The Skin Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 11)

She tried to kick again, tried to punch, but she could get no leverage.

And all the while she was gasping, trying to draw air into her lungs and cry for help.

But nothing. Silence only.

The gash on his face was ghastly but the flow of blood was slowing, coagulating around the wound, dark and crisp as maroon-colored ice. Now she could hear: 'How could you do that?' More words but they snapped and sputtered and grew unintelligible once more. He spat blood. 'What a fool, Pam! You're beyond saving. I should have known.'

He leaned down and fixed his grip around her neck and began to tighten.

Pam's head throbbed even more, the agony increasing, as she struggled for breath. Trapped blood pulsed in her temple and face.

The hallway began to grow dark.

It's all right, she said to herself. Better this than going back to the militia. Living the way Billy would insist she live. Better than being 'his woman'.

She thought briefly of her mother, Charlotte, speaking to Pam when the girl was about four.

'We're going to New York to do something important, honey. It'll be like a game. I'm going to be Carol. If you hear somebody call me Carol, and you say, "That's not her name," I'll whip you within an inch of your life. Do you understand me, honey? I'll get the switch out. The switch then the closet.'

'Yes, Mommy. I'll be good, Mommy.'

Then Pam knew she was dying because all around her was light, brilliant light, ruddy light, blinding light. And she nearly laughed, thinking: Hey, maybe I got that God stuff wrong. I'm looking at the glow of heaven.

Or hell, or wherever.

Then she felt weightless, light as could be, as her soul began to rise.

But, no, no, no ... It was just that Billy was getting off her, rising, grabbing the box cutter and lifting it.

He was going to slash her throat.

He was mouthing something. She couldn't hear.

But she clearly heard the two, then three, huge explosions from the front doorway of the apartment building. She saw that the sun was the source of the light: the sun pouring onto her west-facing building. And saw two silhouettes, men holding guns. Looking then toward Billy she watched him stagger back, stumbling, clutching his chest. Torn mouth opening wide.

He looked down at her, dropped the box cutter, settled awkwardly into a sitting position, then eased to his side. He blinked, surprised, it seemed. He whispered something. His hands twitched.

Then the officers pushed into the hallway and had her by the arms, lifting her to her feet and pulling her toward the front door. Pam shook them off, though, apparently surprising them with her strength. 'No,' she whispered. She turned back and kept her eyes locked on Billy's until his gaze went unfocused and the pupils glazed. Inhaling hard, she waited a moment longer and then turned and stepped outside, while the officers advanced to Billy's body, pistols forward and ready - which was, she guessed, procedure, even though it was clear, unquestionably clear, he was no longer a threat.

CHAPTER 73

The medics had finished tending to Pam Willoughby, who walked outside her town house onto the chill, bright street.

From a spot on the curb, where he sat in his rugged Merits wheelchair, Lincoln Rhyme noted that Amelia Sachs started to step forward, arms extending slightly - to embrace her - but then slowed to a stop. She eased back, lowering her hands, when Pam gave no response, other than a formal nod of greeting.

Rhyme asked, 'How are you feeling?'

'Getting by,' said the somber-faced young woman - Rhyme could no longer think of her as a girl. He heard how she'd fought the unsub and he was proud of her.

For some reason Pam kept brushing at her legs - the front of her thighs. It reminded him of the compulsive way Amelia Sachs sometimes touched or scratched her own body. She noted him looking and stopped. 'He tattooed me. But it wasn't poison. It was a real tat. He had part of his name and mine on his legs, he did the other part on mine.'

Splitters, Rhyme recalled TT Gordon telling them. Lovers who mark portions of their names on each other.

'I'm ...' She swallowed. 'I feel pretty creepy.'

'I know somebody who can get them removed. I've got his number.'

If TT Gordon knew how to ink he'd surely know how to de-ink.