Edge of Midnight

by Leslie Tentler

  “Thanks for coming by,” she said, walking him to the door. “But you really didn’t have to.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mia. I did.” Grayson closed the scant distance between them, his expression solemn as he gazed at her. He swallowed nervously.

  “I had to, for me,” he said softly. Reaching out, he tucked a few strands of her newly shortened hair behind one ear.

  Feeling her stomach give an awkward little flip, Mia whispered his name, uncertain as to what he was about to do. But he pressed a chaste, almost fatherly kiss against her forehead.

  “I just feel fortunate to have you back, that’s all. Almost losing you…it’s given me a lot to think about.”

  She recalled what Will had said earlier that day. Eighteen years her senior, Grayson was her mentor, as well as her boss. He had given her the break she’d needed to advance from the lifestyles pages to crimes. Mia was one of only a handful of female reporters covering hard news at the Courier, not to mention the youngest by nearly a decade. Grayson’s guidance, as well as his fondness for her, had played a big role. She cared about him, truly, but as a good friend.

  He placed a finger under her chin. “Just think about the therapy thing, all right?”

  She smiled weakly. “Think about giving me my assignment back.”

  After he was gone, Mia sighed and looked around her living room. Their two wineglasses sat side by side on the cocktail table. She left Grayson’s where it was but picked up her own, taking it into the kitchen and refilling it. Liquid courage. She needed it for what she’d been planning to do.

  Carrying the goblet, Mia went into the guest bedroom she had converted into a home office. Her desk was positioned near a large window, its lamp casting a soft glow. The police scanner on the columned bookshelf provided the background noise she needed to focus.

  Sitting in front of the computer, she conducted an internet search on serial murders taking place in Maryland three years earlier, hitting the keys as best she could with her bandaged fingers. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. Within a short time, she’d pulled up a number of archived articles from newspapers in Maryland and D.C. Mia began viewing the stories in chronological order. Eric Macfarlane was mentioned in all of them and quoted in several as the investigation’s lead. His grainy image appeared alongside one particularly substantial piece from the Washington Post, the photo taken at a news conference, according to the accompanying caption. In it, he looked serious and handsome—crisp, short brown hair and squared jaw—the perfect poster boy for the FBI.

  None of the articles provided the detail he had shared with Mia, however. There was nothing about fingernails or hair being taken or numerals carved into the victims’ flesh. The Bureau had done a good job keeping such pivotal facts confidential, and she realized again how far out on a limb he had gone in giving her such information.

  Mia continued reading for the better part of an hour. Upon seeing the link to one of the last remaining pieces, she felt a shock run through her. The headline leaped out from the screen, something she hadn’t expected.

  FBI Agent’s Wife May Be Serial Killer’s Latest Conquest.

  She clicked onto the link.

  In a stunning twist in the serial murder investigation plaguing FBI and local law enforcement, Rebecca Macfarlane, age thirty-three, wife of FBI agent Eric Macfarlane, disappeared from the couple’s Bethesda home on Wednesday evening. A Bureau representative who spoke on the condition of anonymity confirmed foul play is suspected based on evidence at the scene. Agent Macfarlane, part of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit, is team leader on the case that so far involves the abduction and murders of four other women in the metro area. He is also the son of U.S. associate attorney general Richard Macfarlane. Agent Macfarlane has stepped down from the investigation pending the outcome of a three-state search…

  She read the rest of the article. A follow-up story with a dateline of a few days later recounted the heartbreaking discovery of Rebecca Macfarlane’s body.

  Mia sat at her desk for several moments, coming to terms with the realization that Eric Macfarlane was even more invested than she’d realized. She wondered if his connections had allowed him to be reassigned to a case in which he had become very deeply, personally involved.

  A burst of activity on the police scanner broke through her thoughts, the voice of a female dispatcher directing units to a waterside area at Yellow Bluff Fort Historic State Park. Mia knew the shorthand codes—the ten-fifty-five indicated a dead body. The location was the park’s northeast boat ramp.

  “Patrol units in the vicinity are requested for crime scene containment. Responding officers should be aware the site has been given federal jurisdiction…”

  The state park was a half-hour away.

  She wasn’t supposed to be on the job. Not to mention, the abductions were no longer her assignment. Mia paced her office before heading back into the living room, driven by the need to know if one of the missing women had been found. The body could be anyone—an unrelated murder or even a fisherman who had fallen into the water and drowned. But the fact that the FBI was there increased the likelihood it was Pauline Berger or Cissy Cox. Locating her purse, car keys and JSO-issued press card, Mia set her security system and left the apartment.

  She wasn’t certain if her press credentials would have any credence with the Bureau, but she had to try.

  Pulling her Volvo onto the darkened street, Eric Macfarlane’s words echoed inside her head. You got away. Those women didn’t.

  5

  The decomposing body of a female lay near the water in an unzipped body bag, shielded from view by a partially raised canvas. Eric stood nearby with his hands on his jeans-clad hips, his heart heavy as he squinted against the harsh mobile lights set up by Forensics. He breathed through his mouth, the stench nauseating. The corpse had been in the water too long to make a visual ID, but the wet hair matted to the skull was blond, and a portion of a tattoo on the right shoulder—a small, delicate butterfly—was still somewhat visible.

  It was the same as the one Pauline Berger’s husband had described.

  If a numeral had been carved into the abdomen, it was no longer discernible since fish and other aquatic wildlife had been gnawing at the bloated flesh. But the fingernails were all missing, and he suspected the M.E. would find several teeth had been removed, as well. He looked out to where two men in wet suits and scuba gear were raking the floor of the St. Johns River, searching for evidence.

  “A crabber with a spotlight found the body when he went out to check his traps,” Cameron said, joining him near the boat ramp. He nodded in the direction of the crabber, an elderly looking African-American man who stood with several JSO deputies. The man appeared visibly upset by what he’d found.

  “When’s the last time he checked his traps?” Eric asked.

  “He says two days ago.”

  A rope around the corpse’s abdomen indicated it had been anchored with some type of weight to keep it from surfacing, but it had somehow broken free. Based on the decomposition, Eric estimated she’d been dead for about a week. The putrefaction was advanced but warm water tended to speed up the process.

  “I’m guessing this isn’t the original dump site, since the body’s been moved downstream by the current,” Cameron noted. “Still, it probably wasn’t too far from here since the St. Johns has a decline of only about an inch per mile. It’s one of the slowest moving rivers anywhere.”

  Eric’s T-shirt was damp from the humidity and a mosquito buzzed near his ear. He looked around the crime scene, which was one of organized chaos. Squad cars from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office blocked the entrance to the boat ramp’s gravel parking lot, their lights flashing into the tar-black sky. Crime scene specialists went about their jobs while deputies controlled the area, waving on the civilian vehicles that had slowed out of curiosity on the adjacent road. Several FBI field agents were there, as well—men who Eric was supposed to meet officially the follow
ing morning. Detectives Boyet and Scofield stood nearby, conferring with the deputy who had been the first responder to the 9-1-1 call.

  “We could drag the water upstream and see what turns up,” Cameron suggested as they moved farther from the corpse. Behind them, the river glistened like wet obsidian. “We can have a larger dive team out here in the morning.”

  Eric nodded his assent. “I’d like to have deputies perform a grid search of the land around here, also. Until daybreak, keep the area sealed off.”

  “I’ll coordinate with Boyet…” Cameron paused as he looked off toward the road. “I don’t believe it.”

  Eric followed his gaze. Mia Hale stood on the periphery with two deputies, obviously trying to talk her way up to the barricade. He called, “Let her through.”

  Walking over, he took her arm and shuttled her a few steps from the crowd. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard on the police scanner—a ten-fifty-five with federal jurisdiction.” Her brown eyes appeared pained as they moved from Eric’s face to the raised canvas that sat about thirty feet away. He could see the shallow rise and fall of her chest. “Is it one of the missing women?”

  “We don’t have a positive ID yet,” he said gently. “The body’s been in the water for a while. We’ll know more following the medical examiner’s autopsy.”

  Mia held her press card in her injured hand, although a reporter for the Jacksonville Courier was already there. When she saw where Eric’s gaze had fallen, she explained, “I’m not here in a professional capacity. I…just had to…”

  She halted, her voice sounding frayed.

  “Come inside.” Eric placed his hand on her back, guiding her into the containment area. Allowing media to enter was rare, and he noticed Cameron watching as he escorted her closer.

  “I—I need to see her.”

  He felt a wave of guilt as he allowed her to walk to the other side of the raised canvas. Eric let her take the remaining steps alone. She looked down and he saw her features go slack, her eyes filling with sympathy and horror. Retreating, she covered her nose and mouth with the inside of her right forearm in an attempt to defuse the odor.

  “You really shouldn’t be here, Ms. Hale,” Cameron said, reaching her. Eric stepped in.

  “I’ll take her back to her car.”

  Cameron’s questioning gaze met Eric’s as he passed her over. Appearing pale, Mia walked stiffly beside him in silence, and he cleared their way through the dense line of deputies. The reporter from the Courier called out to her, but she ignored him and continued on until they reached an older-model Volvo that was parked farther down along the shoulder of the road. Eric observed a miniature Indian dream catcher hanging from her rearview mirror.

  “The blond hair,” she whispered. “It’s Pauline Berger, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t respond, instead asking, “Are you okay to drive home?”

  Mia gave a faint nod. She still wore the skimpy tank top and cargo pants she’d had on earlier, although he noticed that she’d pulled her dark, glossy hair into a short ponytail. They were far enough from the crime scene that the faint chirp of cicadas could be heard coming from the woods. A van passed them on the side of the road with the call letters of a local television station printed on its side. Eric realized it was only a matter of time now before the story broke wide-open, before a reporter made the official leap from kidnapper to a serial killer at large.

  “Are you going to give a statement to Walt?”

  He knew she was referring to her coworker at the paper. “Agent Vartran spoke to him earlier. He confirmed only that a female body had been found.”

  She took a tense breath, appearing to gather her courage. “I want to try the memory retrieval therapy… I’d like to start as soon as possible.”

  The determination in her eyes was mixed with a vulnerability that made him feel guiltier. He’d known the feelings seeing the body would evoke, but he badly needed her help. “You’re sure about this?”

  “I want this bastard caught, Agent Macfarlane—”

  “It’s Eric,” he said quietly. Their gazes held for a long moment, until he moved closer and opened the driver’s side door for her. He briefly touched her upper arm, wanting her to know she would have his support.

  “I’ll contact Dr. Wilhelm at the NAS in the morning,” he said. “I’ll be in touch. Go straight home, all right?”

  She nodded and slid inside the vehicle. Eric closed the door. He remained rooted in place until she had driven off into the night.

  As a reporter, Mia had been exposed to dead bodies before, in countless photos as well as crime scenes where she had caught glimpses of death from behind the police barricades. But it was Pauline Berger’s water-ravaged corpse that would remain branded in her mind forever. The woman’s facial features had putrefied; her eyes were missing, the bones protruding from where her right cheek should have been. Mia’s hands tightened on the Volvo’s steering wheel.

  It could have been me.

  She wondered if Eric Macfarlane had seen his wife’s body—desecrated, lying somewhere like discarded, spoiling meat. The possibility sickened her. As apprehensive as she was about the experimental therapy, tonight had made up her mind. If there was even a chance she could remember something that might be of use…

  She traveled across the Fuller Warren Bridge headed back to San Marco. The St. Johns flowed beneath her, the same languid body of water that had given up Pauline Berger’s remains on the other side of the city. As she passed under the bridge’s steady sequence of overhanging lights, she glimpsed brief reflections of herself in the windshield. Even in the faint mirror image, she saw her mother’s Spanish and Portuguese heritage tempered by her father’s delicate Welsh genes. They were the only things her parents had ever really given her, other than life.

  Mia also saw fear in her eyes and she tried hard to squash it down.

  The traffic had been heavy on the bridge, but it began to thin as she made her way into San Marco. She turned onto Atlantic Boulevard, traveling past picturesque Balis Park with its fountains and moss-draped live oaks that comprised the heart of the square. White lights had been strung up around the vintage bandstand in preparation for a weekend arts crawl. At least here she was on familiar ground.

  As she went deeper into the residential side streets, Mia noticed the headlights of another car trailing behind her. For a time they seemed to be the only two cars on the road. She didn’t think much of it until the vehicle made all the same turns she did, three in all. Watching in her rearview mirror, she noticed that it seemed to keep a consistent distance even when she decelerated or sped up.

  Her nerves were on edge, she knew that. Still, she tried to get a look at the vehicle, but it was difficult to make out much through the hard glare of its headlights. On Alhambra Avenue, Mia pulled into the shadowy, circular driveway in front of her apartment building.

  The car never passed by on the street.

  She felt a tingle of panic. Hulking camellia shrubs at the property’s rim made it impossible to see if the automobile had turned off somewhere, or whether it had killed its lights and was sitting there, its occupant waiting for her to emerge. Despite the air-conditioning, perspiration broke out on her skin.

  Will and Justin’s residence was on the ground floor. Making an impulse decision, Mia pressed on the Volvo’s horn and began flashing its high beams. As lights came on in the apartment in response, she saw a car go past. It was a compact, four-door sedan, dark in color. Innocuous-looking. Was it the one she thought had been following her? She couldn’t tell for certain. Tall, swaying palm trees obscured the streetlight.

  Startled, she cried out at the sudden knock on the driver’s side window. Will peered at her through the glass, wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants. Black-haired Justin was behind him, dressed only in jeans and wielding a wooden baseball bat.

  “Mia, what the hell?” Will pulled her from the car as she unlocked and opened the door.

  “I’m sorry.�
� Her knees felt shaky. “I…I thought someone was following me.”

  “Were they?” With a worried expression, Justin moved around the car and glanced out on the street.

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. I’m not sure.” Mia passed a hand over her face, rattled and increasingly uncertain. “I went to a crime scene. I think I probably just spooked myself, that’s all.”

  Will shook his head in rebuke. “Tell me you’re not already back to work.”

  “No. And I don’t want to explain it right now, okay?”

  He and Justin exchanged a look. As the two men walked her upstairs, Mia glanced back over her shoulder. The night was quiet. Peaceful. Feeling skittery and foolish, she began to believe it really was only her overactive imagination.

  6

  The team meeting scheduled for Friday morning at the Florida Bureau offices in Baymeadows had been moved to the sandy riverbank of the St. Johns. Five hours later, however, neither the water nor land search had turned up anything of relevance. Eric watched as the deputies who had helped with the grid-by-grid walk-through began loading into their cars.

  “The divers will be out here another two to three hours.” Cameron approached from his car, a bottled water in hand. He’d been upstream overseeing the dragging efforts while Eric supervised activities in the more immediate area where the body had been found. Like the other agents, both men wore chinos and T-shirts in the humid conditions. Eric felt perspiration roll down his back, the sun hot on his shoulders. The team had been taking breaks under a tarp that provided shade, or by briefly ducking into their air-conditioned vehicles.

  “Any word from the psychiatrist at the NAS?” Cameron asked. Eric had told him about the experimental therapy.