“I always hoped she wasn’t afraid,” he said hoarsely. “But I wanted her to fight.”
Eve brushed her fingertips over his cheek. “Did she love you?”
“Yes.”
He said it with an assurance that made her eyes sting. “Then I’m sure she fought. But when she was too tired to fight anymore, I’m sure she felt safe. As did your son.”
He swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
She kissed him, softly. “You’re welcome.” She’d started to slide back to his shoulder when his hands gripped her face, pulling her back to his mouth for more, and she gave it to him, in seconds the kiss exploding. He grabbed her hips and, as in the backseat of his old car, swung her over to straddle him.
“Please.” The word ground from his throat as he ate at her mouth. It was he who begged this time and Eve felt powerful. The first time he’d been patient, the second he’d lost control, but this time he needed her.
He was suddenly, fully aroused and Eve lowered herself onto him, taking him inside her. Her breath caught when his fingers dug into her hips, bringing her down hard, making her feel every inch of him. She sat back, and he went deeper still.
“You feel so good,” she whispered, hissing out a breath when his hands covered her breasts and she began to move. He matched the frantic rhythm of her hips, her name a chant on his lips as he begged her not to stop.
She couldn’t stop. It was a wave, an incredible towering wave, and she rode its crest until he groaned, rearing up to close his mouth over her breast, hungrily suckling, his hands hard on her back pressing her down, his body twisting up.
Then the wave broke and she cried out. She wrapped her arms around his head and held him close as she rode it in, barely hearing his cry as his body went rigid, jerking against her. His shoulders sagged and he buried his face between her breasts, his muscles twitching as he came back to earth with her.
Without a word he sank back against his pillow, bringing her with him, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. A laugh bubbled up and out of her, a purely happy sound of delight. “Are you always so… functional, Detective Webster?”
“No.” He pressed a weary kiss to the top of her head. “You’re good for me, Eve.”
And somehow it was that simple. That easy. “You’re good for me, too.” Her arms slid around his neck and his hands moved down her back to close over her butt possessively, kneading so very gently. And finally, sleep came.
Thursday, February 25, 3:15 a.m.
He let out a shuddering breath mixed with a groan. God. After killing Virginia Fox, he’d needed that. His heart pounding in his chest, he released the throat he clutched and sat back, staring at the woman on the narrow, filthy bed in his basement. He didn’t know her name and he didn’t care.
He climbed off her, his body still twitching in climax. He’d nearly lost it at Virginia’s house, holding on by a mere thread as he’d silenced her for eternity. Because it hadn’t been Virginia’s face he saw, but Eve’s. He’d imagined it to be Eve’s throat, Eve’s terror.
As he’d dressed Virginia, staged the scene, then hoisted her body onto the hook in her ceiling, his hands had been shaking like a schoolboy’s. But he’d maintained control, even as he’d completed the final detail on his final victim. The pièce de résistance.
He had finished with Virginia, finished with his six, but a fire had raged within him, his mind churning too violently to think. So he’d driven blindly into the city, chosen another that no one would miss. Now, he could think again. He looked at the dead stranger in his bed. Soon, he wouldn’t have to pretend to see Eve’s face. Soon it would be Eve in that bed, her terror that propelled him upward.
Tomorrow, he’d have the look on Webster’s face when he gazed up into Virginia’s face. The sight of her remains would remain in the cops’ minds for a very long time. They would feel responsible. They’d been so certain that they understood him, that they could predict him. That they’d warned the potential victims.
They knew nothing. It would eat at them, taking apart their confidence brick by brick.
It had been a good night. Once he cleaned up, he could go home and sleep. He was tired, but it was a good tired. The sixth of his six was finished. The Hat Squad would be exposed for their hubris and incompetence. And he would relax and enjoy the show.
He pulled back the concrete slab and frowned. He’d have to lay off for a while after this. Apparently too many bodies at the same time slowed the process. He grimaced at the sight of Jeremy Lyons’s hand poking up out of the layer of dirt and lime.
He cut the ropes binding his latest prey, then stopped, staring at her face. But it wasn’t tonight’s dead hooker he saw. It was… Sunday’s. Wild dogs. He’d told her she’d be torn apart by wild dogs. Her eyes had been blue, the roots of her hair auburn.
His mind clear, the association clicked. He’d seen that face. Tonight. Where?
In the hospital. She’d looked tired and… terrified. Leaving the dead hooker where she lay, he went to the drawer next to where he kept all the old cell phones. It held dozens of wallets and driver’s licenses. He found the license from Sunday’s whore. Lindsay Barkley. He found her cell phone in the next drawer and turned it on, clicking through the photos she’d stored there. There she was. The girl he’d seen tonight.
Why was she at the hospital? He thought hard, remembered the tall young man who’d been with her, and drew a breath. The young man knew Eve Wilson.
Perhaps the girl knew nothing. But he would not take that chance. He looked at Lindsay’s license. He knew where she’d lived. He’d swing by on his way into morning meeting. Have a little chat with the girl. He’d take care of her easily.
He grabbed tonight’s hooker by the ankles and dragged her to the pit. It was pretty full, but he thought it could accommodate two more. Lindsay’s sister and Eve were both tall, it was true, but both were slender. They wouldn’t take up too much space.
And then no more for a while, he told himself. Which was not a problem. Once this endeavor was complete, his stress would recede to a manageable level and in a few months when he hunted his next prey, so would have the pit.
Thursday, February 25, 3:30 a.m.
Olivia’s cell phone rang, rousing her from what had been a very pleasant dream on the cot in the break room at the station. Dell Farmer was a tough nut to crack. Kane and Abbott had taken a turn questioning him while she caught a few winks. Blinking hard, she flipped her phone open. “Sutherland,” she said, swallowing a yawn.
“It’s Tom. Tom Hunter.”
Olivia sat up and turned on the light next to the cot. “Is David all right?” Of course he was. He had to be. The hospital would have called her if there’d been any issues.
“Yeah. I talked to him around ten and he was going to sleep.” On the other end, she heard Tom sigh. “This is going to sound so paranoid and you’re going to be mad.”
“I’ve got security on your uncle,” Olivia said as kindly as she could. “He’ll be fine.”
“Olivia, I was out tonight. With Liza.”
Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “Define ‘out.’ As in ‘on a date’? Or as in ‘hunting bad guys’?”
“The second one. Wait,” he inserted before she could explode. “We found what we were looking for. That guy the prostitute mentioned last night, Jonesy, we found him.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this to me?”
“You would have yelled because we were out looking.”
“Damn straight I would have yelled,” she yelled. “Your mother asked me to watch out for you, Tom. You’re making trouble for me.”
“I’m twenty,” he said quietly. It wasn’t bravado or posturing. Tom Hunter had been forced to be a man, to defend his battered mother, before his seventh birthday.
“All right,” she said, just as quietly. “You found Jonesy. Had he seen Liza’s sister?”