I'll Be Watching You Part 41

I dropped anchor. The party raged on. Around five-thirty, I got some of the guys to help me inflate the Zodiac and attach the outboard. Steph and I hopped in and zoomed off for some private time."

He shot Taylor a cruel, sideways glance, twisting the verbal knife in deeper. "That was business as usual with Steph. She liked life wild and dangerous. And she loved our hot little s.e.xual encounters on the Zodiac. The thrill of being out in the open, maybe being caught--that turned her on. No need to search for a cove. We just maneuvered the Zodiac about three or four hundred yards away from the yacht, and went at it. I made sure to keep one hand on the remote control I'd hidden in my slacks.

When the timing was right, I pressed the yellow b.u.t.ton. That activated a solenoid spliced into each gas line, which poured gasoline into the bilge. Steph had no clue what was going on. Her mind was on other things."

Taylor gagged again.

Her reaction seemed to please Gordon, and he continued with his story. "Right before Steph climaxed, I pressed the red b.u.t.ton. There was a deafening explosion. I knew that meant I'd succeeded. Bye-bye yacht. Which left only Steph. She was still in the throes of o.r.g.a.s.m. I placed my thumbs over her windpipe and choked her to death. After that, I took a full minute to stare off and admire my handiwork--a million-dollar yacht that was nothing more than a flaming ball of garbage, sinking into the ocean. I knew the physical remains would be slim to none, since that area is shark-infested. Oh, speaking of sharks, back to Steph. I cut her arms before I slid her over the side of the Zodiac, and let her go. That way, her blood would attract the sharks, which would eliminate the chance of her body-- or pieces of it--ever being found. I tossed the knife and remote overboard. Then I just whipped out my handheld GPS, fired up the engine, and sped back toward sh.o.r.e."

"You sick, demented b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Taylor choked out, wrestling with her bonds until her wrists and ankles were raw. "You deserve to die that way! No, even being strangled or blown to bits is too good for you. You deserve to feel every drop of pain you inflicted on everyone you murdered. And Steph. My G.o.d. Steph never did a thing to you. She loved you. And you killed her in cold blood, then fed her to the sharks like bait." Taylor sagged against the seat, totally spent from her struggles and her outburst. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she visualized Steph's body sinking downward, the trail of blood signaling to the waiting sharks.

"Taylor, Taylor." Gordon made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. "Haven't you learned to show me the proper respect? You know how I react when you're abrupt or nasty."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n," she snapped. "You're going to kill me anyway. So why should I appease you?"

"Good point," he acknowledged. "You are going to die. But not right away. We have some unfinished business to attend to first. Something I've spent six months dreaming about. In the meantime, let me finish my story."

He went on, as if he were relaying a fascinating and well-written epic.

"My timing and execution were impeccable. Just before dusk, I pa.s.sed the Montauk lighthouse, and navigated around the South Fork of Long Island, hugging the sh.o.r.eline. When I reached Napeague Harbor, I headed for the secluded boat ramp. I beached the Zodiac and walked to the parking lot where my Chevy pickup and boat trailer were waiting. I drove down the boat ramp, pulled the Zodiac onto the ramp, and headed toward Montauk Highway. I arrived at Douglas's estate, and returned the boat and trailer to the boathouse. After that, I grabbed my knapsack, which was packed with everything I needed. Clothing. Fake pa.s.sport. Laptop computer. Airline ticket to Bangkok. And account numbers for the bank accounts I'd set up in the Cayman Islands. Knapsack in tow, I walked to the East Hampton train station.

I took the last train, the eight thirty-eight, to New York. Just to be on the safe side, I exited the LIRR in Jamaica--that was about ten forty-five--and took a cab to Kennedy Airport. My flight left for Bangkok around two a.m. Ingenious, wasn't it? I truly thought of everything."

"I'd applaud, but my hands are tied," Taylor retorted, her eyes closed as she tried to shut everything out.

She could feel him bristle. "Don't push me, Taylor," he warned in that on-the-edge tone. "There are many ways to die. The more p.i.s.sed off I am, the more pain you'll endure. Bear that in mind."

With that, he flicked on his turn signal and started slowing down, simultaneously easing off to the right.

Taylor's eyes flew open and she gazed around. Exit 70.

"Can you tell me where we're going?"

"If you ask nicely."

She licked her dry lips. "Please, Gordon, where are we going?"

"See how easy that was?" He pulled off the highway and made a right turn off the ramp. "We're going up to Sag Harbor. To the yacht club. It's a beautiful night. You'll love the view."

Taylor turned away. She didn't reply. But she understood.

Gordon was taking her to his father's yacht. There, she'd be a stand-in for Adrienne. His rage would come full circle.

She'd be raped. And then she'd die.

CHAPTER 36.

7:05 P.M.

NINETEENTH PRECINCT.

The past hour and a half had been h.e.l.l.

Reed had paced around Hadman's desk, gulping black coffee and feeling unbearably helpless. Hadman and Olin had put out a ton of feelers. In the meantime, they kept firing ideas back and forth, then making phone calls to see if any of those ideas had merit.

Nothing.

Mitch was in a separate cubicle, talking on and off with Jake as they tapped into their own resources. Jonathan was slumped in a chair, head in hands. Reed had asked him to accompany them to the police precinct in case they turned up anything.

The whole ordeal seemed like forever, but in slow motion. The clock was ticking. Gordon had Taylor. Where would he take her? It had to be somewhere no one would find them until he was through with her, and her body was disposed of.

How many times had Reed run through this scenario in a professional capacity? But this time he couldn't muster a shred of professionalism. The very thought of Gordon touching Taylor, much less raping or killing her, was more than he could contemplate, much less calmly discuss.

Still, the reality kept crawling into his brain like some odious insect.

It had been more than two hours since Taylor had been taken. G.o.d only knew what Gordon might have done to her by now.

No. He couldn't think that way. He had to believe that Gordon was still driving, that he was taking her to some out-of-the-way location. Taylor was terrified, but unharmed.

She had to be.

Hadman had called Alison Kincaid in for questioning after all. He'd kept his request nice and calm, just asking for her cooperation in the police investigation of the Berkley homicides, and offering to send a patrol car over to pick her up. She'd been fl.u.s.tered, but amenable. Now she was in the waiting room, sipping coffee and waiting to be interviewed.

Reed understood Hadman's concerns. If he hadn't been so emotionally involved, he would have thought of them himself. Alison was as naive as a babe in the woods. But that very naivete might just bite them in the a.s.s. Left to her own devices, she could inadvertently tip Gordon off. If he called her from the road, just to keep things with his new bride nice and copacetic, and she mentioned Reed's phone call, they were screwed. The last thing they wanted was for Gordon to realize they were onto him. Right now, he felt omnipotent, safe, and free of suspicion. That false sense of security would lower his guard, make him behave in ways he wouldn't if he had the slightest idea that the cops knew he and Dennis Kincaid were one and the same person. Security would fuel his megalomania. He'd be in no major hurry to finish things off. He'd want to boast to Taylor about his accomplishments, and savor his ultimate s.e.xual gratification. It would give him the sense of power and domination he craved.

That would buy Taylor time. Terrorized time, but time nonetheless.

The question was, where were they going? Where had Gordon staged this final encounter?

It could be anywhere. Anywhere remote, where he could ensure himself privacy and freedom from interruptions.

Douglas's East Hampton estate? No. Too risky. The place was padlocked and well patrolled by local police. Gordon was too smart to walk into such an obvious trap.

Upstate was a possibility. The drive was long and vacant land was plentiful. On the other hand, wherever Gordon had been living these past months was another possibility.

Then again, those places were not necessarily mutually exclusive. Alison didn't have a clue where her husband had lived prior to their marriage. That line he'd given her about skipping from dump to dump was a pile of c.r.a.p. No way in h.e.l.l would Gordon live in a dump. He just didn't want to give her his address.

He'd given a fake one at his place of business.

Reed had insisted on being the one to contact WVNY. Police business or not, the radio station employees weren't just Taylor's coworkers, they were her friends. They'd do everything they could to help--including supplying any personal information they had on Dennis Kincaid.

"Forget the call," Hadman had advised him. "I'll just send over a couple of detectives to talk to the staff and search Kincaid's workstation."

"Send whoever you want," Reed had returned, already punching in Taylor's private number at WVNY. "But while you're getting your warrant and dispatching cops, I'm talking to Taylor's producer and program manager. They know who I am. They'll talk to me. And they might know something, or have a better idea about where to look than anyone else at the station."

He'd scarcely heard Hadman's mutter of agreement.

Laura had answered Taylor's line. She put Reed through to Kevin the minute he said the word "emergency."

Kevin picked up two seconds later. "What's wrong?"

As briefly and unemotionally as possible, Reed filled him in.

"s.h.i.+t." Kevin croaked out the word. "All this time, he's been sitting right next to me and . . ." With a hard swallow, Taylor's producer brought himself under control. "What can I do to help?"

Reed told him.

A minute later, Kevin was ripping Dennis's work area apart, inch by inch, searching for any leads that could help. On the list of things for him to search for were notations of any kind on Dennis's calendar, especially for the month of March. Also, Post-its, or notes-to-self, with any writing on them, even indistinguishable. The cops would decipher whatever Kevin couldn't. As for personal items, Reed instructed Kevin to search for brochures on homes in upstate New York, real-estate ads for country cottages, even printouts of routes or driving directions. Anything.

While he ransacked the place, Kevin transferred Reed through to Jack, who, upon hearing the story, went to human resources and dissected Dennis's job application line by line. The address: False. He'd given his cell number as his home phone. As for his emergency-contact information, it had been left blank--again, up through last week. After that, he'd updated the information with Alison's home address and phone number. He'd listed her name as Ally Kincaid, and her relations.h.i.+p to him as wife.

Wife. The woman didn't know a d.a.m.ned thing about him. Not where he lived. Not how he thought.

Not who he was.

Christ. It was one dead end after another.

Reed was about to go insane, when Olin's phone rang. He grabbed it, barked some questions into the receiver, then, two minutes later, slammed it down and rose. "We've got a solid lead. An off-duty cop from Queens just spotted a silver minivan--a newer-model Dodge Grand Caravan Sport-- with two occupants, a man and a woman. The occupants match the descriptions of Taylor and Dennis. The cop who called in the lead was on his way home. He lives in Ronkonkoma. He was just pulling off the LIE at Exit Sixty when the minivan zoomed by him on the highway, headed east."

"East Hampton," Jonathan concluded, his head coming up. "Gordon must be taking her to Douglas's estate after all."

"I don't buy it." Having come in to hear what the lead was about, Mitch shook his head. "You're talking about a secured piece of property. It's regularly patrolled by the East Hampton police. If some strange guy and a panic-stricken woman showed up there for no ostensible reason, they'd be grabbed in a minute. Gordon's just too d.a.m.ned smart to take that kind of risk." A frown. "On the other hand, he's obviously headed toward the Hamptons. Which means he's picked out a different, equally precise, location. Somewhere secluded and familiar. Any ideas?"

Secluded. Familiar. Precise.

Reed's wheels were turning, reviewing all the things Taylor had explained to him over the past week. Gordon was a sick man, fighting demons too deeply ingrained to eliminate. He was obsessed with the need for revenge, for resolution. Adrienne had left indelible scars on his life. In some sick way, he'd purged himself by murdering her. He saw her in every redhead he pursued, including Taylor.

Possessing them. Killing them. All out of the need to obliterate Adrienne.

Full circle. That's what he sought.

And there was only one place he could find it.

"The yacht," Reed exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "He's taking her to Douglas's yacht. He wants to finish this where it began."

"Yes," Mitch agreed definitively. "Now that makes sense. Especially because this time the roles will be reversed. Gordon will be the dominator, not the dominated."

"Where is it?" Reed demanded, grabbing Jonathan's shoulders. "Where's Douglas's yacht docked?"

Not a heartbeat of hesitation. "At the Sag Harbor Yacht Club."

"Bingo. It's winter. The yacht club will be deserted." Hadman reached for the phone. "I'll contact the Suffolk County Police Department in Yaphank. They'll call the unit in Sag Harbor. The local guys can have men on the scene in minutes."

"You want them to close in on Mallory?" Olin asked, sounding dubious.

His partner's answer was the one he'd expected. "No."

"Why the h.e.l.l not?" Reed demanded.

"To begin with, they might show up on the scene before Gordon. If he pulls into the parking lot and sees a bunch of police cars and detectives waiting for him, he'll blow out of there like a bat out of h.e.l.l."

"So tell them to wait. They can jump him after he gets out of the car. And if he beats them there, they'll spot the silver minivan in the parking lot. They can sneak in and storm the yacht."

"Yeah, they could." Hadman frowned. "But the idea doesn't thrill me. Gordon's homicidal and psychotic, and if he knows he's been cornered, he'll become desperate. Not a good combo, considering he doesn't have a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing to lose. Olin and I are familiar with him, and with this case. The locals aren't.

I'd rather be the ones who make the arrest."

Reed did a fine job of reading between the lines. "In other words, the cops out there don't handle too many complicated cases. You're worried that if they screw up, Taylor will pay the price. Gordon will give up the idea of a slow kill, and go for the quick fix, like snapping her neck, the way he did Douglas's."

Hadman stared at the phone, avoiding Reed's gaze. "Look, Weston. The Sag Harbor Police Department is competent. But, yeah, the NYPD deals with more violent crimes. And, like I said, this is our case. So--"

"Just answer me," Reed interrupted.

"Yes. That's what I'm worried about. But if we run out of options, I'll tell them to go for it." Hadman punched in the number of the Suffolk County Police Department. "Hang tough," he told Reed. "We'll meet them there." He signaled Olin with a circular, whirring motion of his hand, his forefinger extended in the air.

Olin responded with a quick nod of his head, then picked up his phone.

"How the h.e.l.l can we make it in time?" Reed asked, bile rising in his throat.

"It'll be tight," Olin replied. "But Gordon's got some distance to go. Remember, he was fighting rush-hour traffic when he left. It was just before five when he grabbed Taylor. And when he gets off the LIE, he's got local roads to navigate. That means speed limits and traffic lights. The entire trip's bound to take him over three hours. That leaves around forty-five minutes." He, too, punched in a phone number.

"Who are you calling?"

"The NYPD Aviation Unit. They're at Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn. They'll dispatch a police helicopter and put it down in Yankee Stadium in under ten minutes. Which is exactly how long it'll take us to drive to the stadium with our siren blaring. The flight to Sag Harbor is about forty-five minutes." Olin shot a quizzical glance at Jonathan. "How big's the yacht-club parking lot?"

"Big," Jonathan confirmed. "The club's one of the largest in the Hamptons. Oceangoing pleasure craft dock there, not just smaller boats and sailboats."

"Good. We'll arrange to put the helicopter down right in the lot. We'll be there an hour from now. Yeah, it's Olin. Nineteenth Precinct," he said into the phone. "We've got a potential rape and homicide we need to intercept." While he was talking he tossed Jonathan a pencil and pad. "Draw me a diagram of where your father's yacht is docked," he hissed. "Also write a description of the boat--size, color, name, anything you can think of."

Rising from behind his desk, Hadman hung up, having alerted the Suffolk County Police Department to the situation. "All set." His gaze s.h.i.+fted to Reed, noting his drawn expression. "Mallory might beat us there by fifteen minutes tops," he said in a gruffly rea.s.suring tone. "After that, he's got to park the minivan and get Taylor onto the yacht. She's a smart woman, Weston. She'll buy herself time."

"Yeah," Reed said grimly. "I hope to G.o.d you're right."

8:07 p.m.

SAG HARBOR YACHT CLUB.

Gordon pulled through the main entrance slowly, glancing around as he edged forward. He didn't expect anyone except maybe a few adventurous guys who'd taken their yachts out to go fis.h.i.+ng.

The parking lot was practically deserted. Excellent. Just the way he'd planned.

He pulled over to the clubhouse, which was farther away from Bay Street, and closer to the private basin where Douglas's seventy-five-foot yacht was docked.

Flipping off the ignition, he turned toward Taylor, who was staring ahead, gla.s.sy-eyed.

"Party time," he announced. He got out of the minivan, walked around to the pa.s.senger side, and unbuckled Taylor's seat belt.

She snapped out of her reverie, flinching away from him as he lifted her out of the car and slammed the door. "I can walk," she said.