The Woman Who Couldn't Scream

  Kateri hit redial. “She isn’t answering.”

  “Does she answer? She can’t speak.”

  “She can sign and she can text. And yes, I already texted her, told her I was afraid for her life and to get back to me right away. She hasn’t.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “No.” Kateri’s calm façade hid a wealth of anxiety. “What’s in the morgue can wait—it’s not going anywhere. Head to the B and B.”

  He handed her the microphone. “Call in the nearest law enforcement unit. They can beat us there.”

  “No. We’ve got a paid assassin, one who was good enough to recognize and kill his or her rival. We know he likes to torment his victims, that he’s strong, intelligent and meticulous. Like a college professor. We won’t want everyone swooping in, sirens blasting, so he gets in a hurry, gets sloppy.” Kateri thought hard. “Merida doesn’t like Benedict Howard, but he’s the kind of man who gets things done. Let me call him … not that I have his number, and wealthy men aren’t listed in the phone book.”

  “Phone book? What’s a…?”

  Sometimes Moen made her feel so old and creaky. “Don’t worry about it, kid. I’ll call the B and B.” She punched in the number and let it ring.

  The answering machine picked up and Phoebe’s cheerful recorded voice said, “Thank you for calling the Good Knight Manor Bed and Breakfast…”

  “Where’s Sean Weston?” Moen asked. “He’s got a thing for Merida Falcon. In his free time, he’s always hanging around trying to catch a glimpse of her. Maybe he’s there now.”

  “It’s really late. You think he’s there now?”

  “Maybe?” Moen sounded uncertain.

  The chill Kateri felt grew stronger. “Maybe he’s the killer.”

  “What makes you say that? He’s a great guy!”

  “No one thought the assassin was anything but a cleaning woman with four kids and an abusive husband.” Kateri pulled out her phone. “Let me call Bergen and Garik, notify them, tell them we’ve got a situation and we need to go in quietly. They’ll know what to do.”

  As Kateri and Moen drove along, the streetlights gave off an eerie blue illumination that made Kateri wish for a clear night sky and a full moon. But the marine layer, those high clouds off the ocean, had come in and covered the sky, and a few wisps slipped down to coil around the lights like ghosts dancing to unheard music.

  Too many ghosts lately. Too many deaths.

  Tonight, they needed to save her friend.

  * * *

  Benedict sat down with his laptop and Merida’s and, without a twinge of conscience, used Merida’s software to move the proof of embezzling from him to Rose and Albert. They would be surprised. But not as surprised as when they discovered his notation beside the unexplained fee they’d paid to a yacht mechanic at the time of his parents’ death. He wondered if it would occur to them that murdering his parents was cruel and immoral, or whether they were so lost to decency they’d be bewildered by his defection.

  Damn them. They deserved so much worse and yet, for them, nothing could be worse than losing the business. The business was their only love, their only passion, their only need.

  Standing, he gathered his computer gear and headed into the bedroom to pack. On the nightstand, he discovered the note card Merida had made depicting Carl Klineman’s message.

  WAS ON

  WES UN

  Merida said the letters were blurred and she wasn’t sure she correctly remembered them.

  WASON

  WESUN

  WES. The killer was Wesley somebody? Maybe, but that was a big pool to choose from.

  WASUN …

  WA could be Washington. Washington SUN? Was that a newspaper? Was the killer someone tanned?

  Benedict snorted and dropped the card. But his brain worried the problem as he packed his clothes. Washington something. WA S UN.

  He stood up straight. WSU. Washington State University.

  That was where Dawkins Cipre was supposed to teach next year.

  Sitting down at the computer, he immediately found Dawkins Cipre, his honors, his teaching credentials. Then he dug deeper.

  Dawkins Cipre wasn’t on the WSU autumn schedule.

  Benedict looked out the window.

  Dawkins and Elsa Cipre had the attic room above Merida. One small light shone in the attic. All of Merida’s lights were on.

  Picking up his phone, he called Merida.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Elsa stood, dragged one of the heavy dining chairs out and, hooking her arms under Merida’s, deadlifted her onto the seat.

  Half blind with pain, Merida tried to lunge away.

  With her bony fist, Elsa hit her behind the right ear.

  Merida retched and blacked out.

  She woke seated in the chair with her joined hands behind the chair back.

  With calm severity, Elsa said, “I don’t like to compromise the finished product, but I will. The important thing is doing the job. And getting paid.” She spoke briskly, instructively, like a … like a professor.

  Merida’s vision returned, dissolved in watery agony, returned again. She looked at the door. It was shut and locked.

  Elsa saw her. “Have you ever heard the world’s shortest ghost story? A man stayed in a bedroom reputed to be haunted and before he slept, he locked all the locks on the door and windows and barricaded himself in. When he was done, he climbed into bed, turned off the light and a cheerful little voice said, ‘Now we’re locked in safe for the night.’” She laughed merrily. “Just like you and me.”

  Merida’s phone rang.

  Elsa located it, lifted her booted heel and stomped as hard as she could.

  The glass shattered.

  It rang again.

  Elsa lifted her heel and stomped, stomped, stomped, each time the force of her blow growing greater. She stomped until the ringing ceased, then stomped again. When she at last stopped, she was breathing heavily. As if her frenzy was Merida’s fault, she said, “We don’t have an unlimited amount of time. We’ll have to get the job done ASAP. Of course, I’m prepared and I’ve practiced, so don’t worry. We’ll get there!” She removed her ugly, misshapen black cape and spread it on the table, the lining up. She smoothed the material. Scissors, knives, sewing tools, box cutters: their handles stuck out of a myriad of pockets. In that instructional tone, she said, “I found a purse to be an inefficient way to carry the necessities a woman needs. So when I design my clothing, I add a holder for each item. A place for everything and everything in its place. Tonight, of course, I was wearing my cutting cape.”

  Merida breathed deeply, working through the pain in her head. Okay. She was seated on a heavy wooden chair, her wrists cuffed behind her.

  Not for the first time. She’d been held like this when Nauplius had chosen to exert his power, punish her with the inability to speak with her hands.

  Elsa wore black leggings and a black sleeveless racerback tank. Her eccentric clothing had hidden how wiry she was; her thin arms were deeply muscled, her wrists resembled a wrestler’s. This woman worked out, ran, lifted weights.

  Elsa retrieved a handkerchief and blotted the blood off the corner of her eye. She had that, a split lip and a bruise on her face, but the body bruises Merida had imagined Dawkins Cipre had inflicted didn’t exist.

  Why not? What was the thump from the attic, the sound of a body falling? What had Elsa done to Dawkins Cipre?

  Who was this woman?

  With her fingertips Merida explored the fastening that held her hands. Plastic handcuffs with a zip tie. Her left wrist was caught tight enough to cut off her circulation. She’d been unconscious then.

  But for her right wrist, she’d been awake, a little, so when Elsa fastened the tie, Merida had stiffened her hand to make it wider, give herself some wiggle room.

  Having Nauplius bind Merida with whatever he had at hand—twine, rope, ribbon—had taught her some tricks. Who would have thought she’d be blessing him f
or that?

  Elsa faced her. “Let’s see, you must have a million questions. Where shall we start? You may already have guessed Elsa Cipre is my pseudonym, chosen for me by your husband. By the way, he was a charming man, and knew exactly what he wanted. I’m Gloria Meyrick. Have you heard of me?”

  Merida shook her head.

  “Fame is so fleeting! You already know some of my story. Dawkins was angry with me when he caught me at that absurd woman’s quilting group, telling the truth about my background.” Elsa plucked a roll of duct tape from one of her cape pockets and tore off a strip. “In fact, I did lead the Home Sciences department at Northeastern Christian University. I did demand the best from my students, and I was tough on them. Really tough on the ones with potential. Some of the girls complained. One of them, her mother was a lawyer. Her mother took action against me and that’s when the dean announced Home Sciences was a dated, unnecessary program. He ended my funding.” Bringing the tape to Merida, she placed it on Merida’s forehead. “Looking back, my mistake wasn’t killing the lawyer. It was sewing her mouth shut. That detail gave me away.”

  Panicked and repulsed, Merida kicked at her with both feet.

  Elsa punched her between the eyes.

  Merida blacked out again.

  She returned to consciousness to find her ankles zip-tied to the chair legs and her forehead taped to the chair back.

  “You shouldn’t do that, you know.” Elsa stood by the table, selecting from among a variety of blades: ceramic paring knife, embroidery scissors, three kinds of rotary cutters … “I was in the penitentiary for thirty-one years. No chance of parole. Prison is brutal. One doesn’t survive without inspiring fear. When I went in, I already inspired fear. You haven’t got a chance. That’s why, out of all the killers in the world, Nauplius picked me as his first-wave assassin.”

  She brought over a pair of tiny gold embroidery scissors and held them in front of Merida’s eyes. “Aren’t these cute? They’re antiques, the handles are shaped like a crane. They were beyond belief expensive, but Nauplius gave me a spectacular budget to get what I needed to do the job.” She clicked the scissors. “They’re also the finest embroidery scissors in the world, and don’t worry, I have had them sharpened to a fine edge.” She tucked them into her cleavage. “I promised Nauplius I would do a good job, and I intend to keep that promise.”

  Merida pushed her left wrist down as hard as she could, made her right hand as narrow as possible. The plastic edges were sharp; if she was going to free herself in time, she was going to lose skin. A lot of skin.

  If she didn’t free herself in time, she was going to lose more than skin.

  “You’re struggling to talk, aren’t you? That’s so endearing.” With a half-smile, Elsa watched her work her hands behind her back. “What I really think I’ll like about performing on you isn’t only that you can’t scream. I rather enjoyed some of that from the other victims, although Dawkins said it got old. But you can’t interrupt me! That is delightful.”

  Merida showed Elsa her teeth.

  “Ooh, you’re scary.” Elsa selected a new blade for her X-Acto knife and locked it firmly in place. “When Nauplius discovered he was doomed to a soon and sudden death, he broke me out of prison, spoke to me about his wishes. He said he had created you, your face was his, and when he died, he would take it back.”

  Merida worked at moving the handcuffs down and off. She compressed the bones in her right hand, dragging the plastic over her thumb, scraping skin off the knuckle.

  “Nauplius was so logical.” Elsa sounded admiring. “After I agreed to do as he wished, he gave me a cover story with Dawkins Cipre as my husband—and as my handler.”

  Blood trickled down Merida’s thumb and she shook her hand repeatedly to scatter the evidence. Merida remembered the fit Elsa had thrown about the ringing phone. If she suspected Merida was trying to escape … Merida’s gaze wandered over the cutting implements. She listened to Elsa’s fluting voice, heard the edge of madness that anticipated this job, and looked into Elsa’s avid eyes.

  Merida shook off the blood again, shook off the pain, and continued to work.

  Elsa said, “You escaped us when Nauplius died, and I hated that. I needed to practice. That was the first time I gave Dawkins the slip, when I killed that member of Nauplius’s legal team. I like to kill lawyers … Dawkins caught up with me that time, but then I knew I was smarter than he was. He knew it, too. He was nothing but a historian, an expert in the past. I taught the practical; I knew how to do … everything. Cut anything. Soon enough, he was afraid of me. He saw what I was capable of. But he never imagined what I could do to him.” Throwing her head back, Elsa laughed, wildly, happily. “He’s up there, bleeding to death in slow increments, unable to move, a needle in his brain…”

  Tears filled Merida’s eyes. She shook them away. She was terrified. She was in pain. She was ripping her skin off her hand. Not fast enough, though. She didn’t have enough time …

  Elsa slid the handle of the X-Acto knife into her cleavage, then added the sheathed ceramic paring knife. “Just the two of us…” she sang. She caressed the handles of her embroidery scissors, then hooked them onto her shirt.

  There! That was it. How perfect. Elsa had placed those blades where Merida could get them. Most were sheathed; obviously Elsa had a care for her own skin. Yet all Merida needed was her hands free. All she needed was … she worked feverishly. Sweat gathered at her spine and slid down in cold, agonizing, itchy trails.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Merida froze. She looked at the door. Looked at Elsa.

  Benedict? Was it Benedict?

  Elsa flushed. Her eyes narrowed with irritation. She whispered, “We’ll pretend there’s no one in here.”

  The knocking stopped.

  Elsa went to the door, pressed her eye to the peephole. “Good. Whoever it was went away.”

  Benedict. Come back!

  Merida jerked, yanked, tore at the cuffs. She had to get her hands free.

  Returning to the table, Elsa chose one of the rotary cutters. She visually examined Merida’s face, then hooked the handles of the diagonal pliers in her cleavage. At last she walked to the chair, where Merida was trapped, handcuffed, bound head, hand and foot. Elsa leaned forward, so close her breath brushed Merida’s face. She smelled minty, fresh, not at all like a macabre butcher. She said, “This work takes concentration. Dawkins never appreciated that. He would always pace and urge me to hurry. That’s why I tore the first face. Let me assure you, your face will be an elegant work of art.” Easing the rotary cutter out of her cleavage, she removed the blade guard and placed it against Merida’s temple.

  The cool, light touch galvanized Merida. She jerked hard on the nylon handcuff.

  Her right hand popped free. Both hands … were loose.

  Elsa jumped back. “Be careful! Your face is my chef d’oeuvre, my work of art. Do not spoil it for me. That would not go well for you. I can make you suffer … more.”

  Now. Merida had one chance of success. With her gaze fixed on Elsa’s face, she weighed her options. She needed Elsa to lean close again, to concentrate on the task at hand.

  Elsa again placed the rotary cutter against her temple. “I always love the first cut,” she said. “When it’s done well, I mean.”

  Merida clenched her teeth. That initial incision … that’s when Elsa’s focus would be at its height.

  That’s when the pain would give Merida the incentive she needed.

  Elsa pressed hard.

  The blade slid through Merida’s skin and onto the bone at her temple.

  The pain!

  Elsa rolled the rotary blade down toward Merida’s ear.

  Merida brought her arms around, snatched the diagonal pliers out of Elsa’s cleavage. With a violent upward swing, she stabbed them into the soft part under Elsa’s chin.

  Elsa’s mouth opened; blood gushed.

  Merida yanked the pliers free.

  Elsa fell backwar
d onto the hardwood floor and rolled in agony, shrieking with the volume and the undulation of a fire alarm.

  At the door, the handle rattled.

  Merida ripped the tape off her forehead; hair came, too, and skin, and that hurt like hell. Leaning over, she used the pliers to clip the zip ties. Standing, she stepped toward the suit of armor.

  In the corridor, people shouted.

  Swift as a Gila monster, Elsa swiveled and crawled close enough to grab Merida’s ankle.

  Merida kicked at her.

  Elsa slashed her skin with the rotary cutter.

  Merida screamed in silent agony, strained and reached. Bolstered by pain-induced adrenaline, she dragged Elsa with her. She grasped the hilt of the long sword, pulled it away from the knight, lifted the heavy blade and swung.

  Elsa’s severed forearm rested on the rug.

  Elsa screamed again and with the other hand raised her now unsheathed paring knife toward Merida’s knee.

  With a downward stab, Merida drove the sword through Elsa’s back, through her heart and into the floor, pinning her there like exhibit A in the serial killer museum.

  The door burst open.

  Benedict ran into the room.

  Kateri followed on his heels, pistol in hand and pointed at the scene.

  Sean Weston in police uniform. Phoebe Glass in her robe. Lilith … they all piled into the room. All witnesses to Merida’s achievement.

  Merida lifted her gaze from the bloody wreckage of her would-be assassin. She wiped at the blood trickling down her face with the back of her equally bloody hand.

  Using her tongue and teeth and vocal cords, she slowly and distinctly said, “I saved myself.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Lacey stood in the door of Kateri’s office and barked.

  Kateri glanced at the clock, then at the rather surprising report in her hand. “Yes, you’re right, it’s past time for dinner.” Turning off her desk light, she wandered through the patrol room smiling at her guys.

  They all smiled back.