Silver Falls - Anne Stuart [87]
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to be absolved, cleansed, forget it ever happened. But she could still feel Caleb’s hands on her body, his mouth against hers, the rough tenderness of his touch. How could she have had the best sex of her life with a serial killer? Was she as twisted as he was?
“We’ll get you back home where you can take it easy,” he said in that same, soothing monotone. “Maggie will want you to make a statement at some point, but for now I think you can just rest. It’s been a harrowing few days for you. I think you need Sophie with you as well. I’ll go pick her up after I get you settled.”
“No!” The objection was instant, irrational, irrefutable. She managed a weak smile. “I don’t want her to see me like this. I’d feel much better if she stayed at Maggie’s.”
“But there’s no need,” he murmured, shooting a glance her way. “They’ve caught the killer—you and she aren’t in any danger.”
It didn’t feel that way. Everything seemed upside down, twisted, and the buzzing in her head, David’s soft drone, made it impossible to put it all in order.
“I want her with Maggie,” she said stubbornly.
She expected anger, or at least that deep disappointment he sent her way far too often. Instead he nodded. “Of course, my love. Whatever gives you peace of mind. She can come back on the weekend. I don’t know how the justice system works, but I don’t think they’ll be holding Caleb in town. There must be some kind of maximum-security prison where they keep the dangerous ones. As soon as they find enough evidence to charge him with the murders everything should be fine.”
A shiver danced across her backbone, one she couldn’t define. “But what if they don’t? If he’s gotten away with it for this long, why do you think he’d incriminate himself now?” she said, trying to stay calm when she wanted nothing more than to bury her face in her hands and cry.
It was starting to rain, and David turned on the windshield wipers before he spoke. “He’s been losing control, Rachel. He always used to kill sparingly—years would pass between his crimes. He had perfect timing. He’d wait until I came to visit before acting. He was passing through San Francisco on his way to the far east when we met for dinner. That was the night Tessa died.”
“Oh, God.”
“I blame myself,” he said, his voice solemn as he pulled out onto the main road. “There’s some deep kind of anger that runs inside him, and I bring it out, no matter how hard I try to show him I love him. There’s something wrong with him, something deeply twisted, and there was nothing any of us could do to fix it, to help him.”
“What if they can’t find any more proof? What if he gets out on bail? And comes back here, where Sophie is, and—”
“That’s not going to happen. Maggie will find the box of souvenirs hidden somewhere up at his house, and that will tie him to every murder. And then, no matter what he says, he’ll be convicted of thirty-seven counts of murder, and they’ll execute him. Do you know they still hang people in the state of Washington? I’d have to go, of course, just so he knows that someone who still loves him is there, but the idea horrifies me.” There was an undercurrent in his voice, one she couldn’t identify.
“Thirty-seven? He’s killed thirty-seven people?” Rachel cried.
For a moment David looked confused. “I don’t have any real idea how many he’s killed. That was simply a guess. When they find the souvenirs they’ll find the number.”
“What souvenirs?” She was no longer slumping in her seat. Her critical mind was beginning to take over, and this was feeling just too wrong. “How do you know about souvenirs?”
“It’s been in the papers, Rachel,” he said gently, as if explaining to a small child. “His victims all have long, blond hair, and they wear barrettes. Apparently they’re always missing when a body is discovered, and it’s been surmised that he’s been keeping them. That’s what serial killers do, you know. They like remembrances of the horrific crimes they commit.