Perfect Nightmare

Chapter Twenty-eight

She is truly the devil — it isn’t just her looks, though of course it was her looks that first told me what lurked within her soul.

I was almost afraid to bring her here, but now that I have, I know I’ve done the right thing; I shall keep her in exactly the condition — and the environment — she deserves. And the time will come when she will understand why she is here, what she has done.

I wish I could visit her more often, but I know I cannot. I must be patient. But patience is so hard when I feel this desperate hatred inside me.

Did she feel what I felt when I touched her body? Her skin is even softer than mine, and her fragrance — a fragrance that holds me still in thrall — lingers on the tips of my fingers and in the depths of my nostrils, and even as I sit writing these simple words in the loneliness of my chamber, I can smell her once again — even see her, stretched out on her mattress, lying in the darkness. Does she sleep at all, or does the evil inside her keep her as wakeful as it does me?

Is she dreaming of me as I shall dream of her tonight when at last I put aside my pen and drift into my own dark sleep?

Perhaps our dreams will come together, and we shall touch again.

And if we do, I hope she feels the pain I shall feel.

Perhaps I should deal with her — with both of them — right now. But patience must be my watchword. Everything must be done correctly, everything perfectly planned, all things executed in precise order.

It must all be done right.

But it’s so hard — so hard to keep away from her, now that I have her within my grasp.

She looked frightened when I visited a little while ago. She needed water, and she was terribly hungry, and I gave her just enough to give her hope.

She moaned, of course, and pretended to turn away, but I know it meant nothing at all, for even as she made her feigned protests, she gazed at me in a way that showed me her true desires as clearly as if she were pressing her naked flesh close to my own.

I stripped away the soft material that covered her loins and slipped it into my pocket.

It’s still there as I write, and even though I hold a pen in my fingers right now, the simple knowledge that in a moment I will once again clutch that foul fabric — will once again press it to my nose to breathe in the evil scent that emanates from the secret places of her body — makes my own body shiver with an anticipation that verges on ecstasy.

She will know. Soon she will know.

Soon they both will know.

But I shall not give in to my desires, not until the time is right and all of them are here. Then, after her scent has reminded me one more time that I now hold her in my power, I will press that fabric into these pages and keep it here forever.

As I will keep her here forever…

Kara Marshall gazed unseeingly out the train window, the clacking of the wheels on the tracks — a sound that normally lulled her into a half doze within moments of leaving the Camden Green station — doing nothing at all today to calm the turmoil of her mind.

She had to do something! And she was going to do something, the moment she got to the city.

Unconsciously, her hand closed tighter on the bag filled with the posters she’d made up last night. Except they weren’t really posters — they were just sheets of standard size copy paper showing an image of Lindsay and pleading for any information about where she might be.

And Kara’s phone number.

Not that it was going to do any good, for deep in her heart she knew — knew with a terrible certainty — that Lindsay hadn’t simply taken off for a few days.

Someone had taken her.

Turning away from the world racing by beyond the train window, she remembered that there were people around her. People who might have seen Lindsay.

Pulling one of the posters from her bag, she began to circulate through the train, showing it to anyone who would look at it. Half the people simply turned away; the rest shook their heads sadly and looked at her with pity in their eyes.

When Kara had reached the last car, she collapsed into a seat and stared vacantly at her daughter’s image.

And felt utterly helpless.

Was she going to show the poster to ten million people? And even if she could, what good would it do? It doesn’t matter, she told herself. You have to do something, and there isn’t anything else you can do.

She got off the train at Grand Central and took the subway south to Spring Street, emerging from the station into the streets of SoHo. And everywhere she looked — on every kiosk and lamppost — she saw masses of posters just like hers, advertising everything from rock groups to performance artists to housecleaning services to free kittens. On some of the kiosks, the posters were layered more than an inch thick. Even if she put hers up, how long would they remain uncovered? A day? An hour? Five minutes?

Steeling herself, she began. She went into every shop, every store, every gallery and restaurant along Spring and Prince and Houston. Wherever they let her, she taped a poster in the window, and sometimes taped one to the outside if they wouldn’t let her put one inside.

But none of them would let her show Lindsay’s photo to their customers. Not in the restaurants, not in the shops, not in the galleries.

When her stomach finally told her she had to eat something, she bought a hot pretzel and a bottle of water and walked up to Washington Square to eat the makeshift snack. The pretzel seemed to have no flavor at all, and she could barely swallow the water. Finally, she threw the last bite to the pigeons, stood up, took a deep breath and began her work again.

By four o’clock she was numb from repeating her questions. She was almost out of posters, and had seen some of the ones she’d put up earlier already covered by posters for other things.

How many girls went missing in New York every day, apparently with no one giving a damn about any of them, let alone her own daughter?

Kara felt like crying, but would not. Instead she took another deep breath and looked around to get her bearings.

She was on the corner of Bleecker and Lafayette, only a few blocks from where she began. She’d been in the city nearly all day, and had covered only about twenty city blocks.

Manhattan had almost seven thousand city blocks.

She had not even made a dent. She felt exhausted, broken, and almost overwhelmed with hopelessness.

She wasn’t going to find Lindsay this way.

So what was the use?

Before she could decide what to do next — call Steve or start back home — her cell phone rang. She glanced at the display, didn’t recognize the number, but pressed the key to accept the call.

“Kara?” a woman’s voice caroled. “Hi! It’s Rita Goldman!” For a moment Kara couldn’t quite place the name, but then the woman spoke again, and Kara remembered who she was. “I’ve found the perfect apartment for your family. It’s a three-bedroom, two bath with a great view on West Eighty-fourth. Lots of light, and you’ll love the price. The sellers are highly motivated—”

Kara clicked the phone off without speaking at all.

Rita Goldman. Their agent in the city. And she didn’t even know about Lindsay.

With everything that had happened — the TV coverage, the stories in the paper, the dozens of calls she’d made and the hundreds of posters she’d put up — even their own agent didn’t know that Lindsay was missing.

The world was just too big, and there were too many places someone could hide a girl.

Finally it all caved in on Kara. She sank to the curbing on a corner in the middle of the city, put her head on her knees, and began to cry.