Black Lightning Part 10

"Any chance of getting a quick look?" she asked the detective, who was almost as casually dressed as Anne herself.

Lois Ackerly shook her head. "Once they're in the bag, they stay there until the M.E. takes them out." As Anne started toward the stairs to the second floor, Ackerly stepped in front to block her way. "And the apartment is still a crime scene," she added firmly.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," Anne observed, grinning, and a flicker of humor glinted in the detective's eye.

"And you can't blame a girl for stopping you, either. Come on, Jeffers-you know the rules."

Anne cast a wistful eye at the second floor, but knew better than to push. In the four years she'd known Lois Ackerly-since the first day Ackerly was a.s.signed to the Kraven killings-Anne had rarely known the detective to bend a rule, let alone break one. And letting her or anyone else not connected directly with the Seattle Police Department enter a crime scene was a rule Ackerly never even dented. "So how about answering a few questions?" Anne ventured.

Ackerly shook her head. "No time." Turning her back, she started back up the stairs. Anne briefly considered trying to grab a few words with the detective on the stairs, but her attention was diverted as the engine of the vehicle that would take Shawnelle Davis to the morgue roared to life. Maybe she should follow it downtown and see if she could weasel her way into the autopsy. Then, from behind and above, she heard a familiar voice teasing her.

"Don't even think about it. Reporters still can't get into medical examinations."

Feeling herself flush, Anne swung around and looked up to see Mark Blakemoor grinning down at her from the long gallery that provided access to all the apartments on the building's second floor.

"So they did did call out the A team," Anne deadpanned. call out the A team," Anne deadpanned.

"No rest for the wicked, to coin a cliche," Blakemoor said. "Did the paper call you, or were you listening to your own trusty scanner?"

"The paper," Anne confessed. "I gave up on the scanner after they convicted Kraven. So what's the story? I a.s.sume there's no connection."

"How about a cup of coffee?" Blakemoor countered. "We're about done here for now, and Ackerly can baby-sit the lab guys. Want to see what you can pry out of me?"

"You're on," Anne said. "Dutch treat, though. The press can't be bought."

Blakemoor made an exaggeratedly sour face. "And cops can't even take doughnuts anymore."

Five minutes later they went through the back door of Charlie's, barely even glanced at the three people already nursing drinks although it wasn't yet ten A.M A.M., and went to the front of the restaurant to take one of the tables next to the windows facing Broadway. "I love this place," Anne sighed, glancing around at the vaguely Victorian decor decorated with an eclectic collection of posters, pictures, and objects. It was a restaurant style that had both come and gone twenty years earlier.

Charlie's, though, had remained, slowly evolving from its original celebrity as Broadway's newest-and-nicest restaurant into its current status as a nostalgic relic from a long-ago past when something called "Three-Steak Charlie" wasn't considered politically incorrect.

"Double-tall, no foam?" Blakemoor asked Anne as the waitress came over. When Anne nodded, he held up two fingers. As they waited for the lattes, Anne reached into her gritchel, fishing out her tape recorder.

"Uh-uh," Blakemoor grunted, shaking his head. "You might be able to pry something out of me, but it won't be in my voice, on tape. No interviews until we know a lot more than we do so far. Okay?"

Anne dropped the recorder back into the depths of the leather bag. "You know me-I take whatever I can get. So, what's going on? The rumor is that the task force may have been broken up prematurely."

Mark Blakemoor's eyes rolled scornfully. "Don't believe everything you hear from the dispatcher, okay?"

"Not a problem," Anne replied. "On the other hand, I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't ask why the dispatcher would say something like that. What's the scoop? Copycat?"

The detective hesitated, and Anne could almost see him going over the crime scene in his head. Finally he shrugged. "If it's a copycat, it's the worst one I ever saw. And copycats usually start up right away. Richard Kraven's been out of circulation for two years, and even when he was working, we didn't have any copycats."

"You're sure?" Anne asked, eyeing the detective suspiciously.

"I'm sure," Blakemoor told her. "There are still things no one knows about Kraven's M.O., and that includes you." He fell silent as the waitress arrived and set two steaming gla.s.ses of mocha-colored liquid in front of them. Without even tasting it, the detective added two spoonfuls of sugar to the latte, stirred it and took a sip. "The b.i.t.c.h of it is, there were were certain resemblances between this one and Kraven's work." certain resemblances between this one and Kraven's work."

Anne's reportorial antenna began to quiver. "Such as?" she prompted, trying not to let her eagerness creep into her voice.

Once again Blakemoor's face took on a look of intense concentration, and then he began slowly ticking several points off on his fingers: "First, there was no sign of a struggle. Remember how Kraven's victims used to just disappear, as if they'd gone with him voluntarily? Well, it was the same way with Davis. 'Course, she was a wh.o.r.e, so she probably thought she'd picked up a John." He moved on to the next finger. "Her chest was opened up, and her organs were torn out."

Anne's jaw tightened, and, as always, she felt sickened by the carnage man was capable of inflicting on his fellows. "Exactly like Richard Kraven."

"Except that compared to Kraven, this guy is an amateur," Blakemoor went on. "Also, he broke her neck first."

Anne frowned. "That's nothing Richard Kraven ever did. He never killed them until after he opened them up, did he?"

"Not as far as we know," Blakemoor agreed. He glanced around as if to see if anyone was listening, then leaned forward. "The thing is," he added, his voice dropping, "from the amount of blood that came out of the wounds, it looks like this guy opened Davis up before she died, too."

Anne's unblinking eves fixed on the detective. "So what are you saying?" she asked. "Is it a copycat, or isn't it?"

Blakemoor fingered the rim of his coffee cup, thinking hard. He knew he really shouldn't be talking to a reporter at all, at least not this early in the investigation, but he was confident that Anne Jeffers wouldn't print anything that would get him into trouble. Besides, during all the years he'd been on the trail of Richard Kraven, he'd always found her to be a good sounding board. And, of course, he just plain liked her. "I don't know," he finally said. "If he hadn't cut open the chest and spread her organs all over the kitchen, I'd say it was someone Davis knew, who was p.i.s.sed off at her. No sign of a struggle, no sign of a forced entry. But with that kind of killing, the creep usually just makes the hit and takes off."

"What about a john?" Anne asked.

Blakemoor shook his head. "No sign of any s.e.x at all, kinky or otherwise." He sighed. "And that's what worries me. If it wasn't s.e.x, and it wasn't a fight with someone she knew, what was it?"

Anne hesitated, knowing what she was about to say was heresy among the press. On the other hand, she'd come to trust Blakemoor as much as he trusted her. "There's been a lot of coverage on Kraven lately," she began carefully. "With me right up there with the best of them. I suppose it's possible we pushed someone over the brink."

Blakemoor's eyes met hers. "That's exactly the thought that occurred to me," he told her. "I have a real bad feeling about this one, Anne. It's almost like now that Kraven's dead, someone's decided to emulate him, just to mess up our heads."

"And if that's true?" Anne asked, though she already knew the answer.

Blakemoor's lips tightened into a hard line. "Then there will be more." He sighed, then uttered a disgusted grunt. "Sometimes I just don't get it, Jeffers. It's like now that we've gotten rid of one wacko, we're just going to have to deal with another."

"Maybe it won't happen," Anne suggested.

Blakemoor listlessly stirred his latte. "Maybe it won't."

Neither of them believed it.

CHAPTER 20.

Though he saw nothing, the boy knew the cat was there. This was where it always hid, skulking behind the house, doing its best to conceal itself in the thick foliage of the rhododendrons his mother had planted along the fence. The boy didn't know why the cat never actually left the backyard, but since it never did, he guessed there must be something outside the yard that terrified the creature even more than he did himself.

Or possibly-and the boy was becoming more and more certain that this was the real truth-the cat enjoyed the game as much as he did.

The boy crouched low, settling down on his haunches, balancing perfectly so he was almost as still as the cat when it was stalking one of the birds that occasionally ventured into its domain. Only the boy's eyes moved now, and even they moved so slowly the motion was all but imperceptible, scanning the shadowy interior of the rhododendrons, searching for the slightest movement that would betray the cat's presence.

Then he saw it-no more than a twitch of the animal's tail, but enough to betray its hiding place.

Taking on the same grace as the cat itself, the boy began moving, first rocking forward until his hands touched the lawn, the sensitive skin of his palms feeling every blade of gra.s.s just as he imagined the cat's paws experienced whatever surface they trod. His confidence growing as the cat remained crouched where it was-not yet certain it had been spotted-the boy began to inch his way forward. Now he felt as if he had become the cat, felt all the muscles in his lithe body tense, felt time stretch out as he crept forward, each movement slow and liquid, so he felt as if he was oozing across the lawn toward the bushes the cat, felt all the muscles in his lithe body tense, felt time stretch out as he crept forward, each movement slow and liquid, so he felt as if he was oozing across the lawn toward the bushes.

Now he could see the cat tense-but it was more than seeing; it was as if it were happening to him. He and the cat were becoming as one; he was experiencing what the cat felt, while the cat, in its turn, lived the boy's life as well as its own.

Was that why the cat never tried to escape the yard? For the same reason the boy hadn't, either?

The cat tensed as the boy crept closer, and now he could see not only the end of its tail twitching nervously, but its whiskers as well. As if in sympathy, the boy's own face began to tingle, and he felt the down on his jaw stand up.

He edged closer, and saw the cat draw back. "Nice kitty," the boy breathed, so softly only he and the cat could hear the soothing words. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a pair of thin black leather gloves and carefully pulled them on. "That's a good cat," he crooned. "Nice, nice, kitty."

As though mesmerized by the caressing whisper, the cat calmed slightly, and its ruffling coat began to flatten.

The boy slipped closer to the shrubs.

His right hand reached out, winding through the foliage as silently as a serpent. Once more the cat tensed, this time rising to its feet, its back arching as every hair on its body stood on end. A thrill-like a light charge of electricity-ran through the boy, and now, like black lightning, his hand struck, his fingers closing on the cat long before it could spring away to safety. Drawing his prize from the shelter of the rhododendrons, the boy held it at eye level.

The cat's eyes met his own, and it hissed. Then one of its forepaws shot out, claws extended, as it tried to slash his face. The boy's other leather-clad hand closed on the paw, and the cat, as if finally truly a.s.sessing the precariousness of its position, didn't even try to struggle precariousness of its position, didn't even try to struggle.

Just as the boy had never tried to struggle.

Holding the cat, the boy stood up and started toward the house, which today was empty.

Empty, save for himself.

And the cat.

Inside the back door the boy paused. He knew he was alone, but the house still held terrors for him. Today, though, fear subsided in the face of what he was about to do.

He moved quickly now, and a moment later was in the bas.e.m.e.nt. His heart pounding, he approached the workbench.

Pounding from fear, or from antic.i.p.ation?

He knew the workbench well. It was as much a part of him as life itself. Always, it had been there.

Now it was his to use.

Putting the cat into a cage, the boy set to work.

Everything he needed was there, carefully prepared, as everything had always been carefully prepared for him.

The rag, the ether.

The boy felt good, knowing he would show kindness to the creature.

He soaked the rag with ether, then opened the cage and reached inside. The cat struck out again with its forepaw. This time its talons slashed through the leather of the gloves, digging deeply into the boy's skin, but the boy felt nothing.

Inured from every pain, of every kind?

His fingers closed on the cat; his other hand pressed the ethered rag against the cat's face. The cat struggled, but soon its struggles flagged. Then it went limp, and the boy knew it was time to begin.

Laying the cat on the workbench, he set to work, splaying its legs out, tying them down much the way the Lilliputians bound Gulliver. But if the cat was Gulliver, the boy was not of Lilliput.

He was of Brobdingnag.

He began attaching electrodes to the cat, just as his father attached electrodes to him.

He waited then, waited for the cat to wake up.

Only when it was fully awake, only when it would be able to fully experience the effects of what would happen, did the boy's finger reach for the b.u.t.ton that would activate the electrodes....

CHAPTER 21.

Glen's whole body jerked spasmodically and his eyes snapped open.

A heart attack-he was having another heart attack! He reached out, groping for the buzzer that would summon the nurse, but even as his thumb was pressing it down, his mind cleared and he realized his mistake. It wasn't a heart attack at all-it was simply a bad dream.

But a dream of what?

A second ago it had been so vivid.

A cat.

Something to do with a cat. k.u.mquat?

He tried to remember what the cat had looked like, but the details of the dream vanished like ephemera, fading from his mind even as he tried to retrieve them. A second later the door to his room opened and one of the nurses stepped in. It was Annette Brady, whom Glen had liked from the minute he was conscious enough to know who she was, but this morning her normally cheerful smile was nowhere to be seen.

"Yes?" she asked with a curtness that was as unusual as her scowl.

Suddenly Glen understood-Annette worked the swing shift, so she must have been called in early today. "Sorry about the ring," he said. "I just had a nightmare, and when I woke up I thought I was having a heart attack."

The nurse scanned the monitors above the bed. "Well, it all looks normal now." She started out of the room.

"Gonna be a long one, huh?" Glen asked.

Annette Brady turned back. "No longer than usual."

Frowning, Glen shifted his gaze to the clock. Seven-thirty?

How could it be seven-thirty? He hadn't even awakened until- No longer than usual?

His gaze shifted to the window. The streetlights were already on outside, and the last evening light was rapidly fading away. Had he been sleeping all day?