Eric thought of the unsub out hunting that same night. “Did you see the vehicle?”
“No. Mia decided she’d freaked herself out and imagined the whole thing. Maybe she did. She was embarrassed about it, but also pretty shook up. I realized then how much all of this is getting to her.”
A short time later, Will said good-night and went inside. As Eric opened the door to his car, his gaze returned briefly to the building’s second floor. He wondered why Mia hadn’t told him about the possibility she’d been followed. The nighttime breeze had died away, leaving a dead quiet around him.
He couldn’t shake the feeling it was the calm before the storm.
11
A crushed sleeping pill in her evening tea ensured Gladys would sleep through the night. Allan made a practice of giving it to her bedside, in a chamomile blend with honey that masked any unpleasant aftertaste. By ten o’clock, she was typically snoring like a logger, giving him freedom to do whatever he desired without the guilt trips or prying questions.
He felt no remorse about it, really. He was a good son who’d come home to care for her.
Besides, Gladys needed her rest.
Tonight, he had retired to his workshop in the pinewoods. He sat at the metal-topped table, pill bottles lined up in front of him like attentive schoolboys. Allan scanned them until he found what he was looking for—the one with Rebecca printed neatly on its label. Mastering the childproof lid and tipping the vial sideways, he gently tapped the amber plastic until its contents spilled out with little plinking sounds.
Ten perfect ovals. He felt a thrill course through him.
One could tell how well a woman took care of herself by simply looking at her nails. As a boy, Allan had read this bit of wisdom in a ladies’ fashion magazine. And Rebecca Macfarlane’s nails were exquisite. French manicured, delicate half moons with pristine white at their tips. Each one filed and buffed to faultlessness. He ordered them on the table according to size, reliving his conquest.
Agent Macfarlane had been on the news that morning, giving an official Bureau statement. Allan watched it with Gladys over breakfast. Or at least he had watched it—she’d been too busy complaining about the oatmeal he had prepared. Even in the stifling Florida heat, Macfarlane had appeared cool and composed, handsome in a well-cut, dark suit. He’d aged somewhat over the past three years, but if anything he only seemed more settled into his looks. The faint lines fanning from the corners of his eyes revealed he had his battle scars. Allan liked knowing he’d been the one to put them there.
Ad victorem spolias. To the victor go the spoils.
Picking up the vial again, he tapped it a little harder and two white, enameled kernels at the bottom fell out. Pearly molars. No cavities, of course. She had also taken exceptional care of her teeth.
Allan touched all the remnants of Rebecca once more before carefully sliding them back into the vial and returning it to his collection. His eyes moved across the labels in front of him, bearing the others’ names. The last one said simply Mia.
He shook it once, heard the thin, disappointing rattle inside it. A sullen curve formed on his mouth.
Mia was an acronym, he’d realized. Missing in action.
A muffled moan rose above the hum of the window-box air conditioner, capturing his attention. Good. She was coming around. He’d timed the drug so she would be waking now, when Gladys and her flea-infested mutt were snoozing and his night was only beginning. He enjoyed spending time with his girls.
“I hope you had a pleasant sleep.”
Anna Lynn Gomez blinked at him, her dark eyes glassy and filled with fear. It had been so easy to strike up a conversation with her in the parking lot.
She struggled—gagged, helpless, her bloodied hands bound above her head and shackled to a hook in the cinder-block wall. Allan had only taken four nails so far. He liked to space the extractions out, giving them both something to look forward to.
He picked up a hammer from his workbench, gripping it in his right hand for emphasis. Her stifled cry in response gave him satisfaction. He snacked on her terror like junk food. “I’m going to free you for a little while—to eat and take care of necessities. You understand what I’ll be forced to do if you misbehave?”
He’d made her a turkey-and-Swiss sandwich in the kitchen, which sat on the workbench on one of Gladys’s fine china plates. No paper. It was the least he could do. “I hope you’re going to have more of an appetite tonight. You have to keep up your strength—you’re only hurting yourself by being finicky.”
Anna Lynn’s throat convulsed. She was pretty enough, but at the end of the day she made a poor substitute. An inferior replacement for the petite brunette he’d had in mind. Finding her again had made him think life was more than just a series of unrelated, random events. And then she’d slipped through his fingers.
Allan untied his captive.
“I do have some good news for you, my dear,” he said as the young woman shrank from him. “If things work out, you’re going to be getting a roommate soon.”
12
It was just after eight on Sunday morning. Eric stood in the Bureau offices, a large corkboard behind him bearing an investigational time line and the missing women’s photos. The briefing room held two-dozen sheriff’s deputies, detectives and field agents.
“The man we’re looking for is Caucasian, probably a college graduate, although it’s likely he’s never held a career position due to his disdain for supervision and authority,” Eric said, hitting the highlights of the VCU’s behavioral profile. “While he’s a loner socially, he has the ability to present a temporary, superficial charm that’s aided him in getting close to some of his victims. He’s also highly organized and compulsively neat, something that carries into his personal grooming.”
“The women so far haven’t been raped?” The question came from another agent.
Cameron answered. “Medical exams of the bodies, both in Maryland and here in the case of Pauline Berger, have been negative or inconclusive, the latter due to tissue destruction caused by environmental factors. The rape kit completed on the escaped abductee last week showed no evidence. No semen, bruising or trauma.”
“Maybe he just never got around to it—she got away first,” a detective commented as he poured coffee into a foam cup from one of the carafes placed around the room.
“It’s believed the unsub lacks any real sexual interest in women,” Eric explained. “Still, he objectifies them and enjoys playing God over them—it makes him feel dominant in a world he otherwise feels unimportant in.”
“If he’s not into sex, why take just women?”
“They’re smaller and easier to control, for one. It’s also possible he has some latent hostility against a female in his life, probably an older relative who held power over him in childhood.”
The detective took a sip from his cup. “Most serial killers are between eighteen and thirty-two. What about this guy?”
Mia had recalled seeing the unsub’s eyes in her rearview mirror. Eric said, “I’m estimating he’s older. Early to mid-forties. The reality is that he may have been killing for a while, maybe even for most of his life, but with enough time between murders to stay under the radar. It’s his recent spree behavior and increasingly compulsive need to repeat patterns—taking specific souvenirs and numbering his victims—that have put him in the VCU’s spotlight.”
The discussion moved to investigative field strategies, including a crackdown on area chop shops in hopes the unsub had been using the operations to unload stolen cars. As the group dispersed a short time later, Eric spoke briefly with Detectives Boyet and Scofield before joining Cameron in the hallway.
“Deputies are in the abduction area, handing out flyers with Ms. Gomez’s photo,” he said. “It’s also running on electronic billboards along I-95.”
“Prepare for false sightings,” Cameron noted cynically as they went down the corridor. He checked his wristwatch. “We’ve got interviews continuing
at noon.”
Eric nodded, knowing he was referring to workers at the Bargain-Mart, as well as technicians from the security company that had installed the store’s cameras. Background checks were ongoing, but so far no one stood out.
“In the meantime, one of the vice detectives mentioned a pawnshop on Union.” Cam sidestepped a group of deputies conversing in the lobby. “A guy there named Big Al has been known to receive stolen electronics, including GPS systems and high-end stereo equipment from cars. I’m going to drop in on him. Want to come along?”
“You think it’s open?”
“Seven to seven, seven days a week.” He stopped in the elevator bay. “Let’s go by my office first, though. I need to grab a few files.”
Cameron’s third-floor office had a large window with a view of the plaza and parking lot below. Eric waited as Cameron went to his desk, pausing at his stacked in-box. Flipping through its contents, he frowned. “When the hell did this come in?”
He held up the small, bulging envelope carefully by one edge. The neat handwriting on the package’s front gave Eric a bad sense of déjà vu. It was addressed to him.
He had wondered when they would begin to arrive.
“It must’ve come in with yesterday’s mail.” Cam shook his head. “The Saturday admin staff probably dropped it off in here when we were out. That’s not protocol—they should’ve called.”
“Do you have gloves?”
He located a box of latex gloves in a credenza and handed over a pair. Eric put them on and took the envelope, not that he expected there to be any prints. He sat and opened it, sliding out the thin, palm-size device nestled in Bubble Wrap.
“You’re sure it’s not rigged to explode?” Cameron sounded as if he were only half joking.
Eric removed the wrap from around the digital recorder. It was the cheap kind, only worth about twenty dollars and available at any mass-retail chain or office supply store. He had four more just like them, stored in the VCU evidence room back in D.C. He drew in a tense breath and clicked the play button.
Hearing the tinny voice emanating from the recorder was like stepping back into a nightmare.
“It looks as though I’ve brought you all the way down to sunny Florida, Agent Macfarlane. As long as you’re here, I hope you’re taking the opportunity to enjoy our beaches and local attractions,” the man on the audio said. “I trust you’ve been well, although I’m sure the past few years have been rather difficult ones for you…”
Anger and emotion tightened Eric’s throat as the man chuckled, obviously enjoying himself.
“I never had a chance to tell you how sorry I was for your loss. I considered sending a sympathy card, but they can be so trite. Please accept my condolences now. She was a lovely woman…I’d know, wouldn’t I?”
He heard Cameron’s soft curse beside him.
“Well, now that we have that awkward business out of the way, shall we move to the matter at hand?”
The recording lapsed into dead air before the unsub spoke again.
“What is your name?”
A female answered, her voice quavering. “I—I told you. It’s Pauline…Pauline Berger! Please don’t hurt me anymore! I—I just want to go home.”
She sobbed. “I have children! If it’s money you want, my husband’s well-off—he’ll pay you!”
As she continued to plead, Eric felt Pauline’s hysteria wrap around him. There were sounds of movement, struggling, on the audio. His heart began to beat harder.
“No, please!”
He heard her last, terrified protests, her words becoming thick and garbled as something was stuffed into her mouth.
A short time later, the muffled screams began.
Déjà fucking vu.
“Jesus,” Cameron whispered roughly.
Eric passed a hand over his eyes, forcing himself to continue listening as Pauline Berger was savagely beaten. The recording went on for several more minutes, a frenzied cacophony of choked sobs and shrieks drowned out by a cloth or ball gag. He had never been sure which one, at least not until Mia’s memory recall. The final sound of something heavy, hitting hard against bone, sickened him. Then Pauline was silenced, the recorder picking up only the man’s heavy breathing and a diffused, faint whimper. Eric’s trained ears could make out the sound of another female in the background. He knew what to listen for by now. He shut off the device and stood.
“An audio tech can amplify the sound in the background, but it’s Cissy Cox,” he said hoarsely. “He had her watching.”
Cameron’s face appeared ashen. “Based on your theory, Pauline Berger was dead before you even arrived, Eric. How—”
“The recording was made previously. He put in the intro after the fact and mailed it.”
Cameron stared worriedly at him. “As soon as he learned you were down here.”
He didn’t have to say more. The recording eliminated any last shred of doubt that the unsub here and in Maryland were one and the same. Eric rubbed the back of his neck.
It was clear The Collector wanted to pick up where they’d left off three years ago.
Another dream had awakened Mia, a replay of the one she’d experienced two days earlier. In it, the little red-haired girl had clasped her hand as the blue hatchback cruised past them on the neighborhood street. And just like before, Mia had bolted awake when the car began to back up. Dr. Wilhelm had called the dream emblematic—a comingling of her childhood trauma with the more current one she’d endured. Being careful with her injured fingers, she slid on a pair of denim cutoffs over the one-piece swimsuit she wore.
Whatever it was, she just wanted the disturbing vision to stop.
Locking her apartment and heading downstairs, she tossed her beach bag into the Volvo and climbed in after it. The decision to head to the beach had been an impromptu one. The sand and rolling waves, the seagulls fishing along the shore—it always had a calming effect on her. Not to mention, the other Sunday beachgoers would ensure she wasn’t alone. It seemed like a good way to spend her last day before returning to work.
Mia had watched the morning news. Unfortunately, there had been no updates on Anna Lynn Gomez, and she wondered if Eric was still in the task force briefing he’d mentioned the previous night. She glanced at the striped canvas bag on the passenger seat, which contained her wallet and a water bottle, suntan lotion, a paperback she’d been reading and her cell phone. She wanted to call him. But she instead switched on the car radio.
Leaving San Marco, she had intended to take one of the roads stretching eastward to the coast, then travel south until she reached Vilano Beach, which was a bit farther down but was the one she preferred. Her thoughts swarming, however, she drove on autopilot until she realized she was headed in the exact opposite direction—inland, not southeast but northwest. A pang struck her hard in the chest as Mia realized where her subconscious was guiding her. She struggled with whether to continue following its lead.
Even more, she wondered if she would even be able to find the old house.
Driving up the interstate for nearly ten miles, she got off at the Edgewater exit, aware of the general area where Miss Cathy’s foster care home had been located. The recent dreams made its image—white siding and black shutters, an overgrown magnolia tree in the front yard—especially vivid. She also remembered that Miss Cathy’s had been close to a school as the children would sometimes pass the day there on its playground.
Tourists were encouraged to avoid certain areas northwest of the city. Some neighborhoods had fallen into disrepair, and it wasn’t an area for sightseeing. Mia’s experience with crime scenes meant she was relatively comfortable going into questionable territory. Still, she worried about the wisdom of this particular journey but kept driving, her eyes scanning the residential street signs for something that might stand out to her. A few minutes later, she felt her stomach dip as she saw the chain-link fence that enclosed the playground she recalled. It appeared unused and unkempt now, with its merry-go-rou
nd and seesaw peeking out through tall weeds. The school itself was closed, a no-trespassing sign on its redbrick front. She was close. Her heartbeat began to speed up.
Three streets over, the two-story house with a wide front porch loomed in front of her on a corner lot. The magnolia was still there, although half of it was brown and dead, and the home itself appeared abandoned. The black shutters were gone, the windows boarded over. An ominous gang symbol marred its peeling siding.
Mia parked the car against the curb. She sat and stared at the structure for several long moments, emotion welling inside her.
Face your fears.
Taking a breath, she grabbed her canvas bag and got out, walking up to the front lawn. It was more dirt than grass now, and patches of overgrowth remained where Miss Cathy’s flower garden had been. Broken beer bottles were scattered on the porch. Mia felt a coldness despite the heat of the midmorning sun on her bare shoulders.
Why had she come here? Maybe she was still attempting to make some sense of the unsettling dream. Trying to prove to herself the red-haired girl never existed. But standing in the neglected yard, all she felt was foolish and alone. A sense of betrayal and abandonment, as strong as it had been when she was a child, fell over her. Mia took another long look at the dilapidated house, then turned back to her car. The sound of a barking dog came from farther down the street, and sirens wailed not too far off in the distance.
Reaching the curb, the air left her lungs.
The powder-blue hatchback rolled slowly past her, its engine rumbling and exhaust pipe belching black smoke.
This isn’t real, she told herself, trying to control a sudden wave of dizziness.
The car stopped and began backing up. Mia’s heart pounded in time with the vibrating bass beat of its radio. A male hand protruded through the open driver’s-side window, dangling a doll with yellow hair. The vehicle came to a halt again, its brake lights glowing red on the street.
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