Sacred Evil (Krewe of Hunters #3)

Sacred Evil (Krewe of Hunters #3) Page 51

He took a deep breath. And then he followed the dog, mumbling something to the desk sergeant on the way out.

Each step of the way, the dog waited for him. He knew where Jude’s car was. He jumped through the door and waited for Jude to get into the driver’s seat.

“Well, which way, boy?” Jude asked. “Or is this as far as the craziness takes us?”

The dog barked. Jude eased the car out. Traffic was minimal, but he didn’t know where he was going. But each time he neared a turn, the dog went crazy until he veered his car into the right lane.

He had just realized that the animal seemed to be leading him home, when his cell phone began to ring.

He glanced at the caller ID. It was Judith Garner.

“Jude, I got a hit off the hundred-dollar bill. You’re not going to believe it. I mean, I still can’t believe that, good as we are, I got a known fingerprint off that bill!”

“Judith, you’re amazing,” he said. He’d just taken the turn down his street; the dog’s tail thumped happily but silently on the seat next to him. “I’m going to kiss your feet later. Who?”

He didn’t say goodbye; after she answered, he hung up and called Jackson Crow as he stepped down full throttle on the gas pedal.

The dog wanted him, and that meant…

Oh, God.

She saw him standing at the doorway to Jude’s office, and she wondered if she was imagining a man again, because he was wearing black, with a dark brocade vest and a shoulder-caped cloak. His hat was a stovepipe.

But he had no face.

No. She wasn’t imagining him, and he wasn’t a ghost. If only he were. He had no face because he was wearing a white theatrical mask; it was the sad face of the duo that signified comedy and drama.

“I’d never thought that anything could be so good!” he said, staring at her. She was aware, although she couldn’t see his lips, he was smiling. Gloating. “The others were really random. Well, I can tell you now, I guess—Angus picked the others. He said it was easy. People will do just about anything for a few minutes of fame. All he had to do was tell them that he could get them into the movies. And, of course, he didn’t run around finding brain surgeons! They fell for his lines so easily. They went where he wanted them to go. They did what he wanted them to do. Anything—just for a chance to be in the movies. But, you know, the last girl he killed in London—before coming to the States—was Mary Kelly. Prostitutes then, prostitutes now. All they want is fame and fortune, and they want to use you to get it. Jonathan picked up a little cutie, even if she was a prostitute. But, you see, you’re really no better. Young and gorgeous, and you’re really kind of a whore, too, huh, sleeping with the cop when you haven’t really known him long at all. You fit the bill nicely. And, imagine! You’ll be found in the lead investigator’s own apartment! Is that rich, or what?”

Whitney told herself that she hadn’t had that much of the coffee; she could move. She had to move. She had to draw her gun from her holster, and shoot the bastard.

But she couldn’t make her limbs work. He dropped his medical bag in the hallway, walked to her and stooped down and drew out her gun, studying it. “Yep, FBI issue. Not that it’s going to do you any good now.” He reached out and touched her cheek with his gloved hands. “Pretty, pretty, pretty thing! But you’re really just a weirdo, you know.”

He tossed her gun under the desk, still hunched down at her side.

Whitney was amazed when she was able to almost form a word. “Why?”

He grinned. “Angus Avery is going to make my career skyrocket. And all the Sherry Blancos of the world will be nothing but dirt beneath my feet!” he said. “And, of course, he taught me all about Jonathan Black—and the power of Satan.” He gave a little shudder. “Can’t believe you figured out where Jonathan was buried. But Angus got it all right a long time ago. He is a New Yorker, and you’re not, but…”

He stood again. “Time’s a-wasting, girl! Your lover-boy cop won’t take forever writing up that report.” He looked at his watch and shrugged. “I should have had hours, but…well, I’ll make do with the time I have.”

“But…how?” Whitney managed to say.

“Ah, how, you ask? You never figured that out? You just don’t understand the power of fame, and you should. Of all people, you should have understood. It was easy. I worked downtown on that movie. I knew the police station. I hung around as near to it as I could, and I watched who came and went, and I listened to everything said by everyone who came from the building and passed me by. All I had to do was a little flirting with a pathetic computer nerd.”

“Computer nerd?”

“Hannah. She was the easiest. I met her at a coffee shop. I flirted with her. I told her I was going to make movies. She was so easy…I never let on who I was. I always pretended to be so flattered that she thought I looked like the Bobby Walden. I said I knew directors—I said I could get her extras work, that I’d done extras work…she was so gullible. She never knew how much she gave away!”

He couldn’t resist bending down by her again. “She never will know. And if she begins to suspect that I’m not the man she thought I was…well, I’ve gotten really good at this. Angus taught me well. I know how to find little Miss Hannah, and make sure she disappears. If fact, when I finish with you, I think I’ll pay a call on her.”

He walked back to the hallway and picked up his medical bag. He opened it, and then held up a long, sharp knife. He glanced back over at her. “It’s a Japanese carving blade, if you’re interested. Light steel, and one of the finest.”

He studied it with appreciation for a moment.

Whitney felt the seconds of her life dwindling away. Mind over matter wasn’t working; the world was out of focus and she couldn’t will her limbs to work.

But as he stood there, still admiring the glint of the steel, the door that separated the apartments suddenly flew open. Andrew Crosby—blood dripping from his head—reached for her, dragging her through the open doorway and into his apartment.

He slammed the door. Whitney felt pain in her hand as he stepped on her fingers. “Sorry, sorry, oh, God, he got your gun! I can’t call for help, he smashed my cell. And yours…where the hell is your cell phone?” He patted her body. “Shit! It’s on the floor in there somewhere. Whitney, do you hear me?”

She struggled to sit up and was intensely gratified to see that she could move again; the more she tried to move, the more she could.

“Help me up!” she told him.

He struggled and did so. As she gained her feet, they heard the force of Bobby Walden’s body slam against the dividing door. It shuddered, and held, but he slammed against it again.

A second later, the door splintered and broke. Whitney struggled for the buffalo skull hanging on the wall. Andrew didn’t protest as she dragged it down. As Bobby crashed like a bull into the room, she cracked it with all her strength on his head.

He fell between her and Andrew, and he quickly staggered up, the knife still in his hands. He let out a bellow and turned on Andrew.

“Here, you bastard! I’m the one you want!” Whitney screamed.

He turned, the white theatrical mask he wore seemingly cast in a puzzled expression.

“Andrew!” Whitney cried. He understood her. Bobby Walden did not. Nor did he seem to realize that now, even if he killed them both, he was caught. He was never going to move on to superstardom—his skin and blood were in the horns of the buffalo skull and Forensics would discover his identity for certain.

Andrew bolted for the door. Whitney tore back into Jude’s apartment and dived beneath the desk. She couldn’t reach her gun. It had skittered too far back.

And Bobby was coming.

For a moment, stars burst before her eyes, followed by blackness. She blinked. She came out from beneath the desk.

She was dimly aware that she heard a dog barking again, but she didn’t know from where.

And a ghost dog couldn’t help her now!

As Bobby Walden came in, pausing for balance against the door frame, Whitney stumbled into the living room, desperately seeking a weapon. She stood for a moment, swaying herself, darkness before her eyes. She blinked furiously. He was now stumbling his way after her.

She hurried for the rear den, falling against the door and then righting herself. There was only one bolt on the fire escape window.

It was like moving a thousand-pound steel object, but desperation, the fight for her life, sent adrenaline into her system, giving her strength. She got the window opened just as Bobby fell into the room.

She almost made it out the window; he caught her arm.

The barking was louder now.

He ripped her back into the room. He showed her his hands. “Was Mary Kelly strangled first—or did he just slice her throat? Your choice, Agent Tremont!”

She saw stars beginning to pop out in front of her eyes again, but when she blinked, they were gone.

And something was different.

The room was filled with women. Ghostly shades and figures, in contemporary and period dress. Bobby must have felt them somehow, because he hesitated.

“They’re all here, Bobby,” she told him. “They’re all here, all the women you and Angus Avery killed. They’re here to see that you’re dragged to hell.”

He let out a roar of anger, looking around.

He could see them, she thought.

“Bitches, whores!” he railed. “You got what you deserved! And she’s going to join you, and we’re all going to hell!”

He fell down on top of Whitney and his fingers wound around her throat.

Andrew, his face and scalp bloodied, was just running out the front door when Jude arrived, screaming for help at the top of his lungs.

Jude caught him. “Dad!”

“I’m all right, I’m all right. You’ve got to get in there—”

“Whitney?” he said desperately.

“Your place.”