“I’ll call a lawyer later. Sure, I can answer anything you ask. I can always take it back. I read all about the Toaster. He’ll get off because he’s crazy, and it won’t cost him a dime. I’ll get off too, you’ll see, and then I’ll come after you, Marty.”
She felt a shock of rage, but no fear. She should have killed him right there in the warehouse to ensure there’d be justice. She was a fool to want all her questions answered. Besides, he could lie to her as easily as he could tell her the truth. Her face was flushed red with her fury. She’d been a fool. At that moment, she heard Dillon singing quietly from beside the door, “/ always played it cool when I was young, always swam when I wanted to sink, always laughed when I wanted to cry, always held my cards tight when I wanted to fold…”
He hadn’t said a single word until now. She jerked, then turned to look at him. His expression was unreadable. He was just singing those words. They weren’t great lyrics, but it worked. He winked at her. She grinned; she couldn’t help herself. Talk about finding words to ht the situation. She thought briefly of her classical music training. Mozart would have cast her out of the classical club if he knew she was smiling over some god-awful country-and-western music. Her rage fell away.
“We’ll see about that,” she said, turning back to Marlin, calm as anything now. “Hey, you look as if you’re getting tired, Marlin. You’ll want to take a nap really soon now. Why don’t you just tell me why you killed seven women in San Francisco-not more, not less? Exactly seven, and then you stopped.”
“Seven?” He fell silent. She watched him tick off his fingers. The psycho was counting on his fingers the number of women he’d butchered. She’d bet anything he remembered every name, every face. She wanted to kill him right that instant.
“No,” Marlin said. “I didn’t kill no seven women in San Francisco.”
So the number seven had no relevance whatsoever. Thank God for Savich’s brain. Dear God, how many more women had he butchered?
“How many then?”
“Six. I killed just six ladies. They all deserved it big-time. Then I was tired. I remember I slept for three days and then I was told to go to Las Vegas.”
“Told? Who told you to go to Las Vegas?”
“Why the voices, of course. The Devil, sometimes his buddies. Sometimes a black cat if I see one.”
“You’re making that up. You’re just practicing on me so the judge will find you nuts and you won’t have to stand trial.”
“Yeah. I’m good, don’t you think? But I am crazy, Marty, real crazy.”
“Just six women? You’re certain? Not seven?”
“You think I’m stupid as well as crazy?” Then he proceeded to count them off again on his fingers, this time with their names. Lauren O’Shay, Patricia Mullens, Danielle Potts, Ann Patrini, Donna Gabrielle, and Constance Black.
When he finished, he looked over at her and smiled.
She felt like Lot’s wife: nothing more than a pillar of salt, unmoving.
He hadn’t said Belinda’s name.
Why? Just a simple omission. He’d killed seven women. He was lying. The little bastard was lying.
She stood up, wanting to strangle him. He flinched, seeing the rage in her eyes. “You’re stupid, Marlin. You can’t even count right. Either that or you’re a liar. That’s what you are, a liar. I’ll bet my next paycheck on that.”
He was whimpering, holding himself so stiff against the backboard of the hospital bed, he looked frozen. “You want to kill me, don’t you, Marty?”
“Oh yes, Marlin. When the time comes, I’d like to throw the switch on you and watch you fry.”
She heard his voice from behind her, singing softly, “Take me back to my old fat mammy. She loves me better than she loved her apple pie.”
She felt his hand on her good arm, his blunt fingers lightly stroking her skin. “Let’s go, Sherlock. I’ll make you a deal, you can talk to him one last time. Tomorrow, all right?”