Be Mine (27 page)

Understandably, she’d been unavailable for the most recent shows
that dealt exclusively with Hooper’s and Beamon’s murders. Like tonight’s show.
Tonight, a reporter from the
Chronicle
and a columnist from the
Guardian
were filling in, trading theories with Vince Vincent.

The commercial had ended.

Bleeder surfaced from his thoughts and switched from his tape of
Molly back to the evening’s program. The panel jabbered on until Vincent said
time was up.

“This suggestion of corruption and romantic links to Molly Wilson, a
regular panelist on this show, has definitely cast a cloud of intrigue over
this very disturbing case,” he said in closing the show.

The lady from the
Guardian
nodded. “My sources tell me the
pressure is causing fracturing within the SFPD’s detective ranks and creating tension
in the
Star
newsroom.”

The
Chronicle
guy added, “At its core, this is a gripping
whodunit. It could lead anywhere.”

“Indeed. Thank you both. We’ll keep our viewers posted here, on
Crime Scene,” Vincent said, wrapping it up.

Fractures within the SFPD?

Terrific. But how long would it last? Bleeder absorbed Molly’s
frozen face as his scissors clipped a photo of her in
Newsweek
. A
beautiful shot, he thought, walking to his wall and using four map pins to hold
the latest Molly captive on it. Bleeder smoothed his hand over it, then stepped
back, enjoying it with the other pictures of his collection as his stomach
twisted with yearning.

Molly was taking too long to realize that she was the sun in his
galaxy. Too long to appreciate his vision, his desires, his needs. She was
complicating things. The way Amy had complicated things. It made their
situation vulnerable to new obstacles. Vulnerable to catastrophe. What if Molly
failed him, the way Amy had failed him?

No.

Bleeder had worked too hard. He could never allow that. Could not
allow that. It was long ago. Things were different now. Molly must see that
time was running out for her to realize who Bleeder really was so he could pull
off his mask and help her know what he knew. Help her to see what he saw.

You’re not like Amy. You can’t be like Amy.

Bleeder’s head began aching. He sat down in his sofa chair and held
it between his hands, letting it sink into the thick cushioned back. He feared
things would deteriorate like they did with Amy. Pain trembled through his
body. He closed his eyes to let the darkness enshroud him as he journeyed back.

To Hangman’s Lane ...

For weeks Bleeder had kept a close watch on Kyle, observing his
weakest points, until one warm, moonlit night when it all came to pass. Kyle’s
Camaro had rumbled down the deserted country road to Amy’s house where he’d
gone to visit her for the evening. Bleeder had followed him. He parked unseen
by a stand of chestnut and oak trees near the bridge, a quarter mile away.

He walked through the pastures, the corn and barley fields, coming
up behind the outbuildings and the house, finding cover in the thickets and
tall grass near the front porch. The family’s dog yelped and whined, but Kyle
and Amy were too involved to notice.

Bleeder watched them from the darkness. Watched them kissing,
watched them hugging, watched Kyle, his bulging farm-boy arms and his hands all
over Amy, touching her, seeing her silky hair tousled, watching her hands
sliding to Kyle’s jeans, glimpsing her bare shoulder. In the stillness, amid
the crickets he heard them panting, moaning. Amy’s sighs.

How could this be?

Amy should be with him. She’d told him he was her boyfriend. Kyle
was too possessive. Too controlling. Bleeder had to rescue her from Kyle.
That’s what she wanted. That’s what she’d said. Now, watching them, seeing them
like that, Bleeder felt his stomach knotting and his heart shattering,
launching wave after wave of rage.

He strode back through the tall grass, the fields and pastures, his
face shiny with tears. He sat in his car and waited until he saw the lights at
Amy’s house flicker.

It was time.

Bleeder stepped from his car and set to work. He went to the bush
and, one by one, hoisted out four basketball-sized boulders he’d collected from
previous nights. Grunting under the strain, he set them down one by one a few
feet apart, across the narrow breadth of Hangman’s Lane. They formed a stone
barrier at the approach to the railroad tie bridge that spanned the creek some
thirty feet below.

Bleeder had positioned the last rock when in the distance he heard
the Camaro. He went back to his car, saw Kyle’s headlights progress down the
road. He heard the engine growling. Heard Led Zeppelin. Heard Kyle grind
through his gears, squealing in all of them as he rumbled nearer, rocketing
through the night.

The Camaro’s lights grew brighter, its engine and music louder as
Kyle crested the hill, ripped down the creek valley, hugging the curve so fast
the car’s suspension strained.

As usual, Kyle never slowed down before the bridge. The rocks
awaited him like a firing squad. The instant he saw them at the bridge, it was
too late. He never touched his brakes. He tried to swerve but the combination
of speed, momentum, shifting weight of the car, the artillery impact of the
rock against the undercarriage catapulted the Camaro skyward, the engine and
Led Zeppelin screaming, metal screeching as it crashed in an arch through the
guardrail, plunging through the darkness to the creek below.

Bleeder looked in all directions. No one around. He walked to the
road and, one by one, heaved the stones back into the bush. In the moonlight he
inspected the point of impact, tossing a few stone chips into the creek. Same
set of scrapes and scars from Kyle’s reckless driving habits. Nothing new.

“Help!”

Bleeder walked along the bridge and looked below. He heard muffled
music, saw the Camaro’s headlights. The car was almost perfectly overturned and
submerged. The driver’s door jutted from the black water.

“Somebody help, please!” That would be Kyle.

Bleeder worked his way down the slopes to the bank of the narrow
creek. By the light of the moon he saw Kyle clearly. Horror and pain written
across his face, blood webbed down his temple and cheek. The cheek Amy had
kissed. Kyle reached his arm out in vain. Bleeder saw Kyle’s outstretched hand
and his division title football ring. Remembered the fist that smashed against
his head. Bleeder didn’t move. He watched Kyle’s eyes blinking in recognition
of his schoolmate a dozen yards away.

“Bleeder! God! Get help! Please! My leg’s pinned! The car’s
slipping!”

Bleeder said nothing.

The car shifted and slipped deeper under the water. Kyle’s voice
broke sounding almost like a child pleading.

“Jesus Christ, Bleeder. Help me!”

Bleeder glanced around, cocked an ear for any oncoming traffic.

The Camaro shifted again and dropped another few feet underwater.

“God! Bleeder, it’s up to my chin. Please!”

At this point Kyle’s pleas gurgled until they ceased.

Bleeder shoved his hands in his pockets and watched the water
swallow the Camaro, watched Kyle’s farm-boy hand shoot up, breaking the
surface, his ring catching the moonlight as it thrashed for about thirty
seconds until it vanished too.

Bleeder climbed the slope to the road. Got in his father’s car and
drove down Hangman’s Lane back to town.

After conducting a threat assessment
,
the San Francisco police determined that enough time had passed and it was safe
enough to move Molly Wilson from the house in Union City in the East
Bay.

“But you can’t go back to your apartment yet,” Sydowski said,
agreeing to let Molly move in with a friend.

Della Thompson.

She had a small, gorgeous cottage of a home way down south in Glen
Park. Thompson had scraped, saved, shopped, and networked some real estate
sources to land a remarkable deal on the place at the edge of one of the city’s
more upscale neighborhoods.

It was her dream.

Almost hidden from the street, her house was sheltered by huge
eucalyptus groves, thick shrubs, and a wrought-iron gate.

It was a Mission-style home, made of white stucco with a red clay
tile roof. It had a garage, living room, kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms.
The house was like balm for Molly. She’d felt the first stirrings of normalcy
when she moved in. At least she had a piece of her life back.

Violet Stewart, the
Star’
s managing editor, had insisted
Thompson take a few days off to stay home with Molly.

“You think you’re capable of handling my idiosyncrasies,
girlfriend?” Thompson joked as she helped Molly settle in.

“I’ve just spent the last few days cohabiting with strange,
disgusting male members of the species. I think I can handle you.”

After unpacking, Molly held Thompson’s eyes in hers for a serious
moment. “Thank you,” she said. “This means so much.”

Thompson gave her a reassuring hug.

Later on that first day, Sydowski dropped by. He told them that
unmarked district cars would be rolling by on a regular basis twenty-four hours
a day.

“We may be overdoing it, but we think that this is the best way to
go for the time being,” he said. “You’ve got all our numbers.”

“I just hope you catch the creep soon, Inspector,” Thompson said.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said.

After Sydowski left, Thompson passed Molly an envelope thick with
messages, cards, and letters for her, then promised to keep screening her
calls. Many were requests for interviews. Some came from story scouts and
agents wanting her rights, or pitching book deals. Molly’s answer was no to
anything for now.

The women made a salad and pasta dinner. It was ambrosia after the
endless diet of pizzas, burgers, and Chinese takeout Molly’d had with her
protectors in Alvarado. As night fell on Glen Park, they sat on the floor
before a crackling fire and sipped white wine.

“Oh, Del,” Molly said, “this one guy, Inspector Schwartz, you
should’ve seen how he groomed himself with his car keys.”

“Gawd!” Thompson watched Molly demonstrate. “I’m not kidding, every
orifice.”

The two women laughed, cathartic, knee-slapping laughter, until
tears came. They sighed and sipped more wine while watching the flames. A long
moment passed in silence before Thompson turned to her friend.

“So how was it, really?”

Molly’s face grew serious and her eyes never left the fire.

“More horrible than you could imagine,” she said. “I see them in my
dreams. They come to me bleeding, begging me to find the killer. But I don’t
know who, or why? Why? Then I feel I should be working with you guys, helping
everyone hunt down the bastard. But there are times when I just can’t move. I
mean I just can’t--” Molly covered her face with her hands and Thompson rubbed
her shoulder.

“You’ve got to be strong, now,” she said. “Sydowski’s going to nail
the sicko and you’re going to heal. I promise you. You got that?”

Molly nodded, touching the corners of her eyes. She attempted to
smile.

“And no one’s going to bother you here. That is my pledge to you.
They’d have to go through me first. And that would be a fatal error,” Thompson
said, downing the last of their wine before hitting on an idea.

“I think we should invite some of our friends over. Maybe tomorrow.
Just a few. Have some laughs. Heal your soul. How’s that sound?”

“As Sydowski said, sounds like a plan.”