“You were a child,” I said. “There was nothing you could have done. You were bleeding. Your jaw was shattered. Lara, please, it’s not your fault.”
You put your head in your hands and wept then, shoulders shaking. I saw your pain. Even the monster in me was soothed. Any anger he harbored faded to dust, for a while, anyway. And then we were standing, you in my arms. And then my mouth was on yours, the salt of your tears on my tongue. We took a cab back to my place, holding each other. We barely made it up the stairs.
I pushed us inside, fumbling with the key. My place was a Lower East Side dump, high ceilings, little furniture, piles of clothes, and books stacked, my laptop open on the kitchen table. As we made love over and over on the futon, we listened to sirens outside, and the shouts of drug dealers. From my window, I could see a fire burning in a barrel in the abandoned lot across the street. Our bodies melted into each other. I felt whole again that night. I felt like the boy I was before Kreskey broke my psyche in two.
Do you remember? Do you think of it, that night?
You were on top of me, your body pale as the moon, your hair a river almost to your flat belly, your head tilted back in pleasure as you moved, languid, rocking.
It’s pathetic to say that there has never been anyone but you.
There have been other women, one-night stands, half-bearable dates that led to soulless sexual encounters. There was a girl in school who I think tried to love me. Recently a woman who, in another lifetime, might have been the one.
But no, Rain. No, Lara. It’s only ever been you.
There was such hunger between us, such a desperate, aching wanting. Did you ever have that with Greg? Have you ever cried while making love to him? I honestly doubt it. We are connected by the evil that leaked into our lives that day; it’s twisted around us like a vine of thorns. I know you feel it, too. It hurts but there’s a pleasure there, too, a deep intimacy. You don’t have that with him.
Why am I thinking about you when Agent Brower sits at my kitchen table, staring at me with wide, earnest eyes?
“Do you think it could be the same person?” she asks, snapping me back to the present.
Yesterday, I wondered if she suspected me. Now, I think not. She looks tired. Her nails, which were perfectly manicured, are a bit frayed at the cuticles, as if she’s been biting at them. I’m glad she came alone today. I’m tired of the silent, hulking presence of her partner. There’s something I don’t like about him.
“I’d say it’s doubtful,” I answer. “As I mentioned, there’s little precedent for a serial offender of this type.”
“But the images,” she says. “The masked person at both scenes.”
“True,” I concede, trying to look thoughtful. “It’s just that in my experience, serial offenders have a driver, some deep need they are trying to fulfil. These crimes, they’re all very different. Various regions. Different types of crimes. Different execution.”
That’s not the word I intended to use but she seizes on it.
“But that’s just it,” she says. “They’re all executions. Guilty men, or men widely perceived to be guilty, who escaped justice. They’re calling him that now. The Executioner.”
“So, the bureau thinks it’s a serial. The same person.”
“They do.”
“According to the file there’s no physical evidence, nothing linking the crimes.”
“Just the images. The meticulous nature of the scenes. The victim profile.”
I nod, pretending to consider. “So, let’s say it’s the same person. What’s the driver, the thing he needs?”
She puts a thumbnail to her mouth, then pulls it away, sits on her hand. Her eyes are a kind of stormy gray blue; she has her hair pulled back tight from her face. She’s so young, practically looks like a teenager.
“Justice? Revenge?”
I nod, encouraging. “But usually those things are very personal.”
“So, something has been done to him. He’s been wronged in some way.”
“Or someone he loves has been wronged.”
“He’s angry,” she says. “Maybe angry at the system for failing to bring justice.”
“So he endeavors to bring it himself. That’s part of the profile I’ve developed—on the off chance that we are looking for one man.”
“He watches the news, waiting.” She’s deep in thought.
I lift my eyebrows. “Maybe he’s even in law enforcement. Or the military. Given