Jack headed north up Gerritsen, cruising around the corners of Cyrus, Florence and Channel. At the bottom he turned right on to Fillmore and snaked his way around East 33rd and 34th. He lost his way a little and found himself out towards the Kings Plaza Shopping Mall. He cursed a couple of times and then doubled back and went up and down Hendrickson and Coleman from where he could see golf carts trundling over the velvet greens of Marine Park's vast golf course. Jack was frustrated. He got out of the car and looked around. Despite the warmth of the day a strong breeze blew in from somewhere out towards Jamaica Bay, and he hoped the fresh air would do him good, would prevent that nauseous feeling creeping up on him again.
The area was civilized and decent, respectable and well groomed. It wasn't rolling in money, but it certainly wasn't dog-rough poor either. In short, it was the kind of neighbourhood where people minded their own business and kept themselves to themselves. He's not here, thought Jack, it's too open, too many houses, and too many windows to be seen from.
Jack's mind swam with thoughts; images of the naked, dying girl, suspended in the blackness of some fearful room – a room surely not far from where he was?
He sat back in the car and made notes, then started to drive back the route he'd come. He was cruising past a whole street of people out manicuring their lawns and washing their cars, when his cell rang. It was Howie.
'Got a possible for you.'
'Go on,' said Jack, pulling over again and grabbing his notepad.
'Fernandez has been through the letting agencies.' Nultkins, a very old agency in Brooklyn, has been letting the same place for almost twenty years. The landlord is a single man, and the tenants' records show he has only ever let it out to other single men. It fits your profile to a T.'
Jack felt a shiver of excitement run through him. 'I've got a pen, shoot me the address.'
78
San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany The rope suddenly pulls tight around Zack's neck, as though it has been thrown over something in the blackness and he is about to be hanged from it.
'Do as I say or I'll kill him,' says the voice of a man she can't see.
Nancy's eyes stay locked on her son's face.
She is starting to see better in the darkness, her vision adjusting to the lack of light. 'I'll do whatever you want, just please don't hurt my baby,' she pleads.
Zack's face is streaked with dirt because he's been crying and Nancy can see he is in pain and frightened beyond belief. She desperately wants to run to him and hold him tightly to her.
'Take two slow steps forward and then turn around so you're facing towards the daylight,' Spider tells her. 'Then put your hands together behind your back.'
Nancy takes one last look at Zack before obeying. She thinks how brave he is, not to be screaming. As she steps forward she's horrified to see that Zack's mouth is plastered with thick parcel tape and he's struggling to breathe.
'Don't hurt him, please. Please don't hurt my baby,' she begs again.
Spider doesn't answer. Pleas for help or mercy are things he never hears. He wraps the sticky parcel tape quickly around her wrists and hands, then slips a Stanley knife from his pocket, thumbs out the razor-sharp triangular blade and slices the tape off.
Is this the kind of thing Jack talked about? Is this how rape and murder start? My God, what will happen to my child?
Spider loops his arms around her and stretches tape across her mouth. She instinctively jerks her head away, and the tape ends up stuck half across her nose and half across her mouth. Spider rips the tape away and Nancy screams.
'Bad Sugar!' he shouts at her and slaps her face.
Nancy cries out but the tape comes again, smothering her scream. She can barely breathe, and desperately sucks in air through her nose.
Spider uses his knife to slice away the tape. Then he holds her by her bound hands and reaches down in the darkness for something.
Suddenly Nancy feels a stabbing pain in the top of her leg as Spider jams a hypodermic needle deep into the vein and leaves it dangling there. He looks at it as a hunter would proudly savour the sight of the spear that felled his prey.
Penetrate. Deep, deep!
He squeezes the last of the Lidocaine from the chamber and wonders whether the dose will be as effective as he wants.
Or whether it will be too strong, and will kill her.
79
Marine Park, Brooklyn, New York Jack tried to look as touristy as possible. He grabbed the map book he had been using, put on his shades and got out of Howie's car. He walked down the side of the road opposite the target house that Fernandez had identified. It stood at a T-junction to a dead-end street. Jack walked straight past on the other side of the road, his face turned away, the shades and map helping him get to the cover of a house that he hoped would serve as an observation post for him. He turned up a narrow driveway to his right and knocked on the door. A small woman in her late sixties answered. She had curly white hair, gold glasses and looked as though she could play the role of grandma in any film you'd care to cast. 'Good morning,' he said.
'I'm not buying anything,' cackled the woman.
Jack smiled. 'I'm not selling anything, Ma'am. My name is Jack King and I need your help.' He reached into his pocket and took out Howie's business card. 'I'm a former FBI agent and I'm working with this man, trying to help him solve a very serious crime, and I need to come into your house to do it.'
'You're not coming in here,' said the old lady, pushing the card back at him. 'You're one of those confidence tricksters. I know your type.'
Jack's cell phone rang in his pocket but he ignored it. 'Please. Please take the card,' he pleaded. 'I'm really not one of the bad guys. Take it, and go back inside your house, lock the door and call this man. He'll tell you why the FBI needs your help. I'll just wait here.'
The woman lifted her glasses and looked into Jack's face.
'Please, Ma'am,' he said again.
She grabbed the card, went inside and he heard her lock the door. It was painful for Jack to wait, and hard to resist the urge to spin round and check out the house almost directly behind his back, the house that might hold the dying girl. He'd noticed that all the properties around him were big enough to have basements. The area felt right. It was the kind of place a killer like BRK would choose.
The old lady's door opened and she reappeared. 'Come in,' she said, in a far more pleasant tone.
Jack stepped inside and let her close the door. The hall smelled of boiled potatoes and cheap meat.
'I'm just having some coffee, Mr King, would you like some?'
'I'd love some,' said Jack, relieved to be inside, 'but first I really have to ask you some questions and then I need you to take me upstairs to your bedroom.'
The old lady smiled. It had been a long time since Yoana Grinsberg had let a handsome stranger into her home and he'd been eager to go straight upstairs.
80
San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany Terry McLeod was starting to get pissed off.
Apart from Maria, the dumb but pretty girl on reception, the whole place seemed empty. God damn it! If he really had been from a hotel and restaurant magazine, he'd be giving this place a minus five for service.
Lunch had finished some time back and McLeod found the dining room deserted. It had been fully cleared of all dirty crockery, cutlery and tablecloths.
He pressed on with his search, and came across a laundry cart full of dirty linen by the back stairs, so he guessed the couple of chambermaids they employed were busy on an upper floor, stripping bedding and collecting used towels.
He pushed open the flap-hinged service door to the kitchen. A teenage boy in an apron, red-faced from his labours, looked up from mopping the floor.'iz?' he said.