Memories of Midnight

He slammed his fist against the side of her face, and the room blurred. Atanas leaned close and whispered, "Don’t ever say no to me. Do what I tell you before I slice your fucking head off."

Catherine put her hands behind the post and a moment later she felt the cord bite into her wrists as Atanas tied them together. She could feel the circulation being cut off.

"Please," she said. "That’s too tight."

"Good," he grinned. He took the second length of cord and tied her legs tightly together at the ankles. Then he got to his feet. "There we are," he said. "All nice and cozy." He took another swallow from the bottle. "Would you like another drink?"

Catherine shook her head.

He shrugged. "Okay."

She watched him put the bottle to his lips again. Maybe he’ll get drunk and fall asleep, Catherine thought desperately.

"I used to drink a quart a day," Atanas boasted. He laid the empty bottle down on the cement floor. "Well, time to go to work."

"What – what are you going to do?"

"I’m going to make a little accident. This is going to be a masterpiece. I may even charge Demiris double."

Demiris! So it wasn’t just a dream. He was behind this. But why?

Catherine watched Atanas walk across the room to the huge boiler. He removed the outside plate and examined the pilot light and the eight boilerplates that kept the unit hot. The safety valve was nested in a metal frame to protect it. Atanas picked up a small piece of wood and jammed it into the frame so that the safety valve was inoperative. The heat dial was set at 150 degrees. As Catherine watched, Atanas turned the dial up to the maximum. Satisfied, he walked back to Catherine.

"Do you remember how much trouble we had with that furnace?" Atanas asked. "Well, I’m afraid it’s going to bust open, after all." He moved closer to Catherine. "When that dial reaches four hundred degrees, the boiler will blow up. Do you know what will happen then? The gas lines will rip open and the burner plates will set them on fire. The whole building will explode like a bomb."

"You’re insane! There are innocent people out there who…"

"There are no innocent people. You Americans believe in happy endings, don’t you? You’re fools. There are no happy endings." He reached down and tested the rope that held Catherine’s hands behind the post. Her wrists were bleeding. The rope was cutting into her flesh and the knots were tight. Atanas slowly ran his hands across Catherine’s naked breasts, caressing them, and then he leaned down and kissed them. "It’s too bad we don’t have more time. You’ll never know what you missed." He grabbed her by the hair and kissed her on the lips. His breath reeked of brandy. "Good-bye, Catherine." He stood up.

"Don’t leave me," Catherine pleaded. "Let’s talk and…"

"I have a plane to catch. I’m going back to Athens." She watched him start toward the steps. "I’ll leave the light on for you so you can watch it happen." A moment later, Catherine heard the heavy basement door close and the snap of the outside bolt and then there was silence. She was alone. She looked up at the dial on the boiler. It was rapidly moving up. As she watched, it went from 160 degrees to 170 degrees and kept moving. She fought desperately to free her hands, but the more she pulled, the tighter the bonds became. She looked up again. The dial had reached 180 degrees and was climbing. There was no way out.

None.

Alan Hamilton was driving down Wimpole Street like a madman, cutting in and out of traffic, ignoring the yells and blaring of horns from irate drivers. The way ahead was blocked. He turned left and into Portland Place and headed toward Oxford Circus. Traffic was heavier here, slowing him down.

In the basement at 217 Bond Street, the needle on the boiler had climbed to 200 degrees. The basement was becoming warm.

The traffic was almost at a standstill. People were headed home, to dinner, to the theater. Alan Hamilton sat at the wheel of his car, frustrated. Should I have called the police? But what good would it have done? A neurotic patient of mine thinks someone is going to be murdered? The police would have laughed. No, I have to get to her. The traffic began to move again.

In the basement, the needle was climbing upward to 300. The room was becoming unbearably hot. She tried to free her hands again and her wrists were rubbed raw, but the rope stayed tight.

He turned into Oxford Street, speeding through a pedestrian lane with two old women crossing. In back of him he heard a shrill police whistle. For an instant, he was tempted to stop and enlist help. But there was no time to explain. He kept driving.

At an intersection, a huge truck pulled out, blocking his way. Alan Hamilton honked impatiently. He leaned his head out the window. "Move it!"

The truck driver turned to look at him. "What’s the matter, mate, you going to a fire?"

The traffic had become a snarl of cars. When it finally cleared, Alan Hamilton started to drive again, racing toward Bond Street. A trip that should have taken ten minutes had taken him almost half an hour.

In the basement, the needle climbed to 400 degrees.

Finally, blessedly, the building was in sight. Alan Hamilton pulled his car over to the curb across the street and slammed on the brakes. He threw the door open and hurried out of the car. As he started to run toward the building, he stopped in horror. The ground shook as the entire building exploded like a giant bomb, filling the air with flame and debris. And death.

Chapter Thirty-one

Atanas Stavich was feeling terribly aroused. Taking care of a contract always did that to him. He made it a rule to have sex with his victims, male or female, before he killed them, and he always found it exciting. Now he was frustrated because there had been no time to torture Catherine or to make love to her. Atanas looked at his watch. It was still early. His plane didn’t leave until eleven o’clock that evening. He took a taxi to Shepherd Market, paid the driver, and wandered into the labyrinth of streets. There were half a dozen girls standing on street corners calling out to the men passing by.