“In other words, exactly not like myself.”
“Whatever.”
“I can’t believe this judge is so shallow he’s going to make a decision based upon whether I wear red.”
“He might not do it consciously. But judges are influenced by their subconscious impressions, just like everyone else in the world. The most important part is that you remain calm. NDHS will try to convince the judge that you’re unreliable. You have to show him that you can be restrained and responsible, fit to raise your niece. You have to tell him you’ve sworn off booze and you’re working to stay clean.”
I felt an itching in my chest that wouldn’t go away. “I can do that.”
“Good. See you there.”
Damn everything. As if I didn’t already have enough on my plate. Now I was going to have to deal with the American legal system. The tenth circle of hell.
“Eureka!”
I glanced up. Darcy was standing at the edge of my desk, grinning like a sheepdog.
“Eureka!” he repeated.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What are you talking about?”
“Eureka means ‘I found it.’ Did you know that historians say that’s what Archimedes said when he discovered about the displacement of liquid? He jumped out of the bathtub yelling, ‘Eureka! Eureka!’ ” Darcy giggled. “He was strange.”
“Thanks for the ancient Greek perspective, Darce. Why are you telling me this?”
“It’s the name of a thing by Edgar Allan Poe.”
“What? I read his complete works-”
Darcy corrected me as gently as possible. “I think maybe you read his Complete Stories and Poems. That’s what everyone reads. No one reads Eureka. Even my dad doesn’t have a copy.”
“Then how do you know-”
“I ran that code message that the bad man left with the teeth through the Internet.” I swore silently. I should have thought of that myself. “Even Dad says I’m good with computers. Do you Google? I love to Google. You never know what you’ll get. This one time-”
I cut in. “So what is it?”
“Poe called it a prose-poem.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Darcy’s face reddened. “I don’t know. It’s like about stars and stuff.”
“Stars?”
“Science. Where the stars come from. Planets. Heaven.”
I was thoroughly confused, and Darcy wasn’t making it any better. “Can you get me a copy?”
“I could not find the whole thing on the Internet, only some parts. Then I went to the library, but they don’t have it.”
“Keep trying. And Darce-I owe you a custard.”
“When do you think that will be? Sooner than a blue moon, I hope, because a blue moon-”
“I remember. We’ll do it, Darcy, promise. But first I think I need to read that book.”
He left, and a few minutes later my phone rang, as it always seems to do at the most annoying and least convenient times. “Yeah?”
“You look lovely in a black turtleneck. You should wear that more often.”
Him.
I stood up, waved at the boys on the lower floor. I pointed to the receiver, trying to get the message across. Men can be so slow-witted. Eventually enough ribs were jabbed and the tracing began.
“Uh, sorry. I was… distracted.”
He laughed. “Have they instigated the trace now? Can we talk?”
I tried to concentrate. I had to learn as much as possible. And I had to keep him talking. “I don’t suppose you plan to stay on long enough for us to trace the call, so why bother?”
“Oh, you never know, dear. I might give you a sporting chance.”
Damn straight of you. “Look, I don’t know what to call you.”
“The FBI agents call me Edgar, don’t they?”
And how the hell did he know that? “Is that okay?”
“It’s as good a name as any.”
“Is that who you are?”
Another pause. “I’m an acolyte. Not a prophet.”
Oooo-kayyy. “Can you explain to me what that means?”
“I’d like to. Because you don’t have to remain behind, mired in this miserable life you’ve made for yourself. I can help you. I have only your best interests at heart.”
I knew my goal-not only to keep him talking, but to keep him off whatever prepared script he had in his head. The more he extemporized, the more likely he was to tell us something useful. “Have you hurt Fara Spencer?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question.”
I tried something else. “I got your note. Tracked down the quote, too.”
“Did you really?”
“Yeah. Eureka, right? I’m trying to find a copy.”
“Don’t bother, dear. I’ve brought you one.”
At that point, I looked up and saw three Feebs standing in front of me, waving their arms. Meddlers. Couldn’t they see I was trying to focus?
I covered the talk end of the receiver and mouthed: “What?”
One of them held up a note he’d scribbled furiously on a legal pad. WE’VE TRACED THE CALL.
Why the hell tell me? Just go already.
Then came the follow-up message. HE’S IN YOUR APARTMENT.
I felt my heart stop. I uncovered the receiver, breathless. “Edgar?”
The line was dead.
Of course, he was long gone by the time the police arrived. True to form, he had gotten in and out without leaving a trace of himself behind. All he’d left was a paperback Dover Press edition of Eureka: A Prose-Poem by Edgar Allan Poe, which the techs were treating to a microscopic scrutiny. I knew they wouldn’t find anything-nothing useful, anyway. Although he’d left no evidence, we could tell where he had been. Footprints in the carpet. My underwear drawer left open. An indentation on my bedspread.
None of my neighbors had seen him. One reported spotting a nondescript meter reader, so we were guessing Edgar had used that disguise. But he’d only seen the man from a distance, so he had no useful information.
“I don’t get it,” Patrick said. “He’s been so careful before. So calculated. Why would he come here? Why take the risk?”
I thought about that. In the early days, all his actions had seemed well planned. Careful. But he was becoming increasingly impulsive, or at least more varied in his approaches. Acting on emotion. Kidnapping Fara Spencer, essentially for spite, even though she didn’t fit his profile. And now this. How could burglarizing my apartment fit into his fabulous master plan?
Of course, there had been other cases of serial killers who became involved, even obsessed, with one or more of the officers trying to catch them. But just as there was something very different about this killer, there was something unusual about the attention he was paying to me. Like I’d told Tony before, I didn’t get the sense that he was perpetuating a cat-and-mouse game for his own amusement. It was more like he was trying to… win me over. Seduce me. Even this in-your-face power play had an element of seduction about it. I have only your best interests at heart.
“You’re getting round-the-clock security,” Patrick said. “Don’t bother arguing. Should’ve done it after those damn teeth arrived with your name on the package.”
“Does this mean you think-”
“You already know what I think. He’ll only be content with presents and phone messages for so long. He’s working up his nerve. Till he comes after you.”
He could almost pity her as she lay on the table, her eyes closed. If only he could forget all that she had said and done. Forgive. But he could not. That power was no longer his.
At last she awoke, blinking, a dumbfounded expression creasing her brow.
“Am I dead?”
“Of course,” he said, leaning into her face. “Welcome to Hell.”
She gasped. “You.”
“Did you enjoy your nap, Dr. Spencer?”
“But I-I thought-”
“I know. You thought you were dead.”
“I remember the wall. And…” Her words came slowly, as she retrieved them through a dense fog. “It was hard to breathe. And then-hard to think.” Lines formed around her eyes. “Then I don’t remember anything.”
“You passed out,” he explained. “All but asphyxiated. Yes, you were a goner, as the moderns say.” He opened his black bag and began laying out the instruments. “But I rescued you. Am I your hero?”