John Lutz - Mister X

He was standing over her, slender but strong-bodied, wearing a loose-fitting dark sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Jogging shoes that were black but for their white soles and toe caps. He had on a black knit balaclava so that nothing of his face was visible other than his eyes. Pearl thought the eyes might be familiar, but she couldn't be sure.

She also, for a moment, thought about the careless doorman. That carelessness must be how the man had entered the building and found his way to Yancy's apartment.

The intruder straddled her, yanked her arms sideways, and kept them that way as he scooted forward so he could place his knees on her upper arms and bring his full weight to bear on them, pinning them, and her, to the floor.

Pearl immediately recognized the method and knew who he was-the Carver. She knew how much danger she was in and how precious life was.

At first she thought he had no fingernails, and then she saw that he had on skin-tight latex gloves that were flesh colored. From the pouchlike pocket of his sweatshirt he drew a knife with a long, slender blade.

Moving her arms only feebly from the elbows down, Pearl helplessly clawed the air. The strength had left her arms quickly in her awkward position under the man's weight. She was starting to regain her ability to breathe and considered screaming, but she was sure that if she made any noise he'd use the knife. He was leaning slightly forward, staring down at her and slowly waving the knife blade back and forth before her eyes, as if trying to hypnotize her. She somehow got the impression that beneath the balaclava he was smiling.

He wants my full attention. He wants me to grasp what's going to happen.

Not the eyes this time, but something about the man seemed familiar. It was in the way he moved.

Who is this bastard?

She kicked out with her feet, trying to loosen the crushing weight on her arms. He simply bore down harder with his knees. Her upper arms ached so badly they began to go numb.

Think, Damn it! You're running out of time. Out of life.

Think!

If I can't use my arms, I'll use my legs!

She brought both knees up sharply and suddenly, and did manage to make contact with his back with one knee. But it wasn't enough to do anything but anger him. Or perhaps amuse him. He held the point of the knife close to her right eye and shook his head no, letting her know she'd better not kick again.

From beneath the black knit that covered his mouth, he said in a deep muffled voice, "I'm going to explain to you what I'm doing while I'm doing it."

He used his free hand to yank up her blouse, and then with the knife he deftly sliced through the material between the cups of her bra. He flicked the cups away right and left with the point of the knife, and her breasts were bare.

Pearl knew the ritual, and knew that once he began it the pain and terror would render her completely helpless.

She was determined to keep struggling as long as possible. She controlled her breathing, drawing air deeply so she could muster her strength for one more attempt to buck the man off her and somehow try to put up a fight. Maybe she could kick him in a vital spot, slow him down, and reach her gun in her purse.

Slowly she drew her knees up as far as she could, then kicked straight out with her legs and dug her heels and elbows into the carpet.

Her sudden, spasmodic effort had some effect. She heard the man's grunt of surprise and felt his weight shift inches forward so his crotch was almost in her face. His weight had lifted slightly, and she thought she might be able to free one arm.

She clenched her eyes shut with the effort of trying to work her arm free, kicking out again with her legs. The killer's weight rose from her almost completely, as if he might be positioning his body and seeking balance, maybe getting ready to hit or kick her.

She opened her eyes and looked up into the perspiring, determined face of Yancy Taggart.

Yancy's eyes were wide with surprise and anger, but not fear. He was gripping the Carver's sweatshirt with both hands, pulling him off Pearl.

"Got the bastard!" Pearl heard him say.

Then she saw the flash of the knife as the killer writhed and twisted his body to gain leverage. The blade winked through the air, and Yancy made a sound like a harsh intake of breath. Pearl felt something warm on her face, and saw what the CSU techs called a slash pattern of blood on the wall.

The killer was standing completely upright. He kicked Pearl hard in the side of the head, and she went blank for a few seconds with pain. She saw in slow motion the killer conceal the knife again in his sweatshirt pocket and then pirouette like a ballet dancer toward the door.

Then he was out the door and into the hall.

Pearl crawled over to where Yancy lay on his back. His throat was sliced almost ear to ear. He was staring at the ceiling, making soft gurgling sounds and desperately feeling with his fingers the edges of the gash in his throat, as if trying to piece himself back together.

Pearl was sure he saw her and that he tried to say something, but he went silent, and the life in his eyes dimmed.

She heard herself whimpering. Her limbs wouldn't move as directed. She managed to stand up and take a few steps before stumbling. The room lurched, and she fell hard on the carpet, bumping an elbow. Fighting dizziness and nausea, she crawled the rest of the way toward her purse on the table. Like an infant who could walk some but still found crawling the easiest and most direct way to a destination.

She wanted her cell phone now, not her gun.

Quinn sat on the floor with her, holding her so close and tight that it hurt her ribs.

Pearl was infuriated because she couldn't control her sobbing. Each breath she drew caught in her throat and turned into a deep, wretched moan. Tears tracked down her cheeks so freely she could feel them spatter on her forearm. Grief was so real, like a horrid creature that had taken up residence inside her.

She couldn't help it; she dug her forehead into Quinn's shoulder and sobbed. Fedderman was somewhere nearby. The CSU techs were bustling around, and a couple of paramedics were waiting to remove the body. Remove Yancy. For now, everyone was giving Pearl and Quinn a wide berth.

"It'll be all right," Quinn crooned to her, his huge right hand patting her back ever so gently. "All right…all right…all right…"

"It won't be!" Pearl managed to blurt. "Goddamn it, it'll never be all right!"

"Better, then," Quinn said, not breaking the rhythm of his patting. "It'll be better in a while. Better, Pearl…"

I'd settle for tolerable! Oh, God, just tolerable!

She sobbed for a while longer, as Quinn patted and crooned.

Finally, when she'd managed to calm down enough not to completely lose control if she attempted to speak, she told him what had happened. So much more than she'd said over the phone.

"That's all for now," Quinn said softly when she was finished. "You don't have to say anything more, Pearl."

But the words, suddenly freed from her constricted throat, kept spilling out of her. "Yancy came home early," she said in someone else's voice. Grief was pulling her strings. "Came home early and didn't know what he was walking into. Didn't know…"

Is this the new me? Forever?

"He came home early and saved your life," Quinn said. "He was a good man, Yancy. Worthy of you."

"Oh, Quinn, damn it! Will you stop with the Hemingway bullshit? Yancy's dead. I want him alive!"

"We all do, dear, but that's impossible."

God! Oh, Jesus!

She heard and felt Quinn sigh. The heft and heat of his body shifted. "There's nothing I can say that will help enough, Pearl. We both know that."

Pearl nodded and pushed away from him. He leaned toward her, and she felt him kiss her forehead, the furnace heat of his breath.