He stood up.
She felt both relief and panic.
This apartment was going to be awfully empty without him.
The way it had been awfully empty the first time he'd walked out on her.
She went to him and took him to her, hugging him rather than kissing him. She didn't want passion, she wanted tenderness.
And he seemed to understand that.
He didn't try to kiss her. He simply held her.
'Is it all right to tell you I love you?'
'It's all right if you want me to set your tie on fire.'
He eased away from her. 'I guess I'll just have to take that chance.' He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the forehead. 'I love you, Jill.'
And then he was nothing more than retreating footsteps down the dark stairs, and out into the noisy night.
CHAPTER 24
Cini put her fingers on the fine curved metal handle of the fire door. All she had to do was pull it open, step out into the corridor, walk down to the Eric Brooks agency, go inside and get her purse.
What could be simpler?
The killer was still here. She just knew it. Could feel it.
This was what half her mind told her. The scaredy-cat half. The half that had always gotten her laughed at by more adventurous girls. This was the Cini who was afraid of swimming, flying, fast bicycle-riding, thunderstorms and dogs any bigger than a small poodle. And these were only a few of the things she was afraid of.
Then there was the other half of her mind or, more precisely, personality. This half told her she was being silly. No competent killer would hang around after murdering somebody. And from her look at himshe would not forget his face even if she lived to be 108 and was brain deadhe certainly appeared competent. Slash slash slash. He had used those scissors with terrifying virtuosity.
All she had to do was-
– take hold of the handle-
– and-
– open the door-
– and-
A noise. An echo.
Her first impression was that it was on this same floor, but when she heard the voices distinctly, followed by the roar of the industrial-size carpet cleaner, she realized that the noise was coming from the floor directly below.
An office building like this one would have several cleaning crews working simultaneously. This crew probably worked the top three or four floors, which meant they'd be up here not too long from now.
She had to hurry.
Get into Eric's office, get out.
Before the cleaning crew saw her.
Cini took a deep breath. She told herself she was being perfectly silly about the killer. Her fingers formed a claw on the curved handle of the door. She opened it and stepped out into the corridor.
Empty.
Never before had emptiness struck her as such a beautiful and glorious sight.
No scouter-ahead for the cleaning crew.
No killer coming at her with bloody scissors.
She turned right, straight down the hall. Walking fast.
She opened the front door to the advertising agency and went inside.
This time the silence, the emptiness came at her in a rush. Thrum of electricity. Rapping of skittering October wind on windows. Rumbling thunder, faint down the dark sky.
Past the reception desk, she went. Down the proper corridor to the proper office. Pausing now at the small reception area in front of Eric's office.
He was going to be in there, Eric was. All bloody. All dead.
She needed to tap into the strong, confident part of herself. The part that had only emerged when she lost all that weight following her accident.
A deep breath. Tightening her hands into fists.
Dead. She was strong enough to deal with dead. Even stabbed-dead. Even bloody-dead.
She marched promptly into Eric Brooks' office, saw him lying on the floor and then clamped a hand hard over her mouth so she wouldn't scream.
Oh my God.
He lay sprawled face up, a dozen or more slashes and cuts on his face and hands alone. In the torso, he must have been stabbed maybe two dozen times. His clothes were soaked with blood, dark and gooey in some places, shiny and almost pink in places where the bleeding was more superficial. The killer had even slashed Eric's cheeks, defacing him. The odors were awful. She remembered reading an Ed McBain novel about how murder victims frequently emptied themselves in the course of their violent death.
She made a Sign of the Cross.
She hadn't liked himand liked herself in relation to him even lessbut she knew he had a family and so it was really for them that she was crossing herself.
And then she had a terrible thought: What if he wasn't actually dead? What if he had survived all the wounds and still enjoyed faint life?
She didn't want to touch him in any way, that was for sure.
She didn't even want to place the 911 call in case it would somehow be traced back to her.
But she didn't want to leave here without at least having tried to determine if he was truly dead.
She did the only thing she could think of.
She sort of tiptoed over to him and said, in a voice little more than a whisper, 'Eric, are you dead?'
Nothing.
She leaned down. 'Eric, are you dead?'
Nothing.
She listened for any faint exhalation.
Nothing.
She watched his eyelids for a full minute.
Not a flutter.
She watched the bloodiest part of his entire torso, his belly.
It did not move.
'Eric, are you sure you're dead?'
Nothing nothing nothing.
'God, Eric, are you absolutely sure?'
The stench was really starting to sicken her.
She took one last look at him, decided that he was really truly absolutely dead, and then started searching around for her purse.
She found it on the far side of the couch. She remembered she had put it on the arm: it must have fallen off.
She walked quickly out of the office, angling her head so that she did not have to see Eric.
She wanted to forget this night completely. And forever.
