32

Elizabeth came around the back of the motel at a run and nearly collided with a maid’s cart outside room 29.

“Senora,” the maid called from just inside the doorway.

A note of urgency in her voice made Elizabeth stop. “Yes?”

The maid came forward, struggling to find words in English. Elizabeth remembered her from this morning, when she changed the room after the early check-in.

“There is a man who looks for you,” the maid said finally. “A tall man.”

A man? Detective Shepherd? Had he been here earlier, snooping around? Or was it some other cop?

Elizabeth didn’t know, had no time to think about it.

“It’s okay, thanks,” she said meaninglessly, and again she was running for her room.

She reached it and found her key and flung open the door. Crossing the threshold, she realized distantly that the shredded newspaper was still in her hand. She dropped it on the floor and found this morning’s outfit scattered on two armchairs and a table—skirt, blouse, jacket.

Quickly she scooped up all three items and ran to the big suitcase on the folding stand. She thrust the clothes inside.

Maybe it was stupid to take the time to salvage her things. Maybe she would be better off just running now, leaving everything behind.

But she had almost no money left. How could she replace her wardrobe? She didn’t have much as it was. She had to save what she could. She—

A presence.

Behind her.

She sensed it, felt it.

Detective Shepherd—he was here, he was in the room with her, and she’d lost her last chance, she was finished, she could never get away.

Slowly Elizabeth turned, dread numbing her, and she saw the man in the doorway, limned in the afternoon glare.

Not a detective.

Detectives wore suits and were neatly groomed and said things like Don’t move, you’re under arrest.

This man was clad in khaki trousers and a lime-green shirt, and there were deep sweat stains under his armpits, and he wasn’t saying anything at all.

A tall man, as the maid had said. A man who, like Shepherd, had come looking for her.

Elizabeth stood frozen, staring at him, uncertain what to think or what to do.

“Kaylie,” the man whispered.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she knew him suddenly. She remembered.

He was one of Cray’s patients—yes—the one who was a permanent fixture at the hospital. He’d entered her room—her cell—several times to change the bedding, while she huddled in a corner, watching, hoping he wouldn’t notice the marks of tampering on the grille of the air duct.

Walter. That was his name. She used it now, in the feeble hope of establishing a connection with him.

“Walter,” she said. “Hello.”

He took a step forward.

Somewhere an impatient voice was screaming at her that she had no time for this, because the policeman would be coming, might be on his way already.

She ignored it.

The policeman was not her biggest problem at the moment.

Walter was.

Walter, who held her pinned in his unblinking stare. Walter, who was so tall, so powerfully built, whose large hands hung at his sides, the fingers slowly curling and uncurling.

“Kill her,” Walter said, his tone quite normal, the words stated casually and calmly. “Break her neck.”

Then with astonishing speed he closed the gap between them, his big hands rising, and she ducked and pivoted away from him, grasping the first object within reach, the large suitcase, and swung it at him, the lid still open, clothes and toiletries spilling everywhere as the heavy canvas case struck him solidly in the gut.

He grunted, grasped the suitcase in both hands, yanked it away, tossed it on the bed.

“Kill her,” he said again. “Break her neck.”

He lunged. She stumbled backward. The bathroom door was behind her, and she pushed it open and darted inside, then shut the door and fumbled for the lock, but there was no lock, damn it, the door didn’t have a lock and now Walter was pressing hard against the other side, his weight and his strength overpowering her, forcing her back, the door easing open and nowhere to run, the room so small and no window and no exit.

“Kill her. Break her neck.”

Stop saying that! she wanted to shout. Just shut up and stop saying it and go away!

He was in the bathroom with her, no expression on his face, no light in his eyes, a huge man who was an automaton in the grip of a trance, and he swiped at her, clutching at her hair, loose strands whisking through his fingers as she spun away from him, trying to maneuver in the tight confines of the room.

Flash of action, his left arm streaking toward her face. She whipped sideways, the blow connecting only with the mirror above the sink, silvered glass fracturing, and she had time to think I’m okay before pain walloped her hard on the back of her head—his right hand, delivering a palm heel strike—and in a plunge of dizziness she staggered through the doorway and collapsed on the floor between the bed and the TV stand.

She was aware of numbness alternating with jolts of pain, and of the feeble clawing movements of her hands on the short-nap carpet, and of bubbles of nausea popping in her throat and leaving a sour taste.

Aware of all this, but not really, because there was no person to register these separate facts. There was no Elizabeth or Kaylie or whoever she thought she was. There was only pain and desperation and then, strangely, one lucid thought.

This is what Cray does to them.

To his victims. That was what she meant.

He’d told her how he liked to strip them to their essence. She hadn’t understood. She did now.

Then the pain was gone, replaced by a cold anger that cleared her mind.

She wouldn’t let him win. Had to get up, run, run now.

But her body wouldn’t obey. Her arms and legs trembled with weakness. She could not find the strength to stand.

Blinking, she turned her head. Walter was still in the bathroom, wrapping his left arm in a small hand towel. He’d cut himself on the mirror’s shards.

He tied the towel in place, then looked benignly at her. He seemed to be in no particular hurry, and of course he wasn’t, because he was a schizophrenic and time did not exist for him.

“Kill her,” he said, as if reminding himself. “Break her neck.”

She was getting tired of hearing that.

* * *

“You remember her?” Shepherd said, keeping his voice calm.

The manager shrugged. “Sure do. Maybe nine-thirty, she comes sashaying in here, asking for a room. So I think she’s a hooker, right? And I don’t want hookers. My husband and me, we run this place, and it’s not the Hilton, I grant you, but it’s respectable.”

“Did you give her a room or not?”

“Room thirty-seven. Left side of the building, first floor. Sort of close by, so I could walk past now and again and check on it. Any noise, any funny business, and she’d be out of here. But it’s been quiet all day. What’d she do?”

“Never mind that. I need a spare key.”

“You bust up the place, you pay for it.”

“I’m not going to bust up anything.” Shepherd took his cell phone from his pocket and used the speed dialer to call Alvarez at his desk. As the phone rang at the other end of the line, Shepherd asked, “What name did she register under?”

“No name. No registration. She paid cash up front. That’s another reason I pegged her for a whore. Now, seeing how you’re after her, I’m guessing maybe she’s something a whole lot worse.”

Shepherd heard a click as the phone was picked up, then a snap of chewing gum and a laconic voice saying, “Alvarez.”

“I found her.”

“What took you so long?”

“That’s funny. I need you and a patrol unit right away.”

“I’ll bring Galston and Bane, the ones who I.D.’d her. They’re still here filling out the report. It’ll be a nice little reunion for Miss McMillan, don’t you think?”

Shepherd nodded. “She’ll be thrilled.”