Born, Madly_Darkly, Madly Duet [Book Two]

by Trisha Wolfe

  Maybe I’m paranoid. Or even hopeful.

  I find Foster’s room and knock once before entering.

  His casted arm is in a sling, and purple colors beneath his worn eyes. I stop counting the number of contusions as I draw closer. His bloodshot gaze focuses on me.

  “He did this to you.” It’s not a question, but for some reason, I need confirmation.

  Foster grunts his affirmation. He then nods to the plastic cup with a straw on the tray next to the gurney.

  I roll my eyes and grab the water. “I’m not your nurse.” But I let him take a couple of sips before I place the cup back on the tray. “What were you doing stalking my building? Stalking me?”

  Foster clears his throat. “I knew he’d come back for you. It was just a matter of time.”

  I fist my hands on my hips. “Well, you certainly proved it. To the whole world. Have you read the latest press release?”

  “I don’t care what those assholes say.”

  I dig out my phone and open a webpage. “Small Town Cop Takes on Serial Killer and Lives.” The headline reads like a war hero piece, but the article itself is a mockery of Foster. A Barney Fife type representation of his solo efforts to pursue one of the most dangerous criminals outside the law.

  “Detective Marshall Foster of the New Castle Police Department was discovered early this morning near an unmarked grave inside a cemetery off highway ninety-five,” I read aloud. Unmarked grave—sounds like Grayson already. “The Delaware detective had been relieved of his weapon and cellphone, his arm broken and suffering multiple injuries. He was found handcuffed to the rebar of a headstone, suffering shock by the time officials were notified and arrived at the scene. Foster was dehydrated and delirious, ranting about the Angel of Maine and his next victim.”

  I look up from my phone. “What next victim?”

  His weathered gaze spears me. “You.”

  I pocket my phone, cross my arms. I’m unsure if his declaration is out of concern, or a threat. The article also stated that Foster had been suspended, operating on his own as he tracked Grayson across the country. He suffered a major stressor and has no family ties to ground him. If he was my patient, I’d declare him delusional, unhinged from reality.

  A temporary break in his psyche could make him capable of more than just stalking—he could be dangerous. To himself and others. Is it a leap to say that a man who has devoted majority of his life to upholding the law suddenly—like a switch—begins killing?

  Maybe I’m biased, but from a personal standpoint, I’ve discovered that the very people put in charge to honor the law and protect us are the ones we should fear the most.

  “You shouldn’t worry about me,” I say, offering him another sip from the cup. “I’m well protected, detective.”

  He shakes his head at my offer. “You weren’t last night, London. When Sullivan was inside your building. He didn’t approach you, which leads me to believe that whatever he’s up to is something sinister.”

  I set the cup down. Foster has never addressed me so informally. We’re not on a first name basis. I study him, looking for any sign of Machiavellian tactics. The detective is far more cunning than what he demonstrates publicly, but he’s not shrewd enough to be a master manipulator.

  And he’s serious.

  Whatever happened between Grayson and Foster has the detective believing in my innocence.

  “I would think that you’d be shouting the loudest that I was in cohorts with Grayson. Having some clandestine reunion with him. Plotting…” I wave my hand aimlessly. “Everyone’s demise.”

  He scoffs. “That’s just a tactic. To get you riled in hopes you’ll spill something that you hadn’t to the Feds.”

  I nod slowly. Right. Grayson must have riled him up pretty good last night. I inspect his cast. “How did you break your arm?”

  “He broke it.” His unrestricted hand clenches into a fist. “I don’t know why Sullivan was there, but I knew he would be. He’s not finished with you yet. You’re in danger. You need to leave, London. Get away until he’s caught or dead.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “How heavy is your pain meds?”

  “I’m serious,” he says with a huff. “He tried to kill me.”

  “If Grayson wanted you dead, Foster, you’d be dead.” I lean in close to his ear. “Which means he still has a purpose for you, too.”

  As I pull away, he watches me closely.

  “I appreciate your concern,” I say, “but you should be more concerned for yourself. You’re not safe from him in a hospital, as you well know. You’re not safe anywhere.”

  The truth of my statement registers in his swollen eyes. “You’re right. He didn’t kill me. He could’ve, but he left me alive. Fired my own gun at me and missed.”

  I stay quiet, waiting for him to make the connection to whatever he’s sorting out.

  “The things he said…that he asked me…” He shakes his head and winces. “It was like he’s looking for something in particular. And when he didn’t find it, he just…left.”

  Still, I say nothing. But Foster’s statement reveals more than he could possibly know.

  “You’ve gotten inside his demented head,” he says to me. “Explain it to me.”

  I raise my eyebrows, shake my head. “His disorder is complicated. There are many different reasons for what he did, possible theories…and I can’t know for sure unless I evaluate him now.”

  Foster’s gaze narrows. “Why are you here?”

  “To ask you not to speak to the press again.” And to see for myself if by looking into Foster’s eyes, I will recognize a killer.

  I sigh, exasperated. On all accounts. “The media doesn’t report the truth, Foster,” I say. “They’ll spin whatever you give them into the worst tale for the both of us.” I lay my hand on his arm, then I reach into my purse and pull out a card. I tuck it into his cast. “Here’s my lawyer’s direct line. I’ve made him aware of the situation. Please call him before you make anymore speeches to the press.”

  I turn to go, and he says, “Allen Young? Are you serious?”

  “You recall how fierce he was. That’s exactly why I retained his services. You’re welcome.”

  He frowns. “Thanks, doc. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  I let a slight smile break through before I leave the ER room.

  Agent Nelson is waiting in the hall.

  “Eavesdropping?” I say as I pass him.

  He catches up to me easily with his long strides. “Doing my job doesn’t make me the bad guy.”

  I give him a sideways glance, but say nothing.

  “Believe it or not,” he says, “I agree with Foster. It’s not safe for you to stay in Bangor.”

  My immediate, reflexive response is to continue arguing my points with the agent. But I take a moment to consider my options. “Maybe Foster is finally right about something. I’ll leave by this afternoon.” I sign out at reception, then head toward the double doors.

  Agent Nelson stops me before I cross over into the media craze. “Let me secure a place for you.”

  I put distance between us. “No, thank you. Please. I don’t want to go to some FBI safe house.” I swipe my bangs from my face. “I have a place to stay. A friend’s. I’ll be safe there.”

  “Can I have this friend’s information?”

  “You’re the FBI,” I say as I walk through the parting doors. “I have no doubt you’ll figure it out before the end of the day.”

  Actually, I’m counting on it.

  15

  Power of Suggestion

  Grayson

  The vultures have landed.

  From Portland to Bangor, a swarm of hungry, greedy scavengers have infiltrated every city and town. News crews, journalists, law enforcement, serial killer fanatics. Those hoping to get their fifteen minutes are infesting the area and squeezing me out, pushing me farther into the shadows.

  Gaze trained on the laptop screen, I complete a rep. I lower my body, muscles s
trung tight, then pull myself up again. My chin meets the edge of the wooden beam, and suddenly I’m thrust back into an eight-by-five cell. White walls. Bars. The footfalls of guards. I release the beam with a groan, chest heaving.

  The reporter on the monitor mentions Foster, and I crank the volume.

  The New Castle detective is reported as recovering well, where he’s being kept in the ICU under heavy guard. No further updates…

  He’ll recover enough before long. He’s only hindered, not broken.

  Despite Foster’s interference and his brainless interviews with the press, I remain in the very state I once hunted in. Where I was apprehended and served a year of a life sentence behind bars at the Cotsworth Correctional Facility.

  Daring or reckless?

  I heard the safest place to hide is right beneath your enemy in plain sight.

  I’m not sure if this statement merits any truth, as I can’t recall who first uttered such ludicrous words, but it serves my cause, my purpose, and so here I am.

  Foster forced my hand, so now my choices are limited. Either I initiate the final phase, or I run.

  Only one option aligns with my objective.

  London.

  The thread tethered between us is too strong to be broken by the simple threat of captivity or death. Black or not, dead or not…my heart beats because of her.

  That’s a bit melodramatic—but this is all relatively new. It’s like I’m lovesick, belting ballads at her window. Or burying her alive… Which for us, is a clear affirmation of devotion. Not many possess that kind of dedication, that level of commitment, to their significant other.

  Love is pain.

  Real love—the one not spewed in poetry—is agony.

  It tears at your soul, strips you bare, drives you mad and demands the veracity of our existence.

  Love is madness.

  I wipe my face and pull on a T-shirt. Adrenaline rushes my system. I pump my hands a couple times, then shake them out.

  It’s time.

  Foster’s meddling heroics is forcing me to initiate the next stage earlier than planned. I have to take a step back, rethink and realign the dominos. Detective Foster is not the copycat. Our little game proved as much. No matter the reason behind the killer’s motive, an imitator still has respect—admiration—for the object of their study. Meticulous analysis and recreation of a murder takes esteem on the copycat’s part, and Foster still loathes me just as much now as he did the first day he questioned me.

  With Foster out of commission, I can focus my efforts on Nelson. He’s the most likely suspect.

  And he’s with London.

  My jaw sets. I think I’ve made a grave error on that end.

  But with the FBI keeping vigilant watch over London, it can work.

  A scene on the monitor captures my attention. A reporter stands in front of London’s building, giving the latest update. It’s not live. From earlier this morning.

  London had only recently reopened her practice. Due to her sudden celebrity, the demand to be treated by Dr. Noble had boomed. The clinically insane and deviant arrived from all over the country. That frenzy settled once I was no longer front-page worthy.

  According to the report, she’s again closed her practice. The shot clearly shows circus media freaks circling in front of her building. Then Agent Nelson emerges. My interest piques.

  I watch curiously as Nelson and a couple of his proxies scatter the mob, clearing away the unwanted hindrance.

  Sources report that Dr. Noble has temporarily closed her renowned practice. As you can see here, FBI agents have barricaded the downtown Bangor building, the location of the latest Angel of Maine sighting.

  The scene switches, and a short glimpse of London exiting the hospital where Foster is being treated appears. A rare emotion clogs my throat. The beat of my pulse heavy and thick. My chest tightens.

  I think this feeling is something akin to nostalgia. It’s difficult to feel homesick when the only places you’ve ever called home were ones you worked to escape from. But it’s the closest thing I can compare this emotion to.

  She’s my home. And she’s my sickness.

  I don’t push the ill feeling away; I latch on to it. Craving any feeling that I can relate to her. Then I get to work. I use the fiery ache in my chest to propel me forward.

  I sit before my laptop, using the program I compiled to bounce my signal off proxies around the world. I’m not tech savvy—but the Internet is designed like any system. You just have to understand the mechanics.

  You can be intelligent, a genius even, and still be fucking stupid. Using the Internet to target Agent Nelson isn’t the wisest when the FBI is hunting for my online activity.

  One could describe that as stupidity. Arrogance. Conceit.

  Or desperation.

  But the deepening ache in my chest argues against logic. I’ve never understood the concept of sacrifice until now.

  Nelson’s activities are pretty well masked. His use of the FBI’s equipment and channels makes him virtually invisible on the Net. But everyone leaves a trail. A distinct online footprint.

  I’ve been shadowing his real life footprints, too. During my late-night strolls, I’ve set up checkpoints. Staging the board. The first in a series of suggestive images to trigger his compulsions.

  See, regardless of his copycat nature, he’s still a deviant. He’s just simply an unoriginal one.

  There’s a lot of unknown variables surrounding him. The biggest unknown: the why. He has the inside knowledge in order to get away with murder. He even has a couple stressors kicking around for us to ultimately decide the when. We don’t need his motive to trap him, but it would be beneficial to the design.

  We do, however, need Agent Nelson to act on his compulsions sooner. We’re accelerating the timeline. If I’m devolving, my counterpart must devolve with me.

  I pull up a map and mark off the checkpoints. The locations along his routes to the Rockland crime scenes.

  To anyone else, the strategically placed posters of domestic abuse hotlines for women are inconsequential. To Nelson, the pictures entice deviant cravings. The farther along he gets, the more explicit the images become. Erotic images. Right in his line of sight.

  The power of suggestion.

  As Nelson moves through his day in pursuit of his target, he’ll become agitated. Off kilter. His subconscious primed.

  If someone wants to fuck with you in today’s age, it’s not a difficult feat. It doesn’t take much technical skill to uncover an account password. Fill an inbox with spam of violent pornography. Target a user’s social media accounts to receive allusive content. Activate Web ads during Internet searches to recommend discrete call girls for those seeking release.

  Keywords like “release” are trigger words.

  The evocative images will arouse him, push him to act on his compulsions sooner.

  A smart man once told me the wait for something to happen can drive a sane man mad. His wisdom got me through a year at Cotsworth. This man was my biological father, what little I recall of him. He also stated that when the madness started to creep in, there was nothing wrong with giving fate a push.

  Take the initiative.

  If people didn’t want to be manipulated, they wouldn’t make it so damn easy.

  One final preparation secures that when the agent acts on his compulsion, it will be where I want him. In a controlled environment. That’s important. That’s key.

  Every lock has a key.

  16

  Ally

  London

  The Virginia skyline is seamed in shades of gold and pink as my plane touches down in DC. The last time I was in the capital, I was speaking at a conference on criminal behavior. I barely saw the city.

  Despite what Agent Nelson believes, I won’t be seeing it now, either.

  I de-board the plane, and Sadie greets me at the gate. She’s wearing her usual jeans and T-shirt, a gun snuggly holstered at her hip. I smile as I take her
in, comforted by her consistency.

  “I finally got you back on my turf,” she says. “Where’s your bags? I’ll grab them then we can—” Sadie breaks off as she searches my face. Not a minute into our meeting and the behavioral analyst has already detected my hesitancy.

  “I know this isn’t a social visit,” she says, lowering her voice. “I’ve been following the news. So tell me why you’re really here, and how I can help.”

  “God, Sadie. You’ve already helped me so much…” I look at the tarmac through the glass. I’m a terrible liar when it comes to her, and she deserves my honesty.

  “London. What is it?”

  I meet her vibrant green eyes. “I need you to purchase a plane ticket for me.”

  But that’s not all, and she further scrutinizes me. My dressed-down appearance. The jeans and T-shirt I changed into on the plane. The green contacts concealing my brown irises. Realization opens her pursed expression.

  “Christ,” she mutters.

  “I need this, Sadie. I can’t ask anyone else.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  I shake my head. “I just need two days. Two days where no one knows where I am.”

  “Like that FBI agent who’s attached himself to your hip?”

  I smile. She doesn’t miss anything. “Exactly.”

  She silently thinks it over. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head. “Are you meeting him there?”

  “No,” I say honestly. I know she’s referring to Grayson. He was the center of my last session with her. “My patient is not in Ireland, but I am going there for him. It’s the only way I’ll get the answers I need.”

  After a moment of critical observation, she nods toward a more private area of the busy airport. We find a bank of vacant chairs near the massive, domed windows that line the whole level. The high vaulted ceiling is painted in creams and pale yellows. The ambient light makes the interior look as if it’s leafed in gold.