Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary

“Did they wake you up?”

She looked down. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Take your time, Miss Brecht—”

“Lilah!” she interrupted. “I’m sorry. Just … please. Call me Lilah. The … distance … the formality. I need to feel close to you. To be able to tell you … do you understand?”

Decker nodded.

“Do you have a first name?”

“Peter.”

“Peter,” she repeated, then looked away. “Do you do these kinds of interviews often, Peter?”

“I’ve dealt with many sexual-assault cases.”

“How do you do it?”

Decker raised his brow. “They’re hard on me, but not as hard as they are for the survivors. I get a good deal of satisfaction when I apprehend a perpetrator. I like putting bad people behind bars. And that’s what I’d like to do here. But to do that, I need your help.”

She met his eyes, then retreated. “I woke up … and then … this … something was on top of me, smothering me.”

“Literally?”

She shook her head. “There wasn’t anything over my face … just this horrible presence crushing down. And then the gun. It was … terrifying.”

“Did you scream?”

“I was in shock! Should I have screamed? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, you acted perfectly—”

“I should have done something!”

“You did do something, Lilah. You survived. That was all you had to do and you did it.”

Again her eyes moistened. “You say the most perfect things, Peter. Thank you!” She grabbed his hand. “Thank you so much!”

That familiar grip. He waited a beat, gave her a light squeeze, then wriggled out. Her eyes held his for a moment, throwing him off balance. He looked down at his notepad. “Did you happen to catch a glimpse of either of your attackers?”

She closed her eyes and seemed to enter a trance. “I see them perfectly. The first one is slight, dark-complexioned, blue eyes, black hair, thick eyebrows, a mole right under his lower lip. High cheekbones, thinnish lips, prominent chin but no cleft, birdlike neck …” She opened her eyes. “You’re not writing. Am I talking too fast, Peter?”

Decker said, “I’m a little confused.”

Lilah looked puzzled. “How so?”

“Miss Brec—Uh, Lilah, you’re giving me a lot of detail—”

“Faces—as well as bodies—are my business, Peter.”

“I’d like to ask a police artist to come down. I want you to describe your attackers to him.”

“Certainly.”

“I’d also like you to look through some mug shots I have in my briefcase. Maybe these animals have done something like this before and you can pick them out.”

“As you wish.”

He handed her the photos of the local sex offenders and used the hospital phone to place a call to the station. As he waited for the lines to connect, he noticed Lilah flipping through the pictures with little interest. He finally made contact with the police artist, then hung up.

“Someone will be here in about twenty minutes,” Decker said. “None of these men look like—”

“No, none.”

“You’re sure—”

“Very.” Lilah sank back into her pillow. “My God, I’m tired.”

“I’m sure you must be,” Decker said. “What were you doing walking around?”

“Just trying to feel … human again.” She brushed a tear away from her eye. “I’ll heal outside. I hurt, but I know I’ll heal. It’s the inside …” She regarded him, took his hand. “May I hold your hand?”

“Of course,” Decker answered.

He knew that women reacted very differently to sexual assault. Some couldn’t bear the sight of a man; others wanted their husbands or boyfriends to make love to them immediately after the ordeal. Some crawled into shells and never came out; others acted as if nothing of significance had happened. If the primary detective on the case was male, rape survivors often developed a kind of transference with him, either good or bad depending on the rapport. Some women had been so grateful for Decker’s sympathetic ear, they had named their babies after him. But there was something odd about Lilah.

“Are you up to answering a few more questions?” Decker asked.

Lilah brought his hand to her cheek and nodded.

“Okay. Then let me ask you this. When did you manage to make out your attackers so clearly?”

“I saw them as soon as they touched me.” Her lower lip began to tremble. “I was so … can you hold me, Peter? Just for a brief moment.”

She came to him, then abruptly pulled back and brought her hand to her mouth.

“No, forget I said that. I can see by your ring that you’re married. It’s just that I’m feeling so vulnerable right now. I need someone to lean on. May I take your hand again?”

She took it without waiting for a response, began to play with his wedding band. Though he had comforted many survivors, none were as overtly sexual—as deadly sexual—as this one. He kept his face impassive and said, “Do you have a boyfriend you want me to call?”

Lilah’s eyes suddenly grew cold. “No.”

“How about your bro—”

“Give me a break!” She jerked her hand away.

“Would you feel more comfortable if you were interviewed by a woman?”