Heartsick

HEARTSICK

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

HEARTSICK
. Copyright © 2007 by Verite, Inc. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Cain, Chelsea.

      Heartsick / Chelsea Cain.—1st. ed.

            p. cm.

      ISBN: 978-1-4299-1853-4

      1. Police—Oregon—Portland—Fiction. 2. Women serial murderers—Fiction.3. Women journalists—Fiction. 4. Portland (Or.)—Fiction. I. Title.

     PS3603.A385H43 2007

     813'.6—dc22

2007018005

For Marc Mohan, who loved me
even after he read this book

HEARTSICK

Contents

CHAPTER
1

CHAPTER
2

CHAPTER
3

CHAPTER
4

CHAPTER
5

CHAPTER
6

CHAPTER
7

CHAPTER
8

CHAPTER
9

CHAPTER
10

CHAPTER
11

CHAPTER
12

CHAPTER
13

CHAPTER
14

CHAPTER
15

CHAPTER
16

CHAPTER
17

CHAPTER
18

CHAPTER
19

CHAPTER
20

CHAPTER
21

CHAPTER
22

CHAPTER
23

CHAPTER
24

CHAPTER
25

CHAPTER
26

CHAPTER
27

CHAPTER
28

CHAPTER
29

CHAPTER
30

CHAPTER
31

CHAPTER
32

CHAPTER
33

CHAPTER
34

CHAPTER
35

CHAPTER
36

CHAPTER
37

CHAPTER
38

CHAPTER
39

CHAPTER
40

CHAPTER
41

CHAPTER
42

CHAPTER
43

CHAPTER
44

CHAPTER
45

CHAPTER
46

CHAPTER
47

CHAPTER
48

CHAPTER
49

CHAPTER
50

CHAPTER
51

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER

1

A
rchie doesn’t know
for sure that it’s her until that moment. There is a dull bloom of warmth in his spine, his vision blurs, and then he knows that Gretchen Lowell is the killer. He realizes that he has been drugged, but it is too late. He fumbles for his gun, but he is ham-fisted and can only lift it awkwardly from his belt clip and hold it out as if it were a gift to her. She takes it and smiles, kissing him gently on the forehead. Then she reaches into his coat and takes the cell phone, turning it off and slipping it into her purse. He is almost paralyzed now, slumped in the leather chair in her home office. But his mind is a prison of clarity. She kneels down next to him, the way one might a child, and puts her lips so close to his that they are almost kissing. His pulse throbs in his throat. He can’t swallow. She smells like lilacs.

“It’s time to go, darling,” she whispers. She stands then, and he is lifted from behind, elbows under his armpits. A man in front of him, red-faced and heavy, takes his legs, and he is carried into the garage and laid in the back of the green Voyager—the vehicle Archie and his task force have spent months looking for—and she crawls in on top of him. He realizes then that there is someone else in the van, that she wasn’t the one behind him, but he doesn’t have time to process this because she is straddling his torso, a knee pressing on either side of his waist. He cannot move his eyes anymore, so she narrates for his benefit.

“I’m rolling up your right sleeve. I’m tying off a vein.” Then she holds up a hypodermic in his sight line.
Medical training,
he thinks. Eighteen percent of female serial killers are nurses. He is staring at the ceiling of the van. Gray metal.
Stay awake
, he thinks. Remember everything, every detail; it will be important. He thinks,
If I live.

“I’m going to let you rest for a little while.” She smiles and puts her flat, pretty face in front of his so he can see her, her blond hair brushing his cheek, though he cannot feel it. “We’ll have plenty of time for fun later.”

He cannot respond, cannot even blink now. His breath comes in long, shallow rasps. He cannot see her push the needle in his arm, but he assumes she has, because then there is only darkness.

He wakes up
on his back. He is still groggy, and it takes him a moment to realize that the red-faced man is standing over him. In this moment, the very first moment of Archie’s awareness, the man’s head explodes. Archie jerks as the man’s blood and brain matter blow forward, splattering Archie’s face and chest, a vomit of warm, clotted fluid. He tries to move, but his hands and feet are bound to a table. He feels a piece of something hot slide down his face and slop onto the floor, and he pulls hard against the bindings until his skin breaks, but he cannot budge them. He gags, but his mouth is taped shut, forcing the bile back into his throat, making him gag again. His eyes burn. Then he sees her, standing behind where the man’s body has fallen, holding the gun she has just used to execute him.

“I wanted you to understand right away how committed I am to you,” she says. “That you are the only one.” And then she turns and walks away.

He is left then to contemplate what has just happened. He swallows hard, willing himself to remain calm, to look around. He is alone. The man is dead on the floor. Gretchen is gone. The driver of the van is gone. Archie’s blood is pulsing so violently that it is the only sensation. Time passes. At first, he thinks he is in an operating room. It is a large space, walled with white ceramic subway tiles and well lit by fluorescent lights. He turns his head from side to side and sees several trays of instruments, medical-looking machinery, a drain on the cement floor. He strains again at his binds and realizes that he is strapped to a gurney. Tubes are coming in and out of him: a catheter, an IV. There are no windows in the room and a faint earthy smell skirts the edge of his consciousness. Mildew. A basement.

He starts to think like a cop now. The others had been tortured for a couple of days before she dumped the bodies. That meant that he had time. Two days. Maybe three. They could find him in that amount of time. He had told Henry where he was going, that he had a psych consult about the newest body. He had wanted to see her, to get her advice. He was not prepared for this. But they would connect it. Henry would connect it. It would be the last place to which he could be traced. He had made a call to his wife on the way. That would be the last point of contact. How much time had passed since he had been taken?

She is there again. On the other side of the table from where the body still lies, thick, dark blood seeping onto the gray floor. He remembers when she had first introduced herself—the psychiatrist who had given up her practice to write a book. She had read about the task force and had called him to see if she could help. It had been hell on all of them. She offered to come in. Not counseling, she had said. Just talk. They had been working on the case for almost ten years. Twenty-three bodies in three states. It had taken a toll. She invited those who were interested to come to a group session. Just talk. He had been surprised at how many of the detectives had shown. It might have had something to do with the fact that she was beautiful. The funny thing was, it had helped. She was very good.

She pulls the white sheet covering him down so that his chest is exposed, and he realizes that he’s naked. There is no self-consciousness attached to it. It is merely a fact. She places a hand flat on his breastbone. He knows what this means. He has memorized the crime photos, the abrasions and burns on the torsos. It is part of the profile, one of her signatures.

“Do you know what comes next?” she asks, knowing that he does.