The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [119]
One criminologist had written that Richie represented Miguel’s latent homosexual desires. When that criminologist had tried to interview Miguel again, the convicted murderer waited until he was locked in the visitor’s room with his shackles removed, then dove at the researcher over the table and tried to strangle the man with his bare hands. Miguel had to be forcibly dragged out of the room by four prison guards. Apparently, Miguel didn’t care to be labeled a latent homosexual.
One thing was clear: Miguel Sanchez was not a nice man. Kimberly had found a photo of him on-line. He had dark, wild hair only Charles Manson would love. His eyes were deeply sunk into his forehead, his cheekbones craggy. Tattoos riddled his shoulders, and according to one report, he continued to add to his body art while incarcerated with the aid of a needle and a ballpoint pen. He claimed to be a walking monument to his victims. Kimberly had stared at his photo three times before she realized what the elaborately scrolled design on his shoulder said. Then she had gone cold.
Amanda.
He had the name Amanda permanently etched into his body. Kimberly had to work on easing her heart rate again. She knew Miguel Sanchez’s Amanda. A long time ago, she and Mandy had listened to the tape. One more link, however. One more link between a stone-cold psychopath and Kimberly’s rapidly disintegrating family.
The squeaking was growing closer. Fuck, she couldn’t think.
She got out of her chair, scowling at the door and the noise that was now right behind it. She didn’t need this kind of distraction. She had a job to do. And as long as she kept focused, kept determined, she felt like her old self again. Capable, strong, self-possessed.
Funny how Mandy’s death had sent her drifting, filled with too many conflicting emotions of rage and grief and fear. And ironic how her mother’s murder had anchored her again, taking all of those same emotions and giving them a purpose. She was going to find this bastard. And she didn’t care what Rainie said. She was going to kill him. Frankly, if he was anything like Miguel Sanchez, she wasn’t going to feel bad about it either.
Darwinism, she thought. Survival of the fittest. You take on me and my family, you’d better be prepared for the consequences. Because I’ve been training for this day since I was twelve, you son of a bitch. I won’t go down easy.
A knock sounded on the door. Standing just three feet away in the kitchenette, Kimberly froze. And that quickly, her confidence left her. The color leeched from her face, her heart ratcheted up to one hundred and fifty beats per minute, and sweat burst from her pores.
“Room service,” a high squeaky male voice called out.
Room service. Oldest trick in the book. Kimberly ran into the bedroom. She fumbled through her bag, pulled out her Glock, and sprinted back to the living area where she leveled her semiautomatic at the cheap wooden door.
“You got the wrong room, buddy,” she yelled. “Back away from my door!”
There was a pause. Her hands were trembling so badly, she couldn’t sight her gun. She was thinking: Wednesday, my mom. Thursday, my grandpa. Friday, we’re all on the run, and today? Not me! I won’t go down easy!
“Uh, I got an order here for your room—”
“Get the fuck away from my door!”
“Okey dokey. I’ll be going now. You want your, uh, champagne and strawberries, you can come downstairs yourself, ma’am. Sheesh.”
Kimberly heard squeaking again. Then a moment later, the same high-pitched voice muttering, “Gotta be a fucking full moon tonight or something. Sheesh.”
She slowly lowered her gun. Her body was still shaking. Sweat had plastered her T-shirt to her skin. Her heart hammered fast, as if she’d been running a marathon.
She took a deep breath.