Iris Johansen - Blind Alley

“I might be able to finish up tonight. I'll start the final phase as soon as Jane goes to her room.”

“Good idea.” He picked up the bag of charcoal and carried it out the front door.

No protests about her overworking. No suggestion that she put off the completion of the job until the next day.

A tiny frown creased her forehead as she moved across the living room to her studio area. Ruth's features were blank, waiting for the final smoothing and forming to bring them to life.

Life.

She glanced out the window at Joe lighting the charcoal in the stone barbecue pit at the side of the cottage. So many small acts made up life. So many hours, so many experiences. Jane had gone through one of those experiences today. . . .

But Ruth had been cut off before she'd had a chance to experience more than the beginnings of womanhood. Early twenties, Joe had told her the forensic report was guessing. So young.

“I'm getting close,” she whispered. “Just a little more measuring and we'll go for it. I'll bring you home, Ruth.”

The woman was damn heavy.

His chest was laboring as he carried the tarp-wrapped body up the hill.

She was too heavy. Too voluptuous. He had known it wasn't Cira, but she was similar enough that she had to be eliminated.

He couldn't take any chances.

Not with Cira. Never with Cira.

He grunted as he reached the top of the hill. He dropped the body on the ground and looked down at the sloping bank that dropped into Lake Lanier. The water was deep here and he'd weighted the tarp. She might not be discovered for weeks.

And if she was found earlier, then it was too bad. It changed nothing but the difficulty.

He drew a deep breath and then gave a shove that sent the body rolling down the bank. He watched the tarp disappear beneath the water.

Gone.

He lifted his head and felt the breeze caress his face. A tingling excitement was coursing through his veins and he felt more alive than he had since that first moment when he had realized what he had to do.

He was close to her. He could feel it.

Okay,” Eve murmured as she turned the pedestal to the light. “Here we go, Ruth. Measurements only take us so far. Help me out. I can't do this alone.”

Smooth.

Start on the cheeks.

Work fast.

Don't think.

Or think about Ruth.

Think about bringing her home.

Do the upper lip.

Smooth.

A little less?

No, leave it alone.

Smooth.

Her hands moved swiftly, mindlessly.

Who are you, Ruth?

Tell me. Help me.

The middle area between nose and lip. Shorter?

Yes.

Smooth.

Smooth.

Smooth.

It was three hours later when her hands fell away from the skull and she closed her eyes. “It's the best I can do,” she whispered. “I hope it's enough, Ruth. Sometimes it is.” She opened her eyes and stepped back from the pedestal. “We'll just have to— My God! ”

“You haven't finished her,” Joe said from the doorway. He came over to her workbench and took out her eye case. “You know which ones to give her.”

“Damn you, Joe.”

He took out two glass eyes and handed them to her. “Give her eyes.”

She jammed them into the sockets and whirled on him. “What the hell are you doing?” Her voice was shaking. “For Christ's sake, why didn't you tell me?”

“The same reason you never let anyone give you photos of your subjects. It might have influenced you.”

“Of course it would have influenced me. What the devil is happening?” Her gaze flew back to the skull. The likeness was remarkable. The face was fuller, more mature, the eyes a little closer together, but the features were very similar. Shockingly, frighteningly similar. “It's Jane , damn you.”

TWO

Iagree she looks like Jane might in ten years or so.” Joe studied the reconstruction. “I was hoping to hell she wouldn't.”

“Because this woman looks like Jane and she was murdered.” She folded her arms across her chest to ward off the chill. “And you knew what I'd find when I finished this reconstruction. You knew that it would be Jane.”

“For God's sake, it's not as if I was trying to keep it from you any longer than I had to,” he said roughly. “I did what I had to do.” He took the drop cloth on the worktable and threw it over the skull. “Now it's done and we know.”

“We don't know anything. At least, I don't.” She whirled and went over to the sink and started to wash the clay from her hands. They were shaking. Don't panic. It couldn't happen again. Not twice. Not after Bonnie. “But I'm going to know, Joe. I'm going to know everything. You tell me what's happening.”

“I'll tell you what I know now. We'll find out the rest. I promise, Eve.” He went across the room to the coffee table and opened his laptop. “The woman was found in a shallow grave outside Calhoun. Her fingers were burned and her face was just a skull. The rest of the body was intact. Christy said that she'd been warned by Scotland Yard that the perpetrator might be moving into this area after allegedly killing a woman in Birmingham.”

“Allegedly?”

“It's not exactly the same MO. The woman was burned to death. And no real attempt was made to hide her identity. Except her face was destroyed.” He pulled up the case history. “She was a prostitute and an illegal alien and they didn't find a snapshot until a few weeks later when the story was on page five. I had to dig to find it.” He swiveled the laptop around toward Eve. “Not as close, but the resemblance is there.”

Another Jane.

Thinner, lips not as firm, skin not glowing with youth but similar features.

“What is this?” Eve whispered.

He didn't answer, but brought up another screen. “Inspector Mark Trevor's e-mail. Four victims from the U.K.”

She knew what she'd see but it still came as a shock. “They all look like Jane.”

“Not entirely. They're not identical, but close enough to be sisters.”

And they were all dead. She moistened her lips. “Same serial killer?”

He nodded. “In every case he destroyed the face. By fire, by peeling it off, once it was done by some undetermined chemical.”

“To hide their identity?”

“That didn't seem the purpose except in the last case.”

She drew a shaky breath. “Then he did it because he hated the way they looked. And that's why he's targeting them.”

“It seems the logical conclusion.”

“Logical? I don't feel logical. I'm scared to death.” Her voice was uneven. “Calhoun is just down the highway and if he peeled off her fingerprints he was trying to make it look like the work of a different killer, with a different MO. He didn't want anyone to know he was in this area. Why?”

“Maybe he didn't want the women in this city to be on the alert.”

“But not all of them have Jane's face.” Her hands clenched into fists. “And that's what that crazy is looking for. He's trying to destroy everyone who looks like Jane.”

“He doesn't know about Jane.”

“Then someone who looks like an old girlfriend or his mother. Someone with Jane's face.”

“It would follow the serial killer profile.”

“Oh, yes, I know all about those profiles,” she said jerkily. “I did a lot of studying after Bonnie was murdered, until I almost drowned in them. Well, he's not going to substitute Jane in any of his sicko fantasies. That's not going to happen again.”

“No, it's not,” Joe said quietly. “I won't let it. Do you think you're the only one who cares about Jane?”

No, of course he loved Jane. But he hadn't lost a daughter. He didn't know the constant terror of it happening again.