Just then one of the men inside the gym stands up from the shoulder-press machine and rises to an impressive height of over six feet. Bike shorts hug his armor-plated thighs, leaving his carved, veiny calves exposed. A black spandex shirt accentuates his V-shaped torso, particularly the muscular swell of his upper back. Unlike some of the other men pumping iron around him, his body doesn’t have the bulbous curves of the chemically enhanced. Rather, it looks naturally sculpted by hours of grueling work.
His black baseball cap casts some shadow on his face, but she can tell it’s him. It’s the nose that clues her in—the impossibly perfect nose that doesn’t seem to match the rest of his face. Now, with the retouching on his headshot removed, she can clearly see his long mouth that doesn’t seem to close all the way over his tongue, the tiny eyes that make him appear like he’s squinting nervously even as he settles into a new machine and begins confidently hammering out a series of chest presses that sends a stack of metal plates as tall as her knee shooting up and down the cable in quick, smooth repetitions.
Against her will, she feels an almost blinding surge of pity for the man. The quiet gravity with which he expertly goes about his workout seems fueled by neither a love of fitness nor a desire to be healthy; he moves with an angry, bitter determination to be free of his own face. A face, despite his skill and his nose job, he can’t alter to his satisfaction.
Why should she view him any differently than the girls she went to high school with who were driven to eating disorders by their own insecurity about their bodies?
Because he might have killed two women, that’s why.
She realizes she’s been staring too long. Glances down at her phone. There’s a text from Luke.
Eyes on him, she writes back.
Good, comes the response.
She gives Pemberton her full attention again. Tries to see past the muscles, past the facial features. Tries to see what type of man his casual mannerisms suggest. She’s not a gym person, but his workout seems challenging, and he’s not getting tired. He’s barely sweating.
Now and then he pauses to sip water from the bottle he carries in a holster built into his waistband; a waistband that also holds his cell phone and what looks like his wallet. There’s even a pouch big enough for his keys.
Maybe he avoids the locker room. Just like he’s avoiding the crowd at a bigger, trendier, name-brand gym by coming here.
She’s changed positions twice, even pantomimed a phone call, just in case he notices her, by the time she realizes he’s emptied his bottle.
He heads to the nearest water fountain, starts to refill. That’s when something catches his attention, something on one of the TVs. As if in a mild trance, he walks to an empty bicycle in the second row, leans against it as though he’s about to get on, but instead stares up at the row of screens overhead. From her new position, she can barely see his face, but she can see the TVs and their predictable buffet of entertainment options. A reality-TV catfight in a crowded nightclub, a football game, a syndicated cop show she remembers Luanne watching when it was new.
It’s the local newscast that’s caught his attention.
Parked police cars. Shots of bicyclists and hikers entering and exiting the woodsy entrance to some sort of wilderness trail. Shots of local signage: Whiting Ranch Park. And then, as if these details weren’t dread inducing enough, a black-and-white image, taken in a crowded restaurant, of a plain young woman with brown hair and an uneasy smile. The group of friends she’s leaning into, as well as the drink she’s probably holding in one hand, have been cropped out. Then she’s replaced by images of Kelley Sumter and Sarah Pratt. Faces Charlotte last saw on a smaller, grimier TV inside that horrible bar where she almost killed two rapists.
The chyron on-screen confirms her suspicion about the news report.
IS MISSING OC WOMAN THIRD “MASK MAKER” VICTIM?
She steadies herself with a deep breath, reminds herself she’s there to watch Pemberton, not the news. But when she focuses on him, she sees that he’s staring up at the screen like a dog whose owner has a treat in hand.
She changes positions again. Tries for an angle on his face without exposing herself. She finds a reasonably decent one. It gives her a better view of the bike seat, and the hand he’s stroking it with. There’s no better word for what he’s doing. Stroking. Stroking the seat while he gently presses his crotch to the back of it.
Not just pressing, she realizes. Rubbing.
Pemberton seems to realize it at almost the same moment she does; he’s become fully erect in his skintight bike shorts in the middle of a gym while watching a news report about a woman who might have been murdered.
He swallows, glances behind him, and manages to keep his cool as he makes a show of stretching his arms, which gives him an excuse to drive himself against the back of the seat. He’s not trying to cause himself more pleasure; he’s trying for the opposite. Maybe that’s why he’s biting down hard on his lower lip. She can’t tell if any of it works. But at least he’s embarrassed by his display.
At the very least.
Quickly, he turns his back to her, heads in the opposite direction. She figures the hallway he’s turning toward now leads to the locker room. Next to him, there’s a shelf lined with fresh hand towels just like the kind the women on the cardio machines are using to mop their brows. He whips one off without slowing his pace and holds it against his stomach so that it covers his crotch as he walks.
As she heads for the nearest escalator, nausea and dizziness are doing a joint number on her, but she manages to stay upright and text Luke.
Pick me up same spot, she writes.
Then once she hits the sidewalk and takes a deep breath, she adds, It’s him.
37
I didn’t know.
They’re following Pemberton back to his condo, which at this hour of the day, makes her feel like they’re about to be swallowed by the sunset’s blaze.
When did this break? Charley types.
An hour ago, Bailey responds. No word of this at LAPD this weekend. Elle Schaeffer’s only been here a few months. Moved here from Wisconsin. No family in SoCal, and her parents passed away a few years ago. No one reported her missing until Monday when she didn’t show up for work.
Where are you getting this info? she types.
Um. The LA Times website.
The blood left Luke’s cheeks as Charley had described what she saw in the gym.
He’s been silent ever since, his focus on the road, his jaw working as if there’s something stuck in the back of his teeth. Maybe he was just indulging her, holding out hope they were following the wrong guy, and now the reality of this is sinking in.
Pemberton uses his remote to get through the entry gate to his building.
Luke keeps driving, bypasses the spot they parked in that morning, then onto side streets. Meanwhile, the blip indicating the doctor’s motorcycle goes still as he parks.
“If he has someone alive, this changes everything,” Charley finally says.
“It does.” For once he’s not disagreeing with her.
Lag time between abductions and masks. Three weeks, right?
Longer, Bailey answers. A month.
“Jesus,” she whispers.
“A month. A month goes by between the abduction and the mask. Luke, if he’s got a captive, we can’t just keep watching him like this.”
“I agree, but we don’t have evidence that he does.”
“I told you what I saw at the gym.”
“You did, and it’s revolting, but it’s not proof he abducted Elle Schaeffer.”
“He was literally aroused by the story of her disappearance. As in the actual definition of literally.”
“Which is proof that he’s a sexual sadist, and maybe even the Mask Maker. But it doesn’t connect him to Elle Schaeffer. The news could just be speculating about her being a victim. People go missing all the time. You really think he’s got a woman up there in that condo?”
“No, I think if he’s got her anywhere it’s at the Temecula house. I’m calling Marty.”
“OK. Once you do, I’ve got a question I want you to text Bailey.”
When Marty answers, he tells her he just got to the RV down at the casino, that he left the surveillance post about twenty minutes before. There’s been no sign of life from inside the house all day. The guy who feeds the dogs came back at the same time, obeyed the same routine. In short, nothing seems any different from the day before.