was the end.
The end.
She grimaced. The end of them. Of her.
Good night, Gracie.
She didn’t know which tasted more foul against her tongue-the blood or the bitterness of betrayal.
M.C. forced thoughts of betrayal back. That didn’t matter now, clearing her head and finding a means of escape did. He’d gone to the kitchen for her sandwich. She’d gotten a call. Wanda, the Walton B. Johnson Center’s former director. She had remembered the clown’s name. She had been almost giddy about the fact that she had been able to recall it after all these years, and at her age, too.
“Lance Castrogiovanni.” M.C. had been speechless. Phone to her ear, she had stared at Lance, walking toward her with her sandwich. Even as disbelief and betrayal had rushed over her, with her free hand she had gone for her gun.
In the next instant a searing pain had shot through her head and the lights had gone out.
Someone else had been in the apartment.
His accomplice. Together they were the SAK and Copycat? Not adversaries, but working as a team. It had been one of her and Kitt’s theories.
M.C. struggled to recall a detail from the moment before she had been knocked out, something that might offer a clue to the accomplice’s identity, but came up empty.
When she had come to, she and Lance had been alone. Or so it had seemed. Her hands and feet had been bound. He’d had a gun. A revolver. Looked like a.45 caliber Smith amp; Wesson.
The.45 Smith amp; Wesson used to kill Brian?
He’d been crying. His hands shaking as he held the gun to her head. She’d half expected him to pull the trigger by mistake, he’d been so rattled. He’d told her to call Kitt, assure her everything was all right. Tell her that the clown lead had dead-ended.
She had done what he asked to buy time. M.C. had known that when she went missing, Kitt would check every source herself. She had tried to tip off Kitt with their joke about signaling each other with “going postal” and “taking a joke,” then with the reference to pasta night.
Nothing had clicked with the other woman-M.C. had been able to tell by her response. But it would-especially when M.C. turned up AWOL.
Of course, by then it might be too late. For her, anyway.
She’d tried to reason with him. Tried to convince him to reconsider. Free her and turn himself in. Turn in his accomplice. Didn’t he love her? she’d asked. Didn’t he trust her to try to help him?
Lance’s demeanor had done a one-eighty. In the blink of an eye, he had transformed from weepy and frightened to enraged. He had struck her with the butt of the gun.
It was the last thing she remembered until now.
M.C. heard a door open and shut, then the sound of footfalls on stairs. Wooden stairs, she realized as one creaked.
She stared into the darkness, waiting. After a moment, Lance emerged from the darkness.
“Hello, Mary Catherine,” he said softly.
She didn’t respond and he crossed to her. He knelt down and gently cupped her face in his hands. She felt them tremble. “Are you all right?”
She still didn’t respond. She didn’t trust herself to. She feared she might curse him, or spit in his face. She wasn’t certain what had set him off last time, but she didn’t want to do it again.
Nor was she convinced her skull could take many more blows. The last had been a doozy.
“It looks like it hurts.” He trailed a finger over her temple, over what she was certain was an angry-looking knot. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“Then make it un-happen, Lance.”
He kissed her; she tasted his tears. She wanted to retch. Instead, she played along. “Free my hands. They hurt, Lance. My arms hurt.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry, M.C.”
“I won’t try to escape. I promise.”
He looked incredibly sad. “I wish I could believe that.”
“I love you, Lance. Why would I run away?”
She nearly choked on the words. She had thought she loved him. How could he have fooled her so completely?
“I wish I could believe-So many things, M.C. I wish so many things.”
He kissed her again. His breath smelled fresh, like peppermint. As if he’d just sucked on a candy.
“He would be so angry,” he said. “Angrier than he already is.”
“Who, Lance?”
“The Beast.” He said it on a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard.
Her heartbeat quickened. His partner. The one who had struck her the first time. And the one, she suspected, who was calling the shots.
“I’m sorry, for earlier,” he said again. “I didn’t want to hit you.”
“Then why did you?”
“He expected it.”
“The Beast?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to talk about him.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“My family. I promised to tell you about them. I want you to understand.”
“I want to understand, Lance. Tell me about them.”
“Not now. Later.”
He stood. She saw that he shook.
“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “You know I’ll help you. I’ll protect you.”
He shook his head. “He protects me. He always has. We’re one.”
“You love him more than me?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Make me understand. Please, Lance.”
“I can’t survive without him. I tried.”
His voice grew thick. “I’m sorry, Mary Catherine.” He turned to go. She called him back.
“You killed those girls, didn’t you?”
He looked down at her. Regretfully. “I didn’t want to.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“He wanted me to.”
“And you do everything he asks?”
“I’ll be back.”
“No, wait!” She struggled against the duct tape, trying to loosen it, getting nowhere. “Are you going to kill me, Lance? Because he wants you to?”
He walked away without responding. She fought the feeling of panic that rose up in her. “You don’t have to,” she called. “You control your own destiny. Nobody else has that power.”
She heard his footfalls, the stairs creak. “Lance, please-”
The door snapped shut and she was once again alone in the dark.
71
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
10:50 p.m.
