Part 6 (2/2)

”Sorry I was away when you arrived in Durham,” she said as we walked east among elegant Gothic-style buildings that were built in the 1920s. ”My brother graduated from high school on Friday. Little Little Ryan Klouk. He's over six feet five, actually. Two hundred and twenty pounds if he's an ounce. Lead singer for Scratching Blackboards. I got back this morning, Alex.” Ryan Klouk. He's over six feet five, actually. Two hundred and twenty pounds if he's an ounce. Lead singer for Scratching Blackboards. I got back this morning, Alex.”

”When was the last time you saw Naomi?” I asked Mary Ellen as we crossed onto a pretty street called Wannamaker Drive. It felt all wrong to be talking to Naomi's friend like a homicide detective, but I had to do it.

The question had stung Mary Ellen. She took a deep breath before she answered me. ”Six days ago, Alex. We drove down to Chapel Hill together. We were doing work there for Habitat for Humanity.”

Habitat for Humanity was a community-service group that rebuilt houses for the poor. Naomi didn't mention that she did volunteer work for them. ”Did you see Naomi after that?” I asked.

Mary Ellen shook her head. The gold dancing bells around her neck jangled softly. I suddenly got the feeling that she didn't want to look at me.

”That was the last time, I'm afraid. I was the one who went to the police. I found out they have a twenty-four-hour rule on most disappearances. Naomi was gone almost two and a half days before they put out any all-points bulletins. Do you know why?” she asked.

I shook my head, but didn't want to make a big deal out of it in front of Mary Ellen. I still didn't know exactly why there was such a band of secrecy surrounding the case. I'd put in calls to Detective Nick Ruskin that morning, but he hadn't returned any of them.

”Do you think Naomi's disappearance has anything to do with the other women who have disappeared lately?” Mary Ellen asked. Her blue eyes were pierced with pain.

”There could be a connection. There was no physical evidence at the Sarah Duke Gardens, though. Honestly, there's very little to go on, Mary Ellen.” If Naomi was abducted at a public garden right on the campus, there were no witnesses. She had been seen in the gardens half an hour before she missed a cla.s.s in Contracts. Casanova was scarily good at what he did. He was like a ghost.

We finished our walk, ending up full circle where we had begun. The dormitory house was set back twenty to thirty yards from a graveled path. It had high white columns, and the large veranda was crowded with s.h.i.+ny white wicker rockers and tables. The antebellum period, one of my favorites.

”Alex, Naomi and I really haven't been as close lately,” Mary Ellen suddenly confided in me. ”I'm sorry. I thought you should know that.”

Mary Ellen was crying as she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. Then she ran up the polished whitewashed stairs and disappeared inside.

Another troubling mystery to solve.

Chapter 22.

CASANOVA WATCHED Dr. Alex Cross. His quick, sharp mind was whizzing about like a sophisticated computer-possibly the fastest computer in whole Research Triangle.

Look at Cross, he muttered. he muttered. Visiting Naomi's old friend! There's nothing to be found there, Doctor. You're not even warm yet. You're getting colder, actually. Visiting Naomi's old friend! There's nothing to be found there, Doctor. You're not even warm yet. You're getting colder, actually.

He followed Alex Cross at a safe distance as he walked across the Duke campus. He had read extensively about Cross. He knew all about the psychologist and detective who'd made his reputation tracking down a kidnapper-killer in Was.h.i.+ngton. The so-called crime of the century, which was a lot of media hype and horses.h.i.+t.

So who's better at this game? he wanted to shout out to Dr. Cross. he wanted to shout out to Dr. Cross. I know who you are. You don't know dogs.h.i.+t about me. You never will. I know who you are. You don't know dogs.h.i.+t about me. You never will.

Cross stopped walking. He took a pad from the back pocket of his trousers and made a note.

What's this, Doctor? Had a thought of some consequence? I rather doubt that. I honestly do.

The FBI, the local police, they've all been trailing me for months. I suppose they make notes, too, but none of them has a clue....

Casanova watched Alex Cross continue to walk along the campus until he finally disappeared from sight. The idea that Cross would actually track and capture him was unthinkable. It simply wasn't going to happen.

He started to laugh, and had to catch himself since the Duke campus was fairly crowded on a Sunday afternoon.

No one has a clue, Dr. Cross. Don't you get it?... That's the clue!

Chapter 23.

I WAS a street detective again. WAS a street detective again.

I spent most of Monday morning interviewing people who knew Kate McTiernan. Casanova's latest victim was a first-year intern who'd been abducted from her apartment on the outskirts of Chapel Hill.

I was attempting to put together a psych profile of Casanova, but there wasn't enough information. Period. The FBI wasn't helping. Nick Ruskin still hadn't returned my phone calls.

A professor at North Carolina med school told me that Kate McTiernan was one of the most conscientious students she'd taught in twenty years. Another professor at the school said that her commitment and intelligence were indeed high, but ”her temperament is the truly extraordinary thing about Kate.”

It was unanimous in that regard. Even competing interns at the hospital agreed that Kate McTiernan was something else. ”She's the least narcissistic woman I've ever met,” one of the woman interns told me. ”Kate's totally driven, but she knows it and she can laugh at herself,” said another. ”She's a really cool person. This is such a sad, numbing thing for everyone at the hospital.” ”She's a brain, who happens to be built like a brick s.h.i.+thouse.”

I called Peter McGrath, a history professor, and he reluctantly agreed to see me. Kate McTiernan had dated him for almost four months, but their relations.h.i.+p had ended abruptly. Professor McGrath was tall, athletic-looking, a bit imperious.

”I could say that I f.u.c.ked up royally by losing her,” McGrath admitted to me. ”And I did. But I couldn't have held on to the Katester. She's probably the strongest-willed person, man or woman, that I've ever met. G.o.d, I can't believe this has happened to Kate.”

His face was pale, and he was obviously shaken up by her disappearance. At least he appeared to be.

I ended up eating by myself in a noisy bar in the college town of Chapel Hill. There were hordes of university students, and a busy pool table, but I sat alone with my beers, a greasy, rubbery cheeseburger, and my early thoughts on Casanova.

The long day had drained me. I missed Sampson, my kids, my home in D.C. A comfortable world without any monsters. Scootchie was still missing, though. So were several other young women in the Southeast.

My thoughts kept drifting back to Kate McTiernan, and what I'd heard about her today.

This is the way cases got solved-at least it was the way I had always solved them. Data got collected. Data ran loose in the brain. Eventually, connections were made.

Casanova doesn't just take physically beautiful women, I suddenly realized in the bar. I suddenly realized in the bar. He takes the most extraordinary women he can find. He's taking only the heartbreakers... the women that everybody wants but n.o.body ever seems to get. He takes the most extraordinary women he can find. He's taking only the heartbreakers... the women that everybody wants but n.o.body ever seems to get.

He's collecting them somewhere out there.

Why extraordinary women? I wondered. I wondered.

There was one possible answer. Because he believes he's extraordinary, too. Because he believes he's extraordinary, too.

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