Jack just stood there, as if he could feel his own blood coursing through his veins. Twenty-four. Could he remember what it was like to be twenty-four? Could he even fathom what it felt like to be a twenty-four-year-old woman with a four-year-old child, flat broke, working nights at Hooters, her husband working two jobs just to keep them out of bankruptcy? Was that the life of the princess Sally had dreamed about as a little girl, coming home at midnight six nights a week smelling of cigarettes and spilled beer, too much makeup on her pretty face, her nipples protruding from her too-tight tank top and her nylon shorts riding up her ass like a thong bikini, because looking like a slut would fetch her a few more bucks in tips? He wondered if there was a time in her entire adult life when Sally was ever truly happy. He wondered, too, if Sally could possibly have realized that her shitty little life wasn’t all that bad, that it could have been so much worse, that the real nightmare was only about to begin.
“I don’t think I can go back there by myself,” said Rene.
Instinctively, Jack went to her, took her arm, and together they started down the dark hallway. They walked slowly, their heels clicking on the cracked terrazzo floor, click-clock, click-clock, click-clock, as if to mark the reversal of time, their descent into an unspeakably dark past. Jack didn’t make her go any faster than she wanted, but they were barely moving, and finally she brought them to a stop at the open bathroom door.
Jack was right with her, so he switched on the hall light, which gave them enough illumination to see inside. A cat was perched on the lid of the toilet seat, as if waiting for a drink, then scurried away. The sink was stained with a broad streak of rust, and mildew had darkened the white ceramic tile. A deep crack arced across the medicine chest mirror. Directly opposite them was a cabana door that presumably led to the patio.
“That’s where he got in,” said Rene.
“The jalousie windows?”
She nodded once and said, “He slid his arm through, reached inside, and unlocked the deadbolt.”
Jack stared at the lock, imagined the knob turning, wondered what Sally and little Katherine were doing when the stranger had joined them, wondered what was going through that monster’s mind when he closed the door behind him, stepped inside, and started toward the bedroom. Was he all tingly and excited, sexually aroused, fearful of nothing? Or maybe he did have fear, a sociopath’s only fear, the sick fear that reality couldn’t possibly measure up to his endless hours of twisted fantasies, fear that all the planning and anticipation would be for naught because it simply wouldn’t be enough that the girl was all his, the hot mom too, and that he could do with them as he wished.
Rene stepped inside, past the sink, then stopped and gasped. Jack immediately understood why. The bathtub. It was gone. It had been ripped out and replaced with a stand-alone shower, but its footprint remained like a giant scar, a crude confirmation of what had happened there. Jack had seen many crime scenes and crime scene photos, but he never got used to it. Looking at it made you realize that it really had happened, that it could never be undone, that the awful bitterness would rise up in your throat until you could taste the pain, the screams, the utter horror of the victims. Right there, that very spot, was where he’d knelt on the tile floor, filled the tub with water, and rinsed Sally’s blood from his knife. Right there, that same spot, he’d wrung the blood from Sally’s blouse, dipping and squeezing until the water turned bright red. Then he carried Sally’s daughter-still alive, her feet and hands bound-and placed her in the tub, undoubtedly drawing one last moment of pleasure from the horror in her eyes. And then he slowly rolled her over, facedown in the water, and he watched, watched with delight. Jack knew he watched, because he’d spent four years of his life defending monsters like this on death row, he’d seen the gleam in their eyes as they recounted their conquests, killers who didn’t see the point in killing unless they could watch every fucking last minute of it. That son of a bitch just watched her body writhing, her head bobbing, her bound legs flopping like some vulgar abomination of the Little Mermaid, his own curiosity unsatisfied until he saw with his own two eyes how much of the bloody mixture her tiny lungs could hold.
“We should go,” said Jack.
“No. I want to see the bedroom.”
They retreated from the bathroom and continued down the hall. The door was open about a foot, just enough for a cat to come and go. Rene pushed it all the way open, and flipped the light switch. The fixture on the ceiling had four bulbs, but only one was burning, which left the room dim and full of shadows-cat shadows, dozens of them. Cats on the bed, on the dresser, on the floor, in clothes baskets scattered about the room. Cats everywhere, and Jack felt his eyes starting to water.
“Looks like his eleven cats have had a few kittens,” he said.
“I want to check the closet.”
From what he’d read about the crime, Jack knew that the attacker had been hiding in the closet. Rene stepped around a sleeping ball of orange fur, and Jack followed her across the room. She stopped before the closet door.
“You want me to open it?” asked Jack.
She stared a moment longer, then simply nodded.
He’d offered to open it without a moment’s hesitation, but as he reached for the handle, he felt something pulling inside him. It had been five years since the crime, dozens of different people had lived in this house since then, and he knew in his mind that there was nothing to fear on the other side of that door. But in his gut, where it mattered, he felt a slight reservation.
“Please,” said Rene. “Open it.”
The metal door handle felt cold in his hand, cold as the ice water that must have run through that killer’s veins. He turned it. The latch clicked. He pulled the door open and saw a sudden black flash, which sent his heart into his throat.
A cat raced across his shoe tops.
He and Rene exchanged glances, as if to calm each other’s nerves. Jack opened the door all the way and looked inside.
“You say he got in through the bathroom door, huh?”
“That’s what Sally told me. The police report said there were signs of break-in at the bathroom door.”
“So, he comes in the bathroom, walks down the hall to Katherine’s bedroom, and hides inside the closet.”
“That’s the theory.”
Jack pointed to the access door in the ceiling inside the closet and said, “Where do you suppose that leads to?”
Rene looked up and said, “The attic?”
A wall of built-in shelves inside the closet led upward like a ladder. Jack climbed up to the third shelf, pushed on the plywood, and opened the ceiling door. “It’s an attic, all right. Wonder if he could have come in this way?”
“I suppose it’s possible. I don’t even think Sally knew every theory the police considered or rejected. The prosecutor was extremely tight-lipped about his investigation.”
“Tell me about it. I had a little run-in myself a few weeks ago. So long as they consider the investigation active, they aren’t going to tell you much.”
“You mind taking a look?”
“In the attic?”
“The police have had five years to solve this crime. Why not have a look for ourselves?”
Jack shrugged and said, “Okay, sure. Why not?”
Jack climbed up the shelves, pushed the ceiling door aside, and poked his head into the attic. The air was stuffy, and he was sweating almost instantly, as the temperature in the attic was at least ten degrees hotter than the main house. Jack let his eyes adjust and found a naked bulb hanging from a wire. He pulled the cord, and the attic brightened.
“Got light,” he said.
“Good,” she replied, her muted voice wafting upward through the ceiling.
Jack climbed the rest of the way and pulled himself up. The attic had no floor, just exposed joists and insulation, so he distributed his weight across three joists-feet, seat, hands. The lighting wasn’t great, but it was good enough to see that the attic ran the length of the house, from one end of the gabled roof to the other. He was at the highest point, dead center, and even there the head clearance was only about three feet. He saw no windows.
“Don’t see how he could have gotten in here from the outside,” he said. “Don’t see any outside access at all.”
