James Patterson - Roses Are Red

He was a little afraid to be inside the house, but the fear was natural, and intoxicating. The fear made the moment great for him. He slipped on a President Clinton mask the same kind of mask used in the very first bank robbery.

He quietly made his way toward the master bedroom at the back of the apartment. This was getting so good. He almost felt that he belonged here now. Possession was ninety-nine percent of the law. Wasn't that the old saying?

The moment of truth!

He quietly, quietly opened the bedroom door. The room smelled of sandalwood and jasmine. He paused in the doorway until his eyes became accustomed to the low light. He squinted as he stared into the

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room, studied it, got his bearings. He saw her!

Now! Go! Not a second to lose.

He moved very fast. He seemed to fly across the room and on to the queen-size bed. He fell on the sleeping figure with his full weight.

There was an ooff, then a startled cry. He slapped a wad of electrician's tape across her mouth, then handcuffed both slender wrists to the bedpost.

Click-dick. So fast, so efficient.

His hostage tried to scream, tried to twist and turn and break free. She had on a yellow silk teddy He loved the feel of it, so he slipped it off her body. He caressed the silk, ran it over his face. Then back and forth through his teeth.

"It's not going to happen. You can't get away. Stop trying! It's annoying.

"Please try to relax. You're not going to be hurt," he said then. "It's important to me that you not be harmed."

He gave her a few seconds to take in what he said. To understand.

He stooped close until his face was only inches from hers. 'I'm going to explain why I'm here, what I plan to do. I will be very, very clear and precise. I trust that you won't tell a soul about this, but if you ever do, I'll come back as easily as I did tonight. I'll get through any security system you can buy, and I will torture you. I will kill you but first I'll do much worse than that."

The prey nodded. At last understanding. "Torture' was the magic word. Perhaps it ought to be used more in schools.

"I've been watching and studying you for a while. I think you're just perfect for me. I'm certain, and I'm usually right about these things. I'm right over ninety-nine percent of the time."

The hostage was lost again. He could see it in her eyes. The lights were on, but nobody was home.

"Here's the idea, the concept. I'm going to try and gave you a baby tonight. Yes, you heard right. I want you to have the baby," the Mastermind finally explained. "I've studied your fertility rhythms, your contraceptive program. Don't ask how, but I have. Trust me. I'm very serious about this.

"If you don't have the baby, I will come back for you, Justine. If you abort the baby, I will torture you horribly, then kill you. But don't worry, this child will be very special, "said the Mastermind," This child will be a masterpiece. Make love to me, Justine."

At noon the next day, the case seemed to take another terrible, and unexpected twist. I was in an interview at Metro Hartford when Betsey broke in. She asked me to please come out into the hallway. Her face was ashen.

"Oh no, what?" I managed to say.

"Alex, this is so creepy that I'm still shaking. Listen to what just happened. Last night, a twenty-five-year-old woman was raped in her apartment in a suburb outside Hartford. The rapist told her he wanted her to have his baby. After he left, she went to a hospital and the police were called in. In their report, it states that the rapist wore a Clinton mask like the one worn at the first bank robbery, Alex and also, that he called himself a mastermind."

"Is the woman still at the hospital? Are the police with her?” I asked. My mind was racing, already filled with possibilities, rejecting the notion of coincidence out of hand. A mastermind in a Clinton mask, just outside Hartford? It was too close.

"She left the hospital and went home, Alex. They just found her dead. He warned her not to tell anyone, and not to abort. She disobeyed him. She made a mistake. He poisoned her, Alex. Goddamn him."

Betsey Cavalierre and I went to the dead woman's apartment and the scene was beyond horrifying. The woman lay on her kitchen floor, grotesque and twisted. I remembered the bodies of Brianne and Enrol Parker. The poor woman had been punished. FBI technicians were all over the small garden apartment. There was nothing Betsey or I could do there. The bastard had been right there in Hartford maybe he still was. He was taunting us.

This was as stressful as any case I'd ever worked. Whoever was

behind the robberies and gruesome murders was impossible to trace, to figure out in a meaningful way.

Who the hell was the Mastermind? Had he really been here in Hartford last night and this morning? Why was he taking chances like this?

I worked at the Metro Hartford offices until almost seven. I was trying not to show it, but I was close to a burnout. I interviewed several more employees, and then I went to the personnel office and read nuisance mail aimed at Metro Hartford There were stacks of it. Generally, the hate mail came from grieving and angry family members who had been denied claims or felt the process was taking too long which it usually did. I talked for an hour or so with the head of the building's security, Terry Mayer. She was separate from Steve Bolding, who was an outside consultant. Terry gave me the procedures for mail surveillance, bomb threats, e-mail threats, and even a widely distributed form on how to be alert for possible letter bombs. "We were prepared for a lot of potential disasters," Mayer told me, 'just not for the one that happened."

I was just going through the motions all day. I kept seeing the poisoned woman. The Mastermind had wanted her to have his baby. That probably meant that he didn't have any kids of his own. He wanted an heir, a tiny piece of immortality.

I returned to Washington on the last flight out that night. When I arrived home it was a few minutes past eleven. Bright light illuminated the kitchen windows. The upstairs was dark. The kids were probably asleep.

"I'm home," I announced as I edged open the creaky kitchen door. It needed oil, I noticed. I was falling way behind on my home repairs again.

"You catch all the bad guys? "Nana asked from her catbird seat at the table. A paperback book called The Color of Water was propped in front of her.

"We're moving in the right direction. The bad guy made a couple of mistakes finally. He's taking a lot of chances. I'm more hopeful than I was. You like the book?" I asked. I wanted to change the subject. I was home.

Nana pursed her lips, gave me a half-smile. "I'm hopeful. The man can certainly write up a storm. Don't stray off my topic, though. Sit down and talk to me, Alex."

"Can I stand and talk, and maybe put together a little supper for myself?"

Nana frowned, shook her head in disbelief. "They didn't feed you on the airplane?"

"Dinner on the flight was honey-roasted peanuts and a small plastic cup of Coke. It fit with the rest of the day. This chicken and biscuits any good?"

Nana slanted her head to one side. She frowned at me from the sideways angle. "No, it's spoiled. I put it away spoiled. What do you think, Alex? Of course it's good. It's a down-home culinary masterpiece."

I stopped peering into the fridge and stared over at her. "Excuse me. Are we having a fight?"

"Not at all. You'd know it if we were. How are you? I'm fine myself. You're working too hard again. But you seem to thrive on it. Still the Dragonslayer, right? Live by the sword and all that?"

I took the chicken out of the fridge. I was famished. Probably could have eaten it cold. "Maybe this whacked-out case will be over soon."