All that coverage today.
He was almost home free.
This one should do it.
Luella Scott should do it.
From where he stood beneath the old maple tree, its yellowing leaves rattling in the fresh wind, he could see the lighted windows of the library building, but he could not spot Luella anyplace inside. There was only one entrance to the library, and she’d gone in there at a little after nine o’clock, he’d followed her over from her dorm, not much security on this campus except for the high stone walls, you’d think they’d be more careful with such a large female student body and rapists running loose all over the city. Went in at a little past nine, couldn’t have come out anyplace else because there wasn’t anyplace else to come out of. Had to come out right here, where he was waiting.
He looked at his watch.
Almost eleven-thirty.
What was taking her so long?
Well, she probably studied a lot. You don’t get into college at seventeen unless you’re a hard worker. You could be smart as hell, but if you didn’t crack those books, it didn’t matter. Smart girl, Luella Scott, but he wished she’d hurry it up in there. He also wished she would be the last one. He hoped this time would do the trick. He didn’t want to walk in and give himself up, they’d think he was crazy or something. Sure, mister, you killed four girls, terrific, mister, go watch some more television, okay?
Break this one in half, he wasn’t careful. Skinny little thing.
Hoist her up over the lamppost arm, should be easy. Couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, this one. Where’d she find the stamina to run the way she did? God, she was fast!
He looked up at the sky.
He hoped it wouldn’t start raining.
Still, rain had its benefits. Not too many people out on the street when it was raining, get the job done without any interference. That guy last night when he was carrying Darcy out of the park. He’d thought that would do it, the old fart seeing him. Hoped he’d go to the police when he read about it in this morning’s paper — Hey, guess what, I saw this guy carrying a dead girl out of Bridge Street Park last night, I’ll bet he was the guy who hung that girl from a lamppost! Cops probably wouldn’t have believed him even if he did go in to report what he’d seen. Sure, mister, go back to the park and sleep it off, okay? Or maybe he had gone in, told them what he’d seen, and the cops were playing it cool, telling the newspapers they had no leads when all the while they were closing in on him. He hoped so. He hoped they’d finally get off their asses and catch him. He couldn’t wait to read the newspapers when they finally caught him. Oh, wow!
The Road Runner Killer.
Change that name soon enough, you could bet on that.
Lightning.
Lightning all over the newspapers again.
A fierce gust of wind shook the branches overhead, sent leaves tumbling down in a golden shower. The leaves, driven by the wind, rasped over the path winding past the library steps. Where the hell are you? he thought. He planned to follow her only a little way back to the dorm, get her on that dark stretch of path before it opened into the quadrangle again. Dark there, perfect there. Couldn’t risk Corey McIntyre again, make it too easy for them, they’d think he was crazy. Couldn’t have the papers saying he was crazy. That was the one thing—
One of the library doors was opening.
Luella came out onto the wide, flat top step, her arms full of books. She looked too skinny to be carrying all those books. He felt like going up to her, asking her if she’d like some help with the books. She was adjusting a long woolen muffler around her neck now, pulling up the collar of her peacoat, skinny little girl in a big peacoat probably belonged to her brother or somebody, somebody in the family who was a sailor, you got a lot of black kids enlisting in the service these days. He tried to remember whether his research had turned up anything about her brother being a sailor? Nothing in the stories he’d read, nothing he could remember. Easy to forget things, though. Look at how easily they’d forgotten him.
She was coming down the steps now.
She coughed. Probably had a cold. Bad for a runner, she should be taking better care of herself, skinny little thing like that.
She walked past the tree.
The wind came up again.
She hadn’t seen him.
He waited until she was a good fifty yards ahead of him, and then he fell into step behind her. He was grateful for the rasping of the wind-driven leaves on the path; they covered any sound his track shoes made.
“What’d she say the name of that dorm was?” Ollie asked.
“Baxter,” Carella said.
“So where are the names? How you supposed to know one dorm from another?”
“She said the second dorm down.”
“So how can you tell the difference between a dorm and any of these other buildings?”
“I think this one is Baxter,” Carella said.
“So where’s the quadrangle? Everything looks the same here. Fuckin’ college looks like a monastery.”
“There it is,” Carella said. “Up ahead.”
She was through the cloister now, unaware of his presence behind her, the leaves swirling on the path, rising on the air again in tainted tatters. Ahead of her was a section of path lighted at its eastern end by a single lamppost, dark until it opened onto the quadrangle where another lamppost stood. He knew she was fast, he would have to get to her before she bolted, he didn’t want her to get away. She was fast, yes — but he was faster. He waited until she passed beneath the lamppost, and then he broke from a standing start, his shoes pounding on the pavement, the leaves scattering as if in sudden panic. She heard him, but she was too late. As she started to turn, he pounced on her.
The surprise was total, her eyes opening wide in shock, her jaw dropping, a scream starting somewhere in her throat — he clamped his hand over her mouth.
She bit him.
He pulled his hand back.
The scream erupted, shattering the night.
They had come through the quadrangle and were entering the path at its western end, dark beyond the lamppost, when they heard the scream. Ollie’s gun was in his hand an instant before Carella reached for his holster. Both men began running.
Up ahead, they saw the figures struggling in the dark, the man towering over the girl, the girl kicking and punching at him as he tried to turn her back to him. The wind was stronger now, rattling the branches of the trees lining the path, blasting leaves onto the air like demons trailing fire.
“Police!” Ollie shouted and fired over his head.
The man turned.
They could not see his face in the dark, they could see only the motion of his turning. Carella thought for a moment he would use the girl as a shield, holding her from behind — one of his arms was looped under hers now, his right hand clamped over the back of her neck — but instead he released her suddenly and began running.
“The girl!” Carella said urgently, and began running after him.
He had wanted to say, “See if the girl’s all right,” or “Take care of the girl,” but the man was off like the wind unleashing leaves everywhere on the night, and as Carella ran past the girl lying on the path now, he did not even turn to see if Ollie had understood him.