The Way You Look Tonight (34 page)

‘I do. We run a tab for him and he settles up at the end of each month. But last Christmas he was laid up and didn’t show up again until March. He insisted I send him his account in
the post every month from then on, so that he didn’t fall behind. I’ve got the address downstairs in a drawer somewhere. Come with me.’

Less than two minutes later, Lee was standing outside on the street with a scrap of paper in one hand and the borrowed walkie-talkie in the other. He pressed the transmit button. ‘Ben,
come in. It’s Foster.’

After a couple of seconds the radio squawked and Ben’s voice crackled out of the ether.

‘Boss? You got something?’

‘I think I may know where Woods has been hiding out. It’s about three minutes on foot from where I am now. The address is . . .’ He looked at the piece of paper he was holding.
‘It’s 28 Wilson Street. But listen, Ben, if he’s there he’ll have Stella with him. We can’t just raid the place. If by the grace of God he hasn’t killed her
already he surely will if we barge in. I want you to assemble a tactical unit at the end of the street and await my orders. I’m going there to assess the situation. Out.’

Lee checked his weapon.

Then he started running again.

He hadn’t used the nails yet. They’d do for later. For now he’d just tied her hands and feet. The only items of clothing he’d removed were her
shoes; that made it easier to secure her by her ankles. He would cut her clothes off when the time came, as he did with all of them.

She was coming round fast now so he went downstairs to make himself a scotch on the rocks that he could sip while he chatted to her. He might as well be comfortable. As an afterthought he
filled a glass of water for her. The chloroform would have left her mouth dry and although that wouldn’t interfere with the screaming he did want to be able to hear what she had to say
beforehand.

When he got back upstairs with the slopping glasses her eyes were open and she was licking her lips the way they all did after they regained consciousness.

‘Hello, Stella. How you feeling?’

Because of the way he had arranged her on the home-made crucifix – those bed boards had been perfect for the task – her head was about eighteen inches higher than his so that she
was looking down on him. When her eyes had been shut it didn’t matter, but now it made him feel uncomfortable.

He decided to ignore it. If it hadn’t bothered the Roman centurions, he wouldn’t let it bother him.

She didn’t answer his question so he tried again.

‘Want some water?’
He held up her glass while he simultaneously took a belt of scotch from his own.

She stared dully at him. He grinned at her.

‘Cat got your tongue? C’mon, take a sip.’

He held the glass up to her lips but it was awkward trying to give someone a drink from below and the water slopped down her chin and onto her blouse.

‘Shit, I’m sorry. Hang on.’

He went into the bathroom and soaked a none-too-clean bath sponge under the cold tap. Then he went back to her and held it to her lips.

‘Try it this way.’

She sucked a little of the moisture up.

‘There you go. Better?’

She spat the whole lot into his face.

He cursed and stepped backwards, spilling half his drink and almost tripping up over what was left of the coil of rope he’d used to bind her. He cursed again as he steadied himself,
then put what was left of his drink carefully on the floor and crossed the room to the ruined four-poster. He dried his dripping face on one of the pillows before turning to face her. He was
smiling.

‘I’m not gonna tell you that you’ll be sorry you did that, Stella, because before very long you’ll be regretting much more important things, like that you were ever born
at all. But I’m gonna cut you some slack before I start cutting
you
. I guess you must feel pretty strange. I mean, there you were, thinking you were my nemesis – that’s
the right word, isn’t it, college girl? – and here we are. Turns out I’m actually
yours
!’

He roared with laughter before going back for his drink. He sipped it, considering her awhile.

‘Did you see me on the beach that evening in Key Largo? I think you did, Stella. That’s why you went down to the water, isn’t it? I spooked you some. You know why that was?
Because we’re kinda the same, you and me. Creatures of instinct.’

She continued to stare at him. Jesus, she was starting to seriously annoy him.

‘Stella, I can
make
you talk, you know that. Look.’

He went to the bag in the corner that held the things he’d need later, and pulled out the knife, holding it towards her so she could see its slimness and length and glittering
sharpness.

‘I bought this, just for you. You know what I do with these special knives, don’t you? Of course you do, you’ve seen the photographs. And I’m going to use this one to
make you scream, you know that too. But I’d rather you spoke to me first without any . . .
encouragement
. Won’t you parlay with me a little before we get started? It’ll
be your last chance to make any kind of noise that anyone could understand.’

Her eyes remained fixed on his, and he sighed.

‘I have to tell you that this is
real
disappointing, Stella. You a psychologist and all. I thought we could discuss stuff. I thought we could discuss
me
. I’d really
like to know what you think about me, what I am, what I do. I’ve read so much
crap
in the newspapers about me. No one gets it
at all
.’

He put his head on one side.

‘You ever read
Paradise Lost
, Stella? Lucifer’s cast out of Heaven but he doesn’t give a shit, he just sets up in Hell as the Antichrist with all the other guys
who’ve been cast down with him. I keep it by my bed. I read it most nights. My God, it’s beautiful. Most beautiful fucking poem ever written.

‘I don’t think I’m the Antichrist, Stella – I’m not crazy, though I know you think I am – but I really dig him. He’s so brave and perfect and
powerful
. He can change anything he wants – he arranges it so that Adam and Eve are kicked out of the Garden of Eden, for Chrisakes. And look at us two now. Me down here, you up
there . . . you with the whole world on your side, and me all alone. Yet I’ve prevailed, haven’t I, Stella? I’ve fucking prevailed.’

He swilled the scotch in his glass and then drained it off in a single swallow.

‘I’m gonna die soon, Stella, but the Antichrist will be waiting for me. He’ll be pleased with me, and everything I’ve achieved. He might make me one of his fallen angels.
He might even—’

He stopped. He could see he was wasting his breath on her. He tried another tack.

‘Aw c’mon, Stella.
You
explain how you worked me out so fast, and
I’ll
tell you why I do it. Or why I
think
I do it. Jesus, I know I’m a
psychopath. It’s how I’m wired. But like I said, I’m not mad. I was hoping you’d explain me to me, before I give you a practical demonstration of my methods. Talk to me, my
English rose! To put it crudely, you’ll buy yourself some time if you do. Hell, you might even cure me! Think of that! Then I’d cut you down from the cross and we’d go praise the
Lord in some church and afterwards see a movie together! How does that sound?’

Just that fucking stare. OK, OK . . .

‘All right, I see how it is. So here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going back downstairs to replenish the drink you made me spill. I’ll probably make myself a snack
too because I’m getting hungry, and I don’t like to work on an empty stomach. When I’m done I’ll come back up here and give you one more chance to shoot the breeze. If
you’re still not interested, then we’ll move on to the main feature. And remember, Stella, I’ve seen it before. I know the soundtrack. And I know how it ends.’

Lee reached Wilson Street in just over ninety seconds. He jogged down its crumbling sidewalk, looking for number 28. He quickly worked out it was going to be on his left, and
probably near the very end of the road.

No wonder Woods had been able to hide out here so successfully. The whole street was practically derelict. Charlie Booker must have been one of the last people still living there.

He reached number 26 and stopped. He had to get his wind back: if he went into 28 heaving like this he might as well announce his arrival through a bullhorn.

When he was breathing normally again, he walked as casually as he could past the house, all the way to where the road ended in some kind of stinking, fetid bog. He turned around and strolled
back, more slowly this time, stopping in the shade of a tree that stood in the front yard of number 30.

He could see a wooden lean-to garage built on the side of Booker’s house. He scanned the windows of the building for movement and when he was satisfied that there was no one looking down
onto the street, he walked quickly to the garage doors. They were slightly ajar. He pulled one open as gently as he could, wincing as it squealed on its hinges. Then he peered through the gap
he’d made.

Parked inside was a green and cream Ford Country Sedan.

Lee pulled the radio out of his back pocket.

‘Foster here,’ he said quietly. ‘Ben, where are you?’

The response came immediately.

‘Sir, twelve of us are about to leave headquarters. We’re in three cruisers. ETA Wilson Street two minutes. Where are you?’

‘Outside number 28. Woods is definitely here – his car’s in the garage. I’m about to make an entry into the house. Stand by. Remain at the end of the
road until I order otherwise. Do not, repeat not, initiate radio contact.’

‘Understood.’

Lee slipped the radio back in his pocket and drew his automatic pistol, clicking the safety off as he did so.

He had no intention of going in through the front door. It was probably locked and could be alarmed or even booby-trapped.

He returned to the garage. Sometimes there was an inner door that connected to the house. He slipped inside, found the light switch, and turned it on.

No door.

He crept around to the back of the house, stepping on the planks of the ruined boardwalk as close to the walls as he could so they wouldn’t creak and groan. Even so, he made more noise
than he would have liked.

He approached a filthy window, half-drawn tattered curtains hanging on either side, and dropped into a crouch so he could peer through one of the dirty panes of glass at the bottom.

He was looking at Woods. The man was standing profile to him, digging into a can of baked beans with a spoon and cramming them into his mouth.

Lee’s mind raced. He could carry on trying to find a way in, or he could . . .

Fuck it. He’d shoot the bastard where he stood and argue the toss later.

One, two, three . . . he stood upright and swung into the firing position.

Woods had left the kitchen.

Lee swore under his breath. Then he told himself to get a grip. He still held the element of surprise. He knew Woods was inside. Woods did not know that he, Foster, was outside.

He
had
to find a way in, and fast. God willing, Stella might still be alive and unharmed.

He sidled along the back of the house. Reaching the corner, he looked down at a manhole cover with a raised handle. It was half-buried under dead leaves but when he swept them clear away he
decided it wasn’t actually bolted down.

Bracing his feet either side, he tugged at it as hard as he could with both hands. After a few moments it suddenly broke away from its seating, almost sending him toppling backwards.

He was looking at a wide metal chute that sloped diagonally down into what he assumed was a cellar. A moment later a dreadful smell wafted out and he fought back the instinct to retch.
He’d encountered the smell of death before and in all likelihood Charlie Booker had to be the source of this appalling stench.

But he had found his way in, and Lee’s hopes lifted. Holstering his gun, he lowered himself into the stinking chute.

He slithered, bounced and crashed down and landed, bruised and half-winded, on his side. After a few moments he was able to look around him. Enough light was coming through the shaft above to
make things out reasonably well. There were a few empty apple boxes scattered around and some old sacks piled up at the foot of a precarious-looking wooden staircase in the far corner.

Lee crossed to the stairs and kicked the sacks to one side. The stench intensified tenfold as he exposed the upper torso of a man. The face was black with blood – it looked to Lee as if
the guy’s teeth had been knocked out – and the throat was livid with bruises.

Charlie Booker’s last role. Murder victim.

Lee climbed the stairs as quietly and as quickly as he could, praying the door at the top wasn’t locked. He eased back the handle and the door opened a fraction. Lee put his ear to the
crack. He could hear nothing.

He drew his gun again and moved silently into what turned out to be the hall. The kitchen where he’d seen Woods was to his left, and there were two rooms ahead of him to the left and right
of the stairs.

Lee crept forward, gun extended, and cleared both rooms in turn.

The bastard must be up on the first floor. With Stella.

He began to climb the stairs, carefully keeping to the sides of the treads as he had outside on the boardwalk. This time he made absolutely no noise and as he passed the halfway point he could
hear the sound of a voice talking in a steady drone. It had to be Woods. And if he was talking, it could only be to Stella. She was still alive.

He had to pause for a moment to allow a wave of sheer relief to pass through him. Then he was moving again. When he reached the landing, Woods’s voice was a little more distinct and he
could make out what someone was saying.

‘. . . you won’t, you won’t. Just don’t say I didn’t give you the chance for some friendly conversation, Stella.’