She heard it
When all the knots were untied, he helped her up. She shuddered when he touched her. His hands were all over her as he pulled her to her feet. She hated herself for moving so slowly. Everything took time. She had thought that when she was free she’d find a way to get him. Maybe grab the knife. Her heart started beating faster. She was going to make a move.
But before she was even up and on her feet, he wrenched her arms behind her back so hard she gasped. Then he tied her hands. He was behind her. She had no chance to get him. He guided her to the door with one hand around her neck, squeezing just enough to let her know he could end it right then. In the bathroom he stood there in the doorway, watching her pee. Even though the pressure on her bladder was great, it took a long time to get it out with him watching. She struggled to reach for the toilet paper, couldn’t reach it.
“Dirty bitch,” he cried. “Didn’t anybody teach you to flush the toilet?” He laughed suddenly. “Don’t move.” He set the knife on the floor.
The window was behind her, high over her head. He started filling the tub. The knife was on the floor beside him. She eyed it. What now?
“Get in the tub,” he commanded.
“What?” She couldn’t move.
“Are you deaf? I said get in the tub.” He grabbed her and shoved her into it, knocking her legs against the cold porcelain. He turned on the taps and adjusted the temperature carefully. Not too cold, not too hot. Water splashed into the tub. He closed the toilet and sat on it, waiting for the tub to fill up.
Emma’s eyes widened with the sudden terror that she would not live through the day, after all. He was going to drown her as soon as there was enough water in the tub. She started to gasp and pant.
“Take it easy. Don’t you want a bath?”
Emma whimpered. A bath?
He reached for a bar of Irish Spring and started lathering up her chest and arms.
“Don’t! I’ll do it myself,” she cried. “You’re hurting me.”
“Shut up.” He was getting hard. She could see it. She went limp and closed her eyes.
“Shit! Get up. I told you, don’t do that.” He pinched her.
He didn’t like it when she fainted. That was a good tiling to know. She groaned a little.
“Get up,” he ordered.
Water sloshed around her chin as she sank deeper. Maybe he’d drown her now and put her out of her misery.
“Get out.”
She opened her eyes. “Huh?”
“Get the fuck out. Are you stupid?”
That was it? That was the bath? She struggled to get out. It wasn’t easy to move with her hands tied behind her back. He had to help her up, and wrap her in a towel. Out of the warm water, she started shivering again. She moved so slowly, staggering as he held her up. He swore at her.
“You’re no good at all,” he said.
“Let me go,” she said weakly. “I may die. Then what will you do?”
“Uh-uh. You are not going to die.”
He put her back to bed, tying all the knots, one by one, just as he had untied them before. When he was finished, he tucked some towels around her and squirted some menthol-scented shaving foam on her from neck to ankles, concentrating on the crotch area.
“Hey, what are you doing?” she cried. “Don’t do that.”
He picked up the razor. He didn’t hear any protests. He was tired of her. He put her out of his mind and began shaving her all over, muttering to Willy. He could see his hands get bigger and bigger. He felt a lot better when she started screaming.
60
Newt Regis couldn’t really afford to send two men down to San Diego, but he did it anyway. The image of his own daughter, Clarissa, so happy with her husband and new baby, wouldn’t leave him alone. He thought about what it would mean to lose Clarissa, all the time he was talking with Jennifer Roane, the mother of the dead girl, who’d come from New York to get her.
Without any warning, she’d come in a rented car all the way to Newt’s office in Potoway Village, and Raymond had to lope across the street to get Newt at the cafe where he was having a late lunch.
“I thought I told her that wasn’t necessary.” Newt shook his head with disbelief.
Raymond looked at the half-eaten hamburger in Newt’s hand. “She wanted to see where it happened,” he muttered. “Said she needed it for
“Closure, huh.” Newt put down the hamburger and wiped his hands on the too-small paper napkin in his lap. He got up, shrugging. “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder to the surprised waitress.
Mrs. Roane was sitting stiffly on a chair outside the sheriff’s office. She was wearing a khaki bush jacket, as if she’d come to Africa, a wrinkled matching skirt, and huge sunglasses. She was working at the large wad of tissues balled up in her hands.
“Mrs. Roane? I’m Sheriff Regis.”
She stood up and held out the hand without the tissues. “You were the one who found her?”
Newt took the slender hand, nodding. “No one told me you were coming.”
“I didn’t tell anyone. The policewoman in New York said I didn’t have to.…”
“No,” Newt said gently. “You didn’t have to.” He held the hand sympathetically, taking a minute to assess the situation, then let it go.
The woman’s dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her white skin was puffy. She wore no makeup and sniffed back tears Newt guessed had been pouring out nonstop for days.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked. Coffee was all he could think of to offer.
She shook her head. “Where is she? I want to see her.”
“We’ve—taken good care of her,” Newt said slowly, ushering the woman into his office.
“I want to see her.”
“I understand.”
She looked around the office, at the cheap furniture, the cluttered desk, the window with its dusty Venetian blinds that didn’t prevent the afternoon sun from streaming in between the slats. He couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark glasses.
“What was Ellen doing out here?” she asked.
Newt didn’t respond to that question.
“Tell me. I loved her so much.…” She let go and sobbed.
Newt never could bear to see a woman cry. He took a deep breath. Right under his fingertips was a folder that contained all the photos he had of the dead girl who was this woman’s child. Before a madman, the desert, and the vultures got to Ellen Roane, she had been a beautiful, healthy, much-loved college girl. If the suspect was ever apprehended and went to trial, Mrs. Roane might hear the testimony and see the photos of what happened to her daughter. As far as Newt was concerned, that would be too soon.
“Mrs. Roane,” he said, “if it were my daughter, I’d hold onto that love. I’d hold onto it real tight.”
She shook her head vehemently. “I need to see her … to say good-bye.”
“No. You got her whole in your heart. Keep her that way. Take her back home with you and say good-bye when you bury her.”
Since she didn’t want to do that, it took Newt a long time to convince her. It wasn’t until the next day that he could send Raymond and Jesse down to San Diego with the photos of Ellen and Troland Grebs that Sergeant Grove had supplied. They also had copies of the six credit card charges Ellen Roane had made, sent by the detective from
