by Tami Dane
The chief nodded. “Then we are searching for an attractive, confident young man who may be popular among his peers. Sloan, do any of the students you met while attending summer school fit that description?”
“No. Until we had this lead, the most promising person of interest we had was a young man who had the opposite problem. He was overly pushy, due to a lack of success and to compensate for his low confidence. We might consider the possibility that he is the master of the impundulu—we’ll call him unsub two. And as far as the impundulu goes, he may or may not be a student. He is able to change identities. I had one source tell me the victims were all seen with a young man prior to their deaths, but not the same one. I’m thinking he’s adopting an identity that makes it easy to gain access to the victims.”
“And what would be unsub two’s motivation to kill, then?” Fischer asked.
“Perhaps revenge for having been rejected.” The instant I said those words, a sick feeling knotted my gut. Logic would dictate that if Derik Sutton was the one pulling the strings of the impundulu, I could be the next victim—or, at the least, a future victim. I’d rejected Derik Sutton in a big way. A very public way.
“Sloan,” the chief said, eyeballing me with concern.
I nodded, hiding a shudder. “I might have put myself in the path of an impundulu.”
The chief slid a glance JT’s way, and I knew what was coming. Once again, we would be shacking up. The timing couldn’t be worse.
One glance at JT and I knew he was none too thrilled about it. Deciding a preemptive strike was in order, I blurted out, “I’d rather stay with Wagner.”
The chief’s brows shot to the top of her forehead, and her skin wrinkled like a rhino’s hide. “Wagner’s not an agent. I can’t place you with Wagner—”
“Fischer, then.”
Fischer’s eyes just about popped out of his head. He shot a look at the chief, and some kind of silent exchange between the two of them played out.
“Fischer has other obligations,” Chief Payton said.
“Then you. I’ll stay with you.”
The chief stared at me. She blinked. Finally she slanted a look at JT and said, “Very well. You can stay with me until the identity of the second unsub is determined.” She gave each member of the team a weighted look. “We must complete our profiles as soon as possible. If there’s another killing, we’re facing heat from the media and my superiors.”
With those closing remarks, she ended the meeting. “Sloan, we’ll be heading out in an hour.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Wondering if I’d made the right decision in putting up a fight, I left the conference room. I made it roughly ten feet before JT caught me by the arm, pulled me to a quiet corner, not far from Hough’s “Cave of Wonders.”
“What was that?” he snapped.
“I thought you’d rather I stayed with someone else, considering. . . what we talked about earlier.”
“Yes, well . . . sure, I do. But do you have any idea how bad that looked for both of us when you, more or less, refused to stay with me?”
“Well, come on.” I tossed my hands, like any girl in my position would do. “You don’t want me to stay with you because that might ruin your chances with Hough. And yet you don’t want me to do something to stop it. Would you like me to go talk to the chief? Tell her I overreacted?”
“Yes.”
I took a step.
He grabbed my arm. “No. Don’t.”
I love reading philosophy. Anyone who reads philosophy can appreciate conflicting thoughts and gray areas. This, I could handle in a theoretical sense. In application, however? No. It turned out that I preferred life to be more black-and-white nuanced.
“Which is it? Yes? Or no?” I asked.
“No.”
“All right, then. I’ll stay with the chief. Good luck with Hough.” Once again, I started to walk away. And yet again, JT stopped me. “You have something else to say to me?”
“Skye, I’m sorry.”
“For what now, JT?”
“For being such an ass. We didn’t start out on the right foot, with . . .” He motioned between us. “You know.”
Oh, did I ever know. I wished I didn’t.
“Anyway,” he continued, “thank you for being so good about everything.”
“You’re welcome.” I leveled a look at him. “Now, am I free to go?”
He released my arm. “Yes.”
The chief’s home was nothing like I’d expected.
Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed that she would live in a tidy Colonial in the Baltimore burbs. And that she’d have at least a couple of kids a few years younger than me blaring music from stereos or lounging on an enormous sectional sofa, staring at a flat-screen TV. But for whatever reason, that was how I’d pictured her life, outside of the PBAU.
Was I wrong!
Driving my mom’s car, I followed her into a nondescript condo complex about ten minutes from Quantico. The buildings were typical Maryland construction. Adequate. Mid-1980s brick-and-vinyl exteriors. We parked, and I grabbed my go bag and followed her up to the front door.
She shoved her key into the lock, but she didn’t turn it. Over her shoulder, she said, “I don’t have guests, so I apologize for the mess.” And with that, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. I followed.
Once, when we were bored out of our minds, Katie and I had channel surfed, trying to find something amusing to watch on TV. We stumbled upon this show about hoarding and, for whatever reason, had watched it for a few hours.
The chief could be the poster child for hoarders.
My first instinct was to clap my hand over my mouth, do a one-eighty and leave. I squashed that impulse right away. Doing that would insult my boss—the boss who was kind enough to take me in, especially when it was my fault that I was in danger in the first place.
Stepping among stacks of boxes and clothes, I tried not to notice the filth on the narrow path of poop-brown carpet under my feet. In my head, I was listing all the possible contaminants I was exposing myself to. Rodent droppings—bubonic plague, salmonella, leptospirosis. Insect excrement—dysentery, typhoid, gastroenteritis. Completely oblivious to the possibility that she might be walking in a disease-riddled minefield, Chief Peyton was a few feet ahead of me, pointing out landmarks: “The half bath is down here. The kitchen, over there.”
The narrow, crowded hallway widened to a relatively open space housing what was probably a dining table on the right—the top was stacked high with papers and boxes and books. To my left was a tiny kitchen. There wasn’t an inch of countertop clear. Beyond the dining space, and down a few steps, was the sunken living room. Or, at least, that’s what I assumed it was. The chief seemed to be using it as a storage unit.
“There are two bedrooms upstairs,” she said, leading the way around the table mountain toward a narrow, steep staircase. At the top of the steps, she opened a door, revealing what appeared to be a usable bathroom . . . as long as I didn’t look too closely. And I kept the lights off. “Your bathroom.” Taking a left, she opened a door. “You can sleep in here.” She scurried in and started clearing off what I had to assume was a bed.
“I—I . . . I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” I said, stepping up to grab an armload of clothes. They smelled clean. I was grateful for that. I added them to the pile that she’d started off to one side.
“I can’t afford for anything to happen to my interns,” she said as she scurried around, trying to empty the bed.
“I’m sorry I put you in this position.”
She nodded, grabbing more clothes; then she stopped to stare at me. “I try to stay out of my agents’ personal lives, but since you’ve made this my business, what’s your problem with Thomas?”
“I don’t have a problem with him.”
“Then why wouldn’t you stay with him? I got the impression the two of you got along well, which is why I’ve been encouraging you to work together.”
&nbs
p; “We do get along well. In a professional way. Only professional.”
“So?”
Hmm. I was tiptoeing onto thin ice here. I didn’t want this to reflect poorly on JT. If I told the chief he needed some personal space, she might question his commitment to the team. “I felt it was important, as an intern, to work with some of the other agents in the unit, learn how they do things.”
The chief’s gaze sharpened, but she didn’t question me. She finished building “Mount Clothesmore,” which I’d noticed was comprised of dozens of unworn garments, all still sporting their store tags. “There you are. A bed.” She stepped back and glanced around the room. She shook her head, and then left.
I plopped onto the bed and a cloud of dust choked my throat. After hacking a few times, I dug out my loaner laptop, thinking I’d do some more research on lightning birds. My phone rang as I was powering up the computer.
It was Jia.
“Hi, Sloan? It’s J-Jia.” Jia was whispering. And stammering.
“Is everything all right?”
“Um, no. I need to talk to you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Can you m-meet me?”
I glanced at my computer. It wasn’t too late; but at this time of night, I wouldn’t make it all the way to the Baltimore burbs before the library closed. “Sure. Where? It’s going to take me a while to get there. I’m . . . at a friend’s house.”
“How about the coffee shop on Frederick Road, in Catonsville?”
“Okay.”
“Sloan, hurry. P-please.”
An earsplitting boom vibrated from the phone.
“Jia? What was that?”
“Just thunder.”
She screamed.
“Jia!” I shouted.
“I’m here. I think lightning struck my house. I’m leaving right now. Hurry. Please.”
The phone cut off.
Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.
—Arthur Golden
19
Something had happened to Jia. And with that thunder . . . I was absolutely terrified I wouldn’t get there in time. Of course, I looked for the chief first. She was in the shower.
Jia’s scream echoed in my head.
Oh, hell!
Zigging and zagging, I wove through the chief’s condo and raced outside. I was holding my phone, ready to call for help, but I was running too fast to dial. And when I launched myself into my car, I was too busy strapping myself in, starting the motor, and navigating out of my parking spot.
I thought about calling 9-1-1 but I was pretty sure the dispatcher would think I was a nutcase. I tried Detective Forrester’s number, but got his voicemail. I tried Jia again. The line went directly to voicemail. It wasn’t until I was halfway to Catonsville before I finally put in the call to the chief.
She didn’t answer. Probably still in the shower.
After leaving a message for her, I tried JT.
Again, no answer.
Well . . . what the hell was I supposed to do now?
I flipped through my contacts. Gabe Wagner. I tried him.
He answered.
“Well, thank God!” I blurted.
“Hey, I’m just a man. No need to put me on a pedestal or make me divine,” he said, chuckling.
“I wasn’t trying—” I cut myself off. Gabe Wagner was irritating and adorable, and I had no time for either. It was time for action. “Forget about that. I need your help.”
“Sure, Sloan. What’s going on? You sound a little frazzled.”
“‘Frazzled’ isn’t the word for it. I’m panicked. I’m on my way to . . .” Did I think Jia had made it out of her house? I wanted to believe she had. For one thing, I didn’t know where she lived. Catonsville wasn’t out of the way. It was worth a try. In the meantime, I needed to get an address for her. “Catonsville. Meet me at the coffee shop on Frederick Road.”
“Okay. Can I ask why?”
“I just received a call from my informant. She’s in some kind of trouble. It might be the unsub.”
“Which unsub?”
“She called me, sounding scared and upset. Then there was a loud boom. Thunder. And she screamed.”
“Then shouldn’t we be going to her house?”
“I wish we could. I don’t have her address. Plus, she said she’d meet me at the coffee shop. And that was after the thunder.” I glanced over my shoulder as I fought to wedge Mom’s car into the space the size of a tricycle between a semi and an SUV traveling at almost eighty miles per hour.
“Damn. Do we know how to stop that lightning thing?”
“Lightning bird,” I corrected. “No. Not yet. I’m just hoping I can get to her before he seduces her and—and . . . bites her.”
“Sloan, shouldn’t you be calling the chief on this?”
“I tried.”
“You’re staying with her, right? You didn’t tell her you were leaving?”
“I tried. She was in the shower. And I was in a hurry.”
“Sloan . . .”
“I know. I left a message. And I called JT. No answer. And I called Forrester. You were my fourth call.”
“Nothing like making me feel special.” Before I could respond, he added, “That was a joke. Let me see if I can get Fischer.”
“Okay. You will hurry, right?”
“Yes. But don’t go to that coffee shop until I get there. Park down the street.”
“Will do. Thanks.” I hung up, tossed my phone on the passenger seat, and pressed the gas pedal a little harder, inching up to eighty-five miles per hour. I roared up to the car in front of me in my lane, zigged into the left lane to pass him, and zagged back into the right lane. Rinse. Repeat. Until I was at my exit.
My phone hadn’t rung. Not once. Where the heck was everyone?
I zoomed around the exit ramp, tires barely holding. I jerked to a stop at the light, took a hard right onto Frederick. And in five minutes, I was pulling up to the coffee shop parking lot.
I slowed.
I glanced at my phone.
Then I turned, parked in the first open spot I found, grabbed my phone, and tried Jia’s number again.
No answer.
Well, damn it.
I tried Wagner’s.
He answered, and I just about burst out in song. “Tell me you’re not sitting in the coffee shop parking lot,” he said.
“Okay, I won’t. Where are you? Are you here?”
“Yes.”
A nervous chuckle gurgled up my throat. “You jerk.”
“Give me some credit. I broke at least a half-dozen traffic laws to get here before you, because I knew you wouldn’t wait for me.”
Still holding my phone to my ear, I grabbed my purse, shoved the strap over my shoulder, and jumped out of my car. “Where are you hiding?”
“On the side of the building. I’m walking around to the front now.”
I saw him and clicked off. I dropped my phone into the front pocket of my purse and ran toward the door. “Thank you,” I said as he pulled the door open for me. “Did you reach Fischer?”
“Yes, he’s on his way. I told him we’d wait.”
“I can see you’re not any better than me at keeping your word.”
“If I could get away with it, I would slap some handcuffs on you and drag you back to my car.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You bet I’d dare. And I will, if you do anything dangerous.”
I believed him. Thus, I hoped I wouldn’t be forced to do something dangerous.
With Wagner on my heels, I rushed inside. My gaze jerked from one table to the next. No sign of Jia. I checked the line. No sign of Jia.
Adrenaline was pumping through my system, making me jittery, as if I’d mainlined a full pot of coffee. I skittered around the perimeter of the room, mumbling, “Where is she? Where is she?”
“Problem?” Wagner asked.
“Maybe she’s hiding in the bathroom. Keep your eyes open for a petite Asian woman.” I raised a hand, palm down, at about my eye level. “About this tall.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks. Maybe you should call Fischer, have him try to get Jia’s address. Be right back.” I dashed across the space, almost slamming into a woman who’d stood up when I hadn’t expected her to. I tossed an apology her way as I dodged a man on his way toward the door. I yanked open the bathroom door and hurried inside. “Jia? Are you in here? It’s me, Sloan.”
No answer.
I hurried down the full length of the room, checking for feet under stall doors. I saw just one set, in the very last stall.
“Jia?” I called out.
No one answered.
I raised my hand to knock; but before I’d made contact with the metal, the stall door opened and a shocked-looking woman of roughly thirty stared at me.
“Sorry. I’m looking for someone, and I was hoping you were my friend.”
The woman nodded, giving me some suspicious eyes as she stepped around me. Yes, she thought I was insane. No big deal. Wouldn’t be the first time . . . or the last.
I followed her toward the front, double-checking each stall. I even pushed open the doors to make sure Jia wasn’t hiding by standing on a toilet.
No deal.
I headed back out. “Any sight of her?”
“Nope.”
“Well . . . now what?” My gaze hopped around the coffee shop again.
I grabbed my phone, poked the button, trying Jia’s number again. It rang. And rang. And eventually clicked over to voice mail. I left a message, letting her know I was worried and cut off the call.
“I guess we head home,” Gabe said.
“Are you kidding me?”
He grinned. “Yes.”
“We need to go to her house. Problem is, I don’t know where she lives.”
“I might be able to help you there. Do you know her last name?”