Black Lightning: A Novel - Couverture souple

PROLOGUE
 
 
Five Years Ago—
Experiment Number Forty-Seven
 
It was a ballet the man had danced so many times before that the first steps had become familiar enough to be performed automatically, with little if any thought at all. If he’d been asked, he couldn’t have said exactly what it was about this particular subject that first caught his attention, what particularly had piqued his interest in including her in his study. Certainly not age—he’d never been interested in the relative youth of any of his subjects.
 
Nor did sex matter. There were nearly as many men as women among his subjects; whatever gender imbalances existed in his study group were purely a matter of chance, and, he was certain, statistically insignificant. Not that his critics would ignore whatever imbalances existed when they began analyzing his work—he was all too aware that every possible nuance of his study would be minutely examined, that every possible interpretation, no matter how outlandish, would be applied to his choice of subjects.
 
But the fact was that he really hadn’t come up with any standard criteria for selecting participants in the experiments. Neither race nor gender, age nor sexual orientation, had counted.
 
Nor had he ever been particularly concerned about whether he invited the subject to join his study, or whether the subject was the one to make the first contact.
 
His current subject had made the first contact herself, as it happened, and he had almost rejected her on the basis that she seemed somehow familiar to him, that he knew her from somewhere. Familiarity was the single grounds for automatic ineligibility for the project, for he could never be certain of his own objectivity if he had previously existing feelings for the subject, whether positive or negative.
 
He’d first become aware of the woman a couple of weeks ago, when he’d happened into a shop near the university for a cup of coffee. He’d briefly noticed her when he’d come in, sitting near the door alone, a copy of the Seattle Herald spread out on the table before her. He’d paid little attention to her until he bought his own coffee and settled into a chair several tables away.
Had he subconsciously known even then that he would include her in the project? He would have to consider that.
 
It had been she who first smiled at him, then come over and asked if she could join him. As he recalled it now, she said something she seemed to consider witty, about them not taking up any more room on the planet than they absolutely had to, and he produced the expected smile for her. But instead of inviting her to sit down, he pleaded work, and she left.
 
For the next ten minutes he’d tried to figure out why she looked familiar, but it hadn’t finally come to him until he opened his own paper to the editorial section and his eye had been caught by one of the columns:
 
How Much Longer?
Police Fiddle While Seattle Dies
 
Another week has passed, and the Special Task Force set up by the Seattle Police Department in cooperation with the King County Sheriff’s Office and the Washington State Patrol seems no closer than ever to an arrest in connection with the series of bodies that has turned up in the foothills of the Cascades over the past five years. Indeed, thus far all the police seem to have determined is that all the victims appear to have been killed by the same person, a conclusion anyone who has seen the bodies couldn’t easily have missed.
 
Yet when I talked to several members of the task force this week ...
 
 
It hadn’t been the story that had caught the man’s eye so much as the accompanying photograph of the column’s author.
 
Anne Jeffers.
 
That was why the woman he’d spoken to a few minutes earlier had seemed familiar: she looked very much like the newswoman. He’d sat staring at the photograph for several seconds, considering.
 
The woman had been in her early forties, of medium height, with the same kind of even features reflected in the photograph. The woman’s hair had appeared to be of a similar dark shade, too, though Anne Jeffers’s was somewhat shorter.
 
Was it possible it had actually been Anne Jeffers he’d spoken to?
 
A patient man, he’d finished his coffee, refolded his paper, and gone on about his business. But he kept his eyes open, and a few days later, when he spotted the woman from the coffee shop, he realized that she was not Anne Jeffers, nor was she anyone else he knew.
 
Discreetly, he’d followed her.
 
She lived not far from the university, in an old Spanish-Moorish-style apartment building the man had always liked.
 
Afterward, he made a point of walking by the building every few days. He’d seen the woman several times, and nodded to her.
 
The dance had begun.
 
It had gone on for several weeks, the two of them circling around each other in a strange pavane that was almost like a courtship.
 
They began nodding to each other, then saying hello.
 
He had begun to absorb the routines of her life, and found her—as he found most people—to be pathetically predictable.
 
Today, for instance, being a bright and cheerful Sunday, he was almost certain the woman would take lunch in a bag and go to bask in the rare warmth on the lawn of the university, where she would pretend to be reading a book while actually watching for a man—nearly any man, he had discovered—to show interest in her.
 
Today he would be the man to show interest.
 
Today the dance would end.
 
He left his car at home that morning, taking the motor home he’d bought four years ago, when the study had commenced. Perfect for field trips, he often drove it into the mountains even on weekends when he wasn’t working on his research, parking it near any one of hundreds of babbling streams while he indulged himself in his only passion outside of his project: fly-fishing.
 
Today he drove the motor home up to the university, parked it in the nearly deserted depths of the cavernous garage, and locked it. Taking his own lunch and two bottles of lemon-flavored sparkling water with him, he climbed the stairs to the surface and started across the lawn toward the spot that was the woman’s favorite.
 
Half an hour later, after she’d consumed half the contents of the bottle of sparkling water he offered her, she frowned, then shook her head.
 
“Something wrong?” the man asked, his gentle voice freighted with benevolent concern.
 
“I—I’m not sure,” the woman replied. “Suddenly I feel—” She hesitated, then stood up. “I’d better get home!”
 
The man scrambled to his feet and began gathering both their things. “Maybe I should drive you,” he suggested.
 
The woman started to decline his offer, but a second later, changed her mind. He could see that the color had begun to fade from her lips.
 
“If you could ...” she began, but then, feeling lightheaded and dizzy, her voice faded.
 
Gratefully, she accepted the man’s proffered arm and let him lead her down into the garage, where his motor home waited.
 
Even before he drove it out into the bright daylight, the woman had drifted into unconsciousness, and was now spread out on the sheet of plastic he’d placed on the floor.
 
He pulled out of the garage, went west two blocks, turned right up to N.E. 45th Street, and headed west to Interstate 5. Taking the highway south, he exited at Route 520, heading east toward Redmond.
 
After a while he wound up into the foothills, looking for the right spot.
 
Somewhere off the road.
 
Somewhere secluded.
 
Somewhere near a stream, so he could do a little fishing after his work was done.
 
Finally he found the spot: a narrow road, one he’d used before, but not for years. A half mile through the trees and he emerged into a clearing next to a fast-moving stream. He looked around.
 
He was alone.
 
Now he began his preparations.
 
First, he stripped naked, folding his clothes neatly and stowing them in the drawer beneath the queen-sized berth at the motor home’s rear.
 
After pulling on a pair of rubber surgical gloves, he covered the bed with a sheet of plastic and moved the unconscious woman onto it.
 
He continued working with the sheets of plastic, methodically lining the entire interior of the motor home; one of his prime rules when carrying out an experiment was that nothing must be contaminated.
 
Finally he was ready.
 
Undressing the woman, he gazed at her naked body for a few moments, savoring the life that seemed to radiate from it even as she slept.
 
Her breasts moved rhythmically up and down as she breathed, and when he lay his fingers gently on her neck, he could feel the pounding of her pulse.
 
He laid out the tools he knew he would need, then picked up the instrument he’d purchased the day before for this specific experiment, and squeezed its trigger.
 
It squealed shrilly as its blade began to spin.
 
The man began his work.
 
The blade of the cordless saw sliced through skin and flesh, parting the woman’s sternum in a single quick cut up the center of her chest.
 
Setting the saw aside, the man spread her ribs apart and closed off the largest of her severed blood vessels with some of the surgical clamps he’d bought years before, when the research was still in its planning stages.
 
The worst of her bleeding stanched, the man slipped his fingers into the cavity within. He felt the woman’s lungs—still working strongly—and nodded in satisfaction. Once more he’d succeeded in making the primary cut so perfectly that the subject’s diaphragm remained undamaged.
 
He slid his fingers deeper, working them around the lungs until both hands rested against the gently moving tissue. He paused, thrilling to the sensation of life pressing against his palms.
 
But now the woman’s breathing was beginning to falter. Time was running short.
 
The experiment must begin.
 
His fingers probed deeper, until at last he felt the familiar contours of a human heart. Time seemed to stand still....
 

John Saul knows how to make the blood run cold and the heart race wild with fear. Now the author of the New York Times bestsellers Creature and The Homing delivers a chilling novel of a convicted serial killer sentenced to death—and hell-bent on revenge.

For five years Seattle journalist Anne Jeffers has pursued the horrifying story of a sadistic serial killer’s bloody reign, capture, trial, and appeal—crusading to keep the wheels of justice churning toward the electric chair. Now the day of execution has come. A convicted killer will meet his end. Anne believes her long nightmare is over. But she’s dead wrong. . . . 

Within days, a similar murder stuns the city. As the butcher stalks his next victims, creeping ever closer to her, Anne is seized by an icy unease, a haunting sense of connection to these unspeakable crimes. And, relentlessly, she hears the eerie echo of the dead man’s last words to her: “Today won’t end it. How will you feel, Anne? When I’m dead, and it all starts again, how will you feel?”

In Black Lightning, John Saul strikes with a novel as electrifying as a jagged bolt from a pitch-dark sky, proving once again his inimitable genius for suspense.

Praise for Black Lightning

“His most effective thriller to date . . . [a] compelling read.”—The Seattle Times

“Electrifyingly scary.”—San Jose Mercury News

“One of Saul’s best.”—Publishers Weekly