Free Caged by Hilary Norman Page B

at an early stage, with two such apparently genuinely popular young victims, there seemed little likelihood of some enemy lurking in the shadows.
    Suzy Easterman had illustrated mainly children’s books. Michael Easterman had been an architect specializing in commercial property, with no adverse publicity linked to his name or any history of litigation against him or even his firm.
    Random selection likely then. Scary as hell and even harder to solve.
    Highly organized killings. Boastful too.
    And one of the spectres creeping Sam out was that unless there was some specific reason for the Eastermans having become the victims of a crime as vile and brazen as this, the mind or minds behind it might be planning to do it again.
    Nothing had shown up yet on the computer to indicate that they had done it before, either in South Florida or anyplace else in the US.
    But every killer had to start somewhere.

TWENTY-FOUR
    E lizabeth had slept for a while, a tiny time-out, a fragment of escape.
    She was awake again now, and she was cold, and André had still not shifted, but at least she was finally certain that he was alive , thank God, because a moment or two ago his shoulder blades had moved just a little, and she could hear his breathing . . .
    Something distracted her.
    Something else .
    Movement. Not in the cage with them, not exactly, but . . .
    Shapes were moving on the wall to her left, galvanizing her now.
    Monochrome figures in a black-and-white movie.
    A silent movie.
    With a cast of two.
    Herself and André.

TWENTY-FIVE
    S am and Martinez were at the Milton Zuckerman Home, a high-priced nursing home on Biscayne Boulevard a few blocks north of the Aventura Mall, where they’d come to meet with Mrs Marilyn Myerson.
    They’d seen Larry Beatty’s documents, including a psychiatric geriatrician’s report confirming the Alzheimer’s diagnosis, but they needed to see for themselves.
    Beatty had said that her dementia was advanced, and he had spoken the truth.
    No hope of even a few lucid words from this poor woman.
    ‘I know we’re on duty,’ Martinez said as they emerged from the home into the warm sunshine, ‘but I could use a goddamned drink.’
    ‘Know just what you mean,’ Sam said, because though they had both, for their own emotional health, developed a degree of immunity to suffering, the plight of complete strangers could sometimes still hit hard.
    ‘So how about you tell me now,’ he said as they got back in the Chevy, ‘about last night?’
    ‘I told you. She said yes.’
    ‘Did it go the way you planned it?’
    ‘I screwed that up,’ Martinez said. ‘I figured I’d blown it for sure.’
    ‘Clearly not,’ Sam said.
    ‘I ended up asking her in the goddamned car. She was sitting right where you are, can you believe it?’
    ‘Sure I can. Nice view of the bay?’
    ‘We were in the parking lot,’ Martinez said wryly.
    ‘And she still said yes?’ Sam smiled. ‘She must really love you.’
    ‘She really does seem to,’ Martinez said with a kind of awe.
    He started the engine, the sad plight of the old lady who’d once owned the big mansion and art gallery on Collins already fading away, though Sam found himself wondering if anyone ever came to visit Mrs Myerson these days and if the lady was ever sufficiently aware to notice if they did.
    ‘Why the parking lot?’ he asked, belatedly.
    ‘Any port in a storm,’ Martinez said. ‘If I’d waited till we got home, I knew I might have lost my nerve again.’ He grinned. ‘I’m gonna love that parking lot till I die, man.’

TWENTY-SIX
    T here was some kind of fine mesh screening right across the wall to the left of the cage that Elizabeth hadn’t noticed until the ‘movie’ started, though she guessed it had to have been there all the time.
    She wondered what the time was, had no way of knowing, thought that perhaps it was better that way, and oh, dear God, she was so cold , and she needed André to wake up, she needed him to hold