'Happy enough. Thanks. You call Chico yet?'
'Things have been happening a bit fast. I haven't had the time.'
'If you don't, I'll have to take you back to the gym and throw you around.'
'The first dozen or so falls weren't that bad.'
'I went easy on you.'
'Ollie told me you nearly tromped him into the floor.'
'At least Ollie's a guy, so he didn't whine.'
She just grinned at him. 'This cup is too expensive to waste throwing at you.'
'Good. Do you have just plain old Lipton's tea bags?'
'Yes.'
He watched her pour the hot water over the tea bags. 'If it wasn't a guy who made you cry, then what did?'
'I could throw a tea bag at you.'
'All right, I'll back off, but I don't like to see my agents upset-well, upset by something else other than me and my big mouth. Now, let's talk about our game plan in Boston. That's why I busted in on you this evening. There's a lot we need to get settled before we descend on the Boston PD.'
'You're really not going to fire me?'
'Not yet. I want to get everything out of you, then if I'm still pissed off that you lied to me, that's when I'll boot you out.'
'I'm sorry.'
'You got what you wanted. How sorry can you be?'
He was right about that. She was a hypocrite. She gave him a big smile. 'I'm not sorry at all. I'm so relieved, so grateful, that I'll let you say anything sexist you want, at least for tonight.'
'You won't whine about getting up early tomorrow, will you? The flight's at seven-thirty A.M.'
She groaned, then toasted him with her teacup. ' 'Thank you, sir... Dillon. I won't make you sorry.'
'Somehow I can't imagine that you won't.'
Savich left at ten o'clock, singing to himself as he left. It had to be a line from a country-and-western song, but of course she'd never heard it before. She grinned as she heard his deep voice drawl, 'A good ole boy Redneck is what I aim to be, nothing more, nothing less will ever do for me. All rigged out in my boots and jeans, my belt buckle wide, my belly lean...'
She closed the door, refastened the chains and clicked the dead bolt into place. That was the third or fourth time she thought she'd heard him singing country-western words. Oddly, her classical leanings weren't offended. What could be wrong with music that made you smile?
They hadn't spoken much about the case after all. No, he'd just checked out her digs and told her she needed a CD player. It was clear what kind of music he preferred.
She packed methodically. She prayed he would help her find the man who had killed her sister.
12
SAVICH SAID TO LACEY, 'AS I told you last night, Detective Budnack will be meeting us at the station. It's District Six in South Boston. They found Hil-lary Ramsgate in an abandoned warehouse on Congress Street. Somebody called it in anonymously, either the killer or a homeless person, probably the latter. But they've got the guy's voice on tape so when we catch him, we can make a comparison.
'He'll have all the police reports, the autopsy, the results of any other forensic tests they've done as of today. I'd appreciate it if you'd go over all this stuff. You got all our things?'
'Yes,' she said, turning in her seat to face him fully. 'Also, I doubt that Detective Budnack understood the game. He knew there was a game because of the note saying Hillary Ramsgate lost and had to pay the forfeit, but he didn't understand what it meant.'
'No, but it's his first hit with this guy. By the time we get there, he'll have spoken to the police in San Francisco and probably read most of the reports. Tell me your take on his game, Sherlock. I'm sure you've got one.'
They accepted coffee from the flight attendant, then settled back. The coffee was dreadful, but it was at least hot. She looked hard at her coffee. A lock of hair had come loose from its clamp and hung down along the side of her face, curving along her jawline. He watched her jerk it behind her ear, never looking away from that coffee of hers. What was going on here?
She said finally, 'I've pictured this in my mind over the years, refined it, changed it here and there, done many profiles on him, and now I think I've got it exactly the way he did it. He knocks the woman on the head and takes her to a deserted building, the bigger the building the better. In three instances, he used abandoned and condemned houses; in one, he used a house whose owners were out of town. He's intimately familiar with the buildings and houses. He's set up all his props and arranged the sets. He's turned them into houses of horror, then, finally, into mazes.
'When the woman regains consciousness, she's alone and unharmed. She isn't in complete darkness, although it's late night outside. There's a faint light, just enough so she can see about a foot or two all around her. What she does first is call out. She's afraid to have an answer and just as afraid when there's dead silence. Then she's hopeful that he's left her there alone. She yells again.
'Then she gets herself together and tries to find a way out of the building. But there isn't a way out. There are doors, but they're bolted. She's nearly hysterical now. She knows something is very wrong. Then she finds the string that was lying beside where she'd awakened.
'She doesn't understand the string, but she picks it up and begins to follow it. It leads her through convoluted turns, over obstacles, into mirrors he's set up to scare the hell out of her when she suddenly comes upon her own image. Then the string runs out. Right at the narrow entrance to this set he's put into place.
'Then perhaps he laughs, calls out to her, tells her that she's going to fail and when she fails, he's going to have to punish her and she won't like that. Yes, he will have to punish her because she will lose the game. But he doesn't tell her why he's doing it. Why should he? He's enjoying her ignorance. Maybe he even calls out to her, taunts her, before she walks into the maze. That's possible, too. The note thing. He only did that with the first woman he killed in San Francisco. It's as though he's identified what he's done and the next time and the time after that, it isn't necessary. Everyone will know who he is.'
He said slowly, 'You are awfully certain of what he does, Sherlock.'
'I told you, I've thought and thought about it. The shrinks believe-as do the FBI Profilers-that he watches every move she makes, memorizes every expression on her face, possibly even films her. I'm not so sure about that.
'But I bet he even tells her she can win the game if she runs, if she manages to reach the center of the maze. She does run, hoping, praying that he isn't lying, that she can save herself, and she runs right into this maze he's built since there's nowhere else for her to go. There are dead ends in the maze. Finally she finds her way to the center. She's won. She's breathing hard. She's terrified, hopeful, both at the same time. She's made it. She won't be punished.
'He's waiting for her there.' She had to stop trembling. She drew a deep breath, took another drink of her now-cold coffee, then said with a shrug, 'This much was obvious when everything was reconstructed by experts after the fact.'
Savich said, 'So then he stabs her in the chest and in the abdomen until she's dead. Is everyone you know of certain he does this when she makes it to the center of the maze?'
'Yes. Instead of winning, she loses. He's there, with a knife. He also cuts out her tongue. This fact never appeared in any publicized reports so that any confessions could be easily verified.'
'Why does he do that?'
She didn't look at him. 'Probably to shut her up forever. He killed only women. He hates them.'
'A game,' Savich said slowly, looking down at a ragged thumbnail. 'A game that leads to certain death. I don't understand why she loses if she manages to find the center of the maze. As you said, usually that means you've won. But not with this guy. You have any ideas about why he kills her when she makes it to the center of the maze?'
