her mind: ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand you at all.’
She took the left.
63
Dr Bradley Temple had a medical practice attached to his home on Steele Street. Ren rang the doorbell — there was no answer. She looked at the sign with the opening hours. It was 5 p.m. She was half an hour too early for his evening clinic.
She was turning to leave when a teenage boy walked up the path toward her, shrugging off his backpack.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Are you looking for the doctor?’
‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘I see I’m a little early.’
‘You can wait if you like,’ he said.
‘And can I ask who you are?’ said Ren.
‘Cameron, I’m Dr Temple’s son.’
‘I’m Ren.’
‘Let me open the waiting room door,’ he said. He started to unlock the front door. ‘I have to open it from inside the house,’ he said.
It started to snow. Ren pulled up her hood.
‘You can come inside for a minute,’ he said.
‘I can wait here,’ said Ren. ‘It’s fine. Or, I can go to my car. I’m not sure your father would want me in his waiting room if he’s not here.’
‘It’s cool,’ said Cameron. ‘I’ve done it before. You need a security code to get into his office, so …’ He shrugged.
‘OK, thanks,’ said Ren. She walked into the house.
‘I’ll be right back,’ said Cameron.
Ren took out her BlackBerry and checked her email. One had come in from Glenn Buddy with an attachment. She was about to open it, but she was distracted by a door further down the hallway, banging softly. She walked toward it. Her phone started ringing. Glenn.
‘Hey,’ said Ren.
‘Did you get a look at the geo-profile?’ said Glenn.
‘The email just came in,’ said Ren.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ said Glenn. ‘That Rigg Raskin kid just called me. He found out about the lightning strikes. What happened was this kid in school, in art class, signed all his paintings that way, like a graffiti artist has a tag. So the day of the party, the guy organizing it thought it would be cool to rip off this guy’s tag for the route to the asylum. It really pissed this kid off, he went crazy. So, I don’t know, maybe this artist guy showed up to-’
The door swung back on its hinges beside Ren.
‘What was that noise?’ said Glenn.
‘A door banging. Let me go get it.’ She went to close the door. It was a bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the scent of teenage boy.
‘Anyway, the Raskin kid gave me the name of the artist,’ said Glenn, ‘and it’s right there, smack bang in the jeopardy zone. We’re on our way now.’
Ren was transfixed by the walls of the bedroom.
Glenn was still talking. ‘The kid’s name is-’
‘Cameron Temple,’ said Glenn.
‘Jesus, Glenn-’
‘What the fuck are you doing in my bedroom?’ roared Cameron.
Ren spun around. He pushed her hard on the chest. She landed on the floor, her back slamming off the side of the bed. Her phone bounced across the floor and disappeared under his desk. Her head was spinning, and as she looked up, all she could see were lightning strikes jumping out at her from his paintings.
‘What the fuck is that?’ he said. He pointed at her. ‘Is that a gun?’ Her pants leg had slid up over her ankle holster. Cameron jumped down on the floor beside her and grabbed her ankle, trying to get the gun free.
Ren reached down, gripped his head on the pressure point, and buried her thumb behind his ear, pushing up hard to get him to drop his hold.
‘You fucking bitch,’ he said. Ren punched the side of the neck and he collapsed onto the floor. He rolled behind the foot of the bed. Ren stood up and pulled the gun from her ankle holster.
‘Don’t move,’ she said. ‘Don’t move a fucking inch.’
But Cameron had reached under the bed and before she realized it, he had pulled out a baseball bat. He slammed it against her knee, and she dropped. The pain was excruciating. The gun was gone. Cameron picked it up, and laid it on the desk behind him.
Ren’s eyes were streaming. He started to walk toward her, his eyes dead. Ren’s heart started to pound.
Ren froze.
He was on top of her, now, straddling her. He pulled open her jacket, and ripped the gun from her shoulder holster. His knees were digging into her ribs. She could barely breathe. He threw the gun behind him, and it slid under the desk by her phone. He pulled off his belt and pushed her onto her stomach. He smashed his hand against her knee again. Ren cried out. He wound his belt tight around her wrists, and pulled her onto her back again, with her hands underneath her and her pelvis tilted up.
Cameron stared down at her, almost in a trance. She could smell what she had read about, see what all the victims had described, how gone he looked — to a place where no words of reason would reach. She could see his hands moving toward her.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t do this. I’m an FBI-’
‘I don’t care,’ shouted Cameron. ‘I don’t care who you are.’ He slapped her hard across her face, and split open her lip. He grabbed her breasts, then slid his hands down and pushed them up under her top, pushing her bra up out of the way.
Ren gagged. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please don’t do this to me.’ Tears started to flow down her face. ‘Please.’ It was like she wasn’t speaking. He was hearing nothing, was now completely shut off from reality. He was smiling. He reached down and started opening the button of her pants.
With all her strength, she reached up and slammed her head against the side of his nose. She heard a crack. He fell off her. Blood poured down his face. He rolled onto his back. Ren was about to run past him to grab her guns.
Cameron Temple slammed Ren to the ground one last time. He grabbed her ankles and yanked her toward him. He knelt down and pressed his hands around her neck and started to squeeze.
Ren’s body went limp underneath him. She closed her eyes.
The sound of footsteps came toward her, and suddenly the weight of Cameron Temple was off her, and she
