Stu does the math, sounding it out so that Harper can chime in if needed. “If he was twenty back then, that’d make him fifty now. Even saying he was forty, he’d be seventy now. I think at the extreme end of the scale, he’ll be eighty—although the fact he’d need strength and a certain physicality to carry out these murders rules out the possibility of him being that old, I guess. So, fifty years old in nineteen eighty-five, which means he would have been born nineteen thirty-five.”
“Make the search range from thirty-five onwards to, like, the late sixties. Let’s see what we come up with,” Harper tells him.
Stu taps the search range in, selects the criteria, and lets it run.
“Ah, seven names,” he says, leaning toward the screen. “All born with facial irregularities between nineteen thirty-five and nineteen sixty-nine.”
“Send it to the printer,” Harper tells him, walking back and forth. “I feel like we’re finally closing in now.”
Stu finds the hospital record for each name and does a quick check. “Three of these are deceased. That leaves us four. I’m printing their addresses and physical attributes now.”
“Great. But I think it’s a bit late now to go knocking on doors.”
“Yeah I’m with you. We’ll hit it first thing tomorrow,” Stu says. “Not that I’m not eager to find this bastard.”
“We’re really close now.” Harper takes his face in both hands. “I’m so thrilled I could kiss you.”
“Why don’t you?”
She leans down, presses her lips hard against his. Stu gets to his feet and grabs her around the waist, picking her up. He walks with her in his arms, her legs hooked around his waist, the two kissing passionately. When Stu’s knees hit one of the research desks, he lowers Harper to it. The printer spews out paper in the corner as he wrestles Harper’s pants down to her ankles, then off, and drops them on the floor. Harper yanks his belt from the buckle and unbuttons his fly.
There is nothing to say, just the urgent need, the sudden slapping of skin on skin, the two of them grunting, carnal and primitive. It’s over in less than a minute, Stu holding her legs together, her feet pinned by the side of his face. Harper panting from the sudden rush of her orgasm, the risk of getting caught only heightening the experience.
Catching his breath, Stu looks at her.
Harper reaches down, slaps his behind. “I think the printer’s stopped.”
The body the body the body.
Lester goes to the car and pops the trunk. The smell that rises from Ceeli’s body is overwhelming, but nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. He reaches in, lifts her onto his shoulders, and carries her. She has baked in the trunk of the car, and her body is swollen, but she’s still light.
He carries her through the backyard, to the shed. The door is open and he’s set a chair in there. Grunting, he stoops down and deposits her in it. Ceeli immediately flops to one side, but with a bit of maneuvering, he gets her sitting in it just right.
As she died, he took her, clamping the cushion down on her face so hard she was unable to take a breath. He built to his climax, grunting with the effort, and Ceeli suddenly relaxed around him. That was how he knew she was gone. Her hands stopped fighting him, stopped scratching at his arms. Her legs fell slack on either side of his hips.
Remembering the sensation makes him groan, makes him ache all over, fills his head with brain sparkle.
Lester admires her, sitting there with her chin resting on her chest, her ashy color, her swelling, the stink rising from her dead body. And the horror frozen on her face.
“There you are,” he says, grinning, already feeling the stiffening in his pants at the prospect of having her there with him. “You’re home.”
He doesn’t know why he didn’t get started before, but then it was never his plan to take Ceeli for his own. It just happened naturally, like a dribble of water breaking away from the main stream to become a tributary of its own. Lester walks around the side of the house, and down through the long grass that borders the house and the woods. He feels the supplejack with his fingers, determining whether they’re what’s needed. He selects the best, the process a calming one. Lester gathers them together and thinks, These will make an excellent crown for Ceeli. Something Mack should have done for her. Now I’m here to make her my princess.
Harper parks her car in front of her house. She and Stu get out, and Harper glances at his car, parked across the street. “I’d invite you in, but . . .”
“I know,” Stu says. “Another time.”
“Definitely,” Harper says.
They kiss, Stu holding her by the waist. “We take two names each, yeah?”
“Uh-huh. You’re sure we shouldn’t involve the rest of the department in this?” Harper asks him. “At least Captain Morelli. Surely we should get in touch with him, let him know what’s happened.”
“Not yet. Let’s be sure, first. Smoke him out, Jane. Make him blow his own cover.”
“Damn, Stu. You’re talking like a real detective!”
Stu crosses the street, turns back to look at her. “See you tomorrow.”
Harper waves him off, then goes inside. The apartment is how she left it. She checks on Ida, who is lying in the fetal position in her bed. She pours herself two fingers of scotch and sits on the sofa. She doesn’t even touch the drink before she’s asleep.
14
It’s approaching midday when Stu leaves the home of the first name on his list. David Jenson. Born with a severe cleft lip that was corrected when he was eight, leaving a scar, but very little warping of his facial features. He phones Harper.
“One down, one to go.”
“How did you make out?”
“He’s about the right age, but there’s no way he’s the killer. He had a stroke and lost all strength in his arms, besides the fact that his sister can vouch for his whereabouts. To rape and kill a young woman, it takes a fair bit of strength.”
“You’re beginning to sound experienced in this area, Stu.”
“I am, pretty much. Not that I’d like to be,” he says, climbing into his car and firing up the engine. “I’m gonna go visit Lester Simmons, see what I turn up. This one will probably be missing his arms and legs, dragging his ass around all day on a goddamned skateboard.”
“Be careful, partner.”
“I will.”
“As it turns out, I’ve got my last one, too. I’m convinced—one of these names must be the killer.”
“Well, looks like we’ll find out real soon.”
“I’ll let you know, soon as I’m done here,” Harper tells him.
“Roger, roger.”
Harper parks the car. “Ida, why don’t you wait here, okay?”
“You don’t need me?” Ida asks her.
“I don’t think so. I have a good nose for this stuff. Besides, I’ll be able to tell from what he has to say,” Harper explains. “I’ll be fine.”
“Mind if I listen to the stereo?”
Harper laughs. “Of course not.”
It’s hot out. Harper wears a light-blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, as open at the chest as she dares—though she wears a thin vest beneath. She has a notebook in one arm, a file. Her gun bulges in its holster at her right hip.
The house is pleasant enough, nestled among a row of similar houses, a well-kept lawn in the front. The whole street is nice, she concludes, though sometimes it’s the brightest houses that hide the darkest interiors.