Face Off (20 page)

With a start, Amy jerked awake. Her eyes quickly checked the plastic water jug. Thank goodness. It had not turned over. She pulled herself into a sitting position, and felt her leg. It really was damp! Her head snapped around to the crack in the cement wall. Black mud was oozing in, and with it, a steady stream of water.

For a few moments Amy sat, mesmerized, watching the advancing water. After two weeks of sameness, it was at the least a diversion. She scooted over closer to the water, then slammed her hands down into it as a toddler would do in a wading pool. She delighted in the wetness which splashed up onto her. Soon she was sitting in the puddle, soaking her parched skin, and taking small sips of the dirty water.

It was several minutes before the danger penetrated Amy's brain. It wasn't until she noticed the water had risen until it now covered most of the floor, that she began assessing her new predicament. “Get the light, dummy,” she spoke aloud. “You don't want to electrocute yourself!” She rose to her feet, pleased that she was able to stand. On shaky legs she walked to the little lamp, bent over and picked it up. The electrical cord entered her prison from the top, so all she had to worry about was keeping the lamp, itself, out of the water.

Surely, Amy reasoned, she didn't need to worry about too much water coming in. Sometimes their basement at home flooded, but it was usually just a few inches. Nothing to be apprehensive about.

Still, maybe she should see how rapidly the water was rising. She reached over and marked a line on the wall with her fingernail, approximately one inch from the water line. Then she checked the time on her watch. It was fifteen minutes past three.

Outside, the rain continued coming down as the sky blazed with electricity. The small gully which had formed, causing water to pour into the opening around the cement box, widened, creating a pool. On top, the wooden ceiling groaned and creaked against the extra weight of the wet dirt and the debris spilling down the hillside.

*   *   *

Floyd heard the slam of a car door and quickly moved to the window, drawing sun-streaked chintz curtains slightly back. Clark! Muscles tightened in his stomach as he felt the front pouch of his sweatsuit, making certain his Colt was in place. The bastard wasn't going to catch him unprepared.

Floyd swung the front door open before Clark had a chance to knock. “Are you crazy coming here? I thought you had a tail!” he whispered harshly, deciding to go on the offensive.

Randal brushed past him before answering, grabbing the door and slamming it shut behind him. It angered him to be spoken to in that tone, but he never let it show. The smile he turned on Floyd just missed reaching his eyes. “I've got it. The nun's address.”

“No shit? How?” Floyd quickly lost his uneasiness. “Did you find the right costume place?”

“No. She came by and parked right across the street from my apartment. Hell, man, she even went over and talked to the cops parked out front. I'd sort of been keeping an eye on them, when I noticed this dame walking up to their car. Looked a little strange to me, in the rain and all, so I got my binoculars, and bingo! It was her!”

“So how did you get her address?”

“I just went to the garage and got my car and waited for her to leave, then I followed. Simple as that.”

“And the cops just let you drive away?”

“No. They stayed on me, but—”

“Damnation! I suppose you led them right here? To me? You crazy bastard, what's the matter with you, anyway?”

Clark's arm swung fast and hard at Floyd's head, spinning him backward. “Don't ever call me crazy again,” he said coldly. “Of course I didn't lead the cops here. You go down,
I
go down, right? They called off the tail. I knew the minute they dropped me. Then when I got back to the apartment, the units there were gone, also. I called Nordyke, my lawyer, and he said the lab work had cleared me.”

Floyd rubbed the side of his face, trying to decide what to say. The lab work might have cleared
Clark,
but it sure as hell hadn't written
him
off. “If you're in the clear, then what are we hanging around for? Ain't no reason we should be takin' chances like this. Let's get out of town.”

“Aren't you even the least little bit curious about the nun?”

“Is she the one?”

Clark smiled slowly. “Suzanne Richards ring a bell?”

Floyd paled. Even though his gut instinct had told him all along that it had to be her, having it confirmed sent a shiver down his back. He guessed he was wrong when he thought Clark was about the only person he feared. He feared a little brown-haired girl named Susie, who was now all grown up. “You're certain of that?”

Randal Clark grinned, relishing Floyd's discomfort. “Pretty sure. I didn't want to go in the apartment building and risk the chance of her seeing me so I waited until I got back to my apartment. I called the manager of the complex I saw them go into, and asked if Suzanne Richards lived there. She said yes, apartment twelve, on the first floor. That satisfy you?”

Floyd suddenly realized how much Clark was enjoying his anxiety, and it irritated him. “I wouldn't be so damned sure
you're
out of the woods,” he said, pulling his billfold from the back pocket of his sweatpants. He slid out several worn newspaper clippings and handed them to Clark. “She's brought in worse guys than you, buddy!”

Randal scanned down the articles, then looked at Floyd. “You know what we have to do, don't you? We can't take a chance on her doing a number on us like she did on these others.”

“Somehow I always knew it would come down to this. Just her and me. I knew someday she would come after me. When I figured out who she was a few years back, I should have done her right then. She knows too much. She may not
know
she knows, but she damn sure could put me away for the rest of my friggin' life!”

“From what it says in these newspapers, she already knows
my
history, too. It says here she only has to touch a person to know just about everything they have ever done. And her hands were all over me yesterday.”

“Yeah, man, you're made!” Floyd chuckled. “Looks like you'll have to help me kill her.”

Clark looked at Floyd with contempt, hating that he was forced into any kind of dealings with such an ignorant man. He knew what he was going to do. Just as soon as all this business with the psychic was over, he was going to kill the scummy weasel!

*   *   *

The pandemonium at the station house was just exactly what Suzanne knew it would be after Nora Myerson's announcement on her television show. Everyone seemed to be in a perpetual state of panic, as they clamored for attention and demanded that they be listened to.

Suzanne managed to catch the eye of an officer she recognized. Jena Karnitz ushered Suzanne and Jessie past the assemblage of people into the coffee room. “Now, you won't slip away out the window, will you?” She laughed.

Suzanne had the grace to look embarrassed. “No. And I'm sorry about that.”

“How did you know we were going to hold you?” Jena asked. “Was it really by psychic means, or were the guys trying to rattle my cage with that choice bit?”

“No. I am a psychic,” Suzanne said, “as is Jessie here.” She nodded toward her young companion. “When I touch a person, their life just sort of unfolds in my mind—things from long ago, as well as current thoughts.” She smiled. “So, has someone named Harry asked you out yet?” As soon as she spoke the name, it occurred to Suzanne who Harry was. Her cheeks reddened.

Officer Karnitz laughed. “You read that in my mind yesterday? Boy, you're dangerous to have around.”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything about it. That is your own private business. Forgive me.”

“Honey, I've been working around cops for the last twelve years. I don't believe there is a thing on this earth you could say that would embarrass me. Nothing. And as for Harry, well, there's lots of other fish in the sea. I'm about to give up on him.”

“He's a jerk!” Jessie said. “He was mean to us last night. Well, to Suzanne, anyway. He yelled at her, and almost made her cry! And he doesn't believe in psychics. Even after we told him things that should make him believe.”

Jena nodded her head. “Yeah. He can be a real jerk, and that's a fact. But I'll bet he was only concerned about you and Miss Richards. Sometimes, when guys get really worried, they snap at the people they like the most. I'll bet that he just really, really likes fiery redheads and didn't mean to crab at you at all.”

“Sweetie, it's me he is sore at, not you,” Suzanne said. “He must still think I'm trying to take advantage of you and your family some way.” Suzanne pushed long hair back from her face, arching her back to relieve sore muscles. It had been an exhausting day. They had only been back at Suzanne's apartment a few minutes when Jessie insisted on going back to the church and starting over. But nothing they had tried had worked. The connection was broken. Over and over Jessie had tried to force her mind into the other dimension, but it was no use. She could not pick up her sister's route. When Suzanne finally mentioned her other idea, Jessie had jumped at it.

Suzanne sensed, more than saw, Harry McDermott silently enter the room and come up behind her. Nevertheless, she jumped slightly as he spoke.

“I understand you wanted to see me?”

Suzanne turned.
Please,
she pleaded silently.
Don't give me a hard time tonight. Not tonight. I've had about all I can take.
“Detective McDermott,” Suzanne said the officer's name tentatively, “we need your help.”

Harry looked at the tall, lovely woman in front of him, who seemed to have no concept of her beauty or the effect she was having on him. Her hair was damp from the rain and smelled faintly of strawberries. There were tiny lines around her mouth, and a slight darkness under her eyes, suggesting she was tired and in need of rest. Harry felt an overwhelming urge to pull her to his chest and comfort her. Instead he spoke gruffly. “For what?”

“I thought maybe you would let us go into Clark's cell and see if we can do a reading.”

“Mr. McDermott,” Jessie interrupted before Harry could speak, “unless we find her, Amy is going to die tonight. I saw it. And I saw how Clark got her into his van. He called to her as she left the church, and she went over to see who it was. He grabbed her and put something over her nose. She couldn't breathe. I felt it.”

Suzanne spoke up. “Furthermore, Jessie was able to track her sister from the church to a few miles down Interstate Twenty-nine. Then we lost the trail, but we might be able to pick it up again if we connect with a place he's spent some time in. Please, you must let us try.”

Harry took Suzanne by the elbow and guided her toward the couch, motioning to Jessie. “Come sit over here, Jessie, with us. I need to tell you both a few things. First of all, Clark has been cleared. None of the DNA was a match to his, and the body parts found in his apartment turned out to be older than he was. So even if they were his, which he insisted all along they were not, they have ceased to be pertinent to this investigation.” Harry reached over and took Jessie's hand in his own, enveloping it. “I'm sorry, honey. Truly sorry.”

“Detective McDermott, that can't be right,” Suzanne said, warmed by his tenderness toward Jessie. “Last night we—Jessie—actually saw one of the murders. I saw it, too, by holding her hand. That's how I work, remember? I can do a reading by touching a person. In this case, I tuned in to what Jessie was tuned in to. And we saw Clark murder a girl!”

“Which one? Could you be a little more specific?” Harry asked, slipping back into the role of adversary.

“Why won't you believe us?” Suzanne suddenly demanded, angry. “Last night we told you an old man had been murdered. Weren't we right? Why do you have to be so pigheaded!”

Harry squirmed, uncomfortably.

“Jessie, would you mind waiting for me outside? I'll tell the detective about the murder, but you don't need to relive it all. Just wait for me.”

Jessie's jaw locked stubbornly. “It's my sister who is missing. I think I should stay. You might miss something. Like the bottles.”

Harry looked at the girl. “Bottles? What bottles?”

Suzanne answered him. “We couldn't tell what was in them, but after he finished killing the girl, he opened several little bottles and smeared the contents around the bottom of the girl's torso.”

The semen!
Harry thought.
He was putting the splotches of semen on the body!

“Tell me what else you saw.” Harry was suddenly interested in everything the two had to say.

“We think we saw him shave off one of the girl's eyebrows,” Suzanne said. “The right one I believe. Then he put makeup on her—really thick. She was alive through all of this, and terrified.”

“She scratched him once,” Jessie added, “across the face. He was really mad about that. He put his hand to his face, and it came back bloody, then he slapped her real hard for it.”

Harry remembered the scrapings of skin they had found under the fingernails of one of the earlier victims. “What did this girl look like? Do you remember anything at all about her?”

“She was pretty,” Suzanne said, “with long, blond braids. And her hair was wet, like maybe she had been swimming or working out.”

It was the little Hunter girl. No doubt about it. She had disappeared coming home from the gym. It had been a gruesome murder, and her severed head, with its made-up face and long, beautiful braids had invaded his dreams for months.

“There was a little girl about five or six years old, standing to the side, watching,” Suzanne said. “She seemed almost in a daze or something. But we lost the vision after she appeared, so that's all we know.”