Jeffery Deaver - The Vanished Man

"Sorry it's late," Sellitto offered, not sounding sorry at all. "But we need some help with a multiple doer. We've got a name but not much else."

"This the one in the news? Killed the music student this morning? And that patrol officer too?"

"Right. He also killed a makeup artist and tried to kill a horseback rider. Because of what they and the student quote represented. Two straight women, one gay man. No sexual activities. We're at a loss. And he's told Lincoln that he's going to start up again tomorrow afternoon."

"He told Lincoln? Over the phone? A letter?"

"In person," Rhyme said.

"Hmm. That must've been quite a conversation."

"You don't know the half of it."

Sellitto and Rhyme gave the man a rundown on Weir's crimes and what they'd learned about him.

Dobyns asked a number of questions. Then he fell silent for a moment and finally said, "I see two forces at work in him. But they reinforce each other and lead to the same result… Is he still performing?"

"No," Kara said. "He hasn't performed since the fire. Not that anybody's heard."

"Public performing," Dobyns said, "is such an intense experience, it's so compelling, that when it's denied someone who was successful the loss is profound. Actors and musicians – magicians too, I'd guess – tend to define themselves in terms of their careers. So the result is that the fire basically eradicated the man he had been."

The Vanished Man , Rhyme reflected.

"That in turn means he's now motivated not by ambition to succeed or to please his audience or a devotion to his craft but by anger. And that's aggravated by the second force: the fire deformed him and damaged his lungs. So as a public person he'd be particularly self-conscious of the deformities. They'd multiply the anger logarithmically. We could call it the Phantom of the Opera syndrome, I suppose. He'd see himself as a freak."

"So he wants to get even?"

"Yes, but not necessarily in a literal sense: fire quote murdered him – his old persona – and by murdering someone else he feels better; it reduces the anxiety that the anger builds up in him."

"Why these victims?"

"No way of knowing. 'What they represented.' What did they do again?"

"Music student, makeup stylist and a lawyer though he referred to her as an equestrian."

"There's something about them that's tapped into his anger. I don't know what it could be – not yet, not without more data. The textbook answer is that each one of them devoted their lives to what Weir would consider 'crucible moments.' Important, life-changing times. Maybe his wife was a musician or they met at a concert. The makeup stylist – that could be a mother issue. For instance, the only happy times he might've had with her were as a young boy sitting in the bathroom and watching her put on makeup. The horses? Who knows? Maybe he and his father went horseback riding once and he enjoyed it. The happiness of moments like that was taken away from him by the fire and he's targeting people who remind him of those times. Or it could be the opposite; he has bad associations with what the victims represent. You say his wife died during a rehearsal. Maybe there was music playing at the time."

"He'd go to all this trouble, staking them out, making these elaborate plans to find them and kill them?" Rhyme asked. "This must've taken months."

"The mind has to scratch its itches," Dobyns said.

"One other thing, Terry. He also seemed to be talking to an imaginary audience… Wait, I thought it was 'respected' audience. But I just remembered – it was 'revered.' Talking to them like they were really there. 'Now, Revered Audience, we're going to do this or that.'"

"'Revered,'" the psychologist said. "That's important. After his career and his loved one were taken away from him he shifted his reverence, his love , to an audience – an impersonal mass. People who prefer groups or crowds can be abusive, even dangerous, to individual human beings. Not only strangers but their partners, wives, children, family members too."

John Keating , Rhyme reflected, in fact sounded like a child who'd been abused by his father.

Dobyns continued, "And in Weir's case this frame of mind is even more dangerous because he's not talking to real audiences, only his imaginary one. This suggests to me that actual people have no value to him at all. He won't have any problem killing even in large numbers. This guy's going to be a tough one."

"Thanks, Terry."

"You get him in jar, let me know. I'd like to spend some time with him."

After they hung up Sellitto began, "Maybe we could -"

"Go to bed," Thom said.

"Huh?" the detective asked.

"And it's not a question of 'could.' It's a question of 'are.' You're going to bed, Lincoln. And everybody else is leaving. You look pale and tired. No cardiovascular or neuro events on my watch. If you'll recall, I wanted you to go to bed hours ago."

"All right, all right," Rhyme conceded. In fact, he was tired. And, though he wouldn't admit it to anyone, the fire had scared him badly.

The team departed for their respective homes. Kara found her jacket and as she put it on Rhyme observed that she was clearly upset.

"You okay?" Sachs asked her.

A dismissing shrug. "I had to tell Mr. Balzac why I needed to ask him about Weir. He's totally pissed off. I've got to go pay penance."

"We'll write him a note," Sachs joked gently, "excusing you from class."

The girl smiled wanly.

Rhyme called out, "Hell with the note. If it wasn't for you we wouldn't have a clue who the perp was. Tell him to give me a call. I'll fix his clock."

Kara offered an anemic, "Thanks."

"You're not going to the store now, are you?" Sachs asked.

"Just for a little. Mr. Balzac is helpless with the details. I'll have to log in the receipts. And show him my routine for tomorrow."

Rhyme wasn't surprised that she was going to do what the man asked. He noted she'd said, Mr . Balzac. Sometimes he was "David." Not now. This echoed what they'd heard earlier: despite the Conjurer's coming close to destroying John Keating's life, the assistant had referred to the killer with the same respectful appellation. The power of mentors over their apprentices…

"Go on home," the policewoman persisted. "I mean, Jesus, you did get knifed to death today."

Another faint laugh, accompanied by a shrug. "I won't be there long." She paused in the doorway. "You know, I have that show in the afternoon. But I'll come back tomorrow morning if you want."

"We'd appreciate it," Rhyme said. "Though we'll try to nail Weir's ass before lunch so you won't have to stay long."

Thom walked her into the corridor and out the front door.

Sachs stepped into the doorway and inhaled the smoky air. "Phew," she exhaled. Then disappeared up the stairs. "I'm showering," she called.

Ten minutes later Rhyme heard her walk downstairs. But she didn't join him in the bedroom right away. From different parts of the house came thuds and creaks, muted words with Thom. Then finally she returned to the guest room. She was wearing her favorite pajamas – black T-shirt and silk boxers – but she had two accoutrements that were atypical of her sleep gear. Her Glock pistol and the long black tube of her issue flashlight.

She set them both on the bedside table.

"That guy gets into places too damn easy," she said, climbing into bed next to him. "I checked every square inch of the house, balanced chairs on all the doors and told Thom if he hears anything to give a shout – but to stay put. I'm in the mood to shoot somebody but I'd really rather it wasn't him."