Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [136]
He knelt and felt for a pulse, but knew there was no point. Her dead eyes stared reprovingly at the ceiling. The expression on her face was of shock and disbelief, as if she could not fathom what could cause this depth of violence from her own flesh and blood.
Lee straightened up to face Butts, who was staring down at Mrs. Hughes.
“He finally killed the person he meant to kill all along,” Lee said.
“So we finally got our guy,” Butts remarked.
“Except that we don’t have him yet,” Lee reminded him. He touched her dead hands. Rigor mortis had already begun to set in, indicating the time of death was probably some hours earlier.
“Do you think it means anything that he skipped over part of the prayer?” Butts asked, looking down at the body. “I mean, should we be lookin’ for more vics to turn up?”
“Judging by this, he’s spinning out of control, becoming more disorganized. I think he’s on the run.”
Bundy had gone on the run at this point, fleeing all the way down to Florida, where his killing became unhinged—he attacked five young women on his final, orgiastic night of slaughter.
“I’ll call it in,” Butts said, getting out his cell phone.
“Okay,” said Lee. “I’m going to look around.” There was a slight chance Samuel was still here—very slight, Lee thought, given the circumstances. The killing of his mother represented the culmination of his violence, the final—and most authentic—act of retribution in what had until now been symbolic slayings. This would make him more vulnerable, but also far, far more dangerous.
Lee stepped from the foyer into a small but tidy living room adorned with religious icons. He caught a flash of white disappearing around the corner—a cat, probably. He looked around the room. Statues of Joseph and the Virgin Mary graced either side of the mantelpiece, and one wall had a kitschy portrait of Jesus looking heavenward with tragic, soulful eyes. But the most striking icon was the heavy gold cross above the fireplace. A suffering carved Christ was nailed to it with what looked like real nails, and he was dripping blood from every pore. The carving was so realistic that it made Lee’s flesh crawl. The furnishings evoked a Victorian parlor—dark furniture covered with fringed antimacassars and lace doilies.
“Okay,” Butts said, lumbering into the room, “they’re on the way. Hey—look at that, will ya?” he said.
Lee followed his gaze. There, sitting on a small round table, next to an old-fashioned dial telephone, was a white plastic inhaler, the kind used by asthmatics. Next to it was a slip of note paper. Lee picked it up and read the hastily scrawled handwriting.
Amtrak → Philly 3:35 pm Penn Station
He glanced at his watch. The train had left from Penn Station an hour ago.
“Philly?” Lee said. “Why would he go to Philly?”
“Here,” said Butts. “Take a look at this.” He thrust another crumpled receipt in front of Lee, this one for the Adam’s Mark Hotel, just outside downtown Philadelphia.
Lee stared at the receipt. Suddenly his ears were ringing, and there was a roaring sound in his head. He realized why Samuel Hughes was going to Philadelphia.
Next time I’ll strike closer to home.
He’s after Kathy. Panic rose in his throat, choking him. He grabbed Butts by the arm, dragging him to the door.
He wasn’t sure what he said or did, but somehow he managed to get Butts out of there. They rushed down the street, the stubby detective trundling a few years behind him as he sprinted toward the subway. There were no yellow cabs cruising this neighborhood, and he reasoned that an express train would be faster anyway.
“What’s goin’ on?” Butts asked, panting as he tried to catch up with Lee. “You trying to give me pneumonia or something?”
“I’ve got to get to Philadelphia!” Lee called back over his shoulder.
“How are you gonna find him in a place like that?” Butts yelled as they charged down the steps to the train, dashing through the turnstiles just in time to catch an express headed for Manhattan.
“Okay,” Lee said as they threw themselves down onto the plastic seats, panting