Free The Night Caller by John Lutz Page A

underwater. If she regained consciousness, shock would immobilize her. The face needn’t be touched. That was important. And when the moment was right and true, a dull but sufficient consciousness could be induced, and the union and instant would occur even through the paralysis of shock. All pain, all destruction, would be beneath the surface, leaving the ritual intact and the moment complete.
    Georgianna would suffer, but that was a necessary variation on the theme. It would appear to the police that her murder was the work of a vicious sadist, yet she would be perfect and at peace beneath the time and above the blood.
    The Night Caller lifted the can opener from the drawer, then experimented with its long lever, observing its clamping action at the cutting wheel. Excellent. And there in the drawer was a heavy steel mallet for tenderizing meat. Perfect! Not for tenderizing, but for effecting unconsciousness with a precise and single blow. After unconsciousness, and what followed, the cutting and misdirection could begin, the creation of a truly red herring. The police would never have seen such a red herring!
    But it would all happen under careful control. None of the red must get on clothes. The basin would be for washing away minor stains afterward.
    The Night Caller carried the can opener and mallet into the bedroom and laid them on top of the bureau, then began to undress.
    As time passed, this seemed a better and better plan. Since this murder was one of practicality and precaution rather than urgency, and out of sequence, it would serve well to divert the authorities. Not only would the MO be altered, but the assumed motive as well. The Seattle police would see the murder as impulsive rather than logical and systematic, or a combination of both. The police would be searching for a mindless ghoul, not a killer who was educated and sophisticated. Nobody liked being cubbyholed. Compulsions could be harnessed. Needs could be met without categorization.
    The plastic St. Augustine left last time in the still warmth would divert the police. St. Augustine the forgiven. The Night Caller had come across the cheap souvenir saints in his travels and decided to use one. Yet he had bought a dozen. Eleven more were at home. No, ten. Seattle was a long way from New York.
    Nude, the Night Caller padded barefoot into the bathroom and removed the plastic shower curtain so it wouldn’t be in the way, then ran lukewarm water into the tub and began to arrange towels.
    Anticipating. Smiling.
    Everything under control.
     
    Dr. Rainier Gregory leaned back in his black leather desk chair, a green folder containing Coop’s charts open before him. Behind him were framed certificates attesting to his qualifications and expertise, family photographs taken at various vacation spots, attesting to his professional success.
    Coop hoped the certificates and photos meant something. Dr. Gregory was the surgeon who’d removed the part of his colon that was cancerous, and had, in a series of minor operations and chemotherapy, eliminated what cancer had spread. Once metastasized, the blood-borne cancer from the colon might turn up in any part of the body. It had to be dealt with in a way redolent of putting out brush fires. What was hoped for, prayed for, was the magic word: Remission.
    “Your numbers look good, Coop,” Dr. Gregory said. He was a man in his early forties, younger than Coop. His hair was dark and he’d grown a raven-black Van Dyke beard since Coop had first met him. “Blood count steady. PSA holding.” He put down the folder and sat forward. “So how are you feeling these days?”
    “Not bad. Tired sometimes. I think more in terms of rationing my energy instead of my time.”
    “There’s obviously been some stress, considering what happened to your daughter. Are you coping with that all right?”
    “I think so.”
    “I know it isn’t easy, but it would help if you managed it as well as you can. There are anecdotal data