by Andrea Kane
One thing was for sure. Whatever was going to happen was imminent.
And it was evil.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Patrick was the only one in the conference room when Claire walked in. He was poring over the financial data Ryan had extracted on the Auburn State prison guards. Since it was clear that someone on the inside was helping Fisher, Patrick was trying to figure out just who that someone was by searching bank records that showed hefty deposits. He hadn’t asked Ryan how he’d gotten these records. He was certain he didn’t want to know.
Patrick’s attention shifted the moment Claire entered the room. Her strained expression and the dazed look in her eyes told him she needed to talk.
He put down his paperwork and frowned. “You okay?”
“I don’t know.” Claire sank down at the conference room table in an adjacent chair.
“Ryan didn’t upset you, did he? I know he was angry, but that’s because he was worried about you.”
“What?” Claire seemed puzzled, almost as if Ryan’s name was unfamiliar to her.
“Okay, it isn’t Ryan,” Patrick said. “Then what? You look lousy now, and you looked pretty high-strung when you came in. What’s going on?”
Claire hesitated for a second. Then, she blurted it all out—her meeting with Suzanne Fisher, the wig she’d taken, the weird visions she’d been having.
Patrick listened quietly and objectively. He might be in his early sixties, but he was an open-minded man. He’d never heard of claircognizance before he’d met Claire, but that didn’t mean he was a flat-out nonbeliever. It just meant he had a hard time accepting the premise of energy-sensing to solve crimes, especially when there were no hard-core facts to support it.
But he’d seen the results of what Claire could do. And they were inarguable. So he listened carefully, and digested what Claire had to say.
When she was finished, she caught her breath and studied Patrick’s expression. “You’re thinking it’s a bunch of crap.”
“No, I’m trying to figure out what the symbolism is.”
“Claire saw herself in the role of a restrained victim because she feels responsible for me.” Casey’s voice reached them from the doorway, where she was leaning, arms folded across her chest. “She’s upset because she can’t pick up anything that could help prevent what Glen Fisher has in mind.”
Claire started, swerving in her chair to see Casey. “I didn’t know you were in the room.”
“I’m glad I was.” Casey crossed over and sat down with Claire and Patrick. “I don’t want you keeping things from me. I don’t need shielding. I need to know everything. And, by the way, there’s nothing you said that I haven’t already thought of.”
“I’m so frustrated.” Claire raked a hand through her hair. “And, yes, I’m freaked out, too. These images are starting to really mess with my mind and make me physically ill.”
“But they’re intensifying,” Casey pointed out. “That’s got to mean we’re getting closer to Fisher’s end game.” She raised her chin. “Except that we’re going to alter the results of that end game.”
“Without a doubt.” Patrick rose to his feet. “Marc’s here tonight. Obviously, so is Hutch. You’re in good hands.”
“I know that,” Casey said. “Just as I know that we’re going to get to Glen Fisher before he gets to us. So let’s all try to rest.”
“I agree. We should all call it a night. It’s late. We’ll pick this up in the morning.” Patrick glanced down at Claire. “How’d you like an old-fashioned guy to drive you home tonight? I took the car rather than the train today, since I had no idea what time I’d be heading home.”
Claire felt—and showed—a surge of relief. “That would be great. I’m still feeling off balance. Once I’ve taken a hot bath and curled up in bed, I’ll feel better.”
“Then let’s go.” Patrick rose and gestured toward the door. “My car’s right across the street.”
Claire said good-night to Casey and preceded Patrick down the stairs. They left the building and walked over to Patrick’s car.
As Claire opened the passenger door, an icy chill shot through her—just for a second, then it was gone. She caught her breath, her head immediately coming up as she searched the city street.
There were no creepy figures lurking about. And no suspicious-looking vehicles, either.
Still, she was very glad that Patrick was driving her home.
* * *
Unlike his nephew, Glen Fisher didn’t sleep much that night. There was too much to do.
He waited until almost four in the morning before visiting the Brooklyn warehouse he’d so carefully chosen. The padlock on the outside door was tightly locked. He unlocked it with a key and went inside. Everything was in order. He’d set up a couple of chairs, a video camera and his tools of the trade. How many of those he used was up to Casey Woods.
He’d made sure the chairs were padded. He and Jack were going to be here for quite a while, and they might as well be comfortable.
The whole setup was ready.
Glen sat down and linked his hands behind his head. It felt damned good to be in control again. He was running things, issuing the orders. He’d told Jack and Suzanne to pack lightly. Anything they needed, they could replace once they reached Dubai. Their new identities were in place. Their flight out of the U.S. was scheduled to leave JFK at 6:00 p.m. the night after next. That would give him and Jack more than enough time to flush out Casey Woods, do what they needed to do and take off.
Considering how deep her loyalties ran, she’d get here the instant she knew how high the stakes were. The quicker she showed up, the less torture Claire Hedgleigh would endure.
It was a no-brainer.
Rising, Glen gave the place one last look. Then he left.
He’d be back soon enough.
* * *
Ryan was bored with the waiting game.
It had been a good fifteen hours since the last phone call between Fisher and his wife. Since then, nothing.
He had some time to kill, so Ryan decided to dig around in Glen Fisher’s past, curious about what made the psycho tick.
It sucked that there were no computer files dating back thirty years. Ryan would have enjoyed hacking into Fisher’s school records, to find out what sort of kid he’d been—visibly off or charismatically controlling. Psychopaths came in many forms, as Hutch had taught him. They didn’t automatically become serial killers. They were born with certain personality traits, and those traits were influenced by the way they were raised, their early childhood experiences and their particular psychological profiles.
What Ryan did know was that Fisher was highly intelligent, arrogant, consumed with his own self-importance. That couldn’t have played well once he hit secondary school.
For the hell of it, Ryan starting digging around in newspaper archives, looking for criminal incidents involving kids in Fisher’s middle school and high school during the years he’d attended. It didn’t take long for him to hit the mother lode.
The first article on the scandal was hidden on page three of the local paper. The second and third articles weren’t so discreet. They were splashed across the front pages of metro New York newspapers, as well as being highlighted in two or three gossip rags.
It was at Fisher’s middle school, the year he was in seventh grade. Evidently, a twenty-eight-year-old female math teacher had initiated sexual relationships with several of her students, all of whom were minors. Ryan studied the reports, trying to find the names of the students. But, as he suspected, they were being withheld to protect the poor kids, who were probably already so messed up they were living on psychiatrists’ couches. What Ryan did find was the name of the math teacher. Colleen McCoy.
He fed her information into Google.
Some of the same articles he’d already read came up, but there were others, as well, that went into more detail as they discussed Ms. McCoy’s dismissal from her job and the pending criminal charges being brought aga
inst her.
It seemed the teacher had seduced at least three of her students behind the gymnasium during after-school hours. One of them eventually had the balls to tape the encounter, and then go to the guidance office with the facts. That had set everything in motion and resulted, ultimately, in the full discovery of Ms. McCoy’s sexual deviance when it came to her victims.
Could Glen Fisher have been one of those victims?
Ryan leaned forward, his eyes narrowed as he read. The woman was clearly a sicko. But the details of her perversions were no longer what Ryan was looking for.
He skipped over the newspaper pieces. That wasn’t where he’d find what he wanted. He went straight to the tabloids.
Bingo. A color photo of Colleen McCoy, being led away in handcuffs. Ryan zoomed in and enlarged the photo so he could scrutinize the teacher.
Pretty. Petite. Redheaded.
Just like Fisher’s victims.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, continuing to stare at the photo as he processed this new piece of information.
It might end up being an extraneous factoid.
On the other hand, it might not.
* * *
It was a long day in the manhunt for Glen Fisher. The killer had done a remarkable job of keeping himself and his nephew, Jack, concealed from the public. None of the toll-free calls from people claiming to have spotted Fisher held any merit. The sands of the hourglass were running out, and there wasn’t a single new lead to go on.
Hutch returned to Forensic Instincts at dinnertime, weary and tense. The team had spent the day much as he had, hunting down leads and waiting for Fisher to fall into their telephone trap.
Nothing.
When Hutch walked into the conference room, the team was sitting around the table, discussing Ryan’s findings. Claire had already confirmed Ryan’s suspicions that Glen was one of Ms. McCoy’s victims, by sharing what she’d picked up on earlier.
“What’s your take?” Ryan asked Hutch.
Hutch read over each of Ryan’s printouts. “Based on what I’m seeing here, it’s not a leap to say that Claire is right, and that Fisher was one of Colleen McCoy’s victims. Nor is it a leap to say that she was the catalyst who triggered his future behavior. The guy was fifteen. Sexually, that’s a vulnerable age for a kid. So she messed with his mind and his body. Combine that with a psychopathic profile, and you’ve got all the components of a ticking bomb, ready to go off.”
Casey nodded, scrutinizing the math teacher’s photo. “The resemblance to the victims is creepy,” she murmured.
“Not just to the victims.” Marc leveled a stare at her. “To you.”
“I know.” Casey let her head rest against the chair cushion. “You don’t need to drive home that point. It freaks me out enough as it is.”
“We still haven’t figured out what to do about it,” Claire said.
“Verifying our theory is a waste of time,” Patrick argued. “At least until we’re building a case against Fisher. Right now, it’s a poor use of our resources. It would take a bunch of man-hours to get the appropriate police report and to get permission to unseal the names of the kids involved. And for what? Just to know we’re right? We need to stop Glen Fisher, not psychoanalyze him.”
“Yes and no.” Hutch looked thoughtful. “It’s definitely not worth our time yet to confirm that Fisher was one of the victims, especially since this happened too long ago for Ryan’s hacking skills to come in handy. We’ll do it the legal way—later. But for now? It’s a great bit of ammunition to hold on to in case Fisher calls and starts playing head games with Casey. She can retaliate, rev him up and maybe get him to say something he’ll wish he hadn’t. I saw her do it when we met with him in prison. She pushed his buttons. He really lost it.”
“You’re thinking he’ll call Casey again?” Claire didn’t seem happy about that.
“It’s a definite possibility. He’s locked and loaded. Whether or not he wants to up the fear factor as part of his game plan for Casey—that’s an unknown.” Hutch’s expression grew grim. “What worries me more is why he seems so confident that he can pull off the grand finale. He knows the level of security we have on Casey, and that she rarely leaves the building. So why is he so damn cocky?”
“That’s my concern, as well,” Marc said. “He’s way too sure of himself. That means he’s devised a specific plan and is ready to carry it out. We’ve got to be extra diligent.”
“With regard to brownstone access, I increased the sensitivity of the alarm system and put Yoda on continuous high alert,” Ryan informed them. “That means no one outside of the team can switch him into sleep mode. He’ll react to every coming and going—from room to room, as well as from entry point to entry point.”
“What about the fourth floor?” Hutch asked, referring to Casey’s apartment. Normally, Yoda didn’t intrude into that personal space.
“The added security extends to the fourth floor, too. Sorry about the lack of privacy. But desperate times and all that.” A corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted. “The good news is that I didn’t plant any video or audio surveillance up there. So you can hook up to your heart’s content.”
Hutch didn’t smile, nor did he look as if sex was on his list of priorities at the moment. “I think we should call it a night. The sooner we lock up and activate all our security, the better. Tomorrow, the task force is going to tap into all its resources to see if Glen Fisher is setting things in motion to leave the U.S. If Casey is his last hurrah, it would make sense for him to get out and get settled in a country with no extradition policy.”
“You don’t have to wait until tomorrow.” Ryan rose. “I’ll do a little digging before I head home, and see if I can come up with some names to add to your list of identity forgers.”
“And I’ll take the combined lists and pay every dirt bag on them a visit tomorrow,” Patrick said. “Fisher could be leaving alone, or he could be taking Jack and Suzanne with him. I’ll find that out, too.”
“Nice.” Marc nodded. “I’ll keep you company—in case a little extra persuasion is in order. Shut your eyes if you have to.”
“Not necessary. Not when it’s Casey we’re protecting. Screw the straight and narrow.”
Marc whistled. “You really are one of us now, Patrick. Impressive.”
“I shouldn’t be hearing this,” Hutch said.
“Hearing what?” Marc shot him an innocent look. “I didn’t say anything. Neither did Ryan. He’s just surfing the web and I’m just visiting some colleagues. Right, Ryan?”
“Right.”
Casey gave them a faint smile. “Thank you all,” she said, coming to her feet. “I’m going to grab something from the kitchen and then go up to bed. I’m exhausted.” As soon as Casey moved, Hero scrambled up, too, staying close to his mistress’s side. She reached down to stroke his head. Hero wasn’t the only one who bolted to his feet. Hutch was right behind them. “I’ll be joining you.”
“Sentry duty?” Casey asked.
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
“I’d say I’m a lucky girl. Two loyal men sleeping in my bed to make sure I’m safe.”
“You can’t have enough guard dogs.” Ryan glanced around the table. “Everyone else going home now?”
Patrick and Claire nodded.
“Good. Then I’ll wait and see that the security systems are fully engaged before I leave.” He waited until Claire was easing her way around the table before catching her arm and speaking in a quiet voice that only she could hear. “Want company?”
“Not tonight.” She shook her head, her troubled gaze asking him to understand. “It’s not that I don’t want you there. I just need to be alone. I need to concentrate all my energy on one single focus—Casey.”
“Understood.” His knuckles brushed her cheek. “Just call if you need me.”
“I will.”
* * *
Claire took the subway home.
She was so damned wired. It seemed to t
ake forever for the train to reach her stop. Her mind was on overdrive, but not in a controlled way. More like a wild stallion at a rodeo. The images in her mind were flashing wildly and randomly, and the tension pounding at her temples was heightening.
Talk about energy. Its intensity was nearly paralyzing.
She needed to find a way to calm down and channel it.
Stopping only long enough to pick up some Chinese takeout, she walked the block and a half to her apartment, trying to decide whether a hot bath or a hot shower would do her more good.
She relaxed more in a bath.
But she thought more in a shower.
It was a toss-up.
Still trying to decide which would yield the best result, she rounded the corner of her block.
Abruptly, a chill shot up her spine.
She sensed the man behind her a split second before the barrel of a gun was shoved into her back.
“Hello, Claire.” His voice was unfamiliar. But it was close—so close that it ruffled her hair. “Keep walking. Don’t make a sound. My car is right over here. Let’s hop into it like a couple bringing home Chinese takeout.”
“Who are you?” she managed.
“I think you know the answer to that. Now get in.”
He opened the backseat of the sedan, and pushed her in. Then he slid in beside her and locked the doors. There were no streetlights nearby, and the car’s windows were tinted, so it was virtually impossible to see inside. Using that to his advantage, he worked quickly, stuffing a handkerchief into her mouth and binding her wrists and ankles.
Claire struggled as hard as she could. It only made him tighten the ropes until they cut deep into her skin. He was wearing a ski mask, so she couldn’t make out any of his facial features. But his hands were that of a young man—probably in his twenties. And his build was lankier than Glen Fisher’s. So it definitely wasn’t him. It had to be Jack.
She would have tested her theory by using his name, but the gag crammed in her mouth made that impossible. She tried to focus on his energy, but her own fear overrode any metaphysical connection she might have established. So, instead, she concentrated on her breathing, keeping it slow and shallow, so she could conserve her energy and her oxygen. She had to remain as physically strong and mentally alert as possible.