Tucker hated doing this while it was still daylight. But as luck-or math-would have it, the body had to be deposited in the heart of the nightclub district, an area where, ironically enough, here in the real city that doesn't sleep, it would be busier in the middle of the night than it was now.
If the delivery position had been calculated properly-and he knew it had-his destination was in the center of a parking lot. Unfortunately, it was a private, paid parking lot roped off by chains barring both entryways. There was a guardhouse, but as he drove slowly by, it appeared to be empty. He parked as close as he could on the side of the street, just across from the appointed destination.
He walked to the back of the car, made sure no one was looking, then popped open the trunk. There she was, bundled in painters'wrap, just as he had left her. She'd fought harder than he'd expected, even while restrained; certainly she made a better showing than that punk at the fast-food joint. But in the end, it didn't matter. What he was doing was foreordained; he was following a plan that had been carefully and scientifically selected. There was no margin of error.
Hadn't been a bad-looking woman, either, but he guessed that was to be expected, given what she did for a living. Under different circumstances, he might've been interested…But who was he kidding? Women like her never gave him the time of day. They looked down at him with contempt. They taunted him with their female smells and teased him and then never gave him anything. No one had ever loved him. Not until But he was allowing himself to be distracted. There was no time for this. Every moment he stood here, exposed, out in the open, he took a profound risk. He reached down, hoisted the bundle, and flung it over his shoulder.
Tucker crossed the street, moving at a brisk pace, but she was heavy-dead weight, literally. He crossed into the parking lot, calculated the proper position, then lay the body down to rest on the asphalt surface.
"Hey! Whatta hell you doin'?"
Damnation! There was someone in that guardhouse after all. The door swung open and an elderly man, seventy if he was a day, in a threadbare security uniform, came running in his direction.
The man didn't bother Tucker; he knew he could take him out, even without the axe or the knife, even if the guard was armed. Probably just by blowing hard. But he was carrying a radio. No telling who he might be able to contact. Or how quickly. If the guard got a good look at him, there could be serious complications.
Tucker ducked behind a car, then started moving, lowering himself to the ground. He was bluffing the guard, doing what the man would expect-running away-then doubling back. He watched carefully under the cars until he saw the guard's slow footsteps move past him. Then he circled around the car and came at him from behind.
He tackled the old man like a linebacker, knocking him over face forward. He heard the man's head crack against the pavement with a sickening thud. After that, he didn't get up. Didn't even move. Which should prevent him from using that nasty little radio.
Tucker checked the guard's pulse. Still breathing, although he probably wouldn't be reporting in for work anytime soon. But that was good. Unauthorized kills might be a problem. He had to stick to the pattern. The work had to form a perfect unity. Any flaw might damage the whole. Any mathematical statement with a random variable inserted would not produce the proper result.
He crossed the street hurriedly, careful to make sure the noise hadn't attracted any additional attention, then climbed into his car and sped away. That had been a close shave. Much too close. In the future, he would have to be more careful. There was too much at stake. And too much left to be done.
Only three more days, and then he would complete the next component in the equation. IT WAS A LITTLE after ten before I called Amelia. I kept hoping that if I worked myself to death, if I kept poring over each file and report as it came in, eventually I would have an epiphany. Some useful insight. But it never came. I saw the preliminary coroner's report-just as gruesome as I'd expected it to be. The coroner found an increase in histamine and serotonin levels, which told us Amir had been terrified for a good long time prior to his death. Big surprise. The photographs were unbearable, gut-wrenching. Why was the letter K branded on his body? The forensic reports were thorough, detailed, and completely unavailing. They had vacuumed and grid-searched and checked the vents and plumbing and even peeled up the tile, but found nothing of use. They'd even gotten an expert to run handwriting analysis on the mysterious formula, but he couldn't tell them anything. How much personality could you deduce from a finger scrawl in grease? I went online and searched the FBI's database for psychological profiling of serial killers maintained by the Behavioral Science department, but it wasn't helpful. We just didn't know enough.
The more time passed, the more anxious I was. The more aware I became of my own incompetence. Of how much everyone was counting on me. And sure enough, by nightfall, my stomach was doing flip-flops again, my hands were shaking, and I could hardly talk without an embarrassing tremolo in my voice. That Valium had been great stuff, but evidently it didn't last forever.
Amelia arrived to pick me up in record time. "Where are we going?" I asked, as we zoomed off, top down, into the blazing neon.
"There's a dinner theater magic show theme park thing going down at Caesar's Palace." I admired, not for the first time, how good she looked when she got out of the white coat and dolled herself up. "I thought it might be a kick. Get your mind off things."
I had to smile. I happened to know for a fact that she despised magic shows, but she also knew that I despised gambling, rarely went to movies. And she wasn't taking me to a nightclub or any other place where booze was too visible and tempting. The sacrifices of a good friend. "That sounds great. I'd like to unwind. I'd…" I shook my head.
"What? What is it?" Her eyes stayed on the road, but all her attention was on me.
"Oh, I just feel…wretched." I paused. "That new victim we found today."
"Yeah. Gruesome stuff. Is there anything I can do?"
"I don't know." I paused long enough to give the impression this idea had just popped into my head. "Do you have any more of those little blue pills?"
Her neck immediately stiffened. "Susan…"
"Is there a problem? You use them."
"I use them occasionally, when I'm having a serious anxiety attack. And even then sparingly."
"What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is, if you start taking too many, they saturate your bloodstream and pretty soon your body craves them. They can be addictive."
I held up my hands. "Okay. Never mind. I just-I feel so stressed."
Amelia frowned. "I know. I can see it. Even without looking at you." Her right hand darted into her purse, then she pulled out the pill bottle and tossed it to me. "Just take one so you can relax a little at the show and you'll be sure to sleep afterward. But that's it. No more."
"Understood, mon capitaine." I unscrewed the bottle, popped one in my mouth, then put the bottle back in her purse. I hate to admit it, but almost immediately I felt better. Just the thought that help might be on the way had an enormous calming effect.
"All right then. Are you ready to have fun?"
"I sure as hell am. You promise not to heckle the magicians?"
She gave me a thin, sly grin. "I make no promises." She turned her head slightly my way. "After all, I want to have some fun tonight, too."