n the chilly streets of SoHo, in the blue light of this deserted part of the neighborhood, east of Broadway, some blocks from the area's chic restaurants and boutiques. He was fifty feet behind his flower girl--Joanne, the woman who would soon be his.
His eyes were on her, and he felt a hunger, keen and electric, as intense as the one he'd felt the night he met Gerald Duncan for the first time, which had proved to be a very important moment for Vincent Reynolds.
After the Sally Anne incident--when Vincent got arrested because he lost control--he told himself that he'd have to be smarter. He'd wear a ski mask, he'd take the women from behind so they couldn't see him, he'd use a condom (which helped him slow down, anyway), he'd never hunt close to home, he'd vary the techniques and the neighborhoods of the attacks. He'd plan the rapes carefully and be prepared to walk away if there was a risk he'd get caught.
Well, that was his theory. But in the past year it'd been getting harder and harder to control the hunger. Impulse would take over and he'd see a woman by herself on the street and think, I have to have her. Now! I don't care if anybody sees me.
The hunger does that to you.
Two weeks earlier he'd been having a piece of chocolate cake and a Coke at a diner up the street from the office where he regularly temped. He glanced at the waitress, a new one. She had a round face and a slim figure, curls of golden hair. He noticed her tight blue blouse that was two buttons open and, in his soul, the hunger erupted.
She smiled at him as she brought his check and he decided he had to have her. Right away.
He heard her say to her boss she was going into the alley for a cigarette. Vincent paid and stepped outside. He walked to the alley and then glanced into it. There she was, in her coat, leaning against the wall, looking away from him. It was late--he preferred the 3 to 11 P.M. shift--and though there were some passersby on the sidewalk, the alley was completely empty. The air was cold, the cobblestones would be colder, but he didn't care; her body would keep him warm.
It was then that he heard a voice whisper in his ear, "Wait five minutes."
Vincent jumped and swiveled around to look at a man with a round face and lean body, in his fifties, with a calm way about him. He was gazing past Vincent into the alley.
"What?"
"Wait."
"Who're you?" Vincent wasn't afraid, exactly--he was two inches taller, fifty pounds heavier--but the odd look in the man's shockingly blue eyes spooked him.
"That doesn't matter. Pretend we're just friends, talking."
"Fuck that." Heart pounding, hands shaking, Vincent started to walk away.
"Wait," the man said softly once more. His voice was almost hypnotic.
The rapist waited.
A minute later he saw a door open in a building across the alley from the back of the restaurant. The waitress walked to the doorway and spoke to two men. One was in a suit, the other was in a police uniform.
"Jesus," Vincent whispered.
"It's a sting," the man said. "She's a cop. The owner's running numbers out of the restaurant, I think. They're setting him up."
Vincent recovered fast. "So? That doesn't matter to me."
"If you'd done what you had in mind you'd be in cuffs now. Or shot dead."
"Had in mind?" Vincent asked, trying to sound innocent. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The stranger only smiled, motioning Vincent up the street. "Do you live here?"
A pause then Vincent answered, "New Jersey."
"You work in the city?"
"Yeah."
"You know Manhattan well?"
"Pretty good."
The man nodded, looking Vincent up and down. He identified himself as Gerald Duncan and suggested they go someplace warm to talk. They walked three blocks to a diner and Duncan had coffee and Vincent had another piece of cake and a soda.