He had met crazies who would confess to anything, killers who were sure they could get around the evidence, religious fanatics who didn't know the difference between real and unreal, but he had never met anyone like Gladys Mycrant. All he could be sure of about her was that she was both lying and hiding something. He wanted to find out what her secrets were. Those secrets might lead to a murderer.
Flack went to find Mac. Before calling to arrange for a search warrant, he was determined to have a real cup of coffee and maybe, just maybe, one of the pills in his pocket.
Earlier that morning, before his execution of Patricia Mycrant, the limping man paused in the hall-way of an office building twenty-one blocks away. He had pulled the waterproof hood of his raincoat back so he could drink the tall Starbucks coffee he had purchased minutes before. The latex gloves made it slightly awkward, but only slightly.
The rain, deep, dark, protective, beat noisily, a dull tom-tom beat, a million drums, relentlessly uncaring, which was just what he wanted, why he had chosen this day, why he now stood in the hallway outside of Strutts, McClean & Berg on the eighth floor of the Stanwick Oil Building.
The limping man hadn't needed to follow James Feldt. He knew where Feldt would be. He was certain that Feldt would not be stopped by the rain. He knew enough about the man to know that staying in his studio apartment alone for even one full day would be intolerable. The limping man had counted on it.
James Feldt had no friends. His relatives had little to do with him and what contact they had was by snail mail, never face-to-face. James Feldt was fifty-two, pink baby face; luxuriant, fine, short white hair neatly combed at all times. The limping man had never seen James Feldt when he wasn't wearing a suit, and Feldt seemed to have an endless supply of suits, or at least sartorial variations.
Feldt wore granny glasses and thought he looked like John Lennon, which he decidedly did not.
James Feldt was an auditor, a good one judging by the number of clients he had throughout Manhattan. All of his work came by way of referrals. Most of his income was spent on books he kept in shelves in his apartment. Hundreds of books. Classics, ancient, old and modern. The books were all purchased used so they would look as if he had read them. He had not. James Feldt spent his free time on the Internet, in therapy sessions and working. His solace, his meditation was in numbers, not words. He clung to his laptop like a novitiate might cling to his Bible.
The limping man knew him well.
He finished the coffee. James Feldt was alone in the office. Most of the offices in the building were closed because of the weather. In most cases, employees, partners and management had just assumed it would not be business as usual. And they were right. Power kept flicking on and off. Now it was dark inside and outside the door to Strutts, McClean & Berg.
Feldt did not pause. Glasses perched on the end of his nose, he played at the keys of his battery-powered laptop and kept working.
The desktop computer he had turned off sat silently. He would turn it back on when the power was restored or the backup building generator kicked in. He had plenty to do until that happened.
The limping man drained the last few drops of coffee from the cup, crushed the cup and stuffed it into one deep pocket of his raincoat. With his free hand, he reached into the other deep pocket and took out the knife, the knife he would later use to carve, abuse, punish and kill Patricia Mycrant on a roof twenty-one blocks away.
The glass outer door wasn't locked. James Feldt had seen no reason to lock it. It wouldn't have mattered much if he had. The man would simply have knocked and waited till the curious auditor had opened the door. But this was much better.
The man, knife now open in his pocket, went through the outer door and walked to the inside office door that James had left open. He walked silently, though James wouldn't have heard him in any case against the background of rain.
Clap of thunder. Perfect. Perfect. A horror movie. A lone victim in an isolated room, a mad or calculating killer. But the limping man was most assuredly not mad.
He stood in the office doorway, waiting. He was not in a hurry, at least not in a big hurry. He waited for James to look up or sense that he was there. It didn't take long.
When James Feldt looked up, fingers arched lightly over the keyboard like a piano virtuoso, he was startled but not instantly surprised.
When James Feldt recognized the man in the doorway of the office, the man who was closing the door behind him, he was not frightened. He was puzzled.
'You working in the building?' he asked, looking down at his screen, typing in a few words, finishing his thought before looking up again.
The limping man shook his head.
James was completely confused now, wrenched from the numbers he had danced with seconds ago.
'Then what are you doing here?'
The limping man took out the knife and showed the blade to the man seated behind the desk. James adjusted his glasses so he could better see what the man was holding.
The lights came back on and James had a good look at the man's face, but it wasn't the face that suddenly frightened him as much as the clear vision of the knife and the latex glove gripping it.
James sighed deeply, turned off his laptop and closed the lid.
'Which one?' James asked.
The man with the knife understood.
'All of them.'
James rose quickly and ran to the window. The limping man was ready. He cut him off. James Feldt would not cheat him by throwing himself out the window.
The limping man pushed Feldt with his free hand and slid the blade under his arm just below the left armpit. Feldt let out a sound like the air leaving a flat tire. He sank to the floor in a sitting position, trying to reach the wound.
He couldn't reach it. Not in time. He looked up. The sensation was strange, as if he had expected this or something very like it for some time.
James Feldt closed his eyes and prayed that the end would come quickly, but somehow he knew that it wouldn't.
3
'SMELL THAT?' DANNY MESSER SAID as he and Lindsay Monroe walked through the front door of the Wallen School.
In front of them, down the corridor, a uniformed policewoman motioned to them and pointed to a room to her left.
'Smell what?' asked Lindsay.
'Old wood,' said Danny, adjusting his glasses. 'Schools like this want that old wood atmosphere. Look at the walls. This place is maybe forty years old. Smells like it's a hundred and fifty. I think they spray that smell in here every morning. It's worth a couple of grand more on the tuition bill.'
They were almost to the uniformed officer. Their footsteps echoed on the dark stained floor.
Danny reached over and opened the door the policewoman had indicated. Lindsay had her camera out. Both Danny and Lindsay were already gloved, ready and watching where they stepped.
They had driven, hubcap deep, from the lab. They considered taking the subway, but were told the trains weren't moving. Danny had done the driving. Neither Danny nor Lindsay had spoken to each other during the ride. Danny had talked to the other motorists, criticizing their slowdowns, critiquing their driving.
Lindsay was silent because she had gotten a call from her mother in Montana. Her mother was worried about her. Her mother was addicted to The Weather Channel. The call had not gone well.
