The Cold Moon (Lincoln Rhyme 7)

In killing his victims Duncan had one rule: Their deaths could not be quick. This wasn't as easy as it sounded, he'd explained in that precise, detached voice of his. Duncan had a book titled Extreme Interrogation Techniques. It was about terrifying prisoners into talking by subjecting them to tortures that would eventually kill them if they didn't confess: putting weights over their throats, cutting their wrists and letting them bleed, a dozen others.

Duncan explained, "I don't want to take too long, in her case. I'll gag her and tie her hands behind her. Then get her on her stomach and wrap a wire around her neck and her ankles."

"Her knees'll be bent?" Vincent could picture it.

"That's right. It was in the book. Did you see the illustrations?"

Vincent shook his head.

"She won't be able to keep her legs at that angle for very long. When they start to straighten, it pulls the wire around her neck taut and she'll strangle herself. It'll take about eight, ten minutes, I'd guess." He smiled. "I'm going to time it. As you suggested. When it's over I'll call you and she's all yours."

A good old heart-to-heart . . .

They stepped out of the alley as a blast of freezing wind struck them. Vincent's parka, which was unzipped, blew open.

He stopped, alarmed. On the sidewalk a few feet away was a young man. He had a scrawny beard and wore a threadbare jacket. A backpack was slung over a shoulder. A student, Vincent guessed. Head down, he kept walking briskly.

Duncan glanced at his partner. "What's the matter?"

Vincent nodded at his side, where the hunting knife, in a scabbard, was stuck into his waistband. "I think he saw it. I'm . . . I'm sorry. I should've zipped my jacket, but . . ."

Duncan's lips pressed together.

No, no . . . Vincent hoped he hadn't made Duncan unhappy. "I'll go take care of him, if you want. I'll--"

The killer looked toward the student, who was walking quickly away from them.

Duncan turned to Vincent. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

He couldn't hold the man's piercing blue eyes. "No.

"

"Wait here." Gerald Duncan studied the street, which was deserted, except for the student. He reached into his pocket and took out the box cutter he'd used to slash the wrists of the man on the pier last night. Duncan walked quickly after the student. Vincent watched him catching up until the killer was only a few feet behind him. They turned the corner, heading east.

This was terrible . . . Vincent hadn't been meticulous. He'd put everything at risk: his chance for friendship with Duncan, his chance for the heart-to-hearts. All because he'd been careless. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry.

He reached into his pocket, found a KitKat and wolfed it down, eating some of the wrapper with the candy.

Five agonizing minutes later Duncan returned, holding a wrinkled newspaper.

"I'm sorry," Vincent said.

"It's all right. It's okay." Duncan's voice was soft. Inside the paper was the bloody box cutter. He wiped the blade with the paper and retracted the razor blade. He threw away the bloody paper and gloves. He put a new pair on. He insisted they carry two or three pairs with them at all times.

Duncan said, "The body's in a Dumpster. I covered it up with trash. If we're lucky it'll be in a landfill or out to sea before somebody notices the blood."

"Are you all right?" Vincent thought there was a red mark on Duncan's cheek.

The man shrugged. "I got careless. He fought back. I had to slash his eyes. Remember that. If somebody resists, slash their eyes. That stops them resisting right away and you can control them however you want."

Slash their eyes . . .

Vincent nodded slowly.

Duncan asked, "You'll be more careful?"

"Oh, yes. Promise. Really."