His hardbound fiction ran toward best-sellers by Joseph Wambaugh, Robin Cook, Lawrence Sanders, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, and so on. He had rows of paperbacks, mostly suspense and horror novels.
And one entire shelf of non-fiction that made Gillian wonder about Fredrick Holden. She felt a chill on her back as she inspected the books: volumes about Jack the Ripper, Albert Fish, Ed Gein, Charles Starkweather, Richard Speck, the Boston Strangler, the Manson family, John Wayne Gacey, the Skidrow Slasher, the Hillside Strangler, and Theodore Bundy. Many of the books contained photographs of the dead victims.
What’s with this guy? she wondered.
Maybe he’s a suspense writer, she told herself, and just had these books around for reference.
Then where’s his computer?
Maybe he’s a true crime buff, into police procedure and that kind of thing.
Sure. What he is, he’s crazy about homicidal maniacs.
And he’s got a water bed. And mirrors all over his bedroom.
“I really picked a good one,” Gillian muttered.
After sliding a copy of
She was reminded of the Benning house, where Bill and Andrea had shelves of sex manuals, stacks of nudie magazines, an assortment of dildos and vibrators, various devices for which Gillian could only guess at the purposes, numerous oils and lotions, and erotic wardrobes: transparent negligees, G-strings (Bill’s with a leopard- cloth pouch that opened like curtains), loin cloths, frilly garter belts, leather undies and bras, and bras with open fronts.
Gillian had inspected the Bennings” collection, intrigued and a little embarrassed. Though she’d considered trying out some of the devices and clothes, she’d found the idea more repellent than exciting.
She’d washed her hands after touching the things, just as she was washing her hands now.
All you touched this time were books, she thought as she rinsed off the suds. Hardly the same.
But what kind of person would enjoy reading that kind of junk?
Gillian recalled the uneasy feelings she’d had last night before even arriving at the house. Were they premonitions? Nonsense.
How about the way she reacted when the telephone rang? Phones had rung at odd times when she was staying at other places, but she hadn’t panicked.
It was as if a shadowy comer of her mind knew she’d picked the wrong house this time.
“Bullshit,” Gillian-said. She dried her hands and stepped into the hall. “So what if the guy’s a little bent.”
That’s what keeps it interesting, she told herself. Discovering the hidden quirks.
She took her Minolta from the bedroom and returned to the den and touched the books again. After arranging them on the floor with their front covers showing, she snapped a close-up. She put them away. Just to be thorough, she then grouped the photography books on the floor for a shot, then the body-building books.
That, she thought, takes care of his peculiar reading habits.
In books, at least.
The search for Fredrick’s magazine collection took about two minutes. She found it in the bedroom in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, pretty much where she expected it to be. The magazines were neatly arranged in two stacks. True-crime magazines.
Kneeling on the floor, Gillian lifted out half a dozen. Most of the covers featured a woman in peril, usually sprawled at the feet of a man. Only the back of the man was shown. The woman invariably gazed up at him with terror in her eyes. She was dressed in scanty undergarments or a revealing negligee or a torn blouse. More often than not, her hands were tied.
Gillian looked through a few of the magazines. The stories had lurid tides: “Weird MO of the Sorority Killer,” “Death of the Gang-Sex Beauty,” “Rampage of the Peeper.” There were grainy photos of murder weapons, cops investigating cases (usually in wooded areas), apprehended killers and their victims (before and after).
The advertisements seemed as strange as the stories. They pushed pamphlets revealing the secrets of how to build the body you’ve always wanted, how to earn big bucks at home in your spare time, how to become a detective, how to hypnotize girls Secretly!” so they’ll obey your every command. There were several ads for trusses. Other ads urged readers to buy pellet guns, tear-gas guns, “authentic badges” and “durable, reliable” handcuffs.
Gillian had seen such magazines at news-stands, never suspecting they contained such garbage: stories to titillate you with the details of sex killings (including hints on police procedure to help you avoid capture), followed by those ads.
The crime books in the den were sophisticated literary endeavors compared to these rags.
Who reads this shit? she wondered.
Fredrick Holden, for one.
He’s starting to look like a real sicko.
Gillian lifted more magazines out of the drawer. More of the same.
Then she came to the sex magazines.
“Surprise,” she muttered.
Already feeling disoriented and revolted by the crime magazines, Gillian could only stand to look at a few of these. The photos didn’t depict beautiful women in seductive poses.
The last magazine Gillian inspected dealt with bondage and sado-masochism. Then men and women pictured wore chains and leather. Some wore black leather masks that made them look like medieval executioners. The victims were tied spread-eagled to a bed or shackled to a wall or suspended from a ceiling beam. Gillian flipped the magazine shut. She dosed her eyes and took deep breaths.
She felt as if she had descended into a dark world of perversity.
A world in which Fredrick Holden loved to wallow.
Any
She spread half a dozen of the crime magazines on the bed and took a photograph. She did the same with several of the sex magazines. After putting them back in the draw she returned to the bathroom and once again scrubbed her hands.
Enough goddamn exploration for one afternoon, she thought.
Keep it up, you might find something
She gave a sour laugh. In the mirror above the sink, her face looked a little bloodless, her eyes glassy. There were specks of sweat above her lip. She hadn’t taken pictures of the S&M stuff at the bottom of the drawer. Hadn’t wanted to.
She felt nauseous. Needed fresh air.
Gillian changed into her damp bikini, grabbed a bath towel, and went to the den. She took a beer from the refrigerator behind the bar.
The hot concrete sundeck hurt her feet as she turned toward the spa. Setting her beer and towel aside, she started to remove the cover.
She hesitated.
So you really want to go in this guy’s hot tub? Especially after that
Yuck.
She picked up the cold bottle of beer and took a drink.
Maybe I should get the hell away from here, she thought, while the getting is good.
“Hey there!”
Gillian whirled around.
