Dane sighed with relief. Marlie hadn’t failed; they all knew, and it was just a matter of proving it, that Gene Alden had probably murdered his wife and tried to set it up so that it looked like one of the serial murders. Alden had likely thought that, since the media had reported there was no evidence left behind, he would be safe when investigation turned up only forensic material that could be linked to him; after all, he lived there.
“Take him in for questioning, and find out about any life insurance policies he had on her,” Bonness said. “Or maybe if he caught her fooling around. I’ll try to calm the reporters down, but I can’t say much until we actually charge the guy, so they won’t believe me.” He looked depressed at the thought of facing the horde of shouting reporters.
“At least we’ll be able to do something about this one,” Freddie said.
Trammell walked over to join Dane, and they went outside. Reporters were mobbing Bonness, shouting questions at him. He was trying to talk, but they kept interrupting him. “I guess Marlie didn’t have a vision with this one,” Trammell said.
“Not even a glimmer, but it was scary anyway; it wasn’t a vision, but this afternoon she sort of locked on to him. He had picked out his next victim, but something happened and he lost her.”
Trammell whistled. “How’s Marlie?”
“On edge. It’s wearing her down.”
“No wonder. I wish there was some way to make it easier for her.”
“I’ll make damn sure she’s okay,” Dane said grimly. “By the way, how’s the work going on my house?”
“The floors are almost finished, and the furniture will be delivered this weekend. You can move back in on Monday, if you want.”
Dane snorted as he got in his car. “Get real, buddy.”
Trammell laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. See you in the morning.”
As Dane had expected, Marlie was still awake when he got there. “It wasn’t him,” he said, and watched the tension ease out of her face. She looked very small, curled up in a corner of the couch with her robe pulled tightly around her. “Probably the woman’s husband did it, and tried to make it look like the other murders.” He held out his hand to her. “Come on, honey, let’s go back to bed.”
Janes carefully controlled his elation Friday afternoon as he watched the indignant customer stalk away. Annette was there, so it wouldn’t do to let even a hint of his emotions show. At last! He was going to savor this one; too much time had passed, three weeks, for him to accurately compare it with the last one. Besides, he had concluded that it was the haste of the last punishment that had ruined it for him. He would do this one the way it should be done, with slow and careful planning, letting the anticipation build. He needed at least a week to do it properly.
He checked the calendar, though of course, he didn’t need to. It was just a part of his incredible precision. Yes, the earliest possible date would be next Friday night. The weekends were the best because those were his off days, and he could sleep late the next day. Let the media hoopla, satisfying as it was, die down a bit. The frenzy had nothing to feed on, though there had been that silly burst of hysteria the other night when some salesman had offed his wife and tried to blame it on him. It hadn’t worked, of course; the stupid bastard hadn’t had the same attention to detail. The cops had immediately seen through him. The television reports had sounded a tad disappointed.
Yes, this one would be good, maybe the best yet. The woman had been a complete bitch, the kind he had always despised on sight: lean, tanned, brittle, overloaded with jewelry of questionable taste. She flaunted her money. She might have a security system, or even guard dogs. The possibility was intriguing. It would be a real test of his genius, if she did. He disregarded the probability of a husband; that had never stopped him before.
He looked down at the name she had scribbled, repeating it in his mind, savoring the syllables. Marilyn Elrod. Anticipation was already flooding his body with energy. Marilyn Elrod. He hummed a few bars of a song, substituting her name. Mar-uh-lynn, O Mar-uh-lynn, ta dum de dum something. It was played before the Preakness race. The joke was, she didn’t know she should be running.
Friday night, Marlie asked him how work was coming along on his house. Dane lied without hesitation. “It’s almost finished,” he said. “There’s been a delay on the furniture Trammell ordered.”
The furniture was in place, and everything looked great, but he had no intention of moving out of Marlie’s house until the killer was caught. Another weekend had come and gone without a murder. A few sarcastic reporters were beginning to ask if the police were certain there was a serial killer, or had they just been spooked by a similarity between the murders of Nadine Vinick and Jackie Sheets?
“Feel anything today?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing concrete. Just kind of uneasy.” And when she had been driving home, she had passed a young couple so engrossed with each other that they had been passionately kissing there on the sidewalk. She had been in that automatic state that takes over when driving, her guard down, and suddenly she had been reading the young man. Again, it had been such a shock that she had immediately shut down, withdrawing from the emotional contact. She had had the wry thought that she hoped they would find somewhere private soon, given the intensity of the young man’s arousal, or she wouldn’t be the only one shocked.
Then the realization dawned that twice now she had been able to control the contact, to break it off. Even before, at the height of her abilities, she hadn’t been able to do that. She had learned how to partially shield herself, but had never managed complete protection. Okay, so the initial contact had slipped in, when she had been relaxed; she had still been able to immediately sever the connection.