The letter came as a complete shock. He had an impulse to crush it, to tear it into bits, but he took a deep breath and slid it back in the envelope. He reached for the scotch and poured himself a double, neat, draining it in one swallow.
What nerve this woman had, writing to him on his father’s behalf! Didn’t she realize how much Lee loathed Duncan Campbell, how many times he had wished him dead? What made her think he would give a damn about the man who had come close to ruining the lives of everyone Lee cared about most?
He refilled the glass and went into the living room, heading straight for the piano.
The Well-Tempered Clavier was open on the rack, but he needed something loud and fast and angry, so he took out a book of Chopin preludes and banged away at the G minor Prelude, with its pounding descending bass line. Then he played a couple of blues tunes gospel-style, lingering on the dissonance created by the simultaneous major and minor thirds. Finally he turned to Bach, who always put him in a calmer mood. After an hour at the keyboard, he felt better. He rose from the piano bench and stood at the front window, gazing out at the Ukrainian church across the street. The building was dark, its round stained-glass window illuminated only by reflected light from streetlamps. A light snow had begun to fall, muting the sound of passing cars, creating a halo around the streetlights, softening their glare to a hazy yellow glow.
He thought about the power of words to disturb and frighten. Of course they could also comfort and reassure, but the last two letters he had seen were disturbing. He knew Chloe hadn’t meant to upset him with her letter, but she must have realized that it would. As for the killer who was presumably stalking Sara Wittier now, the very brevity of his message was part of its chilling effect. You’re next.
He fed on her fear-clearly that was part of the fun for him. Lee turned from the window and sank into the red leather armchair, with its faded armrests and cracked leather footstool. He would have thrown it out long ago if it weren’t for the fact that Laura had loved this chair. When she’d visited him it had been her favorite place to sit, and she had searched the downtown thrift stores for one just like it. When she moved into the city to attend NYU, he’d planned on giving it to her for her apartment, but she’d disappeared before he had a chance.
Lee slipped off his shoes and propped his feet on the footstool before reaching for a yellow legal pad to jot down some notes. He wanted to be prepared for the meeting tomorrow in Butts’s office. He jotted down a few notes about the offender.
• Stabbing-phallic symbol-meaning of sword in particular?
• Fear important to his emotional satisfaction
• Threatening note-bold, taunting; challenging law enforcement
• Knows Mindy amp; Sara, at least by sight
• Careful planning, low-risk victim
• Highly organized offender, profiles his victims
• Blends in with social milieu of victims
• Upper middle class, educated?
• Probably white, young (25–35)
• Possibly in theatre in some capacity, or a fan
He put down the legal pad and took a swallow of scotch. Had the offender used a sword, as the crime scene tech, Okorie, had surmised? He hoped the autopsy would produce further evidence about the murder weapon. The only bright side was that a sword was much more difficult to conceal than a knife or a gun.
He yawned and looked at the Seth Thomas clock on the bookshelf, a gift from his estate-sale-addicted mother. It was after eleven. Lee had been awake for nearly twenty hours. His stomach reminded him that his last meal had been a long time ago, and he padded out to the kitchen in his socks to rummage through the fridge. There wasn’t much, so he ate a peanut butter and dill pickle sandwich standing at the counter. Laura had loved that combination on Sunday nights when their mother let them have whatever they wanted for dinner.
Whatever Fiona Campbell’s faults, Lee thought, she had provided a sense of security in rituals-family dinner every night, bedtime stories, birthday parties. And his father had been an equally enthusiastic participant-until the day he walked out. After that, something drained away from everyone he left behind. It was more than just loss; it was a filing away of life’s possibilities, as if some of the magic in their world had evaporated. Duncan Campbell was so charismatic, energetic, and enchanting that the three people who should have mattered most to him were left wondering what they lacked, that he could desert them so easily and finally.
Lee looked at the letter on the kitchen counter, neatly tucked into its envelope. The knowledge that his father had suffered as a result of his actions moved him not a bit. His heart was so steeled against the man that the only emotion he felt was a vengeful satisfaction. He hoped Chloe’s death left his father as sad and lonely as he had left his family when he deserted them. He didn’t hate her-he thought she was as much a victim of his father’s whims as the rest of them, in a way.
He slid the letter into one of the cubbies in his roll-top desk on his way to the bedroom. He needed sleep, and had far more important problems to attend to than the welfare of Duncan Campbell. He lay down on the bed and was asleep before he had time to pull the covers up.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carver looked in the mirror and smiled. Carver. Of course it wasn’t his real name; it was the one he gave himself when he did… what he did. It was his little way of playing a role, just as he played roles as an actor. He studied the crow’s feet under his eyes, the lines in his forehead, the crosshatching on his cheeks from too much sun, and sighed. He didn’t much like his face, and being an actor, he had to look at it more than he cared to. Before shows there was makeup to apply, costumes to wriggle into, wigs and putty and greasepaint. Mirrors were stock in trade for an actor. Because he didn’t care for the sight of his own face, Carver enjoyed roles in which he was able to hide it. He specialized in character parts-disfigured, deformed cripples and clowns, the more bizarre the better. He was never happier than when playing a tortured, reviled loner, feeling more comfortable in costume than in his own identity.
That’s why being Carver was so much fun. It was a part he had invented for himself-a kind of ongoing improvisation where life was the stage and the other actors were his victims. He hadn’t known how much fun it would be-that came as a surprise. Originally he’d been motivated by rage, by desire for revenge, but the satisfaction he got from the deed itself was a revelation. He liked killing.
Of course he was meticulous-the planning, the careful preparation-all of that was important. But the moment of the attack itself brought a thrill, a rush of pleasure unlike any he had ever experienced. Oh, he had killed people onstage plenty of times, but this was different-this was real. He had actual control over his victims-the ultimate power of life and death. It was intoxicating, and he would have more of it, he vowed, no matter what.
He lifted the long blue cloak from the coatrack and wrapped it around his shoulders, admiring the figure he cut in the mirror. The seeds for his bloodlust had been sewn in his childhood-he knew this, just as he knew that he had successfully hidden his darker urges from those closest to him. Even as a child, the injustice of his father’s treatment was clear to him-he alone was singled out for tongue lashing, belittlement, humiliation. Physical beatings were rare, but the emotional violence had done its work. Faggot! Pansy! Girlie boy! His father’s words still rang in his ears whenever he put on a costume or smeared greasepaint on his cheeks-but with it came a grim satisfaction that he was doing what he wanted, his father be damned.
He had been only twelve when he spied on his cousin for the first time, peering through the window of her bedroom while she undressed, and the thought of that moment satisfied him for weeks. Then came the underwear theft-at first from his female relatives, but later on he became bolder, creeping into the girls’ locker room at school, and even breaking into neighboring houses on weekends when they were away.
And now he was playing Carver, the role of a lifetime. He reached down for the sword on the table beside him. He held it up to the light and admired the polished steel of its blade. An appropriate weapon, and one he was skilled in using. His fencing lessons were paying off in more ways than one. He smiled as he slid the sword into the scabbard at his side.
