Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [79]
She said with a sneer in her voice, “Hey, I liked the slap better than you licking me. You’re really brave, aren’t you? Would you like to let my hands free, just for a minute, and then we’ll see how brave you are?”
“Shut up!”
He was standing beside her, leaning down, breathing hard. She couldn’t see his hands, but she imagined they were fists, ready to bash her.
She said very quietly, “Why did you kill Linda Cartwright?”
“That bitch? She was bothering me, always begging, pleading, whining when she was thirsty or she wanted to pee or she wanted to lie down. I got tired of it.”
She said nothing at all, beyond words, wondering what had made him into a madman or had he been born like this? Born evil, nothing to blame but—what?
She could hear him tapping his fingers, tap, tap, tap. He wanted her to say something, wanted it badly, but she held quiet.
“Did you like my present to you, Rebecca?”
“No.”
“I saw you puking your guts out.”
“I thought you probably did. You’re sick. You really get off on that?”
“Then I saw that big guy, Adam Carruthers, there with you. He was holding you. Why did you let him hold you like that?”
“I probably would have even leaned against you if I didn’t know who you were.”
“I’m glad you didn’t let him kiss you.”
“I had just vomited. That wouldn’t be fun for anyone, now would it?”
“No, I guess not.”
He didn’t sound old, not the age of this Krimakov character. But was he young? She couldn’t tell. “Who are you? Are you Krimakov?”
He was silent but only for a moment. Then he laughed softly, deeply, and it froze her. He lightly ran his palm over her cheek, squeezed a bit, made her flinch. “I’m your boyfriend, Rebecca. I saw you and I knew that I would have to be closer to you than your skin. I thought about actually getting under your skin, but that would mean I’d have to skin you and then cover myself, and you’re not big enough.
“Then I thought I wanted to be next to your heart, but again, there’d be so much blood, fountains of it. Too many hands ruin the stew, too much blood ruins the clothes. I’m a fastidious man.
“No, don’t say it or think it. I’m not crazy, not like that Hannibal character. I said that to make you so afraid you’d start begging and pleading. Already the drug’s wearing off. I can see how afraid you are. All I have to do is talk and you’re scared shitless.”
He was right about that, but she’d give about anything not to show him, not to let him see that she was boiling white hot inside, nearly burned to ashes with fear. “But then when you’re all done talking, you’ll strangle me like you did Linda Cartwright?”
“Oh no. She wasn’t important. She wasn’t anything.”
“I’ll bet she disagreed with that.”
“Probably, but who cares?”
“Why me?”
He laughed, and she bet that if she could see his face, he’d be smirking, so pleased with himself. “Not yet, Rebecca. You and I have got lots of things to do before you know who I am and why I chose you.”
“There’s a reason, naturally, at least in your mind. Why won’t you tell me?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, or not. We’ll see. Now, I’m going to give you another little shot and you’ll sleep again.”
“No,” she said. “I have to go to the bathroom. Let me go to the bathroom.”
He cursed—American curses mixed with English-sounding curses, and an odd language thrown in she didn’t recognize.
“You try anything and I’ll knock you silly. I’ll strip the skin off your arm and make it into a pair of gloves. You hear me?”
“Yes, I hear you. I thought you were fastidious.”
“I am, about blood. There wouldn’t be all those fountains of blood if I just peeled the skin off your arm.”
She felt him untie her hands, slowly, and she supposed that the knots must have been complicated.