Swimsuit - James Patterson [75]
“Right now, detectives around the world are reexamining unsolved murder cases, looking for anything that can lead to a serial murderer who has left no known witnesses, no living victims, not a trace of himself behind. CBS correspondent Bob Simon talked with some of those detectives.”
Film clips came on the screen.
I watched retired cops interviewed in their homes and was struck by their somber expressions and quavering voices. One cop in particular had tears in his eyes as he displayed photos of a murdered twelve-year-old whose killer had never been found.
I turned off the set and screamed into my hands.
Henri was living inside my brain — in the past, the present, and the future. I knew his methods, his victims, and now I was adapting my writing to the cadence of his voice.
Sometimes, and this really scared me — sometimes I thought that I was him.
I uncapped a beer and drank it down in front of the open fridge. Then I wandered back to my laptop. I went online and checked my e-mail, something I hadn’t done since leaving with Mandy for the weekend.
I opened a dozen e-mails before I came to one with the subject heading “Is everybody happy?” The e-mail had an attachment.
My fingers froze on the keys. I didn’t recognize the sender’s address, but I blinked at the heading for a long time before I opened the message: “Ben, I’m still working like a madman. Are you?”
The note was signed “H.B.”
I touched the strip of bandage stuck to my left side and felt the small device that was beaming my location to Henri’s computer.
Then I downloaded the attachment.
Chapter 100
THE VIDEO OPENED with a burst of light and an extreme close-up of Henri’s digitally blurred face. He turned and walked toward a canopied bed in what looked to be a very expensive hotel room. I noted the elaborate furnishings, the traditional European fleur-de-lis pattern that was repeated in the draperies, carpet, and upholstery.
My eyes were drawn to the bed, where I saw a naked woman lying facedown, hands stretched out in front of her, tugging at the cords that tied her wrists to the headboard.
Oh no, here we go, I thought as I watched.
Henri got into bed next to her, and the two of them spoke in offhand tones. I couldn’t make out what they were saying until she raised her voice sharply, asking him to untie her.
Something was different this time.
I was struck by the lack of fear in her voice. Was she a very good actor? Or had she just not figured out the climax?
I hit the Pause button, stopping the video.
Henri’s ninety-second cut of Kim McDaniels’s execution flashed into my mind in sharp detail. I would never forget Kim’s postmortem expression, as if she was in pain even though her head had been detached from her body.
I didn’t want to add another Henri Benoit production to my mental playlist.
I didn’t want to see this.
Downstairs, an ordinary Sunday night was unfolding on Traction Avenue. I heard a street guitarist playing “Domino” and tourists applauding, the whoosh of tires on pavement as cars passed under my windows. A few weeks ago, a night like this, I might have gone down, had a couple of beers at Moe’s.
I wished I could do it now. But I couldn’t walk away.
I pressed the Play button and watched the moving pictures on my computer screen: Henri telling the woman that she cared only about her own pleasure, laughing, saying, “Always a price.” He picked up the remote control and turned on the TV.
The hotel welcome screen flashed by, and then an announcer on BBC World News gave a sports update, mostly football. Another announcer followed with a summary of various international financial markets, then came the breaking news of the two girls who’d been killed in Barbados.
Now, on my computer screen, Henri shut off the TV. He straddled the naked woman’s body, put his hands around her neck, and I was sure that he was going to choke her — and then he changed his mind.
He untied her wrists, and I exhaled, wiped my eyes with my palms. He was letting her