When he signed his lease six months ago, the landlord had boasted that the building represented a rich diversity of people. Treat remembered thinking that his own particular skills would no doubt broaden the spectrum of this diversity by more than a few degrees.
He had moved often in his life-from one apartment to another, from one city to another, from one state to another. A man like him could not afford to stay rooted in one spot. Before long, no doubt, he would be on the move again. He had learned not to press his luck. One more killing after tonight-he had already selected a delectable Miss February, and a hidden camera was installed, the feed ready to be sent to the Web site whenever he wished.
After February, his contribution to the site would end, and the Hourglass Killer would be no more.
Another persona discarded. Another performance completed.
He boarded his van and switched on the engine and headlights. The vehicle rumbled under him as he guided it out of the garage, into the street.
Caitlin’s home, which he had observed on many reconnaissance missions over the past month, was twenty miles from his apartment building. He put on a little speed, aware that he had to catch her before she left for her community service program.
Oh, yes, he knew all about that. He had watched her closely, learned the ins and outs of her schedule. It had been the same with Nikki Carter and Martha Eversol. When the time had come for their abductions, he had known their weekly routines intimately.
This was the thing that people-average people, simpleminded people, the people who surrounded him every day, who had been part of his world for all the forty-one years of his life-this was the thing that such people never understood. Because his approach to murder was random, they assumed it must be impersonal, a faceless stranger killing an equally faceless victim.
But there was nothing impersonal about it. He knew his victims. He remembered each one in exquisite, sensual detail. He even cherished them, in his way. Not that he would ever be so stupidly sentimental as to visit their graves or mail a consoling note to their bereaved. Such gestures were pointless-worse, they were dangerous. He thought of himself as a professional, and as such, he maintained an appropriate distance from the subjects of his work.
Still, he did care for them. This was, in fact, the only way he had ever learned to care for anybody. He had never understood what movies and songs were all about when they addressed the topic of love. He could not imagine wanting to share his life with another human being or even with a pet, except perhaps for his arachnids, who required nothing from him save the occasional cricket to feed on. The idea of devoting himself to another person, diluting the purity of his self-contained consciousness in the tepid waters of another soul, was revolting to him.
And yet…
He did not seek to be entirely alone in the world. He sought a connection with others, a way to relate to fellow members of his species.
He had found that way, in the intimacy of homicide.
To select his victim… to learn her name, study her movements, observe her friends and family, live her life vicariously for days or weeks… then move in for the kill and take her, take her in the full meaning of the word, possess her more completely than any lover, force her submission to his will, his power, subjugate her utterly, then extinguish her life and leave only the rag doll of her body…
This was the only closeness he knew, and all he ever wanted to know.
Treat smiled, aware that he would know that intimacy with Caitlin very soon. He would enter her house via the back door, where he was least likely to be observed. Render her unconscious with a whiff of chloroform-marvelous stuff, delightfully aromatic, safe in moderate doses, even used as an anesthetic in an earlier century. Of course he would remove his Webcam and other incriminating gear before leaving with Caitlin in his van.
Then the ride to a condemned house in Silver Lake, a musty old place shrouded by trees, offering a fine basement, where he could hold her for the requisite four hours.
At the appointed time would come the strangulation, slow and sensual like lovemaking, and then the tattoo and his calling card, and the disposal of the body in a place where it was unlikely to be found for weeks.
Pulling onto the Pomona Freeway, speeding west, Treat breathed the heady wine of his intentions and found them sweet.
It was the last night of the month, the last night of Caitlin Jean Osborn’s life.
19
Steven Gader’s house lay on a tree-shaded street a few blocks from the University of Baltimore. Rawls guided his bureau-issue sedan to a stop at the curb.
“This is it,” Brand said unnecessarily from the passenger seat.
They got out of the car, stepping over piles of slush, and walked up the slate path. Snow lay half-melted on a brown lawn. Lamplight glowed through windows protected by iron security bars. Rawls wondered fleetingly if the bars were hinged from the inside to allow escape in case of fire.
At the front door Rawls listened. He heard no sounds from inside. He rang the bell, holding his finger on the button for a long time. When there was no response, he rang again.
“Not home,” Brand said, clapping his gloved hands against the cold.
Rawls tried once more, and this time he heard a clatter of footsteps and a muffled male voice saying, “Hold on. Christ, I’m coming.”
Rawls saw Brand unbutton his overcoat for easier access to his Glock 10.
The door opened, and a man stood there in a terry-cloth bathrobe, his hair uncombed and dripping wet. He was short and pale, mid to late thirties, with a glaze of stubble on his cheeks and an earring in his left earlobe. He gazed at them with dark, suspicious eyes.
“What’s this?” he snapped. “Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
“No, Mr. Gader,” Rawls said politely. “FBI. Agents Rawls and Brand.” He allowed the man a glimpse of his FBI badge.
There were two things to watch now-his eyes and his hands. The eyes might betray guilt. The hands might pose a threat.
“FBI?” the man echoed. “Well… what do you want with me?”
“You are Mr. Steven Gader, correct?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“We’d like to speak with you, sir.”
Gader realized he was being asked to invite the agents inside. “Can I have another look at that badge?”
Rawls held out the badge and allowed him time to scrutinize it thoroughly.
“I don’t have to let you in,” Gader said finally. “I don’t have to talk to you at all.”
“That’s true, sir,” Rawls acknowledged, the words coming out in a jet of frosted breath.
“I could say you have to talk to my lawyer. I’d be within my rights if I did that.”
“Yes, you would. But we have only a few simple questions. Talking to us could help us out a lot.”
“Help you out. Why should I help a couple of feds?” Gader ran a hand through his wet hair. “You got me out of the damn bathtub, you know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sure you are.” His gaze flicked to Brand’s face. “What are you smiling at? So I was taking a bath. It doesn’t make me some kind of faggot. My radiator’s pumping out too much heat, and I can’t fix the damn thermostat, so I figured I would cool off in the tub. Okay?”
Rawls let him ramble, then said quietly, “It’s just a few questions. We’d like to clear things up tonight.”
“Shit.” Gader wavered in the doorway. “All right, I’m gonna catch goddamn pneumonia with the door open, so come the hell in. But I reserve the right to call a lawyer and order you out of my home at any time.”
“Fair enough.”