A Murder in Time(111)

“Not his innocence,” she stated carefully. “I just don’t think he’s our killer.”

“You are one hundred percent certain of your hypothesis?”

Kendra considered that. “Not one hundred percent,” she conceded finally. “I’m ninety-nine percent certain. That’s pretty good odds.”

“And the other one percent?”

“I could be wrong.”





43

Because she needed to think, Kendra went up to the battlements on the central tower. She welcomed the cool night air against her skin. Above her, the moon was a waxing gibbous. Without the artificial backsplash of a city to mute them, the stars were a billion brilliant speckles scattered across the night sky. The heavens were, she knew, brighter now, the planets and stars closer to earth. Two centuries closer in the expanding universe. She understood why Aldridge had set up his enormous telescope here on the roof.

Absently she massaged her bruised throat. She could still feel Gabriel’s hands on her, squeezing, could still see his face contorted above her in mindless rage. She was more than a little annoyed with herself for not having anticipated the attack. She’d known Gabriel was unstable. She’d pushed and pushed until he’d lost control.

Still, she believed what she’d told Aldridge. Gabriel had lost it. And if both women had been viciously and uncontrollably stabbed, he’d be her main suspect. But they were dealing with a killer with ice water running through his veins, a killer who actually felt in control enough to taunt the investigators by deliberately positioning April Duprey’s body across a public path.

The vast majority of serial killers existed in the darkest seams of humanity. They didn’t want notoriety. They never sought to bring attention to themselves or what they considered to be their work. They went about their gruesome business, leading dual lives, as noiselessly, as unobtrusively, as possible.

Yet there were a few who made a game out of it. They enjoyed stirring up the media, provoking the police. I’m smarter than you. It was, Kendra knew, another form of control. Dennis Rader, the brutal killer in Wichita, Kansas, had even created his own sobriquet by using BTK—Bind, Torture, Kill—in his public correspondence. He’d taken special joy out of offering up detailed descriptions of his murders. And David Berkowitz, who had identified himself as the Son of Sam, had sent notes to the press and police, labeling himself a monster.

You couldn’t be afraid of the monster under the bed if you didn’t know he was there. With April Duprey’s body, the monster had let them know he was there. And he wanted to play.

She rubbed her arms, mentally reviewing the interviews that they’d conducted. Harcourt’s alibi for yesterday held up—the Duke had questioned the men in the hunting party; they’d insisted the captain had been with them the entire time. But she wondered what he was hiding from the previous Sunday night. It didn’t really matter, she supposed, except for being a loose thread—and she hated loose threads.

Except for Gabriel, who’d gone off like a rocket, the rest of the men had exhibited remarkably similar behavior during the interview process, voicing insult, anger, outrage. They’d also cooperated. Or appeared to cooperate.

Something tickled at the back of her mind. She frowned. Mentally, she flipped through the interviews. Someone had said something that was just a little bit off. What was it? But it remained elusive, as bothersome as an itch she couldn’t scratch.

Then another sensation assailed her, a cold prickle at the back of her neck. This time she could pinpoint the source: she knew that she was no longer alone on the roof.

Slowly, she pivoted to peer into the thick shadows below. As she watched, one shadow detached itself, solidifying into the silhouette of a man. She tensed when the silvery rays of the moon fell across Alec’s chiseled features.

As he walked toward her, she moved to the short flight of stairs that led off the battlements to the roof. He met her halfway, lifting his hand for assistance. She hesitated briefly, then placed her hand in his, feeling the warmth of his palm against her chilly fingers. His gaze flicked to the marks circling her throat, and his hand tightened around hers. The green eyes were colorless in the moonlight. Kendra tried to identify the emotion flaring in them. Anger, yes. And, she thought, remorse.

“Gabriel did this to you?” He lifted his other hand, fingertips grazing the discolorations. His touch was featherlight, but her skin tingled from the contact. “You warned me. This is my fault.”

“No.”

“He’s my brother.”

“You’re not your brother’s keeper.”

“By God, he needs a keeper!” He frowned, puzzled. “Duke said you don’t believe he killed those prostitutes.”

“Did he tell you what I base my conclusions on?”

“He lacks control, or some other such nonsense.”

It probably did sound like nonsense to them. “We’re looking for a very specific sort of individual,” she told him. “I deliberately gave your brother a great deal of stress to see how he’d react. I knew that he was . . . sensitive about his mother. I used that against him. Do you understand?”

“I understand Gabriel tried to strangle you, Miss Donovan. The first girl was strangled.”

“It’s not the same.” She folded her arms in front of her chest. “Someday, someone will push him and he’ll have a weapon in his hand, or he’ll strangle someone who can’t fight back. But it’ll be an impulsive act. Hot-blooded.”