He recalled an interview with one such specimen, described as a psychological profiler. The man wore a gray suit and a red telegenic tie. He sat behind his office desk, haloed in diplomas, buttressed by shelves of books. His opinions were stated with the blunt obviousness of a factual report.
The typical serial killer, or lust murderer as he is more accurately identified, the man explained in a bland, professorial tone, views murder as a substitute for sex. He attains sexual release by spilling his victim’s blood or by abusing the body afterward. For him, killing is a form of intimacy, the only intimacy he knows.
The interviewer asked if such a man might experience twisted feelings of love for his victim. Oh, yes, the expert replied. Love or at least erotic desire. Often the woman is a surrogate for someone who rejected him or hurt him-a particular woman from his past.
He killed strangers to avenge a past wrong? That’s right. And to give a purpose to his existence. The only organizing principle of his life, the only order and structure imposed on it, is his cyclic pattern of violence. He lives solely to kill.
Would he ever stop? Never He doesn’t want to. He feels alive while killing, feels powerful and whole. This is not a tormented person. This is a man who’s quite comfortable with what he does… and what he is.
Gund closed his eyes briefly.
Jackass.
Less than a mile north of Interstate 10, he turned onto a narrow side road. The yellow sign warned NO OUTLET.
The road was a mere strip of rutted dirt, a foot wider than the van on either side. Palo verde trees, blooming yellow, lined the road, casting windblown blossoms on Gund’s windshield. Abruptly the trees on the left side vanished, replaced by a barbed-wire fence, rows of knotty strings gleaming white in the starlight.
Beyond the fence, ramshackle buildings slouched in crooked silhouette against the mountainous horizon. No lights burned in the windows.
Centered in Gund’s high beams was a gate, hinged on posts that straddled the road. A padlocked chain kept it shut-an unnecessary precaution, since nobody ever came here.
Nobody but him.
7
The vehicle slowed.
Erin perceived the gradual abatement of engine noise, felt the transmission shudder through a change of gears. The ride, which had been rough for several minutes, became rougher still.
Dirt road? Felt like one.
The brakes sighed.
Dead stop. Motor idling.
Creak of a door swinging open. Pause. Clunk-the door slammed shut.
Moving again, but only at a crawl. The chassis lurched and jounced, shock absorbers squeaking like mattress springs. Had he driven off the road altogether?
Whatever was happening, one thing was clear. He had reached his destination.
Her heart ran like a rabbit in her chest. She could be dead soon. Her private universe, extinguished.
Her parents, both strict Irish Catholics, had given her the beginnings of a religious upbringing, which Lydia Connor had carried on; but college had bled a lot of that out of her. She wasn’t sure if she could believe in a life beyond this one. It was a problem she hadn’t expected to face with any urgency for years. For decades.
Never got married. Never had a kid. Never took that trip to Ireland to look for the original Reillys and Morgans. Never, never, never; and now, maybe, she never would.
Stop that. Stay focused.
Again the vehicle was slowing. It rumbled to a stop.
For the second time a door groaned open.
Footsteps on dirt or gravel. Closer. Closer.
He was coming for her.
Fear soared toward blind panic; she fought to ground her emotions before they carried her away.
To struggle would be pointless as long as her hands were bound. For the moment her best hope was to feign unconsciousness. If he thought she was still out cold, he might get careless, give her an opportunity to strike.
She made herself go limp, drawing long, rhythmic breaths.
Turn of a key, rattle of a sliding door. Double thump as he climbed up into the rear of the vehicle where she lay.
He planted his feet directly before her. She smelled shoe leather.
“Still asleep?” he murmured, sounding puzzled.
She inhaled, exhaled, the slow cadence of her breath playing in counterpoint to the jackhammer pounding of her heart.
Creak of a knee as he crouched down. When he spoke again, his voice was very close.
“Well, not for much longer.”
What did that mean? Nothing, forget it, concentrate on breathing in, out, in, out, no break in the pattern, nothing to give herself away.
Hands.
Large hands, rough-textured. Stroking her hair, her face.
Was he going to rape her? Mustn’t think about that, mustn’t think about anything.
His touch was clumsy yet tender, almost loving, but the word that issued from his mouth was uttered like an obscenity: “Filth.”
Abruptly she was lifted. Surprise nearly jostled a gasp out of her. She felt her body tensing reflexively. With an effort of will she relaxed.
He draped her over his right shoulder, supporting her with one hand, and rose to his feet. She heard no grunt of strain. A big man, powerful. She remembered that he had looked tall and heavyset in the lobby.
How could she ever hope to fight him even if she got free? He must outweigh her by a hundred pounds.
She replayed the few words he’d spoken, tried to remember if she’d heard his voice anywhere before. It was distinctive enough-gravelly and breathy at the same time, deep but not resonant.
Not one of her current patients; she was sure of that. Nobody she’d ever treated, as best she could recall.
A stranger, almost certainly. Yet he seemed to have strong personal feelings toward her, both positive and negative, an unsettling blend of desire and hostility.
Scary. Scarier by the minute.
He was climbing down out of the vehicle now. A brief pause as he bent and hefted something, apparently in his left hand. It swung in time with the rhythm of his stride, rubbing against his pants leg; she heard the whisper of friction.
He carried her through yards of musty enclosed space, then out into the open. Night breeze on her face, chillier than it would be in town. The wind blew unobstructed here, in the desert’s open spaces.
His shoes crackled on dirt and dry brush, then on what sounded like gravel.
He stopped. Metallic tinkle. Keys.
He was unlocking a door. The hinges mewled as he pushed it open.
Inside.
Smell of dust and neglect. Drumbeat of his footfalls on a hardwood floor.
She heard him panting now. So he was human, at least. He was showing fatigue. Perhaps if he slipped up, she’d have some kind of chance against him.
The sound of his footsteps altered. Not the hollow crack of contact with wood, but a more solid thud, suggestive of concrete. It took her a moment to realize that he was going down a flight of stairs.
Cellar? Must be.
The implications of a cellar weren’t good. A hidden place, a place for buried secrets and suppressed desires.
