Blood Marks, page 21
Howland brought himself up short. Hadn't Romain himself told him that anyone could be the type?
And wasn't Romain the one who knew all about serial killers? The one who could even think like a serial killer?
Wasn't it a possibility that Romain could identify with such men so closely, that he could almost tell how they thought, because he was one of them himself?
Howland didn't like what he was thinking. The Chief would shit a brick if the killer turned out to be a member of the department, but considering some of the troubles that the department had lately experienced with its own members, nothing was out of the question.
Howland shook his head. He didn't know why he was thinking like that. Romain, of all people.
Still, why not?
Who would be in a better position to know how to avoid the police? Who would know more about exactly what to do to avoid leaving any trace of himself at the scene?
The more Howland thought about it, the more sense it made, and he felt the urgency rising in him.
He looked around. It had gotten quite dark, the thick clouds lowering the sky so that you could almost reach up and touch it. The rain-slicked streets reflected the lights of the crawling cars and the flasher of the patrol car.
Howland went over to the officer and asked if there was anything else he could do.
It was raining harder. The patrolman had put on his slicker, and the rain rolled off to spill on the street.
The tickets had been written and the motorists were almost ready to leave. Howland wasn't needed any longer. He got into his car, his wet clothing sticking to his back and legs, and worked his way carefully into the traffic.
He didn't want to have a wreck.
Casey Buckner didn't want to have a wreck, either. She didn't like driving on the Gulf Freeway at the best of times, but this was really awful. The rain had increased in intensity ever since she had left the loop, and now her wipers were clacking furiously but to little effect as the water washed over her windshield.
Coming toward her on the left was a constant stream of headlights. Her own headlights seemed to be absorbed by the rain-blackened pavement and to provide very little illumination at all. In front of her were three unbroken lines of red as the taillights of the other drivers stretched endlessly down the freeway. There were cars on either side and close behind her. The roadway was slick beneath her tires.
Her hands gripped the wheel desperately. She felt only seconds away from a rending crash. The only good thing was that everyone was driving safely, which on the Gulf Freeway meant that they were actually driving under fifty miles an hour. On a normal day, sixty was the minimum speed, no matter what the posted signs said.
"Where are all these people going?" Margaret said.
"I don't know," Casey said, and she didn't.
She had often wondered the same thing. She knew why she was there, but what possible reason could everyone else have? Why weren't they at home, watching TV and digesting their dinners? They couldn't be commuters, not at this hour, unless, of course, the rain had slowed them down. That was a possibility. But it didn't make any difference. The traffic was always thick on the Gulf Freeway, no matter what time of day it was.
Casey gritted her teeth and watched the exit signs. It was still at least ten miles to where she wanted to go, but she had left early because of the rain. She was still going to make it in plenty of time. She hoped that Dr. Fallon was really going to give her the job. After this ordeal, she certainly felt that she deserved it.
It seemed to be raining harder than ever now. She could hardly see the road, much less the other cars. She slowed down, hoping that no one would rear-end her car. She hoped she could see her exit sign when she came to it. She hoped it would never rain like this again.
He waited in the darkness, thinking how well things were working out. The rain was something that he had more or less expected, having heard the weather forecast, but it was even better than he had hoped.
The evening was darker than dark, and the lights in the parking lot were practically obscured by the rushing water.
Water spilled down from the roof of the building, swirled an inch deep over the sidewalk, ran into his shoes. He didn't mind at all.
In the parking lot it ran like a river. That part bothered him. He hoped that Casey wouldn't just sit in the car and worry about her shoes.
He didn't think she would. She needed the job too much; he'd heard her say so often enough as they sat by the pool in the afternoons.
In fact, he wondered what had taken him so long to get the idea, but now he realized that it was just as well that he had waited.
He had found two days before, with a phone call, that the college had just finished its summer session and that the fall semester would not begin until the next week. That meant that there would be no one on campus during the day except for the administrators and their secretaries. At night, there would be no one there except for whatever security force a two-building college might have.
It wasn't much.
He had checked it out the previous evening. There were two men, as best he could determine, neither of whom ever came around to the outside front of the building. He had stood there in the shadow for two hours and watched both the inside and the outside. He saw both the men pass once, on the inside. They never even looked his way, though they would not have seen him if they had.
They were not expecting anyone to be there, and the decorative shrubs along the side of the building were quite adequate to conceal him.
He was in fact worried about only two things, other than the water flowing through the parking lot.
One was the unfortunate fact that because the security officers parked elsewhere, there was only one car in the parking lot.
His own.
He didn't think Casey would recognize it. That wasn't what bothered him. The problem was the fact that the parking lot was deserted except for that one car. It was enough to worry someone who had a bit of a suspicious nature. There was also the fact that the building was not well-lighted. Oh, there were lights on inside, but only those used for the minimum illumination required when no one was there. None of the office windows showed a light.
He hoped she would think that Dr. Fallon's office was on the other side, that Dr. Fallon at least was working late this evening, eager to replace the defecting part-timer.
He would take Casey first, taking her hair in his left hand, pulling her head back, exposing her slender neck, making one smooth stroke with the razor blade.
He imagined the look of surprise on her face.
He imagined the rain carrying the blood away, purifying her as she died.
Then he would do the girl, just as quickly.
Pull them into the shrubs, remove the blood marks. Drive away into the rain.
He felt a tightening in his groin, a hardening, a thrusting. Not yet, he told himself, resisting the impulse to reach down. Soon now, but not yet.
He smiled in the shadows as the dark rain rolled off the plastic coat and swirled away across the walk.
Soon.
He felt the razor-knife in his hand.
His smile grew broader as he waited for Casey's headlights to appear.
Chapter 39
Howland cursed the rain.
It fell steadily and hard. It squished in his shoes, and he had to keep wiping it out of his face. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his clothes were soaked. He wished that he'd brought a raincoat.
He was having trouble finding Romain's apartment. All the groupings looked the same to him, and he couldn't see the numbers because of the fucking rain. Even the entrance lights burning by most of the doors weren't much help. He couldn't even find the manager's apartment to ask about Romain's location.
He kept on looking.
When he finally located the right number, he walked up to the door and started beating on it. He didn't even look for the doorbell.
There was no response, but Howland didn't even mind at first. He was in a small entranceway out of the rain. The small shelter was worth a hell of a lot. He wouldn't mind standing there for a while.
He wondered where Romain was, though. Why would anyone be out on a night like this?
He thought about that for a minute, and his mind wandered down strange corridors. It would be a perfect night for a murder. Potential witnesses would be hurrying along, heads down. No one would see anything, and even if they did, they wouldn't stop, not in this downpour.
He looked back out at the curtain of rain, listened to it swishing along over the walks and the roofs. No one would be particularly likely to hear someone scream, either.
He pounded on the door again.
To his surprise, there was the rattling sound of a chain being unhooked, and the door opened.
"Jesus Christ, Howland, what are you doing here?" Romain said. His reddish hair was tousled and his eyes were bleary.
"Damn," Howland said. "Were you asleep?"
Romain shook his head. "No. Yes. Maybe. I was tired. What difference does it make? Can't a man take a little nap?"
"Sure," Howland said. 'Sure. Why not? Are you gonna ask me in, or what?"
Romain looked at Howland, noticing his condition for the first time. "Hell, you'll drip all over my rug."
It was true, Howland realized. Water was running down his pants legs in a steady stream and dripping off the sleeves of his jacket.
"I'm sorry," he said. "You got a towel or something?" Romain left Howland standing in the doorway and returned shortly with a beach towel.
Howland took off his jacket and hung it on the doorknob. He dried off his pants and shirt as best he could. He also dried his face and hair.
"Can I come in now?" he said.
"I guess so. You never did say why you were here." Romain turned and walked across the room to a sofa.
Howland followed Romain. Water squished out of his socks as he crossed the room.
"You can sit there," Romain said, indicating a Naugahyde-covered chair.
Howland tossed the towel on the chair and sat on it. Romain looked at him. "You look like a drowned rat," he said.
"I feel like one." Howland looked around the room, wondering where the ashtrays were. The place didn't even smell like smoke.
''So why wade through all the rain?" Romain said. "You could've called. Or talked to me tomorrow."
"No. There was something I had to see you about."
"What?"
"Your car," Howland said. He explained about the license plate.
Romain ran a hand through his already mussed hair. "Jesus. You don't think—"
"I don't know what to think. You didn't say anything about having a car that fit the description."
"Howland," Romain said. "I'm a cop."
"You said anyone could be the killer. That it would be a mistake to disregard anyone."
"I didn't mean me, for God's sake!"
"You'd know how to keep a scene free of clues. You'd know—"
"OK. OK. But it's not me. If you want to examine my car for blood traces, you can."
"There wouldn't be any," Howland said. "You'd take care of that."
He was feeling like an asshole for ever having suspected Romain in the first place, but he had to go on with it now that he'd slogged through the rain to get here.
"You can't ever remove all trace of blood," Romain said.
"You could've used another car."
"That would make your hypnotized witness completely useless."
"Shit," Howland said.
"Absolutely," Romain said. "But I'm really sort of proud of you. It took a lot of guts to come here and confront me like this. Shows you took what I told you to heart."
"Yeah. But I'll probably get pneumonia for it."
Romain smiled. He didn't want to encourage Howland. He was uncomfortable having another policeman in his apartment. He wanted to keep his private life and his job life separate, and Howland was interfering with that.
"There's one other thing," Howland said. "I feel almost stupid even to mention it."
Romain stopped smiling. "What other thing?"
"One of your neighbors has a car that fits the description."
"Who?" Romain said.
Howland told him.
Rob Hensley was worried. The rain was sluicing down and was obviously setting in for the night. The tropical depression was really cutting loose over them. He hoped that Casey didn't have any trouble.
He wished that he'd insisted on going with her. He could have sat in the car in the parking lot while she went for the interview. Dr. Fallon, or whatever, would never have known that Rob was there.
Rob looked at the digital clock on his VCR. It was almost time for Casey to be arriving. There wouldn't be anything wrong if he called to check on her, would there?
She wouldn't like it, naturally. She'd think it was a threat to her independence. But he didn't have to tell her that he'd called. He could speak to Dr. Fallon, ask him if Casey had gotten there. If she had, he could ask Fallon not to mention the call. Fallon would surely understand.
Casey wouldn't, though. Not if she found out.
It took Rob five more minutes to convince himself that she wouldn't find out. Then he got out the phone book and looked up the number for GCCC.
The phone rang for a long time. Ten rings. Maybe there was no one on the switchboard in the evenings. Rob was just about to give up when someone picked up on the other end.
"Gulf Coast Community College. Security."
"Uh, yes," Rob said. "I was trying to reach Dr. Fallon's office. Could you connect me?"
"Dr. Fallon?"
"Yes, the English Department chair."
"Nobody named Dr. Fallon here."
"But—"
"English chairman's named Chester. Dr. Gene Chester."
"You're sure about that? Dr. Fallon—"
"Sir, I been here eight years. Dr. Chester's the man in English. Besides, nobody's here tonight, except for me and Al. We're security. This place is closed for three more days. You want to talk to Dr. Chester, you call back on Monday."
"Wait a minute," Rob said. "I have a friend who's coming there for a job interview tonight. Are you sure—"
"Sir, it's like I said. Nobody's here but me and Al. Won't be nobody here till Monday. You call back then."
"But—"
"Thank you, sir. You call back Monday, you hear?" The phone clicked down, the connection broken.
Rob stood for a moment, holding his own phone in his hand. What the hell was going on here? There was no Dr. Fallon. There was no interview. Had Casey lied to him? No. She had been too happy and excited about the possibility of a job.
So what did that mean? Had someone called her out in the rain for some kind of joke?
Or for something much worse?
Maybe he should call back, see if the security guard would check on Casey. He would have done so had the guard seemed at all interested in helping him, but that had not been the case.
Rob slammed down the phone. All his earlier fears came rushing back to him, intensified.
He would have to go himself. And he would have to go now.
"Craig Warley?" Romain said. "I know Craig. He's not the type—"
He bit off his words as soon as he realized what he was saying.
Howland smiled.
"Anyhow," Romain said, "those letters aren't uncommon in this county, as you should know by now. And Warley and I bought our cars from the same dealer. He recommended the place to me. Said they gave good service. He was right, by the way."
Howland didn't give in. "I ought to talk to him, anyway. I'm not going to pass up anyone. I don't have much longer. The Chief is getting really antsy."
"OK," Romain said. He considered Warley for a minute, recalling some of the man's remarks around the pool. "In fact, the more I think about it, the more I see that he could be the type. Why don't I give him a call, ask him to come over?"
"Good idea," Howland said. "You got a bathroom I could use? All this rain—"
Romain pointed the way and reached for the phone.
It was nearly eight-thirty.
He wondered where she was. He'd thought she would be so eager that she might arrive early. Of course the rain might have held her up. It was certainly bad, and it showed no signs of getting better. There could have been an accident on the freeway, and if that had happened there was no telling how late she might be.
He looked back into the building. There was no sign of the security men. They were probably back in a cubbyhole somewhere with hot coffee and doughnuts, reading a skin magazine. He hoped they stayed there. When he'd checked the place out, they'd made their rounds on the hour, which would give him more than enough time with Casey and her daughter.
If only they got there on time.
He stared out through the streams of rain, squeezing the razor-knife, opening and closing his hand. Opening and closing. Opening and closing.
Why didn't she come?
Casey was sitting in her car, cursing under her breath. There had been an accident in the middle of the exit ramp, and she was three cars behind.
The wrecker had already arrived, and the cars would be cleared out of the way soon, but she was going to be late. Not too late, but late nevertheless.
"I hope Dr. Fallon will understand," she said.
"Understand what?" Margaret said.
She was actually enjoying the delay. The flashing lights of the wrecker and police cars fascinated her as they reflected from the slick pavement, the shiny surfaces of the other cars, the glass of windshields. Having spent most of her life in Lubbock, where rainfall was as rare as diamonds, she was not accustomed to the effects of great quantities of water falling from the sky.
"Why we're late," Casey said. "I don't want him to think I'll ever be late to my classes."
"He won't care," Margaret said. "We'll tell him about the accident."
"I'll leave earlier from now on," Casey said, not sure that the excuse would be acceptable.
"Maybe you won't have to come at night," Margaret said. Casey looked out at the rain, the wreck, the line of traffic backed up behind her.
