Chapter 7
“Sidney?” Marc listened at the open doorway of the public rest room, waiting patiently.
He couldn’t hear anything. If she was crying, or peeing, or throwing up, she was doing it silently. “I’m coming in,” he warned. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass her further, but he was worried she’d had another… panic attack.
He found her slumped in the corner by the door, unconscious, but breathing. Cursing himself for causing her distress, he picked her up and carried her out of the stuffy rest room, barely noticing the strain in his shoulders as he bore her weight. He laid her down on the soft grass in the shade of a gnarled oak and shook her gently.
“Wake up, Sidney,” he said, trying to force himself to stay calm. Murmuring something unintelligible, she turned her head. “Please wake up,” he urged again, surprised to hear fear quavering in his voice.
“Marc,” she whispered, licking her dry lips.
“You need water. Let me get you some-”
“No!” Her eyes flew open. “He was in there.”
A chill trickled down his spine. “Who?”
“The killer.”
Sitting up, he scanned the immediate area, drawing his Glock 9mm from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion.
“He was…” She looked down at her hands. “He…”
As a homicide investigator, and a man, Marc recognized semen when he saw it. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered in a low voice as he rose to his feet.
With swift, efficient motions he checked every stall in both rest rooms. At the women’s sink there was more than enough seminal fluid for a DNA sample, although it appeared to be several hours old, at least.
When he came out she was shivering, staring at her hands. Without a word he holstered his Glock and helped her into the men’s room, where she washed them repeatedly, chafing her skin with harsh powdered soap.
“That’s enough,” he said, pulling her away gently. The trembling began again, racking her entire body, and he knew she was in shock. Under the shade of the oak, he drew her into his arms and held her there while she cried.
“I hate you,” she said, sniffling.
“I know.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She used it noisily, and he knew he was in trouble, to find the way she blew her nose endearing. “Tell me what you saw.”
“He was watching himself in the mirror. Fantasizing about…them dying.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. It was dark. His features weren’t clear.”
“He had dark hair?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Short hair?”
“I don’t know.”
He summoned patience. “Picture what you saw, Sidney. Study his reflection. Was he taller than you?”
“Maybe. Or he could have been standing closer to the mirror. He wasn’t short,” she said decisively. “And he was wearing dark clothes.”
“Okay. Good. Was he thin, fat? Round-faced? Clean-shaven?”
“Thinner than you,” she said, studying the breadth of his shoulders. “Scary-looking. I couldn’t see much of his face. He was standing in shadow.”
“Was he black, white, Hispanic?”
“White. Maybe.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know,” she wailed, covering her face with her hands.
“You were in his mind, right?” he persisted. “What was he like? What did he remind you of?”
“A bully,” she said with a shudder. “Maybe it’s the wrong word, but that’s what he reminded me of.”
“Why?”
“Something about him made me think of a boy I used to know in grade school. He would pull my hair, call me a witch, stuff like that.” She ran a hand over her cap of short black hair, as if remembering. “He liked to inflict pain. Isn’t that what bullies do?”
He took out his cell phone and called CSI, requesting they rope off the area to collect evidence. It was a logical move, even without Sidney’s vision. Violent, sexually motivated criminals often returned to the scene for physical gratification.
Upon ending the call, he studied her carefully. It was getting more and more difficult to discredit her impressions. And impossible to control his attraction to her.
She was facing away from him, arms crossed over her chest, head down, exposing the pale skin at her nape. Drawn to that tender, vulnerable place, he put his hand there, tracing the top of her spine with his thumb.
She flinched at his touch, but didn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She was silent for a moment. “I guess we’re two of a kind.” She jerked her chin toward the rest room. “Me and him.”
“What makes you say that?”
She stared at him over her shoulder, anguish in her eyes, until he caught her meaning.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Do you get off on raping women? Torturing them? Watching them die?”
“Of course not.”
He wanted to shake some sense into her. “What you did, in the privacy of your own bedroom, is nothing like what he did here. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“How would you feel if someone watched you? Listened to you?”
He dropped his hand from her neck, feeling the muscles in his own shoulders tighten in frustration. He searched for the right words to justify his actions, when there were none. “There’s no excuse for my behavior,” he said. Not only was it contrary to protocol, it was completely at odds with his moral code. “You’re beautiful-”
She turned to face him, disbelief apparent on her slack features.
“That’s not the only reason I did it,” he admitted, shoving his fingers through his hair. He’d invaded her privacy, and yet he was the one who felt totally exposed. Never had he been less able to govern his emotions. Had she put some kind of spell on him? “I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t look away.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “If the room had been on fire, in that moment, I couldn’t have looked away.”
She stared back at him, thunderstruck.
