action News chopper to reveal police positions and give the bad guy a bird’s-eye view of law enforcement strategy. As yet, none of the stations had jumped on the story. He kept the television on but muted the sound, just to stay alert to any noises in the parking lot.
“I can’t breathe,” said Sydney.
She was sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, her wrists still fastened behind her. The problem was the double pillowcase Merselus had put over her head. He wasn’t trying to suffocate her-not yet, anyway. He just couldn’t take it anymore, the way she cried and carried on every time she caught an eyeful of the dead old man on the floor. He’d known women to find a way to peek out from behind blindfolds before. A couple of pillowcases, one on top of the other, were infallible. And he’d found it amazing how long a young woman in good health could go that way without actually suffocating.
“Just be still,” he said.
Merselus looked for a place to sit, but there was none. He’d turned the room into a makeshift fortress. Anyone trying to force his way into the apartment would have to pass through a mountain of furniture. The entire room had been cleaned out, except for the television. There was a crack of light at the edge of the wall and along the top of the window. The drapes were so old and worn that, in spots, the lining had lost its blackout quality. Merselus considered that a positive, since the room would brighten with the swirl of police lights in the parking lot-if and when they came.
“Quiet,” he said. He could have sworn he’d heard something. He had to move the mini-refrigerator to get to the door and put his ear to the hollow metal. He heard nothing, but he waited. Then he heard it again.
Pounding.
What the hell?
No, it was knocking. Distant knocking. They were knocking on apartment doors. From the sound of it, they were still several doors away. But no doubt about it: The police were actually going door to door.
Idiots!
Merselus switched off the television, and the room went black. Then he positioned himself at the doorjamb, held his pistol at the ready, and waited.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Jack listened, trying not to interrupt, as Geoffrey Bennett talked. They were alone in Jack’s living room, Bennett seated on the couch and Jack in an armchair. Bennett would occasionally look Jack in the eye, but for the most part, his gaze was cast downward at the coffee table.
“There’s another side to Ellen,” he said of his wife. “A dark side.”
The pause seemed to invite inquiry from Jack. “How dark?” he asked.
“Dark enough to get mixed up with a monster like this guy Merselus.”
Jack caught his breath. “When you say mixed up. .”
“I mean,” he started to say, then stopped, as if it were unspeakable.
“They were lovers?” asked Jack.
“Love had nothing to do with it.”
Jack moved to the edge of his seat, leaning forward. “Look, if you know something, you need to just come right out and say it. The FBI is working right now, trying to find Merselus and stop him from hurting your daughter.”
Bennett breathed in and out, then continued. “Ellen and this guy linked up on the Internet. I’m not exactly sure when, but it was definitely before Sydney got arrested.”
“Before or after Emma’s death?”
“Before,” Bennett said, swallowing hard. “Definitely before.”
“You say ‘definitely’ before. Why do you say that?”
He looked Jack in the eye and said, “Because he killed her.”
It was hard to comprehend, as many times as Jack had heard the world say his client was guilty. But something in Bennett’s voice almost made Jack believe it. “How?” Jack asked.
“Threw her in the swimming pool. Emma could swim as well as any two-year-old. You teach the little ones to go right to the side of the pool, grab onto the ledge, and do the hand-over-hand choo-choo train to the shallow end, where they can climb out. But every time she grabbed the ledge,” he said, his voice quaking, “Merselus would pry her fingers loose. She kept swimming back, and he’d pry her loose again. After a while, she got too tired to swim back.”
It was making Jack ill just to hear it, the thought of a two-year-old girl fighting to hang on, no match for an adult who knew she couldn’t fight forever. He thought of Emma’s little legs churning, too, and her feet scraping the bottom of the pool-exactly the way Jack’s forensic expert had described it.
“Why would he do that to Emma?”
“Because he’s one very sick bastard.”
“Yeah, he is,” said Jack. “But that doesn’t answer my question. There are lots of ways for sick bastards to get their thrills. Why Emma?”
“I don’t know.”