by Gayle Wilson
“There is one thing he doesn’t know,” he added. “Something that may work to your advantage.”
Maybe he was disturbed. Maybe those signs of normality she’d noted didn’t mean jack shit.
“And what is that, Mr. Murphy?”
“That I’m every bit as patient as he is. When you see him, you might want to tell him that.”
The bite of the cold outside air was welcome after the overheated interior of the office building. Sean stood a moment in front of its double glass doors, staring unseeingly across at the lot where he’d parked the rented SUV.
Guilt had reared its ugly head even before he’d turned on his heel and walked out of Jenna Kincaid’s office. It hadn’t abated during the short ride down on the elevator.
He’d done what he’d come here to do. He’d frightened her so that the next time some reporter stuck a mike under her nose, she’d think twice before she made excuses for a murderer. And he couldn’t quite figure out why he felt like such an asshole.
Maybe because of what was in her eyes when you told her some sadistic bastard was going to torture and kill her? How the hell did you think she’d react?
Actually, he’d been surprised at how well she’d dealt with everything he’d thrown at her. He’d been so furious about the garbage she’d spewed during that interview, he hadn’t really stopped to think about her reaction.
He had been brutally—unforgivably—direct about the possibility that if the killer had heard her sympathetic explanation for his behavior, she would have attracted the attention of the last man on earth whose attention she would want. Despite his threat, Jenna Kincaid had kept her poise.
Only in her eyes had he seen any evidence of the fear he’d deliberately tried to create. And remembering what had been in them, he felt even more like a bastard.
He jammed his fists into the pockets of his leather jacket and started down the steps. After years of operating in hostile environments, he automatically scanned the parking lot, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Like someone staking out the place where she worked?
He’d meant the question to be mocking. As the thought formed, however, Sean acknowledged that if the Inquisitor had seen that interview, he’d know exactly where she worked by now.
That clip had been replayed at least three times. And after the official announcement from the cops yesterday, the bastard would have been glued to every newscast, hoping to catch any publicity his actions had generated.
He would have seen Dr. Kincaid’s pity party for him, all right. And by now, almost twenty-four hours later, he would undoubtedly know all about her.
Telling himself that wasn’t his problem, Sean punched the key lock remote as he approached the SUV. Although it was only a little after four, the halogen lights in the lot had already come on, glinting off the vehicle’s black surface.
It would probably be completely dark before Jenna Kincaid came out of her office. Certainly before she got back to her apartment.
Even if the killer had become interested because of what she’d said, it was probably too early to worry about her being followed. The Inquisitor would undoubtedly do his stalking electronically first. Maybe visit the library and check out microfiche from the local papers.
It might be weeks before he started tracking her physically. Or anyone else, Sean amended, attempting to reassure himself. At this late date, the killer wouldn’t break his normal pattern. Not unless something happened to interrupt the cycle.
Like finding a woman who expressed sympathy for him? One who also satisfied every other criteria of his sick hunt?
Sean realized he was standing beside the SUV, the remote in his hand still pointed at the lock. He opened the door, sliding into the cold leather seat. He inserted the key into the ignition, but for some reason his fingers hesitated before they completed the act of turning it.
His eyes lifted to the rearview mirror. Reflected there were the double doors through which he’d just exited.
He had no idea if Jenna Kincaid normally came out that way. No idea if there was a separate parking lot for the staff. Those were things he hadn’t thought he had any need to know.
Now he knew he was wrong.
He didn’t like dealing with feelings. He was far more comfortable with facts. Things he could see and hear. Prove or disprove. What he felt now fell into none of those categories.
The hair on the back of his neck had begun to rise, a phenomenon he’d experienced more than once in his career. On a street in Somalia. Before an ambush in Afghanistan. While his unit had been searching an underground bunker in Iraq, which they knew was very probably booby-trapped.
Every time, the premonition that something dangerous was at hand had proved to be accurate. And he’d never told anyone about any of them.
What he felt now was that same gut-level surety. Inexplicable. And yet undeniable.
The bastard was here. Close enough that if he had known where to look, he could have seen him. Close enough that Sean could feel the strength of his evil deep in the most primitive part of his brain.
The realization that he’d been right about the danger Jenna Kincaid was in was no comfort for the guilt he’d been feeling. He closed his eyes, seeing Makaela’s face as it had looked when they’d pulled out that stainless-steel drawer in the morgue in Detroit. After a fraction of a second he destroyed that nightmare image to replace it with the face of the woman he’d left inside the building behind him.
A woman he now knew with absolute gut-certainty he could use to finally get the man who’d flayed his sister alive.
Three
Jenna saw her four o’clock, operating on autopilot. She was unable to concentrate on what her patient said because the words of the man who had supposedly come to warn her echoed and reechoed in her head.
I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist, but I have a feeling he’d be interested.
That had so obviously been an attempt to frighten her that she was furious with herself for allowing him to succeed. She’d said nothing that was sympathetic to the killer in that interview. No one could have sympathy for someone who did what he did. Whatever her visitor’s agenda—
A long and intimate acquaintance…
Despite the man’s boast, she hadn’t placed a call to the police after he’d left. She couldn’t formulate a logical reason why she hadn’t. There had just been something about him that had made her believe he wasn’t involved in the murders.
Just like every woman who opened the door to Albert Di-Salvo believed he couldn’t be the Strangler.
She closed the folder in which she’d been attempting to add notations. That was as pointless as trying to get what had happened an hour ago out of her head, but surely she could put it into perspective. Hundreds of people had talked publicly about those three murders, both on the air and in the newspaper. Was the killer going to come after each of them?
Or maybe only the ones who fit the victim profile.
She realized that her hands were trembling. Just as they had been when Murphy walked out of her office.
That had been mostly the result of anger. If there was any consolation to be taken in how she’d conducted herself, it would be that she hadn’t given in to the tears she’d been on the edge of. Growing up, she’d always had a tendency to cry when she got really mad, a trait she thought she’d conquered long ago.
If she wanted to indulge that childish propensity, it would have to wait until she reached the privacy of her own home. Which couldn’t be soon enough, she decided.
She picked up the phone and punched in Sheila’s extension. “I’m leaving for the day. Any change in tomorrow’s schedule I should know about?”
“Nothing really. Staff meeting at nine. After that you’ve got a full slate of appointments. It is that time of the year,” the secretary said, her tone sympathetic.
That was something they would talk about in tomorrow morning’s meeting. Everyone was feeling the double stress o
f the holidays and the murders. She had overheard a couple of the other therapists talking about an increase in requests for appointments, even from their regulars.
“Try to fight off the least desperate,” she said aloud.
Sheila laughed. “Will do. Have a good night.”
Yeah, right. “Thanks, Sheila.”
She hung up and then looked at the folders stacked on the left-hand side of her desk. With the meeting in the morning, it was unlikely she’d have time to look over the files of the patients she’d be seeing during the day. Still, she wasn’t willing to stay late to review them. If she tried, she’d probably be unable to keep her mind on what she was reading.
She was going home instead and breaking open the bottle of Jack Daniel’s she’d bought to make sauce for the bread pudding she was to take to her mother’s on Christmas Day. Maybe that would help her sleep. If not, it would certainly be good company while she didn’t.
The staff parking deck was relatively full for this late in the afternoon, which was also a reflection of the season. Jenna had ridden down in the elevator with a couple of other staff members. Their cars had been closer to the building, so that she was now making her way to the outer perimeter of the deck alone.
The sound of her footsteps echoed off the concrete roof, seeming louder than they should. She realized as she approached the place where she’d parked this morning that the security light for this section was out, leaving the area in shadows.
She actually hesitated before she managed to control her uneasiness and continue toward her Accord. She punched the remote, the resulting beep and blinking lights reassuring in their normalcy.
Everything here was as it should be, she told herself. This was the building where she worked. The deck where she parked her car every single day. She mentally reiterated each phrase, a deliberate litany of the ordinary.
She didn’t relax, however, until she’d opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. As soon as she hit the autolock, the tension that had built as she’d crossed the deck released, leaving her drained.
Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror and then she turned and looked into her backseat. Something she’d never done before in her life. It was empty, of course.
And just what in hell were you expecting to be there?
Disgusted that she’d given in to her paranoia, she jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The dependable engine roared to life, its sound magnified by the low ceiling of the garage.
Looking over her right shoulder, she eased past Paul Carlisle’s Porsche, which had been pulled in beside her car at a slight angle. She cleared its back fender, but just barely, congratulating herself as she completed the maneuver, and aligned her car so that it pointed toward the exit.
She glanced down to shift into Drive when a tap on her window brought her head around so quickly she felt the strain in her neck. Her heart began to pound before she recognized the founder of the practice standing beside her car. She pushed the button that would lower the window, determined to keep any trace of that reaction out of her voice and expression.
“What is it?”
“Just wanted to check on you,” Paul said. “I meant to get down to your office this afternoon, but you know what they say about good intentions.”
She nodded, unsure what this was about.
“You okay?” Paul asked, his brow slightly furrowed as he leaned forward, peering into the car.
“Just tired and stressed. Like everyone else this time of year.”
“The thought of having to make the annual holiday pilgrimage to visit the folks in Douglasville has me thinking seriously about some good mood-altering pharmaceuticals.”
Although Paul had smiled at his own slightly twisted brand of humor, she knew there was a certain level of truth to what he’d just said. He’d often joked that he had gone into psychiatry because of the practice he’d already had with his extremely dysfunctional family.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share your stash?” she asked, answering his grin.
“You’re not still worried about that interview, are you?”
It was the perfect opportunity to tell him about the man who’d burst into her office. For some reason she didn’t; maybe it was the same ambiguity in her feelings about Sean Murphy that had prevented her from calling the police.
“As long as you don’t feel I said something I shouldn’t—”
“Nothing but the truth. If it makes one woman more cautious or one cop more diligent, that’s a good thing.”
She nodded again, hoping those would be the only consequences. Again the idea of unburdening herself to Paul brushed through her mind. Before she could, he smiled.
“We’re going to talk about all this tomorrow morning.”
“All this?”
Did he intend to warn the others to be wary of getting ambushed during interviews? Or maybe to keep their opinions to themselves if they were asked about the murders? She would be uncomfortable with his issuing either of those admonitions. As if he were urging the others to learn from her mistakes.
“If these homicides go on much longer,” Paul continued, “we’re going to have some serious fallout. People are naturally nervous just knowing there’s a serial killer in the area, and that stress is going to build with each subsequent murder.”
“Do you know…” Jenna hesitated, unsure she wanted an answer to the question she’d been about to ask. It was probably better to be informed, however, than to continue to operate in the dark. “Do you have any idea how long that might be? I mean, have the police given any kind of timetable…?”
The question ground to a halt. It seemed inappropriate somehow, with three women already savaged, to be wondering when they should expect the next victim to surface.
“One of the cable networks said he goes months between acts. Apparently he’s a meticulous planner. That’s one thing that’s made it hard for the authorities to get a handle on him.”
The matter-of-fact answer wasn’t comforting. Of course, Paul had no reason to suspect she might need comfort. And unless she told him…
“Anyway, glad you’re feeling better,” he said. “Don’t let the local yahoos get you down. If they were any good, they wouldn’t be stuck in this market.”
She laughed. “No, I won’t. I just didn’t want to say anything that might embarrass the practice.”
“I don’t think you could ever do that, Jenna. You did fine, especially considering you had no way of knowing what was coming.”
She’d explained to him that she hadn’t heard the announcement from the police. If she had, she might have been more prepared.
“Thanks. I really appreciate that.”
“Only the truth. Just like what you said.” He stepped back but kept his fingers wrapped over the opening in the door where the glass disappeared. “Okay then, I’ll see you in the morning.”
He tapped the knuckles of both hands on the window frame before he turned to walk to his car. As he opened the door of the Porsche, he glanced back at her. Although it was too dark to see his face, she imagined that same furrow forming again as he wondered why she was still sitting there.
She raised her left hand, palm toward him. He acknowledged the gesture with an answering wave.
She let her hand fall to the button that raised the window. As it slid up, she put the car into Drive and pressed down on the accelerator. The Honda responded, moving toward the ramp.
She exited the parking deck, turning to the right, which took her around the front of the building. A couple of patients hurried across the crosswalk that led from the main entrance to the public lot, causing her to slow.
As she waited for them to clear the street, her eyes considered the line of cars they were heading toward. Almost in the center of it, directly in front of the crosswalk, was a black SUV, with someone sitting in the driver’s seat.
Although it was too dark to determine the man’s coloring, there was something eerily fa
miliar about the shape of his head. Something that created a trickle of alarm.
She strained to see through the twilight gloom. As the people who’d been crossing the street passed by the SUV, the man inside turned to look at them. His profile was backlit by the halogen lamp on the main road.
Not only was that close-cropped head familiar, she realized, so was the outline of his nose. She’d noticed it when he’d been in her office. Almost aquiline, it was marred by a slight ridge, indicating that at some time in the past, it had been broken.
A horn sounded behind her, one short tap. She looked into the rearview mirror, recognizing the distinct headlights of the Porsche. Caught up in the realization that the man who’d warned her about being a target of the killer was parked in front of the building, she hadn’t even been aware of the Paul’s approach.
With a last glance at the SUV, she pressed the gas, driving through the crosswalk and on toward the highway. As she did, she tried to decide whether that information tipped the scales in favor of calling the police.
To tell them what? That a man who believed she might be a target of the killer had come to warn her? That he’d been parked outside her building more than an hour after he’d issued that warning?
Neither fact made him a murderer. With all the tips and prank calls she knew would be flooding the hotline the cops had set up, that information would only peg her as another kook coming out of the woodwork.
She glanced in the mirror again, trying to decide if the SUV had pulled out behind her. There was definitely another car behind Paul’s, but the Porsche’s lights were too bright for her to be able to tell anything about its size, much less the make. Maybe when she made the turn out of the office park, she would be able to see the vehicle more clearly.
With that thought, she looked up at the traffic light, which had already turned green. Trying to avoid having Paul blow at her again, she accelerated rapidly, directing the Honda out onto 280.
Merging into the heavy afternoon traffic took a few seconds of complete concentration. By the time she was able to check her mirror again, the Porsche’s headlights were right behind her. The reflection of the crowded intersection beyond them appeared as simply a mass of lights and cars. It was impossible to determine if the one that had followed Paul around the office building had already made the turn.