I guess we got there early, because when we arrived, professor Goldstein was still teaching a class. It was one of those multitiered amphitheater classrooms with enough seats for at least a hundred students, and there wasn't an empty seat. What's more, there wasn't a bored face in the room; she seemed to have her students absolutely mesmerized, which was amazing, because I didn't understand a word she was saying.
"Darcy," I whispered, "are you getting any of this?"
He was staring at the problems written on the chalkboard, which looked to me sufficiently complex to create an atomic bomb. "I am working on it."
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"I…I have never seen anything like this before."
"Does that mean you don't get it, either?"
He continued staring straight ahead, eyes fixed. "I am working on it."
I tuned into Dr. Goldstein's lecture. "The important thing to bear in mind about continuing fractions is that they're fundamentally no different from simple fractions-except that instead of being able to reduce them in one, perhaps two steps, it's going to be more like, oh, fifty or a hundred steps." There was a low ripple of laughter from the classroom. "But never fear-it can be done. And it's worth the effort. Continuing fractions made it possible for men to go to the moon, for us to send probes to Mars and beyond. They made it possible for us to decode the human genome, to understand the natural process of crystallization. And Tupperware. Never forget Tupperware."
The bell rang. She laid her chalk back on the tray and brushed her hands together. "Class dismissed. Try to complete all three problems on the board. See you next time."
I caught her as she was packing up her materials and introduced myself. "Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Goldstein."
"Oh, it's no trouble. Colin and I have known each other for years." She offered me a chair. "Are you all right? You seem tired."
"Do I?" Damnation. "Did you catch me yawning during your lecture?"
She laughed. "No. Everyone does that. But your eyelids seem droopy."
"Sorry. I've been working double shifts on this case. Didn't get much sleep last night." I was lying through my teeth, of course. Three little blue pills was definitely too many. "I was impressed by your lecture. I don't believe I've ever met a female mathematician."
"Well, times are changing. Even if we haven't come that far in two thousand years."
"Two thousand years?"
"Since Hypatia. In ancient Egypt. History tells us she was the first female mathematician. Also kept the great Library of Alexandria. Very radical figure, in her time. Many people considered math-all the sciences, actually-a male enclave. Didn't like having a woman intrude on their turf."
"What happened to her?"
Dr. Goldstein pursed her lips. "Hypatia was attacked by a mob and dragged from her chariot. Her skin was flayed from her body with seashells. Then they burned the library. As a result, innumerable works of science and literature were lost for all time. Most of the work of Ptolemy. Most of the plays of Sophocles. An immeasurable loss."
"And, I bet, an end to women wanting to be mathematicians."
"For a time, yes. But enough about math history. How can I help you?"
"I'll be happy to explain that, although I warn you, it may take a while. And some of the details…aren't too pleasant."
"Why don't we step into my office?" She gestured toward the door on the left.
"Sure. Darce?"
"Huh?" He stared at the blackboard.
"Let's go into Dr. Goldstein's office."
His head tilted at an odd angle. "If it is okay-I mean if you do not mind or anything-I would like to stay out here."
I was puzzled. He'd practically begged to come with me, and now he didn't want to hear what the woman had to say? Still, I wasn't going to force him.
"Okay. I'll pick you up on my way out."
I followed Dr. Goldstein down the corridor into her office. For someone who held the Laura K. McClain Chair in Mathematics, she had a damn small office. Life in academia, I supposed. Of course, I myself had no office at all, so perhaps I shouldn't be criticizing.
"What can I do for you?" she asked, taking a seat behind her desk. I guessed her to be in her mid-to late thirties, with platinum blond hair and a few tinges of gray. She was not tall, but she was reasonably attractive. She wore a loose-fitting dress that gave no hint as to her figure, but even so, I could see this woman was capable of attracting male eyes.
"Well," I answered, "Colin tells me you're an expert in…I'm sorry, I don't know how else to put it. Weird math."
I was relieved to see she didn't take offense. In fact, she laughed. "In the scholarly world, we call it cryptomathematics. It's a discipline that combines elements of mathematics and philosophy. We apply the fundamentals of mathematics not simply for the more common ontological purposes but to pursue teleological inquiries as well." She must've noticed the blank expression on my face, because she added: "We apply math not simply as a way of solving problems but of understanding the mysteries of the world in which we live."
I nodded as if I understood; I was processing information much more slowly than usual. I tried to shake myself out of the cloud and force myself to function. "Well, I suppose that beats doing calculus."
"Funny you should say that. Differential calculus was invented by Isaac Newton, you know."
"May he burn in hell."
"He was a seriously strange dude, not at all the Sunday school genius you learn about in science class, sitting around waiting for an apple to fall on him so he could invent gravity, a story he probably made up."
"You're joking."
"I'm not. I did my dissertation on Newton. Sure, he experimented with gravity and light prisms and optics and higher mathematics, but as it turns out, he spent far more of his time dabbling in alchemy."
"You mean, trying to turn lead into gold?"
"Exactly."
"But isn't that…totally cracked?"
"That would be a nice way of putting it. Worse, in his day, it was illegal and perceived as anti-Christian, so he did all his alchemical work in secret. Most scholars today believe his thoughts on gravity arose from those alchemical experiments-although he couldn't admit it-not any apple-falling epiphany. For that matter, he also dabbled in sorcery and astrology and biblical prophecy; he had this whole timeline worked out of not only the history of the universe but the future. All the way from Adam and Eve-which by the way only occurred about six thousand years ago-right up to judgment day."
I gulped. "Dare I ask?"
"You can relax. According to Newton, the Second Coming is scheduled for 2060."
"Yikes."
"Yeah. He believed it, even though he never published it in his own lifetime. At the end of his life, Newton compared himself to Christ; he believed he was the only person able to interpret this divine knowledge. He wrote far more about the Bible than he did math; his future history analysis is ten times as long as the Principia Mathematica."
"And this is the world's greatest mathematician? Sounds more like the profile of a serial killer."
"You're not far wrong. He was neurotic, suicidal, anti-Semitic." She took a deep breath. "And then in his spare time, he revolutionized the world. He built the best refracting telescope. He made the Industrial Revolution possible."
"Even though he was wicked whacked."
She smiled. "Even though."
"And you chose to do a paper on this guy?"
She shrugged. "Hey, I got my Ph.D. You gotta do something to get academia's attention. It made a good dissertation, even if the man was mad. Ingenious, but mad. A dangerous combination."
Yes, that much was becoming clear to me. And I very much suspected that combination had made its way to beautiful downtown Vegas.
"I'm telling you, Chief, her speech was slurred."
"I don't believe it."
"Why would I lie?"
O'Bannon looked up at Granger, one eyebrow cocked.
Granger pressed his fists against O'Bannon's desk. "Look, I'll admit that Pulaski and I have had our differences. But we've also worked together-remember?"
"I just talked to the woman this morning. And she wasn't drunk."
"She could've been faking it. You can't be sure."
He looked at his detective with a steely eye. "I've been on the police force for thirty-four years," he said levelly. "I can be sure."
"Then maybe she stopped off someplace on her way to the office. I don't know. All I can tell you is, when she came in here, she wasn't right. She was too loose, too…I don't know. Un-Susan-like. Calmer. Relaxed. And she was definitely slurring her words."
"Personally, I think a calmer, more relaxed Susan might be a pleasant change of pace."
"Assuming she's sober. But she wasn't."
"She's been clean for months. Why would she start drinking now?"
"Because for the first time in months, you're actually asking her to do something!"
O'Bannon didn't respond.
"You think I don't know you've been going easy on her, making sure she didn't encounter anything that might put her under stress? Everyone in the department knows!"
"So you're saying you want me to hire a different behaviorist? Take on a second expert consultant?"
Granger paused. "I'd rather scratch the psycho-profilers and redirect that money to manpower. Let me beef up my detective squad. Hell, we've got a description on the guy. We just need to fan out, hit the streets, track him down."
O'Bannon pushed away from his desk. "Look, you want extra manpower, fill out the forms and I'll see if I can get it. I'll back you one hundred percent. It's not an either/or deal."
"You know as well as I do how strapped the budget is in this crappy economy. No way the city council will let me increase spending unless I can show them where I'm going to get the money."
O'Bannon didn't bother arguing with him. "Nonetheless, as long as the perp remains at large, it would be irresponsible to fire our best psy-"
Granger slapped a newspaper on O'Bannon's desk. "Have you read this yet?"
He unfolded the morning edition of the Courier and glanced at the under-the-fold headline.
Face killer still at large, and beneath that, POLICE BAFFLED. The article was by Jonathan Wooley, one of the top crime reporters for the paper, one O'Bannon knew all too well. He skimmed the article quickly. Wooley was unstinting in his criticism of the police department. Even though they hadn't released all of the gruesome details of the case, Wooley was still basically telling his readers they weren't safe on the streets.
"Prepare a statement. Tell them as little as you can. Pretend we're following up on a lot of serious leads."
Granger paced back and forth, his frustration mounting. "You know what I think? I think you know how risky Susan is. I think you know she'll start drinking again, sooner or later. You're just protecting her because you used to be her father's partner!"
"And you know what I think?" O'Bannon replied, matching his volume. "I think you're still pissed because of what happened to her husband-your partner-even though you don't know a damn thing about it."
"That's such bull-"
"Or maybe it's because she didn't melt in your mouth when you came on to her the first day you transferred over here. Which is it?"
Granger's face crinkled with rage. "I am just trying to help you! All I want is what's best for the department!"
"Then get out of my office and solve this case!" O'Bannon shouted.
Granger slammed the door on his way out.
O'Bannon fell back in his chair, exhausted. He pressed his fingers against his forehead, trying to fight off an incipient migraine.
Of course, Granger was right, at least about many things. He was protecting Susan. He couldn't forget her father-or what happened to him. For that matter, he'd known Susan all her life; he couldn't stand by and let her go down the tubes without trying to stop it.
Was she really slurring? He hadn't noticed it this morning on the phone. But as much as Granger might hate her, he couldn't imagine that the man would just make it up. If she was drinking again, Granger wouldn't be the only one who noticed, no matter how practiced she was at hiding it. Her career as a police officer would be finished. He would've let her down. Again. He would've dishonored the memory of her father, who-even though no one knew it but him-gave his life for O'Bannon's.
And Darcy would never forgive him.
He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, something he had gotten more used to doing during the months of recovery and rehabilitation following his gunshot wound.
Please God, whatever it is she's doing-tell her to stop. Tell her to stop now, before it's too late.
He tried to return his attention to the two dozen other files on his desk, but he couldn't really focus; he might as well have been reading James Joyce for all he comprehended of it. His mind was on Susan.
Please, Susan, be smart. Just this one time. Be smart! "I'VE READ about the murders in the paper," Dr. Goldstein said. "Horrible. But what do they have to do with my field of study?"
I handed her a photocopy. "This was found scrawled in grease at the scene of the first murder. It appears to be a mathematical equation, although by all accounts, an impossible one. Does it mean anything to you?"
She had looked at it for barely two seconds before a broad smile crossed her face. "Oh, yes. That again."
"That-what?" I craned my neck. "Have you seen this before?"
"Of course. Many times."
"But-what is it?"
She laughed, then passed it back to me. "It's a joke."
"A joke? What do you mean?"
She settled back in her chair. "You've heard of the Swiss mathematician Euler?"
To hedge or not to hedge…"The, uh, name sounds familiar…"
"He was a major figure in the history of mathematics. Is credited with being the first person to apply calculus to physics. Was the first to use the term function in a mathematical context."
"And this equation has to do with his work?"
"No, this has to do with his joke. As the story goes-and I warn you, it may be entirely apocryphal-Euler was a guest in the court of Catherine the Great at the same time as the great philosopher Diderot. Diderot was an atheist-or to be more accurate, he refused to believe in anything that couldn't be proven by rational, logical, or deductive principles. Anyway, he was making a big scene in court, offending everyone, declaring loudly that, 'I will believe in God when you prove to me that He exists.' So Euler hands him this formula and says, 'There. hence God exists, reply!'" She laughed. "Q.E.D."
I really wished Darcy had come in with me. It might've saved me so much embarrassment. "And…was he right?"
Dr. Goldstein gave me a long look. "Do you really think a mathematical formula could prove the existence of a divine maker? It was a joke. But Diderot didn't know. So he takes the formula and mumbles something like, 'Oh.' And crawls back to his room and stays there for the rest of the week, not bothering anybody. Euler becomes the hero of the court."
"Great story," I said. "But a little obscure. Most serial killers aren't, you know, students of little-known moments in the history of French philosophy."
"Oh, this theory gets around more than you know. Your killer may read the Mathematical Games column in Scientific American, or books on famous practical jokes. Maybe he's addicted to the History Channel."
I nodded. "I've always been suspicious of people who are addicted to the History Channel."
She laughed. "My point is, it wouldn't take a mathematical genius to scrawl this formula. This equation may have been intended as a joke, but hey, all the world loves a joke. And as you said before, without more information, it is totally insoluble."
"So when the killer left this behind at the scene of the crime, he was…" I held up my hands. I had no idea how to finish the sentence.
"I'm no detective," Dr. Goldstein replied. "But my guess is he was doing the same thing to you that Euler was doing to Diderot. Pulling his leg."
I nodded slowly. "Leading us on a wild goose chase. Proving how much smarter than us he is." Which was a common trait of the narcissistic personality disorder. And much as I hated to admit it, it would fit well with Granger's sexual obsessive theory, too. "And this has nothing to do with your work? That…crypto…thingie."
"No. There have been some serious efforts to link theology and mathematics, but this isn't one of them. Have you heard of Pythagoras?"
Darcy, of course, could've recited the entire encyclopedia entry on Pythagoras. I was stuck with: "Didn't he have some kinda theorum or something?"
"Very good. You remember your high school geometry." Was that a compliment? I wasn't sure. "Pythagoras proved as applied to the sides of a triangle. One of the most important discoveries in the history of mathematics. What you may not know is that Pythagoras was also the leader of a secret society."
"The ancient Greek version of the Elks lodge?"
"You're not far wrong. They called themselves the Brethren of Purity. They believed there was a connection between math and the cosmos, that all existence was predetermined by mathematical laws, and that God must have a mathematical form, since the universe He created does and always has. They swore to keep to themselves, safe from the public, one mind-shattering secret."
"And that was?"
Dr. Goldstein leaned forward and whispered. "The square root of two."
"Wow," I said, trying to keep a straight face. "That was a biggie."
"To them, it was. See, they didn't have an answer for it. They didn't have irrational numbers, or algebra or calculus. The square root of two was a problem with no solution, and therefore, it undermined not only their theory of mathematics but their very understanding of the cosmos. So they kept it to themselves."
I shook my head. "No wonder I never trusted math geeks."
"Of course, today we have ways of expressing the square root of two, even if we can't exactly solve the problem. But the Brethren of Purity started people thinking along certain lines that linked math with philosophy and theology. It is true that math is everywhere in the universe. The orbits of the planets follow predictable elliptical paths. Leaves expand at a predictable exponential rate. Gravity can be measured. The speed of light can be quantified. All these discoveries inevitably led to the question: Did man invent math in order to understand the universe, or did man simply discover what God created and made the basis of His universe?"
"And you…cryptos try to answer that question?"
"In a way. The famous mathematician Canzoni believed math had its own consciousness, which was evidenced in its physical manifestations in the world. Aristotle claimed to have proven the existence of God through logic based upon his theory of objects as we know them and their relationship to first causes. The first cause must be God, he argued, to avoid the logical inconsistencies of an infinite regress of possible causes for the creation of the universe. Avicenna, an ancient Muslim philosopher, made much the same argument. Only a few years ago, the mathematician William Hatcher, an adherent of the Baha'i faith, based upon the teaching of the prophet Baha'u'llah, proposed a logical proof that God exists, using relational logic. There have been others. Some of them brilliant, some of them totally insane."
"Like that guy in A Beautiful Mind?"
She nodded appreciatively. "John Nash. Yes, that's a very good example, actually. Math has been riddled with positively brilliant madmen."
"In school," I reflected, "we were taught that the line between genius and madness was thin. And too often transversed."
"That's true, but it occurs far more often in those disciplines that are centered in the right brain-like math. Or music-which of course is fundamentally based upon mathematics. Remember Mozart-writing symphonies when he was four, antisocial narcissist unable to function in society by the time he was an adult. Or chess. Poor Bobby Fischer went from being the greatest chess player in the world when he was fifteen to hiding from the law, spouting conspiracy theories and anti-Semitism-even though he himself was partly Jewish."
"But isn't this true in all artistic and intellectual fields?"
"Not so much, no. Because when you get to the disciplines that are centered in the left brain, you don't get prodigies of this nature. Literature, for example. Sure, Tolstoy was a brilliant writer, but he didn't write War and Peace when he was four. That kind of dangerous precociousness doesn't exist in the left brain fields."
So I was looking for someone very smart. And dangerously precocious. Swell. "Thank you for your time, Doctor. I'm sure you need to get back to…the unified field theory, or whatever."
She laughed. "That's a little over my head. Actually, I'm trying to posit a solution to the Reimann hypothesis."
"Come again?"
"It's the greatest unsolved mathematical puzzle, at least many of us think so. Hard to explain to a layperson, since it involves complex numbers. Basically, if the Reimann hypothesis is false, then the occurrence of prime numbers is essentially random. But if it's true, it implies that the occurrence of prime numbers is far more orderly than we are currently able to prove. That there is a pattern, even if we are unable to discern it."
"In other words, that there really is a mathematical meaning to the universe."
"Some would say so. One of the top mathematical theoreticians who ever lived, David Hulbert, said that if he were to awaken after sleeping for a thousand years, his first question would be: Has the Reimann hypothesis been proven?"
I suspected I would be more interested in the growth of my IRA account, but that's why I'm not a mathematician. "Thanks again, Doctor. You've been an enormous help."
"Have I? I feel as if all I've done is take your clue and prove it doesn't lead anywhere."
"Perhaps. But that too is useful. Now we can move on to other things." I held out my hand. "Thank you for your time. And good luck with your work on that…hypothesis. I have a feeling you're going to end up a lot better than Hypatia did."
She smiled. "Well, I could hardly end up any worse."
Dr. Goldstein escorted me back to the empty classroom, where we found Darcy still staring assiduously at the equations on the chalkboard.
I slapped him on the shoulder. "Having any luck, champ?"
Darcy did not look at me. "Twelve," he said.
I glanced at my watch. "No, it's almost two."
He ran his fingers through his hair and bucked his head toward the chalkboard. "That one. Twelve."
Dr. Goldstein picked up a clipboard lying on the podium and flipped through the pages. "My God," she whispered. "He's right."
"Huh?" I turned back and looked at her notes, which were totally meaningless to me. "What do you mean?"
"I mean twelve is the ultimate answer-the ultimate reduction, if you will-of this continuing fraction." She shook her head in amazement. "Do you mind if I look at your work?"
Darcy stared at her. "Work?"
"Your process. How you solved the problem."
Darcy's expression was still uncomprehending. "I did it in my head."
Dr. Goldstein's eyes fairly bulged. "In your head? That fraction requires more than thirty-two steps of reduction."
Darcy shrugged. "I did it in my head."
"Well, I don't mean to be rude, but-I find that very difficult to believe."
Darcy pointed at the other two problems on the blackboard. "Eighty-seven. Six point four two nine."
Goldstein's lips parted. "He's right!" She looked at me. "I doubt if I have a single graduate student who will be able to solve all three problems in a week. And that's using paper, pencil, and calculators. Where did Mr. O'Bannon go to college?"
I couldn't help but grin. "He's never been to college."
"You're kidding. Where did he study continuing fractions?"
"I don't believe he ever has."
Goldstein appeared stunned. "Are you sure? I've never seen anything like this in my entire life." She laid down her clipboard. "He must be a math savant. Incredibly gifted."
"I think so, yeah." I gave Darcy another nudge. "C'mon, champ. Let's go get some custard."
Darcy beamed. "Then I did good?"
"Very good. Thank you again, Doctor."
"Lieutenant-" She held me by the arm. "I don't want to seem forward, but if your young friend ever does decide to go to college, please have him come here. I would love to have him in my department."
"Well, thank you, but I don't think he has any plans-"
"If it's a matter of money, I'm sure I could rustle up a grant for someone with his gifts. I'm talking about a full scholarship."
"Really?" Now that was a thought. "I'll mention it to his father."
"Thank you. You have my number. Tell him he can call me at any time."
"I'll do that, Dr. Goldstein."
"Please, call me Esther." She handed me a business card, then excused herself. Darcy was still staring at the chalkboard, but I steered him toward the door. "Well, you made a heck of an impression. What do you think, Darcy? Wanna be a college man?"
He tilted his head at an odd angle. "If I went to college, could I be a policeman?"
"Well…possibly. Some of our detectives have college degrees. Although they don't usually come from the math department."
"Would they give me a place to live?"
I peered into his eyes. What was he thinking? It was so impossible to tell with him. "I assume room and board would be part of a full scholarship."
"Would it be a place where…where…you would want to live?"
"Huh?" I frowned. "Darcy, I've already been through college. And I already have a place to live."
"Oh." He pushed open the outer doors and stepped into the sunlight. "Can we at least get the custard?"
I didn't know what he was talking about, and I knew I wasn't going to figure it out now. My foggy little Valium-coated head was already throbbing from all the talk about mathematics, so I took the easy way out and didn't try to understand. "Custard it is. And this is the second Wednesday so…English toffee, right?"
His eyes lit. "You understand!"
I squeezed him around the neck. He pulled away, but not too hard and not too fast. "I'm learning, Darce. Slowly but surely, I'm learning."
Tucker handcuffed the woman to the bed, tightening the screws until he was certain her hands were immobilized. When she struggled, he grabbed her dark black hair and squeezed her head with his strong, massive hands.
"I could crush your skull if I wanted to," he growled, his expression leaving no doubt that he could or would. Nor disguising how much he would enjoy it. "Is that what you want?"
The woman looked up, her face masked with terror. She was practically naked, wearing nothing but a bright crimson teddy with white lace at the bodice. "No, sir. I'll be good. I promise I'll be good. Just-don't hurt me any more, okay? Please don't hurt me."
"Are you tryin' to tell me what to do?"
"No, of course not. I wouldn't-"
He whipped his hand around and slapped her ferociously. His brute force knocked her face sideways against the headboard.
"Get the message?" Tucker growled. "You'll do as I say. You're my slave."
"I'm-I'm your slave," she repeated, working her jaw as she spoke, trying to expunge the soreness.
He sat beside her on the bed. "Now for your legs. It'll make things a lot easier when…when we do what we hafta to do next. So don't fight me."
"No, sir," she said, eyes wide. "I won't fight you."
"Good, we'll start by-"
Without warning, her knee shot up into the air, making a line drive toward his chin. But he was ready. He caught the knee with both hands, then pushed it downward at a bone-twisting angle. She screamed, then squirmed, trying to readjust her weight to ease the strain on her leg muscles.
Tucker pushed her legs apart and thrust himself on top of her. "Do you want me to be mean?" he shouted. "Do you? Because if that's what you want, that's what you'll get!"
"No, sir!" she said, her eyes wide and desperate. "Please, no!"
"You will not get away. The only question is whether we do this the quick way, or whether I have a little fun with you first." He grabbed her by the throat. "You understand what I'm sayin'?"
His grip was so tight she was barely able to speak. "Yes, sir. I understand. I'll do whatever you say."
"I just hope for your sake that's true." He tightened his fingers, choking her, giving her a brief taste of death. "You will not resist. Or I will hurt you."
"Yes, sir." She lay on the bed, sobbing, passive, as he snapped the cuffs around both of her ankles, leaving her helpless, pinned down on the top of the bed like a butterfly in a mounted collection. He ran his fingers up her left leg, making her shudder.
Then he got out the knife.
"I want you to understand that I have no choice about this. It's like-" He paused, as if trying to think. Or perhaps, to remember. "It's like we're all part of this big equation, see? We don't choose what we do, it's planned out in advance. But there are clues, and we hafta follow them." He pressed the knife against her forehead, just at the baseline of her scalp. "I guess you know what happens next."
"Please, sir. Please don't. I can give you money, if that's what you want. Lots of money. You want me to suck you off? I'll do it. I'll do it right now. I'll do anything. Just don't hurt my face."
"Too late."
She screamed, a high-pitched piercing wail, but it didn't stop him, didn't even slow him down. She tried to thrash back and forth, but the handcuffs left her so little room to maneuver that she barely moved. She gnashed her teeth, trying to bite him, but he was careful this time.
"Hellllp!" she cried, so loud Tucker winced. "Someone please help me."
With lightning speed, he reached into her mouth and grabbed her tongue, pinching it between two fingers. "Do you want me to cut this out, too? Do you? 'Cause I wouldn't mind a bit!"
She shook her head no.
"Can you keep your damn mouth shut? You think?"
A slow nod.
"Good." He released her tongue, then once again started at his work, while the woman on the bed dissolved into helpless, hopeless sobbing. He placed the knife once more on her forehead, then, with his other hand, grabbed her hair at the crown…
And yanked it off. All at once. The black wig pulled free, revealing the platinum locks beneath.
"Enough with the faces," Tucker said, grinning. "This time I decided to go for the scalp."
"Very funny," the woman said. Her entire demeanor changed. The fear was gone. The terror-stricken expression had vanished. "Now unlock these cuffs."
Tucker did as he was told. As soon as she was free, the woman gently massaged her wrists and ankles, everywhere the cuffs had chafed.
"Man. Those things hurt."
"I told you," Tucker said. "I wanted to use the plastic ones."
She shook her head. "No. If you're ever going to learn anything, we have to do it the right way." She looked up, smiling. "And by the way, you handled that fairly well."
He beamed. It was obvious that even such little praise as this was immensely important to him. "Really?"
"Really. You corrected your previous mistakes. I pulled all that slut's tricks and a few more of my own, but you never lost control."
"I-I was trying to be careful," Tucker said, head bowed.
"And you did a nice job of it. Which was the point of the whole exercise. To correct mistakes that might bring the whole thing crashing down on us before we have a chance to complete the pattern. Practice makes perfect. A little more work on the disposal of the corpses and I think we'll be ready to move again."
"On schedule?"
"Of course on schedule. What's to stop us?"
"I love you, Esther."
"And I love you, Tucker."
Her confidence was no facade; after all, her plan had worked perfectly thus far. Tucker would never understand why he had been instructed to leave those equations at the scenes of the crimes, nor did he ask. He simply obeyed. She needed to know her opponent, without exposing herself to suspicion. She needed to bring the opposition to her-and she did. Those clues brought that psychologist to her office so she could evaluate her, calculate the variables and compute the odds. And the final result? That woman and her associates had no chance of stopping her. They were as far from understanding her as Ptolemy was from understanding Einstein. "So we move forward, as planned. Remember, God is in the numbers."
"God is in the numbers," he repeated, as he had learned to repeat so much of what she had taught him. He lifted his left hand, revealing a tiny blue star tattooed at the center of his palm. She raised her hand and pressed it to his. "We are the Brethren of Purity," he murmured. "And I did good?"
"You did so well-I think you deserve a reward." She crawled on top of him, then pushed him back against the bed. She took his T-shirt by the collar with both hands, then ripped it down the center.
"Why did you do that?"
"I know how you like it." Esther gripped him by the arms, pressing her sharp fingernails into his flesh. She crouched over him, then slowly drew a soft line with her tongue from his navel across his stomach and chest.
"Oh, God," he murmured. "Oh, my God!"
"You have been a good boy. You have compensated for your errors. Will you continue to be a good boy?"
"Oh, yes," he said, feeling the intense heat of her body enveloping him, carrying him away. "I'll be good. I'll be careful."
"And you'll do whatever I tell you?" She straddled his groin, brushing herself back and forth against him. She grabbed his nipples and twisted them savagely. "Are you going to be a good boy and obey me?"
"Oh, yes. I'll do anything. Anything at all."