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She raised her eyebrows. “Antiquing?”
“After that I’m going to visit Bobby Battle’s family physician. I have some questions to ask that might clear up a lot. Last but not least I’m heading to D.C. to purchase a certain device that might assist us greatly. ”
“And that’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Gee, thanks for all your trust in me.”
He rose. “Listen to me, Michelle. If I told you exactly what I’m thinking and I turn out to be completely wrong, it might make you trust the wrong person. Until I know if I’m right or not, keep one thing in mind: until we catch this person, no one is your friend. And I mean no one.”
She stared back at him. “Are you trying to scare me?”
“No, I’m trying to keep both of us alive. We’ve already taken two shots. I don’t want the third to be the charm.”
CHAPTER
81
WHILE KING WAS HAVING
his late night epiphany and conference with Michelle, a man with murder on his mind had entered the residence of Jean and Harold Robinson. Wearing a black hood, he’d opened the basement-door lock and slipped inside. It was easy when one had a key, and he did, having used the impressions he’d taken at the shopping mall to create one. Before entering the house he’d cut off the phone lines. Inside, he moved quickly up the stairs, the layout of the home well known to him. There were four occupants, and he knew where each was located, having scouted out the residence several times. For good measure he’d also studied a schematic of the house that was conveniently displayed on the builder’s Web site.
As he’d deduced in the shopping mall where he’d first spotted the soccer mom Jean Robinson, the family had a security system but didn’t use it. The three children—the infant he had waved to in the van and two older boys—were asleep on the upstairs level. The wife and husband had a master suite on the main level, only the husband wasn’t home, which was why he was here tonight.
The heat came on with a shudder, flooding the house with gas-heated air. Under the cover of the sound he flashed down the hall to the master bedroom. He listened at the door for one-two-three beats. All he heard were the soft snores of Mrs. Robinson, waiting for him without even knowing she was. He opened the door and closed it softly behind him. His eyes had long since adjusted to the dark. Jean Robinson was a small lump on the left side of the California King bed. She wore a white sheer nightie. He’d been peering in her window when she was changing into it. She had a bad habit of not closing the blinds all the way and leaving the light on when she undressed. Because the window faced the backyard, she probably assumed it was private. She’d assumed incorrectly, of course, as most people did about having any privacy at all. There was always someone watching. Always.
She’d gotten back in shape quickly after her third child. Her tummy was flat once more, her breasts still large from nursing the infant, her legs slender, her butt fleshy but in a very attractive way. Her husband no doubt loved her, and they had a healthy sex life together. Yet what did that really matter to him? He wasn’t here to rape the woman, only to kill her.
The gag was stuffed in her mouth in an instant, cutting off any sound she might have made. After a second of confusion as to what was happening to her, every muscle in her body tensed. He pushed against her from behind, crushing her to the bed. Yet she was stronger than he would have thought; she fought back. Her hand reached back, gripped the hood and pulled it off.
He panicked and slammed her head against the hard wood of the headboard, once, twice, a third time, until he felt her go limp. Once more into the solid oak, and he thought he heard her skull fracture, if one could hear such a thing. While one forearm levered into the back of her neck, his free hand frantically sought out his hood. He found it gripped in her fist. Yanking it free, he pulled it back on. Putting his arm under her small waist, he lifted her completely off the bed and slammed her headfirst against the wood one final time.
He flipped her over and looked at her eyes. They were open, staring, lifeless; the blood from her crushed head ran down, staining her exposed breasts. He pulled the nightie all the way off and flung it across the room. He lifted her naked body up and set it on the floor. He took the steak knife he’d pilfered from the Robinsons’ kitchen and proceeded to mark her skin in very intricate ways. The police should have no trouble getting this one, he thought as he worked away. He took the risk of switching on a small light on the nightstand and used the knife blade to dig under her fingernails, extracting pieces of his hood from them. These he put in his pocket.
He took her watch from the nightstand, set it to six, pulled out the stem and wrapped the band around her wrist.
Finished, he felt for her pulse, just to be sure. It had gone for good. Jean Robinson had ceased to be. Next stop for the woman, the licensed butcher, Dr. Diaz. Harold Robinson was now a widower with three young boys to care for. And the world would go on, which proved his point entirely that none of it really mattered. We’re all replaceable.
He grabbed the nightie, which might have traces of him on it, and stuffed it into his pocket. He didn’t have the luxury of vacuuming up after himself, because of the home’s other occupants; indeed, he was fortunate that the sounds of their mother’s being beaten to death hadn’t roused the two older boys.
He turned back once more to look at his work. Yes, it was all nicely set up—first-rate, in fact.
Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson.
He went to the kitchen, found her purse, took out her cell phone, hit the directory, obtained the number he wanted and called the good husband, who was on the road, not too far from here. He said four simple words. “Your wife is dead.” He then hung up and turned off the phone. He reached up on top of the kitchen cabinet and retrieved the bug he’d planted there in an earlier burglary. He’d no longer need it.
Now he had one more task to perform, and then it would be over, at least for tonight. He started to the back stairs leading to the basement.
“Mom?”
He froze there in the hallway as the light in the upper hall came on. Footsteps approached; they were short, halting strides; bare feet sliding along wood flooring.
“Mom?”
The little boy appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down. In one hand he clutched a stuffed dog that he was dragging along. He was clad in white underpants and a Spider-Man T-shirt. He rubbed sleepy eyes with a small, dimpled fist.
“Mommy?” he said again. Still looking down, he finally saw the shadow of black hood at the bottom of the stairs.
