Chapter 27

When the door opened, a good-looking, slim young man with a shock of blond, curly hair greeted her with an inquisitive look. Nora guessed his age close to hers.

She swallowed the excess saliva in her mouth and said, "I'm here to see Perry Gant. Do I have the wrong house?"

The blond, blue-eyed man smiled warmly. "You have to be Nora Patterson. Perry has talked about you, always in complimentary terms, of course. You have the right house. Come in. My name is George Trent."

He guided her back to a great room with a vaulted ceiling and offered her a drink, which she refused.

"It's late," she said. "Is Perry here?"

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry. I'll let him know you're here. Please, have a seat. Make yourself at home."

A few minutes later, Gant entered the room wearing hiking shorts and a black t-shirt. He was barefooted. Casual clothes suit him, Nora thought. A coat and tie hide his blatant masculinity.

"Patterson," he said, "George said you'd come calling. I'm surprised. Did George offer you a drink? Coffee? Or scotch? I seem to remember you're a scotch drinker, or am I mistaken?"

I need a drink, she thought. Once again, my lurid imagination and propensity to act before thinking have placed me in an embarrassing situation. Gant isn't the killer. "A little scotch over ice would hit the spot."

"Excellent. I'll join you," he said and moved to the bar. "Scotch is my drink of choice, too. That's probably why I remembered. George can't abide the stuff." He fixed the drinks, handed one to her with a napkin, and sat in a chair facing her.

"What brings you to my home this late on a Sunday night? Has there been a break in the Jenkins' case. Has Carrie Jensen's body surfaced?"

Nora blushed. Perhaps she could bluff her way out of the awkward scene, stammer an apology and leave as quickly as possible, but when Gant viewed the new sketches tomorrow morning, including the one in her purse, surely he'd deduce the reason for her visit.

"Carrie's still missing," Nora said and opened her purse. "But the sketch artist completed a series of drawings changing key elements in Hanna's suspected stalker's appearance."

"Yes, Pierce told me about your idea, a good idea, by the way. Do you have the sketches with you? Do they point to a specific person?"

Nora pulled the folder from her purse. "I feel like such a dolt, Perry. It's embarrassing, but I see no way to explain why I'm here except to come clean and tell you how foolish I've been. One of the sketches - this one -..." She handed the sketch to Gant. "... portrays the stalker's appearance if he were bald and clean-shaven. Does the sketch remind you of anyone?"

Gant studied the drawing. "Yes," he said finally, "but for some reason, I can't put a name to the face."

Nora exhaled an embarrassed laugh. "Believe it or not, I thought you resembled the man in the sketch. That's why I felt so embarrassed, still do. Obviously, you're not the serial killer we're looking for."

"Me?" He looked at the sketch again. "Not even close. The only resemblance I see is the fact that the man in the sketch is bald like me." He gave her a piercing look. "You had to have other reasons to suspect me besides this drawing. What were they?"

Nora knew she'd sound foolish; nonetheless, she outlined her reasons. When she stated, as suggested by the profile that Gant had lived in New Orleans as well as Phoenix, Gant suddenly jumped to his feet.

"Peter Killian!" he exclaimed. "Killian's the man I think the sketch resembles. When you mentioned I'd lived in New Orleans, his name suddenly came to me." Gant flopped back into the chair and picked up the sketch to study it again. After thinking for a few seconds, he said, "He's a possibility, Nora. As you've probably guessed, I'm gay. George is my lover. We've been together in an exclusive relationship for five years now. We're fully and completely committed to each other, but until I met George, I hung out with a gay crowd, especially while I was attending Tulane University in New Orleans. That's when I met Killian."

Gant paused and licked his lips. "Killian's bald like me. No, not like me. I'm partially bald but look better completely bald, so I shave my head everyday when I shave my face. Killian doesn't have a hair on his head, just his face. His head looked to be as smooth as a baby's bum. No shadow or stubble, at least I couldn't see any the day I bumped into him at Scottsdale Fashion Center about four months ago. He wasn't happy to see me and fidgeted, nervous and upset during our entire conversation. He told me he'd put his past behind him. He'd had quite a past, too. As a teenager, he was a male prostitute. He's working for Intel now - down in Chandler."

"Would a gay man abduct, rape, mutilate and murder little girls, Perry. Wouldn't he abduct little boys instead?"

"Frankly, I don't know if Killian is gay or not. Just because he sold his body to the gay community in the French Quarter of New Orleans doesn't mean he's gay. It only means he was a male prostitute. I've never availed myself of a prostitute, but I knew an older man who used their services, and he told me some of them weren't gay. Also, many men are bisexual.

"Killian fits the profile, Nora. He's the right age, lived in New Orleans and now lives in Chandler, or at least works in Chandler. He's a loner. I asked him if he was in a relationship. He wasn't. If he works for Intel, he functions in our society, and I suspect, as the profile suggests, that he was abused as a child, like most male prostitutes. Frankly, I was surprised to see him. The life span of male prostitutes is decidedly short."

"If Killian's a possibility, we should pay him a visit, Perry."

"I agree. First thing tomorrow..."

"Tonight, Perry. If he has Carrie, and she's still alive, we should..."

"You're right. While I'm changing my clothes, call the phone company and get his address. We'll visit Peter Killian tonight." He rose and hurried away.

Sean Daniels snored. In the past, David had noted drunks usually snored when sleeping, and Daniels fit the pattern. His loud snorts and whistles reverberated off the walls.

Did Daniels believe in ghosts? If not, there was no time like the present to make him a believer. David shook him until he opened his bleary eyes.

"What? What the hell?" Daniels sputtered.

"Vincent killed me, Sean." David's stentorian voice echoed in the room.

The half-drunk Irishman reared up in the bed, his eyes wide with fear. "Who? What?"

"It's Clarence, Sean. I'm dead. Vincent killed me. Shot me in my left eye. The bullet exited the back of my head. My blood and brains ruined the Berber carpet in the boardroom."

"Clarence?"

"Yes."

Daniels closed his bleary eyes and shook his head as he sank back to the bed. "I'm dreaming," he muttered.

"No, Sean. You're awake. The meeting was a setup. Vincent killed me, and I killed Vincent. Who profits from our death? From Royce's death? Think, you lousy drunk!"

David slapped Daniels' face. "Think! Who profits?"

Daniels bellowed and, with arms flailing, reared back up in the bed. "Who hit me?"

"Royce hit you. He's here with me. Vincent, too. You pissed Royce off, Sean. It's your drinking. It pisses Royce off, so he hit you. Slap him again, Royce. He deserves it."

David's forceful backhand knocked Daniels prone. With a roar of anger, Daniels rolled from the bed and stood defiantly in a boxer's stance wearing only his briefs. A small paunch hung over the waistband. He swung his head wildly from right to left searching for his assailant.

"You look utterly silly, Sean. You can't fight the dead. You can't hurt us. You can hurt the living. Who profits from our death, Sean?"

"Where are you? What are you?"

"I've already answered those questions. Vincent and Royce are here with me. The dead gangs all here. The members of the cabal have had a falling out. The cabal is no longer an operational entity. Matt will be arrested soon. He's a child molester. That leaves you and James, and you're a drunk - useless."

"Child molester?"

"Yes. Matt and his wife, Tammy, like to have sex with little girls, Sean. The authorities know all about Matt's perversion. James tipped them off. Do you have any secrets, Sean? If you do, beware James' wrath. He'll use your secrets against you." David sighed. "Slap him again, Royce. Make the drunk understand."

David slapped Daniels and immediately backhanded him, spinning him on his feet. "We'll be back," David said. "We want revenge, and you will exact revenge for us or we'll haunt you for the rest of your drunken days."

David switched connections to James Wilson. He wasn't snoring, and he wasn't asleep.

Nora's cell phone rang. It was Pops.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Working. I'm with Perry Gant. We're following up a lead that could identify the serial killer."

"Oh. Does David know?"

"That I'm working, yes. About the lead, no. Where are you?"

"At the apartment. I fell asleep at Carol's house."

"You should have stayed the night."

"That wasn't our agreement."

"True. Pops, I don't know how long I'll be. We're en route to Queen Creek. It'll be close to midnight when we arrive at our destination, so don't expect me home before two o'clock, at the earliest."

"I'll wait up for you."

"Don't. You'll be dead to the world tomorrow if you do."

"All right. I'll sleep in your big bed. Join me when you arrive. That way we'll wake up together."

Nora smiled. "Sounds good. You're a sweet man, Pops. I love you. Goodnight." After she hung up, she turned to Gant. "My father. He worries about me."

"I understand. George wasn't happy when I left the house, either. He won't sleep a wink until I'm back."

David didn't see Wilson as a paranormal believer; more likely, the small man was a skeptic, so playing the part of a ghost with Wilson would be a waste of time. Bello had scoffed at the concept of Gunn under Wilson's control. Why? To David, Wilson wielded more power than any other cabal member. Wilson had a measure of control over many democrats elected to office, both nationally and at the state level. Of course, Gunn was a mountain of a man, at least 300 pounds, maybe more, and Wilson was short and thin, tiny for a man. Perhaps Bello was referring to Gunn and Wilson's physical statures.

Wilson looked resplendent in a red silk kimono-like dressing gown. When the small man leaned forward to reach for a drink, David noticed a black dragon embroidered on the back of the garment. Wilson was reading, his short legs curled under him like children often sat.

Why was he awake at this hour? It was two-thirty in the morning on the east coast. The television wasn't turned on, so Wilson wasn't aware of the double homicide that had taken place in New York earlier. Soft classical music filled the room.

Wilson glanced at his Rolex wristwatch and placed a bookmark in the book to save the page he was reading. He rose, stepped into a pair of slippers and padded from the room. David followed him down an ornate staircase, like the one in Gone with the Wind. Wilson stood in the foyer. He appeared to be waiting for a late-night guest. Seconds later, the doorbell sounded, proving David's assumption accurate.

Wilson opened the door to an Amazon. The woman was David's height, maybe taller. Her hair was black and long, and her heavy makeup gave her a severe look. Bright red lipstick gave her stern mouth a perpetual pout. She stepped into the foyer, slammed the door behind her and shouted, "You scrawny little piece of shit. Why did you call me out at this time of night?"

"I'm sorry, Mistress Valerie," Wilson whined, bowing his head.

The woman dropped her raincoat to the floor. "Pick up my coat," she ordered. "You must be punished for disturbing my sleep. Take me to your dungeon."

The dominatrix wore a leather bustier, tightened with straps like a corset. The garment rode high on her ample hips, and long leather boots rose to mid-thigh. She wore no panties, and her completely shaved, large vulva presented gaping labia, rouge in color like the splotches on the woman's face cheeks. A colorful dragon tattoo covered her right shoulder and arm.

Wilson picked up the coat and hung it neatly in the foyer closet.

"Move it, you worthless toad!" the woman shouted.

Wilson hurried from the foyer into his den, pushed a button under a shelf, and a portion of the bookcase opened to a room. Obviously, David's search of Wilson's home had not been complete. The dominatrix stepped around him and into the room. She flipped a switch, and the room brightened, but not much. The lighting was dim. This wasn't Mistress Valerie's first trip to Wilson's dungeon, David surmised.

Fifteen minutes!

No! I want another day with her. She loves me. I love her. Please.

Midnight, no later. Look at you. You fucked her less than an hour ago, and you're hard again. You want to take her nipple. You know you do. Can feel your teeth break the skin? Can you taste the blood that erupts? Can you feel the piece of flesh roll around in your blood-filled mouth? Sure you can. Do it!

Please.

Imagine your fist in her little cunt, a tight cunt, not like Mama's.

"She'll die," Peter Killian said out loud.

Yes! Watch her eyes. Her eyes will tell you when her body can no longer sustain her. It is the ultimate moment, one you cherish, one you need.

He was naked, and his cock throbbed, fully erect. He took it in his hand.

No! Don't touch yourself. Save it for her bloody gash. Fist her bloody cunt like you fisted Mama's, and then fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.

Killian stood with his hands at his sides and his head bowed.

It's time. Where's your knife? You'll need your knife.

Another day would be nice, but...

She isn't perfect. She's deceiving you. She doesn't love you. She's pretending to love you to save her life. You know how it works. You know about the Stockholm syndrome. Take her nipple. Fist her bloody gash. Fuck her one last time, and then find another, the perfect One.

Killian opened a dresser drawer and removed his knife.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Carol, it's Joe. I'm sorry for calling so late, but I'm worried about Nora. She's working, says she has a lead on the identity of the serial killer. I called David, but he didn't answer. I'd feel more comfortable if he were watching over her."

"If he's tripping, which is probably the case, I can't wake him, Joe."

"Would you try? Maybe he's just asleep. I have a bad feeling, Carol."

"All right. I'll call you back."

Joe waited and worried. They'd changed the wedding scene David had witnessed in Joe's future, but he wasn't naïve enough to believe altering wedding plans would stop Nora from being killed.