“I’m sorry, Annie,” she repeated.
“It’s okay, Susie.”
“‘Susie,’” he repeated. “Not ‘Susanne.’ All right, Susie and Annie, we’ll dispense with the formalities, then. Call me ‘Addie.’ My bitch mother did.”
She looked up at him. “So, Addie, is this how you’re working out your issues with Mommy?”
He lost the smile. Reached her in one giant stride. Drew his huge left hand up to his waist, then back across his body, then whipped it forward, backhanding her across her face.
Seeing it coming, she jerked her head to the right and leaned as it struck, trying to diminish the impact. Still, it hit with the force of a jackhammer, a loud banging crack that rattled her teeth and sent a spear of pain through her skull. She felt her chair falling to the right, but his hand snatched her arm and pulled her back to vertical.
Her head throbbed and swayed. She just couldn’t quite keep it upright and centered. Somewhere, Susie was screaming.
Wulfe knelt before her, his face spinning and drifting crazily in front of her half-closed eyes. He grabbed her chin, steadying her head. His dead gray eyes bored into hers.
“Ever since that day, I’ve been waiting for this one,” his voice rumbled, barely above a whisper. “You two thought you were so high and mighty, so unreachable. Especially you. I remember every word you and your dear friend here said to me. Every word. I didn’t have much to do all day in prison. So, do you know how I filled my time? I wrote out those words of yours. Then I counted them. Then, I imagined a specific penalty for each word.”
He released her chin, then stood.
“None of the penalties will be fatal. But after a short time, Annie and Susie, you will wish they were. We’re going to be here for a long, long time, you and I.”
He turned away, went to an end table holding a large brown paper bag. He picked it up and there was the sound of metallic chinking. He set it on a coffee table, then dragged the table and positioned it before them.
Then he dumped the bag’s contents onto the table top.
Kitchen knives. Garden tools. Screwdrivers. Hammers. Nails…
“Susie, you and Arthur certainly kept your home well-supplied.”
She shrieked. It became a long, low keening wail.
Annie had to close her eyes. She felt herself start to shiver. She had expected to be raped. Then to be murdered. She had already begun to prepare herself, to try to detach herself from her body, to let whatever happened, happen, until it stopped forever.
But this…
The shivering became uncontrollable. She tried to think of something to say, something that would stop him-even delay this, if only for a moment. But her brain was paralyzed, overwhelmed with the horror and the pounding pain in her head.
“You don’t have to do this,” she could only manage to croak.
He picked up a box cutter. Twisted his head around to look at her. Bounced it in his palm. Smiled.
“Oh, but I do.”
Then he paused. “You know, there’s something missing.” He snapped his fingers. “I know! We need a witness to these proceedings.”
He turned and went to the bookcase. Found a framed photo of Arthur Copeland. Brought it back to the coffee table. Put it down on the table, facing Susie.
“No!” She was panting rapidly, gasping, her breathing out of control, hyperventilating. Her eyes, enormous in terror, moved back and forth wildly, from the box cutter in his hand to the photo.
He stood, looked at the photo. Rubbed his chin. Then reached down to reposition it.
“There, Susie. That’s better.”
He turned to face her.
Her lips parted, her eyes lost their focus, and her head slumped forward on her chest.
He went to her, felt her neck with his fingers.
“Why, the little minx has fainted dead away. Oh, well. She’ll keep.”
He turned to face her. “Let’s start with you, then. Just look at you, all dressed up. What a nice Christmas present for me. Let’s unwrap the package and see what’s inside.”
She closed her eyes again, gritting her teeth.
Heard the cell phone.
Her eyes snapped open.
He looked at where it lay, flashing on the floor. “What’s this? A holiday well-wisher? Well, he or she will keep, too.”
Then she knew who it was.
It chirped a second time.
Only chance…
“You really should answer that, you know.”
He raised a brow. “And why should I do that, love?”
“Don’t you want to talk to the man who’s coming right now to kill you?”
Third chirp.
He looked amused. “And just who might that be?”
“Dylan Hunter.”
Fourth chirp.
A sneer twisted across his face.
“Do tell.”
Fifth chirp.
He reached down an ape-like arm for the phone.
THIRTY-NINE
Bethesda, Maryland
Thursday, December 25, 12:06 a.m.
Fifth chirp.
He was shaking, now.
I’m too late…
A soft click.
“Ho, ho, ho!” said the low, unmistakable voice. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Hunter!”
He reached out a hand to steady himself against the desk.
“This is the great Dylan Hunter, isn’t it?”
The name.
It reminded him of who he was.
He straightened. Went into his cold mission mode.
First, gather intel.
“Oh, excuse me. I must have misdialed. I was trying to reach a human being.”
Wulfe laughed.
“Well played, Mr. Hunter! I thought the sound of my voice on this lady’s phone would shock you to your core. But you sound so blase about it.”
He’s a sociopath. So manipulate his inflated ego. Keep him talking.
“You don’t surprise me at all, Wulfe. You’re entirely predictable. And that’s a fatal flaw.”
Pause.
“Oh really?” A tiny edge in the voice. “The little lady here seems to be under the delusion that you’re going to rescue her and her friend, and then somehow kill me.”
They’re still alive.
He grabbed his car keys, ran to the apartment door.
“You should have believed her, Wulfe. The little lady is right.”
Moved outside, into the hallway.
“My, my! Such bravado from a mere journalist.”
Not the elevator-the cell signal will cut out.
“A journalist deals only in facts, Wulfe. You’re as good as dead.”
He pushed through the emergency door, then hit the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible while he flew down, two steps at a time.
Eighth floor…
“You know, you’re beginning to irritate me, Mr. Hunter. Perhaps as punishment for your disrespect, I’ll let you listen in while I begin having a bit of fun with Annie and Susie.”
Seventh floor…
Hasn’t started to torture them yet.
“Sorry, Wulfe. That’s just not going to happen.”
Sixth floor…
“You don’t think so? Well, then, just keep listening. I’ll put it on speakerphone for you.”
Fifth floor…
“Then you’re about as stupid as I figured.”
“Me, stupid?” Angry now. “Who’s really the stupid one, Mr. Hunter?”
Fourth floor…
“After all, you’re wherever you are, while I’m here with your two lovely friends…”
Third floor…
“And so, Mr. Hunter, much as I’m enjoying our friendly banter, I think I should return to my Christmas party and guests.”
You’ll never make it in time. Neither will the cops.
Second floor…
“Let me start with Annie…”
Have to stop him right now.
“Well, it’s going to be a very brief party, Wulfe.”
“You’re bluffing. I can hear the stress in your voice.”
Watch your breathing…
First floor…