Aimée Rose gave him his tablet, patted his face, sighed dramatically, and placed her hand over her heart. “It’s started, Griffin. Already two local girls and a tourist want to know your name and cell number. I told them, alas, you were gay. Maybe I was trying too hard not to smirk, so I don’t think they believed me. Since you’ll be with me and Jenny most of the time, we should keep you safe from roving packs of teenagers, or worse, the cougars. But beware of anything moving in the shadows, one might jump out and tackle you, take you right down.”
Griffin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
Aimée Rose punched his arm. “Jenny told me you never even noticed, even in college when girls would nearly throw themselves in front of you.” She gave a laugh. He knew she was having fun, so he twirled a nonexistent mustache and said, “How about I start a line, lead them right into the café.”
She laughed again. “Nice offer, but really, we don’t need any more business. Be back to the house by seven, okay? Jenny’s making you her never-to-be-forgotten spaghetti and meatballs and crunchy garlic toast you said is as good as Agent Sherlock’s.”
She gave him a wave over her shoulder as she strode away, a tall woman with a long step. Jenny had told him Aimée Rose never merely walked, she always moved out fast, as if she had to put out a fire.
He’d known Jenny Wiley since their freshman year at Penn State, and Aimée Rose Wallberger since their senior year when she’d transferred to Penn State from Dartmouth. It had been love at first sight for Jenny and Aimée Rose.
He walked through Kyler Park, forced himself not to sit on one of the welcoming wooden benches and take a snooze. He stopped to watch kids playing tag football, and walked again with couples strolling along the paths shaded by cedars and walnut trees and the ever-present oaks, basked in the colors and scents of wildly blooming flowers. He came out on Winchester, stopped and admired the row of Victorian houses lining the street, and as always, the backdrop of the towering Appalachians in the distance. Gaffer’s Ridge had been turning into a picture-perfect postcard town for hikers, campers, and antique shoppers alike over the past fifteen years. B&Bs sprang up every month, according to Jenny, and small boutiques had nearly filled up the three-block downtown. Local merchants were happy to welcome the tourists, upgrading their shops and stores to take advantage. The town was picturesque, hilly, and thick with oaks, chestnuts, and a dozen white wooden church steeples spearing into the blue sky. There was even talk about founding a community college. And now they had Jenny’s Café. Jenny joked she and Aimée Rose were getting so rich, even with their shortened hours, they might have to retire at thirty-five and move to the South of France. Griffin imagined they’d grow tired of fun and games after six months and open a restaurant in Cannes.
He saw Beauregard’s Antiques across from the park and thought of Anna, her face clear in his mind, how she loved eighteenth-century English antiques, hiking, and white-water rafting as much as she enjoyed bringing down drug dealers. She would have enjoyed Gaffer’s Ridge, but now she’d never see it. She’d left for Seattle months ago. She was no longer his fiancée, she’d broken it off. My mom has Alzheimer’s. I’ve got to go to her. I’m transferring to the DEA, Seattle division. I’m sorry, Griffin, sorry for everything.
He knew her mother’s condition wasn’t all her breakup with him was about. He knew what the real reason was, and there was nothing he could do about it. And he’d tried. Over the months, Anna, his tough-as-nails DEA agent, had become over-the-top jealous of any woman who came within ten feet of him or even nodded to him. She hadn’t believed his promises that he loved her and no one else, and their arguments had escalated. She’d never accused him of sleeping around on her, but Anna was convinced that one of the many women she saw with him would be the first one. She questioned him constantly about the women agents in the CAU—all three of them married, one of them, Lucy, now pregnant, but none of that seemed to matter.
When she’d left for Dulles with three suitcases and a cat carrier, a moving van set to follow her with all her superbly wrapped antiques to Mercer Island, Griffin had realized he felt sad but also relieved. There would be no more accusations, no more questioning the women he’d spoken to or met that day, no more inevitable fights, no more dreading to go home. He felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. And now, standing across from an antique shop, he realized he didn’t miss her. To be honest, it was Miss Exxie he missed, her three-year-old soft-as-silk Himalayan who slept on his chest, purring loud as a tank.
He’d walked all over Washington for weeks, looking for a place to call home, and finally found what he wanted, a condo on Capitol Hill, three blocks from Garfield Park, where he could run every morning.
Now, six months later, he’d driven to Gaffer’s Ridge for a short vacation, to rest and relax, and maybe nap away some afternoons. Griffin began to walk again, tried not to torture himself anymore with Anna’s jealousy—That face of yours—women line up to get close to you, and don’t try to tell me you don’t love it.
He closed his eyes a moment, shut out her angry voice. No, he was going to think about the furniture he wanted for his still nearly empty condo, nothing fancy, since the down payment had taken a sizable bite out of his savings. He turned onto Berger Lane, running northeast toward the mountains. The houses thinned out, the yards grew bigger, and everywhere, trees crowded in—he recognized some poplars, elms, cypress, and oak, but there were so many more he didn’t recognize, vivid greens against the blue sky. And there were the mountains, always the mountains, in the background. He didn’t see a single B&B or tourist this far from the center of Gaffer’s Ridge. The day was warm, the sun bright overhead. He filled his lungs with the clean sweet air, no trace of a car or factory.
HE’S HERE! THE PIPE, I HAVE THE PIPE. I’LL FIGHT!
Griffin jerked around at the woman’s panicked voice. What? She had a pipe? He realized her yell hadn’t come from the street, it was almost as if she were next to him, but where was she? He looked at the ancient gray clapboard house to his left. He saw no sign of anyone, no car in the driveway.
He waited, but she didn’t yell anything more. Had he imagined her voice? He had been tired when he’d arrived in Gaffer’s Ridge, both Ruth and him worn to the bone from their case. No, he hadn’t imagined anything. He ran to the front door of the gray clapboard house, pounded on it. He didn’t hear anyone. Or anything. He turned on the sagging wooden porch, stared toward the yellow-painted cottage catty-corner from him on the other side of the road.
11
* * *
Carson gripped the pipe two-handed in front of her like a gun and stared at the man who stared back at her. He looked surprised, and mad. He also looked strong, too strong for her to take him down. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn when she’d first seen him earlier—a black T-shirt that showed off his pecs, tight worn jeans, scuffed boots. His hair was the color of a wheat field, his eyes, oddly, a dark brown beneath thick brows.
He looked from the jagged-edged pipe in her hands to her face. To her shock and fury, he grinned at her. “Now, isn’t this a surprise? If I’d been a minute later, you would have managed to walk right out of the front door. And here I thought I had you all tied up, ready to send out in a big FedEx box. Where’d you get that pipe? And how did you get free of the duct tape?”
His surprise had morphed into a sneer, into dismissal of her as any kind of threat to him. She waved the pipe in front of her to keep him back, matched his smirk, laced her voice with derision. “You didn’t do a very good job of it, did you? I’ll even teach you about duct tape later, if you’re not too stupid to understand.”
Anger pulsed hot in his eyes, then died, and he shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? So you managed to get free, but you still weren’t fast enough. Or maybe you were planning to wait for me behind the front door? Catch me with that pipe when I came through? Doesn’t matter, but I really do want to know how you got free of the duct tape.”
Keep him off-
balance, keep talking until you figure something out. She gave him back a shrug. “Call me Houdini. You want to try to take me again? Come on, give it your best shot. This time you can’t get me from behind, this time you have to face me.” She waved the pipe at him. “Did you hit Heather, Amy, and Latisha on the back of the head like you did me, you puking coward? Did you tie them up in your basement with your almighty duct tape? Did you rape them, torture them before you killed them? You know what you are? A pathetic monster who needs to be put down.”
She saw disbelieving panic score his face, felt waves of shock pouring off him. “Shut up or I’ll wring your skinny neck. I’m not a monster! I’m not a coward.”
She managed a full-bodied sneer. “I said ‘puking coward.’ ”
He was breathing hard now, shaking his head back and forth. “How do you know about Heather, Latisha, and Amy?”
“I’m psychic.”
WHERE ARE YOU? TALK TO ME!
A man’s voice blasted in her head. Carson froze. She couldn’t believe it, was it happening again? Was it possible someone had heard her thoughts as she’d heard this man’s? No, impossible, she was losing it. No one could have heard her yelling at herself in her head. Still, she focused inward and screamed again in her mind.
I’M IN A HOUSE. I HAVE TO BE CLOSE! HELP! HE’S HERE!
He stared at her, mouth open, and she saw stark fear in his eyes. Had she looked different somehow? Had it frightened him?
His hands balled into fists. He shouted at her, “What you’re doing—stop it! You’re not psychic, you stupid woman. Only my— Never mind. No, it’s all make-believe, like zombies and vampires. What you are is a liar—you’ve got to be.” He stared at the waving, jagged pipe she was tossing back and forth, and looked suddenly uncertain. He said slowly, “Your face when you saw me—it was like you were looking into me. How do you know the girls’ names? You heard someone say something, didn’t you? Some gossip about them? But when you looked at me—how did you know?” His voice had climbed an octave. She felt roiling waves of fear and confusion pouring off him, and rage. There was no doubt in her mind, he wanted her gone, he wanted her never to have seen his face. He wanted her dead.
HE’S LOSING IT—HELP ME!
She waited, praying, but she heard nothing. Had she really heard a man’s voice? Or had she dreamed it up because she was so scared? She had to face it, there was no one to help her. It was up to her and her pipe. She couldn’t get past him to the front door. He’d be on her in an instant.
He whirled around to the front door, then jerked back. “Why are you looking like that? Like you’re looking at someone, talking to someone, but not really? There’s no one there! What are you doing?”
“I was talking to someone close, someone on his way to help me.” She saw it clearly—he was afraid. In that instant, he was afraid of her. She had to use his fear against him or she didn’t stand a chance. She said with an eerie singsong voice, “Who am I talking to? How could I be talking to anyone? You said it yourself, no one’s there and I’m a liar.”
He screamed, “Who’s there, who’s close?” He whirled around again, panting now, but no one was there. He was shaking when he turned back to her. “No, you’re a liar, you’ve got to be a liar. You’re not psychic.”
“Of course I am. It’s like calling 911. Help’s on the way. When he gets here I’ll tell him how pleased you were with yourself, picturing Heather and Amy and Latisha in your sick brain, reliving those moments when they were crying and helpless. Did it give you a rush, you worthless creep?”
Had she pushed him too hard? He was standing four feet from her as if frozen. Then he yelled, “There’s no such thing as real psychics! There’s only those crap TV shows with make-believe psychics who are supposed to see everything, except they never see the face or the name of the killer. It’s stupid. Tell me how you knew. Did that stupid old gossip, Turley Maybeck, say something to you? Nosy old biddy. She’s always hated me.”
She realized in that moment he did believe in psychics and that was why he was so afraid. “So Turley Maybeck knows what you are, too? She knows you’re a murderer?”
“Shut up! I looked in that tote bag of yours. Your driver’s license says you’re from New York. Your name’s Carson DeSilva. And you’ve got a stupid middle name—Estevao. I haven’t ever seen you before. Why are you here? Tell me!”
Maybe she could rattle him so badly she’d have a chance at taking him down. It was obvious he didn’t know what to do. He had no weapon, he looked panicked, confused.
She called up the monotone singsong voice again, near a whisper this time. “I saw everything. I heard what you were thinking when I faced you standing on the steps of the market. You were spewing your thoughts to me so loud a deaf dog could hear you.”
“No, I didn’t. I never do that. I’m not supposed to.” He broke off, stared at her. “But I saw something in your face, heard you whisper. You couldn’t have been inside my head, you’re not special, you’re lying.”
She was now sure he knew all about psychics. He was shaking his head, back and forth, and she felt the fear crawling through him, fear of old faded memories, of a blurred face, a woman, and with her a young girl, both seated cross-legged on sand at a lake, by a brightly burning fire, and the woman was speaking words that made no sense. Carson felt his shock—oily and cold—and she felt his fear of that woman, of what he couldn’t understand. Alarm was flooding through him now because he was afraid of her, too, afraid because she wasn’t helpless like those three girls he’d killed. Carson wasn’t pleading with him not to kill her.
He whispered, “You couldn’t see what I was thinking, you couldn’t. Tell me who told you or I’ll kill you right now.”
12
* * *
Carson kept waving the pipe back and forth in front of him like a metronome, kept her voice hypnotic. “I told you, moron, you were shouting your thoughts so loud anyone listening could have heard you. I saw the three girls, heard you say their names, like you were their boyfriend, their lover. And isn’t that stupid, since you’re way too old for three young girls? How old were they? Fifteen, sixteen? Young girls, teenagers, so guess what that makes you?”
“Shut your stupid mouth!”
“Maybe you dreamed about dating them? Now that’s a joke, isn’t it? Or maybe you wanted revenge on their parents?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Or are you insane?”
“Shut up!” Rage poured off him like roiling black clouds crashing into each other. He was shaking his head wildly back and forth. “This shouldn’t be happening. I don’t understand how you saw what you saw, how you got out of the duct tape—but I can’t let you leave here. And you’re too old, way too old.”
“Yeah, I’m too old. There’s no chance I could make the junior high cheerleading squad. Hey, I’ve never met a pedophile before.” Had she gone too far?
“I’m not a pedophile!” To her horror, he casually pulled a gun from the back of his jeans.
A GUN! HE’S GOT A GUN!
Griffin approached the yellow cottage, took in the new black Chevy SUV in the driveway, and ran flat-out. He didn’t have his Glock, but it didn’t matter. He burst into the house, and this time he yelled aloud, “Down! Now!”
Carson hit the floor.
Griffin whipped around to the man. “Put down the gun! FBI!” The man fired wildly toward Carson and kept firing even as she rolled, his bullets slamming into the front wall and blasting wooden shards from the front door. Griffin’s leg was already in motion. His foot struck the man’s wrist and he heard the bone snap. The gun went flying. The man screamed in pain and rage, grabbed his hand, then tried to dive after the gun spinning away from him across the old oak floor.
Carson rolled up on her feet and leaped at him. She brought the pipe down hard on top of his head. He shuddered, slowly sank to his knees, fell onto his side, and then his back, his arms flung out. He tried to raise his hand to his head, moaning, and stared up at her. Then his eyes closed a
nd his head lolled to the side.
Carson stood over him, panting, the pipe still held at the ready. Her hands were shaking, she was trembling so badly, but it didn’t matter, she really wanted to hit him again.
Griffin said in his calm FBI voice, “No, that’s enough. You did good. But no more.” Griffin went down on his knees beside the man, pressed his fingers to his throat. He looked up at her. “There’s a pulse.” He rose, smiled at her, stuck out his hand. “Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI. That was quite a whack you gave him. Your timing was perfect.” Griffin picked up the gun. It was a German Walther, an older model but still a fine weapon, a deadly weapon.
Carson straightened, drew a deep steadying breath. Still holding the pipe in her right hand, she shook his hand with her left. She said simply, “I can’t believe you actually heard me. And you did. And isn’t that crazy? I’m Carson DeSilva. Thank you. That kick, it was amazing, so fast, so hard you broke his wrist.” She’d bulleted out her words, but now he watched her take another big breath, get a grip on herself. She said slowly, “I didn’t want to die, and—then there you were, loud in my mind. I didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it. You’re really an FBI agent? Here, in Gaffer’s Ridge? In this neighborhood? At the exact moment I was sure he was going to kill me? And you heard me, you really heard me?”
Griffin laid his hand on her arm. “Yes, I heard you, loud and clear, loud enough to break my eardrums. Listen, you did great, Carson. Everything’s under control now.” Griffin felt her excitement and her adrenaline blast at him. At least she wasn’t going into shock. He said easily, “I’ve heard the name Carson before, but well, that was a Carson on my high school football team. You’re the first female Carson I’ve met. Sorry it took me so long to find you, but at first I couldn’t tell where you were.”
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