Hmm. The idea of her flailing in the cold water…
His finger twitched on the mouse, then he pushed it aside.
He reminded himself that he was no longer a child, that an impulse was just that, a scant fraction of a second of desire that gets compounded into want. Want, want, want. Wanting got little boys into trouble.
But she did need to be punished.
And he left nothing to chance.
Nothing.
His grandfather clock bonged softly, pulling him from his reverie. Half past. The lunch hour was over. He needed to get back to work. Needed to inhabit the identity he’d created.
He just had so many things to do. So many threads to pull. So many people involved now, hurtling them toward the final moments. It was too late to turn back—the game was in motion. He’d gotten bored with the cat and mouse. The challenge of it all just wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted to be impressed. He wanted to teach. But none of this was working for him. It was time to up the ante again.
As he pulled the lanyard over his head, he wondered if Taylor was frightened yet. Brave girl that she was, surely she was starting to feel the strain. He’d told that fuck Fitzgerald to relay his message, to make sure she knew that it was time to play. He was confident the point had gotten across. He’d been very persuasive.
He locked the town house behind him. The ride back to work would only take a few minutes. He wondered what was in store for him this afternoon.
He did love his job.
On his way back to the office, he stopped at the post office, sent the card he’d been holding for three months.
She would be so surprised.
Eleven
Nashville, Tennessee
Colleen Keck looked at the clock. It was nearly time to get Flynn from school.
This was the biggest story she’d seen in years. Her Felon E email had been dinging constantly with new messages: new tips, new confirmations. The fax machine was whirring to life again, people sending diagrams of crime scenes, lists of names. There was something more to these murders, she knew that already. Years of instinct, of assimilating the truth from the annals of crap she had to delve through, gave her a keen sense of story. Plot. Something was definitely up, something big.
This morning’s disaster in North Carolina was locked down. A major crime event, too. She wasn’t pleased about being shut out, especially since several television news outlets were hovering around, broadcasting minute-by-minute relays of nothing. The only good news was they’d been unable to crack into the scene either. She talked briefly with a reporter from the CBS affiliate who told her the same thing she’d heard on the radio, but nothing new. The names of the dead weren’t being released yet.
Frustrated, she called her 911 call-center contact in that area again and heard that next-of-kin notifications were the holdup. Apparently one of the victims’ wives was out of town with their kids—Disney World. They were having a hard time tracking her down.
Letting the families know who they’d lost before the world heard was hard in the age of the internet. Twitter was talking about it, but no new information was leaking. Some ghoul on Foursquare had driven to the crime scene and was standing outside the barricades, uploading photographs: “I’m Mayor of the Nags Head Dead!”
She abandoned the shots in distaste. It was snowing softly in Nags Head, the lights flashing sharp off the white ground. Pretty, but not at all helpful in efforting her story.
Colleen felt she had a grip on things again, at least for the time being. The Ativan had helped her refocus. She would come back to North Carolina in a bit.
The news hadn’t picked up on her copycat-killer story yet. She decided to go back to that, work all the angles she could find.
She took a sip of Diet Coke and set to work reviewing what she knew for sure, what she’d been able to mine from the various police departments. Last night, in San Francisco, California, there had been a double murder. The crime scene bore the signature of the Zodiac Killer. And late this morning, just a few minutes ago Nashville time, the San Francisco Chronicle had received a letter. A coded letter, signed with the distinctive cross inside a circle, the mark of the Zodiac.
He had returned, or someone was copycatting him. Not that there hadn’t been false alarms before… Either way, when she hit Publish on this afternoon’s blog, she was going to create a firestorm. She was going to beat the papers. The numbers on Felon E would go through the roof. Everyone loved a good Zodiac story. Everyone but the victims. She forced that thought away. Feelings like those would cripple her, like what happened this morning. She couldn’t worry about the victims or their families now, she needed to report the story.
Not that their loss was any less horrific than the loss in North Carolina, it was just…different.
She clicked the keyboard, the words spilling onto the screen. She’d double sourced this, and it was going to spread like absolute wildfire.
The headline was simple.
The Zodiac? He’s Back…
Colleen had no idea what she was about to unleash. She published the story, watched it filter through her systems, then begrudgingly laid her work aside. She turned off the computer to go fetch her son. Her mind was already on the work she’d do as soon as she got home.
The Boston case was up next, then New York. She could work on Boston while Flynn was in his room, focusing on his me time. It had taken her the best part of three hours to source the San Francisco story. Boston would hopefully go quicker since she’d already sent out the emails to her trusted sources. New York, too—her contact didn’t work the day shift, so she’d have to wait >until after five to speak with him anyway. And the dam would break on North Carolina soon.
Good. She had it all planned out.
Was it really possible? Three serial killers come back to life, all on the same night? Or was her mind treading into fantasy territory? And who was responsible for the carnage in North Carolina?
Were they playing some kind of game?
She shook her head. That was crazy talk.
No matter. She’d get to the bottom of it soon enough.
She pulled on a thin cotton sweater and glanced ruefully at her unwashed hair in the bathroom mirror. A baseball cap was just the ticket. She ran back to the office and dug out her favorite battered FBI cap, the deep royal blue faded to denim after repeated cycles through the washer, and the gold FBI letters frayed around the edges. It fit her head perfectly, and she pulled her hair through the back. She’d scored the cap after a tour of Quantico years back, and Tommy had teased her unmercifully about it. “Cheating on Metro, are you darlin’?” he’d say.
Go away, Tommy, she thought sternly, hoping his ghost would listen, for once. She needed to stay focused. Get Flynn, make him a snack, get him to take a nap. Then back to work.
She fumbled with her keys, still jacked up with excitement and dread, finally inserted them in the ignition. She needed one of those cars with the push button to start the engine. Hmm. How much would that set her back?
The Civic’s engine obligingly turned over on the first try, and she put it in Reverse. She realized she was smiling. Good. She didn’t do that nearly enough. Flynn would enjoy seeing her in a good mood. Maybe she should take those pills more often?
She didn’t feel the eyes on her as she pulled out of the garage.
Twelve
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Pittsburgh
Dear Troy,
Everything is right on schedule. Worry not.
BB
He sent the email, then wondered how long it would take for the delivery truck to be reported stolen. An hour? Fifteen minutes? Despite his research, he didn’t know how the specific delivery times were recorded. Were they followed in real time electronically? Or did the drivers upload their information at the end of their runs? The package’s tracking number had led him to the correct truck to hijack; he should have asked the driver about the system
before he killed him. Hmm. Next time.
Should he deliver a few packages on his way to the kill site? No, he didn’t want any chance of his face being seen. If there were regulars on the route, they might ask questions, or recall him when their memories were jogged. And killing strangers wasn’t on his agenda today.
No, today he had the pleasure of visiting Miss Frances Schwartz. Frances was a worker bee in a downtown accounting firm, a fancy woman prone to shopping when she felt down. She was horrifically in debt, though her fellow worker bees didn’t have any idea. They thought Frances was wonderful—stylish, put together. Just what every woman in her office wanted to emulate.
She’d be arriving home shortly, he needed to get into place. Around the corner from her house was an old parking lot. Empty, with cracked asphalt and no visible video cameras anywhere near. It was the perfect spot to wait.
He was surprised at his energy level. He figured the nine-hour overnight drive would wear him out. When he’d done the dry run, he’d barely been able to keep his eyes open. Must still be riding the adrenaline high from Boston. He had to admit, this was fun. The rush when he killed. The idea that there were others out there that he was competing against. He’d had his doubts about entering the contest, had thought about pulling out several times while the field had been whittled down from fourteen to three. But since he’d made the cut, he figured what the hell. He’d play along.
It gave him something to do, especially since the targets had been chosen for him. His responsibility was to kill them in the manner of the killer he’d drawn, the Boston Strangler, who was a sick fuck, no question about it. He’d researched and planned, run through the scenarios several times. The goal was to make the kills on the schedule provided and not get caught. Getting seen was an automatic disqualification—if a description went out on the airways, he was out. Getting caught, well, that went without saying.
Stealing UPS delivery trucks was no small feat, but he’d handled it effortlessly both times. He was truly fond of this MO. No one looked twice at a delivery truck. He’d posted the packages himself before leaving Boston, to Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Indianapolis. He’d mapped the delivery system through the tracking IDs, saw exactly when each package was due to arrive. It was simple as pie—package goes on the truck, truck heads out on regular route, truck is intercepted, driver taken out, then the package was delivered. Tied with a big, beautiful bow.
He laughed at his joke. He knew how serious this game was, but truly, it was just a game. If he didn’t win, life would go on. He had plenty of money, that wasn’t his purpose in participating. He’d spent too many years alone, not knowing how many people out there were just like him. Thank God for the internet. He was able to find all types, all shapes and sizes and predilections. When he saw the ad, he deleted it, then thought twice. Once the idea got into his head, he couldn’t help himself. He was bored, and looking for a challenge. And it gave him a chance to meet some people. He’d become too isolated.
He checked his watch. Frances should be home any minute. She always got home precisely at 5:35 p.m. She’d change into lovely, tight-fitting Lycra, drink a protein shake, eat a banana, then head out for either a run or a bike ride. Frances was in training. Biathlon. She was strong. Capable. Not his usual type. Maybe she’d fight back. The thought excited him.
He pulled the electronic pad out from its resting spot, grabbed the bulky box. It was time. Time for Frances to say goodbye.
Thirteen
Nashville, Tennessee
Taylor and Baldwin arrived in Nashville with enough time to get to Vanderbilt before Fitz awoke from surgery. Taylor was exhausted—her day had started at 5:30 a.m., with no appreciable sleep in the past forty-eight hours. The adrenaline from the morning’s adventures had drained away, and she sagged a bit against Baldwin’s arm as they walked across the tarmac to the parking lot.
“You need a coffee or coke to get your head back in the game? We can stop at Starbucks,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’m starting to drag.”
“Why don’t you let me drive, then? Give you a chance to shut your eyes for a few minutes.”
She smiled at him gratefully. “That would be great. Just give me a second.”
She opened the back door of the 4Runner and took a gym bag off the seat. She unzipped it and rummaged around, then pulled out a fresh pair of jeans. Baldwin stood in front of her as a shield to prying eyes. She yanked off her boots, shimmied off her jeans and pulled on the new, bloodless pair. That was better. She couldn’t have faced another moment wearing Nadis’s blood.
She stowed the bag and the dirty jeans, then tossed the keys over. They climbed into the truck and headed toward downtown.
There was no snow in Nashville, just the lingering bitter chill that ate into her bones despite her shearling jacket. She turned the heat up and sat on her hands. They’d been cold all day.
“Do you really think he’s come to Nashville?” she finally asked.
The “he” didn’t need explaining. Baldwin shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine he’s going to go anywhere else. We need to get a name for him, a real, legitimate name, not a copy, not a fake. The better I understand his background, the easier it will be to predict what he might do next. He’s certainly paying close attention to everything you’re doing. We may need to discuss some increased countermeasures.”
“Draw him out using me as bait, you mean?” She stared out the window as Baldwin took the 440 split that would lead them onto West End.
“God, no, Taylor. I’m not using you as bait. What I meant was prep a team for distraction. Something to assure us that he won’t be able to touch you.”
“Using someone else as bait, you mean. Haven’t we lost enough already?”
She glanced over, he was staring straight ahead, face grim. She put her hand on his knee.
“It’s wrong, Baldwin. We need him to come for me. We need to end this. He’s already told Fitz that he’s ready to make his play. I assume that’s going to happen sooner rather than later, regardless of the bait.”
“I don’t disagree. But I won’t dangle you out there like a carrot for him to covet. We need you keeping a very low profile.”
She didn’t answer, just let the cold street flow beneath her, the trees beckoning with dead branches. The longer this dragged on, the more opportunity the Pretender would have to hurt those she loved. She didn’t plan to give him a chance to get that far.
Baldwin stayed silent, pulled into the Starbucks drive-through. He ordered them both venti lattes. When the coffees were ready, he pulled back out onto West End, narrowly missing a coed in a Tri Delta sweatshirt jogging up the sidewalk. When he slammed on the brakes, a bit of hot espresso sloshed onto Taylor’s hand. She cursed loudly and immediately felt better. Being back in Nashville was going to help make everything okay. Nothing could hurt her here.
The HoneyBaked Ham store had a massive sign advertising their Thanksgiving hams. Her mouth watered at the thought—she was suddenly starving. She sipped on the latte to curb her hunger. She hadn’t realized how close they were to the holidays. With the madness of Fitz’s kidnapping, then the Halloween massacre, she’d completely lost track of time. She usually went to Sam’s for Thanksgiving. She’d have to check and see if that was still the plan. If not, she might have to do Thanksgiving herself this year. She would need to host Fitz, make sure he was well taken care of. Maybe McKenzie and Bangor, too. And Lincoln and Marcus, plus Daphne. Good grief, where was she going to put all of them?
Baldwin turned onto Twenty-first Avenue, then right on Pierce, which led them directly to the entrance of Vanderbilt Medical Center.
She was loath to climb out of the warm truck. When she did, she regretted it immediately; the wind bit frantically at her cheeks.
Baldwin’s face turned pink as a flash-boiled shrimp and he slouched farther into his coat. She realized they still hadn’t talked about his hearing at Quantico. She got the feeling he wasn’t all that kee
n to share what had gone down.
They hurried across the street. Inside the building at last. Heat rose in waves. The surgery center was painted a sunny yellow, warm and inviting, quite unlike the gray drabness of the emergency rooms Taylor was used to.
Taylor badged the nurse at the front desk. “We’re looking for Peter Fitzgerald.”
The nurse took their credentials carefully, checking them against a notepad she had at her elbow.
“May I see your driver’s license, please?” she asked politely. Taylor nodded and dug her wallet out of her back pocket—a slim golf wallet she’d bought for her dad’s Christmas present several years earlier and instead confiscated for herself. It was easy to carry, and had only the essentials, a twenty, two credit cards, her license and insurance cards. She’d do anything not to be bulked down with a purse. Baldwin handed his own license over. The nurse compared that pictured against his FBI credentials, wrote their names down on a pad of paper, then handed it back and apologized.
“We were under instructions to double-check everyone trying to see Mr. Fitzgerald today.”
Taylor smiled and said, “Good. You did good. How is he?”
“He’s just out of recovery and back in his room. He’s up on the third floor, room 323. The doctor will be seeing him later today.”
“Did the surgery go all right?”
“I don’t know, dear. Why don’t you go on down and see him?” The nurse smiled kindly and focused back on her work.
Baldwin punched the button on the wall and the doors swung wide. They walked the long hallway to Fitz’s room in an uneasy silence. Before they reached the door, Taylor grabbed Baldwin’s hand.
“Have you ever thought about how easy it would be to kill someone in a hospital? That nurse did the right thing asking for ID, but she could be overpowered in a heartbeat. And once you’re past her, look out. You can go anywhere in a hospital without anyone giving you a second glance. It’s not safe, Baldwin. He’s not safe here.”
So Close the Hand of Death Page 8