Jennifer drew a breath. "So he killed his own family-not what happened this time, with the victims all unrelated to each other. But he didn't want them to see or watch him-which is definitely like our guy and, apparently, the killer in 1934."
Quentin sat down at the table, rubbed his face briefly with both hands, and said, "Family members. Maybe the cop in 1934 was on to something."
Andy objected, "But our victims are unrelated, like Jenn said."
"Unrelated to each other, yes. But maybe at least one of them was related to her attacker."
"All the relatives have alibis for at least one period of time in which we know this guy was either snatching another woman or spending a few hours torturing one," Jennifer pointed out. "Every single one of them. We triple-checked that."
"What are we missing?" Quentin muttered. "There's something… a fact or question so all this will make sense."
Andy looked at Jennifer. "The list of the electronics company's employees was screened, but the computer was only looking for connections to family, friends, or acquaintances of the victims, you said?"
"Yeah."
"What about the victims themselves? Were their names included?"
"Sure. The computer said there was no connection."
He sighed. "Shit."
Quentin rubbed his face again and said, "You said you were going over the list yourself, Jenn, and I say it's a good idea. Maybe you'll see something that escaped the mathematical logic of a computer."
"Right." She immediately bent to the task.
"Andy, do we have a copy of that DMV list of black Caddies in the area?"
"Yeah-it's right here."
"Let's see if any of those names jump out at us."
"We can't possibly be that lucky," Andy said, but handed over half the list to Quentin.
They were all tired, too tired to be doing what they were doing. Not that it stopped them, of course. But the weariness did make Andy question what he thought he was seeing nearly half an hour later. "Reported stolen," he murmured.
Quentin looked at him across the table. "What?"
"There was a black Caddie reported stolen two years ago. Never found."
"Probably not so unusual," Quentin noted.
"No, not that part. It's who reported it stolen. Who it belonged to."
"Who?"
Before Andy could answer, Jennifer said, "Hey. Hey. Do you know who used to work for the same electronics company as David Robson? Who was, in fact, his boss in the software design department?"
Slowly, Andy said, "Simon Walsh."
She stared at him. "How'd you know that?"
"Lucky guess. He reported his father's old black Caddie as missing and probably stolen just over two years ago. I love a good coincidence, but this can't be one."
"Christina's husband," Jennifer said. "Christina's husband was David Robson's boss and had him fired, just like Robson said. And he used to own a black Cadillac?"
"Yeah."
"But he's dead."
"According to the record, yes." Andy looked at Quentin. "Which would explain why the computer didn't come up with a match. We didn't even have his name on our lists, since Christina was-or was supposed to be-a widow. It was a sailing accident, wasn't it? That supposedly killed him?"
"Yeah. In fact, since I knew Christina and John, I came to his memorial service." Quentin shook his head. "He was a sailing nut, often went out alone even in bad weather. This time, the storm won. And there were witnesses, of a sort. Another boat near enough to see Walsh struggling with equipment, see the boom swing and hit him. And over he went. The other boat pinpointed the area, there was a pretty massive search, and they recovered his boat mostly intact-but he was never found. As I remember, John hired experienced mariners and rescue people to search even after the official search was called off, but they had no better luck than the Coast Guard."
Jennifer fumbled for a cinnamon toothpick and thought longingly of a cigarette. "But, Andy-she was his wife. You're saying he did that to his own wife? The rape? The acid?"
Softly but with a distinct note of loathing in his voice, Quentin said, "Vows don't mean much to sociopaths, Jenn. After what you've seen him do, how can you doubt he'd balk at brutalizing a loyal and loving wife?"
Andy said, "And wasn't Walsh some kind of computer genius?"
Quentin nodded. "Electronic security systems would have been child's play for him."
Jennifer was still protesting. "If you're right about this, Christina was his second victim. Why marry her, then fake his own death a few years later-and not attack Laura Hughes until a year and a half after that?"
Quentin said, "He might have been drawn to
Christina without really knowing why and believed himself in love. Sociopaths don't feel the way we do, but they often pretend to feel, to live normal lives. He could have married her, intending to live that normal life. Then either felt too confined or just got tired of the game. Faking his death was a nice dramatic way out of all the ties binding him, gaining him his freedom without any messy emotional confrontations.
"Then he sees Laura Hughes one day," Quentin continued, "and something about her face triggers his psychosis. We can be pretty sure it's the way these women look that makes him single them out, even if we're not entirely sure what it is. He sees Laura-and goes after her. Once he attacks her, once he begins to explore and satisfy his needs, his hungers, whatever restraints he felt before would melt away. He not only has the taste of it but possibly understands now why he was drawn to Christina, why her face attracted him in the first place. And she becomes his next victim."
It sounded all too horribly likely, even to Jennifer. She stopped protesting.
Andy drew a deep breath. "Okay, we've got to start looking for a dead man. And we have to do something else."
"Yeah," Quentin said. "We have to tell John."
Hollis adjusted the sunglasses on her nose. They felt oddly loose somehow. Looser than the bandage had been.
"We'll keep the lights out in here, Hollis," the doctor said, his voice both soothing and disappointed. "We don't want to add any unnecessary strain. It may just take a little time, that's all. The muscles are working properly, and the pupils. The optic nerve looks fine. The eyes themselves are very bloodshot in appearance, but that's perfectly normal."
Hollis thought he minded more than she did. "It's all right, doctor. We both knew the odds."
"I don't want you to lose hope, Hollis. In optical surgeries, there's often a period of adjustment when the bandages come off. Give it a little time, okay?"
"I don't have any pressing appointments," she said lightly.
He sighed. "I'll come back in a few hours, and we'll check again."
"Sure."
When she was alone again, Hollis turned her face toward the window. The blustery night had been followed by a miserable day, according to the nurses. Wet, dreary, cold. So she wasn't missing much, at least as far as the view out the window went.
But she would have liked to see it.
She really would have liked to see it.
Hollis?
"Hello, Annie. Were you around when the doc was here? I'm still blind, you know." Her voice was the same as it had been with the doctor, even and calm, almost placid.
Hollis, listen to me. Are you listening?
"Sure. Sure I'm listening."
You have to see.
"I can't."
Yes, you can. The eyes are yours now, Hollis. They belong to you. They were a gift, so you could see. You must see.
"But I can't. Just darkness. That's all I see." Do you want to help Maggie?