by Gayle Wilson
At least it had before he’d found Maria. And if it all worked out here…
He destroyed the thought, realizing how far from those concerns the one he was currently embarked upon was. How foreign to his problems with childcare.
“Gotta go,” he said, glancing at his watch again.
It was already four-thirty. With traffic, making it to Jenna Kincaid’s office before five would be a close-run thing. And it would mean doing without dinner again.
“But you’ll think about it, won’t you?” Cathy said, bringing his attention back.
“The puppy?”
“No, I know we can’t have a dog. Getting home before Christmas. You’ll try, won’t you?”
“I told you the last time. It just depends on how things go down here.”
“In Birmingham.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s where that killer is, right?”
The question caught at Sean’s gut, twisting it. He hesitated, wondering if someone could possibly have said something to the little girl about those deaths here.
“Who told you that?”
“I saw it on the news. Maria turned it off, but they said ‘Birmingham.’ I’m pretty sure.”
“And it worried you?”
“Yeah. A little.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Princess. You can quit worrying about that.”
There was silence on the other end. It lasted long enough that he felt that same squeeze of dread in his belly.
“You hear me, Princess. I’m taking care of business down here, and then I’ll be home. I swear to you.”
“Okay.”
“You take care of your brother. And save some of that cake for me.”
“Okay.”
The usually bubbly voice was still subdued. Sean closed his eyes, trying to find words that would comfort a child whose world had already been destroyed once.
“Have I ever lied to you?” he demanded.
“No,” she said softly. “At least I don’t think so.”
“What does that mean?”
“Is it him?”
“What him?”
The question was too harsh. He’d guarded them against everything he could possibly think of and still she’d somehow learned what had happened.
“The man who killed Mama.”
There was no way he could deal with this. Not from this distance. Not over the phone.
“I don’t know.”
“But you think so. That’s why you went down there, isn’t it?”
“I thought I could help the cops.”
“Because of what you know about Mama?”
“That’s right.”
His heart rate was beginning to slow. Maybe she’d known all along. Even at four, not much had gotten by her. And he had no idea what the social workers had told her before he’d gotten stateside. He’d never asked, and she hadn’t volunteered the information.
“You promise that’s why you went.”
“I promise.”
There was no response. The silence stretched until he wondered if she’d hung up.
“Princess? You okay?”
“I’m okay. But…I really think that even if you haven’t finished helping them, you need to come home for Christmas. For Ryan’s sake. Tell them everything you know as soon as you can, okay?”
“Just as soon as I can,” Sean promised. “Mind Maria, now. Tell her to give you a kiss for me.”
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Talk to you soon.”
“Bye, Uncle Sean.”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
The line went dead before he was forced to tell another lie. He punched the off button on the cell and closed it to stick it back into his jacket pocket.
Tell them everything you know as soon as you can….
If only it were that simple. That clean. A collaborative effort between him and the local cops.
He knew what was likely to happen instead. Despite the fact that the guy had murdered at least fourteen women, Sean would be arrested if he so much as touched him.
Jenna Kincaid was his ace in the hole. No one could possibly object to his killing the bastard in order to protect a prospective victim. All he had to do was to wait until the Inquisitor made his move against the psychologist, as he was now convinced he would. Then he could avenge Makaela’s murder under the guise of preventing another one.
There would be a couple of people on the national task force who would know what he’d done, but he could trust them to be pragmatic about the guy’s death. One less maniac on the loose. One less murderer to lose sleep over. And one less victim’s photograph to pin on their whiteboard.
No one who had seen those pictures was going to come after the guy who’d put an end to this monster. Nobody involved in the manhunt was going to grieve for that bastard’s death. That was the one absolute certainty he had had going into this.
It was the one he intended to cling to until this was over and he headed back to Michigan to buy a puppy for a little boy and to prove to a little girl that he still had never lied to her.
Seven
It was cold. It was dark. And it was beginning to rain.
Jenna knew she was being ridiculous again, but the knowledge of how irrational this was didn’t stop her from pulling into the service station three blocks from her office, which offered a free car wash when you filled up your tank.
She had planned to do exactly that, but when she pulled next to the pumps, she noticed a windshield squeegee and a roll of paper towels sitting in the middle of them. Nearby was a container of soapy water. With those, she could clean the writing off her car while her gas was pumping.
That method also had the advantage of getting her home and out of the cold more quickly. Something that at this point weighed heavily in its favor.
She stepped out of the car, her shoulders hunched against the assault of the wind and rain. She swiped her card and at the prompt lifted the nozzle. As she turned to stick it into her tank, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a black SUV pulling onto the service road she’d taken to get to the station.
She watched as it drove by and into the lot of the upscale supermarket next door. The nozzle still in her hand, she continued to track its progress as the driver maneuvered the vehicle into a parking space. The taillights winked off. Although she waited, eyes straining at the distance, no one emerged from the car.
Jenna started as a horn blasted at close range. Her eyes jumped from the car she’d been watching to the pickup that had pulled up behind her at the pumps. The driver rolled down the window and stuck his head out.
“You gonna get gas or not, lady? I gotta pick up my kid at basketball practice.”
In an unthinking response to that demand, she began once more to direct the nozzle she held toward the opening of her tank. As she did, the writing on the side of her car seemed to leap out at her.
Help me. Sean Murphy’s idea of a practical joke? An attempt to make her believe the killer had sent her a message?
It seemed to fit with all the rest. His contention that she’d been sympathetic to a murderer. His attempt to terrorize her by telling her she matched the victim profile. Even his mocking phone call last night.
This had gone far enough, she decided. Too damn far.
She turned, slamming the nozzle back into its niche on the body of the pump. She opened the car door and climbed behind the wheel. She started the engine and then maneuvered around the rear end of the car in the line in front of her.
The man behind her yelled something through his open window, but his words were lost in the wind and growing distance between them. Her total concentration was on the SUV in the next lot.
It was parked near the main entrance of the grocery store, where the shoppers who were coming in and out walked right by it. At this time of the evening, the place was crowded because of the deli-bakery this market was noted for. Since it was on her way
home, she had often stopped here to pick up something for supper.
In addition to the people coming in and out of the store, the lot was well-lit and patrolled by a security cart. If she was determined to confront Murphy, this was probably as safe a place as she could find. Undoubtedly safer than the deserted lot of her apartment complex last night.
As she approached the SUV, she realized that the nearest open space was in the next row over and three or four slots down. Only when she’d pulled in and turned the key, killing the motor, did doubt about the wisdom of her actions resurface.
Despite her initial assessment in her office that day, there was really no way to know if Murphy was dangerous. He was certainly out of line in following her. And if he had written those words on her car—
Remembering the chill she’d felt when she’d seen them—obviously the effect he’d been trying for—she grabbed the keys from the ignition and climbed out. She hit the remote to lock the car and dropped the key ring into the pocket of her coat.
As she walked toward the SUV, she expected him to peel out of the parking place in an attempt to avoid her. The vehicle didn’t move, however, not even when she crossed in front—clearly visible through the windshield—to get to the driver’s side.
She glanced up long enough to verify that Sean Murphy was watching her approach. Before she could knock on the driver’s side window as she’d intended, he opened his door, forcing her to step back against the car parked beside him.
In the light of the halogen lamp, he seemed to loom above her. She fought panic caused by the sudden realization that this was probably not the smartest thing she’d ever done.
She had deliberately provoked this confrontation. It was too late to back out now. Besides, the best defense…
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She sounded like a broken record. They’d had this conversation last night. Obviously, it had gotten her nowhere.
“Stopping to pick up something for dinner.” His voice was conversational, in contrast to the shrillness of hers.
“And you were going to do that without getting out of the car.”
“Actually, I was listening to something on the radio.” He inclined his head toward the open door. From inside the SUV came the sound of a country song.
“Are you honestly going to tell me that you aren’t following me?”
“I believe I was here first. Are you sure you aren’t following me, Dr. Kincaid?”
The amusement in his voice produced the same reaction it had last night. Jenna couldn’t remember ever striking anyone in her life. She couldn’t even remember wanting to. But she wanted to hit him.
“I was at the service station when I saw you drive by and then park over here. You didn’t get out of the car. You didn’t go inside. It’s pretty obvious you were just waiting for me to finish getting gas.”
“The last time I checked this was a free country. I told you. I stopped by to pick up something for dinner. I’m in the process of moving and cooking’s difficult right now. Somebody recommended this place, so I thought I’d give it a shot.”
She didn’t believe him. Nor did she believe his story about listening to whatever was on the radio.
“I’m going to get a restraining order against you.”
“That’s your prerogative. Just be warned they may want you to demonstrate I’ve actually done something I need to be restrained from doing. Something illegal. You should probably be prepared for that.”
“How about storming into my office?”
“I offered to pay for your time. And I left as soon I said what I had to say. Which, if you remember, was a warning that you might be in danger. And I haven’t been back.”
“You followed me home.”
“I drove down a public thoroughfare at the same time you did. You turned off. I went straight. That hardly constitutes ‘following’ you.”
“And last night? At the complex? How do you explain that you were sitting out in the parking lot looking in my window?”
“I told you. I’m moving.”
It was so unexpected, so thoroughly brazen, that it took a moment before the implication registered. “Moving where?”
“There are several units available. Have you been satisfied with the management? They seem nice enough, but you never really know until you’ve lived somewhere—”
“Are you saying that you’re moving into my building?”
“I couldn’t afford anything on the crest. Just into the complex itself.”
The audacity left her breathless. Renting one of those units not only meant that he’d be living practically next door to her, it effectively destroyed her claim that he’d been spying on her when he’d been parked across the street last night. He could say that he had simply been checking out the place before signing a lease.
“You can’t do that.”
“As of tomorrow, I can.”
Tomorrow was the fifteenth. Her own lease ran from midmonth to midmonth, so it was possible he was telling the truth.
“Why?”
“I’m a good neighbor, Dr. Kincaid. I swear you won’t even know I’m around.”
“And I guess I can expect more of what you did today.”
There was a beat of silence. Given his glibness in answering every other question she’d thrown at him, she was surprised he didn’t have a ready response for this one.
“And what was that?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. You wrote on my car.”
His mouth opened, and then he closed it to shake his head. She thought she heard a breath of laughter, but it was cut off so quickly she couldn’t be sure.
“Believe it or not, I don’t write on cars. I haven’t since I was twelve. Something interesting?”
“What?”
“Whatever was written on your car.”
“Not to me.”
She couldn’t make a dent in that wall of supremely confident male arrogance. He mocked both her anger and her threats, treating her as if she were some hysterical female who just didn’t get it. Not the killer. And certainly not him.
Despite everything, her impression was still that they were not one and the same. She wasn’t afraid of this man. No matter what he said, she knew he’d been following her. And yet standing within two feet of him, she had no sense of danger.
That wasn’t the result of any logical thought process, because it couldn’t be. It was strong and instinctive, however, and she was practiced enough in making that kind of evaluation that she respected this one.
“I’d still like to know what it said,” he repeated, the mockery carefully controlled.
At this point she could see no reason not to tell him. Actually, she found that she wanted to tell him, which implied, as incredible as it seemed, that she believed he hadn’t written those words.
“It said ‘Help me.’”
A crease formed between his brows. “Somebody wrote ‘Help me’ on your car? While it was in the staff parking deck?”
She had wondered if he knew where she parked, and he’d just admitted he did. Would he have made that admission if he’d been the one who’d written that message? Or was he clever enough to make it so she would wonder?
“Could have been a patient,” he offered as she tried to decide the answer to those questions.
“Patients don’t have access to the area.”
He smiled, the first expression of amusement that seemed free of mockery. It softened the harsh features, making them…appealing, she realized. Almost handsome.
“You think that’s funny?”
“The naiveté of it. I assume there are elevators from the building to the deck.”
There were, of course. They all used them.
“There are probably service elevators as well,” he went on. “Maintenance. You have security?”
“Of course.”
“Full-time on every level.”
She knew there were security people. She saw them periodi
cally. She’d never concerned herself with where or how often they patrolled. She’d never before needed to.
“We’re a mental-health care practice, not a missile site.”
“Then you probably shouldn’t be surprised that people wander in and out of your parking deck. Those who work there do it legitimately. Patients may do it because they get onto the wrong elevator or get off on the wrong floor.”
Obviously someone had gotten past whatever system was in place. And despite the big deal she’d just made of the writing, it was possible that, as Gary had suggested, it had been intended as a joke.
One of the other staff members? Even Gary, she realized. Just a little therapist-to-therapist humor.
“You’ve made your point,” she conceded stiffly.
“I don’t need you to ‘help me,’ Dr. Kincaid. Maybe you should narrow your suspect list down to someone who does.”
She thought briefly of her new patient. She couldn’t imagine John Nolan in that role, however. She couldn’t imagine any of the people she’d seen seeking out her car to write on it.
“My patients have more effective ways to express their needs. I assure you they take advantage of them.”
“I wasn’t thinking of a patient. I was thinking of someone who might believe you understand the demons that drive him.”
Had Sean Murphy written those words on her car so that he could at some point make this suggestion? Another twist on the refrain he’d introduced when he’d burst into her office?
“And what makes you think he wants to be helped? As I said in the interview you keep quoting to me, this isn’t my field, but it’s my impression that people like him enjoy what they do. They don’t want to be helped because in their view of the world they don’t see anything wrong with the mission they’re on.”
“Maybe he believes you feel the same way.”
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response. A person would have to be insane not to think what he’s doing is wrong.”
“I didn’t say that you think that. I said maybe he believes you do. Or maybe he wants to find out what you think.”
“About him?”
“Of course. He’s the absolute center of his own world. He doesn’t care what you think about anything else.”