Roses Are Red

officers who I was and then the story of Christine’s horrific kidnapping more than a year before in Bermuda. I tried to give a short version, and when I was finished they nodded. They got it, understood.
    “I remember the case from the newspapers,” one of them said. “Trouble is, there’s no evidence that anyone was here tonight. We’ve checked all the doors, windows, and the grounds.”
    “Would you mind if I took a look around?” I asked.
    “Not at all. We’ll wait here with Ms. Johnson. Take your time, Detective.”
    I gave the baby over to Christine and then I checked the house very carefully. I looked everywhere, but I didn’t find any sign of entry. I walked the grounds and even though it was wet, saw no evidence of fresh footprints. I doubted that Shafer had been there that night.
    When I returned to the living room, Christine and the baby were cuddled up quietly on the couch. The two patrolmen were waiting outside on the front porch. I went out and talked to them.
    “Can I be honest?” one of them asked me. “Could Ms. Johnson have had a bad dream? It sounds like some kind of nightmare or something. She’s sure this guy Shafer was in her house. In the bedroom. We saw nothing to support that, Detective. The doors were locked. The alarm was still on. Does she have nightmares?”
    “Sometimes she does. Lately. Thank you for your help. I’ll take it from here.”
    After the squad cars drove off, I went back inside to be with Christine. She seemed a little calmer now, but her eyes were so damn sad.
    “What’s happening to me?” she asked. “I want my life back.
I can’t get away from him.
”
    She wouldn’t let me hold her, not even then. She didn’t want to hear that she might have been dreaming about Geoffrey Shafer, the Weasel. Christine did thank me for coming, but then she told me to go home.
    “There’s nothing you can do for me,” she said.
    I kissed the baby, and then I went home.

Chapter 43
    AT PRECISELY 7 A.M. Mr. Blue took up his position in the thick fir woods behind a house in the Woodley Park section of Washington.
    As he’d done for the past three mornings, the bank manager, Martin Casselman, left his home at around twenty past seven. Casselman peered around the neighborhood before he got into his car. It was possible he was spooked by the recent bank robberies in Maryland and Virginia. Still, most people never really thought it could happen to them.
    Casselman’s wife was a teacher at Dumbarton Oaks High School. She taught English, which Mr. Blue had always hated. Mrs. C. would be leaving for work sometime closer to eight. The Casselmans were both organized and predictable, which made the job simpler.
    Mr. Blue crouched beside an old elm that was dying; he waited for a call on his cell phone. Everything was on schedule so far, and he felt relaxed. Approximately eight minutes after Martin Casselman left, the phone rang. He pushed the
Talk
button.
    “Mr. Blue. Talk to me.”
    “C. has arrived for our meeting. He’s in the parking lot as we speak. Over.”
    “Roger that. Everything looks good for my meeting with Mrs. C.”
    No sooner had Mr. Blue pushed
End
on the phone than he saw Victoria Casselman step out the front door of the house and lock up. She had on a pink suit and reminded him of Farrah Fawcett in her glory days.
    “Where the hell is she going?” he said, surprised. There weren’t supposed to be any surprises on this job. The Mastermind had supposedly scoped everything out perfectly.
This wasn’t perfection.
Mr. Blue started to walk fast through the tangle of woods and high weeds separating him from the Casselman house. He could already see that he wasn’t going to make it in time.
    Mistake.
    Mine, or hers?
    Both of ours! She’s leaving too early this morning; I’m out of position!
    He began to run toward Hawthorne Street, but she was already inside her black Toyota and backing out of the driveway. If she turned right, everything was completely screwed. If she turned left, he still had a chance to save the day.
C’mon Farrah, honey, go left!
    Mr. Blue was trying to think of something to shout to her — something that would stop her cold. What, though?
Think. Think.
    Good girl! She had turned left, but he still didn’t think he could get to the freaking road in time to stop her.
    He started to sprint, head down. He felt a burst of sudden, deep heat roaring through his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to run at full tilt