by Gayle Wilson
“Are you saying that he recorded…?”
She stopped, unable to articulate her realization of what the killer must have recorded. And then, armed with that tape, he’d called the brother of one of the women he’d tortured to death to make him listen.
Jenna swallowed the vomit that crawled into her throat. There was no reason to be shocked at that cruelty. It was far less diabolical than what he did to his victims.
“Do you think…Could it possibly have been his sister?”
“That crossed my mind. Murphy apparently hasn’t considered that possibility yet. Maybe he can’t afford to. He believes that what he was listening to was live.”
The word lay between them, grotesquely inappropriate. Obscene. Just as the actions it described.
“That denial is a form of self-protection.”
Bingham shrugged. “Can you blame him?”
She couldn’t. No one could. Not given the circumstances.
Still, based on her impressions of Sean Murphy from the few meetings they’d had, he was bright enough that at some point he was going to figure out that what she’d suggested was a possibility. Especially since the lieutenant had already planted the seed that what he’d listened to had been on tape.
It was only a small step from that to the next horror. The kind of step someone close to one of the victims couldn’t help but make. Probably in those dark, lonely hours after midnight.
“There is another possibility,” she said.
The dark eyes widened, questioning. “Yeah?”
“That it might have been someone’s idea of a prank. There are people who are capable of doing something like that.”
“I’ve met a few. But…” Bingham shook his head. “That isn’t something you’re going to convince Murphy of.”
“Something like that would be easy enough to fake. And given what he knows about the murders, the power of suggestion would be extremely effective. It would go a long way toward convincing him that what he was hearing was authentic.”
“Murphy wouldn’t be easy to fool. Not with his background.”
She had asked Sean if he were law enforcement, and he’d denied it. She couldn’t think of anything else that would give him the expertise to make that kind of distinction.
“What kind of background?”
“According to the guy on the task force who vouched for him, Murphy was career military. Some kind of elite special forces unit. The agent who told me wouldn’t go into detail, but I got the impression that whatever his specialty was, Murphy’s seen and heard his share of people dying.”
It fit. The air of danger she’d sensed at their first meeting. Even his arrogance.
“Retired?”
According to Bingham, Sean would have had been thirty-eight when his sister was murdered. It was possible that, if he’d enlisted young enough, he’d already put in his twenty.
“Guess he didn’t figure he had much choice saddled with the kids and all. Despite them, catching this guy has become a personal vendetta for him. And somebody in Washington took the trouble to cue him in early on this one.”
Vendetta. Sean Murphy might not have been able to protect his sister, but apparently he was determined to bring the man responsible for her death to justice. And suddenly, the reality of what he was doing hit her.
Sean Murphy believed every word he’d told her. He really believed that because of the interview she’d given, she had become the target of the same man who had murdered his sister.
And because of that, he also believed that all he’d have to do to find Makaela’s killer was to follow her.
Nine
He was exhausted. And at the same time he was elated.
There had been few times in his life when he had felt so completely in control. Of the woman he’d found. Of Murphy. And his ability to manipulate both simultaneously…
He smoothed the sweat-drenched hair away from her face. Delicately he touched a drop of blood at the corner of her eyelid with his thumb, removing it with precision and yet with the gentleness of a mother’s touch.
He smiled at the analogy, thinking how apt it was. Then he put his thumb to his mouth, sucking her blood from his skin.
The elation he’d felt only seconds ago was already beginning to fade. He knew from experience that it would eventually give way to melancholia, an old-fashioned word that reflected the emptiness he felt when they were gone.
Of course, there was nothing to say he had to give her up yet. As incredible as it seemed, there had still been no bulletin about this one. Apparently nobody was looking for her.
Perhaps there was no one to report that she was missing. Which would mean no one cared where she was. Or who she was with.
His eyes considered the backpack she’d been carrying. He had thrown it into the corner of the room when he’d carried her inside. With the drugs and restraints, he’d had no reason to fear she’d be able to reach it. And no reason to believe there was anything inside that might help her escape or do him harm if she did.
She hadn’t been the type to carry a weapon. Far too trusting, he thought, as he left the cooling body and crossed to where her bag lay.
He stooped, balancing on the balls of his feet while he unzipped it. He lifted the strap, allowing the contents to spill out onto the floor.
With his free hand, he sorted through the textbooks and notebooks. Other than an unopened package of gum and a billfold, that was all the backpack had contained.
A student. Which perhaps explained why no one had reported her missing. Maybe she didn’t live in a dorm. Or have a roommate. Or maybe she was the kind who didn’t come home every night, so that her absence during the last three days had gone unnoticed.
Eventually, someone—family or friends—would realize they hadn’t seen or heard from her. Or the school would begin to check because she had missed so many classes. How long it would take for either of those to happen was anyone’s guess.
He opened the wallet, exposing a debit card, a student ID and several plastic pockets filled with pictures. All of the people in the photographs were young. And they were beautiful, he realized as he studied the snapshots. Both the girls and the boys. Fresh-faced and eager. Full of life.
As he thought that, he flipped to a picture of the woman who lay dead across the room. Obviously it had been taken at a dance or a pageant because she was wearing an evening gown. Not a dance, he decided, because she was alone. He lifted the picture, bringing it closer to his eyes.
Her hair had been considerably longer when this was taken, and she had worn it in a different style. It was also a different color, he discovered, turning the photo to catch the light. It was much fairer than it appeared now, especially when it was wet. As it had been the afternoon he’d found her.
Revulsion at her deception sliced through him, destroying the last trace of exhilaration he’d felt at her death. How could he know that this wasn’t the real color of her hair? How could he ever know that he wasn’t the one she’d deceived?
He closed the billfold, tossing it down among the scattered books. She was a whore and a liar, who deserved nothing less than what she’d gotten.
But he, too, bore part of the blame for the fact that he’d wasted his time on her. He hadn’t followed the plan, so he had also gotten what he deserved.
She’d been a test, sent to try him. And he had failed. He hadn’t had enough resolve to stick to the things he knew kept him safe. Preparation before he set everything into motion. Attention to detail. Taking his time to make sure that nothing escaped his due diligence.
From now on, he swore, that’s what he would do. This time he had allowed himself to be sidetracked, but that wouldn’t happen again.
Not when he had so many other things that needed his attention. Murphy. Jenna Kincaid. He had almost forgotten her in the distraction this one had provided.
And that’s all this had been. A foolish distraction. A failure of purpose. Something he should have guarded against.
Which was exactly what she would have told him. Except she wouldn’t have been so forgiving of his mistake. Another of her lessons that he’d forgotten. And as always, he knew he would be punished for it.
Perhaps that’s why Murphy had been allowed to get so close. A punishment for his distraction.
If so, that could be easily remedied now that he was again focused on what needed to be done. Actually, he’d already begun the process earlier this evening.
He wondered how Sergeant Murphy had enjoyed his phone call. Only a tiny foretaste of what was to come, but after all, the man deserved something for his devotion to his dead sister, misplaced as it was.
As for the threats he’d made…Something special, he thought. And he knew just what that should be.
Jenna stood in the outer hallway of the police station. She hadn’t told Bingham what she planned to do. It was none of his business, but she suspected he wouldn’t see it that way.
She shifted her weight, leaning back against the tile wall, her arms wrapped around her body for warmth. A surge of cold came in every time someone opened one of the glass front doors, but she didn’t dare move. From where she was standing, she could see the steps that led up to the entrance. If Sean Murphy came in this way, she couldn’t miss him.
She glanced at her watch, surprised to find it was only a little past six. It had been full dark when she’d arrived, but then, they were approaching the shortest day of the year.
If she hadn’t decided to come downtown, she would probably be just getting to her apartment. And if Murphy intended to keep an eye on her, as she now believed he had been during the last few days, then he might be carrying out this same vigil there.
She straightened, pushing away from the wall to walk over to the front doors. She looked through them onto the parking lot. She had pulled her car into a spot in the first row, an area illuminated by both the lights on the building and those of the lot. And there were probably a dozen security cameras in place around the perimeter as well.
All she had to do was walk down those steps, get into her car and go home. There was no guarantee the man she was waiting for would show up here tonight, no matter what Bingham thought. Even if he did, what she had to tell him could—and probably should—wait until they were both less emotionally drained.
As she paced back to the wall, the description Bingham had given of the call Sean received echoed in her head. Despite what she’d told herself as she considered the security provisions in place here, it reinforced the reality that nowhere in this town was safe.
Not for her. Not if Murphy was right.
She could surrender to that fear, letting it hold her hostage and keep her from her normal activities. Or she could continue to go about her business, wary of anything that seemed out of the ordinary.
Or she could pursue a third option. The one that had her standing in this drafty hallway, subjected to the curiosity of everyone who entered the building.
A rush of cold air made her raise her eyes to the doorway she was supposed to be watching. Sean Murphy stood in the entrance, his right hand holding one of the glass doors open.
His eyes held hers for a few heartbeats, and then he stepped inside, allowing the door to close behind him. As she tried to decide how to frame the question she’d been waiting to ask, he closed the distance between them.
He moved with the same athletic grace she’d noticed in her office. And her chin lifted so that, despite the height difference between them, her eyes maintained contact with his.
He searched her face before he asked, “You talked to Bingham?”
“I’m sorry.”
Sorry his sister had been one of the killer’s victims. Sorry for the experience he’d just gone through. Sorry that every conclusion she’d come to about his actions had been wrong.
“You don’t owe me an apology. If anything—” He stopped, his gaze focusing on the door of Bingham’s office. “He told you.”
“About your sister?” she guessed, nodding.
His attention came back to her. For the first time she noticed how exhausted he looked. His eyes were rimmed with red, shadows like old bruises below them.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t have any idea.”
He nodded, lips set, eyes no longer making contact with hers. The angle of his head as he looked past her emphasized the stubble on his cheeks. With his coloring, he would probably have to shave twice a day to avoid it. Something he obviously wouldn’t have taken time to do tonight.
“Look,” he began, turning back to face her, “there’s no doubt now that I was right.”
She shook her head, unwilling to accept the only interpretation which made sense of that. “Right about what?”
He drew a breath, deep enough that it lifted his shoulders. His lips parted, but before he could say anything, the front doors opened, letting in another rush of frigid air.
A couple of uniformed cops manhandled a struggling teen through them. Although it was the blast of cold that had attracted her gaze, the fight the kid was putting up, along with the profanities he yelled, kept it there.
Like watching a train wreck, she thought.
“Come on,” Sean said, putting his hand under her elbow to turn her away from the door and back toward Bingham’s office.
Despite the fact that she was wearing both a sweater and coat, she was aware of the strength of the fingers wrapped around her arm. She walked beside him, their bodies almost touching, too conscious of his nearness. So near she could smell the faint, not unpleasant scent of damp wool and the soap he’d recently showered with.
To her surprise, he guided her past Bingham’s office and into another hallway, one that ran at right angles to the hall where she’d been waiting. Arrows on the wall pointed to an interview room and a break room. There were rest room symbols there as well, with their own directional arrows.
Sean stopped as they rounded the corner, releasing her arm. Not only were they sheltered from the cold, the noise level back here was considerably less, creating a sense of privacy she wasn’t sure she welcomed.
Evidently it encouraged the completion of the revelation he’d begun out in the main hallway. He wasted no time in laying it out for her again. “I know now that I was right about him being attracted to you.”
As good an opening as she was likely to get. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“You were waiting to talk to me about…him?”
Maybe he’d thought she’d wanted to offer condolences about his sister. That would be a logical assumption, considering what her first words had been.
“You came here to find him, didn’t you?”
He hesitated, obviously trying to think how to answer. Wondering, maybe, if Bingham had put her up to asking.
“You’re here because he killed your sister,” she went on. “And because the police haven’t been able to stop him.”
“I’m here to help in any way I can,” he said, seeming to choose his words with care. “I’ve been following the investigation since the task force was formed. The national task force. I came down here because I thought I could provide the cops with some background—”
“If that’s what you told Bingham, that’s fine,” she interrupted. “I don’t care. You can tell them anything you want. But…that isn’t why you’re here. You and I both know that, so just don’t lie to me, okay? I don’t give a damn who else you feel you have to lie to, but don’t lie to me.”
After the display of temper in her office, she expected him to get angry. To deny her accusation. To walk away. To do something.
For a long time he did nothing. Then he nodded, a single abrupt motion.
She gave him credit for the intelligence that had obviously led to that quick agreement. What she’d said had been logical and reasoned. He’d recognized that so there had been no argument. And no denial.
“You’ve been following me because you believe he is. You think he’s chosen me, and because
of that, so have you. You intend to use me to get to him.”
Again he said nothing, his eyes locked on hers.
“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Not about looking out for me. You want him to come after me. That’s what you’ve been hoping for from the beginning.”
“I warned you.”
She laughed, the sound bitter. “And that makes it all right? You warned me, and now I’m on my own. ‘Hey, lady, there’s a guy who wants to slice and dice you like he did my sister. And oh, if you don’t mind, I want to watch you just in case I might be able to grab him when he comes to do that.’”
She hadn’t known how furious she was until she began to give voice to the realization she’d made in Bingham’s office. Furious that Sean Murphy had been using her. More furious that some innocent comment she’d made might really have triggered something in a sociopath’s brain that had set him after her.
Pain so powerful it was almost a physical force appeared in the depths of those clear blue eyes. Then, with ruthless control, it was replaced by an answering fury. “You better hope I’m watching,” he said, each word a carefully enunciated threat, “because it’s for damn sure nobody else will be.”
She had a right to her anger. She had been used. Still, what she’d just said to this man, who knew, perhaps better than anyone other than the FBI, how vicious an animal stalked her, had been unforgivable. Seeing its impact made her regret that she’d opened her mouth.
“If you’re convinced I’m a target—”
“I wasn’t. Not until tonight. After tonight—” He stopped, taking another breath so deep it, too, was visible.
After tonight. And what had happened tonight…
“The phone call? That convinced you?”
The anguish he’d controlled was back in his eyes. She wondered if he had just reached the point Bingham believed he would inevitably come to. Had he begun to wonder if the screams he’d heard could have been those of his sister?
“There’s no other way he could have known I’m here.”
“No other way? What does that mean?”
“No other way except that he saw me following you. How else could he know?”