He just had to figure out the right way to go about doing that.
Tomorrow, he’d call her, if for no other reason than simply to hear her voice.
And then he’d call his mother.
Genna stood in the doorway that opened onto Patsy’s deck, her hands on her hips, watching Patsy instruct her new friend and next-door neighbor, Nancy, on the finer points of tying a fly onto the shank of a fishhook. An avid fisher all her life, Patsy simply could not resist seeking a convert to her favorite pastime. When Nancy commented that she’d never gone fishing, Patsy proceeded to plan their day around when the bass might be striking in the lake.
“. . . and of course we practice catch and release,” Genna overheard Patsy tell Nancy.
“What exactly does that mean?” Nancy raised a well-penciled brow that arched over very blue eyes.
“It means that after we catch the fish, we take great pains not to injure it while we remove the hook so that we can let it go.”
“And why might we do that?”
“It’s a way of protecting the species, a way of ensuring that there will be lots of big fish, not just small immature ones, in the lake or stream.”
“So why bother?” Nancy shook her flawless blond page boy.
“For the sport of it.”
“Hmmph. If it’s sport I want, I’ll go to the track and bet on the ponies. If I spend all day chasing after a fish, I expect to eat it.”
Genna smiled and stepped back into the cool of the cottage. Outside the debate continued, and Genna was glad for it. How wonderful that Patsy had someone closer to her own age to do things with. Although Genna wasn’t altogether certain that Nancy and Patsy were totally on the same wavelength.
For one thing, Genna observed through the window as she rummaged in her purse looking for her cell phone, in their two brief meetings, in spite of her more athletic bearing, Nancy had impressed Genna as being more, well, girly than Patsy ever was, with her carefully manicured nails, and carefully made up face. Two, Nancy seemed to favor long, gentle summer skirts over the shorts and slacks that Patsy lived in. Where Patsy was barely five-feet-five and slightly rounded, Nancy was tall, at least five ten, and slender, muscular almost. And while Patsy could keep up a full day’s worth of activities, Nancy seemed to pace herself, preferring to work on her laptop computer while seated on the deck of her rented cabin.
But they do seem to get along just fine, and that’s all that really matters, Genna thought as she finished dialing the number, wondering absently if perhaps she hadn’t met Nancy somewhere before. Was there something about her that stirred something far in the back of Genna’s memory? Her walk perhaps? Genna couldn’t put her finger on it.
But at least she’s good company for Pats and I’m grateful for that. Too bad she’s only here on weekends. . .
“Decker.” The ringing phone had been answered.
“Hi. It’s Genna Snow.”
“Just got off the phone with Lt. Banks up there at the state police barracks.”
“And he told you I was busted by a seven-year-old Amish girl named Rebecca.”
“Yes. Tough break. Though Banks seems to think that the information you gave him will be sufficient for a warrant.”
“I hope they get on with it, then.” Genna bit her bottom lip. “Sir, I have to tell you that I’m not comfortable knowing that the bikers could probably find Patsy if they wanted to. It’s all too easy to put two and two together and come up with Patsy Wheeler.”
“I’ll mention that to Banks and get his word that he’ll keep an eye on her and her cottage even after he makes his arrest.”
“I’d appreciate that. If someone wanted to hurt me. . . well, she’s my most vulnerable spot. And she is pretty much alone here except on weekends when there’s a neighbor next door.”
“I understand. I’ll call him right back.” There was a slight pause, then Decker told her, “I think you should go ahead and take the week off as planned. You’re due. Then come back next Monday and kick ass on this kiddie porn ring. Liddy has come up with a few good leads. I think he’s already e-mailed them to you.”
“I have my laptop with me. I’ll take a look.”
“Do. Ah, it appears my nine-thirty appointment is here. Rest up, Genna Snow. I’ll see you next week.”
Genna turned off the phone and slipped it back into her bag, then plugged her laptop into the phone jack and proceeded to read and send e-mail for almost forty minutes. When she had finished and closed up her computer, she looked out the window, her attention drawn by the sound of shared laughter, Patsy’s like a bell choir, Nancy’s throatier but no less merry as they inspected a bed of brightly colored daylilies that grew along the side of Nancy’s cabin. Genna opened the back door and went out to join them.
“I take it you gave up on fly fishing,” Genna said as she walked the narrow space between the two small houses.
“Not at all.” Patsy shook her head. “We just got off on a tangent about daylilies. Nancy knows a lot about plant propagation and hybridizing and cultivating, so much more than I.”
“Now, Patsy, you look at how much you’ve already taught me about making those little May fly things.”
“Nancy’s a natural at tying flies, Gen. Her fingers are ever so much longer.” Patsy held her hands up for inspection. “Short and stubby doesn’t tie quite as well.”
“Those short stubby fingers have tied thousands of flies over the years, don’t let her fool you, Nancy.”
“I’m not fooled in the least. Anyone could tell that Patsy knows her way around a tackle box.”
“Is that my phone?” Patsy frowned.
Genna turned to the house and listened.
“It is,” she said, taking long strides to the steps, which she took two at a time. “I’ll get it.”
“Thank you, honey. You know,” she turned to Nancy as they followed Genna at a slower pace, “I keep meaning to get an answering machine, but every time I go into town, I forget to pick one up. . .”
Genna was pacing the length and width of the small kitchen, then into the living room as far as the wall-mounted phone would reach, when the two women came into the cottage. She was speaking in a soft voice, and the slightest hint of a smile played about her lips.
When Patsy pointed to the phone and made an inquiring gesture, Genna put one hand over the receiver and whispered, “It’s John.”
“Oh.” Patsy brightened, then turned to Nancy and asked, “Iced tea?”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
Humming as she filled three glasses partly with ice, then with tea from a pitcher in the kitchen, Patsy tried her best to pretend that she wasn’t at all interested in Genna’s conversation, though of course, she was. She handed Genna a glass of tea and took the others into the living room where she and Nancy sat and talked in hushed voices so as not to disturb Genna. When the phone had been returned to its cradle, however, Patsy called to her and asked, “How is John?”
“He’s fine.”
“Was he calling from the office?”
“He’s in Delaware.”
“Oh. Is he working on the headless women case?” Patsy called into the kitchen. “I saw on the national news the other day that they found another headless body and that they had called in the FBI.”
“Yes, John is there.” Genna leaned against the doorway.
“Patsy told me that your boyfriend is some kind of special investigator for the FBI. I’m so impressed. . .”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Genna made a point to tell Nancy, who sped right past her.
“. . . to know someone who knows someone like that. I saw a show on cable not two weeks ago about how the FBI can create these profiles on serial killers.” Nancy turned to Patsy. “It’s uncanny, how they can tell so much about a person with so little to go on. And so often, they’re right on the money! Why, they went over all the details on this one case, and they had this man pegged to a T.”
“It’s true, it seems uncanny, bu
t it’s really not at all random. There’s very little guesswork involved.”
“Now, what does your boyfriend work on when there are no serial killer cases?” Nancy asked.
“There’s always another serial killer,” Genna told her. “Most serial killers are never caught. They travel, they move around. They get lucky or they are very careful. They die of natural causes and are never found out for what they really are. But most of them are never caught until they do something stupid or predictable.”
“Well, then, tell me. . .” Nancy leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.
“Nope. No more.” Patsy shook her head vehemently. “I refuse to waste any more of my day talking about serial killers and crazies.”
Patsy stood up and waved all the ugly thoughts away with one sweep of her hand.
“Now. Who’s ready to do a little fishing?”
6
The evening lights in the parking lot had just come on when the shadow appeared at the top of the steps. The concrete stairs led down to a path that served as a shortcut through a small park to the housing development beyond. Off to the right was a stream, and beyond the stream, a golf course. The man standing at the top of the steps knew every blade of grass and stone between the parking lot and the houses, between the park and the stream and the golf course.
Who was it who had once said that the man who would meet with the most success was the man who had the best information?
He smiled, knowing he had done all he could, was as well prepared as he could ever hope to be. For the past several days, he’d followed her—from a safe enough distance, of course—to learn her routine. Once he knew her daily route, he made certain that she encountered him several times under the most benign circumstances, catching her eye and smiling somewhat absently. And the route, well, it couldn’t be more perfect. There was hardly ever foot traffic here at this time of the day. Those who habitually chose to park not in the lot but along the street at the edge of the woods were long gone. Of those souls who lived in the development and worked for the university—a mere six people—well, five of them had already gone home, as he’d known they would. For the past three days, he’d been watching them, too. And other than his nondescript dark blue van, there were no other cars parked along the woods.
And by now, she was so accustomed to seeing him, that she’d barely notice him at all.
All so that when he came to take her, she would not be alarmed at his approach.
He’d rehearsed this night so often in his mind, there was surely no way he could fail. The key to success, he’d once heard, was to be able to imagine oneself actually doing whatever it was one wanted to do.
God knew that he’d imagined the scene over and over and over again.
In his mind’s eye, he’d walked toward her—past her—making brief but casual eye contact, as he had done over the past several days. Looking just like everyone else did, his hands in the pockets of his jeans (where he could caress the switchblade, but she, of course, wouldn’t know that). Walking not too quickly, not too slowly—purposeful, but distracted so she would have no sense of dread. Then, after he’d passed her, he’d spin around and grab her from behind, and before she could scream, he’d have her unconscious.
He closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath, letting it all play out in his head. He could see himself carrying her the short distance to the shallow stream, then across it and up the bank to the golf course. Where they’d play and play and play until he didn’t feel like playing anymore.
And Darlene Myers would pay him back, minute by agonizing minute, for her part in what he’d gone through for all those years. And even then, he wouldn’t be quite finished with her.
7
Genna couldn’t help but have mixed feelings about the part she had played in the arrest of the Frick boys on drug trafficking and possession charges. The case marked the first time since the Amish had migrated to that part of the state years before that any member of that community had been charged with a major crime. There was virtually no juvenile delinquency, unless you counted the buggy races on Saturday evenings, or the stealing of a kiss behind a barn.
And Patsy, of course, had known right away, the minute the story broke on Thursday afternoon, that Genna’s hand had been in it. She looked at Genna from across the living room after turning on the five o’clock news that had led with film of the police van driving down the dirt road on their way to the farmhouse, and said, “I doubt I’ll ever be able to face Mrs. Frick again.”
“I’m sorry, Patsy. The boys were in way over their heads. Now they’ll have to pay the consequences. It’s unfortunate, yes, but it was their choice.”
“How do you suppose those bike people got to them? How did they get those boys to even experiment with drugs?”
“I guess it will all come out, sooner or later. I don’t know the details, Pats. My only involvement was as an observer.”
“When we went to buy eggs.” Patsy shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “The day you bought the baby quilt. . .”
Genna nodded.
“Well, I guess someone had to put a stop to it. It’s so sad, though.” Patsy sighed. “Mrs. Frick told me once that when she moved out here with her husband, she was a young wife with two small children. One of the reasons they came here was to escape the encroachment of the modern world into their lives. To protect their children. I wonder what she thinks now. . .”
Genna reached over and took Patsy’s hand.
“I’m sorry that your friend was hurt, Pats. But it had to be done.”
“Oh, honey, I don’t blame you. I just know that Mrs. Frick will be so bewildered by everything that will come next. The trial. If they’re convicted, they’ll go to prison. And that’s just no place for a young Amish boy.” Patsy shuddered slightly, then turned to Genna and said without emotion, “But this was why you came this week. It wasn’t just a vacation. And now that the arrest has been made, you’ll leave.”
“Decker knows that I come here as often as I can. He did ask me to take a few days and just take a look around the farm and see what I could see. Unofficially, of course. I did that.” She paused for a second before adding, “I think you should consider going back to Tanner for a while, at least until the locals are certain that they have taken everyone into custody who’s been involved in this.”
Patsy looked at Genna as if she’d spoken in a foreign tongue.
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“The bikers saw me at the farm. It wouldn’t be difficult to find this cottage, or to find me if anyone took it into their head to look.”
“Why would anyone make a connection between you and this?” She pointed to the television.
“Because sweet little Rebecca Frick identified me as an FBI agent right in front of them.”
“Oh.” Patsy’s face folded into a frown. “That is unfortunate. She may have been standing on the porch when Mrs. Frick asked me what you were up to these days, and I told her. But what does that have to do with me?”
“We’re pretty isolated over on this end of the lake. Except for old Mr. Corbin, who is deaf as a stone, and the MacKenzie’s across the road, you’re all alone here during the week.”
“So?”
“Don’t play dumb, Pats.”
“You think someone is going to come after you and mistake me for you? Ha. Not on my best day.”
“Don’t make light of this, please.”
“I’m not making light of it. But if everyone’s in jail, then there’s no one to come looking for you, now, is there?”
“Just for a few weeks, Pats. Till we find out if they make bail—”
“They won’t make bail.” Patsy pointed to the television again. “They just said that the judge was expected to set bail at a big number.”
“I’d still be happier if you weren’t here alone.”
“I’ll call my sister Connie and see if she can take some time off, maybe spend a week or so, if it makes you feel better. A
nd you’ll be here, at least until Nancy arrives tomorrow. But I’m not worried, honey. Don’t you be.”
“I can’t help it, Patsy. I love you.”
Patsy squeezed Genna’s hand again, holding it longer this time.
“I love you, too, Genna. You’re the child of my heart.”
There was more Patsy could have said, but the lump rising in her throat blocked out any other words that might have been spoken. But Genna knew. It was all there in Patsy’s eyes.
“And you’re my fairy godmother.” Genna smiled gently and reached out to touch the older woman’s face. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”
“Nothing will,” Patsy assured her. “Now. No more glum talk. Let’s go out for dinner. The Methodist church over in Parsons is having their annual fish fry tonight, and I’d hate to miss it. I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get ready, no more.”
Patsy absently straightened the kitchen while she waited for Genna to duck into the shower and wash off that lake water she’d spent the afternoon swimming in. Patsy wasn’t about to be scared into running back to Tanner. She’d spent every summer of her life right here, at Bricker’s Lake, and she’d be damned if some little biker-boy with an attitude was going to change that. Besides, Genna worried too much.
Of course, she would call Connie, as she’d promised Genna she’d do, but Patsy was more concerned about Genna’s safety than she was about her own. After all, it had been Genna, not Patsy, who’d given information that led to this morning’s arrests. Genna, not Patsy, who was known to be an FBI agent. Genna, not Patsy, who’d be the most likely target for retaliation.
Patsy tapped her fingers on the counter, debating, then picked up the phone. Genna was just starting to dry her hair. Plenty of time for Patsy to put a call to her nephew, Brian, who was now with the state attorney general’s office and still had connections within the state police. It wouldn’t hurt to let him know what was going on. And if Brian felt she—or Genna—needed someone watching out for them, he’d be sure to let them know. He’d arrange it himself. Patsy didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of him sooner.
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