Kitabı oku: «The Night Serpent», sayfa 2
Lily stood over the circle, wondering what she was doing there. Normally, at a scene, there was a live cat present, of some breed or another, that she could observe and interact with. Normally there was something she could do. Now, all she could do was to take in the details, look at the still, unmoving, cold bodies, and wonder who could have done such a thing.
God have mercy on them, the poor innocent beasts, she thought. She wasn’t much for religion—going to church had always left her feeling more empty than fulfilled, and her brief foray into Buddhism during college wasn’t much better, but there had to be someone who looked after those so ill used….
She swallowed hard against the surge of emotion, willing herself into professional behavior. Thankfully, some coolly analytical portion of her brain came forward, sorting the scene into dry facts, something she could process, the way she handled numbers at her day job at the bank. All right then. Aggie wanted her here for some reason. She knew cats. So she would study the cats.
Seven bodies, all spotted tabbies, their silver, gray and white coats covered with black thumbprint-size spots, tails striped with wide black marks. Young, male. Not at their full growth yet, they weren’t, with tails too long for their bodies and ears too large for their heads. There was a slice across each throat, a puddle of red underneath where each one had bled out. Where had the blood on the walls come from, then? How much blood was in a single cat, multiplied by seven?
No, don’t go there. Keep the thoughts all clinical, detached, distanced, and unreal. Safe. Like counting out money, entering numbers. Important but not emotional. Not anything that could make her chest hurt for the horror of it. Lily was good at being practical, at making the world make sense, especially when it didn’t. She only wished she’d had more sleep last night.
The headache was back, sneaking up like a bully with bad intent, and Lily wished she had taken her own car, which had painkillers stashed in the glove compartment. She reached up to rub the ache between her eyes, allowing her concentration to slip.
That was a mistake: the separate details clicked into a whole picture, the smell and texture and reality of it slamming into her. Wrongwrongwrongwrong! A sheen of red to match the blood on the floor and walls rose over her vision, and her hands shook until she clenched them together. Someone had done this to cats—to kittens.
The headache was swamped, disappearing under the onrush of rage. Anyone—anything—that could do that needed to be stopped. Punished.
She felt someone coming up behind her, the heavy tread and swish of wool uniform slacks telling her who it was even before the smell of stale cigarette smoke that hung around him reached her, mingling with the smell of blood and meat and, oddly, settling her stomach before she even realized that it was upset.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked Petrosian, not taking her eyes off the scene. If he heard the rage in her voice, either he had been counting on it, or he didn’t want to call attention to it, because he didn’t flinch or make any movement to try to soothe her.
“I don’t know,” he said instead. “I’m hoping you can tell me. Tell us what’s going on. What happened here.”
She looked over her shoulder, then looked back at the cats, and then up at the ceiling, which, she noted now, had been painted black. The paint looked oddly flat, under the fluorescent lights, as though it had been meant to reflect softer, kinder lights. None of the blood had reached that high, she noted. “Other than animal abuse?”
“That much we got. But that’s Patrick’s problem, what he’s here to study. What I want you to take a look at is back here.” Petrosian’s thick-fingered hand came down on her shoulder, steering her past the grisly tableau, the only apology for putting her through this that he could give her, the only one she would accept.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Agent Patrick kneeling by the bodies, pulling on a pair of latex gloves before reaching out to touch one of the kittens gently.
He looked up and met her gaze. A spark seemed to jump between them, invisible electricity that she felt through the palms of her hands, running like a ribbon of warmth all the way to her feet.
He looked away first, and in another place, another time, she might have felt a flush of feminine triumph. But not here.
There was another room behind the first one, and that was where the smell was coming from. Ten mesh cages, each one with a water dish—most dry—and spilled dry kibble. A small plastic box in each, half filled with uncleaned litter.
“Nobody touched anything once we found it. How many cats, Lily? How many cats were here? Tell me what this guy was doing with them.”
Usually she had to listen to the cat’s vocalizations, watch its body language, before she got a read on the situation, on how it had been treated. Not this time. This time it came out of the empty space, swarming her, almost knocking her over.
Crowded. Anticipation. Fear. Hunger. Lust.
Even without the cats, she could feel the emotion still in the room, could almost hear them meowing, scratching at the wires of their cages, scratching at the metal floors, the rasping of their tongues as they tried to keep fur clean and claws sharp…Not a bad dream. Not something she could block, ignore or forget.
She gagged at the strength of the knowledge, forcing the words out carefully. “More than ten. More than…there were kittens here. Litters.”
That was the smell she had picked up, even over the blood and shit. Pheromones. The scent of a female cat in heat. The thought made her ill, where the killings had only made her angry.
“He was breeding them. This wasn’t just storage, it was a cattery.”
“Go, do your thing,” Petrosian had said to him when they got out of the car. The cop hadn’t said it rudely, or mockingly, the way some did; more along the lines of “you do your thing and I’ll do my more productive thing.” Profiling was still looked at sideways and suspiciously by a lot of folk, especially outside the agency. Hell, Patrick knew that he occupied a strange sort of niche within the FBI hierarchy itself: he had a master’s in psychology, but he had never been interested in profiling, preferring to play a more active role in chasing down criminals. He might have had a very traditional career; fieldwork landing him in a desk job leading him all the way to retirement and possibly a teaching job after that, except that during his second year in the field he had discovered in himself an odd fascination for—and affinity for solving—a particular kind of crime, specifically animal mutilations, and the criminals who perpetrated them. Those acts, along with a few others, often heralded the beginning career of a serial killer.
A profiler got into the head of an unsub—bureauspeak for an unknown subject of an investigation. He tried to feel where they were going, mentally and emotionally, and sense how close they were to breaking out to human victims. Patrick was less interested in what went on in their heads than in the end result; the instinctive reaction response to that internal stimulus. His skill might have ended up simply as a side talent, except that he was very very good at finding those patterns, even where none seemed to exist. And so, whenever a case with certain elements—domestic animals, ritualistic injury—came up in the reports, the agency tapped him to immediately take a look. Catch an unsub when he was still targeting animals, and save human lives later.
That was the theory, anyway. There was no quantitative proof either way. It could all be hand-waving and luck.
Patrick had, in self-defense, come up with his own theories about sociopaths and the making thereof. Forget the psychology, the biochemistry, the sociology. Jon Patrick was a believer in intent. Not that someone chose to be a stone-cold killer, but that they always had a trigger, something to make all the parts come together from where they lay latent in every single human being.
He focused on the ritual aspect rather than the actual violence—violence was universal in the end, while the steps chosen to get there were individual. Identify a strain of ritual, and determine where that particular mind might go, criminally. Find the pattern break the pattern and prevent a killer from being born.
The problem was that, without enough distinct data points to prove or disprove his ideas, he couldn’t get anyone to take them seriously. And being taken seriously was what Agent Jon T. Patrick was all about. Being taken seriously, and getting serious results.
He was damn good at his job, though, and even if his ideas were unsubstantiated, his results were getting him some notice at higher levels; the bureau cared less about theory than they did about getting results they could use. The suits back in D.C. were marking him as a player of note, and Patrick had goals above and beyond being a field agent with nightmare memories and a passable retirement package at the end. Ambition, to him, wasn’t a dirty word.
His career, if he didn’t screw up, was looking good. It was all good.
This, though…this wasn’t good. He made a circuit of the scene, aware of the technician taking additional photographs and jotting down measurements, observations and verified facts. Good—he would need the daylight shots, too. He knelt beside the small, still bodies, careful not to disturb the black cloth or the blood splatter around it, and pulled a pair of latex gloves from a pocket, sliding them onto his hands His last girlfriend had referred to them as fingercondoms. He had been amused by that: a pity that had been the extent of her sense of humor.
“Poor moggies,” he said again, reaching out to touch one of the bodies. The flesh was firm even in death, meat and muscle over the ribs. The cats hadn’t been abused before being killed. Small mercies. But that put a different spin on the scene, and his unsub. Usually animals were tortured before they were killed. It was all about power in most cases. Power, control, authority. To kill animals that, although helpless, were undamaged, especially in such a methodical, almost ritualistic manner? All it lacked was an athame—a ritual knife—and some candles, and the press would be screaming black magic.
He didn’t believe in magic, black, white, pink or polka-dot. He did believe in the power of belief, though. Believe something, and you could take power from it. Believe in it strongly enough, and it took power over you.
Normal people with normal emotions didn’t kill small cute cuddly animals. This killer was bent at best, and possibly a textbook sociopath, working his way up to more of a challenge.
Despite the violence inherent in the act, though, Patrick got the feeling that this guy wasn’t acting out of unformed rage or irrational fear. He wasn’t striking out in any desperate attempt to be heard, or regain control or any of the usual textbook profiles. There was a cooler, more rational mind behind this. A mind with a list, maybe, or a plan.
Intent. What was his intent? What triggered him to take cats, care for them, kill them, arrange them this way and then just leave them here?
“Is this guy just your everyday boring psychonutter,” he said, sitting back on his heels and looking at the bodies. “Or is there something else going on? And if so, what? Where is he coming from, that this is a logical progression?”
What he wouldn’t give to be able to talk to this guy, to unpack his brain and see where the wires went and which ones were crossed….
A noise behind him made him look away, up and toward the door to the backroom. Petrosian and the woman—Malkin—were coming back. The cop looked a little grim around the mouth, issuing soft-voiced directions to the painfully young uniform who had been first on the scene. Ms. Malkin—he tried to read her expression, and failed utterly. It was as though a stone wall had come up, leaving him no opening to see through. Even his charm might not be enough to win her back, if he needed her help with this case.
Then she looked up, and he almost recoiled. Even under the fluorescent lights overhead, there was no mistaking the fury in those wide-set eyes. He had never bought into that whole cliché of flashing or sparkling eyes—eyes were just bits of meat and veins, and they did not shoot anything except glares.
But he would have sworn an oath that Ms. Lily Malkin’s hazel eyes filled with dangerous green sparks as she stared at the dead cats under his hand.
It was scary. It was also, he admitted to himself, pretty damn hot.
Chapter 2
Lily had gone outside to get some fresh air. She was waiting there, watching the cops canvassing the neighborhood, when Patrick and Petrosian finally came out. It was close to 4:00 p.m., and dusk was falling. She loved winter, but getting to it…Autumn just depressed her. She shivered, crossing her arms over her chest, less from the evening chill than the inner one. The spark of attraction that had warmed her earlier was long gone.
She tilted her head, looking for the first evening star. It was an old habit from her childhood, stargazing. But no matter how many times she looked, however much she read about constellations, the sky never seemed quite right to her, the ancient drawings in the sky never familiar. She kept looking, hoping that one night the patterns would suddenly make sense to her. They never did. They didn’t tonight.
“Sorry, took longer than I expected,” Petrosian said, breaking her concentration. “I just need you to give a report, and then you’re done. Okay?”
Normally she did whatever they needed her to do, and went home, or took the cats involved to the shelter for processing. This was different. Everything about this was different. Knowing that there were people who were cruel, who could do things like that; it was different actually seeing it. Experiencing it.
It made her ingrained distrust of the world suddenly seem like a good idea, not a handicap.
“Lily?” Petrosian was watching her, his careworn face filled with regret. “I’m sorry. I needed you to go in without any knowledge beforehand….” He had apologized more to her tonight than in all the time they had known each other.
Aggie and his daughter, Jenny, had adopted three cats from the shelter, two since she had worked there. Max, a red tabby, and Wilma, a calico shorthair. He had been the one to suggest her name when the department first needed a cat expert and had been her contact person ever since then. He knew more about her, simply through observation, than even members of her own family. He knew what he had asked her to do.
“Yeah. Me, too. Sorry, I mean.” Only she wasn’t sorry. She was angry. But without knowing where to direct that anger, it weighed her down and simply made her tired. And cold. The crisp night air seemed to cut into her bones. “It’s okay, Aggie.” No, it wasn’t. It was very much not okay. But it wasn’t Augustus Petrosian’s fault. “Let’s go.”
There were two police stations in Newfield, one uptown and one down. There was a substation, Lily knew, that was closer, but Petrosian took them to the uptown station instead. Agent Patrick excused himself the moment they arrived to make a phone call, and the detective handed her over to a sketch artist, a tall, rounded woman with a ready smile and ink stains on her fingers and a smudge on her freckled snub nose that made her look too young to be working in the police department. She introduced herself as Julia, and brought Lily to a square table in a small room off the main hallway, out of the flow of traffic. There wasn’t a door to the room, but the chatter, slams and creaks of station activity flowed around them, turning into a babble of white noise.
“All right. Detective Petrosian says you’ve got a scene for me?”
“I thought sketch artists did faces?” Lily didn’t really care, she felt too exhausted by what she had seen to worry about anything else, but it made for conversation. Conversation was easier than thinking. Kinder than thinking.
“Mostly, yeah. But we do whatever it takes to close a case, same as everyone else here. So. What’ve you got for me?”
So much for not thinking. Worse, they wanted her to remember.
Lily sat down at the table, in the chair Julia indicated, and closed her eyes. She had thought—had hoped—that once away from the site, the visual would fade. But the moment she shut out the distractions around her, it came back, and she began to describe it, slowly, trying to hit as many details as possible. Something stuck in her throat as she talked, and hurt, like it was hard-edged and heavy, and the more she talked, the worse it became.
“All right. I think I’ve got it.”
Julia’s voice seemed to come from far away, down a long tunnel. Lily opened her eyes, resurfacing into the noise and bustle of the police station. Julia was putting down her pencils and Agent Patrick was standing behind her, looking down at the sketch with a fascinated expression.
“This is what you saw?”
Lily frowned, confused by his question. He had been there, why was he so surprised? Julia turned the pad around and slid it across the table so that she could see. It was the cattery, but not abandoned now. Each cage was filled with four or five shadowy bodies: adult cats in some and kittens in others, almost all of them with dappled coats. Dishes overflowed with dried kibble, and water was slopped carelessly onto the counters. There was a figure in the middle of the room, but so roughly drawn that it was impossible to determine if it was male or female. Tall and lean: hunched over slightly as though expecting a blow.
“You saw this?” Agent Patrick asked again, his voice intent on the question. She responded almost unwillingly to the urgency in his voice.
“No. Not really. The room was empty.” He knew that. He had been there, too.
“But you described it. Every detail.” His voice wasn’t exactly doubting, but it was skeptical that she could have managed it without prior knowledge, something she wasn’t telling them.
Lily was too shocked to take offense. She looked at Julia, who nodded. “I don’t add anything the witness doesn’t tell me, not until we go to the next stage. Everything there’s what you told me to put down.”
Lily looked at the sheet again, and a sense of familiarity moved through her. Yes. This was what the room looked like. The cats, restless and calling each other. The figure moving among them, taking them away and—sometimes—bringing them back. The smells of food and urine against the stainless steel of the cages, the hint of antiseptic…
There was no way she could know any of that. But she did. As much as she knew anything that happened today. She could even pick out the shadowed forms of the cats that had been selected for death, there, in the far cage, segregated from the others.
“You psychic?” Agent Patrick’s voice had evened out, not making judgments in a way they had to teach in the academy. “Humor the crazy person, and then disarm them” would have been the motto of that class, no doubt. He probably got an A. It should have rankled, but looking at the sketches, Lily just felt tired. He was only doing his job, and part of that job was to doubt everything.
“No.” She looked at him, then down at the drawing again. “It was just how everything was laid out. This is the only way it could have been.”
That didn’t satisfy him, she could feel it in his gaze, in the way he looked at her, and then at the sketch, and then at her again. He didn’t accuse her of lying, but he didn’t quite believe her, either.
She couldn’t explain it. She couldn’t prove it was true, what she described. But it was.
“All spotted cats,” Julia noted.
“Yes.” She was certain of that, too.
“Tabbies, mostly. The slaughtered animals here had white paws. How common is that?” Patrick was staring intently at the drawing, clearly trying to work something out in his mind. He had put aside the question of her accuracy, and was working with the available evidence, no matter how dubious.
“What, mitting?” Lily said. “It’s pretty common, no matter what the coat’s color. Especially if he’d been breeding them—there weren’t that many queens in the room, so the gene pool was small.”
“Queens?” Julia asked.
“Breeding females,” Patrick said, surprising Lily with his knowledge. “A queen can breed every four months, anywhere from three to seven kittens in a litter.”
For a moment, Lily felt that spark running between the two of them again, a spark that had nothing to do with his dark eyes or undeniably masculine appeal—or his interest in her. A cat person. Or at least, one who had done his homework. That tied in to the feeling she had gotten from him at the scene: that he saw more than statistics and splatter.
Aggie had said the agent focused on animal abuse cases, something about him psychoanalyzing killers the way they did on TV shows. But that made her wonder—why was an FBI agent, a profiler, investigating something like this? What made cats important enough to interest a federal agency?
Suddenly Lily felt herself deflate. Of course he was interested in her, a cat person. It was part of his job. Well, that was what she was here for; to help him, however she could, to catch this guy.
“He—whoever was doing this—didn’t have more than three queens in the room, from the size of the cages. But a lot of kittens. You think he was trying to breed for a particular color?” Lily had never really thought about the genetic side of cats before; all she knew about different colors was what was more popular among adopters.
He shrugged. “I’m not ruling out any theories at this point.”
“And what is that point, exactly?” Why are you here? she meant.
Julia touched the sheet, the motion drawing their attention. “I’m sorry. I need to run this over to the detective. Lily, if you want to wait, I can make sure an officer—”
“I’ll make sure Ms. Malkin gets home safely,” Patrick said, cutting Julia off, and then smiling at her to soften his rudeness. “I’d like to ask her a few more questions first, if we can use this desk?”
“Yeah, sure.” Julia seemed flustered at being the focus of his attention, which Lily thought was odd, but then the artist gathered herself back into professional mode. “Will you want a copy of the sketch?”
“That would be wonderful, thank you.”
Lily watched Julia’s slender white hands gather up her pencils and the sketch, then disappear into the swirl of noise around them. Somehow, it seemed distant from her, even now. She had known about the queens, the female cats. How? How could she have known anything she had told Julia to draw? Extrapolation from a few cages and a smell could only go so far, but—
But, stop, she told herself, feeling the old, familiar, unwanted distress crawling back. Stop. Breathe, Lily. Breathe in through the mouth, out through the nose. Breathe, and be still. A lifetime of dealing with panic attacks—she might not need the technique on a daily basis anymore, but it still did the job. Her anxiety level dropped until she felt as if she could manage again.
“Why is the FBI investigating this?” she asked, once her breathing was under control.
“We have varied interests,” Patrick said, sliding into Julia’s seat with a grace that belonged to a more slender man. If he noticed her momentary distress, he didn’t mention it. “Why do they call you the cat talker?”
She shook her head, too worn-out to be either angry or amused at his evasion or the appearance of her hated nickname. “Who told you that?”
“One of the uniforms. Said you could talk to anything feline, get it to do what you wanted.”
“Anyone who said that knows nothing about cats.” Lily looked up finally, and in doing so was caught again by Agent Patrick’s gaze. Dark, yes, and intense, yes, and totally focused entirely on her, in a scary-nice sort of way. Oh. So that was what he’d done to the sketch artist. You could get lost in those eyes, just watching them watch you. It made her nervous. Something, hell everything about him was making her nervous. Like he thought she was one of his suspects, someone to be interrogated, bullied and pushed around.
“Oh?” His tone was smooth, inviting; much smoother than the look in his eyes. That voice was another thing the FBI probably issued its agents on their first day on the job, to go with the suits. And the guns, although she hadn’t seen Patrick’s yet. She didn’t doubt he carried one. There was something about him. That intensity, it had a purpose beyond getting answers. Or undressing women visually. She had seen it before; he was a man with a long-term goal, and Lord help the person who got in the way.
All right, maybe that was unfair. But she could practically smell the ambition in him, and it made her wary. Lily didn’t understand ambition. She had needs, desires, of course. Everyone did. But ambitious people carried a tension around inside them that made her tense up in return. She preferred the company of those who were comfortable where they were, who took days one at a time and who didn’t ask too much of life.
“There’s an old joke,” she said, shaking off her reaction and responding to his earlier question. “‘Dogs have owners, cats have staff.’ Or, ‘Dogs come when called. Cats have answering machines and might get back to you.’ All true. A cat will do something you ask of it because it chooses to do so. It won’t obey out of loyalty, or fear, or even love—merely choice.”
Cats couldn’t be used. Not that way. It was one of the reasons why she respected them.
Agent Patrick nodded, not laughing, or even smiling at her words. “And cats choose to listen to you?”
No. Cats chose to talk to her. They always had, even when she was a little girl and terrified of them. They would come to her, twine their lithe bodies around her ankles, look up at her as though she could solve great mysteries, and she would curl into a ball against the nearest wall and cry until her mother came and got her. She never got violent, the way some phobics did, and she never got angry—just sad to the point of overwhelming depression. She had wanted to like cats, in a way she never felt with people.
“My boss at the shelter claims I must smell like catnip, or something.”
The look in his eyes suddenly shifted. Lily wasn’t sure how, or why, but the interest deepened, his face changing slightly. It made her suddenly uneasy in a way even his previous intensity hadn’t, as though she had suddenly been dumped somewhere unfamiliar, without warning. The other man, the FBI agent, she knew how to avoid, and why. This man, the one with the glitter-bright stare, he was…Seductive was the only word that came to mind. Seductive, and dangerous, and appealing. Which were three words, but all meant the same thing. He was looking at her as if he wouldn’t mind taking a roll in some catnip, himself, right then. Like he wasn’t undressing her now, but was already inside her.
Lily knew herself pretty well. She was attractive, if you liked brunettes, too short, and had a reasonably curvy, if not stacked, body. Great hair, nice face. A solid B-grade on all fronts. Nice, but nothing that qualified for that kind of fascination. He was interrogating her again, only with a different question in mind.
“Look, I don’t know what Detective Petrosian thought I’d be able to tell him, or what you think I can do. I’m good with cats, yes. But—”
“Have dinner with me.”
“Excuse me?” She should have been expecting that, yet it still caught her off guard.
His thin lips curved in a smile now. The hint of white teeth showed between the pale red flesh, but the intensity of his eyes was, if anything, even more focused on her. Not undressing her, but getting inside her brain. Inside her soul.
She recoiled, and then scolded herself for recoiling.
All right, Lily, stop that, she told herself. You’re tired, stressed and overreacting. He’s just a guy. A cute guy. Why not have dinner with him?
“I’m a federal agent, miss. You can trust me.” She must have laughed at that. “Seriously,” he went on. “I have a few questions I want to ask you, but I just hit town and I’m starving. And we hijacked you out of your job—the least I can offer is dinner, as a thank-you for your help.”
Lily was oddly flattered, but shook her head. She wasn’t much for dating, and even if she were, a guy who was in town for two, three days tops? She needed more time than that to make up her mind about a guy. Even if he was as exotic as a Burmese, and friendly as a Maine coon. And on the hunt sure as any big cat she’d ever seen. “Thank you, but no. I’m just going to grab a ride back to the shelter, pick up my car and go home. It’s been a really long day and I’m not feeling particularly social. Detective Petrosian has my phone number and e-mail address, if you need to ask me anything more, but I’m sure there’s nothing I can add.”
She stood up, and then looked down at the agent, remembering that moment of sympathy she had experienced on the scene, over the bodies of the kittens. “Whoever did this, you’ll find him.”
It wasn’t a question, and Agent Patrick didn’t pretend otherwise.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Petrosian found him half an hour later still sitting at the table, a notepad flat in front of him, the unlined paper covered with circles with words scribbled inside them.
“So what’s the story?” he asked the cop, pushing the notepad away from him in disgust.
“The store was for rent. Last owner moved out four months ago, but market’s been slow, hasn’t even had anyone in to look at the space since then. It was the Realtor who found the bodies, called us in.”
