Morrow got back in his car, glad to be on his way home. He wondered as he pulled away, not for the first time, if Lydia Strong wasn’t one card short of a deck.
“We really need another body to turn up if we are going to get anywhere,’’ Jeffrey concluded after he had summarized the day’s findings for her.
“Why did he take her heart?’’ Lydia wondered aloud. “What do you think it means to him?’’
“Well, what does it mean to most of us?’’
“Love, metaphorically. Maybe life. Medically it’s the organ that pumps the blood, keeps us alive.’’
“Could he be keeping it as a trophy?’’
“No, it’s too complicated a behavior for it to be only that. Taking the heart is his whole agenda, or at least a significant part. He obviously has a place somewhere dedicated to its removal. We know that Maria was subdued with chloroform, so we know he did not intend to kill her at her apartment. He wanted to kill her at another location and remove her heart. It may be the whole reason why he kills them.’’
“Or how he kills them.’’
“The medical examiner said the incision was made after she died.’’
“But he didn’t expect to kill her so soon.’’
“So what does it mean, then, to lose your heart or to have your heart taken?’’
“To lose someone you love. To lose hope. To lose faith.’’
“Perhaps each of these people offended him or slighted him in some way. Perhaps he was attracted to the women – say Harold was just in the way – and each of them turned him down or was rude to him, in his perception. He took their hearts, the way they took his.’’
“But all the women are so different. Usually when that’s the case, the killer has one physical type that attracts him. There’s one woman in his past that has deeply traumatized him, usually his mother, and he kills her over and over again.’’
“Okay, so let’s think about it – why their hearts? I mean, assuming that we eventually discover Shawna, Harold, and Christine in the same condition we found Maria. What was it about these people that made the killer want to take their hearts?’’
He was tapping his pen on the kitchen tabletop, a gesture Lydia had picked up from him years ago. Lydia was curled up in the window seat, wearing a thick gray sweatshirt, black leggings, and white socks. She arched her back and moved her head side to side to relieve the tension that had settled there. The teakettle whistled hysterically and Jeffrey rose to make them some chamomile. She liked to watch him in the kitchen, his strong shoulders and big hands dealing not with guns and fistfights but kettles and potholders. He looked sweet and somehow irresistibly masculine. She smiled to herself.
“I heard back from Jacob a little while ago.’’
“I didn’t know you had spoken to him.’’
“Yeah. I called him after you left this morning. He ran some checks on Christine and Harold. No activity on bank accounts or credit cards. He checked some rehab clinics around the area but nothing there, either. No arrest records in surrounding towns. I guess I was really hoping you were wrong, that these people were just going to turn up. I should know better than to question your instincts.’’
“I’m sorry about today, Jeffrey.’’
He paused, surprised that she had apologized. “It’s all right, Lyd. I’m sorry, too,’’ he answered as he put honey in the tea, keeping his back to her. “I know you’re worked up about this.’’
“Still, I shouldn’t have bit your head off.’’
“Which time?’’ he asked, smiling.
“Any time,’’ she answered solemnly.
He placed the tea in front of her and touched her face with fingers warm from the cup he had just held. She reached for his hand and put her mouth to his palm. It was a warm and passionate gesture. He stood still as she held his hand to her mouth, wanting so much but too afraid to touch her for fear the moment would pass too soon.
Inside, she struggled against herself. How close he is this moment, how easy it would be to surrender. But she released his hand finally, stared down at her teacup. He sat in the chair across from her, not wanting to speak, afraid his voice would fail him.
“They were alone,’’ she said, slicing the tension between them.
“Who?’’
“Maria Lopez and the others. No one cared about them.’’
“I know. It makes you think, you know? Well, it makes me think.’’
“Think about what?’’
“About loneliness.’’
She looked over her teacup at him with surprised, questioning eyes. “Are you lonely, Jeffrey?’’
“Aren’t you?’’
She rose quickly from her seat and walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door and looked in for nothing except an escape from his eyes.
“What does this have to do with anything?’’ she said defensively.
He took off his glasses and rubbed the point on his nose where they rested and leaned back in his chair. “I’m so fucking sick of this.’’
“Of what?’’
“Of this little dance we do. I approach you, you back away. You come back a step, I move in again, you take two more steps back. Who are we kidding?’’
“What are you talking about?’’ she asked the milk carton.
He got up and gently turned her around from the refrigerator. The frustration that had been building inside him was reaching a level that was getting hard to ignore. “Oh, come on. Are you going to pretend there’s nothing between us? Are you going to pretend you don’t know how I feel about you?’’
“Jeffrey, please…’’ she said.
He looked into her eyes and saw fear there and he instantly hated himself. He pulled her into a tight embrace which she returned with equal passion.
“If we…I Oh God,’’ she said into his shoulder.
Suddenly the dim kitchen was flooded with light, startling them both. The outside floodlights, triggered by the motion detectors that surrounded the house, had turned on. He walked over to the window and peered out to the driveway. Had someone just stepped out of his sight? Or was it his imagination?
“Do you still have that Glock?’’
“Yeah…’’
“Go get it.’’
She ran quickly to her office, punched a code into the keypad lock on the safe beneath her desk and withdrew the heavy semiautomatic pistol. Beside it was a.38 Special, a revolver favored by older cops, less powerful but more reliable. She had been trained to use both during her stay at the FBI academy but had never fired them off the range. She liked the way the Glock felt, cool and heavy in her hand. She returned to the kitchen, where Jeffrey had turned off the light and was peering out the window. She handed the gun to him.
“Loaded?’’
“Of course.’’
“Stay here,’’ he said sternly, knowing her instinct would be to follow him.
He walked out onto the driveway, gun level. He heard nothing but he sensed a presence, something or someone, waiting. He walked toward the trees that edged the house, his ears pricked for even the slightest noise. He could see nothing through the trees, just an impenetrable darkness.
“Do you see anything?’’
He spun around to see Lydia standing directly behind him, hugging herself against the chill, still in stocking feet. A less-experienced marksman would have discharged his gun from the jolt she gave him.
“Jesus Christ, Lydia, I told you to stay in the house.’’
“There’s no way I’m letting you come out here alone.’’
In the next instant Jeffrey heard someone cut and run into the woods. He was after him in a heartbeat, following the large, dark form through the thick trees. The intruder’s flight was panicked, clumsy, but he was oddly
