“Please,” she begged, her voice shaking and barely audible. “Let me lie down.”
“Not yet. Drink some more coffee.” He wanted to carry her to bed and let her sleep, while he held her close against the terrors of the night, but ruthlessly he pushed that impulse away. He had to get the details before he could allow her to rest.
“Tell me about it,” he demanded, putting force in his voice. “Tell me what you saw.”
She closed her eyes, trying to pull away from him.
“Damn it, Marlie!” He wasn’t gentle when he shook her this time. “Tell me!”
Her mouth trembled wildly, and tears seeped out from under her lashes. “It’s dark,” she said. She took a deep breath and let it out with a shuddering sigh. She opened her eyes. “The electricity is out. The storm knocked it out.”
That flat, expressionless tone entered her voice, as she let herself sink into the horror again. She stared straight ahead, and Dane braced himself. “She came home earlier than expected. She’s drunk. She puts some candles on the dresser, lights them. Incense candles, in little glass holders. They stink. She takes off her clothes, puts on a robe. Nice of her; saves him some trouble. She goes into the bathroom and washes her face. When she comes out, he’s waiting for her.”
“Dear God,” Grace said quietly, as the horror of what she was hearing, of what Marlie had endured, began to come home to her.
“He comes up behind her when she bends down to blow out the stinking candles. She sees him, turns around. She doesn’t scream; they almost never do. He’s already too close, the knife already at her throat. Even though she’s drunk, the stupid bitch, he can see that she knows what’s happening. Good. There’s no point in punishment if they don’t understand the lesson.
“He makes her take off the robe. She’s too skinny; he can see her ribs. He doesn’t like that. She’s terrified. She doesn’t argue when he tells her to lie down. Not on the bed—the floor. He prefers the floor. He’s gentle with her, but he can see in her eyes that she knows who he is, knows his power. That’s nice, but it takes away the element of surprise.
“Afterward, he helps her to her feet. He kisses her cheek, strokes her hair. He pulls on her hair a little to make her tilt her head back, and she looks up at him. Please, she says, begging already. No pride. They never have any pride. He smiles at her, and watches her eyes as she feels the first sting of the blade. Then he lets her go, so the race can start.”
Trammell swung away, muttering a curse.
Marlie wasn’t looking at any of them, wasn’t seeing any of them. “She doesn’t run. She just looks at him. He cuts her again. Says, Run bitch. She doesn’t. She swings at him, hits him in the face. Then she’s all over him, hitting, kicking, screaming at him. He’s furious; this isn’t the way he wanted it to work. Stupid bitch. If that’s the way she wants it, he’ll give it to her. He slices deep, again and again, to get it over with. He hates her. She was stupid, she ruined it for him. It was supposed to be a race, like the Preakness. Maryland, O Maryland.” Marlie sang the last little bit.
“She’s down. His arm is tired. She isn’t even grunting now when the knife goes in. He gets up …” Her voice suddenly wavered. Dane felt her jerk, then begin to tremble again.
“What?” he asked softly.
Her face was colorless, her eyes stark. “He looked in the mirror,” she said. When Dane merely stared at her, puzzled, she said it again. “He looked in the mirror! He saw himself—and I saw him!”
“Jesus Christ.” Every hair on his body stood upright, and a chill chased down his spine. Trammell and Grace were utterly silent, their attention riveted on her.
“He’s completely bald,” she whispered. “He shaves his head. A square jawline. H-His eyes are a little too small, a little too close together.”
Dane couldn’t contain himself. He was on his feet, his powerful body tense and ready for action. “We’ll get a police artist in,” he said. “He’ll work with you on the sketch, and then we’ll get it to all the television stations and newspapers in the area.” It was their first break, and it was a huge one. “Call Bonness,” he told Trammell. “Fill him in on what’s happened. We need to find the woman, too, one way or another. Marlie, what did she look like—” He turned back to her, and broke off in midsentence. Her head had fallen back against the couch and her eyes were closed, her hands lying limply in her lap.
“Ah, honey,” he said softly. She had given in to the debilitating exhaustion. For a moment he had forgotten the physical price she paid in this. He wanted to kick himself. Immediately he pushed all other concerns aside; others could take care of the details in finding the victim, but only he could take care of Marlie. “You handle everything,” he told Trammell as he bent over her to lift her in his arms. “I’m taking her home.”
“You can both stay here,” Trammell said, but Dane shook his head.
“She’s confused when she first wakes up, and it takes her a while to get her bearings again. It’ll be easier for her if she’s in her own home.”
“How long will it be before she’ll be able to talk to an artist? Bonness will want to know.”
“Noon, at the very earliest. More likely two or three in the afternoon.”
“He won’t like waiting that long.”
“He’ll have to.” With Trammell and Grace flanking him, and cradling Marlie gently in his arms, he carried her to the car. Trammell opened the door for him, and he placed her on the seat, let the back down into a reclining position, and buckled her seat belt.