Touching Evil (13 page)

"Yes. There's always a single driving motivation behind a predator like this one."

Hollis tilted her head, listening to that voice, the steady calm that was so deceptive. She wondered what it was she could almost hear moving about in the unseen depths beneath Maggie's tranquillity.

Something . . . cold. No, not really cold. Chilled. Something dark and chilled.

Fear? Knowledge? Understanding?

For some reason, Hollis was unwilling to ask aloud. Maybe because she didn't know Maggie well. Maybe because she was half convinced she was imagining way too much in the darkness behind her bandages.

Or maybe just because she was afraid of the answer.

She forced herself to concentrate on the subject of a monster's motivation. "What is it? Why does he do this to us, Maggie?"

"Because he wants to. Because he likes it."

Hollis drew a breath. "Yes. I ... felt that. The way
he touched me. As if the very texture of my skin intrigued him somehow. The way he ... smelled me."

"He enjoyed your scent?"

"Must have. Or wanted to remember it later. He kept . . . sniffing. I'd feel his breath on my skin, then hear him sniff. My arm, my throat, breasts. All over. I'd stopped . . . begging ... by then." Hollis heard her own voice as though it belonged to someone else, the words coming faster and faster, almost spilling out of her.

"I was tied up, unable to move. When I'd come to the first time, it was to realize he'd taken my eyes. I struggled then, fought him. Cursed him. But it was no use; no matter how loud I screamed or how hard I struggled, it didn't seem to affect him at all. He . . . did what he wanted to do. Raped me. And after that, after I'd stopped screaming and cursing, he ... beat me—almost methodically. It seemed to take all my will to deal with the pain without screaming. I didn't want him to hear me scream from the pain. Didn't want him to ... have that satisfaction. So I didn't make a sound, just concentrated on listening to him."

"What else did you hear, Hollis?"

"Him. Breathing. He was very quiet, but once or twice I heard him humming to himself. Not a tune I recognized, although there was something familiar about it. Not even a tune, really. Just humming. And . . ."

"And?"

"There was something else, but... I can't remember. I know I heard another sound, a sound that bothered me somehow. Because I recognized it, or thought I should have. Something. But I don't remember now."

Hollis knew Maggie leaned toward her, and didn't start when a cool hand covered one of hers.

"You'll remember when you can, Hollis."

"I remember everything else. I remember every goddamned thing he did to me. I remember the way his breath smelled in my face, like spearmint chewing gum. The way
he
smelled of Ivory soap. The way his skin felt against mine, hot and slick with sweat. The way he ... grunted in the back of his throat while he raped me. I remember . . . everything. Except that. Why not that?"

"There's a reason. There's always a reason."

"You mean my mind doesn't want me to remember? But why that? All the horrible things he did to me—and I can't remember a sound? Just a sound? Why?"

"I don't know. But we'll figure it out. I promise you, Hollis, we'll figure it out." Maggie drew a little breath, and Hollis thought she heard a catch in the sound, but the other woman's voice was steady when she said, "Can you start from the beginning? Can you tell me everything that happened from the moment he grabbed you?"

"Yes," Hollis said. Her hand turned and gripped Maggie's tightly. "I think I can now."

Hollis Templeton's room was around a corner and near the end of an unusually quiet corridor on a quiet floor of the hospital; her doctors felt she would be better off not disturbed by the hustle and bustle common in most of the building. So when John got off the elevator and passed the silent waiting room, he found himself half consciously walking more quietly down
the deserted hallway so as not to intrude upon the peaceful atmosphere.

He turned the corner having seen no one and stopped abruptly when he did see someone. Maggie. She was outside Hollis's room, leaning back against the wall beside the closed door. She was hugging her sketch pad with both arms, her head bent, long hair falling forward to mostly hide her pale face, but even from this distance John could see her shoulders shaking and hear the muffled but wrenching sobs.

Before she could see or sense him there, John stepped silently back around the corner and retreated to the doorway of the waiting room, more shaken than he wanted to admit to himself.

Magic. No, it wasn't magic, what she did. Whether her ability was paranormal as Quentin insisted or merely an overdeveloped sensitivity to the feelings of others, the undeniable fact was that Maggie suffered right along with the victims of violence she tried to help. He wondered if he had the right to ask her to put herself through that. If anyone did.

And, not for the first time, he wondered why she did it. He had considered having her background investigated, certainly something he could have done, but it wasn't his habit to acquire information about people that way. Especially people he wanted to work with. Digging into somebody's past without so much as a by-your-leave was hardly a good first step to induce trust and cooperation.

Both Quentin and Kendra had adamantly stated that Maggie's motives had to be both powerful and deeply felt, and John could see that clearly enough. To willingly put herself through what she did, her reasons would
have
to be strong ones.

So what were they? What could possibly drive a sensitive woman, with the intelligence and artistic talent to be anything she wanted, to torture herself this way?

John shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and waited there, leaning beside the doorway, all too aware that only Maggie could answer that question. And nobody had to tell him it wasn't something she would willingly discuss, especially with a virtual stranger.

Both the question and that reluctant answer were difficult to accept, and he thought about both, so preoccupied that he didn't hear her approach until she spoke.

"What are you doing here?" Except for a faint redness around her eyes and a hint of strain in her face, there were no lingering signs of that storm of emotion John had briefly witnessed.

"I called the station. Andy said you were probably here talking to Hollis Templeton. He said he'd tried to call you."

"I turned off my cell phone. I usually do during interviews." Maggie frowned slightly. "But I got your message; I was planning to meet you at four."

He nodded, accepting that. "Yeah, well, it might be a good idea if we go there now."

"Why?"

He didn't want to tell her, but there was no choice. "The police think there's been another attack, Maggie. A woman was reported missing a couple of hours ago. Her husband just returned from a business trip and discovered her gone and the front door literally standing open."

Maggie was very still, staring up at him. "There's something else, isn't there? What else?"

He really didn't want to tell her.

"John? What is it?"

"She's pregnant. More than six months."

Hollis remained in her chair by the window, but only because she felt too drained to move. Talking about the attack, telling Maggie all the horrible, painful details, even those she hadn't dared think about, had exhausted her. But not nearly as much as she had expected it to.

And her emotional state was much better than it had any right to be, she knew that. She felt peculiarly calm, almost... at peace.

Because of her.

"Because of Maggie?" By now, it seemed almost normal to discuss things with her figment. Reassuring, even.

Yes.

"Why? Just because she listened? Because she was sympathetic and understanding?"

No. Because she took some of your pain.

Hollis frowned. "What do you mean?"

She took it away. Took it into herself so that you wouldn't hurt so much.

"You don't—surely you don't mean she actually
physically
absorbed what I was feeling?"

She has a unique gift. It's why I wanted you to talk to her. So you could begin to heal.

"But... she felt it? All the pain?"

Yes.

Hollis was horrified; she wouldn't have wished that on anyone, and for Maggie to have suffered so when
she was only trying to help . . . "Dammit, why didn't you warn me?"

/
couldn't warn you. Neither could she. We both knew you'd fight not to inflict such pain on another. We both knew you wouldn't tell her the things she had to know if you had been warned it would hurt her too.

As upset as she was, Hollis had a realization then, one she was surprised hadn't occurred to her before. "You know her, don't you? You know Maggie."

Yes. I know Maggie. I know her very well.

CHAPTER
 
SEVEN

The forensics team is going over that house inch
by
inch, but so far nothing. I've got people canvassing the neighborhood, but on a busy Monday with most at work or at school, the area was all but deserted—today, anyway."

"How long was the husband away?" John asked.

"From last Thursday. He says at a business conference on the East Coast, and I don't expect to find anything different; he arrived at Sea-Tac this morning, sure enough. And I'd bet my pension he's half out of his mind with worry, so I'm not looking at him as a suspect. He says he talked to her late last night when he called from his hotel; records confirm he certainly called the house and there was a lengthy conversation, so we're probably looking at about a twelve-hour window during which she might have disappeared. According to friends and family, she wouldn't have run away . . ."

Maggie tried to concentrate on what Andy was telling them, but it wasn't easy. The interview with Hollis, productive though it might turn out to be, had drained her; the pain and anguish of the other woman, dragged out into the light of day and sanity for the first time since the attack, had been virtually an open wound. Maggie needed to recover from that. Unfortunately, she hadn't been granted the time or seclusion necessary.

So she was faking it. Or trying to.

". . . the husband says you'd never know she's pregnant. One of those women who hardly show at all right up to delivery, apparently."

"He
knows," Maggie heard herself say.

Andy frowned across his desk at her. "The rapist? If she isn't showing, how could—"

"He's been watching her. He would have seen her doing things to prepare for a baby."

"Things?" John asked.

Maggie didn't look at him. "Doctor visits, shopping, decorating. It's a first baby. There'd be a lot to do."

Andy said, "But he might not have realized how far along she is."

"Maybe not. I wouldn't bet money on it, though."

Andy grimaced and rubbed the nape of his neck. "No, me either. Is this supposed to be a fun new twist for the bastard? Christ. If it turns out that Samantha Mitchell was taken by the rapist, this city is going to come apart at the seams."

Maggie drew a breath and fought to keep her voice steady. "You realize she's not likely to survive."

"You could have gone all day without saying that."

"It's true and you know it. Hollis says he beat her almost methodically and violently raped her at least
three times. She was so damaged internally she'll never be able to have children. Add to that the sheer physical and emotional shock of being blinded, and the odds are that neither a pregnant woman nor her child could survive the attack."

Andy shook his head, his face grim, but said, "Did you get anything helpful from the interview with Hollis?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Details, but not the sort to help the police, at least not yet."

"Such
as?'

Maggie drew a breath and let it out slowly, trying not to sound as tired as she felt. "He used spearmint-flavored gum or breath mints. He hummed to himself sometimes, but not a tune Hollis recognized. He was fascinated by the texture of her skin and her scent."

John moved slightly in his chair, and under his breath muttered, "Son of a bitch."

Maggie sent him a quick glance of apology. It had to be hell for him, hearing this sort of thing and knowing that his sister had been held and tortured by the same animal. In situations like this one, an informed imagination could be a lot worse than an ignorant one.

For the first time, Maggie realized that he probably slept no better than she did and that his nightmares undoubtedly grew more vivid with each brutal fact he learned about what his sister had actually gone through.

Andy, more adept than either of them at not letting his emotions sidetrack him, said to Maggie, "Those don't even sound like the sorts of details that might help you. Are they? Are you beginning to see this
guy.'