“I was afraid of that.”
“You should be. The suspect’s in the wind and our lead homicide investigator uncovered evidence that may indicate he isn’t finished yet.”
“And?”
“And he’s possibly headed in your direction.”
Talmadge sighed and closed her eyes. “What sort of evidence?”
“It’s a hastily written note that looks as though it may have been jotted down by our killer. It was found next to the body.”
“And what does the note say?” Talmadge asked, a trace of frustration creeping into her voice. This Miller character couldn’t just come out with it, he had to string her along, make her ask a million questions. Officious prick.
“It doesn’t really say anything. There’s just an address jotted down on the back of a piece of scrap paper—Seven Granite Circle.”
“Ooookay…” Talmadge hesitated. Why did that street name sound familiar? She shrugged and continued, “I guess the obvious question would be, why did ‘Seven Granite Circle’ make you think of Everett and not somewhere else?”
“Because there are only two communities in the entire Commonwealth of Massachusetts containing Granite streets, and—”
“—and one of them is Everett,” Talmadge finished. She felt her stomach tighten as she suddenly remembered why the Granite Circle address rang a bell. One of her officers had been dispatched to that address a short while ago. A report from a neighbor concerned about a possible break-in.
At 7 Granite Circle.
Suddenly it became very important to get Lieutenant Miller off the phone and talk to dispatch. Her officer had walked straight into a nightmare.
CHAPTER 45
Milo frowned in frustration. What the hell was it with this bitch? She should have been nearly out of her mind with fear, crying and blubbering and begging for her life. He had had extensive experience torturing pretty young women—there weren’t many things in this life he was good at, but torture was definitely one of them—and the cycle of emotions undergone by his playthings was virtually always the same.
First would come surprise. More like shock, really, as the realization struck them that this man was not the harmless person they thought he was. Surprise would be followed immediately by fear. It wasn’t quite terror; that would come later. Rather, it was more of a realization that things were spinning out of control and they knew everything was going wrong but did not yet realize just how wrong.
After that would come resistance and a stubborn belief that if they worked hard enough at convincing him to let them go, he might change his plans and target a different girl. This was always the most entertaining part of the whole experience for Milo until the actual torture started. Some of the girls would beg and plead, others would act tough, putting up a brave front, displaying a belligerence they could not possibly feel. Some would sweet-talk him, coming on to him like a lover, as if maybe he was too stupid to see through the obvious ruse. He hated that, being treated like an idiot by a common streetwalker.
Eventually, though, the girls always reached the breaking point. Often it was not until he started in on them with his knives and his pliers, but it always happened. They would break down and begin screaming (hence the all-important duct-tape gag) and babbling incoherently, unable due to fear and pain to manage a coherent sentence or even an intelligible word.
The cycle was as regular as the tides in Boston Harbor. But this girl was different, which of course made him hate her even more but also—if he was being honest with himself, which he always tried to be—fear her just a little bit. It wasn’t a fear that she might overpower him and somehow escape. That was a complete impossibility, so unlikely as to be laughable.
Rather, it was a twinge of concern, a vague notion that he might be unable to gauge her reactions properly and thus be ineffective in controlling her. With everything that had happened over the last few minutes, this clean-cut, innocent All-American beauty should have been well on her way to her inevitable nervous breakdown. And yet there she stood, clad only in bra and panties, clearly uncomfortable about her near-nakedness but standing ramrod-straight and looking him in the eye, determined not to let him get the upper hand.
It was a ridiculous notion, of course. He already had the upper hand and was not about to relinquish it. But it did throw him off his game for just a moment. He reached behind his back, stroked the knife handle, comforted by its presence, excited he would be getting an opportunity to use it, and very soon now.
He said, “Lie down on the couch,” and she stood there, gazing into the distance, as if just now realizing she had left the iron on or forgotten to put in the roast beef for dinner. Jesus, this bitch was annoying!
“I said, get your pretty little ass onto the couch.” He raised his voice for emphasis and the woman came back from wherever she had gone, blinking hard and looking at him in surprise, almost like she had forgotten he was there. Again, annoying as hell.
A tiny flicker of fear passed across her eyes and then she seemed to regain her composure and it disappeared. Not for long, Milo thought. Pretty soon it will be back for good. She eased into a sitting position on the threadbare couch, crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest. She looked good, had a great figure, well-toned abs, smallish tits but very proportional, and long, lean, athletic legs. For a moment Milo wished he was like most men. He could have had a field day with this girl.
But he wasn’t like most men. An attractive female form did nothing for him unless he was working it over with a knife or pliers, stabbing and slashing and ripping. Then, and only then, would he find himself getting hard. Then, and only then, would he be able to achieve sexual release.
Of course, he had no intention of letting this girl in on that little secret. It had been his experience that the longer a playmate thought she was managing to avoid being raped, the easier she was to control and the longer she would remain compliant.
He eyed her, seated demurely like a virgin on prom night. “That’s a good start,” he sneered. “Now, lie across the couch on your back.”
The fear returned to her eyes, this time not just flickering across them but thundering into them like a runaway freight train. Milo felt a twinge in his groin as his body reacted to this demonstration of the power he held over his victim.
The girl hesitated, just as she had done when instructed to strip, but after a moment she seemed to acknowledge the helplessness of her situation. She lifted her feet, knees still locked together, and swung them onto the plush cushions. Then she slid her upper body down along the couch-back, never taking her eyes off Milo’s, until finally arriving at the position he had intended, fully horizontal with her head propped up on the armrest.
A smile spread across his face and he pulled the long knife out of its makeshift scabbard at his back. He studied his victim like an artist pondering a blank canvas. An electric tension hung in the air. Milo could not see the older broad—she was behind him, still trussed up on her chair next to the unconscious hero who had tried to save the day—but nevertheless he knew she was trying to avert her eyes and failing. She didn’t want to watch but she had to, which added a nice little charge to the excitement he was already feeling.
At last he stepped forward, knife held firmly in his right hand.
And the girl said, “There’s something you should know.”
CHAPTER 46
Cait thought she had done a pretty good job of keeping herself together until the crazy bastard told her to lie down on the couch. That was when she thought the tenuous grip she had managed to maintain over her emotions might come crashing apart, like water rushing out of a smashed drinking glass.