The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [48]
“Theories and methods,” she said with a smile.
“Right. And here’s my theory: you’re a special person, Karen Vail, and I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Told you this smelled of a date.”
“Guess a small-town detective can’t put one over on a sharp FBI agent.”
The waiter delivered their food: Oriental chicken salad for Vail, well-done chili burger for Robby. Vail watched him dump globs of ketchup onto his fries. She flashed on the image of herself as a child. The thought seemed to emphasize the age difference between the two of them. She lifted her fork and felt Robby’s gaze on her face. He had put his foot forward and was patiently waiting for her to take the next step. She let her wrist go limp, lowering her fork back to the plate, and said, “You’re what, twenty-nine, thirty?”
“Thirty.”
“I’m . . . a little older. Why don’t you pick on someone your own age?”
Robby’s hamburger sat in front of him, untouched. He leaned toward her; she was now his total focus. “Karen, I’ve seen things, lived things most kids never should have to live through. I could’ve ended up on the street like the thugs we haul in—but that’s not what I’m about.” He paused to read her face, but she did not react. He popped a ketchup-dripping french fry in his mouth. She took another sip of wine. He finally swallowed, then shrugged. “I may not be thirty-two, like you,” he said with a wry smile, “but I’ve been around the block. A couple hundred times.”
She nodded slowly, then held up her glass. He filled it and topped off his own.
Her eyes moved from the wine to his face. “So then the method would be one step at a time, see how things turn out.”
Robby smiled. “A methodical approach. Like any good investigation.”
“Move too fast and you can screw things up, make mistakes.”
Robby lifted his glass. “To theories and methods.”
Vail raised her glass and touched it against Robby’s. “And methodical approaches.”
twenty
Another victim lies in the next room, tied up and waiting for me to return. And there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re like a quadriplegic, watching things happen around you but physically unable to participate. You see the deaths, the murder, the devastation of their lives, and you’re powerless to stop me.
Look—look at the victim. Open your eyes, do you see her? I said look! In the bed, tied down. Look at her face, look at her eyes, watch as I climb atop, straddle her, then stab her left eye. I draw the knife back, bring it forward fast and hard and whack! The blade sinks into the socket. Blood and fluid spatter on me, on my chest, on my chin. I withdraw the knife, agonizingly slowly as if it were some playful act of sex, then lean back and shift my weight so I can stab the right eye.
Don’t you see it yet? I stab the eyes because you can’t see what needs to be seen. You can’t see me. Look! Look in the mirror above the bed. That’s it—come on, raise your head!
As she tilts her chin back, she sees the mirror’s reflection. And staring back at her, in vivid Technicolor, is a redhead.
You see it now, don’t you. You see it!
She looks at the killer’s face but can’t see anything—no eyes, no mouth, just a blurred out image as if a television censor had altered it, the way they obscure a woman’s bare breast. But just as she is about to turn away, it comes into focus—and staring back at her from the mirror is someone she knows.
She’s looking at her own face—
Vail awoke with a gasp. She’d seen the face of the Dead Eyes killer. And it was hers. She dragged a clammy hand across her eyes, as if wiping them would make the image disappear. What did it mean? She didn’t have much time to ponder it—and even if she did, what good would it do? It was just a dream, something that no doubt stemmed from her frustration with being unable to get a handle on the case. Still, it hovered like a storm cloud, following her throughout the day.
She got out of bed and showered, then drove to work. The call from the unit secretary came through at 8:03 A.M., two minutes after she had sat down at her desk: