The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [673]
“Where the hell is he?” Baxter asked.
“We’ll get there. Reconstruct tells me, he probably spent some time closed up in the bedroom, popping illegals, jerking off, while in the last hours, Wade entertained herself in the living area. Ate junk food, got buzzed, watched some screen. Greene wouldn’t have been good company, but hanging in a Park Avenue condo with easy access to illegals, plenty of food, lots of alcohol, was a better deal than picking up a few tricks on the street, maybe getting busted. She’d tough it out until he came around.”
Trueheart raised his hands again. Baxter simply kicked him lightly, shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he whispered. “She’s in the zone.”
“Eight transmissions came in during the last three days. Neither of them answered. They were all for Greene. She wouldn’t be interested in playing his admin. At some point this afternoon, she gets up. Maybe she wants to go out, look for some action. Maybe she goes to the bedroom, but he’s locked the door. Asshole. Her clothes are in there. How she’s supposed to go out if she can’t get her clothes, slick up some? She wants him to open the door, open the goddamn door, but he doesn’t. She kicks at it, bruises her toes. Pisses her off. Bumps it a couple times with her left hip, bruises that some, too. Fuck him.”
She could see it, almost feel the girl’s edgy frustration. All buzzed up and nowhere to go. “She heads into the kitchen, looking for something sweet. You get a sweet attack with Jazz. Gets herself some ice cream, and feeling put out, writes ASSHOLE on the counter in chocolate sauce.
“She turns around, and there he is. He looks bad, really bad. His nose is bleeding, his eyes are red. His breath is horrible, and the rest of him smells like a sewer. Doesn’t look like he’s changed out of his underwear in days. If he thinks she’s going to do him now, he is so wrong.”
She brought the kitchen of the condo back into her head. White and silver and red from the blood. “She says something, something a teenager thinks is clever and cutting. He hits her, hits a good one across the face. Knocks her back so she bangs her head on the AutoChef, drops her bowl of ice cream. It hurts. She hit her head hard enough to break the skin, enough to leave some skin and hair on the door of the AutoChef. It blurs her vision for a second and scares her. But not as much as seeing Greene take the knife, the big silver knife, out of the block.
“He slashes at her. She throws her hands up, and the knife slices across both her palms. She tries to run, and the blood from her hands splatters on the white wall. Then from her shoulder, probably her shoulder as he swipes at her again. He doesn’t hack. No down strokes in that room. Just those long, sweeping slashes. Left to right, right to left.
“She’s screaming, begging, crying, trying to run. Get away. But those swipes keep catching her. The back, the buttocks, the shoulders again. Through the dining alcove. He opens her up good there, hits an artery and the blood starts spurting. She’s dead then. She doesn’t know it. She still thinks she can get away. She makes it to the living area before she goes down on that white rug. Crawls a few inches. Then he starts hacking.”
“Jesus,” McNab said softly, prayerlike.
“He doesn’t know who she is, doesn’t care.” Eve’s face was stone-cold as she stared at the screen. “She’s stopped screaming, but his head won’t. He throws the goodie bowl, smashes the screen, shoves at tables, stabs the sofa a few times. He has to stop the pain. He goes back in the bedroom, but he can’t stand it. He shoves open the terrace doors. He’s still got the knife, and he looks like he’s been painted red. He screams, and screams.