No, that wasn't right. He was-
… nearly rusted shut…
"Maggie?"
"It's behind the mirror," she said.
He moved her gently aside and used his handkerchief to avoid leaving fingerprints as he carefully pulled the heavy mirror far enough away from the wall so he could look behind it.
"Son of a bitch. An old laundry chute. A big one."
"It was almost rusted shut," Maggie said. "But he got it open."
John eased the mirror back into place, his face grim. "So that's how he did it. Dropped her in this, probably with some kind of cart waiting underneath the chute opening in the basement to catch her. Then took her out."
"That's how he did it. Though I still don't know how the cameras missed him." She swayed slightly and felt John's hand grip her arm. "Sorry. I seem to be a little tired."
"I'm taking you home,' he said.
"But I should-"
"Maggie, do you have any doubt that Tara Jameson is the sixth victim?"
"No."
"Then you don't need to go into that apartment."
"Yes, I do. John, what if I can sense more of him in there? What if I can get something that could tell us who he is?"
"You haven't been able to before."
"No-not until the elevator. Not until now. So I have to try."
John muttered a curse under his breath but didn't try to stop her when she moved toward the apartment. He also didn't let go of her arm.
Expecting them, Andy had left the apartment door ajar, and as soon as they crossed the threshold they could hear him just beyond the foyer, talking to Tara Jameson's fiance.
Maggie eased her arm free of John's grasp and took a step away from him, trying to concentrate, to focus. And this time it was with an almost brutal suddenness that knocked the breath out of her that she felt the wave of terror, the iron arms holding her from behind, the bite of chloroform. And something else.
That cold, dark, twisted hunger. And… familiarity.
"Maggie?"
She found herself once more supported by John, his touch bringing her out of it and wrapping her in warmth and worry. Through a throat that felt strangely constricted, Maggie said, "He knows her, John. He knows her."
Hollis?
She came awake abruptly, riding out the usual first moment of panic, of wondering why it was dark and what the weight across her eyes was. Then she was awake, aware. Napping in her chair in front of the window.
Hollis.
"Yes, I'm awake. Why am I awake?"
Hollis, we're running out of time. I've tried, but I can't-she won't let me in.
"Who? Who're you talking about?"
Hollis, listen to me. And trust me, you have to trust me.
"I don't even know your name."
Is that important?
"Well, yes, I think so. If I keep on calling you figment, somebody's going to hear me talking to you and lock me away. At least with a proper name, I can claim you're my imaginary friend. That's probably what you are anyway."
All right, Hollis. I'm-my name is Annie.
"Annie. That's a nice name. Okay, Annie-now, why should I trust you?"
Because you're the only one I've been able to clearly reach. And because you have to help me.
"Help you do what?"
Help me to save her. And there isn't much time. He's seen her now. He's seen her, and he wants her too.
Hollis felt a chill crawl up her spine. "Do you-do you mean the man who attacked me?"
Yes. We have to try to save her, Hollis. I can't reach her. But you can. You have to warn her.
Hollis sat there for a moment longer, her fingers gripping the arms of her chair tightly. But then she swallowed and said, "I'm a blind woman, Annie. What can I do?"
Will you help me?
"Just… tell me what you want me to do."
It took hardly more than fifteen minutes to drive to Maggie's small house in a quiet suburb of the city. Since it was dark by the time they arrived, John didn't bother trying to form an impression of the house, just followed her inside.
Almost as soon as they crossed the threshold, he saw her shoulders shift slightly, as though throwing off a burden, and he thought, Quentin was right again. This place is her sanctuary.
The living room they stepped into was very much Maggie, he thought. Nothing fancy but obviously good quality, the furniture was comfortable and casual, and the slight clutter of books and magazines combined with the riotous growth of numerous green plants gave the room a cozy, lived-in feeling. There were several framed paintings on the walls and one impressionist-style work propped on the fireplace mantel that struck a vague cord of familiarity in him.
"Nice place," he commented.
"Thanks." Maggie shrugged out of her flannel shirt and tossed it over a chair, and the close-fitting black sweater she wore underneath was a startling reminder to him of just how slender she was.
All that hair and the layers of clothing she invariably wore were both deceptive, he decided. And he had a shrewd hunch she used the camouflage quite deliberately.
"I could use some coffee," she said, pushing her hair back away from her face with both hands in an absent gesture. She was still too pale and obviously tired.
"You? I'd offer something stronger, but since I don't drink I usually don't have anything on hand."
"Coffee's fine." John knew he should leave her alone to rest, but he was reluctant to leave her at all.
"Coming up. Make yourself at home." She headed off toward the kitchen.
John followed, saying, "Mind if I keep you company?"
"No, not at all." She gestured toward the three comfortably wide and strong-looking stools on one side of the big center work island and moved toward the sink on the other side. "Have a seat. When I moved in here, I remodeled and commandeered what used to be the dining room for part of my studio. A studio I needed; a dining room was wasted space."
"Your guests probably end up in here anyway," he said, shrugging out of his leather jacket and hanging it over the back of one of the stools as he looked around at the bright, spacious French Country kitchen.
"Usually," she agreed.
He sat down. "I'm not surprised. This is a wonderful room.
She eyed him while measuring what looked like freshly ground coffee into an honest-to-God percolator. "I would have figured you for a different style. More classical, maybe."
He was only a little surprised; she was an artist, after all, and undoubtedly given to summing up personal style fairly quickly. "Generally speaking, that is more my style. But I like a lot of what's popular now. Like this room-French Country, but more French than Country."
Maggie smiled. "I'm not overly fond of roosters or sunflowers, to say nothing of chintz. This works for me."
John watched her more intently than he realized, wanting to take advantage of this time to gain a better understanding of Maggie. It was becoming more important to him, and he didn't bother to ask himself why.
With the coffee started, she got milk from the refrigerator and put it on the work island, then went to get two cups from the cabinet, saying abruptly, "Back at the station, when you were singing the praises of Quentin and Kendra, I notice you didn't mention their psychic abilities."
"No, I didn't."
"Still an unbeliever?" she asked, half mocking and half not.
"I don't even think that was it. Maybe I just wanted to keep everything… grounded."
"Grounded in reality?"
"No. Just grounded in the ordinary. The expected. Andy is pretty open-minded, didn't even blink when he found out about you, but I wasn't sure about Scott and Jennifer."
Maggie did understand. Despite his desire to keep "things" grounded, what she sensed in him was doubt and uncertainty… and the dawning, reluctant seeds of belief. She had caught a bit of that earlier, which was why she'd decided to talk to him, at least about some of it. Maybe show him the painting…