“Now, wait a minute,” Patrick protested.
“What?” I said, grinning in what I hoped would seem a lascivious expression. “Don’t you wanna make a girl happy?”
“We’re professionals. We shouldn’t-”
“Don’t be a spoilsport.”
“But someone might come…”
“Who cares?” I bit him on the side of the neck.
He pulled away slightly. “It would be wrong of me to-”
“Oh, don’t be so damn good. Just this once.” I unbuckled his belt and reached inside. After that, I knew I had him. He didn’t care who was watching. I pulled him inside me and felt the warmth, felt the glow, felt good, felt safe. For a little while.
Oh, Susan. Oh, my dear, sweet Susan. I wanted so much for you. I wanted to elevate you, to cherish you, to escort you through the gates of Dream-Land. I tried to win you over, to help you see the light, to seduce you with the truth.
But now I see that you have been seduced by another master altogether.
I followed you because I wanted to help you, to learn more about you. Because I cared for you. And I was concerned, genuinely desperately concerned when I saw you enter that bar, knowing your weakness as I do. But that was nothing compared to the abject horror I experienced when you emerged. How could I know you had an addiction worse than alcohol, an addiction to decadence, to evil? I could never have believed it-until I saw you roll onto your car like the most debased jezebel, like the village harlot, an impure woman less worthy than the dust. Yes, I know you’ve been drinking again. But that is no excuse. There is no excuse.
I know now what I must do.
I must show you the error of your wanton ways. I must show you the result of indulging your passions, let you see your ultimate destiny if you continue on this wicked path. I must crush the spiritual depravity, modify your behavior with an experience so ghastly those old instincts will be dissipated, now and for all time. You must hit rock bottom before you can be cured.
I know you will not come of your own accord. You are willful, stubborn, eternally contumacious. But I can break you. And I will. Not because I want to. Not because I will enjoy it. But because it must be done.
I have only your best interests at heart.
20
I was used to waking up groggy, disoriented, not knowing where I was. I was used to a throbbing head, pulsing temples, dry cottony mouth. I was thoroughly familiar with finding I had forgotten to put on my jammies. And I was not altogether unaccustomed to finding myself in a strange bed.
But being handcuffed to it? That was different.
“Wha… tha…” My eyes felt as if they had been pasted shut, and I couldn’t wipe them clear since both wrists were cuffed to the headboard. What the hell had happened to me? Could I have been abducted by-
That’s when I felt it-the cold clutching at my heart. The paralyzing, stabbing pain in the chest. Shortness of breath. Panic.
Edgar. Had he found me? Had he given me his drug and chained me here, waiting for the right moment to begin whatever sick Poe-derived deprivation he had in store for me? I pulled at my bonds, but they were secure. I was chained down like a dog on a leash, utterly at his mercy, powerless to help myself. Any moment, he would return with his axe, his dental implements, his-
“Ready for some coffee?”
Patrick appeared in the doorway, carrying a small tray with two cups. “Maybe I’m wrong, but you seemed less the tall-glass-of-OJ type and more the stiff-cuppa-joe type.”
“Why the hell am I chained up?”
He looked up absently. “Oh. Right. Sorry about that.” He put the tray down and fumbled in his pockets for a key.
“You forgot? Is this some twisted power trip for you? You get your jollies by chaining up women with your big stud FBI toys?”
“I didn’t want to do it.”
I quieted. “You didn’t?”
“Do you remember anything about last night?”
Thinking hurt, but I made myself do it anyway. I recalled the phone call from Edgar, of course, the bar, the thing on the hood of the car. After that, it got a little hazy. Well, actually, it was a void.
“Maybe you’re used to, um, this sort of activity, Susan, but I have to tell you-I’m not.”
“Look, just undo the cuffs, okay?” He reached over and freed me. He smelled good. He was already scrubbed and dressed and aftershaved and ready to tackle the day.
I didn’t realize how stiff my arms were until I could move them again. They ached. I managed to work them back down to my side. They tingled as if they had been asleep for a thousand years. “Where are my clothes?”
He pointed. I crawled out, clutching the sheet to me, and started dressing. “I hope I didn’t-”
“No. You were great.”
“I… was?”
“Unpredictable. Intense. But great. Really.” He grinned. “Something like that is good for you every now and then. Shakes things up a little.”
“Yeah. I feel the same way,” I said, wondering what the hell had happened.
“I got some food from the diner downstairs if you want it. But my hunch is-” I made a gagging face. “Yeah. That was my hunch.” He smiled. “I’ll be in the next room. When you’re ready, I’ll drive you to work. You don’t have a car, remember?”
“Okay.” It went against the grain, but damn it, I had to say it. “Patrick?”
“Yeah?”
I tried to smile. “Thanks.”
I actually ventured a slice of toast as we drove to the office. And even after we arrived, I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye. We walked together to my desk.
“What’s this? Another package?” I picked it up. It was about the size of a bowling ball, wrapped in brown paper. “It has my name on it.”
“Susan! Get rid of it!” Patrick cried. He shouted for assistance, but I was already unwrapping it. “Susan! We need to have it-”
“It’s not a booby trap. He wants me alive.”
“Not again! For God’s sake-”
Too late. I lifted the lid.
The stench emanating from that box was unlike anything I had ever smelled in my life. And I’ve been around corpses, sickness, all kinds of filth.
“My God!” Patrick cried, covering his nose and mouth, staring at the wet, viscous, blackish red lump in the box. “What is it?”
There was a card, hand-lettered in block print. He hadn’t bothered to encode it.
DR. FARA AND I HAD A NICE HEART-TO-HEART. SEE?
BEHAVIORAL PROFILE-EDGAR
BY SUSAN PULASKI, M.A., LVPD,
AND PATRICK CHAFFEE, BSS, FBI
Based upon what is generally accepted about serial killers and their crimes, Edgar is probably a white man, between twenty and forty. He is more likely a book-reader than an athlete. He may have some physical deformity. He is literate, perhaps highly so. He is intelligent, as evidenced by his familiarity with and adoption of the works of Poe and his proficiency with ciphers. Various witness statements have described him as both tall and short, thin and wide. Although this could indicate that Edgar is in fact two people, it is more likely that some of the descriptions are inaccurate. At this time, we have no way of knowing which reports are erroneous.
Although he has used a southern accent in his telephone communications, that is probably an affectation associated with his idolization of Poe. If he has any natural accent at all, it is more likely that his origins are in the western United States, Nevada or the surrounding states. Although he has used many Vegas-area locations for his crimes, we cannot assume that he is a native or even that he currently resides here, especially given the propensity of serial killers to move from one place to another. It is possible that the Sin City reputation attracted him. Many of his actions-punishing strippers, removing body adornments or nail paint, dyed hair, etc.-evidence a desire to enforce old-fashioned values.
There are no indications of great wealth, but he must have some income flow. Several of his crimes have required unusual props or equipment. All have involved a drug that cannot be obtained legally in this country without a prescription. Tire tracks suggest that he drives a truck.