Night Prey Page 21

  “How young?”

  “Late thirties.”

  “Miss Paxton, come down to the station and have a look through the mug shots, if—”

  She gently pressed the cradle buttons and handed the phone back to Jake.

  “Am I being foolish for not letting Avondale protect me?”

  “If he’s not a blithering idiot, he’ll assign some plainclothes to secure the complex. He knows where you are.”

  “Do you own a gun?” she asked.

  Jake shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, burying her face in her folded arms. “What’s happening? And why is it happening to me?” She laughed dryly. “Why me? Why me? Poor little Robbi,” she finished in a cynical tone.

  Jake was silent.

  She raised her head, looked at him.

  He stared at her for a long moment. Then, in a pensive tone, he said, “There’s a guy from New York—”

  “It’s over.”

  He waited.

  She gave him a thin smile. “It looked pretty bad, didn’t it, that scene in my kitchen?”

  He shrugged, then nodded.

  “He came unexpectedly. We—Jake, I’d rather not go into it right now, but I want you to know that what you saw was our first and only embrace while he was here, which, incidentally, was less than an hour. I didn’t... we didn’t... it’s over.”

  Roberta stared up at him. He stood in the middle of the room, tall, his hands in the pants pockets of his tuxedo, the black cummerbund emphasizing his narrow waist. An expression of profound compassion filled his handsome face. She let her gaze take in all of him.

  “Do you know how handsome you look in a tuxedo?” she said, her voice low. “When I saw you come through the ballroom door, I said to myself, Now there’s an incredibly sexy man.”

  “Yeah?” he said softly, as though she hadn’t changed the subject.

  “Yeah.” She smiled.

  “You’re a sucker for a guy in a tux?”

  “Not any guy.”

  He went to her, offered her his hand, then slowly pulled her to her feet.

  Her hands stroked the satin lapels, then moved inside his jacket to stroke the satin of the cummerbund. The hook opened and the pleated band fell away.

  His hands cupped the sides of her face, fingers sliding through her hair. He kissed her, a soft, sweet kiss that only made her yearn for more. She felt a fluttering in her stomach that soon, with kisses that became hot, hungry, and probing, burned lower in her body.

  He shrugged out of the jacket, let it fall to the carpet, slipped off his shoes. She unbuttoned his crisply starched shirt and helped him strip it off. She bent, kissed his dark nipples until they hardened, running her fingers through the fine curly hair between them.

  Wearing only the black dress pants, Jake swung Robbi into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, where he placed her on the bed. He took hold of her hips and pulled her to the edge. The hem of the satin dress slid up to the apex of her legs; her feet touched the floor. She opened her smooth, stockinged legs and he moved in between them. Supporting his weight on his elbows, he lay on top of her, kissed her throat, her chin, then found her mouth. Within minutes their kisses were feverish, urgent.

  He raised his upper torso, extending his arms out on each side of her and looked quizzically into her eyes. She put her arms above her head and stretched seductively beneath him. Her breasts were round and full above the strapless bodice. He pulled down the side zipper, folded back the bodice until an entire breast was exposed, then caressing with cool fingertips, he bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth.

  She sighed when he moved to the other one, sucking, nibbling with his lips. She squirmed beneath the exquisite weight of him, his hardness apparent through the layers of clothing.

  His hand went between them, undid his slacks, worked them down, and then he was naked above her. She wanted to feel his flesh against hers. She wanted to be naked, absorbing the heat and sexual vibrations from his body. She sensed a magnetism, like static electricity, drawing, yet unifying the heat and energy from both of them, making every nerve ending tingle deliciously. He stroked her thigh at the very fringe of her desire.

  When she whispered his name, he maddeningly slid down the length of her body. At the edge of the bed, on his knees between her legs, he pushed her dress up to her waist, then he rolled down her pantyhose inch by inch, kissing the skin as it became exposed to his lips and tongue. Her long legs trembled. As he freed her feet, Robbi pulled the dress over her head and tossed it aside.

  “Please . . she whispered. “Please, Jake, hurry.”

  He came back up, pulling her up with him until they were both entirely on the bed. He kissed her, his tongue slipping like liquid fire into her mouth at the exact moment he entered her. A flashfire of heat surged through her body, meeting at the nucleus of her being, melting.

  He was gentle, yet erotically savage as he moved within her. Their fervor mushroomed, and she sensed that they were as one. Synchronized in everything— pace, breathing, moans—she knew exactly where he was, for she was there as well. Within an instant of her exhilarating, throbbing rush of ecstasy, she felt a pulsing inside her as his release surged forth. He spoke her name as she cried out.

  Afterward they lay quietly in each other’s arms. Even with disaster at the brink of her consciousness, Roberta felt a sense of peace and well-being.

  Would it always be like this, this wonderful, this profound? Naturally there had been others before Jake, but none had touched the core of her as he did. No one had ever strived to please her as he did. His tenderness, coupled with an almost ruthless sexual abandonment, strongly bonded her to him in a way she didn’t understand, though she suspected that trust and love had a great deal to do with it.

  She drifted between sleep and awareness, content in the arms of her lover. A little germ of fear flickered somewhere in the recesses of her mind, but she had only to snuggle closer to Jake, feel his arms tighten around her, and the fear remained nothing more than a benign smoldering ember.

  FORTY-ONE

  Roberta awoke to the sound of birds chirping, water rushing along in the river below, and the rich smell of coffee brewing. She rose up on her elbows and looked around. The drapes were closed, the room cool, dark, and shadowy. The clock read 7:46. She was alone in the room.

  She stretched, for the moment feeling glorious, content. She was at Jake’s; he was somewhere nearby. The killer knew nothing of Jake. He would never find her here.

  A door closed softly somewhere in the condo.

  “Jake?”

  No response.

  Swinging her legs out of bed, she lowered her feet to the floor and, holding the sheet across her torso, looked around for something to wear. Jake’s starched dress shirt hung on the doorknob. She crossed to it, slipped it on, catching a nostalgic whiff of him in the cloth. The stiff material felt abrasive against her tender nipples.

  “Jake?” she called again, leaving the bedroom.

  She wandered down the hallway, opening doors, calling softly. A guest room, a large bathroom with a platform tub and an oversized shower, a small den with a desk surrounded by built-in shelves loaded with leather-bound books, and the living room stood empty.

  She padded barefoot into the kitchen, where water trickled from the faucet and down the drain.

  She turned off the water, looked around. On the stark white countertop and floor tiles she saw tiny flecks of crimson. She knelt, touched a large wet drop on the floor. Blood?

  Where was Jake?

  Her throat constricted painfully.

  Jake?

  That monster knew nothing about Jake, nothing about this condo. How could he know? Where was Jake? He wouldn’t leave without telling her. Immobilized by fear, she crouched motionless, rubbing the blood on her fingers.

  Something moved behind her. She felt a light touch at the back of her head. Robbi gasped, leapt to her feet and spun around, a strangled cry in her throat.r />
  Wearing only a pair of tennis shorts and deck shoes, Jake stood in the middle of the kitchen, his hand out, a bewildered look on his face.

  “Oh, God, Jake.” Robbi flew into his arms. “I thought I was alone. When I saw the blood and then felt—”

  “I broke a glass ... cut my finger on it,” Jake said, holding her face to his chest. “The only Band-Aids I have are in the first aid kit in my car. Hon, you’re shaking. I’m sorry.”

  “I thought he’d found me. That he’d hurt you and ...”

  “He’s not going to find us. There are places we can go. He won’t have a clue. He can’t read your mind. Right?”

  “No. But Avondale suspects I’m with you, and Avondale wants him out in the open....”

  “That’s stretching the probable a bit far. He’d have to make your whereabouts public, and I honestly don’t think, in all good conscience, that he’d do that.”

  Robbi chewed her lip apprehensively.

  “Speaking of Avondale, I saw him downstairs. He wants to talk. I told him to give us a few minutes.”

  “Do I have time to shower?”

  Jake kissed her forehead, lifted her chin until she was looking into his eyes. “You have time to do anything you want.”

  She smiled.

  He parted the dress shirt, slipped his hands inside, and gently caressed her breasts. “You’re so beautiful,” he said in a husky voice. He pulled her to him and kissed her.

  She clung to him tightly for a moment, then reminded herself, “Avondale.”

  Several minutes later Robbi was in the double shower stall when Jake poked his head in the frosted door. “He’s here. I found some things for you to wear, they’re on the bed. We’ll be on the balcony when you’re ready.” Then he was gone.

  She put on the clothes Jake had laid out for her. A pair of gray sweat pants and a black tank top. Around the deep scooped neck and armholes, Robbi’s braless breasts were exposed more than she cared for them to be. She took up the slack by tying a knot at each shoulder. She shook out her wet hair and ran fingers through it. Without her purse, she had no makeup. She pinched her cheeks to give them a measure of color, then went out to the balcony.

  Avondale sat in a lounge chair, Jake leaned on the railing. After Robbi was seated, Jake handed her a cup of black coffee. Her hands trembled, spilling traces of it.

  “Miss Paxton, relax. I know you’re scared, and with good reason. The last thing we want is to put you in any further jeopardy. We intend to use a policewoman who looks like you, a decoy, to draw him out. We do, however, need permission to use your house and car.”

  Relief flooded through her. “Yes, of course,” she said eagerly.

  “We’ve got stakeouts at your house, your office, and the shelter. He won’t get through, I can guarantee that.”

  She nodded. “I—we don’t plan to stay in town.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Miss Paxton, granted this isn’t easy for you, but we still need your help. If he’s inadvertently sending you messages telepathically, it’s important we know. I don’t know much about this parapsychology stuff, but if it’s anything like radar, it might be effective only within a certain range.”

  Robbi, knowing little more about parapsychology than Avondale, couldn’t deny his theory.

  “I won’t go far and I’ll let you know where I’ll be.”

  “Appreciate it. Now ...” Avondale ran long thin fingers through the deep waves of hair, patted his breast pocket. “Either of you happen to have a cigarette I can borrow?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “It’s just as well. Since I quit buying them, I don’t smoke nearly as much. Expensive habit.” He looked at Roberta. “So how do you figure he knew who you were?”

  “Either he saw me that afternoon in the woods when he killed Belinda but didn’t know who I was until he saw me on TV last night, or—and this is a possibility that makes me shudder to even consider—he’s clairvoyant as well.”

  “Perish the thought,” Avondale said with a roll of his eyes.

  “There’s one other possibility. Carl Masser knew about my ESP—”

  “Masser? Yeah. There’s a strong link there. Checked it out like I said I would. He hasn’t been to work since Monday morning. And no one around his apartment house has seen him coming or going all week. Would you mind giving him a call right now?” Avondale asked.

  “Not at all.”

  Jake brought out the cordless phone and the phone directory.

  Robbi found the number and dialed. No answer.

  “We’ll put out an APB on Masser’s vehicle.” Avondale crossed his long legs. “Is there more we should know about the perpetrator? Dr. Reynolds tells me he hit him with his car last night. What of his bullet wound?”

  “I think he has a very high pain threshold,” she said. “But he ran off last night instead of fighting, so his injuries may have slowed him down a bit.”

  “Let’s hope. A guy like that—hell, it wouldn’t bother me if he crawled into a hole and died, case unsolved.” Avondale flipped a page on his notebook. “Okay, this is what we’ve got. He cast his net at Bernie’s Saloon on Virginia Street last night. The bartender remembered serving a big, dark-haired man matching the composite. He left early. There’ve been no reports of missing women in the last twelve hours. If he goes back there looking for someone, we’ve got him.” Avondale leaned forward. “Anything more to do with a church?”

  “No.”

  “Could he be a minister?”

  She shrugged.

  “Just in case, we’re running a check on churches in a fifty-mile radius. So far nothing.”

  “He could be self-ordained or substituting for another clergyman.”

  Avondale’s head jerked up. “Miller,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Back in the early seventies there was a serial killer name of Benjamin Franklin Miller. Convicted of killing five women. He was a self-ordained minister who preached on street corners and was occasionally invited to preach in small community churches. But damn,” Avondale said, shaking his head, “Miller doesn’t fit the description.”

  “Will you run the composite in the media?” Jake asked.

  Avondale shook his head. “We’ll hold on to it for a bit. Don’t want to send him running just yet. I can look into having a chopper crisscross that area, though. Might see something worthwhile.”

  Eckker took the curved tapestry needle and threaded it with coarse black thread. With two fingers he pinched the small hole at his side together, then forced the needle into the angry flesh, drawing the thread through. This he did three times before tying off the end and snipping the thread.

  He seethed deep inside, to the core of his pain. The bullet wound had been aggravated by the car hitting him. A bruise the size of his open hand covered one thigh. But aside from the fresh bleeding of the gunshot wound and the bruise, he was unhurt.

  The steady chuk-chuk-chuk of the helicopter caused him to pause and look heavenward. He forced himself to relax. No reason to believe the chopper was looking for him. In the summer, hikers got lost or injured in the mountains. Although he wasn’t comfortable with the helicopters passing overhead, he failed to let it panic him like it did years earlier when he first took up residence here. If they hadn’t seen anything in four years, they weren’t likely to see anything now.

  Wiping the bloody needle on his pant leg, he rethreaded, reached behind him, and tried to close the larger opening with his thick, blunt fingers. Unable to see what he was doing, he worked by feel, his fingers sticky with blood and viscous body fluid, the sharp point stabbing but failing to close the hole. Sweat ran down his face, soaked his body. He breathed in grunts, from pain and from the effort of straining to work in such an impossible position. Finally he gave up, folded an old T-shirt, and taped it over the bleeding wound.

  She was probably working with the cops by now. But it didn’t matter, he would fi
nd her and kill her.

  FORTY-TWO

  The police placed a heavily guarded vigil on Roberta’s house. Plainclothesmen were stationed in the metal shed in the backyard and in a van across the street. Inside the house were two officers—one of whom was Roberta’s look-alike—and a police dog. The phone was monitored. No one would get near, let alone inside, without detection.

  At four A.M. he came out of thin air, smashed out the window in the back door, and stormed in.

  Avondale and his newly assigned partner, Clark, parked in the van in front, heard the glass shatter, radioed for backup, drew their guns, then ran across the street and rushed into the house.

  Just inside the kitchen door the German shepherd lay dead in a pool of blood. In the hallway was Detective Jackson, semi-conscious, both shoulders dislocated, his right foot crushed. They rushed into the bedroom to find the rumpled bed empty and the window open. Over recorded Gypsy music they heard a man shouting outside.

  Avondale and Clark leapt through the window.

  “He went that way, through there! He’s armed with a lead pipe. He’s got Howe!” Holding a hand to his bloody head, the cop from the shed pointed with his gun in the direction of the six-foot hedge that paralleled the driveway. Avondale crashed through it, wincing from the twigs that racked over exposed skin, nearly gouging his eye. He stopped, looked around, his stomach sinking. The neighboring yard was a maze of bushes and trees.

  Jesus!

  “Clark, get out front, down to the corner,” he shouted. “Move it!”

  Jesus H. Christ, how can this be? In disbelief, as he ran through the yard to the adjacent lot, listening to his partner’s soles slapping on concrete, dogs barking in adjoining yards, and the sound of police sirens in the distance growing louder, he asked himself: How in the hell could one man, with a bullet hole in him, abduct an officer right under the noses of four armed cops and a trained dog?

  Joe Eckker ran with his unconscious burden, carrying her like a sack of grain through the dark neighborhood, keeping in the deep shadows of the houses. At the third house down he saw a real estate lockbox attached to the front door. He hurried down the driveway to the back. He broke out the pane in the back door, unlocked it, and slipped inside.