New York to Dallas - J. D. Robb [126]
Next time, he thought, circling his hand to keep his brandy moving in its snifter.
He was still in control of the situation. He’d planned for the unforeseen, hadn’t he? Of course, without Sylvia’s idiocy, he’d have bad little Darlie to entertain him right now. Nothing kept him more in tune than a bad little girl.
He walked to the window, looked down at the city, sipping his brandy, wondering how many bad little girls walked the streets. He only needed one for now. Just one.
He could find one, of course. He was so very much smarter, better, wilier than the cops. He could take one, just one, and christen his new home.
Better not. No, better not, he reminded himself. He felt too rushed, too upset. Too fucking angry to work properly tonight.
He’d have to make do with the pale, bloodless substitute of the recording.
He mulled it over. He’d watch it and imagine how he’d feel when he forced Dallas to watch it with him. That would perk things up.
He decided to make himself a little snack. For a time he simply wandered the kitchen, unable to choose. So many choices, he thought. Too many choices.
Ridiculous. He brushed off the uneasy sensation, the temporary lapse. He knew exactly what he wanted. He always knew.
He selected a few cheeses, some berries, carefully sliced rounds from a baguette, calming a little itch of panic at the base of his spine with the homey chore.
He did love this kitchen, he thought as he worked, the high sheens, the smooth surfaces. He’d enjoy using it for a week or two.
Really, this was a much better location, better plan. Things had worked out precisely the right way. Precisely.
Then soon enough, with Dallas floating in the river—a real pity he’d been denied that tradition with Sylvia—he’d move on. As much as he wanted New York, for spite if nothing else, he had to consider another venue altogether.
London perhaps, he thought as he carried his tray into the living area. He’d always planned to spend some time in London. He set his tray on the coffee table, unfolded a wide, white linen napkin. Ran his fingers over the spotless and smooth material.
Yes, London. Carnaby Street, Big Ben, Piccadilly Circus.
And all those rosy-cheeked bad girls.
“Screen on,” he ordered, trying out a public school British accent. Pleased with the sound, he laughed, and continued in character. “Play Darlie.”
He swirled brandy, nibbled on cheese and berries. And discovered that the pale substitute worked quite well if he just had the right mind-set.
He decided then and there to make one titled “Eve Dallas.” He imagined the staging, the props, the lighting. He considered writing some dialogue, for both of them.
Wouldn’t it be fun to force her to speak his words?
He could barely wait to produce it, direct it. And view it, over and over after he’d killed her.
21
Near dawn she dreamed. Trapped in the dark, whispers and whimpers all around her. Cold, so cold, and the bite of the shackles clamped on her wrists and ankles.
He was out there, and the knowing carved a bleeding gash of fear in her belly.
Not like this, she thought as she yanked and strained against the shackles. A thousand ways to die, but not like this, and not at his hand.
Light oozed into the room, slipping dirty red through cracks and fissures to smear the dark like blood.
And she learned it could be worse to see.
They huddled all around her, all the girls, all those hopeless, empty eyes. They sat, staring and shivering in the icy room of her nightmares. All of them had her face. The child’s face.
She fought harder, twisting, dragging against the restraints. She heard—felt—the bone snap. One of the girls shrieked, and each of them clutched her arm.
“It’s not happening, not happening. It’s not real.”
“It’s as real as you make it.” Mira sat in one of the blue scoop chairs from her office, crossed her pretty legs.
“You have to help.”
“Of course. It’s what I do. Now, how does being here like this make you feel?”
“Fuck feelings. We have to get out!”
“Angry then,” Mira said placidly, and sipped tea from a china