Carolina Moon

what he said to her. Everything she felt was so much stronger than what he felt. He didn’t particularly want her. What was left of him there was rage and confusion and a kind of horrible pride. She was a substitute, a handy outlet for a … a need he doesn’t even understand. He took her into the bedroom, kept her facedown on the bed. He struck her several times, the back of the neck, the face. He tied her hands behind her back, good strong rope. He closed the curtains, so that they could be private, so that it would be dark. He didn’t want her to see his face, but more, I think more, he didn’t want to see hers. He sees another face when he rapes her. He uses the knife to cut off her clothes, he’s very careful, but he still nicks her, on the back, and up by her shoulder.”
    Carl D. nodded, took a long drink. “That’s right. She had two shallow cuts, and there were ligature marks on her wrists, but we didn’t find any rope.”
    “He took it with him. He’s never done this inside before. It’s always been out-of-doors, and there’s something exciting about doing these things to her in bed. When he hits her, it gives him pleasure. He likes to hurt women. But more than pleasure it provides him with a kind of relief for this pent-up hunger in him. This need to prove himself a man. He’s a man when he makes a woman bend to his will. While he rapes her he’s happier, someone stronger inside himself, than he is any other time. He celebrates his manhood this way, in a way he can’t in any other.”
    Trying to see him, to crawl inside him, hurt her head. She rubbed at her temple, pushed harder. “It is sexual for him, and he believes she was meant to be taken, to be dominated. He’s convinced himself of that, and still he’s careful. He uses a condom. How does he know who she’s fucked? She’s a whore, like all the others. A man has to look out for himself.”
    “You said he didn’t want to leave any of himself behind.”
    “Yes, he won’t leave his seed inside her. She doesn’t deserve it. I—this isn’t what I feel from him, I feel almost nothing from him.” Her fingers drilled at her throbbing temple. “There are blanks and dead ends. Turns in him. I don’t know how to tell you.”
    “That’s fine,” Carl D. told her. “Go ahead.”
    “This isn’t an act of procreation, but of punishment for her, and ego for him. During the process, she ceases to exist for him. She’s nothing, so it’s easy to kill her. When it’s over, he’s proud, but he’s angry, too. It’s never exactly what he hoped it would be, it never completely purges him. Her fault, of course. The next time will be better. He cuts the rope, he turns off her music, and he leaves her in the dark.”
    “Who is he?”
    “I don’t see his face. I can see some of his thoughts, some of the more desperate of his emotions, but I don’t see him.”
    “He knew her.”
    “He’d seen her, I think he’s spoken to her. He knew enough to know about the dog.” Tory closed her eyes a moment, tried to focus. “He drugged the dog. I think he drugged the dog. Burger laced with something. Risky. This was all very risky and that added to the excitement. Someone might have seen him. All the other times there was no one to see.”
    “What other times?”
    “The first was Hope.” Her voice broke. She lifted her tea again, calmed herself. “There were four others that I know of. I had a friend look into it. She found out there’ve been five over the last eighteen years. All of them killed in late August, all of them young blondes. Each one was the age Hope would have been if she’d lived. I think Sherry was younger, but she wasn’t the one he wanted.”
    “A serial killer? Over eighteen years.”
    “You can verify it with the FBI.” She looked at Cade then, for the first time since they’d sat down. “He’s still killing Hope. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
    She rose, and her cup clattered in the saucer as she carried it to the counter. “I’m afraid it could be my father.”
    “Why?” Cade kept his eyes on her face. “Why would you believe that?”
    “He has—when he hurt me, it aroused him.” The shame of it sliced through her, shards of glass jagged and edged with bitter heat. “He never touched me sexually, but it aroused him to hurt me. I think, looking back, I can’t be sure he didn’t know of my plans to meet Hope that night. When he came in for supper he was in a good mood, a rare one. It was as if he