Kill Her Again

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“ Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Pope groaned. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven. Come on.”

He groaned again. “Give me a break. This is the best sleep I’ve had in a decade.”

“So that’s how it is, huh? You have your way with me and now you want me to get lost?”

Pope stifled a laugh. Opened his eyes. If any other woman had asked him this during the last couple of years, he probably would have said yes. He’d been a walking zombie, thinking about nobody but himself.

Eat. Gamble. Get high. Fuck.

Oh, and make sure you spend as much time as possible letting everyone around you know how miserable you are.

This wasn’t something he was particularly proud of, but in one day-and one unbelievable night-McBride had changed all that.

Just the sight of her now, sitting on the edge of the bed, fresh from a shower, her hair slicked back, a towel wrapped around her, made Pope want to reach out just to make sure she was really there. That she wouldn’t disappear on him.

As crazy as it sounded, he was in love with her.

And it was a feeling he’d never felt this strong before. Not even with Susan. A jump-up-on-Oprah’s-sofa kind of feeling that he would’ve made fun of only a day ago.

But not now.

Now he understood.

And despite what they’d been through, he wanted her to understand, too.

“Come here,” he said, taking her hand.

She leaned forward and kissed him. “That’s more like it. But I wasn’t kidding, it’s time to get up. We have to go.”

“Why? You’ve heard from Jake?”

“No, but I’ve got a lead. At least I hope it’s one.”

“What kind of lead?”

“I won’t know until we get there,” Anna said, climbing off the bed. She went to a chair, tossed her towel aside, and picked up her panties, stepping into them. It’s funny what a night in bed can do to a woman’s modesty.

Pope watched her and couldn’t help thinking lascivious thoughts. She was breathtaking.

“Get where?” he asked. “Where are we going?”

“Allenwood.”

He sat up. “Allenwood?”

“It’s near Salcedo, about a three-and-a-half-hour drive.”

“I know. It’s where the amusement park is. Big Mountain.”

“Was,” McBride said. “The place has been closed down for nearly twenty-five years. The town couldn’t afford to demolish it, so they just let it rot.”

“And you know all this how?”

McBride strapped her bra on. “I took a little field trip while you were sleeping.”

“You what?” Pope got out of bed, approached her. “Jesus, Anna, what were you thinking? That guy could be out there somewhere. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“And interrupt the best sleep you’ve had in a decade? I don’t think so.”

She grabbed her blouse, slipped into it, but he took hold of her arm. “Quit being so goddamn cavalier. I don’t know if what happened in here last night meant the same to you as it did to me, but I don’t want to lose you.”

She stopped, touched his cheek. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t go far. Just to the manager’s office to use the computer.” She gestured to her Glock, which lay in its holster on the dresser nearby. “And I took protection.”

Pope still wasn’t happy. But what could he say? When it came down to it, she’d probably handled herself better with the gypsy than he had. The twin defenders, too.

He released her and let her button her blouse.

“I saw him,” she said.

“Who?”

“Red Cap. The gypsy.”

“What?”

“Relax. It was in a photograph. From 1881.”

1881? What the hell?

Pope was glad Jake wasn’t around to scream, Bullshit.

McBride went to the dresser, picked up a photo, and showed it to him. A young gypsy girl. A dark-haired beauty.

“I found this in Susan’s notebook. It’s the girl from the locket. I think it’s Chavi.”

Then she turned it over, showing him a cryptic message written on the back in Susan’s handwriting, with Anna’s translation beneath it: M Zala Knows All.

Anna told him about a morning spent searching the Internet and about an entire collection of photographs she’d seen online, one of which included Red Cap.

“You sure it was him?”

She picked up a sheet of paper and handed it across to him. “He’s younger, but it’s him, all right.”

It was a computer print-out of another photograph. The quality wasn’t the best, and the face looked even more deformed, but it was, without a doubt, the same man who had attacked them in Pope’s upstairs hallway.

“I don’t get it. How could he still be alive?”

“How does he do anything he does? Maybe Antonija Zala can tell us.”

“Who’s that?”

She gestured to the name scrawled on the back of the photograph. M Zala. “Hopefully someone who knows her.”

“There are probably dozens of Zalas all over the world,” Pope said. “What makes you think this one’s related?”

“Because she lives in Allenwood and I don’t like coincidences. Besides, I’ve got nothing else.”

Pope thought about this, then nodded. “I’ll take a shower and get dressed.”

He started for the bathroom, but when he got to the doorway, McBride said, “By the way, have you ever done any photography?”

He turned. “Not really, why?”

“I saw a portrait of Jonathan O’Keefe-the one who took the photos? Rumor has it that he and Chavi were lovers.”

“So?”

“He had your eyes.”

Pope smiled, holding her gaze. “That explains a lot,” he said.