Beneath a Weeping Sky

TWENTY

Friday May 9th

0721 hours

Day Shift

Where the hell are you, you fucking bitch?

He watched the police station from up the street. It’d been easy to find a slightly different location to park every day. At first he’d sat patiently, sipping his tea and pretending to read the newspaper while he watched the parking lot where the officers parked. He’d spotted the bitch cop’s Jeep on the first day, but it hadn’t moved since. He’d even checked on the weekend, but the Jeep sat there the entire time.

Sitting off her house was out of the question. Not after he’d spotted the two idiot cops up there that day. He’d driven by twice since, taking care not to turn onto her side street. Both times, he was able to pick out a surveillance vehicle. The one time he was certain the house was no longer being watched, a thrill shot through his body like raw adrenaline. He’d parked a block away and crept down the dark alley behind her house. Carefully, he entered her back yard. There was no activity inside the house. The same lights were on as before. He peered through the sectioned glass window of her back door, but saw nothing. And her Jeep wasn’t out front, either.

He wanted to smash the small glass panes of her door. He wanted to go inside and find her. If she wasn’t there, he wanted to wait for her. He ached for it, like a tooth throbbing in his head. But he forced himself not to. He had to wait. He had to be patient.

Headlights appeared up the street, then winked out. A gray Chevy Caprice rolled to a stop a few houses away. Two shadowy figures sat in the front seat.

He quickly lowered himself into a crouch. He waited for a moment to see if they’d spotted him, but neither door opened. Once he was sure, he crept back to the alley and headed back to his car.

Now, sitting in his car in the early morning hours, he ground his teeth together in frustration. He was tired of waiting on this fucking bitch. Obviously, they’d been hiding her from him, which enraged him all the more. If she didn’t show in the next couple of days, he was done waiting. He’d find some other worthless snatch, lay the whammo on her and carve her up like a Christmas goose. That was more than his worthless father ever did, so the son of a bitch would have to be proud, wherever he was. He’d have to know who the better man was.

More than that, if he nailed someone else, they might just take their eyes off of their precious little girl cop.

Then he’d take care of her.

He smiled.

“There it is, Katie,” he whispered in the stillness of his car. “If you don’t show by the end of the weekend, next week is going to be very newsworthy.”

He imagined the news lady, that plastic-faced talking head Shawna Matheson, reporting his deeds to the Joe and Mary Six-Pack crowd that made up the majority of River City. He could see her affected look of contrived gravitas. He could hear the emphasis she’d place on key words in her video report to make her audience listen more closely. It would be so slick, so Hollywood, and yet he knew he’d love it.

Maybe after Katie, he should go after that Matheson bitch. That’d make headlines.

That’d make him quite the man.

He’d be the Rainy Day Killer.

Or maybe the River City Killer. That’d be even better. Maybe after he took care of that Matheson snit, he’d give that reporter lady another call. Maybe he’d tell her how he wanted to be referred to. And she’d make sure it happened, or else she’d find out what the whammo was all about.

He realized he was gripping the steering wheel in two fists and forced himself to relax. It was nice to dream, but the difference between him now and him when he was younger was that now he made his dreams become reality. He wasn’t fantasizing about the whammo anymore. He was living it.

The door to the police station opened. Several male officers filed out, along with a female. He peered closely, but it wasn’t the one he was looking for. It was some blonde. He settled back in his seat. The floodgates were opening now. The graveyard officers would be flowing out for the next ten or fifteen minutes. Katie hadn’t been part of that exodus, though. He wasn’t sure if that meant she wasn’t working at all, or maybe she was on a different shift. Still, she wasn’t using her Jeep or staying at her house. They had to be protecting her, no question.

He ground his teeth, rubbed his palms on his slacks and waited.

Five minutes later, his faith was rewarded.

Katie MacLeod exited the glass doors of the police station. The sight of her caused him to take in a sharp breath. Excitement buzzed through his limbs. He leaned forward, almost expecting it to be some other woman that just looked like her.

No. It was her.

He stared at her as she made her way directly toward the Jeep. Her stride had a confident bounce to it that made his stomach burn. Gone was the slouch. Gone was the meek shuffle. She strode along like everything in world was right. Like she was in control of everything around her. Like she was the queen of the whole goddamn world.

“Oh, I’m going to fix that,” he whispered to himself. “I am going to fix that today.”

0746 hours

Tower sipped a fresh cup of coffee and rubbed his eyes. He felt tired, but refreshed at the same time. On the one hand, he knew he’d had far too much wine last night. And probably too much Stephanie, too, if there was such a thing. He was sleepy and hung over, but in the midst of that, he felt a level of relaxation that he hadn’t experienced since all of this rapist business started.

When he came into the office this morning, he didn’t dive straight into the pile waiting for him. Instead, he’d poured a cup of coffee and wandered around the General Detectives bullpen, shooting the bull with the detectives there. It felt good to argue about something as meaningless as whether the Seattle Mariners were going to have a good season or not.

He avoided Major Crimes, even though he felt like he owed Browning a thank you. There’d be time for that later. He didn’t want to risk running into Lieutenant Crawford and having his good morning spoiled.

Now, seated at his desk, took another sip of the coffee and reached for his pile of registrations. The top one was the printout from the previous night. He scanned it.

“Jeffrey Goodkind,” he whispered. “Time to eliminate another lucky soul from suspicion.”

He noted the address on the registration. It was nowhere near MacLeod’s house, where the vehicle had been spotted. In fact, the address on the registration put him down near Corbin Park.

Tower read the address again.

It was very near. Ten blocks away, in fact.

He swallowed, feeling his pulse quicken.

Careful, he cautioned himself. It’s probably just a coincidence.

A coincidence. That was probably it. How many registrations had he checked? Eventually, one of them was going to be registered to an address near Corbin Park, right? River City wasn’t Los Angeles. It was bound to happen.

Tower checked his license plate list. Next to Goodkind’s plate, either O’Sullivan or Battaglia had jotted down the location where the vehicle had been parked and the time. They’d spotted the car a block away very near the beginning of their shift.

Tower figured they probably did a loop around the neighbor-hood before setting up shop at a good surveillance spot. So what was Jeffrey Goodkind’s car doing parked a block away from MacLeod’s house when he lived half a city away?

There could be any number of explanations, Tower knew. Maybe he had a friend or a girlfriend up there, for example.

On another note, it was possible he didn’t even live near Corbin Park anymore. Registrations were good for a year. He could have moved. All of this could be a giant coincidence.

Tower pressed his lips together. None of those answers felt quite right.

He opened up his criminal database and fed in Goodkind’s name and date of birth. Because the computer system was in-house rather than connected to Olympia like his Department of Licensing computer, the results came back almost immediately.

Jeffrey Goodkind had only two entries. The first read:

VEHCOLLSN / 07-13-1995 / ROLE: WIT

Okay, so Goodkind had been a witness in a vehicle collision the previous July. Tower selected that entry. The details flashed on his screen. Goodkind had been directly behind the number one car when it failed to stop for a red light and crashed into another car. Tower opened up Goodkind’s biographical information. It also showed the address near Corbin Park.

The second entry was more confusing, and one he hadn’t seen before.

JUVDEFRD / 3-14-1988 / ROLE: DEF

The ‘JUV’ meant ‘juvenile’ and the role was definitely ‘defendant.’ But what did the rest mean?

He selected the entry. The computer paused, then a response flashed on his screen.

RESTRICTED.

What the hell did that mean?

Tower leaned back, taking another sip of his coffee. He was starting to get a tingling in his fingertips. After another moment of thought, he hit the PRINT button, gathered up his paperwork and headed down the hall to Crime Analysis.

0749 hours

Where the hell was she going?

Instead of heading north as he expected, the Jeep turned south toward downtown. That confused him. When she entered I-90 eastbound, that made him wonder further. As they cruised eastward at 65 miles per hour, he started to believe maybe he’d figured it out.

She had a boyfriend.

That was it.

The little slut had a boyfriend and she was heading out to his house instead of home to hers.

He glanced at his watch. He was late getting to work now, but he didn’t care. His boss was clueless. Any excuse would do. So he’d follow her out to her boyfriend’s house, then go to work.

At Argonne, the Jeep slid to the right and took the exit. He followed her at a safe distance. Once off the freeway, she crossed the one way street southbound and hooked a left onto the northbound street. Ignoring the traffic behind him, he waited a few extra moments before making the turn himself. With her finally back in his sights, he didn’t want to risk being seen.

Just a couple of blocks to the north, she signaled and turned into the parking lot of a Comfort Inn. He slowed, his eyes narrowing in confusion. What was she doing here? Some kind of rendezvous?

She pulled into a stall and parked. He drove past the hotel, then turned and circled around. Driving quickly around the back of the building, he pulled to a stop on the far side of the parking lot she’d just entered. He put the car into park and stared at her Jeep.

That little tramp.

Whore.

Bitch.

Slut.

She was meeting someone at the motel. Probably a married guy, he figured. But why not just take him up to her house? She lived alone. Or was it someone the neighbors knew?

He bit his lip, thinking. If they were in there having sex, they were extremely vulnerable right now. If he could find a key to the door, he could -

No!

It was too dangerous. He had to wait.

Another vehicle pulled into the lot, an old blue truck. The driver parked it next to Katie’s Jeep, then got out. The man looked older than her from this distance, but that seemed to fit his theory about an affair. He made his way up to the second floor, where he rapped on a door. A woman answered.

Katie.

She smiled and let him inside.

His hands trembled. Oh, it was going to feel good when he finally laid the whammo on this bitch.

Sitting in his car, he debated his next move. He could go to work and wait for another day. Or he could wait here until they were finished and follow her home.

If she went home.

He sat in his front seat, clenching and unclenching his fists. He knew he couldn’t leave. Not now. He couldn’t wait anymore.

It had to be today.

0801 hours

“It’s a sealed file,” Renee told Tower.

“Sealed why?”

Renee shrugged. “Probably because he was a juvenile at the time. Whatever he did was dealt with by the courts, but then they sealed his records.”

“I didn’t think that extended to law enforcement,” Tower said. “I mean, I knew it wasn’t available to the public, but I thought we could at least view it.”

“You can,” Renee said, “Most of the time.”

“So why is this sealed?”

Renee took in a deep breath and looked at Tower. When she didn’t release the air, Tower gave her a questioning stare. Then his stomach sank.

“No. Don’t tell me.”

Renee let out her breath in a whoosh. “’Fraid so. The only time I’ve ever seen this is when the subject was a victim or a suspect in a sex crime.”

“And this entry shows him as a defendant,” Tower finished.

“Yes, it does.”

“So he had some sort of issue back in 1988. The question is, what?”

“More importantly,” Renee added, “Why hasn’t he had anything between then and now?”

Tower cursed lightly. “Could a guy do that?”

“Do what?”

“Be messed up enough as a kid to get involved in some kind of sex crime and then stay clean for eight years as an adult?”

“Of course,” Renee said. “The human animal is capable of incredible things. It’s not terribly likely that he would, but it’s possible.”

“If that’s the case, why start raping now? Built up pressure?”

“Yes,” Renee agreed, “but there’d probably need to be a trigger, too. Something to set him off.”

Tower took a deep breath of his own and let it out slowly, thinking. “Okay, here’s what we need to do. I need to see what’s in this file, for starters. I probably need a warrant for that, or at least a subpoena.”

“That prosecutor, Patrick Hinote? He could help you with that,” Renee offered.

“Good idea,” Tower said. “I’ll give him a call. Meanwhile, I need you to do as much research as you can on this Jeffrey Goodkind.”

“What do you want me to focus on?”

Tower raised his fingers and counted. “Where he works, for starters. And then look for anything that fits your theory about a trigger point. Something that might have set him off.”

“You got it,” Renee said, her fingers already flying over the keyboard.

Tower reached for the telephone.

0825 hours

He was about ready to give up when she appeared at the doorway of the hotel room, carrying a suitcase. She stepped lightly down the stairs to her Jeep. He watched as she stowed her suitcases in the rear of the vehicle.

He frowned, deep in thought.

Here was another wrinkle. Was she taking a trip? That didn’t make sense. The bags were already at the hotel room.

It dawned on him suddenly. He slapped the steering wheel twice, first in frustration for being so dense and then a second time with exuberance for figuring it out.

This is where she’d hidden from him. She’d packed up a bag and checked into a hotel room in order to avoid him. That had been her grand plan all along. The boyfriend was just an added bonus.

She went back upstairs. After a while, she appeared again. This time, she held two much smaller bags. He was fairly certain they were full of girl stuff — toiletries, makeup, curling irons and so forth. She was definitely packing up to leave.

A thought struck him and he smiled.

Maybe she was heading home.

0841 hours

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Tower shouted into the phone.

“I’m sorry,” the tech support agent told him. “I can’t do it.”

“But I’ve got a fucking subpoena!” Tower raged.

The phone fell silent. Then the man said, “Sir, I understand that. I’m not refusing to open the file. I’m telling you that I am not able to open the file. I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“It’s password protected.”

“So who has the password?”

“For Juvenile Superior Court, the gatekeeper is in Olympia.”

“Gatekeeper?” Tower snorted. “What the hell is that?”

The tech support agent’s voice didn’t waver or become defensive. “That is the term for the individual charged with the electronic security and integrity of those files. Our county Superior Court transfers the information to Olympia for central housing.”

Tower shook his head. A dull pain was beginning to throb behind his left eye. “Do you have the number for this gatekeeper guy?”

The tech agent rattled it off from memory. Tower wrote it down and hung up without another word. Then he picked up the phone again and dialed. After five rings, an electronic voice answered. With growing impatience, he listened to the phone tree options, finally selecting what he hoped was the right one.

After two more rings, the line picked up. “This is Jonah Brandenburg,” a voice stated, “head of File Integrity for Juvenile Defendants and Victims for the State of Washington. I’m currently on vacation and will return on May twelfth. If you’re requesting information on a sealed file, please forward a request along with a subpoena to my office. I’m currently experiencing a backlog of two weeks in my response time, so thank you for your patience. If you’d like to leave a message, you may do so at the beep.”

Tower hung up, cursing.

“Dead end?” Renee asked.

“Goddamn government bureaucracy,” he groused. “You get anywhere?”

“Getting there,” she answered.

0902 hours

At first, she’d headed back north. He’d been thrilled at that. Anticipation hummed through him so powerfully that he almost let out a preternatural whine. He breathed in deeply and exhaled long and slow to get control of the urge. His grip on the steering wheel tensed and loosened while he drove.

Halfway to her house, when she pulled into a diner, he groaned out loud.

He parked across the street and watched her go inside. A few minutes later, the older man in the blue truck arrived and went inside to meet her. They sat across from each other in a booth near the window, giving him a front seat view to their little breakfast meeting.

“I guess it’s true,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Sex really does make you hungry.”

He laughed nervously at his own joke, but his mind was whirring. Why didn’t they just order room service? Or was this part of the facade? That if someone sees them having breakfast together in public, that explains why they were together today?

It didn’t make a lot of sense to him, but at this point he didn’t care. He just wished the bitch waitress would arrive with pancakes or whatever the hell they were ordering so that Katie should shove some food down her gullet and get her ass home.

He had plans for her.

0921 hours

“All right,” she said. “I’ve got about all I think I’m going to get for a while.”

Tower grabbed his cup of coffee and sidled up next to her desk. “Run it for me.”

Renee picked up her notepad. “The collision report from 1995 didn’t list a work location, but there was a telephone number. I did a reverse on the number. Turns out he works for Men Only, a men’s suit store on Wellesley Street.”

“I know that store,” Tower said.

Renee cast him an appraising look. “Not from shopping there.”

Tower ignored the jibe. “I drive by it sometimes. What else did you find out?”

Renee glanced back down at her notepad. “Okay, no time for jokes, apparently,” she muttered, searching for her place with the tip of her pen. “I also discovered something interesting when I checked the power records for his residence. Up until April, the account was in the name of a Jennifer Gallagher. Then, in late April, the account was switched to Jeffrey Goodkind.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Well,” Renee said, “you could surmise several things. The first is that she moved out in April and he moved in. But — ”

“But we already know that’s been his address since at least 1995,” Tower finished.

“Right. So another possibility is that they lived together, but changed the account over for personal financial reasons.”

Tower’s eyebrows scrunched. “So this guy has a girlfriend? Hard to believe.”

“I think ‘had’ is a better word to use.”

“Why?”

“I checked with the power company and the phone company for a Jennifer Gallagher. Both sources showed her with a new account as of early April.”

Tower pursed his lips. “So they broke up?”

Renee nodded. “Yes, I’d say so. And did you notice the timeframe?”

“Yeah, right around the time of the Patricia Reno assault.”

“A relationship ending could act as a trigger,” Renee said.

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“I’m not,” she answered. “A breakup is no small thing, but it just didn’t seem like enough of a cataclysmic event to send a man over the edge all by itself. Not a man who has been simmering but remaining under control for eight years.”

“It seems like a perfectly logical trigger to me.”

“Well, either way, that’s why I looked at Jeffrey Goodkind a little more closely. I called Men Only and posed as a wife wanting to bring my husband in. I told them Jeffrey had helped us out last time and asked if we could have him again. The manager said that would be no problem.”

“So he still works there,” Tower observed. “No job loss for a trigger.”

“No. And again, depending on how important his job is or isn’t, getting fired or laid off might be a big deal or might mean absolutely nothing.” Renee put a check mark next to that item on her notepad. “But I had to eliminate it.”

Tower nodded. “That’s just good investigative technique. Process of elimination.”

“Problem is, I was running out of things to eliminate.”

“I run into that sometimes, too,” Tower said ruefully.

“Then,” Renee said, “I asked myself what the biggest stress-related event in a person’s life might be. And then it all made sense.”

Tower twirled his finger in a hurry-up gesture.

“Death,” Renee pronounced.

“Huh?”

“Someone dying is the greatest stressor for most people,” she explained. “So I checked the River City Herald obituaries for anything related to Goodkind.”

Tower raised his eyebrows hopefully, but Renee shook her head.

“Nothing there. But when I didn’t find anything, I tried a Lexis-Nexis search on the last name. There were a lot of hits, but I started with Pacific Northwest cities like Portland and Seattle.”

“That’s a lot of work,” Tower said. “How’d you manage that so fast?”

Renee tapped her computer. “Once I had the articles, all I had to do was tell the computer to search for a mention of Jeffrey Goodkind in any of them.”

Tower thought about it for a moment, then nodded his understanding. “Because he’d be listed as a surviving family member in an obituary, right?”

“There’s hope for you yet, John,” Renee said with a wink. “That’s exactly right.”

“So, what did you find?”

“In the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, I found an obit for Cora Goodkind who is survived by her only son, Jeffrey Goodkind.”

“Amazing,” Tower said. “Before computers, that would have taken days.”

Renee shrugged. “Maybe. Before computers, the networks were people-based. If I didn’t have this here,” she tapped her monitor again, “then I’d have to know a guy at the Seattle PI. I’d make a phone call and he’d get back to me.”

“Still, it wouldn’t be as fast.”

“Probably not. It is pretty amazing.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at Tower. “But what’s more interesting is the date on that obituary.”

“Let me guess,” Tower said. “She died around the beginning of March this year.”

“February 27,” Renee reported. “Which, coincidentally, was around a week before — ”

“Before Heather Torin was attacked,” Tower finished.

“Exactly,” Renee said. “And the death of a mother, particularly one that he likely had issues with would definitely qualify as a trigger.”

“So the death of his mother sets him off,” Tower said, theorizing. “Then he manages to control it again, holding it together for at least another month. But maybe he’s acting hinky or something, because the girlfriend dumps him. And that pushes him over the edge.”

“With the pressure of the mother’s death behind it, I think that’d do it.”

Tower reached out and rested his hand on Renee’s shoulder. He gave her a squeeze. “Renee, you are magnificent.”

“I know,” she said.

Tower turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Men Only,” Tower said. “Sealed file or not, I want to have a chat with Mr. Jeffrey Goodkind.”

0956 hours

Katie pulled up in front of her house and parked her Jeep. She cast a look at the dark red brick of the little home, enjoying the comforting sensation that the familiar sight gave her.

“Be it ever so humble,” she whispered sleepily. Emotion welled up in her chest. Small prickles of tears stung her eyes. Surprised at her own emotion, she turned off the ignition and wiped away the beginnings of tears.

I’m just tired. Tired and glad to be home.

She exited the Jeep, and walked around to the rear. Exhausted from working all night and now with a belly full of breakfast, the task of hauling in her luggage seemed herculean in nature. She considered leaving it for later, but opened the back hatch of the Jeep, anyway. She gathered up all of the luggage, setting it on the damp asphalt of the street while she closed and locked the hatch. Then she trapped one of the smaller bags beneath her armpit, took a bag in each hand and made her way to the front door.

Katie remembered what Chisolm told her at the hotel and again at breakfast.

“Maybe this guy’s gone and maybe he isn’t,” the veteran officer said. “But you need to keep your guard up.”

Katie didn’t want to admit to anyone that while she resented the protective measures while they had been in place, she suddenly felt a sense of vulnerability now that they were removed. That fact, in turn, made her a little bit angry at herself. How did it make sense for her to complain about something on the one hand, but then be glad for it at the same time? And then be mad about both?

Don’t try to understand everything, Katie.

Chisolm didn’t seem to have any difficulty understanding the paradox. He gave her a reassuring pat on the hand at the breakfast table. “You’ll be fine,” he told her. “You’re a warrior.”

That was another instance in which she’d felt emotion welling up inside her, unexpected, uncontrolled. Having the consummate warrior tell her that he looked at her as a peer gave Katie a greater sense of satisfaction and accomplishment than anything her bosses could have bestowed upon her. Respect was hard enough to get from fellow cops. Throw in being female and it got to be about three times as hard. But she had Thomas Chisolm’s respect, and you didn’t get any higher than that.

“Thanks,” was all she’d been able to manage at the diner table, but she supposed that there really wasn’t anything more that needed saying.

At her front door, she set down the bag in her right hand and unlocked the door. As she swung open the front door, the familiar smell of her home washed over her.

Katie smiled and stepped inside. She needed a shower and then a good day’s sleep, but she was home.

0957 hours

He watched her step through the front door of her house. Excitement buzzed through his limbs like an electric current.

“Wait,” he whispered, shifting his aching erection to one side.

She worked all night. She just had sex, then ate breakfast. It only made sense that she’d be going to bed. So he’d wait a few minutes. Let her settle in. Doze off. He’d catch her still half-asleep, so that she would wonder if the cold of his knife against her throat and him thrusting inside her was real or only just a nightmare.

And then she’d find out.

“Wait,” he whispered again. “Just a little while.”

1008 hours

Tower flashed his badge at the store manager. “I’m looking for Jeffrey Goodkind,” he said.

The manager, a tall, effete man that reminded Tower more of a mortician than a suit salesman, leaned forward to inspect Tower’s badge and identification. Satisfied, he replied, “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Goodkind is not at work today.”

“When does he work again?”

“He was scheduled to work today, but he has not yet arrived.”

Tower’s eyes narrowed. “Did he call in sick?”

“No.”

“He just didn’t show?”

The manager nodded. “Yes.”

“Is that normal for him? To just not show up?”

“No,” the manager conceded, then shrugged, “although, he has been acting strangely of late.”

Tower raised his fingers to his face and rubbed his chin. After a moment, he realized that he was mimicking one of Browning’s habits. Dropping his fingers, he asked, “Strange in what way?”

The manager shrugged. “He has just seemed a bit pre-occupied. Not as attentive to his work.”

“Do you know what’s been going on in his life?”

The manager’s eyebrows shot up in horror. “Oh, no. Jeffrey is quite private and I would never think to pry.”

Tower suppressed a sigh. Then he asked, “Does he have a locker or a work station?”

“Not really. He has his own drawer at the salesmen’s desk, though.”

“I’d like to see that, please.”

The manager hesitated. “Do you have a search warrant?”

“Do I need one?” Tower shot back.

The manager pressed his lips together, considering. Then he said, “No, I suppose not. Right this way.”

He turned and walked toward the rear of the store. Tower followed. As they passed the last rack of suits, a series of photographs lined the hallway that led to the back room where the manager was headed. Large block letters proudly pronounced, “OUR SALES TEAM IS HERE TO SERVE YOU!”

Tower slowed, his eyes passing over each photograph. When he reached the one labeled “Jeffrey Goodkind, since 1993,” he stopped.

A photograph of Mr. Every Other White Guy stared out at him from inside the frame, a practiced smile on his lips.

And at that moment, Tower knew for sure.

1011 hours

The pressure was too great. He couldn’t wait any more.

Staring at that hateful little brick house, his hands trembled. The pungent smell of his own sweat filled the cab of his car. He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, trying to force himself to wait a few more minutes.

He glanced down at the passenger seat. The silver blade of the Buck knife radiated a cold light back at him.

The time for waiting is over.

Pick up the knife.

Go inside. Lay the whammo on that arrogant bitch. Slice her. Gut her.

Kill Katie. Kill that cunt.

Kill Cora.

He gave a short shake of his head, trying to clear his mind. He had to be careful. He couldn’t let his rage get in the way. He couldn’t let his mother turn his victory into another defeat by taking away what he most wanted.

Fear.

Control.

Pain.

Vengeance.

Somewhere deep inside the icy core of his soul, he felt a small flickering warmth spring to life. Katie was the only one who had thwarted him since he had become a real man. She was the only one who had defied him. Since that night on Mona Street, he’d heard his father’s mocking laughter in every voice. Worse yet, he’d seen his mother’s hard features in every line of Katie’s face. Just like his mother had done when she attacked him and tore away at his sexual power, Katie’s defiance and her escape robbed him of his manhood. It stripped him of what he’d become.

She had to pay.

His mouth curled into a cold smile. He’d send Katie to hell, where she belonged. Right next to his mother.

“I’m coming,” he whispered, and got out of the car.

1017 hours

“Adam-254, Adam-251?”

Gio reached for the microphone. “Fifty-four, go ahead.”

“Assist the detective. Contact Ida-409 at the west end of Corbin Park.”

Gio clicked the mike, signaling he copied the call. A second click followed, presumably from Ridgeway. Gio was close to the park and drove there in a matter of a couple of minutes. As he turned off Post and into the wide lanes at the west end of the park, he was surprised to see Ridgeway already there. He pulled his car alongside.

“You got here quick,” he said.

Ridgeway grunted back.

“Ida-409?” he asked Ridgeway. “That’s Tower, right?”

Ridgeway nodded, but didn’t say a word.

Gio suppressed a sigh. Instead he said, “You take an oath of silence or something?”

“No,” Ridgeway answered, “but sometimes I wish you would.”

“What’s up, Grumpy Gus?”

Ridgeway’s bleary-eyed stare answered Gio’s question.

“Nothing’s up,” the veteran officer said through gritted teeth. “I’m just tired.”

Gio nodded an apology. Ridgeway accepted it wordlessly and leaned his head back against the headrest.

It was at times like this Gio missed their fallen comrade, Karl Winter the most. Winter knew how to listen, especially to Ridgeway.

The best he could do was sit next to him and know when to remain silent.

1020 hours

He strode down the alley like he owned it.

He did own it.

He was in control.

At her small back gate, he unlatched the clasp and slipped into the yard as quietly as he could. He clutched the Buck knife in his right hand, the blade hidden by the cuff of his white shirt. The weight of the cool metal reassured him.

Confident, he walked to her back door. At the door, he peered through the small glass panes into the house.

No activity.

He strained his ears, listening for movement.

The patter of water and the rumbling whine of plumbing filtered toward him. He glanced at the marbled, frosted window a few yards to his right. Condensation formed on the outside of the window and the glass had a hazy film of steam covering it.

She was in the shower.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, he drove the metal butt end of the knife into the small glass pane in the lower left corner of the back door. He was rewarded with shattering shards of glass. Flipping the knife around, he used the blade to clear out the four-by-four-inch mini-pane of any remaining glass. Then he reached through and fumbled for the lock inside.

First the knob.

He found the small button in the center of the doorknob. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, he twisted it until it stopped.

Then the deadbolt.

The larger locking mechanism was easier to find and to flip to the opposite side. A solid click sent a thrill of success through him.

He opened the door and stepped through.

Inside, the heavy sound of falling water from the bathroom filled the quiet of the house. He forced himself to creep cautiously toward the sound. His eyes flitted around his surroundings as he moved.

He wondered if she brought her gun home.

If so, where did she keep it?

A quick look told him the kitchen counter was clear.

Probably the bedroom, then.

He knew he should go there first and collect it, but he was drawn to siren’s song of the falling water in the bathroom. It sounded so…vulnerable. He imagined her naked body under the shower head, water cascading down upon her. Rivulets of white, foamy soap sliding down her breasts, across her stomach. He could almost see the dark patch between her legs standing out against the lather soap and her pink skin.

I’m going to tear you to shreds, bitch.

I’m going to lay the whammo on you like you’ve never known. And then -

The water came to a sudden stop. The sound of a shower curtain being drawn aside was muffled by the door between them.

A moment of panic struck him, but he pushed it down. Quickly, he adapted his plans. It would have to be an ambush when she stepped out of the bathroom, then.

He moved silently to the side of the bathroom door.

He gripped his knife and waited.

1022 hours

Tower pulled up next to Gio’s car. The two officers looked over at him. Gio’s pleasant features were expectant. Ridgeway’s were sullen.

“Where are we going?” Gio asked.

Tower recited Jeffrey Goodkind’s address. “It’s about ten blocks away,” he added. “Just up the hill.”

“What’s there?” Gio asked.

Tower smiled. “It might be the Rainy Day Rapist.”

He enjoyed the surprise that registered on the faces of both officers, followed by anticipation.

“If,” Tower said, “you’re interested.”

“Hell, yeah,” Gio said.

Ridgeway gave Tower a resolute nod.

“All right, then,” Tower said. “Let’s go.”

1023 hours

Katie scrubbed her hair with a towel, drying off. The weariness from the long night had seeped into her bones. Her muscles felt heavy and weak. The warm breakfast and now the hot shower had only made her exhaustion complete. Thoughts of flopping her head onto the pillow in her own bed and slipping into a deep sleep filled her mind.

It felt good to be home again. To dry off with her own towel. To see her own robe hanging from the back of her own bathroom door. She imagined that she’d sleep better tonight than she had for weeks.

Katie wrapped the towel up on her head. She reached for a second blue fluffy towel, drying off her body with long strokes. Slight stubble on her legs reminded her that she hadn’t shaved them while showering.

Oh well. It’s not like I’m going on a date.

Finished, she re-hung the towel on the rack. Then she put on her battered terry cloth robe and opened the door.

1024 hours

When the door opened, a rush of smells blasted outward, riding on the steam. Soap. Linen.

Her.

He trembled.

His fist tightened around the handle of his knife.

* * *

As soon as she stepped through the door, she felt an eerie malevolence in the room that made her skin prickle. Before she could calculate a response or process the sensation, a figure appeared in front of her. A bare hand shot toward her throat.

Instinctively, Katie knocked the grasping claw aside in a sweeping block with her left forearm. The collision of her fleshy muscle and his bony hand reverberated through her arm and up to her shoulder.

“Bitch!” he snarled.

Katie’s eyes were drawn to his face. An enraged variation on the police sketch glared back at her.

A moment later, another attack flashed out at her. She brought her opposite forearm across to block this second attack. Something bit painfully into her arm.

He pulled his hand back. “You like that, bitch?”

Katie gaped down at her right arm. The white terrycloth sleeve was stained bright red.

The knife came slashing back at her in something akin to a sword stroke. She held up her hands defensively. The cool blade sliced through the flesh of several fingers, leaving an icy trail behind.

Katie let out a cry. A moment later, warmth flooded through her fingers. Pain throbbed in her hand with each heartbeat.

He drew back the knife to slash again, but paused a moment. He shifted the handle in his hand until the blade was pointed downward so that he could stab instead of slash. Katie stared at the silver blade tinged with her own blood. Fear raced through her body.

“I’m going to lay the whammo on you,” he whispered hoarsely, his tone almost reverent.

Katie met his gaze. A sheen of lust and anger coated his eyes, radiating outward. She read her own death in the black pinpricks of his pupils.

He stabbed downward with the knife.

Katie brought her foot up sharply, driving it into his groin with every ounce of strength she could muster. Her instep landed with a solid thunk. The force of the blow rang up her leg as far as her hip.

As soon as the kick landed, his downward stab faltered and fell to his side. A low groan escaped his lips. He reached for his groin and sank to his knees.

Katie sidestepped the kneeling assailant and sprinted for her bedroom. At her bedside table, she grasped the portable telephone. The receiver slipped out of her bloody hand, falling to the floor. She knelt and picked it up. With trembling, blood-soaked fingers, she punched in the numbers 9–1 — 1.

Her heart racing, she pressed the receiver to her ear.

One ring. Then two.

She watched the bedroom door, her entire body trembling with adrenaline.

Three rings.

“Nine one one, state your emergency.”

He burst into the room with a roar. His face was contorted in rage.

“YOU BITCH!”

He held the knife out in front of his body in his right hand.

“I need police here now!” Katie screamed into the telephone.

“What is the problem?” the calm voice on the other end of the line asked.

He lunged forward, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set.

Katie tossed the telephone aside. She dove onto her bed, tucking and rolling across the mattress. As she left the far side of the bed, she fell to the floor on her knees. Scrambling to her feet, she raced toward her dresser. Her service pistol rested there.

His eyes followed her motion towards the gun, and he moved to cut her off.

* * *

The 9-1-1 transfer popped up on Janice Koslowski’s screen. As always, the urgency of the call was indicated by the red font and the blinking letters. With a few quick keystrokes, she opened the call. Calmly, she read the text.

Female voice states she “needs police here now.” Male voice in background calling her “a bitch.” Phone dropped. Open line, sounds of struggle.

Janice looked at the address. It was immediately familiar, but it took her a moment to remember why she knew it. Then she gasped. Without pause, she depressed her microphone lever and spoke.

* * *

“Any available units,” the car radio crackled. “Code Ninety-Nine at 5610 North Calispel. Officer MacLeod’s residence. All available units, respond.”

Gio slammed on his brakes and cranked the wheel, whipping his patrol car around. Then he buried the accelerator. The police cruiser leapt forward, the engine opening up with a throaty roar as he headed north.

* * *

Get the gun!

Katie reached the dresser first. She grasped the pistol by the grips and popped the snap with her thumb. With her bloody left hand, she clutched at the holster and pulled.

The holster slipped from her hand.

He reached her, his free hand lashing out at her. The blow caught her square in the nose, driving her back into the wall. Stunned, she flailed at the holster. Her wet fingers were beginning to go numb. She found one of the belt loops and pinched. With her right hand, she jerked the gun from the holster.

Another crushing punch thundered into her face, this one flush in the eye. Stars ricocheted through her vision. A forceful slap knocked the gun from her hand and sent it clattering away.

He took a fistful of her hair and yanked, pulling her forward to the ground. Her vision cleared just as he jammed her face into the wooden floor of her bedroom. She felt his knee between her shoulder blades. The weight of his body pressed down on her, pinning her to the ground.

“Not so tough without a gun, are you?” he taunted her. “Without that, you’re just another worthless bitch.”

Katie struggled to breath. She flailed with her arms, trying to find purchase on something, trying to dislodge him from his position of control.

He chuckled darkly. “You can try as much as you want. It won’t matter. I’m stronger than you. Much stronger.” His voice took on a faraway note. “Finally, I’m much stronger than you.”

Think, Katie! Don’t let him beat you! Think!

“Cops,” Katie wheezed,” are…coming…”

She felt his motion shift and heard his voice nearer to her ear. “Maybe so. Maybe they’ll even catch me this time. But not before I lay the whammo on you.” He pressed the cold blade against her cheek. “So it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

Katie stopped struggling. She let out a whimper of fear.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “Now, don’t move.”

The weight slid off her shoulders, but the blade remained resting against her face. He tore aside her robe, baring her skin. He paused for a moment. Katie felt his knife hand tremble. A cold, sick feeling broke out through her entire body. She pushed it away. Instead, she focused her anger.

Then she heard the clattering noise of his belt unbuckling.

Now! It has to be now!

Katie waited.

The unmistakable sound of a zipper descending seemed to fill the room.

You can’t let this happen. Not again.

Next came the rustle of his jeans as he pushed them over his hips.

Now!

Katie waited.

When she felt the rigid warmth of his erection brush against her bare buttocks, she twisted away from the knife. Whirling and sitting up, she swung her left hand blindly, fingers extended. The knife edge of her hand caught him in the temple.

He grunted in surprise.

Katie didn’t stop. She reached out with both hands and gouged her fingertips into his eyes.

A primal scream erupted from his mouth. He lashed out madly with the knife, clipping her in the shoulder with the point of the blade.

Katie yelped and let go. She scrambled backward across the wooden floor until her back slammed into the wall.

“You fucking cunt!” he yelled. His empty hand rubbed at his eyes while he held the knife out in front of him, slashing defensively from side to side. “You blinded me!”

Katie heard her own breath racing in and out of her lungs. She watched him in horror as he rose to his feet.

Where were the police?

Crouching in the corner, with the bed to her left and the wall to her right, she felt like a trapped animal. She told herself that she should get up, scramble over the bed and run out of the house. Before she could react, she heard a siren in the distance. Momentary relief washed over her.

He removed his hand from his face. Blinking, he looked around the room. For a moment, she wondered if he’d be able to see her. Then he cocked his head slightly and his gaze locked onto her.

“I hear them coming,” he rasped. “And I can still see you.”

Katie tensed herself to leap to her feet.

“You’re fucking dead, bitch,” he growled, and stepped forward.

At that moment, Katie spotted the dark black metal of her gun resting on the floor, slightly underneath the bed. She lunged for it, clutching it in her bloody hands.

His heavy thudding footsteps seemed to shake the world as he drew nearer.

Range-master Sergeant Morgan’s booming voice over-shadowed even that sound as she remembered his frequent advice for taking down an enemy combatant.

Fire into the pelvic girdle.

She tightened her grip on the gun.

Break the body’s support.

Katie swung the gun toward his advancing figure.

If a man can’t walk, he can’t fight.

Without aiming, she pointed the pistol toward his waist and slapped the trigger.

The gun barked in her hands, the muzzle flashing.

He didn’t stop.

She fired again. And again. The gun bucked in her hands as she brought the sights back to bear on his pelvic girdle. She blasted a fourth time, then a fifth.

He paused, then stumbled brokenly backward. With a loud crash, he collapsed to the ground only a few feet from her. His arms and chest shuddered.

Katie indexed, placing her trigger finger along the side of the pistol. She stared at the quivering heap of evil on her bedroom floor through the sights of her gun. Rage suffused her. Her own hand trembled with fury.

He tried to rape me.

He tried to kill me.

In my own home.

He should die.

With some effort, she steadied her hand. The unmistakable yelp and wail of police sirens rose in volume as they grew closer. The acrid smell of cordite and the coppery odor of blood filled her nostrils. Katie drew a bead on the back of her attacker’s head, her trained eye focusing on the front sight. She moved her finger from the indexed position onto the trigger.

He should die.

A gurgling breath leaked out of his mouth.

Katie pressed the trigger slightly, swallowing in anticipation. She could do it. She knew she could. All it would take is for her to apply few pounds of pressure on the trigger and a 186-grain bullet would blast into the back of his head.

Blood coursed down her fingers and dripped from her extended hands onto the floor. The dollops that landed on the wooden floor seemed louder than her own breathing, louder than the approaching sirens.

All she had to do was squeeze. Kill him. Kill the memory of Phil. Just another pound or two of pressure and the gun would explode with the same fury and pain she’d carried with her all these past years. The blast would fill the room. The gun would leap backward in her hands. The bullet would sizzle through the air, impact his head and end his miserable life. No one would know any better.

She would feel good about it.

She would be free.

She could do it.

Another wheezing breath came out of him.

He should die.

Katie MacLeod lowered her gun.

1026 hours

Gio screeched to a halt in front of Katie’s house. He leapt out of the patrol car, leaving the engine running and the door standing open. He sprinted up her walkway, his long legs eating up the ground quickly. At the same time, he drew his sidearm on the run. At her door, he stopped and checked the knob.

Locked.

Gio drove his shoulder into the door.

It didn’t budge.

He cursed loudly, stepped back and delivered a powerful, thrusting kick directly next to the doorknob. With a crash, the doorjamb shattered. The door swung open and Gio dashed inside, his gun extended in front of him.

“MacLeod?” he shouted. He scanned the living room and kitchen for any movement. The bathroom door stood open, the remnants of steam still visible on the mirror. Another siren drew closer, followed by another set of tires screeching to a stop.

He could detect the unmistakable scent of fired gunpowder hovering in the air. And something else, too, but it was a moment before he recognized the odor.

Blood.

“MacLeod?” he shouted again. “Where are you?”

The only room that remained was the bedroom. He shuffled toward it, his gun trained on the doorway.

“I’m in here,” Katie called out weakly. Then, a moment later, she added, “Code Four.”

Gio lowered his gun but didn’t holster. He strode quickly into the room. Katie sat with her back to the wall on the far side of the bed. She’d drawn her knees up to her chest and wrapped herself in her bloodstained terry cloth robe. Her wrist rested on a raised knee. A still-smoking automatic dangled from her hand.

“Are you all right?” Gio asked.

Katie didn’t answer. Instead, she stared at the ground in front of her. Gio followed her gaze, moving around the foot of the bed.

In front of her lay a man, collapsed in a twisted heap, a bloody knife still clutched in his hand.

Gio covered the man with his own gun and brushed the knife away with his foot. The blade skittered and spun across the wooden floor. Then he reached for his radio.

“Adam-254, situation is Code Four here,” he transmitted. “I need medics to this location.” He hesitated, then added, “Two ambulances.”

“Copy.”

“And start a supervisor,” he said. “This is an officer-involved shooting.”

Behind him, Gio heard the stomping of heavy feet. Before him, he heard the rasping, gurgling breath of the downed suspect. He ignored both sounds. Instead, he stepped over the bent form and knelt in front of Katie. His uniform blocked her view of the attacker. Gio looked into Katie’s eyes. He waited until their focus shifted and met his own.

“You did it,” he told her softly. “You’re okay.”