Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [104]
She had her admirers at the bar. Several young men bought her drinks, but after the encounter with Matt’s jealous girlfriend, they seemed wary of getting too close to her. She kept her eye out for Matt or his girl—Diesel said her name was Violet—but they had faded into the evening, along with Elena’s makeup. Whatever mascara she hadn’t sweated off had gathered in cakes at the tips of her eyelashes. Her lipstick had long since been rubbed away, and her hair had wilted from the heat and humidity.
Yellow cabs streamed up Sixth Avenue, all taken. She stood on the corner for a while, then headed for the subway in her pointed heels, her feet protesting at every step. She felt light-headed and bone tired, and was looking forward to a long, hot bath before crawling into bed.
She was aware there was plenty of drug use in the bathrooms—people would disappear in groups of two or three and come back with red eyes, wiping their running noses. She heard the sound of sniffing coming from one of the stalls during her own trip to the restroom, and on the dance floor people smoked weed almost as much as cigarettes. Still, she wasn’t here on a drug bust. It was a more serious mission, and she would just have to overlook the illegal narcotics. The last thing she wanted to do was call attention to herself in a way that made anyone suspicious. She planned on returning again later in the week—maybe even tomorrow night, if she could stand it.
The walk to the subway felt endless. It couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a mile, but with each step her feet cried out with pain. She longed to tear off her spiked heels and walk barefoot. The streets were fairly quiet, and she could even hear the wind rustling the leaves of the trees in the little pocket park on Sixth Avenue.
As she approached the entrance to the IRT on Waverly Place, she saw a black limousine with Jersey plates pull up to the curb. The automatic window slid down smoothly on the driver’s side, and a young man leaned out.
“Need a lift?”
“Thank God!” she answered, grateful for her good luck. The private car service would no doubt cost twice what a cab would be, but Elena didn’t care. The subway ride would have been long and ugly, and she was willing to pay triple fare just to get home.
When he asked her politely where she was headed and offered her a bottle of Evian water, she vowed to give him an extra-large tip. The automatic window whooshed back up as she settled back into the plush seat. Sipping the bottled water, she stared out at the buildings rushing by as the car glided uptown.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Lee Campbell awoke drenched in sweat, his injured arm throbbing.
Fumbling for the bottle of water he kept on the bedside table, he tried to shake himself out of the dream’s spell. He took a long drink and shivered. The room was cool, but the chill in his body was deeper. In his dream, he had known the killer’s mind, imagined that he was him. That was all he could remember—but the feeling of being that deranged, obsessed person was still strong—so strong, in fact, that he would have trouble shaking it off.
He looked at the clock next to the bed. The red numbers read 3:00 A.M. The dead hour.
He tried to conjure up an image of the killer’s face, but couldn’t. In the dream, he had been the killer, felt his rage—but had never seen his face. Trying to shake the dream from his mind, he summoned all his willpower, threw off the blankets, and heaved himself out of bed.
He felt the evil fist of depression tightening its grip on him. All he wanted to do was burrow under the covers until it passed—or until night fell again, wrapping its comforting blanket of darkness around the city. The knowledge that he must get up in a few hours and face the day only made things worse, adding anxiety to the already unbearable