'No thanks.' He was staring at the legal pad, trying to pull some sort of pattern or meaning from it.
'Book got you stumped?' Thel asked. To her, the pad was upside down. 'Looks like a mess. Like you don't know how it's gonna end.'
'I don't,' Quinn said.
'What kinda book's it gonna be?'
'Mystery.'
'Right up your alley.'
'Should be,' Quinn said.
'I wouldn't try to dunk that doughnut.'
62
The uniformed doorman at Yancy's building was half a block down the street, chatting with a woman trying to control a huge fluffy dog on a long leash. The leash was looped around one of the doorman's legs. Some security, Pearl thought, as she pushed through the glass double-door entrance to the lobby.
Yancy was due back later tonight. He'd be surprised to find her in his bed, but he wouldn't mind. He liked those kinds of surprises. He'd no doubt wake her up. That was the kind of surprise she didn't mind.
As she rode the absolutely silent elevator, she mused that she was moving up in the world literally as well as figuratively. Yancy had money and, like Fred Levin, would probably always have it. The similarities between the two charm dispensers were still kind of unsettling. But she loved Yancy. She was sure that would be impossible with Levin. The differences between the two men might have to do with the heart. Something about Levin hinted that he harbored malice, that he found a subtle sadistic enjoyment in being detached and purely pragmatic. Yancy might have the substance of shadow, but there wasn't the slightest hint of maliciousness in his carefree soul.
After stepping out of the elevator, she walked soundlessly down the carpeted hall. There was no one else in sight. She still hadn't met her and Yancy's neighbors on either side. Hadn't seen them in the halls or even heard them through the walls. Maybe rich people were like that, leading lives insulated by their wealth.
She keyed the apartment door and pushed it open. It made a soft brushing sound over the thick throw rug in the foyer in a way she liked. Careful not to muss her hairdo, she lifted her purse strap over her head and laid the purse on a small, marble-topped table. Then she removed her blazer and held it in her right hand, planning on draping it over the sofa arm before going to the kitchen and getting something cold to drink.
Two steps off the foyer tile and onto the living room carpet, Pearl knew something was wrong.
But she didn't know what. Didn't know how to react.
She did know with a thrill of fear that she wasn't alone.
Something struck her hard just above the small of the back, causing the breath to whoosh out of her, momentarily paralyzing her. She dropped to one knee, bending over as if trying to find something on the floor. She tried to breathe but couldn't. Her brain was struggling to work, to comprehend what was happening.
…Gun's in my purse.
She was thinking self-preservation and self-preservation only. All she knew for sure was that she was in deep trouble. The rest of her mind was a muddle.
A hand from behind cupped her chin and yanked her hard so she was lying on her back on the floor. She involuntarily drew up her knees, still trying to breathe.
He was standing over her, slender but strong-bodied, wearing a loose-fitting dark sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Jogging shoes that were black but for their white soles and toe caps. He had on a black knit balaclava so that nothing of his face was visible other than his eyes. Pearl thought the eyes might be familiar, but she couldn't be sure.
She also, for a moment, thought about the careless doorman. That carelessness must be how the man had entered the building and found his way to Yancy's apartment.
The intruder straddled her, yanked her arms sideways, and kept them that way as he scooted forward so he could place his knees on her upper arms and bring his full weight to bear on them, pinning them, and her, to the floor.
Pearl immediately recognized the method and knew who he was-the Carver. She knew how much danger she was in and how precious life was.
At first she thought he had no fingernails, and then she saw that he had on skin-tight latex gloves that were flesh colored. From the pouchlike pocket of his sweatshirt he drew a knife with a long, slender blade.
Moving her arms only feebly from the elbows down, Pearl helplessly clawed the air. The strength had left her arms quickly in her awkward position under the man's weight. She was starting to regain her ability to breathe and considered screaming, but she was sure that if she made any noise he'd use the knife. He was leaning slightly forward, staring down at her and slowly waving the knife blade back and forth before her eyes, as if trying to hypnotize her. She somehow got the impression that beneath the balaclava he was smiling.
He wants my full attention. He wants me to grasp what's going to happen.
Not the eyes this time, but something about the man seemed familiar. It was in the way he moved.
Who is this bastard?
She kicked out with her feet, trying to loosen the crushing weight on her arms. He simply bore down harder with his knees. Her upper arms ached so badly they began to go numb.
Think, Damn it! You're running out of time. Out of life.
Think!
If I can't use my arms, I'll use my legs!
She brought both knees up sharply and suddenly, and did manage to make contact with his back with one knee. But it wasn't enough to do anything but anger him. Or perhaps amuse him. He held the point of the knife close to her right eye and shook his head no, letting her know she'd better not kick again.
From beneath the black knit that covered his mouth, he said in a deep muffled voice, 'I'm going to explain to you what I'm doing while I'm doing it.'
He used his free hand to yank up her blouse, and then with the knife he deftly sliced through the material between the cups of her bra. He flicked the cups away right and left with the point of the knife, and her breasts were bare.
Pearl knew the ritual, and knew that once he began it the pain and terror would render her completely helpless.
She was determined to keep struggling as long as possible. She controlled her breathing, drawing air deeply so she could muster her strength for one more attempt to buck the man off her and somehow try to put up a fight. Maybe she could kick him in a vital spot, slow him down, and reach her gun in her purse.
Slowly she drew her knees up as far as she could, then kicked straight out with her legs and dug her heels and elbows into the carpet.
Her sudden, spasmodic effort had some effect. She heard the man's grunt of surprise and felt his weight shift inches forward so his crotch was almost in her face. His weight had lifted slightly, and she thought she might be able to free one arm.
She clenched her eyes shut with the effort of trying to work her arm free, kicking out again with her legs. The killer's weight rose from her almost completely, as if he might be positioning his body and seeking balance, maybe getting ready to hit or kick her.
She opened her eyes and looked up into the perspiring, determined face of Yancy Taggart.
Yancy's eyes were wide with surprise and anger, but not fear. He was gripping the Carver's sweatshirt with both hands, pulling him off Pearl.
'Got the bastard!' Pearl heard him say.
Then she saw the flash of the knife as the killer writhed and twisted his body to gain leverage. The blade winked through the air, and Yancy made a sound like a harsh intake of breath. Pearl felt something warm on her face, and saw what the CSU techs called a slash pattern of blood on the wall.
The killer was standing completely upright. He kicked Pearl hard in the side of the head, and she went blank
