He hung up. That was the easiest date I'd ever planned. I hadn't even needed to show a little leg.
I read Latham's data sheet again, and then once more. The whiskey was working its magic, and once again I felt the drowsies sneak up on me. While that would normally be a cause for celebration, it was scarcely six o'clock. Falling asleep now meant I'd be up again around midnight.
The drowsies won out. I shed my clothes and crawled into bed, letting exhaustion take over.
I woke up a little past eleven.
Five hours was as long a rest as I'd had in recent memory, but there was no way I'd sleep any longer than that. I peeled myself out of bed, changed my bandage, and spent the rest of the night watching program-length commercials.
I spent some money. Late-night advertisers knew that exhaustion zapped willpower. Five hours later I'd bought a buckwheat husk pillow, guaranteed to provide me with a good night's sleep; an Ab Cruncher, guaranteed to transform my abs into a six-pack in only five minutes a day; and a set of nonstick cookware, guaranteed to turn even the most inept chef into a world-class gourmet. Because I ordered early, I got a free cookbook and a bonus spatula worth $19.95.
I managed, through sheer force of will, not to call any psychic hotlines.
By the time the sun peeked over the horizon, my Visa was maxed and I felt like an idiot. It wouldn't be the first time. Over the years I've amassed enough mail order junk to open up my own business. Those tricky niche marketers. There should be a law against television broadcasts after two in the morning.
I wrapped my leg in plastic and took a shower, deciding my morning workout would have to wait a while until I healed. Or until my Ab Cruncher came in four to six weeks. I dressed in old jeans and a polo shirt because my good clothes were all still at the cleaners, and then headed for work.
During the drive I thought about the case, and the two dead women, and the Gingerbread Man. And then I did something I hadn't ever done on a case. I made myself a promise.
"No one else dies," I said aloud in the car. "I'm going to catch you, and you won't get anyone else."
Even if I go down in the process.
Chapter 28
HE'S FURIOUS.
He paces back and forth in his basement, holding the rag to his bleeding face, stopping to give the body a kick.
Bitch. Lousy bitch.
The grab is perfect. He pulls up next to her, asking her directions, even offering her a free ice cream for her assistance. When she takes the cone he grabs her arm and sticks her with the needle. No witnesses. No struggle. No screaming. A textbook abduction.
Then he quickly ties her up in his basement and waits for her to wake up.
But she wakes up too fast. He's making himself a sandwich and suddenly she's running up the stairs, naked and frantic.
He grabs her, trying to pin her down, but she scratches him across the eyes. He loses his temper and backhands her, sending her tumbling down the stairs.
And she breaks her lousy neck.
Such a waste! All the time and planning, ruined! She dies not even knowing who he is, or why she's being punished.
Charles kicks her again, then goes to take care of his face. His eye burns, an ugly red mark bisecting the cornea. It requires treatment, but a doctor is out of the question. The scratch marks on his face look like scratch marks. There would be questions, and he would be remembered.
He makes do with iodine and gauze pads. Later he'll get some kind of eye ointment at the store. He has some things to do first.
With his anger soaring and his face hurting like hell, Charles has no desire to violate the body. Sex is the furthest thing from his mind. But he has a reputation to uphold, and for the next part of his plan it's necessary.
At first he can't get aroused. But Jack helps him with that. Thinking of Jack's face when she discovers this body. Thinking how Jack will scream when he has her in the basement, doing this to her.
Thinking of being inside Jack.
He finishes, grunting in satisfaction. Then he begins.
They're probably on to his disposal method and undoubtedly watching all convenience stores. But he has something different in mind. Something audacious.
First he removes the hand that scratched him. He knows there's DNA evidence under her fingernails, but he's already left DNA samples with his semen and he doesn't care. He does care, however, about alerting the authorities to the fact that she scratched him. He'll have this bandage on his face for a while, and doesn't need to have that bit of information added to his description.
After the hand, he begins to dissect the rest of the body. He works on a plastic tarp, with a cleaver and some wire cutters.
When he finishes, he loads everything of size into a fifty-gallon thermos cooler. There's plenty of glop left over, which he disposes of outside.
In the vacant lot behind his house there is a manhole. He's been dropping things down there for years, feeding the rats. He uses a butcher's hook with a T-shaped handle to pry up the cover, and dumps all the little parts still on the tarp into the sewer.
He listens to the soft plops in the darkness, followed by squeals of delight from the rodent populace.
"Snack time." He giggles.
He takes a quick but thorough shower, using a toothbrush to get the blood out of his fingernails, carefully avoiding his bandage. Then he spends twenty minutes getting the cooler up the stairs and into his truck. Another ten minutes are used up removing all of the pictures and descriptions of ice cream along the side panels and replacing them with signs that say "Mel's Plumbing," complete with a bogus phone number.
He also has a three-foot-long metal plunger, which he picked up at an auto graveyard, that attaches to the roof. An ice cream truck is conspicuous after dark, but a plumber can come and go at all hours.
Coming up on two in the morning, he finishes polishing his press statement. He has a lot to say, but if it's too long, it wouldn't all be used on the news. He wants it short, succinct, and on the front page. After printing the final copy, he puts it in an envelope along with the parts he's saved from Theresa Metcalf.
It's a cold night, and with his heavy jacket and hat he feels anonymous. First he dumps the cooler under some garbage bags in an alley he's had picked out for some time.
Then he makes a stop at an all-night coffee shop and buys himself a cup. After nursing it long enough to become invisible to the other customers, he hits the bathroom and uses some duct tape to secure his envelope behind the toilet bowl, putting his gloves on to avoid leaving fingerprints.
Gloves still on, he leaves the diner and walks to the nearest pay phone, calling the tip line for the Chicago Tribune.
"This is the Gingerbread Man," he tells the rookie who picks up the phone, "and I'm going to make you famous."
He hangs around for the next forty minutes, until some guy strides into the diner in an apparent rush, walking out two minutes later with the envelope.
The cops will be coming soon. Maybe even Jack. He stays and watches the fireworks, from the window of a corner bar across the street.
There's plenty of excitement; four patrol cars, five news vans, dozens of oglers.
No Jack.
He fidgets, sipping his beer until closing time, wondering why Jack hasn't shown up. Her fat partner hasn't shown either. Maybe a few body parts and a letter don't warrant waking them from their beauty rest. At four in the morning, the bar kicks everyone out, and he decides to check for himself.
He parks three blocks away from Jack's apartment, not sure how close the surveillance on her is. He walks quickly, hands in his pockets, head down, looking as if he has a destination.
On Jack's street he spots the team; they're parked almost a block away, and the windows are tinted to prevent looking in. But their cover is blown. Because it's cold, they have the heat on, and the engine is running. Charles sees the exhaust from a hundred yards away, and turns in his tracks and heads back the way he came.