The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (108 page)

The indulgent uncle, the quiet next-door neighbor who tended his roses and clipped his lawn meticulously. The simple Everyman people passed on the street without a second glance or particular interest.

“He used that the way Bundy used his charming looks and fake arm cast,” Tawney murmured.

“Used what?”

“His I’m-somebody’s-grandfather mask. He’s still using it.”

“Maybe. But he’s talking to us without his lawyer, and that has to be another device.” Mantz shook her head. “What’s he up to? What’s he thinking? Nobody knows him better than you, Tawney.”

“Nobody knows him.”

He kept his eyes on Perry’s face and thought, He knows we’re watching him. He’s enjoying it.

“He’s good at making you think you do, saying what you want to hear, or expect to hear. It’s the layers that trip you up with him. The ones he has already, the ones he adds on to suit the circumstance. You’ve read the files, Erin. You know it was mostly just his bad luck and the heroism of a canine cop that we caught him.”

“You don’t give yourself or the investigative team enough credit. You’d have bagged him.”

“He stayed in the wind nearly a year, a year after we had his face, his name. Fiona gave him to us, and still, it took months and the murder of a police officer before we took him down.”

And for that he’d never completely forgive himself.

“Look at him,” Tawney added. “A paunchy man past middle age, chained, caged, and still he finds a way. He found Eckle and lit the fuse.”

“You’re not getting enough sleep.”

“I bet that bastard’s sleeping like a baby. Every night, with that goddamn smile on his face just like he has on now. He’s got an agenda. He’s always got an agenda, a purpose to everything he does. He doesn’t need the lawyer to talk to us because he’s only going to tell us what he’s already decided to tell us.”

“He doesn’t know we’ve got a line on Eckle.”

“I wonder.”

“How could he? And telling him what
we
want to tell him is our leverage. Eckle’s screwing up the plan, and that’s going to piss him off.”

“Well. Let’s find out.”

When they entered, Tawney nodded to the guard on the door. Perry remained still, eyes closed, the little smile in place as Tawney read the names, date and time into the record. “You’ve waived your right to counsel during this interview?”

Perry opened his eyes. “Hello, Agent Tawney. Yes, no need for lawyers between old acquaintances. Agent Mantz, you’re looking lovely today. It’s so nice to have visitors to break up the monotony of the day. We’re chatting so often these days. I look forward to it.”

“Is that what this is about?” Tawney demanded. “The attention, the break in the monotony?”

“It’s certainly a nice benefit. How goes the hunt? I’m hungry for news. The powers that be have narrowed my access to the outside. Understandable, of course, but unfortunate.”

“You get your ‘news,’ Perry. I don’t doubt your abilities.”

Perry folded his hands, leaned forward a little. “I’ll say that before my current situation, I enjoyed the article that bright young woman wrote. Kati Starr? I suspect that’s a
nom de plume
, or a clever gift from fate. Either way, I enjoyed her slant, we’ll say, and was delighted to catch up a little with Fiona. You’ll have to tell her I’m thinking about her.”

“I bet you are. It’s hard to forget a woman who kicked your ass.”

“My face, actually.”

“She’ll do the same to your apprentice,” Mantz put in. “If he’s stupid enough to try for her.”

“You give me too much credit.” Perry’s chains rattled as he waved the comment away. “I’m hardly in any position to train anyone, even if I were inclined. Which I’m not. We’ve talked about this before, and as I said then, you can clearly see from my record in this institution, I’ve accepted the punishment the courts, and society, meted out. I obey the rules here. Rather than look for trouble, I avoid it. My life on the outside being what it was, I don’t have many visitors. My sainted sister, of course. Or maybe you think she’s taken up where I left off.”

Saying nothing, Tawney opened a file, took out a photo. He tossed it on the table.

“May I?” Perry picked up Eckle’s photo, examined it. “Now, he looks very familiar. Give me a minute. I never forget a face. Yes, yes, of course. He came to teach here, several times. Literature and writing. You know how interested I am in books—and I do miss my work in our library. I took his courses. I hope to take more. Incarceration shouldn’t preclude education.

“I found him an average teacher. No spark, really. But beggars can’t be choosers, can we?”

“I bet he found you a better teacher,” Mantz said.

“That’s sweet of you. Is that your way of saying you believe I inspired him? That would be fascinating, but I can’t be held responsible for the actions of others.”

“You don’t owe him anything either,” Mantz pointed out. “We’ll stop him. We’ll put him in a cage just like yours, but you have an opportunity, and that should appeal to you. Give us information that leads to his arrest, and we can make things a little less monotonous for you.”

A thin shell of hard slid over his face. “What? You’ll see I’m served ice cream every Sunday, given an extra hour a week in the yard? There’s nothing you can do for me, or to me, Agent Mantz. I’ll spend the rest of my life in this place. I accept that. If beggars can’t be choosers, I choose not to be a beggar.”

“When we catch him, he’ll talk. Just like the minister you conned talked,” Mantz added. “It didn’t take us long to persuade him to admit he smuggled letters in and out for you, for more than a year.”

“Correspondence with my prayer group.” Perry folded his hands piously. “Reverend Garley sympathized with my need for spiritual comfort—and privacy for my soul, which the system fails to respect.”

“Everyone in this room knows you don’t have a soul.”

“Eckle will roll on you,” Mantz continued, “and you’ve already considered that. When he does, your life in here will get a little more—how did you put it?—narrow. You’ll be charged with multiple counts of conspiracy to murder. The years added to your time won’t mean a damn, but we’ll see to it your time in here is a fucking misery.”

Perry only continued to smile at her in his calm, pleasant way. “You think it’s not already?”

“It can be worse,” Tawney promised. “Believe me when I tell you I’ll make sure it’s worse. And for what, Perry? For this.” He flicked a hand at the photo. “He’s a screwup. Impatient, careless. You stayed ahead of us for years. We’re breathing down his neck within months. He’s not worthy of you.”

“Flattery.” Perry sighed. “I am susceptible to flattery. You know my weaknesses, Don.”

“He tied a red scarf to Fiona Bristow’s mailbox.” With her eyes trained on Perry’s, Mantz saw the quick flicker of irritation in his. There was something he hadn’t learned yet. “He’ll never get her for you now, never finish it for you.”

“That was . . . immature of him.”

“You know what he did to Annette Kellworth, beating her half to death before he ended it.” Tawney shook his head with a disgust he wanted Perry to see, a disgust he understood Perry would share.

“Not your style, George. Not your class. He’s losing control, and showing off. You never stooped like that. If we get him without your help, you’re going to pay a heavy price for his mistakes.”

“You know my weakness,” Perry repeated after a moment. “And you know my strengths. I’m an observer. I observed Mr. Eckle. Took an interest in him as there’s so little of interest here. It may be those observations would be helpful to you. I might have theories, speculations. I might even remember certain comments or conversations. I might remember something helpful, but I’d want something in return.”

“What flavor ice cream?”

Perry smiled at Tawney. “Something a little sweeter. I want to speak with Fiona. Face-to-face.”

“Forget it,” Mantz said immediately.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Perry kept his eyes on Tawney. “Do you want to save lives? Do you want to save the life of the woman he’s stalking even now? Or will she die? Will others die, all for the lack of a single conversation? What would Fiona say to that? It’s her choice, isn’t it?”

 

 

“WE SHOULD PUSH him harder,” Mantz insisted. “Dig under his skin. He responded when you said Eckle wasn’t worthy of him. It fed his ego.”

“It only affirmed what he’d already concluded himself.”

“Exactly, so we push that button. Let me do it. I’ll work him alone. Flattery and fear from a woman may turn it.”

“Erin, he barely acknowledges you.” Because it was his turn to drive, Tawney slid behind the wheel. “As far as he’s concerned, you’re not even part of this. You weren’t around during the investigation that brought him down, and this is all about that. All about him. Eckle’s just his vehicle, his conduit.”

Mantz slammed the buckle of her seat belt into the lock. “I don’t like being the ones making the down payment.”

“Neither do I.”

“Will she do it?”

“A part of me’s sorry to say, yes, I think she will.”

 

 

WHILE THE FBI flew east, Francis Eckle stepped in line a few places behind his prey. She’d worked late tonight, he thought. Just an hour or so, but it pleased him to know she was hard at work. Pleased him that, as usual, she made the stop at Starbucks for her evening pick-me-up.

Skinny latte, he knew, double shot of espresso.

Tonight was yoga class, and if she hurried, she could fit in twenty minutes on the treadmill in the upscale fitness club she treated herself to.

He’d noted, thanks to his thirty-day trial membership, she rarely did more than twenty, and often skipped even that.

Never touched the weights, never bothered with the other machines. Just liked to show herself off in one of the tight outfits she changed into.

No different from a street-corner whore.

Afterward, she’d walk the three blocks back to work, get her car from the parking lot, then drive the half mile home.

She wasn’t fucking anyone at the moment.

Career-focused. Self-focused. Nobody and nothing mattered as much to her as herself.

Selfish bitch. Street-corner whore.

He felt the rage rising up. It felt so good. So good. Hot and bitter.

He imagined pounding his fists into her face, her belly, her breasts. He could feel the way her cheekbone would shatter, smell the blood when her lip split, see the shock and pain in her eye as it swelled and closed.

“Teach her a lesson,” he murmured. “Teach her a lesson, all right.”

“Hey, buddy, move it up.”

His hands shook and fisted as he whirled on the man behind him in line. His rage quivered, and his pride spread as the man took an instinctive step back.

Paying attention now, he thought. Everyone’s paying attention now.

Perry’s voice murmured in his ear. He made himself turn back, cast his gaze down. He was sick of blending. Sick of not being seen.

But . . . but . . .

He couldn’t think with all this
noise
. People talking about him, behind his back. Just like always. He’d show them. Show them all.

Not yet. Not yet. He needed to calm down, to remember the preparations. To focus on the goal.

When he glanced up again, he saw the prey already moving toward the door, her take-out cup in her hand. His face burned with embarrassment. He’d nearly let her walk away, nearly lost her.

He stepped out of line, kept his head down. It couldn’t be tonight after all. Discipline, control, focus. He needed to calm down, to calm himself, to box in the excitement until
after
.

She’d have one more night of freedom, one more day of life. And he’d have the pleasure of knowing she was unaware she had already stepped into the trap.

 

 

FIONA CONSIDERED a voodoo doll. She could probably get one of Sylvia’s artists to make a doll in Kati Starr’s likeness. Sticking pins in it, or simply bashing its head against a table, might be childish, but she had a feeling it would also be therapeutic.

Simon didn’t seem to be concerned about the latest story with Starr’s byline. He was probably right. Probably. But the idea that she claimed to have sources stating the FBI was looking for a “person of interest” in the RSKII investigation grated.

She didn’t just pull that out of the air.

Someone was leaking information, and she was confident enough of the source to print it, and to have traveled to Orcas, again.

To have pushed Fiona’s name forward, again. And this time linking her with Simon. The
hunky artist who traded Seattle’s urban flair for a quiet inlet retreat on Orcas.

The paper had even printed a sidebar on him, relating his work in the medium of wood, his practical applications with a creative flair, its organic center.

Blah, blah, blah.

She had a few dozen things she’d like to say to Kati Starr, which of course was just what the reporter wanted.

The continued publicity put her in a tenuous position with clients. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—answer questions, and they couldn’t help but ask them.

And because the questions, and the crazies, were popping up on her blog, she had to close the comments section and rerun old entries.

Desperate for something to keep her mind occupied, she focused on a new project. And hunted Simon down in his shop. Whatever he was making involved the lathe and the use of a small carving tool—and looked as though it required precision and focus.

She stood back and kept her mouth shut until he turned off the machine.

“What?”

“Can you make this?”

He tossed the protective goggles aside and studied the photo.