And I’d have to do all that while keeping things nice and casual, like we were discussing the last movie we’d seen as opposed to, you know, the whole “congrats on escaping the clutches of a madman, now tell me everything no matter how embarrassing or personal” thing.
“D’you want something? A pop? Crackers? Another pillow?” An anti-amnesia machine? The ability to reverse time? Washable cashmere?
Tracy shook her head. Her eyes were so big I could see the whites all the way around her pupils. She looked like a horse getting ready to flee the glue factory.
“Listen,” I said, sitting down. My fingers felt sticky and I peered at them, puzzled—then realized I still had a bit of maple syrup on the first two fingers on both hands. Damn it! I thought I’d washed it all off, but the stuff never leaves your skin.
I sat on my fingers and gave her my brightest nothing-wrong-here smile. All praise to the wanting-to-please stage of assault, because she was sitting there pretending there was nothing wrong with a klutzy federal agent who smelled like syrup. Poor Tracy Carr! “So, I wanted to talk about yesterday some more.”
“I assumed you were here to trade recipes for fudge.” She deadpanned the comment, but it perked me up all the same. She shows some spunk! Less than twenty-four hours after an ordeal which would leave most people gibbering and drooling in a rubber room! Excellent. If I weren’t sitting on my sticky hands, I’d be applauding.
“Fudge, huh? Maybe later. Anyway, the best way for us to lock him—it’s a him, right?—in a tiny windowless concrete block for the next four decades—a block without cable or TiVo, I might add—with awful, awful food—and really terrible ambience—”
This earned me a tiny smile, more like an involuntary twitch of the lips.
“—well, then we need to talk about yesterday some more.” I leveled my best serious look at her, not unlike the look I’d leveled at Patrick the previous night after his honkfest.
“Okay.”
Chapter Forty
So we ran through the deep dark details again, starting with the easy stuff. Poor victims! They had to tell the same story to at least twenty different people. Unfortunately, we currently didn’t have a better way to do it at that time.
Her name, Tracy Carr. Address: she was renting a furnished hotel room at the Pyrenees in Bloomington, pending the sale of her house back in North Dakota—she’d been in the Twin Cities for nine months. This was common; as lovely as North Dakota was, lots of residents came southeast for job opportunities, late-night social life, or even just a bit more excitement.
She certainly found that last one, I thought ruefully.
She had turned thirty-three in March (“Now I have lived as long as Christ,” which, sadly, was not the weirdest thing a survivor ever said to me); she had been born in, of all places, Ankara, Turkey, of an American mother; she had dual citizenship. Her English was precise, almost clipped. She had never known her father. Her mother died when she was a teenager.
My pen flew as I took notes, my writing so horrible that only Shiro and Michaela could have read it. Speed before accuracy! Wait. That was entirely incorrect. Never mind.
Tracy was a freelance accountant who worked from her hotel room. Not a big family; she had two siblings but didn’t have much interest in contacting them. (One was not too far away in South Dakota, but the other was in the Southwest—“maybe Arizona,” she said wistfully. Given our winters up here, I couldn’t blame her.) No, she didn’t want me to call anyone for her—the doctors and nurses had already asked. No cousins, aunts, grandparents, pets, dependents, library cards.
She shopped for food occasionally (I made a mental note to have people check out the places she spent money most often; memo to me: pull her credit card receipts) but mostly ordered takeout.
No, she had never seen him before. In fact, in her rush to get out of the dining room, she’d gotten little more than a glance at him: tall, very tall. Slope-shouldered. “Like a farmer,” she added. “If he’d been wearing overalls, he would have looked exactly like that—like someone who worked the earth. But he had on jeans and a denim shirt. Short-sleeved.”
Lank hair the color of mud; no idea of the eye color. Oh, swell. With such a precise and detailed description, we’d probably have him locked up by lunchtime.
She had called 911 on her cell, from the pantry, while listening to the screams. And the murders.
“Good thing you had it charged,” I commented. Memo to me: pull all of her phone records. Whom she called, what they said—the works. And get a transcript of the 911 call if George didn’t have it sitting on my desk already.
“Yes.”
Chances were a few other agents were doing all these tasks and more, but I’d be wise to follow up. Clues often came from even the most obvious sources, no matter how often the bad guy watched Law & Order, CSI, and The Martha Stewart Show.
Something was niggling at the base of my spinal cord, and the more I tried to ignore it, the more weirded out I got. It was Tracy. Something about her—her—what? Speech? Facial expressions?
No, it went deeper than that. Something beyond being a victim, even. Something sad, something that had lasted a long time, maybe even something from her youth. I didn’t know what to do with that; but I’d been doing this job too long to blow off any hunch, no matter how unlikely or unpleasant or just plain silly.
“No,” she replied to my last question, which, fortunately, I hadn’t yet forgotten. Not a muscle moved except those controlling her mouth. “I never go to a gym. It’s too hard.”
“Yeah, I have trouble finding time to work out, too,” I replied, only half listening. It was a partial truth—Shiro got more than enough exercise for all three of us—and I was still distracted.
Tracy had just given me a big clue and she didn’t realize what it was. Neither did I. What was it about? “Plus,” I continued, not having any idea what was going to come out of my mouth next, “I hate getting my sweat all over the treadmill. Who wants to mop up her own sweat? Never mind anyone else’s. Makes me feel like I’m trapped in the hold of a ship.”
“And it’s hard,” Tracy added.
Jeepers, what was it? And was it even important? It must be or it wouldn’t be bugging me so much. Something I knew. Something I hadn’t known last night that I knew now, if I could just—
I whirled and glared at a passing nurse. “Will you please change out her IV bag before the fu—I mean, the freaking thing reverses itself?”
Startled, the nurse paused in midstep. Tracy’s eyes were big. “Pardon?”
“Da . . . darn it all!”
“Pardon?”
“Uh—just remembering I forgot to pick up my dry cleaning.” There was no hope for it. I’d have to ask Shiro. Good Lord, I was letting anybody drive my body these days.
God knew when she’d let me come back.
Too bad. Shiro would know. She would come straight out and say
Chapter Forty-one
“You suffer from Asperger’s syndrome.”
The live victim blinked at me. Her knuckles were still white, but she had lowered the bedclothes to her waist, revealing a clean dark blue scrubs top. She smelled like clean cotton and tape—tape everywhere. Holding the IV needle in place; closing the small cut over her left eyelid; tape at the crook of her elbow where they had drawn for labs. The smell of anger. The smell of fear.
“What?”
“Asperger’s. It is difficult for you to go to the gym because of all the faces.”
“Oh yes!” Tracy Carr didn’t nod, but her eyes crinkled in acknowledgment of a sort. “The faces.”
“And you cannot read expressions.”
“No.”
“You never know if someone is mad or sad or just having a bad day.” I studied Tracy Carr. Her expression during what would be—for most people—an odd, distressing, anxiety-inducing, uncomfortable conversation had not flickered in the slightest. Cadence would have gotten it eventually. She was simply too invested in putting the victim at
ease. Which occasionally had its place during an interrogation.
I had other concerns.
After another long pause, I said, “It is like a language, right? A code most people know but you don’t. It is . . . maddening. Right?”
Tracy nodded so hard I was afraid she would strike her head on the table-on-wheels which held her supper and the button. “Yes, that’s right. It’s as if I skipped a workshop that everyone else in the world attended at least twice.”
“I have had that impression myself,” I muttered, and to my surprise, Tracy smiled. I never made anyone smile. Not on purpose.
What Cadence had assumed was shock the night before was really the typical affect of Asperger’s. Occasionally people assumed it was a disability I suffered from myself. Which just goes to show how stupid some people were. Also, there was this damned obsessive need to categorize everything. Are you white, are you a smoker, what is your median income? Do you like classical music, are you allergic to dairy, are you a De-mocrat?
I could hardly get up on a high horse of morals about such behavior, though. Had I not been in a rush to figure out what was wrong with Tracy Carr, so I could file her neatly away in my brain and go into hiding until the twit wearing my body needed me again?
Tracy Carr certainly had several of the classic signs. She had tripped against Cadence last night as she walked with her to the ambulance. She said things inappropriate to the situation because she was trying to figure out how she was supposed to feel, and then imitating that.
And she had that peculiar affect so indicative of Asperger’s; she had no natural ability to read facial expressions. She would have to have been taught that this is a smile and it means you are happy; this is a frown and it means you are not.
“Did you get diagnosed in Turkey?”
She laughed bitterly and shook her head. “No, it was years later. In the States. My parents . . . well.” She shrugged.
“Do you indulge in obsessive rituals? I realize that is private, but we would ask anything to catch the ThreeFer.”
She smiled at me again as if we had a great and wonderful secret. “I count toothpicks. Even if it’s a new box and it says how many on the box and I know fourteen have been used and I know I counted them yesterday, I always have to count them again. And again. I count napkins, too.” She paused. “And paper clips. Oh, and binder clips. And forks. And—”
I cut her off with an impatient gesture. Yes, yes, this was sounding right. Although it was closely related to autism, those with Asperger’s did not completely withdraw from society. And they tended to be brilliant. But they would be awkward at a party, a wedding, a bar. They took more comfort in books than in socialization.
Hmm. Perhaps I did have Asperger’s.
Well. An issue for another time.
Chapter Forty-two
“Asperger’s!” I cried, starting to stand—and then I realized I already was. I hate when she just wanders around in my body like that. You would not believe the places I’ve found myself.
Don’t ask, though. I’ll never, never tell.
Tracy Carr blinked at me with wide, watery eyes. Easy, Cadence. Let’s not startle her into a coma, or a head cold. “Yes, we established that.”
“Right, right.” I knew Shiro would figure it out. But the ThreeFer, still lurking out there, wouldn’t wait for my poor drowning brain to figure these things out. Also, it just kept bugging me. “I was just, um, testing you. Okay, you ready to leave?”
She was, yanking so hard she pulled me off of my feet. I stumbled and nearly knocked over the IV stand. Cadence Jones, ladies ’n’ gents, making another graceful exit. Oooh, yergh, watch out for the bedpans.
The admitting doc, a harassed-looking woman in her early thirties with the weirdest-colored eyebrows I had ever seen (blue!), made Tracy sign paperwork, made her pee (what was it with the medical profession’s obsession with the function of removal?), and then insisted on wheeling her to the front door, where I’d parked. Just a few more steps and we’d be in my reasonably priced Mitsubishi Eclipse.
Now, don’t jump to any conclusions. I wasn’t stealing a parking spot from the handicapped; it’s just that as a federal agent I had certain privileges. If a blind person drove up, of course I would have given her the parking space. Jeepers, I wasn’t a monster.
Never mind! I had sprung Tracy from the hospital, like the Rita Hayworth poster had sprung Andy Dufresne from Shawshank Prison, and now work awaited us. Well, me. Onward!
I took a deep breath and sighed. It was one of those Minnesota autumn days when the wind was gentle and the trees were towering red and yellow and orange giants. When the sky was dotted with little clouds that looked like popcorn, and the sun was warm on my back. When I was hot on the trail of a repeat offender, and Starbucks served pumpkin-flavored coffee.
Ah! Fall. I loved fall. It was—
Chapter Forty-three
“I hate fall.”
Tracy Carr glanced at me while she fumbled for a cigarette, dropping her purse on the pavement and looking as though she might burst into tears at any second. Good Lord, I hoped she would not cry. The very sound set my teeth on edge.
I picked up her purse and watched as she dug out a lighter. I looked at this insanity with irritation. “There must be a cancer pill you can just take and get it over with, correct?”
“What? I—what?”
“There are much, much quicker ways—efficient ways, cost-effective ways—to commit suicide.” Hypocritical? No. I only had a pack a year. Few smokers possessed my self-control.
“Suicide? I would never—suicide?”
Chapter Forty-four
“—Love fall!” I had to yank on the wheel to avoid plowing into a speed-limit sign—Shiro had left me in middrive, which I supposed was better than how Adrienne had left me the night before. “It’s not too hot, but also it’s too cold for the bugs, and all the kids are running around with their new backpacks. And the gorgeous leaves—what the heck is that?”
Tracy twisted so far away from me she was practically hanging on to the wipers. “What? The geese? They’re just migrating.”
“Oh. Sure. I wasn’t—”
(Daddy look out look out look out!)
“—scared or anything. No.” I swallowed. “I wasn’t scared at all. I was startled for a second. That’s all. Listen.” I shifted and merged onto 35W. “We can’t force you to stay in a safe house—I have to say, Tracy, that shows bad judgment, and I’m sorry to have to tell you such a mean thing. But since you’ve (foolishly) refused, we’ll have at least two agents on you at all times.”
“He won’t come after me again.” Tracy sounded tired, but sure of herself. “I’m old news to him. I don’t exist anymore to him. He thinks it’s art. He thinks I’m art.”
“What?”
“ART,” she said, so loudly I flinched away. Yep, time for a visit to my friendly neighborhood ear, nose, and throat guy. “I said he thinks he’s making art. There’s nothing for me to be afraid of anymore. It’s like a painter worrying the canvas will come after him; hardly worth thinking about, much less fretting. He made me, he made the other two gentlemen. I’m just a thing to him now. It isn’t in his head that we’re real people with emotions and needs. Who cares what a sculpture thinks, anyway?”
“Very profound.” I pondered that, merging smoothly—hardly any traffic this late in the morning. Tracy was just right. Exactly right. Odd that a civilian could pick up on that so quickly—and express it so well. Poor thing.
We were at the hotel in no time, and I walked Tracy inside, clearing the room, making sure there wasn’t a bogeyman hiding under the bed, and confiscating her complimentary sewing kit. She likely couldn’t hurt herself with a needle, a black button, and a thimble (unless she swallowed it, maybe), but I was taking no chances.
The place was neat and clean, and decorated in modern inoffensive. A coffee table, a small couch, a stuffed chair with a teeny stuffed pillow. Dining area just off the living room—a simple blond
oak table with three chairs. A double bed sporting a truly hideous jack-o’-lantern–orange fringed(!) bedspread.
No pictures, just a print of a girl in toe shoes up en pointe, looking graceful as all get-out. I love that. It’s—
Chapter Forty-five
“That is the tackiest thing I have ever seen. Toe shoes? Pink toe shoes? Show us the blisters, you nameless foot model. Show us the calluses.”
Chapter Forty-six
“—It’s just so classy and delicate—ow!” I barked my knee on the coffee table—how’d I get all the way over here?
“Hey! Tracy Carr! Little help?”
Tracy Carr, however, just stood in the middle of the room and clearly had no idea what to do with her hands.
“Well, this is—um—homely. Homey! I meant homey.” Like any one of a dozen in the neighborhood, it was basically a beehive for people. The walls were neutral cream; the carpet was a dark gray that hid dirt. There was a tiny kitchen with an even tinier stove; the plant on the counter was a fake.
It was the kind of place where middle management stayed while they were waiting for a new office, or traveling salesmen. Heck, we were an airline hub—the whole street was practically flight attendant alley. At least they hadn’t started charging by the hour.
It was best not to talk about the wallpaper. You’ll thank me later. Believe me.
“Thank you for bringing me back. I’ll come to the government building tomorrow to do more paperwork.”
“That’d be swell.” I pointed at the only photograph in the room, a four-by-six of three teenagers standing around a big white house that badly needed a paint job, shingles, and a screen door. “Is that your family when you were all little?” There was something about the house. It didn’t just stand around them, it loomed over them. And all three faces were pale and pinched, like they had a vitamin deficiency.