The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (34 page)

Now he stepped forward out of the shadows.

Don't run, she ordered herself. Talk to him, pretend
you assume he's going to Carl's, too, nothing out of the ordinary, no
sweat . . . But she didn't. It would only come out as fear. She
wanted to believe he was just another guest, but that didn't work
either . . . The music was coming from Carl's, but there were no
people noises to go with it. Soft as it was playing, she should be
able to hear party noises, laughing and talking . . .

Well, for God's sake,
Laura, she told herself, say something . . . But what? Hi, there, you
waiting for me? Sorry, I have to see a lady about a man . . .

* * *

Missy watched Laura, saw
with pleasure the fear. She could feel the wet beginning to seep into
the crotch of her briefs. She could scarcely wait to get her hands on
her. Revenge, inflicting pain were the objects, but she would be
giving a special pleasure even through all the pain. Pleasure for
both of them. She said nothing, let Laura wait. She was establishing
her control, her superiority. Laura would need to understand that.
Laura finally allowed herself a "who-are-you?" A ridge of
uncertainty, fear was in her voice, and it infuriated her to hear it.

* * *

For Missy it was like a
lover's sigh. She let it hang there for a moment. Laura's fear was
fine-tuning every nerve in her body, drawing each one increasingly
taut . . . Enough. For now. She moved a half-step closer to give
Laura a better opportunity to see. "I'm Peter."

* * *

Laura backed away. No
denying the obvious now. Carl was not here. No one was here. She was
alone. Missy had set it up for Peter.

* * *

Missy took a step forward.
She needed to see more fear. It made Laura so attractive . . .

* * *

Laura took a step
backward, trying to keep the same distance between them. Death was
staring at her, and it was worse, much worse, than when the doctor
had told her about her breast cancer. Both cases were the same—death.
But something had changed between then and now. Then, she had been
alone, if she died it would have been almost a relief. Being alone
did that. Now she wasn't alone. There was Felix. A most powerful
reason to live. She wasn't about to roll over and die for this
bastard. He could rape little girls and get away with it, but before
they were finished tonight . . . She looked around for a weapon,
anything to defend herself with. More important, to inflict damage
with.

* * *

Outside around the corner on Second Street at
Lagniappe, Tem opened the door for a weary Felix and his attorney,
Coleman Green.

"Gentlemen, it's good to see you here tonight.
Especially you, Mr. Felix. Everything is all right?" he asked,
taking Coleman's coat and ignoring Felix's battered leather jacket.

"Everything is fine. Thanks to Laura,"
Felix said, managing a smile.

"Good. We were all worried . . . Lois and Justin
are back there at their table."

As soon as Lois spotted him crossing the bar area she
was on her feet, pushing waiters out of the way as she hurried toward
him, Justin on her heels.

"Are you okay? Is it straightened out?"

Other customers at the bar turned to stare.

Felix was smiling broadly now. "Yes,
everything's straightened out."

"But how? Tell us everything," Lois was
saying.

"How about a drink first? We both could use
one."

"You get it," said Justin. "Champagne
for—"

"Jack Daniels on the rocks and a beer,"
Felix told him quickly. Linking her arm in his, Lois said, "A
two-fisted drinker; I like that. Wish more of the customers would
think of it. A little sobriety can go a long way. I don't want to be
reduced to hustling Shirley Temples."

"Heaven forfend," said Felix.

"Scotch on the rocks for me," said Coleman.

At the table Lois said, "Goddammit, I'm not
waiting another minute. Last I heard they had an open-and-shut case.
What happened?"

"Okay," Felix said. "You know the
divine Missy accused me of raping her. I guess it's tied in to that
pregnancy thing of hers, but what made it even worse was that whoever
did do it had to be the one who killed the South Philly kids Laura
has been writing about"—He turned to Coleman, "Laura . .
. where is she? I thought you said she'd meet us here."

"That's what she said."

"Have you seen her?" Felix had turned to
Lois.

"She was here, Felix. I'm sure she'll be back .
. . But come on, I'm still waiting to hear what happened."

"Well, like I said, whoever raped Missy killed
those kids . . .and Cynthia . . . Anyway, you can imagine how that
looked for me—one woman says I raped her, and one of the other
victims is my ex-wife I'm supposed to have argued with. To make
matters worse, my blood type matched the killer's——"

"How did they know the killer's blood type?"
interrupted Lois.

"From his sperm—"

"l didn't know you could tell blood type from
sperm . . ." Justin said.

"Neither did I, but you can, and more. Laura was
the one who researched it. She found this so-called Lewis Test. It's
a saliva test, like the first one they gave me, but with a difference
I don't pretend to understand. The police don't usually give it to
rape suspects because it identifies such a small percent of people.
Five, I think. But Laura and Coleman convinced them to make an
exception in this case. Anyway I took it and I passed. It showed
scientifically that the killer and I weren't the same person because
our Lewis samples didn't match. There was no way I could have done
it—not to Missy, not to Cynthia, not to the kids—"

"What about Missy's accusation?" Lois said.

"The police are on their way to her now. I'm
afraid she has a lot of explaining to do," Coleman said.

"That bitch, she's flagged from here for life,"
Lois snapped. Violet brought their drinks.

"Now, where's Laura?" demanded Felix.

"She's at Carl's," Lois said. "When
she left she said something about meeting someone there. It was
awfully noisy then, the cocktail hour . . ."

"You must not have heard that right . . . about
Carl's, I mean," said Violet, setting Justin's drink in front of
him.

"Why's that?"

"Because he was in earlier. You guys weren't
here but he had a drink and said he was going to the Spectrum tonight
for the Flyers game."

Felix felt his heart skip a beat. "Are you
sure?"

"Yes, he said he'd stop in for a nightcap
afterwards and tell me who won."

"I don't like the sound of this," Felix
said, face tightening. "Justin, you know where Carl lives, don't
you?"

"Sure, it's just around the corner."

"Take me there," Felix said, getting to his
feet.

"I'm coming, too,"
said Coleman, but Felix was already at the door, trying not to think.
It was time to act.

* * *

Missy as Peter thought she saw panic in Laura's eyes,
a panicked searching for an escape route.

"Don't,' she said. "There's no way out of
here. There's no one here but you and me. Real cozy."

Laura began to move away from Carl's door. If there
was a weapon anywhere it would be in Klaus Knopfler's work area near
the elevator. Moving slowly, carefully in that direction she tried to
make mindless small talk, stall until she could get her hands on
something . . .

Missy shook her head slightly. It was so cute the way
Laura was trying to keep her talking until she thought she was in a
position to make a mad dash for the elevator. Of course it wouldn't
do her any good. Even though the car was still on their floor, the
doors were so heavy that she'd never be able to open and close them
in time.

Toying with her, Missy said, "First, we're going
into's Carl's and make love. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" No
answer. "Admit it, lovey, that's all you've thought about since
you started writing about me. You're in love with me, you want to
feel me inside you; you want to milk me dry, don't you?"

Laura had reached the nearest piece of sculpture,
positioned herself so that it was between them. She would try to use
the shadowy darkness and the other pieces the same way as she
searched for a weapon . . . To keep Peter talking she said, "What
happens afterward? Do you kill me like you did Terri and Marie and
Cynthia?" She was amazed at the calm in her voice. Inside was
near-hysteria. "And what about the other little girls, the
missing ones? You killed them, too, didn't you?"

Missy took a step or two on the diagonal to intercept
Laura. As she did, the gnawing pain returned. Once again she forced
herself to ignore it. She would deal with it later . . .
Concentrating on Laura now. "Ever the little reporter, aren't we
.... Anything for a story. Well you can have it. Yes, I killed, but
not all of them. Everything I touch doesn't die. If you're a good
girl maybe I'll let you live—like Missy. But you'll have to be a
very good girl. Do exactly as I tell you . . ."

The recurrent pain loosened voice control, it was no
longer low, soft and smooth but subject to higher octaves as she
said, "After you've been with me once, love, you'll never be
satisfied with being dear Felix's whore again . .

Laura moved, noting without comprehending the change
in tone as she continued to keep at least one sculpture between Peter
and herself. The words seemed to . . . "Dear Felix's whore"?
She had heard those words before, who had used them? Her mind flashed
over the day's events—and then she remembered . . . Missy Wakefield
had used those words, hadn't she? But why would Peter use them?
Coincidence . . . ?

Missy moved with her, continuing on the diagonal,
closing the distance between them though the pain kept her from
moving as nimbly as she would have liked. This was not the time for
foreplay. It was time to get it over with.

Wishing she had her usual set of handcuffs to make it
easier, she closed the gap, step by step, readying herself to reach
for the knife.

"I'll treat you like a queen, you won't go
around looking like you shopped at Lad 'n Dad anymore . . ."

"Lad 'n Dad". . . Missy had said those
words as an insult earlier . . . one coincidence too many . . . She
stared across the narrowing distance at Peter, not yet able to accept
the thought . . . But as she was nearer the front of the room with
the windows, and the faint light reflected up from the cars and
streetlights below, she could see more clearly through the disguise
of the tinted glasses and the beard . . . She could see those fine,
high-fashion features . . . She could see that Peter was,
unmistakably, Missy Wakefield . . .

The shock brought forth an "Oh, my God, Missy,"
followed by an instant realization that it was the worst provocation
possible. Missy, uncovered, felt an enormous relief. And then a new
kind of excitement. She could now perform as double—as Peter and as
Missy. And maybe a third person, a combination of the two. It was
delicious.

"Well, it had to happen sooner or later. You're
the first, but don't celebrate too soon, or give yourself too much
credit. Seeing my car was just a lucky—unlucky really—break for
you. You're not going to leave here to tell anyone. After I'm
finished with you, and the police find you in Carl's bed with sperm
that has his blood type he's going to be the one they arrest . . .
Well, aren't you even curious about how I've managed it? Of course
you are. Remember that my—"

"But how—" started Laura.

"—sainted father, whatever else he was, was
one of this city's best urologists. And that I worked in his lab. I
just took the sperm from the supply there."

Laura could hardly speak . . . "And that's what
you did with the others, with yourself. That's the sickest thing I've
ever heard—"

"Sticks and stones may break my bones . . ."
Missy started the nursery rhyme in a child's singsong voice as her
hand reached into her jacket and returned with the knife.

Laura backed away, hands groping for anything like a
weapon.

Missy, knife in hand, took two steps and moved on
Laura, who just managed to dodge away and duck behind one of the
sculptures.

"Missy, for God's sake, you need help—"

"Not Missy, Peter, and you're the one who needs
help because . .

As Laura tried to maneuver out of there she found
herself bumped up against a partially finished sculpture of welded
metal. She turned to face Missy, and as she did her hand brushed
against something . . . She risked diverting her attention just long
enough to see it was a hammer.

She grabbed it and swung. And missed. Missy now
stepped back into a fighter's crouch. From Carl's came the sounds of
Todd Rundgren doing "Call from the Grave" from The
Threepenny Opera. Too damned appropriate, but Laura was in no
position to dwell on it.

"They're playing our song, sweetie."

Nothing left for it but to brazen it out, provoke her
out of her feeling superior and secure. "It's for you, Missy,
not me. I could almost feel sorry for you. Poor Missy, a real loser .
. . Felix is out of jail and waiting for me. You lose, all the way—"