Hush (17 page)

Ivy shook her head. "No, thanks." She
mentally calculated how many years ago it must have been that
Mary's friend had died. "Is he out now? The killer?"

"He gets out soon." Mary took a few deep
drags, making up for the last several hours. "Well, at least he
isn't lonely in prison," she said sarcastically. "His girlfriend
writes to him and goes to see him all the time."

"Killers don't change. People need to
understand that. They don't suddenly grow a conscience."

Mary turned on the water faucet, doused her
cigarette, and tossed it in the trash. "You want to hear something
really sick? His girlfriend is my sister."

Three days after their arrival, Special
Agents Anthony Spence and Mary Cantrell offered their conclusions
to a group of about fifty people. All the members of the task force
were there, plus about a hundred various police officers and
officials. No press. No cameras.

"Single white male with deep psychiatric
problems that require medication," Agent Mary Cantrell said from
the podium at the front of the room. "Probably lives with his
mother or another female relative. Age, mid-forties."

Spence broke in, leaning into the microphone.
"We would have said late twenties, except that we know it's the
Madonna Murderer, and he'd have to be in his forties by now."

"It's unusual for a serial killer to be that
old," Cantrell said, "but this is an exception."

She continued. "Possibly dates some, but
doesn't have any real girlfriend. He might have a job that requires
skill with computers. Maybe a computer programmer. The kind of job
where he might work around a lot of people, but interacts with them
only briefly during the day."

"Or he could possibly be a telemarketer,"
Spence said. "Someone who touches people from a distance, who can
skillfully manipulate them. He might also be an agent, maybe an
insurance agent. An insurance agent who has access to his client's
medical records. He also has tremendous organizational skills.
That's apparent in the way he never leaves any evidence."

"He might drive a four-door car like a
Caprice, several years old," said Cantrell. "Maybe even an
auctioned police car—but I think our guy might be too smart for
that. But say a Caprice, or a Caprice-type car, because that's what
policemen drive. He may have even tried to become an officer, but
failed some part of the test. He may be a volunteer right now,
directing traffic after concerts and football games."

When she was finished, Spence took over the
podium to address possible tactics.

"We're going to give you some proactive
measures that have worked for us in the past, plus some ideas that
apply to this case only. The first suggestion is that you hold a
candlelight vigil for the latest victim. Have detectives stake out
the location of the vigil to see if anyone suspicious shows up.
Nine times out of ten this kind of gathering will attract the
killer. Another suggestion is to stake out the graves of previous
victims. We know from experience that the killer almost always
visits the places where his victims are buried. John Chapman was
caught this way. So was Vincent Thomas. You might advertise for
volunteers to help with the investigation. As Agent Cantrell said,
many serial killers have tried to be policemen, and several have
been known to be volunteer police. That's because these men need to
dominate and need to be in control. They crave authority. Another
possibility is to run a fake birth announcement in the paper, along
with an address where officers will be lying in wait.

"Before closing, I want to go over some signs
to watch for. These predators, as unique and individual as they
appear from the outside, fall into certain patterns. Be aware that
serial killers can reach a burnout stage where they get careless.
Sometimes they reach a grandiose stage where they become bold, even
to the point of impersonating an investigator. If the stress of
everyday life gets too extreme, they may snap. Here's a
little-known fact: People who are getting close to snapping
sometimes start wearing the color yellow. The brighter the color,
the closer they are to snapping. Lastly, when the predator can't
find his victim of choice, he'll take whatever is available."

The next half hour was spent with Spence and
Cantrell answering questions, then the meeting broke up. "I wish
all local law enforcement could be as receptive to us as you've
been," Mary said.

Detective Irving shook their hands, thanking
them for their time and input.

"Keep us informed," Mary said. "Even though
we're going back to Virginia, we'll remain involved in the
case."

Four hours later in the task-force room, Ivy
tossed her notebook aside. "I have to get some real light," she
said, rubbing her temples as if she had a headache.

Max could sympathize. His own head was
throbbing.

It didn't look as if either of them had slept
much the night before, and now they were both getting sluggish.

"There's an outdoor smoking area on the
roof," he offered.

"You could probably use some fresh air
yourself," Ivy said.

Max thought it a strange comment for her to
make, an obvious invitation that he join her. Curious, he grabbed a
bottled water from the stocked refrigerator and went along.

Outside, in a small alcove made of roofing
tar, pea gravel, and a tiny picnic table, Ivy closed her eyes and
tilted her face to the sun. "God, that feels good. How can
something bad for you feel so good?"

Max didn't think it felt all that great. It
had to be about 120 degrees out there on the roof. In the distance,
he could see shimmering waves of heat rising off the nearby
four-lane. He'd already had enough.

"I think the sun plays a greater role in all
of this than we'll realize in our lifetime," Ivy said.

He took a long drink of water. "How's
that?"

"I think it could be the root of our mental
and physical well-being. Look at the deformed frogs that are being
found in Minnesota. Scientists have proven that the deformities
have something to do with the depletion of the ozone."

"I don't dispute that the deteriorating
health of amphibians should be taken as a serious warning, but
tying lack of sunlight to criminal behavior? You psychologists
always go too far. If you'd just stop when you quit making sense,
you could be taken a lot more seriously."

She laughed.

Lack of sleep did weird things to people. In
some individuals, it slowed down certain thought processes. In
others, it gave the brain a boost. One of the great crime fighters
of all time, Eh Parker, cracked some of his biggest cases when he'd
gone more than forty-eight hours without sleep. His theory was that
it turned on the subconscious mind so that he was better able to
access and understand things that hadn't been evident to him
before.

"No amount of artificial light can make up
for sunlight," Ivy said. "And now, with the diminishing ozone
unable to filter harmful rays, making it foolish and dangerous to
worship the sun—well, we're destroying what keeps us sane."

"You'd better go take a nap. My grandmother
always said a fifteen-minute nap can mean the difference between
sense and nonsense."

"Have you ever heard of the Griggs Light
Deprivation Experiments?"

He shook his head.

"About fifteen years ago, some highly
controversial natural-light studies were conducted. One of the
tests required three students to live underground for six months.
They would have no clocks, no TV, no radio. No outside stimulation
of any kind. They could sleep when they felt like it, eat when they
felt like it—and under artificial light, they could read all the
books they desired. In return, they earned a tuition-free year of
college."

"Quite a deal."

"Not really. Shortly after the experiment
ended, the female subject killed herself. The two males were never
able to return to their studies due to an inexplicable inability to
concentrate.

"My question is: What effect, if any, does
lack of sunlight have on the criminal mind? I propose that even in
the most unsusceptible of people light deprivation can cause
depression and, in some cases, seizures. In susceptible people, it
can lead to neurotic behavior, even suicide. I was in the middle of
applying for grant funding to determine if any correlation could be
drawn when I received the call from Abraham."

"I hope you weren't going to put kids
underground."

"I want to do comparison studies on the test
results of adolescents who attend school in buildings with natural
light and those of children who learn under artificial light. I'm
hoping to prove the natural-light students do better."

"That's a fascinating theory. So fascinating
that I have to again wonder what you're doing here. What is it
about this case that makes it important enough to take you from
your home and your work?"

He didn't expect an answer, and from the
pained way she was staring at him, he didn't think he was going to
get one. "Forget it." He finished his water. "I'm heading back. You
can stay out here and bake if you want." He turned to leave when
her next words stopped him.

"Max. Wait."

She'd never called him Max before, a clue he
took to mean this could be something interesting.

When he turned back, she was looking away, in
the direction of Grand Avenue.

"I have to tell you something."

She still didn't look at him, and he began to
feel the heavy dread that sometimes came over him in confrontations
with Ethan. It occurred to him that the last time a woman he barely
knew had something important to tell him, it had been to say she
was dying.

"Last night ... I couldn't sleep."

Even though her words were unremarkable, the
feeling of dread didn't leave.

"I think we're all having that problem," he
said.

"No, this is different."

She wanted out, he immediately decided. Just
when he was getting used to her, she wanted out.

She swung around and he could see that the
blinding sunlight had turned her pupils to pinpoints surrounded by
blue.

"I'm Claudia Reynolds."

Blue, blue, blue.

She was watching him, waiting for some kind
of response, but his brain had shut down. He was afraid his mouth
may have dropped open.

"I can't keep it a secret any longer and
remain part of this investigation."

"You're Claudia Reynolds?" He was having
trouble processing the information.

"Yes."

As a detective, he'd come across a lot of
hard-to- believe things, but he was rarely taken by surprise.

His mind refused to go in the direction she
was trying to lead. She was bullshitting him. For some reason, she
was bullshitting him. Claudia Reynolds was dead. A copy of her
death certificate was in the original case file.

"You don't believe me?"

"Hell no!" he shouted. "Come on. Abraham was
involved in the case. He would have known—" He stopped in
midsentence, midthought.

Now things were coming together, possibly
making sense. Abraham. Yes. Abraham had known. Abraham had also
made the arrangements for Ivy to come to Chicago.

She pulled up her white top so that it rested
above her rib cage. Her stomach was crisscrossed with raised scars,
some white, some pink, as if they'd never really healed. She began
to unbutton her khaki pants.

"Don't. You don't have to do that."

"You have to believe me."

Pinning her top between her chin and chest,
she unzipped her pants to reveal an abdomen with the same
crisscross scarring pattern. She raised her chin to look up at him.
"Do you believe me, Detective?"

He was seeing her for the first time. For the
very first time—with eyes that were at once discerning and burning
with pity and anguish and anger and remorse. Rage toward the man
who had done this rose in his throat, almost choking him. Even
though her top had dropped back into place, he could still see the
scars in his mind's eye, forever etched there, crisscrossing her
abdomen.

"I believe you."

With a look of satisfaction, she rebuttoned
and zipped her pants. "Good."

"Abraham," Max said woodenly, his mind
staggering forward, grappling, trying to piece this entirely new
puzzle together.

"He did it to save my life," she explained.
"It was the only way. The killer would have found me. Killed
me."

"Why are you here? Why did you come
back?"

She stared at him a moment, then said with
quiet conviction, "I'm going to catch that son of a bitch."

If the Madonna Murderer knew she was alive .
. .

His mind ran the gamut from his discovery of
her dead, lifeless body somewhere, sometime, to the possibility of
the killer using her as a gambling tool. "Do you understand the
danger you've put yourself in?"

"I'm not afraid."

How the hell had Abraham allowed this? No,
sanctioned this? "If the killer finds out who you are, I might not
be able to protect you."

"I didn't tell you who I am so you could
protect me. I told you because I want you to know how much I can
help. How important I am to this case."

She appeared lighter somehow. Of course. The
weight of her burden had shifted to him. It was damn heavy.

She shook back her hair, pulling herself up
straighter. "And I hate lies," she added.

Was she sane?

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"Abraham," he said, quickly shifting gears.
"We have to tell him we've had this conversation. But no one else
can know about you. Not even the others on the task force. It's too
risky. If this were somehow leaked to the press, they would run
with it and you would be the Madonna Murderer's next victim."

"Abraham could take me off the case. He could
send me back to Canada."