He was in pain. His whole body hurt. It was bone pain, the worst kind, deep and achy, not like muscles that could be stretched and massaged. Everywhere he had tumbled and rolled on the pavement, he felt it now. There was a time, in his twenties, when he didn’t pay a price for that kind of punishment to his body. No longer.
The abrasions on his skin stung. The cut on his chest was bandaged, but there were others, scrapes and burns, that he hadn’t discovered until he stripped off his clothes and found places where the slightest touch made him wince. He forced himself to take a shower. The hot, pounding water felt like knives, but it made him feel better to wash away the dirt and then to stretch out in bed.
He heard the bedroom door open and close softly as Serena came in. She crossed to the open window and stood there, looking out. She was a tall, lovely silhouette.
“Claire?” he asked.
“Sleeping. I gave her an Ambien.”
She came and sat down on the bed.
“I was afraid you were going to get yourself killed out there,” she told him.
“Right now, I wish I had.”
He felt her fingertips moving, tracing circles on his chest.
“Do you hurt?” she asked.
“All over.”
“Let’s see if I can make it better.”
Her hands put gentle pressure on his skin, pushing, looking for the erotic nerve ends that let him feel her there.
“Claire’s in love with you,” he said. “It’s obvious.”
“I know that.”
Claire had made no effort to hide it. It was there in how she looked at Serena, how she hung on her on the ride home.
“What about you?” he asked.
Serena touched a sensitive spot, and he sucked in his breath in pain. “Oops,” she said.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Then don’t ask me silly questions like that.” She cupped her hand over the skin as the pain faded, then began again, touching him.
“I’ve been keeping something from you, Jonny, but not about Claire.”
He made a low sound, questioning her. It didn’t matter what she told him now, not while she was doing this.
“Deidre and I were lovers,” Serena said quietly. “Back when I was a teenager. I’m sorry, I should have told you before.”
She picked up one hand and rubbed along his fingers with her thumb, then sucked each fingertip into her mouth. A moment later, he heard the drawer of her nightstand open. She retrieved something from inside.
“A lot of men find it exciting,” she said. “Two women together.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“What do you think?” he said.
She didn’t need to ask. She could feel the effect she was having on him.
He had always suspected there was more to the relationship between her and Deidre than she had let on. He wished he had pushed her harder. It was such an important piece in the puzzle that was Serena.
Her hands came back to his body, on his legs this time, massaging the muscles on his thighs. She ran them up onto his stomach and then down all the way to his toes.
“My shrink would say it’s transference,” Serena said. “I’m guilty about Deidre, so I’m attracted to Claire.”
“What do you say?”
“She’s hot, and she turns me on.” Serena laughed.
She pulled back, and he heard a strange plastic sound, like a cap being popped, and then he quivered as a stream of cool liquid dripped down his shaft. Her hands were back, both of them, and suddenly he was slippery, and her hands rubbed up and down as if gliding over soapy skin.
“It’s your fault,” she told him. “You turned me into a damn sex addict”
He tried to speak, but he wasn’t sure he knew how anymore. His body seemed to lift off the bed. The pain evaporated.
“Feel better?” she asked, and he knew without seeing her that she was grinning.
When the spasms began coursing through his body, he found himself holding his breath, and the lack of oxygen spun images into his head. Cindy, his first wife, in bed, making love. Maggie, his partner. Amanda. Serena. He thought about being homeless and about being, at that instant, disconnected from his body, rising above it, looking down into the darkness.
He wasn’t sure how long had passed before she went into the bathroom and then came back with a warm, damp towel that she used to clean him off. She slid into bed next to him and was asleep almost immediately, her head lying on his arm, her breath blowing on his face. He thought he would sleep, too, but he didn’t. His mind was too full of her, and of Minnesota, and of what it meant to be home. Long minutes later, he finally felt himself slipping away, but he thought, or maybe he dreamed, that he heard Claire’s footsteps in the hall, and he wondered if she had been there the whole time, listening to them.
THIRTY-FIVE
Sawhill put down the phone. His face was purple. The lieutenant who kept an iron lock on his emotions was losing control, and Stride thought the man was ready to stroke out right there in front of them.
“That was Governor Durand,” Sawhill said, his voice pinched. “He’s wondering why this perpetrator is still alive, when one of my detectives had him in his gun sights last night. He’s wondering why it took half a dozen squad cars to surround a honeymoon couple from Nebraska while a serial killer was able to walk away from a crime scene where he murdered a police officer without so much as someone asking for identification.”
Stride was reminded of why he hated politicians. “No offense to die governor, but he wasn’t there. This guy is shrewd. He used a ruse to draw Claire out into the open, and he had all of us in a situation where we needed to be concerned about citizen casualties. It’s not like we could fire randomly.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve read the report. He outdueled you, Stride. You had the drop on him, and he turned it back on you.”
“That’s true enough,” Stride admitted. “He’s a trained mercenary.”
“Well, I’m sorry if we have a more sophisticated criminal than you’re used to dealing with in Minnesota,” Sawhill shot back. He reached for the stress ball on his desk and began squeezing it furiously. “But I expect my detectives to be better trained than the people they’re trying to collar. All you managed to do was shoot up an Escalade, which, by the way, happened to be owned by a senior vice president at Harrah’s who is a good friend of my father. My rule of thumb is, if you’ve got the shot, you take the shot, and you make the shot”
Stride wondered if Sawhill had read that in The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Detectives. “Agreed,” he said.
“Then the perp pulls a simple switch and manages to fool all of you,” Sawhill continued. “This couple owns a Subway franchise in Lincoln Falls, and we nearly blew the husband’s head off, because you told a team of squad cars the man was a serial killer who had just killed a cop.”
“It was the perp’s car,” Stride said, but he was loath to make excuses. He knew he had screwed up.
“And once again he proved he was smarter than the people I’ve got trying to catch him. Tell me at least we got something from the car.”
Stride shook his head. “Fingerprints, but we already had those. He bought the car for cash three months ago. Fake name and address. There’s not a scrap of paper inside to suggest where he might be living. We’re doing a forensic examination to see if there’s dirt or other trace evidence that might give us a clue, but that’s going to take time.”
“We don’t have time,” Sawhill said. “Is Claire under wraps?”
Stride nodded. “Serena’s babysitting her:”
“So what do we do to find this guy?”
Amanda, who had been quietly watching the Ping-Pong game between Stride and Sawhill, spoke up. “We could set a trap. Put Claire back in the game in a setting we control.”