He’d entered the store once, thinking of buying two or three puppies, but had lost his nerve when the girl behind the counter had asked if she could help him. No girl behind the counter now. The store was dark, aside from the aquarium’s blue light.
The store stood in the corner of an alley, and it had a small window on the alley’s side. But it was still large enough for a grown man to crawl through.
And it could be broken with a brick, the shattering glass hardly heard over the sound of the traffic.
He had just begun cleaning up his room when Daniel opened the door. Daniel’s eyes widened.
“What the hell happened here?” Daniel asked.
The man in control raised his hands in a reassuring gesture. “It’s just hamsters,” he said.
Daniel’s face twisted in disgust. “Hamsters?” His eyes scanned the bucket of soapy water, the bloodstains on the floor, the messy cleaver and cutting board, the pieces of bone and skin. “What did you do?”
“I just needed some blood, for my condition. It’s no big deal.”
“Where did you get hamsters in the middle of the night? Is there an all-night delivery for hamsters?”
“I broke into a pet shop.” His voice was matter of fact. He had everything under control again. “Their cage was small. It was easy to take.”
“Where?” Daniel’s face suddenly went pale. “Where did you do this?”
“There’s a pet shop not far from here.”
Daniel slammed his palm on the door, and the sound made the man in control flinch. It was the first time he’d ever seen Daniel lose his temper. He was always so nice and cheerful. That was one of the best things about him. Without saying a word, Daniel turned away and left the room.
He decided to give Daniel some space. He focused on cleaning the bloodstains. When he was done, the water in the bucket had dirty pink tufts of fur floating on the surface. He took the cleaver and board to the kitchen and began to wash them in the sink. He felt Daniel step into the room and watch him as he did it.
“Listen,” Daniel said. His voice was soft, gentle. “You can’t do shit like that. The police are looking for us. You can’t break into a damn pet shop near your home, okay?”
“I had to,” he began to say. “I needed—”
“I know what you need. I understand. You don’t act alone, okay? You come to me. We’re in this together—you know that.”
“Sure, but I needed some blood, fast. And they’re just a few hamsters. It’s not a big deal.”
Daniel seemed to mull it over, then lowered his head. “This whole thing with Catherine put too much stress on you. I . . . I’m sorry. You shouldn’t risk yourself on my account. I should turn myself in.”
“No! Absolutely not!” He was aghast. “You can’t do that. I’m fine . . . I’m really fine.”
“You’re obviously not. I can understand what you’re going through. You’re under a lot of pressure with the police investigation. It’s no wonder you’re getting these uncontrollable urges.”
“It won’t happen again, I swear! I’m back in control.”
“Yeah?”
“It was a one-time thing, and it was stupid. I’ll come to you immediately if I have any urges again.”
For a moment they were both silent. He finished washing the cleaver, his hands trembling, and put it aside to dry.
“We’ll go hunting again,” Daniel said suddenly. “I need to as much as you do.”
“When?” He felt the wave of relief washing over him. No more talk about Daniel turning himself in.
“Soon. I need you to pick up some stuff tomorrow, on your way home.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“White paint and a knife. Maybe some candles.”
“What is it for?” the man in control asked, feeling confused. They’d never discussed it.
“We’ll need it for the next time,” Daniel said. “Can you do that?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good.” Daniel looked at him closely and then seemed to reach a decision. “Get the stuff, and we’ll go hunting tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER 11
Monday, October 17, 2016
O’Donnell decided to avoid the station that morning. It’d been forty-eight hours since the body of Catherine Lamb had been discovered, and her captain, Royce Bright, ascribed an almost mystical significance to that number. When a murder wasn’t resolved within forty-eight hours, he called the assigned detectives to a meeting. The dreaded forty-eight-hours meeting could take up to two hours, thus morphing the already terrible forty-eight to fifty. It was typically a mess of suggestions, threats, and the occasional story about the old days.
She could do without it. She wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever, but she hoped to have a tangible lead before he cornered her. And it seemed likely that Patrick Carpenter held that lead.
Marching into Mount Sinai Hospital, she saw that Agent Gray and Zoe Bentley were already waiting for her in the lobby. She checked the time—five minutes past nine. Gotta hand it to the feds: they were punctual.
“Sorry I’m late.” She walked over. “Traffic.”
“No worries,” Tatum said. “You said on the phone that Patrick Carpenter wanted to meet us here?”
“His wife is here.” O’Donnell led them to the elevators. “He asked if we could meet him here so she wouldn’t be alone for long. I thought it might make him more cooperative.”
It was more than likely that he hadn’t told his wife about Catherine’s murder to avoid unsettling her. If that were the case, he’d want to get rid of them as soon as possible, and the best way to do that would be to answer their questions. Hopefully giving them some names in the process.
“Wasn’t he cooperative when you talked to him before?” Zoe asked.
“He was, until I began asking about congregation members.” O’Donnell entered the elevator, the others following her. “Then he began talking about invasion of privacy and breach of trust. I hoped your fancy federal badges would make him a bit more helpful.”
The elevator door opened into a long hallway, a nurse’s station just to their right. A plump nurse with a large mole on her chin stapled multiple pages with zeal.
O’Donnell approached the nurse. “Excuse me, we’re looking for Mrs. Carpenter’s room?”
The nurse didn’t raise her eyes. She stacked half a dozen pages, positioned them under the stapler, and slammed her hand on it, as if smashing a bug. She examined the result and nodded to herself approvingly. “Are you family?”
“We need to talk to her husband.” O’Donnell flashed her badge.
The nurse didn’t seem impressed. She got another stack of pages and put them on the counter. O’Donnell found herself flinching as the nurse’s meaty hand came down on the stapler. This was a clear case of stationery abuse, but that was outside the Chicago Police Department’s jurisdiction.
“Room 309.” The nurse began to prepare her next stack.
O’Donnell hurried away, another slam echoing in her wake.
The door to room 309 was open, but O’Donnell knocked on it politely.