Split Second - Catherine Coulter [42]
“Do you know, in that book on Bundy, Kirsten had drawn circles around her father’s photos, yellow circles? And little hearts. I’m wondering now if she recognized herself.”
CHAPTER 21
Little hearts. Savich could only imagine what Mrs. Lansford had thought when she’d seen that.
Mr. Lansford said, “When Elizabeth told me about Bundy being Kirsten’s father, she admitted she hadn’t had a clue what or who Kirsten was from the time Kirsten reached puberty. She didn’t know what she would do or say or think about any particular subject from one minute to the next. She also admitted to me that Kirsten’s strangeness had always frightened her, given who her father was. Elizabeth read every book she could find on whether psychopathic behavior could be inherited, but she simply couldn’t be certain about Kirsten. She said she was afraid to even think about it; it was simply too upsetting.
“Because Kirsten hadn’t been arrested by the age of twenty-one, Elizabeth told me she began to breathe more easily, finally admitted that was why she’d waited another two years to marry me. She hadn’t wanted me near someone who could possibly harm me. I remember before she was twenty-five, Kirsten occasionally slept over, but let me tell you, I’d forget her for months at a time.
“That black Porsche.” He dashed his fingers through his beautifully styled hair. It fell right back into place. “Do you know, I always liked black until Kirsten. But black was the only color I ever saw her wear. Fricking black. And so I bought her the black Porsche. I wanted to tie a black bow around the Porsche, but her mother said it wouldn’t go over well, Kirsten would think I was making fun of her, and I confess, when she said that, I felt a chill run over me. So the bow was huge and red, and Kirsten smiled and patted me, told me thank you, and she kissed me maybe a dozen times. She even asked questions about my upcoming campaign. She was all interest, all sweetness—that day—and I’ll confess, I wanted to believe she was simply a bit on the exotic side, that her weird behavior was mainly affectation. I never dreamed she was indeed a copy of her father. I mean, who could dream of such a thing? We never saw her again after that day.”
Savich said, “You said she was unpredictable, Mr. Lansford. Could you give us an example?”
He walked over to the window and looked out onto the quiet courtyard. He said over his shoulder, “I remember once, she was maybe twenty-four, she waltzed into my office in Silicon Valley, completely unexpected, and told me she was taking me to lunch.”
Coop said, “Did you go?”
Another moment of silence, then Lansford said, “I’ve never said this before, haven’t, as a matter of fact, even let myself think it. But now that I remember that day, I realize I went to lunch with her for the simple reason that I was afraid of her. I tried to tell myself that I had no reason to be, but still—I’ll never forget the first time I met her, this eighteen-year-old who was attending Berkeley, an art major, and she looked like she wanted to shoot me, sullen as a little kid—but much more than that. I saw something in her eyes when she looked at me, lurking there, if you will, something that alarmed me. I know that sounds melodramatic, as if I’m embellishing my reactions, since I now know who she is, but I’m not sure. That something I saw hiding in her eyes, it was this Kirsten—Ted Bundy’s daughter. You know she also attended law school for a little while, like her father?”
“Yes,” Savich said. “We know.”
Lansford raised bleak eyes to Savich. “My poor wife is devastated. Can you imagine finding out your child has murdered five people?”
Lansford shook his head, trying to get his brain around the horror. “I remember Elizabeth told me once she must be the luckiest woman alive. I thought she was talking about meeting me, about our coming together, and my ego bounded to the stratosphere.” He gave a sharp laugh, met Savich’s eyes. “But what she meant was that she