Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

The killer placed the pads of three fingers just below his wrist crease to check his radial pulse again. Sixty beats per minute -still way too high. When he was truly relaxed, truly in control of his emotions, his resting heart rate would be forty or even less. He expected the girls would help him to achieve that state.

Patience , he cautioned himself. Patience.

He would wait as long as it took for his anger to fully subside before responding to the ill-conceived, reckless torching of Jillian Coates’s condominium. Only then, when he was in what he called his alpha state, would he compose his message, encode it within the pixels of today’s eBay item-a tacky hand-painted nutcracker-and then post the nutcracker to his eBay auction account.

Steganography, the art and science of writing concealed messages. Documented examples of steganography dated back to ancient Greece, when wax-covered wooden tablets kept coded messages hidden from the enemy. Koller had first been exposed to it in a college course, but over the succeeding years, he had taken aspects of the craft to the point where he could have earned millions in licensing fees, had he not preferred to use his custom software to plan, execute, and be compensated for non-kills. The latest version of Koller’s steganographic technique was akin to taking the most sophisticated coding technology available and dosing it with steroids.

He still couldn’t wrap his mind around Jericho burning down Jillian Coates’s condominium without consulting him first. He had made it clear when Jericho first approached him about a series of new contracts: Under no circumstances were his clients ever to engage, tail, touch, or even breathe near anybody associated with the job without his authorization-and that authorization was simply not going to be given.

Obviously, the sister of one of the marks fell into the “associated with” category. The more he dwelled on it, the more agitated he became. Where were the girls?

Wearing only a white terry cloth robe, Koller rose from the bed and powered through two hundred push-ups on the gritty motel carpet without breaking a sweat. He meditated fifteen minutes afterward before checking his pulse once again. Fifty . Better, but still not good enough. He could not remember the last time he had lost his temper to this extent.

He was upside down and naked, performing a motionless headstand, one of the countless yoga positions he could execute to any yogi’s satisfaction, when he heard a soft knock on the door. Dropping to the floor with catlike grace, Koller crossed the room without bothering to dress. A quick check through the peephole confirmed it was the escorts he had hired. The tall hooker with ebony skin he knew as Sandy. He had hired her before and offered to triple her usual fee in exchange for her cooperation this night. The short blonde accompanying her was a relative newbie, not yet out of her teens. She would be perfect, he decided.

“Good evening, ladies,” Koller said, motioning them inside and turning on one bedside lamp. The cool evening air washed over his body, igniting his senses. The night smelled of action. Koller watched the blonde glance down at his penis as she passed. He closed the door behind them with a soft click, then double-locked it.

“Do you like what you see?” he asked the blonde.

The girl nodded and smiled with artificial shyness.

“Can’t you speak, bitch?” Koller snapped.

“Darlene can speak just fine,” Sandy said.

Koller crossed the room and kissed the tall, dark woman hard on the lips. Then he drew her hand down to help him become aroused.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” he said suddenly, grabbing her by the hair, but focusing on the other whore. “Did I?”

“No, baby,” Sandy said, “you didn’t ask me nothin’.”

“That’s right, I didn’t,” Koller said sweetly, releasing her. “Okay, listen up, ladies. The game is simple. I pay, you do. Sort of like Simon Says. You do what Simon says and the night is going to be very much fun. Mess up and fun will be a little more elusive. Either way, I promise you one thing; our evening’s going to be memorable. Isn’t that right, Sandy?”

“Simon ain’t never hurt me bad, Darlene, honey. An’ we been friends a long time now. Besides, whatever happens, he’ll make it worth your while.”

Sandy peeled away her knockoff Burberry trench coat, revealing only a black bra and panties. At Koller’s request, she had on her stiletto high heels as well. The killer savored her long, toned legs, flat stomach, and sensual dark skin. In front of the closed drapes, Darlene held her own coat tightly across her slender frame. Sandy moved to where she was standing.

“Darlene, sweetie, you ain’t got nothing to worry about, ya hear?” she whispered.

“He scares me,” the blonde whispered back, but not quietly enough.

Koller heard her.

He grabbed her by the arm, hard enough to make her cry out in pain. Then he threw her onto the bed, as if he were tossing a pillow. The woman’s overcoat flopped open, revealing, per instructions, only a garter belt and mesh stockings. Her breasts would need implants in a few years, he thought, but at the moment, they were schoolgirl perfect. Now it was time to see just what she was made of.

Koller was becoming more aroused. He sat down on the mattress next to Darlene and began to stroke the woman’s fine, straw blond pubic hair, shaved in a landing-strip style.

“Sandy, baby,” he said, “you go into the closet and grab my black canvas bag and bring it to me. Don’t open it, though. I got surprises inside.”

Koller kept his eyes locked on Darlene. Her fear was easy to see. He could feel his pulse slowing.

Sandy returned, carrying the black canvas bag, and climbed onto the bed behind Koller. She placed her hands upon his shoulders and began to massage him, rubbing her long, delicate fingers down and across his bare chest, teasing his nipples. Darlene gazed up at them, unable to keep her body from shivering as though she’d just been pulled from a river.

“Whatchu freakin’ about, girl?” Sandy snapped. “Take off your stockings and let’s do our job.”

“Hold on a second, love,” Koller said. “Give me the bag.”

Koller took the bag from her as he got up off the bed, then brought it to the small desk and opened it while keeping his back to the bed. From inside he withdrew four Velcro restraints. Turning, he showed the women. Darlene’s eyes widened, but Sandy just giggled. Koller strode back over to the bed, now with a full erection. His eyes were a wolf’s, locked on Darlene. The girl was beginning to hyperventilate. He checked his wrist for five seconds.

Fifty. Maybe forty-seven.

“Straddle her,” Koller commanded Sandy.

Then he reached beneath the bed and pulled up a length of nylon rope he had earlier tied to the frame.

“Sandy… you didn’t say… anything about… ropes,” Darlene managed.

“Take it easy on her, baby,” Sandy cooed to Koller. “Remember, she’s sort of new at all this.”

With his hand wrapped firmly around Darlene’s neck, Koller bound the teen’s wrist with the Velcro and tied the restraint to the cord. In seconds, he had repeated the maneuver with her other wrist and both ankles. The knots were impossible to undo without help. Koller nodded Sandy away, then he stroked the girl’s breasts until her nipples responded almost in spite of themselves. The horror he saw in her eyes was blessedly pure, almost palpable.

Forty-five.

“If you scream, you’re going to die,” Koller whispered, his lips brushing her ear. “Don’t you dare move. Do you understand me?”

“Sandy, help me.”

Koller raised a finger to keep Sandy from responding.