“How do we do that?”
He continued talking as if he hadn’t even heard my question. “Do you know how powerful it is to be weak? When someone wants you to obey them and you do, you become the feeder, the nurturer. You have the authority then, even though it seems exactly the opposite. But the therapist I’m going to has taken away all that and the other men don’t understand. I tried to explain it to them. They just laughed at me.”
I was having a hard time following him. “What men?”
“Don’t you understand? I thought you would.”
“I don’t. I would be happy to help you find a therapist who can work with you.”
His hand was still inside his jacket, pressed to his chest. “That is not the point. I told you, didn’t I? I came here to warn you that you are in danger. Don’t you see that?”
“How?”
“You’re meddling. This has to be done. And it has to be done in a certain way. It’s not over. There are more men who have to be punished, and you can’t interfere.”
He stood up, and as he did, something fell out of his hand, flashing as it hit the floor. Quickly, he bent over to pick it up. When he stood up, his jacket didn’t fall back correctly and his shirt was exposed. On the right-hand side, where he’d been keeping his hand, was a round wet spot.
When women are breastfeeding, their breasts can leak. I knew that; I’d breastfed Dulcie. Men rarely lactate but they can under certain conditions. Suddenly, the dots were appearing faster than I could connect them. I needed to keep him in my office for a few more minutes and call the police. Clearly, he was involved in the killings.
Nina’s admonitions didn’t apply here. Paul Lessor wasn’t yet my patient. This had been a consultation. And he had threatened me. That gave me the right to tell the police.
And he was lactating. He was probably suffering from other side effects of the drug. I took a chance that he was.
“Your mouth is probably really dry, isn’t it? We still have a half hour left. Why don’t you just sit down, let me get you some water. Then we can relax and you can tell me what you mean about my being in danger.”
He was still agitated, but something I’d said had reached him and he sat down as I’d suggested.
As I moved, I explained exactly what I was doing. “I am going to get up now and go ask my assistant to bring in a carafe of ice water. With two glasses.” I continued talking as I walked to my office door, opened it and took two steps in the direction of Allison’s desk.
“Can you bring us some ice water?” I said, loudly enough to be sure Paul could hear me. Leaning forward, I whispered in a voice I prayed he wouldn’t be able to hear, “Call 911. Then call Jordain.”
Raising my voice again, I added, “Yes, two glasses.”
I walked back into my office, leaving the door ajar. He couldn’t see that; his back was to the entrance.
As I came back around toward my desk, I saw what had fallen out of his pocket: a straight-edge razor blade. He held it in his hands, playing with it as if it were no more harmful than a feather.
“Could I see that?” I asked, hoping that he couldn’t hear any fear in my voice. My stomach cramped. I forced myself to think clearly. I did not have to be afraid. Even if he jumped up and came at me with the small blade, I was prepared, I knew how to protect myself.
He was playing with it so that it caught the lamplight and gleamed. Then he rotated it and a flicker of light moved from my wall to the floor, then flew to my face and into my right eye. I blinked. He shifted it again and the shimmer jumped to the window.
“Why do you have that?”
“I make collages-just one of the tools of the trade,” he said, as if I were a child and he were explaining to me.
“Oh? Do you work at a magazine?”
“No.”
“What kind of work do you do? Are you a photographer?” I was almost afraid to hear his answer. I held my breath. If he said yes-
“I thought you wanted to know about the danger you are in.”
“I do.”
Allison appeared at the door and knocked.
“Oh, good. The ice water,” I said. “Thank you, Allison.”
He jerked around, moving as quickly as he could, but still circling a fraction more slowly than someone who wasn’t medicated. He hid the razor blade in his hand so that she couldn’t see it. I hoped his reflexes were off just enough so that he would cut himself with it, distract himself.
“I don’t want anyone in here with us,” he said, nodding his head in her direction.
“She won’t stay. Allison is just bringing us some water. Your mouth is dry, isn’t it? You need the water. Allison, you can put the pitcher and the glasses on my desk. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said to me. Her hands shook as she put down the tray.
“That’s good,” I said.
She didn’t move, just stood in front of me, staring at me.
“Thanks, Allison,” I said again. “We can handle it from here.”
She left without looking back at the man on the couch.
After her footsteps retreated, Paul said, “She didn’t shut the door.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“I’d like it better if the door was closed. I don’t want anyone to come in.” He had taken the blade out and was examining it again. His beloved talisman. His shining toy. His power. His strength.
I got up. How much time had passed since I had asked Allison to call the police? How long would it take for Jordain to get here? What if he wasn’t at the number Allison had for him? What if she hadn’t gotten in touch with him? No. She would have said something. The number she had for him was his cell phone, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that the number I’d put in the book last summer? Yes, it had to be his cell phone. Because he’d always answer his cell phone, no matter where he was; he’d told me that when he gave me the card with the numbers written on it. Besides, I wasn’t in immediate danger-not as long as I could keep Paul Lessor talking. And I could do that, I told myself. No matter how nervous I was, that was my job, that was what I did every single day. I helped people open up. Cut through their barriers. Bled out their emotions.
I could do it with him.
And the surgery, so to speak, would keep him occupied.
I hoped.
Fifty-Two
Jordain, Perez and Butler were all hunched over the last set of shots Young had received. They were still waiting for all but a few enlargements they’d requested. But there were more than enough to work with. Or to be frustrated by. Everyone on the Delilah team was overworked, overtired and feeling the pressure of an investigation that had never gotten past go.
“Delilah is nothing if not consistent,” Perez said. “Look at this. Every one of these four guys has marks around their wrists and ankles at the same points. It’s almost as if he uses his own previous photos as a template to make sure that the restraints are exact.”
When Jordain went to sleep at night, he saw multiple images of these men, all four of them, as if his brain was a hall of mirrors. They went on into infinity, their ghostly figures screaming at him for not stopping this carnage.
He stood up and paced from one side of the room to the next, letting his eyes relax and scan the hundreds of photos that now entombed him. If he stopped focusing, perhaps he could pick up a pattern that they might have overlooked.
Just one more clue.
The two detectives plus Butler, as well as dozens of other cops, continuously mined the photos for something that might lead them to the discovery of the bodies or the apprehension of the killer.
All they had was the tattoo, but they still didn’t know what it meant. Perez had sent out copies of the small interlocking shapes to police departments across the country, as well as the FBI. If they could figure out what the mark signified, they would at least know what tied the men together.