Edge of Midnight

by Leslie Tentler

  “Ms. Hale,” he said quietly.

  “Mia,” she corrected in a soft whisper. Looking up into his face, she felt her heart beat harder. “Who did this?”

  He released a breath, hesitating. “You need to understand that you’re not just a victim. You’re also a reporter. I have to factor that in.”

  “Off the record,” she emphasized. “You have my word I won’t write anything to jeopardize your investigation. I’m not even working at the moment. And as a victim I have a right to know, don’t I? Agent Vartran, the detectives—they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  He looked at her for a long moment before speaking again. “I was over an investigation in Maryland three years ago. Five women were abducted. Their bodies turned up later with similar injuries as yours.”

  Their bodies. Meaning the women had all been murdered. “And did you catch the person responsible?”

  His jaw tightened. “No.”

  “But you believe he’s resurfaced here in Jacksonville, after all this time?”

  “Based on the specifics of your injuries, it seems possible.” He surprised her by lifting her hand and cradling it within his own as he studied the bandaged nail beds, her abraded wrists. Then he let her fingers slide from his and met her gaze again.

  “I haven’t read your articles on the abductions yet. I’m wondering, does your photo run with the byline?”

  She shook her head. “But I do a column on Fridays. It’s a police blotter roundup. My photo runs with that one. What does that—”

  “If this is the same unsub, he’s a sociopath and an extreme narcissist. You’re an attractive female—he was probably flattered someone like you noticed his work. It could explain why he took you.”

  Mia thought of some faceless criminal circling her photo in the newspaper with a red pen. Stapling it to his bulletin board where he memorialized his victims. It sickened her. “The wounds to my hand and my stomach—he cut off my hair. Why?”

  His gaze traveled to an impressionist painting over her couch, his expression making it clear he was still struggling with how much to tell her.

  “I work a crime beat,” she reminded him. “I can handle it.”

  “He pulled out your fingernails and cut off your hair as mementos,” he said finally. “He considers himself a collector, but he can’t keep his victims’ bodies since they’ll decompose. So he takes souvenirs that will last longer. Fingernails, hair, sometimes teeth, among other things.”

  Ice water moved through Mia’s veins. Absently, she touched her abdomen through her top. He must have noticed the gesture, because he added quietly, “He also numbers his victims as a way to dehumanize them. He thrives on order and organization, as well as control.”

  She did the math, adding herself and the two missing women here to the five victims murdered previously in another state. The marking on her skin now made sense.

  “Pauline Berger and Cissy Cox are already dead, aren’t they?”

  “We have no proof of that yet. There are no bodies. And for now what I’ve told you is speculation based solely on your wounds. Three years is a long time for a killer to stop, then start up again,” he conceded. “We don’t want any of this getting out unnecessarily or too early. I’ve already told you more than I should. My dealings with reporters haven’t always been a positive experience.”

  Mia was aware of the delicate dance between the news media and law enforcement, and she’d always tried to conduct herself in an ethical manner. She touched his arm through his shirtsleeve. Her voice held a tremor despite her best effort. “I want this man caught, Agent Macfarlane. And I want…I need…to help those two women. I need to help them get back home if they’re still alive, or at least bring some peace to their families if they’re…not. That’s the most important thing to me right now.”

  His shoulders were broad, and Mia could ascertain the fit, hard build of him under his dress shirt. He studied her for several long moments before speaking.

  “What if you could regain some of your memory?” he asked.

  She blinked. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “There’s some experimental, highly classified work being done that I’ve recently been made aware of.” His words were speculative and careful. “It’s a combination of drug therapy and hypnosis, but it’s shown some usefulness in retrieving lost memories.”

  A small stone lodged inside Mia’s chest. “How experimental, exactly?”

  “The military has been using it with severely injured prisoners of war to help them recall certain key facts about their captivity, even when they were barely conscious for most of their ordeal. The theory is that the mind can register events—faces, voices, surroundings—even in an unconscious or altered state.”

  “Does it work?”

  “The results so far have been mixed,” he admitted. “And to my knowledge it hasn’t been applied to drug-induced amnesia. But one of the pioneers is a practicing psychiatrist at the Jacksonville Naval Air Station. I have access to him.”

  She tried to process what she was being told. It sounded like something out of a sci-fi movie. “Are there risks?”

  “If Dr. Wilhelm believes you’re a candidate, he can discuss the risks with you. With both of us.” He took a step closer. Although they were alone inside the apartment, his voice lowered. “If you decided to do it, I would be there with you, Mia. I’d want to hear any details you might be able to recall firsthand. My understanding is that when the therapy works, the memories can be vivid.”

  She felt the stone inside her chest grow a little larger.

  “I—I’d like to think about it.”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  Reaching into his shirt pocket, he handed her his business card. “Thank you for your time.”

  Mia accompanied him to the door. One hand on its knob, he turned again to face her. “You asked me earlier why you were here talking with me, while the other two women were still missing.” He raised his shoulders in a faint shrug. “The reality is, I don’t know. Maybe you were smarter or braver, or maybe he just got careless with you. But you got away. Those women didn’t.”

  His eyes held a depth of emotion that surprised her. It was a step outside the cool, professional demeanor he’d exhibited so far. Once he had left and closed the door behind him, Mia continued standing in the foyer. She crossed her arms over her chest, the air-conditioning suddenly putting too much of a chill upon her skin. Mia still felt Eric Macfarlane’s presence. What he had suggested was nothing she would have thought possible.

  The memories can be vivid.

  4

  Eric had accepted Cameron and Lanie’s offer to stay at a vacation rental property they owned a few blocks from Jacksonville Beach. The last unit at the end of a dead-end street, the bungalow was quaint and sun-weathered, and provided a roomier alternative to the sterile hotel rooms that were a regular part of his job with the VCU. Having unpacked and changed into a T-shirt, running shorts and tennis shoes, he stood on its concrete front stoop, for a time watching black skimmers and terns that flew overhead toward the ocean. The late day was rapidly fading into a warm, breezy twilight, causing the wind chimes hanging near the door to dance. Eric listened to their music as well as to his own spiraling thoughts.

  It seemed strange to him that The Collector—if he really were here—could be looking at the same setting sun, feeling the same balmy zephyr as he did right now. That a sadistic killer could be out enjoying a seafood dinner at one of the beachside, family restaurants.

  Even more absurd was the notion that he had somehow let an intended victim escape.

  Mia Hale had been smaller than Eric expected—finely boned and slender, only a few inches over five feet. Seeing her injuries, he’d felt an instant protectiveness. Not to mention, the harshly lit photos from the E.R. hadn’t come close to doing her justice. His physical attraction to her plagued him, creating a hard twinge of guilt.

  Nearly three years had elapsed since Rebecca’s death, allowin
g him to outdistance his grief, he believed. But it hadn’t eased the agonizing sense of culpability he felt.

  In a way, part of him had died with her.

  Eric thought of the experimental therapy he’d told Mia about earlier. It was a long shot, maybe even a crazy one, but if she’d consent to it—if she could somehow recapture even a fraction of her lost memories—it could be the break he desperately needed. But it was also a lot to ask of someone who’d already been through unfathomable horror.

  Days before her death, Rebecca had accused him of being a selfish bastard. Maybe he was.

  Two joggers passed nearby on the intersecting side street. They reminded him of what he had come outside to do. He needed the exercise, needed to clear his mind. As he locked the door to leave for his run, he heard the insistent shrill of his cell phone coming from inside. Glad he hadn’t set the bungalow’s security system, he quickly let himself back in and checked the phone’s screen, which read Washington, D.C. He knew the caller’s identity from the number displayed. It was already after 7:00 p.m., but Special Agent in Charge Johnston was apparently still behind his desk at the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit. Eric answered. He’d been both dreading and expecting the call.

  The SAC wasn’t one to mince words. “Your presence in Jacksonville is against established FBI protocol, Agent Macfarlane.”

  He rubbed his forehead. There was little point in dancing around it. “Yes, sir. I know.”

  “And your reason for bypassing the proper chain of command?”

  Eric envisioned Johnston’s smoothly shaved head, his muscular shoulders hunched tensely under his starched dress shirt as he pressed the phone to his ear. With forced patience, he said, “Because I knew you wouldn’t allow it. I need to be down here. I know you can understand that—”

  “What I understand is that you’re far too close to this, Eric.” Johnston’s harsh tone receded somewhat, and his switch to a first-name basis and the familiarity it bestowed caused Eric’s chest to tighten. “That’s a recipe for mistakes to be made, son. Not to mention, you were on assignment here.”

  “Which is why I didn’t bring Agent Crowchild with me—he agreed to step in as team lead,” he explained, referring to his partner at the VCU. “I have the appropriate resources down here with the Florida Bureau.”

  Silence as heavy as a cinder block carried through the airwaves before Johnston spoke again. “Let me make myself clear. I do not approve of your participation in this investigation. In fact, I see it as downright dangerous, as well as an arrogant and self-destructive move on your part. But due to your connections within the DOJ, I’ve been overruled.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “I’ve known Richard Macfarlane for a long time—hell, I’ve known you since you were a boy. And I do sympathize with your situation. But I’m speaking with your best interests in mind. We have other, very capable agents who could have handled this. If this is the same unsub, you don’t need to put yourself through—”

  “With all due respect, sir, I do.” Eric swallowed down his emotion and anger, the words thickening in his throat. “She was my wife.”

  After a while, Johnston gave a deep sigh of resignation. “It’s out of my hands now. What have you learned so far?”

  Eric filled him in on the facts of the case, although he left out the information about the experimental memory retrieval therapy being conducted at the nearby Naval Air Station. That confidential information had come from Eric’s father, as well, and he saw no reason to raise the SAC’s hackles any more than they already were.

  “We’re going to have a long discussion when you return,” Johnston advised. “You’ve become one of my best senior agents, and you’ve never used who you are to your advantage. At least not until now. I don’t like members of my team going over my head…even in tragic circumstances such as this. Good luck, Agent Macfarlane.”

  He heard the click as the SAC disconnected the phone.

  Eric stood in place for several moments, letting the conversation sink in. He’d had the reprimand coming. Eric’s father had warned him of as much but he’d still made the necessary phone calls for him within the U.S. Department of Justice.

  His father had understood.

  Eric held a master’s degree in Criminology from the University of Pennsylvania. He’d graduated top of his class at the FBI training academy in Quantico and worked hard to join the ranks of the elite Violent Crimes Unit, where he’d been for the past five years. Despite his lineage, he had never once expected or asked for favors. Still, he believed he was doing the right thing this time. He owed as much to Rebecca, to see this through. He’d disappointed her as a husband but at least he could try to make things up to her in death.

  The Collector had taken Rebecca as a way to get to him, to inflict hurt and prove his superiority. He’d been especially brutal with her, as her mutilated corpse had evidenced. At the memory, a lump formed inside his throat. Eric burned with the need to find him, to put him down like the rabid animal he was. This time, he took his cell phone with him as he locked and left the beach bungalow, needing the run more than ever.

  “I’d like you to see a counselor,” Grayson said, serious, as he leaned against the granite counter in Mia’s kitchen. In his late forties, he was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-framed bifocals that made some of the newspaper staff think he looked a little like Richard Gere. “After what happened, it can’t hurt to talk to someone. Your insurance would cover it. When someone experiences something like this, there can be residual effects.”

  Mia gave him a look as she placed leftover cartons of pad woon sen, shrimp curry and basil chicken in the refrigerator. She thought of the military psychiatrist Agent Macfarlane had told her about—in fact, she’d been thinking about it for hours—but she was pretty sure it wasn’t the type of therapy Grayson had in mind. “I don’t need to see anyone. I’m fine.”

  “What if I make it a condition of your coming back to work?”

  Mia walked to where he stood. She took his wineglass from him and had a sip of the rich merlot before handing it back. “Grayson. I’m not traumatized because I don’t remember anything.”

  “How long have I known you, Mia?”

  She sighed, knowing he expected her to recount the story. “Six years. I was a kid fresh out of journalism school and you gave me my first job.”

  “That’s right.”

  “If I recall, I got your coffee and picked up your dry cleaning for the first nine months.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, chuckling. “You worked your way up. I had to see if you had the drive to back up that raw talent. I didn’t plan on training you as a real journalist to have you run off to write for some gardening magazine.”

  “That wouldn’t happen. I’ve never met a plant I couldn’t kill within a week.” She opened the refrigerator door again, frowning as she studied its contents. “Are you sure you don’t want to take some of this food with you? Honestly, you brought enough to feed a small village—”

  “Mia.”

  She turned around. He’d moved closer, and the levity that had been in his eyes earlier was gone.

  “My point is that I know you, kiddo. I know how you grew up, how tough you had to be. It’s okay if you want to be scared for a little while.”

  Mia considered his words. It would be so easy to cave in to all of this. Despite her earlier assurances, the real truth was that she felt like a spastic ball of nerves on the inside. But Grayson had a point; he knew her history, he was one of the few who did outside of Will and Justin. Where she’d come from, her difficult past—it had embodied her with a fighting instinct. From ages six to fifteen Mia had been bounced around the foster care system, and yet she’d remained strong. Giving in to her fears now wasn’t something she wanted to do.

  “I want to come back to work soon, Grayson. And I want to cover the missing-person cases. I want them back from Walt.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think tha
t’s a good idea. On a whole lot of levels.”

  “Just think about it, all right?” Deciding she needed more than a sip of his merlot, she poured her own glass and took it into the living room. Outside the balcony’s French doors it was completely dark. Grayson had been late arriving due to a breaking news story, and they hadn’t sat down to eat until nearly 8:00 p.m.

  “An agent from the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit came to see me this afternoon,” she mentioned as he entered the room behind her, glass in hand.

  He gave her a look of interest. “Did you find out anything?”

  Mia thought of what she and Agent Macfarlane had discussed—namely, the possibility of a serial killer from Maryland resurfacing in Jacksonville. She pressed her lips together, reminding herself that what she’d been told was off the record, a condition she herself had imposed. The juxtaposition of being a victim and a reporter was difficult, and she felt guilty for not sharing the information. But doing so would raise the likelihood of seeing it in tomorrow’s paper. Mia understood the FBI’s need to keep the speculation down.

  She shrugged. “He mostly asked me the same questions as everyone else.”

  “What’s the agent’s name?”

  “Eric Macfarlane.”

  Grayson raised his eyebrows. “No kidding? If I was a betting man, I’d lay a grand on that being Richard Macfarlane’s son.”

  The name didn’t register with Mia.

  “Macfarlane’s an associate attorney general for the Department of Justice—he’s way up in the ranks. I read a profile piece on him in Newsweek last month related to the Ambruzzi hearings,” he said, referring to a recent, widely covered political scandal involving the governor of New Jersey. “The guy’s a real bulldog. The article mentioned he had a son serving in one of the Bureau’s specialized units. Either way, I’ll pass the name along to Walt, make sure he gets in touch with him.”

  He settled onto the couch for a time, catching Mia up on the daily travails at the newspaper before announcing he should get going. Twice divorced, Grayson lived alone and had a widely known practice of going to bed with the proverbial chickens in order to make it into the paper by his customary 6:00 a.m.