She was looking at him with a desperation that he'd never seen in her before. She wanted to be reassured that she hadn't lost perspective the way agents sometimes did when they were too close to a case.
"The roses could very well be a coincidence," he said slowly, "but what you're saying makes sense. It's a solid theory."
She let out a relieved breath.
"But you can't allow yourself to be sidetracked by this old case. You have to follow the clues from the new homicides, then see if they intersect with this Gavin Hitchcock."
She fully agreed. She'd been trying to do that all along. "The killer's in control of the game. He hasn't left much of anything, at least nothing he doesn't want us to find. Wakefield might not understand how in control he is, but you do."
Anthony knew what she was thinking. The cases where there were no clues, and the killers had never been caught. Those were the ones that haunted them.
He had another concern. "Have you said anything to anyone about Hitchcock?"
"Only Gillian. But his name is on the suspect list, and he fits the profile."
Thank God she'd understood the dangers of mentioning his name to people like Wakefield and Elliot Senatra, Anthony thought.
"Because of the lack of clues," Mary went on, "tantalizing information about Hitchcock could turn this investigation into a witch hunt. As much as I hate Hitchcock, I don't want that to happen."
"No."
Mary's thoughts flashed to an image of Charlotte Henning tucked into a body bag.
"My worry," Anthony said, putting voice to the concern foremost in both their minds, "is that the killer is stalking a new victim at this very moment."
Chapter 15
Blondes.
He'd always had an obsession with blondes. When he was little, he used to sit behind a little blond girl who had the most amazing hair. It was so blond, it was almost white. One time he touched it. She didn't stop him, so he touched it again, continuing to get braver until she turned her head and caught him with her silken locks spilling through his fingers. She cried. That hurt. After that, he went out of his way to avoid her… but he never quit thinking about her hair…
He bought a paper and read up on the visitation and funeral of Charlotte Henning. He wanted to go. He desperately needed to see her, needed to make sure she'd completed her journey safely.
But he couldn't. He knew how these things worked. The police would be there looking for him. So he sent her a rosebush instead, one her parents could plant at the cemetery or in their yard. Whenever they saw the abundant, beautiful red blooms, they'd think of their daughter, and they'd think of him.
The funeral was scheduled for two o'clock.
At 12:30, he showered and shaved, then put on his only suit. The jacket sleeves were a little short, but if he pulled down the cuffs of his white shirt, it didn't look too bad.
At 1:30, he stepped into the basement and turned on the overhead lights.
He'd taken fifteen photos of Charlotte in the bathtub. Those he'd developed and enlarged to a variety of forty eight-by-tens. One wall was covered with her pictures-a memorial to a beautiful girl, a beautiful woman. In many of them he'd varied his developing technique, using different paper, different exposure times, filters, even some burning and dodging, so that even though many of the poses were the same, each was different.
He had several favorites, but the one he liked best was an eight-by-ten of her face-her sweet, angelic face.
He'd used a filter and fiber paper, both lending a softness to the finished product. She looked about twelve years old. She looked like an angel, with her blond, matted hair, her dark lips that had really been blue but since he worked exclusively in black-and-white, they could very well have been a lush red.
He checked the industrial clock on the wall. Five minutes.
He pulled out a chair, turning it toward the photos, and sat down, his hands clasped together on his lap.
He closed his eyes.
He imagined driving to the funeral. He imagined parking. He imagined stepping inside the church. And suddenly… he was there…
Candle flames danced behind red glass. The air smelled of flowers. He was pleased to see that the roses he'd sent were displayed prominently by the altar, next to her open coffin.
Without feeling his feet on the floor, he glided down the aisle toward her.
She was beautiful.
Her hair had been washed so it lay softly on either side of her face. Her lips were no longer blue, but a healthy pink that matched her cheeks. She wore a flowing white gown, the neckline trimmed with lace.
He looked down past her breasts and trim waist to where her hands were lying delicately, one on top of the other, her fingernails as pink as shells.
He reached inside the coffin and touched her blond hair. It was soft as silk. He touched her hands, which were warm beneath his fingers.
"You're going home," he whispered, bending closer.
Her eyes opened, and she smiled up at him.
"Forgive me." His throat was beginning to hurt, his voice getting tight.
"Come with me," she said, an imploring look on her face. She lifted a hand to him. "Come with me-"
Tears welled up in his eyes. "I can't," he choked.
"Of course you can."
"No. No, I can't. Don't ask me that."
"The world is a cruel place. You said so yourself."
"I'm afraid."
"There's nothing to be afraid of."
"Yes. Yes, there is!"
"Shhh."
The sound came from several people seated nearby. They were staring at him with cross faces and fingers pressed to their lips.
The scene changed, and suddenly he was sitting at the back of the church. The service had begun. Beautiful songs were sung, but when it came time for everyone to follow the closed coffin outside, he couldn't make himself get up.
"I'm afraid," he whispered shamefully to himself.
He couldn't make himself go to the cemetery. Couldn't make himself follow her on the last leg of her journey. He didn't like cemeteries. He tried to stay away from cemeteries.
Good-bye, Charlotte.
He opened his eyes and stood up, the chair legs scraping against the floor. Exhausted, he walked to the wall of photos and pulled down his favorite, the soft close-up of Charlotte's face.
Why had she asked him to come with her? He was ashamed because he was such a coward. There had been many times in his life when he'd thought of killing himself. He believed in God, and he knew the next world had to be better than this one. He wanted to die, wanted to join her, but he'd been told that killing himself would be a sin. A mortal sin that could send him plummeting to hell.
But maybe this was hell.
Words came to him and he spoke them aloud: "The errors that are whispered to me, enchantments, false perfumes, childish melodies."
Who had written that? Somebody's favorite author. Rimbaud. Yes. Arthur Rimbaud had written those words.
He bent his head and kissed Charlotte, sweet, sweet Charlotte, on the lips.
He put the photo aside and left the darkroom to change out of his suit so he could return to work.
He thought about the other girls. Their annoying imperfections.
Sluts.
Bitches.
Undeserving of life.
He reached into the deep front pocket of his pants, feeling for the six round objects he kept there. They were dry and much smaller now, but he loved the way they felt. He rolled them against his fingertips, around and around. Like worry stones, they brought him comfort, comfort he sorely needed in a time like this when his quest for a mate had to start all over again.
The bartender kicked them out at 1 a.m.
There was a lot of noise as the five friends shuffled out the door, of the rural Minnesota tavern.
"Comin' over, Todd?" Jerry asked as he searched through his keys. "I rented a coupla movies. Adam Sandier. You still like Adam Sandier?"