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The Rule of Skin ...
Billy inhaled deeply.
He sensed some other aroma: extremely offensive. What, what?
Oh, he understood. With so many foreign workers in the medical fields, the foods the hospital prepared included those aromatic with curry and garlic.
Disgusting.
Billy finally entered the heart of the hospital, the third sub-basement. It was completely deserted here. A perfect place to bring a victim for some deadly modding, he reflected.
The elevator would have surveillance cameras so he found the stairwell, entered it and started to climb. At the next sub-basement, number two, he paused and peeked out. It was the morgue, presently unstaffed. Apparently the medicos had not managed to kill anyone yet today.
Up another flight to the basement level, a floor with patient rooms. Peering out through the fire door's greasy glass, crosshatched with fine metal mesh, he could see a flash of color, then motion: a woman walking down the corridor, her back to him.
Ah, he thought, noting that while her skirt and jacket were navy blue, the scarf around her neck was red-and-white shimmery silk. It stood out like a flag in the drab setting. She was alone. He eased through the door and followed. He noted her muscular legs - revealed clearly by the knee-length skirt - noted the slim waist, noted the hips. The hair, in a tight bun, was brown with a bit of gray. Although the sheer pantyhose revealed a few purplish veins near the ankle, her skin was superb for an older woman's.
Billy found himself aroused, heart pounding, the blood throbbing in his temples. And elsewhere.
Blood. The Oleander Room ... blood on the carpet, blood on the floor.
Put those thoughts away. Now! Think of Lovely Girl.
He did and the urges dimmed. But dimming isn't vanishing.
Sometimes you just gave in. Whatever the consequences might be.
Oleander ...
He moved more quickly now, coming up behind her.
Thirty feet away, twenty-five ...
Billy closed the distance to about fifteen feet, ten, three, his eyes staring at her legs. It was then that he heard a woman's no-nonsense voice behind him.
'You, in the cap. Police! Drop the backpack. Put your hands on your head!'
CHAPTER 20
About thirty feet away from the man, Amelia Sachs steadied her Glock and repeated, more harshly, 'Backpack on the ground. Hands on your head! Now!'
The woman he'd been about to assault, only a few feet from him, turned. The confusion in her face became horror as she stared at her would-be assailant and understood what was happening. 'No, please, no!'
The attacker was in a jacket, not the longer thigh-length coat that the witness reported their unsub wore, but he had the same telltale stocking cap and black backpack. If she was wrong, she'd apologize. 'Now!' Sachs called again.
With his back to her still, he slowly lifted his hands. As his sleeve rode up she got a glimpse of a red tattoo of some kind on his left arm, starting at the back of his hand and disappearing under his coat. A snake, a dragon?
He was raising his hands, yes, but not dropping the backpack.
Shit. He's going to rabbit.
And, sure enough, in an instant, he tugged his hat down into a ski mask and leapt forward, grabbing the woman, spinning her around. He got his arm around her neck. She cried out and struggled. Her dark eyes were wide with fear.
Okay. He's Unsub 11-5.
Sachs eased forward slowly, the blade sights of the Glock searching for a clear target.
Couldn't find one. Thanks largely to the panicked hostage, who was struggling to get away, kicking and twisting. He pressed his face close to her ear, apparently whispered something and, with wide eyes, she stopped struggling.
