Library of the Dead (21 page)

Abruptly, he stood up and turned. She gasped and felt her knees go weak.

His trousers were open and in his hand he held a huge, erect cock, pinker than any flesh on his body.

He lurched toward her, tripping on his leggings as he clamped onto her breasts with his long delicate fingers, like tentacles with suckers.

Both of them fell to the dirt floor.

She was far stronger than Octavus but the shock had made her weak as a kitten. Instinctively, he pulled up her smock and exposed her creamy thighs. He was between her legs, pushing hard against her. His head was draped over her shoulder, his forehead pressed to the ground. He was making his quick little whistling noises. She was a worldly girl; she knew what was happening to her.

"Christ the Lord, have mercy on me!" she cried over and over.

By the time Jose, the Iberian monk, heard the screams and rushed down the stairs from his copy desk in the main gallery, Mary was seated against the wall softly crying, her smock stained red with blood, and Octavus was back at his desk, his trousers around his ankles, his quill flying over the page.

I
t was sticky and steamy, a high-humidity afternoon where the heat radiating off the pavement seemed like a punishment. New Yorkers tread on hot-plate sidewalks, rubber soles softening, limbs heavy with the effort of walking through what seemed gruel. Will's polo shirt clung to his chest as he lugged a couple of heavy plastic grocery bags bulging with the fixings for a party.

He cracked a beer, lit a burner, and sliced an onion while the saucepan heated. The sizzle of the onions and the sweet smoke filling the kitchenette pleased him. He hadn't smelled home cooking in a long while and couldn't remember when he'd last used the stove. Probably in the Jennifer era, but everything about that relationship had gone blurry.

The ground beef was browning nicely when the doorbell rang. Nancy had an apple pie and a melting tub of frozen yogurt and looked relaxed in hip-hugger jeans and a short sleeveless blouse.

Will felt relaxed, and she noticed. His face was softer than usual, his jaw less clenched, his shoulders less rounded. He grinned at her.

"You look
happy
," she said with some surprise.

He took the bag from her and spontaneously bent to deliver a peck on the cheek, the gesture taking both of them by surprise.

He quickly took a step back and she made a blushing recovery by sniffing at the spicy cumin and chili-pepper haze and making a joke about undiscovered culinary skills. While he stirred the saucepan, she set his table then called out, "Did you get her anything?"

He hesitated, his mind grinding on the question. "No," he said finally. "Should I have?"

"Yes!"

"What?"

"How should I know! You're her father."

He went quiet, his mood turning sooty.

"Let me run out and get some flowers," she offered.

"Thanks," he said, nodding to himself. "She likes flowers." It was a guess--he had a memory of a toddler with a bunch of freshly picked daisies in her chubby hand. "I'm sure she likes flowers."

The past few weeks had been drudgery. The substance of the larger case against Luis Camacho eroded away, leaving only one count of murder. Hard as they pressed, they couldn't make a single other Doomsday case stick to him; in fact, they couldn't come close. They had painstakingly mapped him, reconstructing every day of his life for the past three months. Luis worked steadily and reliably, jetting back and forth to Las Vegas two to three times a week. He was mainly domesticated, spending most nights in New York at his lover's house. But he also had the instincts of a tomcat, drifting to clubs and gay bars when his partner was tired or otherwise occupied, zealously pursuing liaisons. John Pepperdine was a low-energy monogamous sort, while Luis Camacho had sexual energy that burned like magnesium. There wasn't any doubt that his fiery temper had led to murder, but John, it appeared, was his only victim.

And the killings had stopped: good news for everyone still drawing air, bad news for the investigation, which could only rehash the same tired clues. Then one day Will had a Eureka moment, of sorts. What if John Pepperdine had been the intended ninth victim of the Doomsday Killer but Luis Camacho had struck first in an ordinary crime of passion?

Maybe Luis's Las Vegas connection was a classic red herring. What if the real Doomsday Killer was there on City Island that day, on the other side of the police tape, watching, bemused that someone else had committed the crime? Then, to bedevil the authorities, what if he had gone into hiatus, letting them stew, sowing the seeds of confusion and frustration?

Will obtained subpoenas for the news organizations that had been on Minnieford Avenue that warm bloody evening, and over the course of several days he and Nancy pored over hours of videotape and hundreds of digital images looking for another dark-skinned man of medium height and build who might have been lurking at the crime scene. They came up empty, but Will thought it was still a viable hypothesis.

Today's celebration was a welcome respite from all that. Will dumped a box of Uncle Ben's into boiling water and opened another beer. The doorbell rang again. He hoped it was Nancy with the flowers, and it was, but both she and Laura were there together, gabby and happy like girlfriends. Behind them stood a young man, tall, whippet-thin, with intelligent, darting eyes and a mound of curly brown hair.

Will grabbed the bouquet from his partner and sheepishly handed it to Laura. "Congratulations, kiddo."

"You shouldn't have," Laura joked.

"I didn't," he said quickly.

"Dad, this is Greg."

The two men checked out each other's grip with handshakes.

"Pleased to meet you, sir."

"Same here. Weren't expecting you but I'm pleased to finally meet you, Greg."

"He came for moral support," Laura said. "He's like that."

She pecked her father's cheek as she passed, put her bag down on the sofa and unzipped a side pocket. Triumphantly, she waved a contract from Elevation Press in the air. "Signed, sealed, delivered!"

"Can I call you a writer now?" Will asked.

A tear formed and she nodded.

He quickly turned away and retreated into the kitchenette. "Let me get the bubbly before you get all blubbery."

Laura whispered to Nancy, "He so doesn't like it when you get emotional."

"I've noticed," Nancy said.

Over steaming bowls of chili, Will toasted for the umpteenth time and seemed to take pleasure in the fact that all of them were swigging champagne. He fetched another bottle and continued to pour. Nancy mildly protested but let him continue until the froth overflowed and wet her fingers. "I almost never drink, but this is tasty," she said.

"Everyone's got to drink at this party," Will said firmly. "You a drinking man, Greg?"

"In moderation."

"I excessively drink in moderation," Will joked, catching a sharp look from his daughter. "I thought journalists were big boozers."

"We come in all stripes."

"You going to come in the striped model that follows me around news conferences?"

"I want to do print journalism. Investigative reporting."

Laura chimed in, "Greg believes that investigative journalism is the most effective way to tackle social and political problems."

"Do you?" Will asked with a jab to his words. Sanctimony always raised his hackles.

"I do," Greg replied, equally prickly.

"Okay, I now pronounce you..." Laura said lightly, to head off a problem.

Will pressed. "How's the job landscape look for investigative journalism?"

"Not great. I'm doing an internship at the
Washington Post
. Obviously, I'd love to get a gig there. If you ever want to pass me a tip, here's my card." He was half kidding.

Will slipped it into his shirt pocket. "I used to date a gal at the
Washington Post
." He snorted. "It wouldn't help your chances to use me as a reference."

Laura wanted to change the subject. "So, you want to hear about my meeting?"

"Absolutely, give me details."

She slurped through the champagne foam. "It was so great," she cooed. "My editor, Jennifer Ryan, who's a real sweetheart, spent almost half an hour telling me how much she liked the changes I'd made and how it only needed a few tweaks, etcetera, etcetera, and then she told me we were going up to the fourth floor to meet with Mathew Bryce Williams, who's the publisher. It's an old town house, so beautiful, and Mathew's office is dark and filled with antiques, like some kind of English club, you know, and he's an older guy, like Dad's age, but way more distinguished--"

"Hey!" Will howled.

"Well, he is!" she continued. "He's like a caricature of an upper-class Brit but he was urbane and charming and--you're not going to believe this--he offered me sherry from a crystal decanter which he served in little crystal glasses. It was so perfect. And then he went on and on about how much he loved my writing--he called my style 'lean and spare with the muscularity of a fresh young voice.'" She spoke his words with a mock English accent. "Can you believe he said that?"

"Did he say anything about how much you're going to make?" Will asked.

"No! I wasn't going to ruin the moment with a crass discussion about money."

"Well, you're not going to retire on what they're paying up front. Is she, Greg, unless there's a lot of dough in investigative journalism?"

The young man wouldn't take the bait.

"It's a small publisher, Dad! They only do like ten books a year."

"Are you doing a book tour?" Nancy asked.

"I don't know yet but it's not like it's going to be some huge book. It's literary fiction, not a pulp novel."

Nancy wanted to know when she could read it.

"The galleys should be out in a few months. I'll send you a copy. Want to read it, Dad?"

He stared at her. "I don't know, do I?"

"I think you'll survive."

"Not every day you get called a wrecking ball--especially by your daughter," he said ruefully.

"It's a novel. It's not you. It's inspired by you."

Will raised his glass. "Here's to inspirational men."

They clinked glasses again.

"Did you read it, Greg?" Will asked.

"I did. It's superb."

"So you know more about me than I know about you." Will was getting looser and louder. "Maybe her next book'll be about you."

The comment made Laura say acidly, "You know, you really ought to read it. I've turned it into a screenplay--how's that for hopeful? I'll leave a copy. It's a quicker read. You'll get the idea."

Laura and Greg left soon after dinner to catch a train back to Washington. Nancy stayed behind to help clean up. The evening was too pleasant to cut short, and Will had shaken off his irritability and seemed relaxed and mellow, an altogether different man from the coiled spring she encountered every day on the job.

Outside, the light was bleaching out and the traffic noises were fading, except for the occasional wail of a Bellevue ambulance. They worked side by side in the little kitchenette, washing and drying, both swaying with the afterglow of the champagne. Will was already on the scotch. Both of them were happily out of their routine, and the domestic simplicity of doing dishes was soothing.

It wasn't planned--Will would reflect on it later--but instead of reaching for the next plate, he reached for her ass and started rubbing it gently in little circles. In retrospect, he should have seen it coming.

She had cheekbones now and an hour-glass shape and, damn it, he would say if asked, looks mattered to him. But even more, her personality had molded under his tutelage. She was calmer, less gung-ho and caffeinated, and to his amusement, some of his cynicism had rubbed off. There was the occasional pleasant whiff of sarcasm emanating from her mouth. The insufferable Girl Scout was gone and in her place was a woman who no longer jangled his nerve endings. Quite the opposite.

Her hands were in soapy water. She kept them there, closed her eyes for a moment and didn't say or do anything.

He turned her toward him and she had to figure out what to do with her hands. She finally placed them wet on his shoulders and said, "Do you think this is a good idea?"

"No, do you?"

"Nope."

He kissed her and liked the way her lips felt and the way her jaw softened. He cupped her bottom with both palms and felt the smooth denim. His boozy head got hazy with desire and he pressed against her.

"The housekeeper came today. I've got clean sheets," he whispered.

"You know how to romance a girl." She wanted this to happen, he could tell.

He led her by a slippery hand to the bedroom, flopped on the bedspread and pulled her on top.

He was kissing her blood-warm neck, feeling under her blouse, when she said, "We're going to regret this. It's against all--"

He covered her lips with his mouth then pulled back to say, "Look, if you really don't want to, we can roll the clock back a few minutes and finish the dishes."

She kissed him, the first one that was hers to give. She said, "I hate doing dishes."

When they left the bedroom, it was dark and the living room was eerily quiet, just the hum of the air conditioner and the low whoosh of distant traffic on the FDR Drive. He had given her a clean white dress shirt to put on, something he'd done before with new women. They seemed to like the feeling of starch against bare skin and all the iconic imagery of the ritual. She was no different. The shirt swallowed her up and covered her prudishly. She sat on the sofa and drew her knees up to her chest. The skin that showed was cool and mottled like alabaster.

"Want a drink?" he asked.

"I think I've had quite enough tonight."

"You sorry?"

"Should be, but I'm not." Her face was still tinged pink. He thought she looked prettier than he had ever seen her, but also older, more womanly. "I kind of thought this might happen," she said.

"For how long?"

"The beginning."

"Really! Why?"

"A combination of your reputation and mine."

"I didn't know you had one too."

"It's a different sort of reputation." She sighed. "Good girl, safe choices, never rocking the boat. I think I've secretly wanted the boat to capsize, to see what it felt like."

He smiled. "From wrecking ball to shipwreck. Spot the common theme?"

"You're a bad boy, Will Piper. Good girls secretly like bad boys, didn't you know?"

His head was clearer, almost flat sober. "We're going to have to hide this, you know."

"I know."

"I mean, your career and my retirement."

"I
know
, Will! I should go."

"You don't have to."

"Thank you but I don't think you really want a sleepover." Before he could respond, she touched the cover of Laura's script on the coffee table. "You going to read it?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe." Then, "Probably."

"I think she wants you to."

When he was alone, he poured a scotch, sat on the sofa and turned on the table lamp. The brightness of the bulb stung his eyes. He stared at his daughter's screenplay, the image of the lightbulb scorching the cover. As the image receded it looked for all the world like a sinister smiley face staring back at him. It dared him to pick up the script. He took the dare and muttered, "Fucking wrecking ball."