Suzanne Brockmann - Tall, Dark and Deadly - Get Lucky

“Sit,” Lucky ordered.

Rio sat, but only on the edge of his seat.

“Actually, Lieutenant,” Mike said evenly, “we’ve got a required class in five minutes. If we leave now, we’ll be on time.” He looked at Syd. “I assume you’ll be writing a memo about…this for the other members of the task force…?”

Syd nodded.

“There you go,” Rio said with relief. “We’ll read all about it in your memo.”

All three men stood up, and Lucky felt a surge of panic. They were going to go, leaving him alone with Syd, who wanted to discuss…Yikes. Still, what was he supposed to say, “no, you can’t go to class?”

“Go,” he said, and they all nearly ran out the door.

Syd laughed. “Well,” she said, “I sure know how to clear a room, don’t I?” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you don’t want to follow them, Lieutenant? Read about this in my memo instead?”

Lucky stood up to pour himself a cup of coffee from the setup by the door. He had to search for a mug that was clean, and he was glad for the excuse to keep his back to her. “Nothing about this assignment has been pleasant. So if you think this is something I need to hear…”

“I do.”

Lucky poured himself a cup of coffee, then, taking a deep breath, he turned to face her. He carried it back to the table and sat down across from her. “Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

“According to the medical reports, our man didn’t…shall we say, achieve sexual completion, unless the woman fought back,” Syd told him.

Oh, God.

“We need to keep in mind,” she continued, “the fact that rape isn’t about sex. It’s about violence and power. Domination. Truth is, many serial rapists never ejaculate at all. And in fact, out of these eleven cases of rape, we’ve got only four instances of sexual, um, completion. Like I said, all of them occurred when the victim fought back, or—and this is important—when the victim was forced to fight back.”

“But wait. You said a majority of the victims fought back.” Lucky leaned forward. “Couldn’t he have been wearing a condom the other times?”

“Not according to the victims’ statements.” Syd stood up and started to pace. “There’s more, Luke, listen to this. Gina said in her interview that she didn’t resist. She cowered, and he hit her, and she cowered some more. And then, she says he spent about ten minutes trashing her apartment. I went in there. The place looked like there’d been one hell of a fight. But she didn’t fight back .

“I’m wondering if this guy was trying to simulate the kind of environment in which the victim has fought back, in an attempt to achieve some kind of sexual release. When he went back to Gina after he tore the place up, he kicked the hell out of her, but she still didn’t do more than curl into a ball—and, if my theory’s right, she therefore didn’t give him what he wanted. So what does he do? He’s angry as hell and he tears at her clothes, but she still doesn’t resist. So he grabs her by the throat and starts squeezing. Bingo. Instant response. She can’t breathe—she starts struggling for air. She starts fighting. And that does the trick for him, maybe that plus the sheer terror he can see in her eyes, because now, you know, she thinks he’s going to kill her. He achieves sexual completion, inflicts his final moment of pain upon her by burning her, then leaves. The victim’s still alive—this time.”

Oh, God.

“It’s really just a matter of time before he squeezes someone’s throat too hard, or for too long, and she dies,” Syd continued grimly. “And if taking a life gives him the right kind of rush—and it’s hard to believe that it won’t—he’ll have transitioned. Serial rapist to serial killer. We already know he’s into fear. He likes terrorizing his victims. He likes the power that gives him. And letting someone know she’s going to die can generate an awful lot of terror for her and pleasure for him.”

Syd carried her half-empty mug to the sink and tossed the remnants of her coffee down the drain. “Fight or submit,” she said. “Fighting gives him what he wants, but gets you a severe beating. Still, submitting pisses him off. And it could enrage him enough to kill.”

Lucky threw his half-eaten doughnut into the trash can, feeling completely sick. “We’ve got to catch this guy.”

“That,” Syd agreed, “would be nice.”

LUKE O’DONLON WAS WAITING when Syd pulled up.

“Is she alive?” she asked as she got out of her car.

The quiet residential area was lit up, the street filled with police cars and ambulances, even a fire truck. Every light was blazing in the upscale house.

Luke nodded. “Yes.”

“Thank God. Have you been inside?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I took a…walk around the neighborhood. If he’s still here, he’s well hidden. I’ve got the rest of the team going over the area more carefully.”

It was remarkable, really. When Syd had received Luke’s phone call telling her Lucy had just called, that there’d been another attack, she’d been fast asleep. She’d quickly pulled on clothes, splashed water on her face and hurried out to her car. She felt rumpled and mismatched, slightly off-balance and sick to her stomach from exhaustion and fear that this time the attacker had gone too far.

Luke, on the other hand, looked as if he’d been grimly alert for hours. He was wearing what he’d referred to before as his summer uniform—short-sleeved, light fabric—definitely part of the Navy Ken clothing action pack. His shoes were polished and his hair was neatly combed. He’d even managed to shave, probably while he was driving over. Or maybe he shaved every night before he went to bed on the off chance he’d need to show up somewhere and be presentable at a moment’s notice.

“Is the victim…?”

“Badly beaten,” he said tersely.

As if on cue, a team of paramedics carried a stretcher from the house, one of them holding an IV bag high. The victim was strapped down, her neck in a brace. She was carried right past them—the poor woman looked as if she’d been hit by a truck, both eyes swollen shut, her face savaged with bruises and cuts.

“God,” Luke breathed.

It was one thing to read about the victims. Even the horror of photographs was one step removed from the violence. But seeing this poor woman, a mere hour after the attack…

Syd knew the sight of that battered face had brought the reality of this situation home to the SEAL in a way nothing else could have.

“Let’s go inside, “she said.

Luke was still watching the victim as she was gently loaded into the ambulance. He turned his head toward Syd almost jerkily.

Uh-oh. “You okay?” she asked quietly.

“God,” he said again.

“It’s awful, isn’t it? That’s pretty much what Gina looked like,” she told him. “Like she’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champ on speed. And what he did to her face is the least of it.”

He shook his head. “You know, I’ve seen guys who were injured. I’ve helped patch up guys who’ve been in combat. I’m not squeamish, really, but knowing that someone did that to her and got pleasure from it….” He took a deep breath and blew it out hard. “I’m feeling a little…sick.”

He’d gone completely pale beneath his tan. Oh, boy, unless she did something fast, the big tough warrior was going to keel over in a dead faint.

“I am, too,” Syd said. “Mind if we take a minute and sit down?” She took his arm and gently pulled him down next to her on the stairs that led to the front door, all but pushing his head down between his knees.

They sat there in silence for many long minutes after the ambulance pulled away. Syd carefully kept her eyes on the activity in the street—the neighbors who’d come out in their yards, the policemen keeping the more curious at a safe distance—looking anywhere but at Luke. She was aware of his breathing, aware that he’d dropped his head slightly in an attempt to fight his dizziness. She took many steadying breaths herself—but her own dizziness was more from her amazement that he could be affected this completely, this powerfully.