“No, no. When I say, ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ you have to tell me what you’re thinking. It’s a rule, see? A rule for lovers.”
“I see. Well, I was just thinking that…” Make it good. “That, as nice as this hideaway of yours is, it sure could use a woman’s touch.”
“Which is precisely why you’re here. To make my special place even more special.” He grinned. “You can put those bags down now. Gently, please.”
She’d forgotten she was holding them. She placed both shopping bags carefully on the floor near the card table.
When she looked up, she saw the Gryphon slip his sunglasses into his pocket, then put on an ordinary pair of glasses, which he hadn’t worn before. Thick-lensed glasses with heavy black frames. They struck a chord of memory in her.
Gazing at him in the alley, she’d had the feeling his face was familiar; now she was certain of it. She’d seen this man before. And when she had, he’d been wearing those black-framed glasses-yes-glasses that had caught the amber glow of a computer terminal’s display screen.
The clerk at Crane’s. That was who he was.
“You,” she whispered.
He smiled at her. “Recognition at last.”
“You sold me the necklace.”
“It wasn’t much of a sales job. You wanted it quite badly. And it looked lovely on you too. I saw you wearing it when you came home last night.” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Shame you don’t have it with you.” His face brightened. “Hey, I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy you a new necklace, just like the old one. And a beautiful new dress too; we can’t have you wearing that plain gray skirt in here. Not that there’s anything wrong with your outfit, but I want you to look your very best for me. What’s your size?”
“Four.”
“I’ll remember that. Tomorrow, when I’m in the department store, I’ll buy you a gorgeous evening gown, and then when I come here after work, you can dress up for me. Won’t that be fun?”
“I’m sure it will. I love getting new clothes.”
“Women always do. They need to feel pretty and feminine. It’s in their nature, the same way a man needs to feel strong.”
Smiling happily, he shrugged off the brown coat and tossed it on the futon, next to the drawstring bag. Despite the uniform, he looked nothing like a policeman to her now. She wondered how she could ever have been fooled.
“In a moment I’ll fix you something to eat. I’ll bet you’re hungry.”
She had no appetite whatsoever. “Starved.”
“First, however, I have a little chore to take care of. It won’t take long.”
He lifted one of the shopping bags off the floor and set it down on the card table. Holstering the Beretta, he turned his back to her and leaned over the bag.
She tensed.
He’d just made a mistake.
The pistol’s checkered plastic grip shone in the candlelight. Almost within her reach.
“Unfortunately,” he was saying, “lunch won’t be anything fancy. You see, I’ve got no electricity here, no refrigerator or stove, so I’m limited in what I can prepare. I’ve been meaning to buy one of those portable generators, but I never seem to get around to it.”
“I’m sure”-her voice was steady-“whatever you make for me will be fine.”
She took a step toward him.
“Well, it won’t be as tasty as what you’re used to, I’ll bet.” He reached into the bag with both hands. “You must be a wonderful cook.”
“Not really.”
Another step.
The holstered automatic was inches away.
“Oh,” he said pleasantly, “you’re just being modest. I’m sure you can cook the pants off me.
Hey, that’s a funny way of putting it, don’t you think? Cook the pants off-”
She lunged for the gun. Her fingers closed over the handle. He spun to face her, and his hands flew free of the shopping bag and scrabbled at the holster-too late.
Wendy aimed the pistol at him from a foot away.
I did it, a voice in her mind exulted from a great distance. I did it, did it, did it.
“All right,” she said tensely, “put your hands up.” The words a legacy of every TV crime drama she’d ever watched.
He stared at her, his eyes almost comically wide, his mouth hanging open. Then he took a shambling step backward and thumped into the card table. The shopping bag fell over with a thud and whatever was inside rolled toward the edge.
“Come on, come on.” She was losing patience. “Put them up in the air.”
He went on staring, staring.
“Do it!” she screamed. “Do it, or I’ll shoot!”
His eyes narrowed. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. A calm, almost beatific smile.
“No, you won’t, Wendy,” he said with quiet certainty.
“Raise your hands.” A tremor skipped lightly over the words. She noticed that the gun was shaking. “Goddammit, raise them right now.”
He shook his head. “It’s no use. I know you won’t kill me. You can’t. And do you know why? Because, deep down, you love me, just as I love you. Oh, you may not want to admit it yet, even to yourself. But your heart knows how you really feel.” He reached out with one hand. “Now give me the gun, and let’s quit all this foolishness.”
She drew back the hammer with a sharp click. The sound was loud in the room.
He froze. She could read the bewilderment in his face, the hint of fear.
“Hey, Wendy, come on. Don’t joke around.”
She looked into his eyes.
“Hands up, you asshole,” she whispered. “Or I’ll blow a fucking hole in you. I swear to Christ I will.”
He swallowed. She saw his adam’s apple jerk once.
Slowly, very slowly, he began to lift his hands from his sides.
“Come on,” she breathed. “Get them up there.”
His hands were level with his shoulders.
“Over your head.”
As she watched, he raised his hands higher, still higher.
Wendy was sure she had him now. Oh, yes. She’d done it, all right. She’d taken control of the situation. The only thing left to do was-
A sharp crack, like a handclap in the silence.
Automatically she glanced down. An object was rolling on the floor. Something large and round and horribly familiar, which had dropped from the shopping bag on the card table. It came to rest at Wendy’s feet, staring up at her with green eyes. Jennifer’s eyes.
Her head. Jennifer Kutzlow’s head.
For one second Wendy was paralyzed by shock, and in that instant the Gryphon struck.
He grabbed the Beretta and jerked it sideways. Her finger squeezed the trigger reflexively. The gun went off like a bomb. She screamed. The recoil kicked her backward, loosening her grip, and the gun was ripped out of her hand. She stared into the black hole of the muzzle at point-blank range. The killer’s face loomed behind it, twisted into an extremity of hatred.
“Bitch,” he whispered. “Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.”
He shoved her against a wall, then pressed the muzzle to her forehead, bearing down painfully hard, as if trying to push the gleaming blue-black barrel right through her skull.
Why didn’t you shoot him when you had the chance? she was screaming to herself in helpless, hopeless terror. Why, Wendy? Why?
She waited for the gun to explode in her face. She could feel his index finger bearing down on the trigger. Could feel it.
Then, incredibly, the pressure on her forehead eased. Slowly he withdrew the pistol, then jerked his head in the direction of the card table.
“Sit down,” he snapped.
Heart thumping, she sat in one of the folding chairs.
“Now I’m going to look at my trophy. The one that fell on the floor because of you and your… your irresponsible behavior. And if I find that it was damaged in any way, why, then I’ll just have to find myself a substitute, won’t I? Guess what that means, Wendy. Just guess.”
She didn’t have to guess.
Holstering the automatic once more, he knelt and examined Jennifer’s head with a connoisseur’s eye. Wendy stared at the head as he turned it over and over in his hands. It looked almost unreal, a wax replica, the smooth skin shiny in the candles’ wavering glow. The long neck, severed at its base, was stiff and straight like the stem of a mushroom.