The Perfect Husband (18 page)

Difford still remembered the look on Theresa's face, the way her eyes widened, the way her whole body swayed that afternoon as she opened her door and investigators swarmed her house. They all wore white airpacks borrowed from the fire department, full laboratory treatment suits with hair covers to keep them from further contaminating the crime scene. They looked like creatures from a bad sci-fi flick, weighted down with equipment, moving with an eerie rustle, and descending upon her home.

Samantha had begun to cry, so Theresa called her mother to come take her daughter away.

Then she sat alone on the sofa as the men pulled up her hardwood floor, ripped up kitchen tiles, dug up sections of the basement floor, and chipped mortar from between the stones of her fireplace. They vacuumed all surfaces with a special high-powered vac that picked up hair particles and dust particles. The bags were sent to the Mass. State Police crime lab for analysis. Stains on the carpet were cut out and sent. Ditto with the kitchen tiles. Later, the police crime lab said it had never churned out so many reports on baby saliva and spit-up peaches. One patch of dirt in the basement revealed bovine blood approximately one year old.

Next they brought in the lights. The 500-watt quartz light that helped highlight unseen hair and fibers. The ultraviolet radiation light with a 125-watt blue bulb to fluoresce hair, fiber, and body fluid. The blue-green luma light also to reveal hair, fiber, body fluids, and fingerprints. Finally they even dragged in portable laser lights and infrared. All the toys the CPAC boys never got to play with, never had the resources for, that were now being offered up to them from other states, other agencies, and the FBI.

Half the state police force looked under every stone and twig for the elusive Jim Beckett while the other half dismantled his house in search of evidence of his crimes. Their first discovery was a six-month supply of birth control pills stuffed behind a piece of insulation in the attic, right over the boxes labeled

“They're mine,” Theresa told them. Her gaze rested on Difford. “I got them from a clinic in North Adams. He wanted a second child. I couldn't… I just couldn't.” She added without thinking, “Please don't tell Jim. You have no idea what he can do.”

Then, her own words penetrating, she sank down onto the sofa. One of the officers, a victim trauma expert, sat down next to her and placed an arm around her shoulders.

In the front hall closet they found a family pack of condoms. Theresa said Jim never used them, so the condoms were sent off to the lab for the latex to be analyzed and compared with residue found in the victims. They also discovered five baseball bats and a receipt for an even dozen. Later, analysis of the fireplace ashes revealed wood compatible with the kind used in the bats, plus a chemical compound reminiscent of the glaze finish.

They also recovered four test tubes containing premeasured amounts of a blue liquid identified as the sleeping drug Halcion, as well as the
Compendium of Pharmaceuticals and Specialties
, a virtual bible of most drugs, their manufacturers, their properties, and side effects.

In the attic, tucked behind a loose board, they retrieved a stun gun and a rubber mallet. But they couldn't find any direct links between Jim Beckett and the victims. Not the trophies serial killers were liable to take, or any traces of blood or hair.

What they did find was copies of files requested by Beckett from Quantico's Training Division. The files contained the profiles and interviews of several serial killers. Beckett had gone through and marked them up with such notes as HIS FIRST MISTAKE. HIS SECOND MISTAKE. THAT WAS SLOPPY.

At the end they found one last summary comment: DISCIPLINE IS THE KEY.

And the week turned into six months without any sign of Jim Beckett.

Now Difford rose off the sofa. He looked out the window of the safe house and identified the unmarked patrol car keeping guard across the street. He checked the front door and then, because he still remembered what had happened that one dark night, would always remember what happened that night Beckett returned for his revenge, Lieutenant Difford checked the closet.

All was clear.

He walked down the hall of the tiny bungalow and opened the last bedroom door. Samantha Beckett slept in a puddle of moonlight, her face soft and smooth and surrounded by beautiful golden hair. Difford leaned against the doorjamb and just watched her.

She looked so unbelievably tiny. She still cried for her mommy. Sometimes she even cried for her daddy. But she must have a lot of Theresa's blood in her, because at four years of age she was also a real trooper. Most afternoons the kid beat the pants off him in dominoes.

Difford sighed. He did feel old, but maybe these were the days for it.

“God, Theresa, I hope you know what you're doing,” Difford muttered.

He tucked the blankets beneath Samantha's chin, then finally closed the door.

“I failed your mom,” he confessed in the hush of the darkened hallway. “But I won't fail you, kid. I swear, I won't fail you.”

He sat down in the living room, the light on, his police revolver across his knee.

He still couldn't bring himself to close his eyes.

The previous week the media had asked Difford what concerned citizens should do to safeguard their lives now that the infamous Jim Beckett had escaped.

There'd been only one thing he could think of to say. “Lock your closets.”

WHEN IT GREW past seven and there was still no sign of Angela, J.T. admitted to himself that he was worried. At seven-thirty he gave up memorizing the ceiling fan and pulled on a pair of jeans.

He had only one hunch, but it was a good one. It was cool outside. Fall moving into the desert and bringing some relief. The sky had expelled the sun and now a moon rose waxy and pale. Just enough light to frame the saguaros as frozen soldiers.

The desert wasn't quiet. It hummed and pulsed with the low, rhythmic chorus of the crickets, the eerie cries of the dry wind, and the faint fluttering of Gila woodpeckers whirring among the saguaros. Somewhere far off, a lone coyote mournfully howled.

J.T. left behind the oasis of his swimming pool and headed for the shooting range. He may have locked up his .22, but Angela had reclaimed hers.

He spotted her from thirty feet back, and his footsteps slowed. He didn't call out because he didn't want to startle an armed woman. Then he didn't call out simply because he couldn't think of anything to say.

He stood in the moonlight and watched her point her unloaded gun at hay bales and pull the trigger. Again and again. And then she moved and pointed, trying new stances, practicing moving and shooting.

Over and over.

He could see that her arms shook. He could tell that her fingers had grown thick and sluggish, but she didn't stop. She had set up a flashlight to illuminate her targets and she seemed intent on not wasting the light. She raised the gun and sighted the target and pulled the trigger yet again.

And he could tell that the minute she tightened her finger around the trigger, she dipped the nose of her gun, so that maybe she thought she was hitting the target, but really she was simply killing dirt.

A LONG TIME later Tess walked back to the house, her fingers too sore to curl and her arm a mass of knotted muscles. The palm of her hand hurt, her biceps hurt. Everything hurt. But she was trying.

She walked into the yard. And as her hands pressed against the sliding glass door, she knew she wasn't alone.

She turned, the gun empty against her bare thigh, and peered out into the night.

She didn't see him. She felt him.

His gaze washed over her. She felt it touch her face, then move down slowly, caressing the pulse throbbing in her throat, her breasts, her belly, her hips. It traveled back up, settled on her mouth.

A red match glowed in the dark. He brought it up to his lips, cupping it in front of him so that it briefly illuminated his jaw. He inhaled sharply until the end of his cigarette glowed. Then with two quick jerks, he shook out the match.

The darkness settled back between them, no longer calm but filled with a slow-heated pulse. She felt the throbbing rhythm in her blood. She felt the fierce feral pull of his gaze. Her lips parted.

He stepped forward.

“We need to talk.” His arm came up and he dumped a six-pack of beer on the patio table. “They're for you, Theresa Beckett. Start drinking. And tell me everything.”

“THEY COULDN'T FIND him. They told me they had him under surveillance, that they knew what he was doing at all times, that I was safe. Then one afternoon he entered a sandwich shop and was never seen again. Special Agent Quincy predicted Jim would be back. Sooner or later Jim would return to kill me.”

You turned on him, Mrs. Beckett, and he didn't see that coming. That's a big blow to a man like him. Now the only way he'll be able to restore his ego, his sense of self, is to kill you. He'll come back. And he won't wait long.

“I made them put Samantha in hiding. We didn't think Jim would hurt her — he seemed to honestly adore her — but we couldn't take any chances. I remained in the house, night after night. Just waiting. For six months.”

She lay in bed every night, covers pulled up to her chin, ears strained, eyes open, and heart stuck permanently in her throat. She chewed her fingernails down to raw nubs. She leapt at small noises. She forgot how to live, how to feel. And winter rolled down from the hills and blanketed Williamstown with snow.

“They searched for him everywhere, but they didn't have many leads. He rarely spoke of the past and the investigators uncovered little. His family was dead, his foster parents dead. His only friends were from the police force, and they were more like acquaintances. There didn't seem to be anyplace for him to go, and yet he disappeared absolutely, completely, as if he'd never existed. I used to wonder if he wasn't just some horrible phantom. I guess the cops began to think the same. Originally there were ten men watching my house. But then one week turned into two months. Then four months. Then six months. Just two plainclothes officers were still around. And suddenly Jim reappeared.”

SCRATCHING RESONATED ON the roof.

She lunged across her bed, yanked the receiver from the phone, and stabbed the touch-tone buttons.

Lieutenant Lance Difford would pick up, she'd murmur the code, and the police would descend if they hadn't already spotted Jim on the roof.

It would be all right.

Except the phone had no dial tone.

“
Waiting for me, wife
?”

She looked up.

And her husband stepped out of her closet, wearing his Berkshire County police uniform and looking like a young Robert Redford. He was hefting a baseball bat, and she could see dark smudges and loose hairs matting the end.

She leapt for the nightstand, her ragged fingernails sliding ineffectively across the smooth surface, as Jim lunged forward and wrapped his hand around her ankle.

“No! No!” she cried hoarsely, clawing at the mattress.

He yanked her onto the floor. She landed hard, the breath escaping her with a painful whoosh.

“Where is Sam?”

“You'll never find her!”

“Didn't they tell you what I can do, Theresa? Didn't they tell you exactly how I like to inflict pain?”

She bucked forward, but his fingers merely dug into her ankle. Then she felt the hot whisper of his breath as he leaned over her back and pinned her neck against the carpet with his forearm. He spoke. His voice drifted over her like velvet, soft, heavy, and suffocating her word by word.

“You helped them, Theresa. You told them things about me. Did you think it would go unpunished?”

Jim curved his hand almost lovingly around her exposed throat. Her pulse leapt like a captured mouse against the base of his palm. He slowly started squeezing the air from her lungs.

He told her to fight him. He liked it when they fought him.

She squirmed, her heels searching for traction against the old carpet. She knew he would asphyxiate her slowly, then revive her and do it again, and revive her and do it again. Somewhere along the way, he would rape her and torture her. And then, when he finally tired of the sport, he would pick up the bat and she would be grateful that it was ending.

Her fingers flexed and unflexed above his grip. Her hips writhed desperately.

In her mind, she kept calling for the police. She was so sure they would figure out what was going on. That any minute they'd bang down the front door. They'd save her. No one came.

Spots appeared before her eyes, white and dizzying. She felt herself spinning away, sinking into a dark, whirling vortex of nothing. She was dying and a part of her was too frightened, too overwhelmed to care.

If you don't fight now, she thought dimly, you will die and years from now your daughter won't even remember your name.

“I know what you're thinking,” Jim whispered in her ear. “You're looking deep inside yourself, trying to find the will to defy me. You don't have it, Theresa. I took it from you. I've known you since the day I met you, and I've turned you inside out and climbed inside of you and now there's nothing left of you. Every bit of you, every last thought you have, really belongs to me. I made you. I'm inside your mind. I own you.”

The lights grew brighter behind her eyelids. The burning spread from her lungs to her whole chest. Her fingers moved feebly, then stilled.

His hands slipped from her throat. And she slammed her fist into his nose.

He fell back with a guttural cry and she didn't wait. Her flailing hand reached for the lower drawer, scrambling with the handle.

“You bitch!” He rolled off her. She heard the heavy swish of air as he raised the baseball bat.