The Judge's List (The Whistler #2)(82)

She swallowed hard and quick and choked it back. The heavy breathing made her sweat. “I need some air, please. I’m suffocating.”

“That’s one of my favorite words.”

He stepped over, leaned down to her face, and yanked off the hood. Jeri gawked at the pale mask with the pockmarks and scars, and screamed. Then she gagged and retched and vomited on the floor. When she finished, he gently reached behind her and unlocked the handcuffs. She pulled her hands free and shook her arms as if to get the blood moving. “Thanks, asshole,” she said.

He walked to the fireplace, to a stack of office files, which he slowly tossed one by one into the flames.

“Can I have some water?” she asked.

He nodded to a bottle next to a lamp. She grabbed it and took a drink, trying not to look at him. He ignored her as he burned the files.

The room was dark, shades pulled down, quilts over the two windows, not a shred of sunlight anywhere. The ceiling was low, the walls were perfect logs with white plaster between them. On a coffee table there was a coil of nylon rope, yards of it, blue and white in color, with two strands cut off, all on display for her to gawk at.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“And you think I’ll answer that?”

“No. Take the mask off, Bannick. I know who you are. I recognize your voice.”

“Have we met?”

“No, thank God, not until now. I saw you onstage, Death of a Salesman.”

“How long have you stalked me?”

“Twenty years.”

“How did you find me?”

“How did you find me?”

“You made some stupid mistakes.”

“So did you. My ankles and legs are numb.”

“Too bad. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“So are you. I thought about killing you years ago.”

He was amused by this and sat on the stool in front of her. She couldn’t bear to look at his mask and instead stared at the fire. Her breathing was still heavy and her heart felt like a jackhammer. Had she not been so terrified she would have cursed herself for being stupid enough to get caught by the man she had hated for decades. She needed to vomit again.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” he asked.

“Because you’re not worth prison and I’m not a killer.”

“It’s an art, when done properly.”

“You should know.”

“Oh, I do.”

“Am I next?”

“I don’t know.” He slowly stood, peeled off the mask, and tossed it in the fire, then added some more office files to it. He returned to the stool in front of her, their knees almost touching.

“Why haven’t you killed me yet, Bannick? I would be, what, number nine, ten, eleven?”

“At least. Why should I tell you?”

“So I missed a couple.” A wave rolled through her and she grimaced as she choked it down. She closed her eyes to avoid his stare.

He walked back to the stack of files on the firewood rack, took several, and slowly tossed them into the flames. She wanted to ask what he was burning but it didn’t concern her. Nothing mattered but staying alive, though that looked doubtful. Her thoughts flashed to Denise, the only person on the planet who would miss her.

He returned to the stool and stared at her. “I have a couple of choices, Ms. Crosby—”

“Oh, please, don’t show me any respect. I don’t want yours. Let’s stick with Jeri and Bannick, okay?”

“The more you talk the better your chances, because I want to know what you know, and, more importantly, I want to know what the cops know. I can leave, Jeri, vanish into thin air and never be seen again. How much have you told Lacy Stoltz?”

“Leave her out of it.”

“Oh really? That’s an odd thing to say. You went to her with your complaint, mentioned Verno, Dunwoody, and Kronke, hinted at others, got her involved in whatever the hell she’s doing, and now you say leave her out of it. Not only that, you sent me an anonymous letter with the news that she was formally investigating me for the murders. One of your mistakes, Jeri. You knew she would have no choice but to go to the police, something you were afraid of doing. Why were you afraid of the police?”

“Maybe I don’t trust the police.”

“That’s smart. So you dump me on Lacy because she has no choice but to investigate the judiciary. You knew she would go to the cops. You hid behind her, and now you want me to leave her alone. Right?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much does Lacy know?”

“How am I supposed to know? She’s in charge of her own investigation.”

“So what did you tell her, or I guess the question is—how much do you know?”

“Why does it matter? You’ll kill me anyway. Guess what, Bannick? I caught you.”

He didn’t respond but returned to the files, took several, and methodically tossed them onto the fire, waiting for one to enflame before adding the next. The room was warm and smelled of smoke. The only light came from the fireplace, and shadows darkened the walls and whatever was behind her. He walked away and returned with a cup and asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

“No. Look, my ankles are breaking and my legs are numb. Cut me some slack here so we can talk, okay?”