She was out for drinks after work, then probably dinner and a movie. He knew her routine, knew her circle of friends, knew she lived alone. Last night's stakeout had been only one of many. He had a pretty good idea when she would return home. It was just a matter of waiting, anticipating--preparing.
Without a sound he slid into the basement. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he climbed the stairs. He had a pick with him, but the door was unlocked. It opened with a squeak. He peered inside. The oven light from the kitchen spilled into the hallway, dim but sufficient to guide him through the house. He moved quickly past the master bedroom, disturbing nothing. He went straight to the guest bedroom, again touching nothing. He slid the closet door open and stepped inside, closing it behind him. She wasn't likely to check there. She'd come home and go to bed in the master, completely unaware of what was waiting for her in the next room.
His heart was pounding. Anticipation always fueled excitement. The risk heightened the thrill, a winner-take-all scenario. If someone had seen him enter, if she could somehow sense his presence, he was trapped, literally backed into a corner. But if he had gone undetected--and he knew he had--the night was completely his.
Silently, he laid his leather bag at his feet. It contained everything he needed, his tools. He lowered himself to the closet floor and sat motionless. He noticed the clothes hanging overhead, could even smell them. This close to a kill, his senses were always heightened. Slivers of light seeped through the louvered closet door, painting stripes on his torso. From behind the closet door he peered through the slats and checked out the room. A streetlight outside the house gave the room a faint yellow cast. The bed was in the corner. The door was directly across. He'd left it open, as he had found it, so he could see into the hall.
He looked away. It could be hours before her return. He would have to stay alert. Usually, adrenaline kept him focused. Tonight, however, his mind wanted to wander. He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them, fighting off the distraction. No use. The setting was the problem. Hiding inside the closet. The clothes hanging overhead. The narrow slats of light beaming through the louvered closet doors. The darkness, the silence-it was beginning to play tricks. He closed his eyes to escape from the reminders, but there was no stopping the mental journey. He was going back in time, many years, to his childhood. He could see himself at home in his father's study--the one room in the house his father had declared off limits. He did his work there, reviewing confidential files and materials from the Torture Victims' Institute. It was -only natural for a tenyear-old to be drawn to a room he was forbidden to enter.
And it was only natural to run and hide in the closet at the sound of his father's footsteps approaching in the hallway . . .
The door opened. He peered through the louvered slats and watched his father enter, praying he wouldn't check the closet. He didn't. He went straight for the window and pulled the blinds shut. The room darkened. The closet turned even darker. He could barely see out. His heart raced at the sound of footsteps again, his father crossing the room. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the closet door to open, but it didn't. He heard a dresser drawer slide open, then close. He opened his eyes. His father had something in his hand. A videocassette, which he inserted into the VCR. The television switched on. The room brightened with its flickering glow. His father sank into his chair, his back to the closet. He and his father were faced in the same direction, watching the same videotape.
The screen was pure snow at first, then a woman appeared. She was sitting on a chair, facing the camera. She wasn't too old, probably in her thirties. She had short dark hair and skin that looked tanned. She looked nervous. She licked her lips a lot; her hand was clenched into a fist. She wasn't beautiful but pretty. Prettier than his mother, anyway. Finally she spoke.
"My name is Alicia Santiago."
"And where are you from?"
The second voice startled him. It was his father. It was a taped interview, psychotherapist and patient.
"Bogota, Colombia."
He watched for several minutes, never taking his eyes off the screen, almost forgetting that his father too was watching just a few feet away. The tape itself, with his father asking questions and the pretty woman answering, seemed more real. It intrigued him the way she would answer anything the therapist asked, even details about her marriage.
"Tell me more about your husband."
She drew a deep breath. "He was a judge in the criminal courts. Many drug cases."
It would have been boring for a tenyear-old to watch but for her expressions, her obvious pain. With each answer she seemed more distressed. The tone of his father's questions never changed. It was the same monotone, very methodical.
"Tell me about that night," his father said. "The night the men took you."
Her voice shook. "There were . . . three of them. I think. I don't remember exactly. I was asleep. They grabbed me in my bed. Put something over my mouth. I tried to scream but couldn't breathe. Then I blacked out."
"They drugged you?"
She nodded.