J. Robb - Creation In Death

“You said he’s always alone.”

“Yes. I meant whenever he gives his performance ticket to a guest.” An obliging hostess, she lifted the pot to pour more tea into Peabody’s cup. “I’ve occasionally seen other men in his box. In fact, there was a guest in his seat at the opening of Rigoletto last week.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Ah, black and white. That’s how I thought of him, actually. Black-tie-very formal-white hair, white skin. I remember wondering if he might be a relation of Mr. Pierpont. There was a resemblance, or it seemed to me there was. I didn’t see him before or after the performance, or at intermission. Or I didn’t notice.”

“Can you dig up the names of those who have been in the same box with Pierpont?”

“There never is anyone when Pierpont or one of his guests attend.” Jessica smiled as she held out the plate of cookies. “That’s rather odd, isn’t it?”

B uys up the other tickets in the box,” Eve said when they were in the car. “Doesn’t want anyone else nearby, disturbing him, or getting too close.”

“We’ll stake out the opera.” Peabody pulled out her book to key in some notes. “Maybe he’ll need another fix.”

“Yeah, we’ll set that up. His stepmother. That’s who the women represent. That’s whose picture he carries in his wallet. Idealizes and demonizes her at the same time.”

“You sound like Mira.”

“It’s what plays. He kills her, again and again-probably re-creating her actual death. Then he washes her, lays her on white linen. Her time ran out, so he sees that time runs out for the ones he picks to represent her. That’s the core of it, with the cross in the Urbans. She clocked out in the Urbans, and I’m betting on the date he’s used for his fake wife in the Pierpont data.”

“The wife thing-the wedding band. His stepmother, but also his fantasy woman,” Peabody theorized. “His bride. He doesn’t rape her, that would shatter the fantasy. Not sexual, but romantic. Pathologically romantic.”

“Now who’s Mira? We start searching for women of her description who died on or about the date in the Pierpont data.”

“A lot of deaths weren’t recorded during the Urbans.”

“Hers will be.” Eve whipped the wheel to change lanes and shoehorn herself into a minute opening in the clog of traffic. “He’d have seen to it. It would’ve been here in New York. New York’s the beginning and the end for him. We find her, and she’ll lead us to him.”

Eve heard the internal clock in her head ticking, ticking, ticking away the time. And thought of Ariel Greenfeld.

S he didn’t know it was possible to experience such pain, to survive it. Even when he stopped-she’d thought he would never stop-her body burned and bled.

She’d wept and she’d screamed. In some part of Ariel’s mind, she’d understood he’d enjoyed that. He’d been entertained by her helpless shrieks, wild sobs, and desperate struggles.

She lay now, shivering in shock while voices twined through the air in a language she didn’t understand. Italian? she wondered, fighting to focus, to stay conscious. It was probably Italian. He’d played music while he’d hurt her, and her screams had cut through the voices then as his nasty little knives had cut through her flesh.

Ariel imagined using them on him. She’d never been violent. In fact, she’d been a pitiful failure in the basic defense classes she’d taken with a couple friends. Weakfeld, they’d called her, she remembered. And they’d all laughed because they’d never believed, not really, that any of them would ever have to use the punches and kicks they’d tried to learn.

She was a baker, that’s all. She liked to cook and create cakes and cookies and pastries that made people smile. She was a good person, wasn’t she? She couldn’t remember ever hurting anyone.

Maybe she’d toked a little Zoner in her teens, and that was wrong. Technically. But she hadn’t caused anyone any harm.

But she found the idea of causing him harm dulled the pain. When she imagined herself breaking free, grabbing one of the knives and just plunging it into his soft belly, she didn’t feel so cold.

She didn’t want to die this way, this horrible way. Someone would come, she told herself. She had to hold on, had to survive until someone came and saved her.

But when he came back, everything inside her cringed. Tears flooded her throat and her eyes so that even her whimpers were drowned.

“That was a nice break, wasn’t it?” he said in that hideously pleasant voice. “But we have to get back to work. Now then, let’s see. What’s it to be?”

“Mr. Gaines?” Don’t scream, she ordered herself. Don’t beg. He likes that.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Why did you pick me?”

“You have a pleasing face and lovely hair. Good muscle tone in your arms and legs.” He picked up a small torch. She had to bite back a moan as he turned it on with a low hiss, narrowed the flame to a pinpoint.

“Is that all? I mean, did I do anything?”

“Do?” he said absently.

“Did I do something to upset you, or make you mad at me?”

“Not at all.” He turned, smiled kindly as the narrow flame hissed.

“It’s just, Mr. Gaines, I know you’re going to hurt me. I can’t stop you. But can you tell me why? I just want to understand why you’re going to hurt me.”

“Isn’t this interesting?” He cocked his head and studied her. “She asks, always she asks why. But she screams it. She doesn’t ever ask so politely.”

“She only wants to understand.”

“Well. Well, well, well.” He turned the torch off, and Ariel’s chest heaved with relief. “This is different. I enjoy variety. She was lovely, you know.”

“Was she?” Ariel moistened her lips as he pulled up a stool and sat so he could speak face-to-face. How could he look so ordinary? she wondered. How could he look so nice, and be so vicious?

“You’re very pretty, but she was almost exquisite. And when she sang, she was glorious.”

“What…what did she sing?”

“Soprano. She had a multiple voice.”

“I…I don’t know what that means.”

“Her brilliance was so bright. She was allegra-those high, clear notes seeming to simply lift out of her. And the color, the texture of lirica with the intensity and depth of the drammatica. Her range…”

Moisture sheened his eyes as he pressed his fingers to his lips, kissed the tips. “I could, and did, listen to her for hours. She would accompany herself on the piano when at home. She tried to teach me, but…” He smiled wistfully as he held up his hands. “I had no talent for music, only a vast appreciation for it.”

If he was talking he wasn’t hurting her, Ariel thought. She had to keep him talking. “Is it opera? I don’t know anything about opera.”

“You think it’s stuffy, boring, old-fashioned.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” she said carefully. “I’ve just never really listened to it before. She sang opera?” Questions, Ariel thought desperately. Ask questions so he’ll spend time answering. “And-and was a soprano? With, um, multiple voice like-like ranges?”

“Indeed, yes, indeed, that’s very good. I have many of her recordings. I don’t play them here.” He glanced around the room. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“I’d love to hear her sing. I’d love to hear her multiple voice.”

“Would you?” His eyes turned sly. “Aren’t you clever? She was clever, too.” He rose now, picked up the torch.

“Wait! Wait! Couldn’t I hear her sing? Maybe I’d understand if I could hear her sing? Who was she? Who was-Oh, God, God, please!” She tried to shrink away from the tip of the flame he traced, almost teasingly, along her arm.