Suddenly he wasn’t afraid anymore. He had never been afraid. She couldn’t frighten him. No woman could. He was Franklin Rood. He was the Gryphon.
He smiled and handed her the jar of olive oil. “Here you go.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
“No, this’ll do it.”
“I’ve got some fine things in my freezer.”
“Yeah, you single guys always go for frozen food.”
“Want to take a look?”
“Uh, no. Not really.”
“Why not?” He put a hand on the freezer door. “Lots of nice things.”
She was looking at him strangely now. She was afraid of him now. And she ought to be. They all ought to be.
“No,” she said, as she took a sliding step toward the doorway to the living room, “seriously, the olive oil is all I need. Hey, look, I’d better get going. I’ve got stuff on the stove.”
He almost did it. Almost grabbed her by the hair and jerked open the freezer door and made her look. Then he would throw her to the floor and beat her to death, the same way he’d beaten the whore-bitch waitress who’d been his first kill.
But he couldn’t.
Her disappearance would raise questions. The police would be sure to interview the next-door neighbor. And they would know.
With effort he damped down the fires inside him. He followed her to the front door.
“Hope your recipe turns out okay,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sure it will.” She flashed a nervous smile, keeping her distance. “Thanks a lot. I’ll return this to you… uh… tomorrow.”
“The jar’s nearly empty. You might as well keep it.”
“You sure?”
He nodded.
That frightened smile flickered again. “Okay. ’Bye.”
Then she was gone. Rood shut the door and released a long shuddering breath.
He tried to relax, couldn’t. He paced the living room, breathing hard, perspiring freely. Once or twice his glasses threatened to ski off his nose; each time, with a swipe of his hand, he knocked them back into place.
The feelings were strong in him, too strong to be denied. He needed to release them-now, immediately-and there was only one way to do it. Only one.
He could not kill his next-door neighbor without risking capture. But he could kill another woman instead. He even knew who it would be.
Flipping open his wallet, he removed the scrap of paper marked with the name and address of the next contestant in the game. He stood staring at it for a long moment.
Previously he had waited longer between kills. He didn’t care for the idea of hurrying the process. That was the way to get sloppy, to make mistakes. He really should wait another week or two.
Yes, Should. But wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
Eyes shut, he watched Miss Melanie Goshen’s lips split as his fists hammered her face. Slowly his fingers moved, squeezing air, as in his mind he fondled the soft mounds of her buttocks. His tongue clucked at his lips as he imagined himself licking her wet secret parts.
He had to play again. And he had to do it tonight.
“And so,” Franklin Rood breathed while a grin like a grimace warped his face, “let the game begin.”
From a cabinet under the kitchen sink he removed a package of modeling clay. He set the bag down on the counter, then put on a pair of thin rubber gloves. It would hardly be a good idea to chance leaving impressions of his fingerprints m the material as he worked it.
He opened the bag and tore a hunk of soft brown clay off the large mass, then modeled it quickly, expertly, with his nimble hands. First the general shape of the beast-four limbs, two wings, beaked head. Then the subtleties of musculature and texture. With a pencil point he etched ruffles of fur into the creature’s hindquarters and suggestions of feathers into the wings. Last he pushed the pencil gently into the head on each side, creating two small black holes that passed for eyes.
Normally he would have let the sculpture dry overnight, but this time he could not wait that long. Heat would harden the model faster than air alone.
Rood placed the clay gryphon on a baking sheet and slid it into the oven. While he waited for it to bake, he consumed the chicken pot pie, barely noticing the taste.
Finally he tested the model with a spoon and judged it done. The clay was no longer soft and yielding, but rock-hard. With oven mitts he removed the baking sheet. He let the figure cool for half an hour.
Then he picked it up and studied it in the light of the overhead fluorescents. He admired the stylized simplicity of the artwork. A lovely thing. His best work so far. Any woman would be proud to have it. But it was not meant for just any woman.
“For you, Miss Wendy Alden,” Rood whispered. “Only for you.”
7
At five o’clock the communications department began to empty out. Most of the writers headed off to the Avenue Saloon across the street, where they often went after work. Nobody asked Wendy to join the group, not because she wasn’t liked, but because she’d turned down such offers so many times in the past. She always said she just didn’t care for bars-the noise, the swirl of smoke and people, the harsh, raucous atmosphere-and all of that was true enough; but the deeper truth was that she was afraid to go along, afraid to be part of a crowd, afraid the others would gang up on her, taunt and jeer, make her feel ridiculous. The fear was irrational-of course it was-but she felt it anyway.
Well, none of that mattered tonight. Tonight she had something better to do. She was going to see Jeffrey… and when she did, she would be wearing her new gold necklace.
She lingered in the office till five-thirty, fiddling with a paragraph that didn’t need fixing, then left the office clutching the shopping bag with the necklace inside. The elevator carried her to Level A of the underground parking garage, where she fetched her Honda.
She drove west on Santa Monica Boulevard, turned south at Beverly Glen, and hooked west again on Pico, heading into the glare of the setting sun. The predicted Santa Ana condition had developed on schedule; moisture had vanished from the air, and the breeze through her open window had the rough sandpapery feel of a desert wind. The night wouldn’t be hot, but it would be dry; before bedtime she would have to apply Vaseline to her lips and splash cold water on her face to relieve her burning eyes.
Just past the intersection of Pico and Overland, she eased the Honda into a curbside parking space. She switched off the engine, then sat behind the wheel, summoning her courage.
Slowly she opened the shopping bag, removed the small cardboard box inside, and took out the necklace. It gleamed, catching the last light of day. With trembling hands she hooked it around her neck. She felt its weight on her breastbone, the coolness of the metal against the bare skin of her throat.
Her heart was beating fast-fluttering, almost. Her mouth was dry. She was a little dizzy.
Tilting down the rearview mirror, she studied her reflection, the band of glittering gold plates ringing her throat. So glamorous. So daring.
And it’s mine, she told herself proudly. I saw it, I wanted it, I bought it. Just like that. Totally on impulse. Didn’t even stop to think. Not much, anyway.
She hoped Jeffrey liked it. She hoped he said all the right things-how lovely the necklace looked on her, how well it set off her hair and eyes, how bold she’d been to have made such a costly purchase. She hoped…
A hand shot through the open window and closed over her arm.
