He still had three eggs in his backpack and he be damned before he let them spoil.
First, he needed to take care of this one. If he left her here, she'd be discovered by noon tomorrow. The police weren't so stupid not to make the connection between a dead woman who just happened to occupy the Doughertys' old room and a dead woman who just happened to occupy the Doughertys' empty house. She had to go.
He could drag her out, but she was big enough to make it awkward. So he'd have to make her smaller. He held his knife under the miserly stream of water and washed it clean before testing it against his thumb. Good. It was still sharp enough for what he needed to do.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday, November 30, 3:10 A.M.
"What the hell are you doing?" Startled, Brooke looked up from the computer. Her roommate stood in the hall, her iPod in her hand. "It's three a.m.," Roxanne said.
"I don't know what to do," Brooke murmured.
Roxanne sighed. "You can't do any more tonight, Brooke. Go to sleep."
"I tried. I can't. All I can think of are bills and loans and debts. I can't sleep."
Roxanne's expression softened in sympathy. "It'll be okay. You'll find another job."
"I don't think so. I've been searching all night. There's nothing open around here."
"You'll find something. Now go to bed, Brooke. You'll just make yourself sick with worry and then you really won't be able to find a job."
"You're right. I know you're right. But without a recommendation from Bixby, it's going to be close to impossible to find anyone who'll even consider me."
"I still think you should sue the bastard, no matter what Devin's lawyer friend thinks."
Devin had called his lawyer friend from Fiannagan"s, but the friend had told him that her claim would be hard to prove and it would take a long time. She didn't have a long time. She only had forty-two dollars in the bank. "I might. But that doesn't help me now. I'm almost broke." She closed her eyes. "You may need to find another roommate."
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there. I've got to get to sleep. Bach's lullabies work. You should try it." Pressing the earphones to her ears, she headed to her room.
It'll take more than Bach to relax me, Brooke thought. She went into the kitchen and found the brandy she saved for special occasions. It wasn't gourmet, but it was strong enough to do the trick. She downed a glass, then poured herself another and sat at the kitchen table. She sipped at the second glass, despair overwhelming.
She had no money. She couldn't call her parents. They were living on next to nothing as it was. Hate surged. Bixby was a bastard. I did nothing wrong. She gulped more brandy, bitterly resigned. It didn't matter. She'd be out of a job just the same.
She wasn't sure how long she'd sat brooding when she heard it.
Click. She looked up, trying to place the noise. Then walked to the kitchen doorway to stare at the front door. It was opening. With a key. Somebody has my key.
Call 911. Where was the cordless? She stumbled to the counter, pulled a butcher knife from the block. Oh God. She ran to the living room. Where was the phone?
Then her mouth fell open as the man came through the door. He held a knife. Recognition was instantaneous, but she had no time to even say his name before his hand flattened over her mouth and he twisted her wrist. Her butcher knife fell to the floor.
Eyes wide with horror, she saw the metal of his long, thin blade before it swept down and pressed against her throat. He's going to kill me. She struggled and the blade pressed a little harder. Abruptly she stopped struggling and he chuckled.
The hand left her mouth, but the knife continued to press and a stifled sob rose in her throat. "I've cut two throats wide open tonight," he said. "Say one word and I'll make it three." He yanked, making her walk on her toes to her bedroom. He threw her down on the bed, drove his knee into her ribs and shoved a ball of cloth into her mouth.
She fought him when he grabbed one wrist and tied it to her headboard, then cried out when he slammed his fist into her jaw. But her cry was muted, she could barely hear it herself. He leaned into her body with his knee, tying her other wrist.
"You've ruined my work, Brooke," he hissed in her face. His eyes were wild, crazy. He couldn't be the same man she knew. But he was. "Now I'll have no time to finish and you'll pay for that. I told you to let it go, but you wouldn't listen. You'll listen now."
He came to his feet and she kicked, hoping to make a noise Roxanne would hear. He bent to his backpack and when he straightened, he held a pipe wrench in his hand.
No! She screamed it, but nobody heard. When the first blow struck she moaned. With the second she wished she was dead. With the third, she knew she would be.
Grimly satisfied, he zipped the used condom in a baggie, just as he'd done with Penny Hill. He recalled when he took her how her eyes had glazed over from the pain and halfway through she'd closed them, robbing him of the pleasure of seeing her suffering.
He stood over her, sweat dripping down his face. He slapped her cheeks hard and a muffled moan escaped her throat. Good. She was still conscious. He wanted to be sure she had felt everything he did to her, and that she heard every word. "You ruined my work. I may never get my justice. So tonight you'll take her place."
He worked quickly, applying the gel to her body as he'd done to Penny Hill. He placed the egg between her knees, ran the fuse past her feet. There wasn't any gas in this house- only electric, so he'd have to compromise.
He'd already decided to place a second egg at the apartment's front entrance. Just another little hoop for the firemen to jump through. He ran a second fuse and laid that egg next to his knife on the night table. Then pulled out his lighter and leaned down to Brooke's face. "You're like the others. You say you care, but you betray their trust. You say you want to help those boys, but the first chance you get, you give them to the police. You're just as deceitful and just as guilty. When I light this fuse, start counting."
Her eyes flickered, focusing over his shoulder. He turned, a split second before a violin would have come crashing on his head. It struck his shoulder instead, splintering into pieces. A woman stood, eyes wide, breast heaving as she panted. She held the neck of the shattered violin in her fist, then she swung it at him again. He caught her forearm, but she twisted free. He barely dodged the little chair she swung at him.
He grasped his knife from the nightstand and in one fluid motion plunged it into the violinist's gut and ripped, his eyes locked on hers. Her face contorted and she dropped to the floor on top of her splintered instrument. His heart was pounding, his blood rushing. He felt alive. Untouchable. Invincible. He flicked the lighter, lit the fuse at Brooke's feet, then leaned over her ear. "Count to ten, Brooke. And go to hell."
He grabbed his backpack, the knife, and the other egg, and ran from the apartment, down the stairs. He lit the second fuse and placed the egg in the corner of the lobby. The carpet was threadbare, but it would burn quickly. Then he bolted out the front door.
And nearly had heart failure. Two police cruisers were turning into the complex, lights flashing, sirens blaring. The violinist had called the cops. Fucking bitch. He ducked behind the building and ran to the parking lot behind the next row of apartments. At least he'd had the good sense to case the place when he'd first arrived. Keeping to the shadows, he chose the easiest car to steal. A minute later he was driving away.
He'd almost been caught. He struggled to catch his breath and smelled the violinist's blood. It covered his coat, his gloves. She hadn't been in the plan, but… Wow. It was an incredible feeling, taking a life like that, looking into her eyes as he stole her very soul. He chuckled. The English teacher had rubbed off on him.