You are losing it,MacLeod, Katie told herself. Attaching human traits to water fowl?
She stared into the water for several minutes, bringing her breathing under control. Slowly but surely, she forced it to become deep and regular. She noticed she was shivering from the sweat.
It was time to move again.
Katie turned and shuffled along toward to the clock tower, her ears perked for anyone approaching her. The park seemed strangely empty for a Saturday night. Usually couples strolled along the pathways, out for romantic walks after dining downtown. Kids hung out around the carousel and tried to get away with skate-boarding where it wasn’t allowed, keeping the park security guards busy. Old, lonely people walked their dogs.
But not tonight.
They’re all afraid.
Katie knew it was true. Ever since the media grabbed hold of the story about the Rainy Day Rapist, people were scared to go out at night.
She didn’t blame them.
Even so, a small surge of anger raked through her belly. One man was doing this. One man was preying on the fears of an entire city. One man was imposing his will. And he probably got off on it.
Katie clenched her jaw at the thought.
She paused at the base of the clock tower, once again at a crossroads. One pathway led up the hill to the north, toward the pavilion where Sully and Battaglia were staged. Continuing east led her to the Washington Street Underpass.
In the distance, the darkness of the underpass looked like an inky blot.
She headed for the darkness.
2135 hours
“You’re full of crap,” Battaglia said.
“Ask Gio,” Sully replied. “His parents are from Brooklyn. I’ll bet he knows.”
“He doesn’t know because you’re making it up.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Look,” Sully said, “it’s simple. Here in Washington, you use the word ‘asshole’ to mean, like, a jerk or something. Only more harsh, right?”
“That’s what it means,” Battaglia told him. “That’s what the word means everywhere. An asshole is an asshole.”
“Not back east,” Sully argued, shaking his finger back and forth. “Back there, especially in New York and in Jersey, it’s not such a strong word. It means something more along the lines of ‘schmuck’ or whatever. It’s a softer word.”
“Asshole is never a soft word.”
Sully affected a Brooklyn accent. “What am I, an asshole ovah heah?”
“Oh, nice. Make fun of my people.”
“That’s how your people use the word.”
Battaglia shook his head. “I think we use the word to describe the Irish.”
The radio squawked, pre-empting Sully’s reply. “Adam-122?”
“Twenty-Two,” Sully said into the portable radio.
“She’s headed for the Washington Street Overpass,” Tower transmitted. “I’ll lose sight of her when she goes underneath.”
Sully pressed the transmit button. “We’ll take the path up top and get an eye on her when she comes through the other side.”
“Good. Copy that.”
Sully slid the radio into his jacket pocket. “Let’s go, asshole.”
“East Coast or West?” Battaglia asked, firing up the golf cart.
“Both,” Sully assured him.
2136 hours
Katie forced herself to maintain her hunched posture. She shuffled her feet and looked down. Somehow it was easier than before, almost as if hunching made her a smaller target and therefore safer. Tension laced her shoulders and neck as she made her way toward the darkness under the roadway.
She paused a few yards from the underpass. The blackness inside caused small waves of apprehension to ripple through her lower stomach. She recalled her irrational childhood fears-the open closet door at night, the boogeyman under the bed.
That back bedroom with Phil.
Her father always told her that her bedroom was exactly the same place with the lights off as when the lights were on. There was nothing different once the light went away.
Katie was twenty-seven years old now, and she knew what her father said wasn’t really true. Things happened in the dark that never happened in the light. People hid in the dark. They did evil in the dark. There was pain in the dark.
She didn’t want to go into the dark.
2137 hours
“She’s stopped,” Tower reported. “Why is she stopped?”
Hiero shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re the detective.”
Tower ignored the jibe. “Maybe she sees something under the overpass?”
“Could be.”
“Or somebody. Can you see under there at all?”
Hiero trained his night scope ahead of MacLeod. “Only a few yards in. We’re too close and up too high. The angle’s bad.”
Tower cursed. “What does she see in there?”
* * *
The area under the overpass couldn’t be longer than twenty-five yards, Katie estimated. That was it. Twenty-five yards. That’s maybe thirty paces.
That’s all.
To her right, the slow current of The Looking Glass River drifted past. An iron fence ran along the shore to keep people from swimming in the water, which was far colder, deeper and faster than the average jerk realized.
They were usually drunk, Katie mused, her mind flitting away for a moment, almost as if it were trying to avoid what stood in front of her. And, drunk or not, most of the would-be swimmers were dissuaded by that fence.
Her focus came back when she looked beneath the underpass. The left edge of the pathway was lined with a sloping rock wall that rose up and receded away into darkness. Katie knew that transients sometimes slept up underneath the bridge in the deep recesses of the scattered rocks.
She peered into the blackness, wishing for a flashlight. There could be a half dozen transients camped back there, wrapped up in sleeping bags or laying in wait.
Or just one rapist.
She clenched her jaw.
Knock it off, Katie.
She took a deep breath. “Toughen up, buttercup,” she whispered to herself.
She wanted to move forward, but her feet wouldn’t budge.
There’s nothing there that isn’t there in the day time.
Katie blinked and stared into the darkness.
You don’t have to go in there.
The words floated through her mind in an unrecognizable voice. The voice was at once soothing and taunting.
Just walk around.
Katie let the air out of her lungs. She drew in another deep breath, tasting the damp river air. What if she didn’t go forward? What would be the issue? There’d be no issue, right? She was just being safe. No one would even know.
She’d know.
Katie exhaled in a long, steady breath. She slid her hand inside her purse and wrapped her fingers around the reassuring grip of her pistol.
You don’t have to-
“Shut up,” Katie whispered.
She stepped forward into the darkness.
2138 hours
“Not yet!” Sully yelled, just as Battaglia made a hard turn off the path and into the thinning bushes and trees.
Battaglia opened his mouth to tell Sully to shut his Irish pie-hole when he drove the golf cart into a raised tree root. The tire rode up the thick, twisted growth as readily as any man-made ramp. The cart tilted.
“Fu-uh-uh-” Battaglia began.
The golf cart toppled onto the driver’s side.
Sully landed in a heap on top of Battaglia.