Michael Prescott - Last Breath

Killing you.

There. He had said it outright. He had expressed his final intention, and what was so frightening was that there had been no hesitation in his voice, only cold certainty.

“They say you can’t pull off the perfect crime.” He was still talking somewhere in the darkness around her. “I’m proving them wrong. I’ve worked it all out. It’s a thing of beauty, really, though I’m not surprised if you fail to appreciate its aesthetic merits.”

She had wanted him to explain things, but suddenly his voice was intolerable to her, and she just wished he would shut up.

“The key to any successful deceit is misdirection. Magicians know that. Well, I’ve found a way to misdirect the police-and the best part is that I didn’t have to create some elaborate ruse. I merely had to take advantage of an existing situation.”

He was so pleased with himself, and so confident. The confidence scared her most of all. Adam was an intelligent man, and if he felt sure of himself, he had a good reason.

“I told you I was spending hours online every night. My life was school and the computer, nothing else. One night I was scrolling through an ‘alt. sex’ message board, trying to find out about sites I’d overlooked, and I read about a secret site, password-protected. At first it didn’t sound like anything special. It had the kind of name all these sites have-you know. Well, no, I guess you don’t. You use your computer to buy curiosities at auction sites, don’t you? Tame, C.J., very tame. The Web has a lot more to offer, if you know where to look.”

She was glad she hadn’t known where to look. She wasn’t in the market for what the dark side of the Web seemed to be selling.

“These sites have names like sexpussy. com or lick-me. com, anything that’s dirty and enticing. This one-I don’t even remember the damn name now. I bookmarked it so I didn’t have to keep typing the address. Anyway, I was just bored enough to ask for the password via e-mail. I received it and logged on, and that site led me to something I never expected to find, C.J. It led me to you.”

There was silence in the room. She sat very still, trying to understand what he could possibly mean.

“That’s right. You, my ex-wife, focus of my obsession. You were there. I could watch you. I could study you whenever you were home. It was like living with you again. I’d come home from UCLA and there you were, waiting for me. Sometimes getting dressed for a night watch, or going out with friends, or doing reps on your home gym. Never any sex, though. Guess you knew that anybody after me would be a disappointment. That was a joke, by the way. I’m not that vain.”

No, she thought, you’re just out of your freakin’ mind.

It seemed clear what had happened. After his hours of living vicariously through the Internet, he had lost contact with reality. He had imagined seeing her on the computer, the way schizophrenics imagined that the news anchor on their TV was talking directly to them. It was the only explanation.

“I watched you, but not only you. There were other women who’d been featured on the site. I knew that, because there were references to previous contestants. That’s what you were, C.J.: a contestant. Well, I wanted to see those other women, but their images had been taken down. I figured I might find them on the server if I could hack into it. Never knew I was a hacker, did you? Well, it’s amazing what a little determination can do. I read some stuff online about how to enter a site through what they call a back door-never mind the details. It was easy enough. I got in, found the pics, saw the other women. And that’s when I realized I’d stumbled onto a bigger secret than a hidden Web site. And I knew what I had to do.”

He had lost her completely. She had no idea what he was talking about.

“So I worked it all out, down to the last detail. When it’s over, you’ll be dead, and even though I ought to be the first guy in the lineup, nobody will ever suspect me. There’ll be another suspect, a much more plausible one. He calls himself Bluebeard, by the way. That’s another thing I discovered after I got in through the back door and started snooping. Bluebeard’s his name-very appropriate-and his password’s Fatima, and right now he’s about to get nailed for a whole bunch of crimes he committed and for one, just one, that he never got around to. But who’ll believe his denials? Who’ll listen to him at all? See how beautiful it is, C.J.? Like a fine work of art?”

She wouldn’t have answered even if she could. There was nothing beautiful about any of this. There was only the disjointed rambling of a crazed mind.

“From this point on, it’s all about timing. In case you’re interested, you’re going to die at exactly ten forty-five P.M. No earlier, no later. It’s seven forty-five now, so you’ve got three hours to go. I hope you use the time well. Maybe you can think about all the things you could have done to make our marriage work. Maybe you can see for yourself why you’re ultimately to blame-”

A shrill cry from across the room cut him off. It took her a moment to recognize it as the ring of a cell phone.

“What the hell?” The interruption had rattled him. She could tell he hadn’t been expecting this call.

There were two more rings before he answered.

“Hello?… Yes, this is Adam Nolan.”

Once again he sounded calm, in control, but now she knew it was an act.

“Yes, Officer, how can I help you?… What? Did something happen to her? Was she in an accident?”

God damn him. He was a better liar than she’d ever realized.

“We were divorced a year ago,” he was saying in a well-modulated tone of dread. “Sure, we keep in touch. I saw her today at the station-she said she had some volunteer work to do tonight… Is that it? Did something happen at the junior high?”

So convincing. Every nuance, every choice of words, every stammer and hesitation. She almost believed him herself, just as she had believed he was faithful to her, just as she’d thought he was sincere about wanting to be friends, to go out on Friday for an evening of music and conversation.

He had deceived her completely, and he would deceive the police too.

“If you won’t give me the details over the phone, at least tell me if C J.’s okay…”

She could not let him get away with this. She struggled to force a scream past the throttle in her mouth, but the loudest sound she could produce was a strangled moan.

His footsteps eased farther away, putting distance between himself and any noise she made. He kept talking.

“Of course I’ll come in. But I wish you could reassure me-all right, all right, I understand.”

She couldn’t scream. Impotently she kicked her sneakers against the concrete floor. No use. The noise was probably inaudible over the phone, and even if it did get through, it would mean nothing to anyone who heard it.

“Wilshire Community Police Station on Venice Boulevard, just west of San Vicente. Got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Another click as the phone was flipped shut. The call was over.

She could hear his quick breathing, a release of tension after his performance. Then a muttered curse. “ God damn it.”

Why was he upset? He must have anticipated that the police would call him. Then she remembered what he’d said at the house when he heard Tanner on the answering machine-“I don’t want him coming over. Not this soon.”

And a few minutes ago-“It’s all about timing.”

He’d said she would die at 10:45. “No earlier, no later.”

It wasn’t the phone call itself that had rattled him. It was the fact that it had come too soon.

As if in confirmation, she heard him whisper, “Fuck,” in that petulant tone he always used when he didn’t get his way.