Be Mine (31 page)

Driving home from Della Thompson’s
house, Tom was still troubled by Molly’s history with Frank Yarrow. Showing up
the way he did at Hooper’s funeral was disturbing. Even if a man were
traumatized by a divorce, he’d have better sense than to hit on his old high
school girlfriend at a time like that. And the flowers with those cryptic
sophomoric notes.

Yarrow was a whack job.

Tom stopped at a red light. The more he considered Yarrow the more
it concerned him. He checked the time. It was late but he was too jacked up to
sleep. He’d swing by the paper and see if Lil got any hits from her search.

He signed in at security.

“You’re working late, buddy boy,” Lester the guard said.

“Always working, pal. Whether I’m here or there, I’m always
working.”

The night desk staff was gone.

The building trembled ever so slightly with the hum of the
Star’
s
big German presses several floors below. The newsroom was deserted except for
Josh, the twenty-two-year-old news assistant-slash-intern. He was listening to
a portable police scanner and watching From Here to Eternity.

Tom waved as he strode by to his desk, taking in San Francisco’s
skyline from the windows at the far end of the floor. At his desk, Lillian had
placed a blue library folder on the seat of his chair, with a note that said
This is all I could find so far, Lil.

It contained two pages. A printout of a color photo. About a dozen
smiling men and women wearing ball caps, jeans, and T-shirts. The credit was
the
Bryan-College Station Star-Journal
. Texas, Tom thought. The undated
cutline identified the players as members of the Barner County Sheriff’s
Department. Lillian highlighted a name, Deputy Frank G. Yarrow.

Yarrow’s a cop?

Tom studied the team shot and Yarrow standing among the men and
women grinning from the back row. Good looking. Tall. Well built. Then he went
to the next page, a printout of a short news hit well over ten years old, from
the
Star-Journal
.

BEAUTY FINALIST ALLEGES BARNER COUNTY DEPUTY STALKED HER

STAR-JOURNAL STAFF REPORT

A 26-year-old former Miss Texas finalist has lodged a
formal complaint alleging a Barner County deputy sheriff followed her home,
then made calls to her after a routine traffic stop.

Stacie Dawnne Lehe, of College Station, was returning
from a church meeting Friday, traveling westbound in her 2002 Chevy Blazer on
U.S. Highway 190, she said in her statement filed Monday.

Lehe was about 15 miles from Bryan when she was pulled
over by Barner County deputy sheriff Frank G. Yarrow. Lehe alleges that after
Yarrow issued her a traffic ticket for speeding, he followed her to a mall,
then later followed to her home.

Yarrow then telephoned Lehe at her home in College
Station the next day, Saturday. He was also witnessed parked near her
residence Sunday, Lehe, said in her statement.

Lehe was not available for comment. Nor was Yarrow.

It is believed that Lehe’s vehicle had faulty
equipment and Yarrow was ensuring her safety, a spokesman for the Barner County
Sheriff’s Department said, adding that Lehe’s complaint was being investigated.

Man, oh man, that’s a heck of a thing, Tom thought. Stalking a Texas beauty contestant. Molly never said a word about her old boyfriend being a cop who
stalked pretty women. Tom didn’t care about the time. He had to tell her.

Now.

Tom punched Della Thompson’s number.

In the darkness Bleeder slowed
his
breathing.

His heart was beating so fast, slamming against his rib cage. His
ears roared with pulsations so deafening he feared his enemies would overwhelm
him.

But nothing happened. Not a single thing.

Because right now, at this moment, Bleeder owned this part of the
world and everything in it. Standing as still as a corpse in a darkened corner,
he waited a full twenty minutes for his breathing to relax. For his eyes to
adjust. For his ears to become attuned to every tick and creak of Della
Thompson’s home at a secluded edge of Glen Park.

Molly’s time had come.

Never in his wildest fantasies had he believed it would be like
this. This was not what he’d envisioned. But his project had endured so many
obstacles he could not risk another. The line of empty wine bottles and glasses
on the coffee table assured him that the women would be sleeping the deep sleep
of the inebriated.

Bleeder’s senses were tingling beyond his expectations. Excitement
shot through him like an electrical current. Look at what he’d accomplished for
Molly. He’d eliminated two homicide detectives and left their grieving
compadres bewildered. What was their little Boy Scout slogan, “Gold in Peace,
Iron in War”? Well, this was war. And check out the graves.

You’re losing. Big time.

No longer was Bleeder the watcher from the shadows. The timid voyeur
in the distance. He was the power and the glory. The undefeated champion who’d
come to claim his prize.

Get ready, Molly.

Bleeder adjusted his latex gloves and moved down the hall to the
bedrooms. Even before he got to Thompson’s door he heard her snoring. He
entered her room and stood over her. She was a veritable sawmill. He could’ve
dropped a pyramid of wineglasses on the floor next to her bed without waking
her.

Carefully, he pulled Thompson’s bedroom door closed after he left.

He glided into the room where Molly slept and crouched beside her.
He drew his face next to hers until he felt her soft breathing against his
skin. He was ecstatic. His heart swelled as he slowly moved his hand near her
brow, aching to touch her, to celebrate this moment with her. He closed his eyes
and drank in her aura. His skin and scalp prickled. God, he was enthralled.

Not a moment to waste.

Be right back.

In the kitchen, Bleeder examined the knives in the butcher’s block.
He selected a ten-inch chef’s knife. Looked like it had a strong, thick forged
blade. The wooden handle was secured with brass rivets and felt good in his
hand. This would do nicely.

Bleeder returned down the hall to the bedrooms.

Gently he swung Molly’s door shut, then inched toward Thompson’s
closed door. He stood motionless, slipping into a trance of preparation.
Holding the knife with both hands, he bowed his head.

Swift and sudden fury.

He repeated it like a prayer.

Swift and sudden fury.

He’d use his left hand to seal Thompson’s mouth. Swift and sudden
fury. His right hand would drive the blade into her heart with every ounce of
his strength. Swift and sudden fury. To the hilt. Swift and sudden fury.

She’d be dead before she awoke.

With the last obstacle cleared, Molly would be his. Bleeder spread
his fingers against Thompson’s door.

The instant he touched it the phone beside her bed rang.

Bleeder froze.

It rang again. He heard stirring from Thompson’s bed. It rang a
third time and he heard her mumble. Then the rattle of plastic as she groped
for the phone.

“What is it?” she said. “Damn it, Tom, do you know what time it is?”

Bleeder stepped back into the darkness and disappeared into the
night.

Short spikes of orange hair
shot in
every direction like pyrotechnics, embodying the explosion of pain in her head,
her bones, her soul.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts so bad.

Her knees buckled and she caught herself on a Market Street trash
can.

The clonazepam had taken the edge off but its effects had faded long
ago. She didn’t have the strength or the will to go back to the clinic for more
this afternoon. She craved her stuff. God, she needed it. Snot flowed from her
nose, mixing with her tears. Droopy-eyed, she stumbled toward the corner hoping
Gator would be there. She barely sidestepped a used condom in a pool of urine.
It forced a reflex gag and she fell against somebody in an alley.

“Hey, bitch, watch your ass!” said a man, his face hidden by long
matted hair and a beard flecked with cracker crumbs. His filthy fingers gripped
a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.

Her palms slapped against brick as she kept moving toward the
corner. Please be there. Baby be there. Is that him? That’s him! Thank you,
Lord!

Behind his dark glasses, Gator had been eyeballing her progress
since he’d stepped off the BART from Oakland and got busy. He was gaunt with a
face pocked and scarred by the ravages of acne and the life of a dealer.
Annoyed at the sight of her, he sneered.

“Yo, Skin Popper, come take care of your bill.”

“Gator, baby, you got to fix me up. Please. I’m sick.”

“You see your doctor for that. With me, it’s business.”

He looked away.

“You got to.”

“I got to?” Gator’s head snapped round. He inventoried her black
spandex dress and ruby pumps. Arms striped with needle tracks, and sores that
looked like lesions.

“How do you keep yourself looking so fine?”

She held out an open hand. “Gator, please.”

“You got what you owe?”

“I’m short, but I’ll pick up some work. Promise.”

“Ah. That’s sweet. See me when you got some dead presidents for me.”

“Give me something to get me through.”

She opened her purse, grabbed her leather wallet. It was
personalized. Her name, Gloria, was written in a small elegant script in one
corner. A handmade gift from her ex. He was in Folsom for a murder he didn’t
commit. She had to believe that for the sake of their two-year-old daughter,
Sunny. Social services was taking care of her. Just until Mommy gets all
better. Sunny smiled from her color photo, the one next to the worn tens and
twenties. It was money earned an hour ago after letting a tourist do depraved
things to her for ten minutes in the back of his family’s rented van. And the
few bucks she had left from that strange phone call she’d made for the weirdo.