“I’m arresting you for assault with a deadly weapon,” he said. “At least.” He paused. “Thank you. You’ve all made me feel very sane.”
Archie saw the flash of light an instant before the electrical jolt hit his body. The wave of pain blasted through every sensation. He had been Tasered once before, during academy training. It didn’t help. It wasn’t something you got used to. All of his muscles tightened, and he dropped to the floor unable to move. Information came in stuttering chunks. He’d lost the gun. It was the girl. She’d gotten him from behind, below his rib cage. She Tasered him again in the same spot. He curled on the floor, overcome by the pulsing charge, every cell vibrating. The girl. She was a kid. Like Jeremy.
How old? Sixteen?
She Tasered him again. His body jerked involuntarily, causing a tiny dust storm to rise off the cement floor. The yellow bulb on the ceiling got smaller, like it was getting farther away.
They’d named the Taser after an old kids’ adventure book: Tom Swift and His Electric Rifle. They’d added the a. It was the kind of useless trivia that Susan would want to know.
He felt bad he’d never told her.
C H A P T E R 40
How long do we have?” Gretchen asks.
Archie takes his jacket off and lays it on the back of the chair. “An hour,” he says.
They are in her home office, where she sees patients. It is gray outside. The rain falls in steady cold sheets against the window behind Gretchen’s desk. Through the window Archie can see the plum trees in Gretchen’s backyard bend, their purple leaves trembling in the downpour.
Gretchen walks to the window and pulls the velvet curtains closed. “That long?” she says, walking back to him.
It is ten in the morning, and Archie has been up for six hours, most of it spent standing outside in the rain. He has left his muddy shoes inside the front door and is standing in his wet brown socks.
She stops a step in front of him and leans her head against his chest, like she’s listening for a heartbeat. The smell of her hair slows everything down. When he is with her he can almost forget the death that surrounds him. It’s one of the ways he justifies coming here. She keeps him sane. He can do his job better. Moral relativism.
Archie holds up the folder at his side. “I told Henry I was getting a consult,” he says. He tosses the folder on her desk.
She lifts her head and reaches up to touch his wet hair. “What happened to you?” she asks.
“I came from a crime scene,” he says. It was the third body in four weeks.
Her eyes soften and fill with tenderness. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I hate that you have to see that.” She kisses him on the cheek and then takes him by the hand and guides him to a chair. He sits down and Gretchen sinks to the floor in front of him. She takes one of his feet in her hands and peels off a wet sock.
She runs a finger down the top of his naked foot, to the tip of his toe. “You have beautiful feet,” she says.
He knows she’s lying—his feet are pale and calloused, with bunions the size of marbles.
“Anne thinks you’re right,” he says. “About the possibility of the killer being a woman.” Even at a time like this, his mind returns to work. “If it is a woman, Anne thinks she might have help. She says that dominant serial killers will sometimes take on partners with less powerful personalities.”
“Not partners,” Gretchen says, peeling off his other sock. “I’ve read the literature.” She drops the sock on the floor. “They’re more like apprentices.”
Archie shrugs. “Henry thinks it’s bullshit,” he says. “It challenges everything we know about serial killers. They’re supposed to be pudgy forty-year-old white guys with mother issues and panel vans.”
“Maybe they’re just the ones who get caught,” Gretchen says, climbing into Archie’s lap. She is settling in when she suddenly looks down and smiles. “You came ready to go,” she says, arching a teasing eyebrow.
“That’s my gun,” Archie says.
“Your gun,” Gretchen says, reaching to his right side and patting the leather gun holster on his belt. “Is over here.”
She unclips the holster, lifts it off his pants, and sets it on the end table next to the chair.
Then she reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out his cell phone, his keys, and his small field notebook, setting them all next to the gun.
After sliding her hand in the other pocket, she comes out with a pair of latex gloves.
“They’re for handling evidence,” Archie explains.
“Uh-huh,” she says. She tosses the gloves on the table with the rest, then unbuckles his belt, slides it out of the loops, holds it off to the side, and drops it on the floor.
The belt had been a gift from Debbie.
What was he doing here?