Midnight Fear

by Leslie Tentler

  “You might want to see this,” Mitch added.

  Reid accepted a pair of latex gloves, snapped them on and took the bloodstained paper held out to him. The statement on it was written in a loose scrawl.

  I wanted to understand what made him do it. I thought something about it would feel good. It did for a while.

  I’m no better than him.

  “We can have our specialist compare the note against samples of Hunter’s handwriting.” Mitch’s eyes returned to the corpse. “But I think we have our copycat.”

  Reid said nothing. Instead, he stared out through the sliding glass doors, looking at a swing set in the fenced-in backyard. The grass was unmowed and stood nearly a foot high, and a flowerbed held the brown skeletons of summer plants.

  “What?” Mitch asked, lowering his voice. “We’ve got what’s tantamount to a written confession, jewelry belonging to the last victim in his possession—not to mention a knife that might’ve been used in the murders.”

  “You’re right,” Reid agreed.

  “Then why don’t you look satisfied?”

  He released a long breath. David Hunter was unstable and capable of taking his own life, certainly, but despite all the evidence, something kept whispering to Reid that he wasn’t their killer. Ever since the visit to Hunter’s hotel room, he’d been attempting to convince himself of the man’s guilt. But try as he might, something still just didn’t fit. He recalled how the man had confronted Caitlyn and him in the woods. Hunter had trembled and wavered, made accusations, but he hadn’t pulled the trigger. He lacked the certainty of someone who had killed before, who was doing it for pleasure.

  “I still want to talk to Treadwell,” he said before walking from the kitchen.

  Grappling with his thoughts, Reid found himself inside the home’s den. The room had two walls of windows, and built-in bookcases framed a brick fireplace over which hung a painting of a field of red poppies. An area rug covered warm hardwood floors. The furniture was casual, a plaid, overstuffed couch and matching wing chairs in an intimate arrangement. Reid imagined the Hunters gathering here, watching television—mother, father and two little girls.

  That family no longer existed.

  Still wearing gloves, he picked up a framed family photo from an end table. He felt gutted out by guilt. No matter how you looked at it, his inability to stop Julianne Hunter’s murder two years earlier had kicked off a tragic chain of events. Reid wondered about the Hunters’ children, how they were faring being raised by their maternal grandparents and whether they even remembered their mother. They had both been so young at the time of her death. Megan had once told him she thought his job ate at him, had actually caused the tumor to grow inside his head. He’d laughed at her then. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Reid turned as Mitch cleared his throat, sending his thoughts scattering.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “The garage doors are open,” Reid said. “There’s no white van.”

  “He could’ve dumped it. Besides, Treadwell doesn’t own one, either.” Mitch came farther into the room. “What are you driving at, Reid? That someone set Hunter up?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “Here’s the scenario the way I see it—Julianne Hunter’s death caused a psychotic meltdown in her husband, and he began mimicking the killer who murdered her. But ultimately, he couldn’t handle the guilt. So he came back here—to his home, the place that held every good memory of his wife and family, to blow his brains out.”

  Reid nodded faintly, still looking at the family photo he’d replaced on the end table.

  Mitch gave a resigned sigh. “But, hey, if you still want to talk to Treadwell on Monday, then that’s what we’ll do. If his lawyer produces him. How did your appointment go this morning?”

  “They cancelled it after I got to the office. The doctor was called away on an emergency. It’s been moved to next week.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mitch’s gaze was discerning. He stared at Reid for several long seconds, until one of the police officers called him back to the kitchen.

  The lie tasted bitter in Reid’s mouth, but he wasn’t ready to discuss his meeting with Dr. Isrelsen, or his diagnosis.

  He was still trying to come to terms with it himself.

  42

  The bluish haze of dusk had deepened outside the stables. From her office window, Caitlyn noticed that only a few vehicles remained in the parking lot. Manny was still here, she knew, closing things up for the evening although she hadn’t seen him in over an hour. Ever since the televised news conference, she’d sequestered herself, still trying to process the information that David Hunter was dead.

  The small TV on the metal filing cabinet remained on, but she had placed its volume on Mute once the station returned to its regular programming. Agent Tierney had acted as FBI spokesperson, updating the public on the latest turn of events. He’d stated that Hunter, a prime suspect in the investigation, had been found that morning, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Evidence at the scene indicated he was the copycat.

  Caitlyn realized she should feel relief—if David Hunter was the killer, it meant her nightmare was over. It also meant Rob was guilty only of the illegal video tapings, something far less worse for Sophie to deal with than murder. Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about the tragedy of Hunter’s life and that Joshua was ultimately responsible.

  Something else bothered her. On more than one occasion, Reid had voiced his doubt to her about Hunter’s culpability. Had he been wrong?

  The crunch of gravel outside caused Caitlyn to look up. Reid’s Explorer pulled into the parking lot. She had seen him only briefly on television. He’d remained in the background at the news conference, the camera’s focus on him fleeting. Not wanting to wait for him to find her, she headed past the tack room and down the hallway, meeting him at the stables’ entrance.

  “Reid?” Horses neighed in their line of stalls. “What are you doing here?”

  “I…wanted to see you. You heard about David Hunter?”

  “I watched the news conference. We’ve gotten calls from reporters, but I’ve been letting them go to voice mail.” Stepping closer, she looked into his eyes and saw the disquiet there. Something was on his mind. “Do you want to go into my office?”

  Once she’d closed the door behind them, Caitlyn waited for him to speak. He had taken time to change, since he now wore jeans and a gray, V-necked sweater instead of the suit and tie she’d seen him in on television.

  “To your knowledge, does Treadwell have familiarity with guns?”

  She nodded, puzzled. “He’s president of the local foxhunting club, and he’s won awards for marksmanship. Why? I thought the Bureau had proof Hunter was the copycat.”

  Reid ran a hand over his dark hair. “Both the Bureau and D.A.’s office are ready to close the investigation based on the suicide note Hunter left behind. The handwriting is his. But some things don’t add up to me. As disturbed as he was, I just don’t see him copying the actions of the man who took his wife.”

  “So you still think Rob is a suspect?”

  “I’m not sure what I think right now.” Tensely, he stared out the window into the encroaching darkness. “We’re still planning to question him on Monday if he turns himself in to the Middleburg Police, although I think Mitch is just humoring me with the interview. And for now Treadwell’s still MIA.”

  Shaking his head, he said softly, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m way off base and it was Hunter all along.”

  His expression was troubled. She’d never seen him appear so lost. Caitlyn moved closer and touched his arm. “What is it, Reid? Is there something else?”

  He took a measured breath, finally turning to face her. “I had an appointment with Dr. Isrelsen this morning. It was about the results of my last MRI. You’ve been right about the headaches. There’s another tumor.”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. Caitlyn w
rapped her arms around his neck and embraced him. His face felt hot against her cheek.

  “I thought about not telling you.” He paused, swallowing. “But I…just…”

  Her heart twisted as his words trailed off.

  Reid sat on the sofa with Caitlyn in her living room. The coffee on the table in front of him remained untouched as he filled her in on the little he knew so far.

  The last MRI had shown a small mass inside his skull, which most likely was causing the severe headaches. He’d had a neurologic exam that morning, and more tests were scheduled for the following week.

  “Dr. Isrelsen said there’s no reason to think it isn’t another glioma. It’s in a different location this time—it may have been there all along.” Reid toyed with Caitlyn’s fingers as he spoke, his voice low. “Once I have the other tests they’ll know more, including whether it’s benign or malignant, and whether it’s operable.”

  Caitlyn listened somberly. They had taken her car back to the farmhouse, leaving Reid’s SUV at the stables. Despite the fire crackling and hissing in the hearth in front of them, she felt chilled to the bone.

  “The first tumor was benign and treatable,” she stressed. “This one will be, too.”

  It had to be.

  Reid sighed heavily. “Even so, it would mean more surgery and recuperation time. I missed months of work. I don’t know if my career will survive another lengthy medical leave.”

  “What matters is you, Reid. Not your job.”

  He ran a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “The last surgery was…hard. Not just on me but my family.”

  “I’ll be there with you this time, too,” Caitlyn promised.

  Reid bowed his head. After a moment he rose from the couch, moving to the fireplace where he placed his hand on the mantel and stared into the dance of red-and-orange flames. He must have sensed her presence behind him, because he said, “It’s my fight. I shouldn’t involve you in this.”

  Caitlyn moved beside him. His profile remained still. “I want to be involved.”

  “I feel like I’m right back where I started.”

  “You’re not. And I’m not going anywhere.” Her words were heartfelt. “Whatever happens, we’ll fight this.”

  Reid looked at her and slipped a hand through her hair, his fingers sifting through the long strands. Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

  “I’m in love with you, Caitlyn,” he said quietly. “And I want a chance for us to be together.”

  She offered a soft smile. “I want that, too. I love you, too.”

  The pressure of his lips against hers was a comfort they could bring to one another. Caitlyn felt the solidness of his body. Their embrace was broken only by the insistent shrill of Reid’s cell phone. With an apologetic look, he pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

  “It’s Mitch. I have to take this.” He opened the phone’s cover.

  Caitlyn watched as he morphed into Bureau mode. Picking up his coffee cup, she went into the kitchen to give him privacy. Except for Reid’s voice, the house was quiet. Manny and Maria had left a short while earlier, intending to spend some time at their new apartment since Reid was with her. Alone, Caitlyn allowed herself to feel the fear that had been welling inside her. A part of her had suspected the return of his illness all along, but it hadn’t lessened the shock. After what Reid had already been through, it all seemed so unfair. She said a silent prayer the tumor would be more easily treatable this time. And if not, that she could make this go-round somehow easier for him, be his strength.

  Whatever happens, we’ll fight this. Caitlyn thought of Reid’s fiancée who had left him when he had needed her most. That would never be her. Despite her worry, her heart lifted at the words they’d exchanged. A mist of tears blurred her vision. But Caitlyn wiped them quickly away as she heard Reid wrapping up his call.

  “Do you have to go back?” she asked when he arrived in the doorway.

  “Mitch wanted me to go out for a beer. He doesn’t know about my diagnosis yet, and as far as he’s concerned, the investigation’s winding down. He’s in a celebratory mood.” Reid shrugged as he stepped into the kitchen. “I told him I was going to Cooper’s game with Megan and the girls. He coaches high school football. The Silver Spring Wildcats.”

  Caitlyn placed the dish towel she’d been holding on the counter. “So you’re staying tonight?”

  He moved closer and ran his hands over her upper arms.

  “I’d like to, Caitlyn,” he admitted.

  “I can call Manny. Tell him he’s got the night off.”

  “They won’t mind?”

  She shook her head. She wanted to be with him, too. He needed her support right now. “No. I’m sure of it.”

  Reid slowly tipped her face up to his. Caitlyn sighed, her hands sliding over his chest. David Hunter and Rob Treadwell, the investigation—all of it paled as she looked into his eyes.

  That night, their lovemaking was less urgent, but no less meaningful. They took their time undressing each other, savoring one another’s bodies and finding a slow, perfect rhythm. Each thrust inside her brought Caitlyn closer to the realization of how deeply she cared for him.

  After Reid had fallen asleep, she lay in bed next to him. The curtains inside her bedroom were open, and silver moonlight caressed his skin. Watching him, she vowed the warmth of his body and his steady breathing were things she would never take for granted, if they could somehow overcome this latest obstacle placed in their path.

  Caitlyn joined him in slumber, her fingers intertwined with his.

  43

  Reid opened his eyes in the darkness. The faint sound had awakened him, and he strained his ears, listening for it again. The farmhouse was old and no doubt had its share of mysterious creaks and groans, but this one was recognizable to him.

  The squeak of hardwood floorboards had come from downstairs.

  His gaze moved to the security console on the bedroom wall. Its panel was dark. Dead. Apprehension traveled over his skin. Caitlyn stirred as he got out of bed.

  “Stay here,” he whispered. She sat up, her eyes widening in the shadows as she, too, heard the noise on the floor below. Reid slid into his jeans and retrieved his Glock. As he checked the gun, his voice remained low. “Is there any chance it could be Manny?”

  She shook her head. She’d climbed out of bed and was tying the sash of her robe around her waist. “He’d never come back in the middle of the night. Not without calling first.”

  Nor would Manny knock out the security system. Reid picked up the phone’s receiver on the nightstand. No connection. His heart beat harder. “Where’s your cell?”

  Her face paled. “It’s charging in the kitchen.”

  He’d left his phone downstairs, as well. She followed Reid to the door, but he stopped her from going farther. “Do you have a gun nearby?”

  “In my dresser bureau. I’ve been keeping one there for a while now.”

  “Good. Close the door behind me and lock it.”

  “I’m going, too—”

  “No, Caitlyn.” Their eyes held, until he sensed her agreement. She touched his arm with chilled fingers, then reluctantly closed the door. He waited to hear its lock turning before moving cautiously down the unlit hallway with his gun in front of him. Reaching the landing, Reid paused, listening for another sound. But it was quiet now except for the steady, baritone tick of the grandfather clock in the entry hall.

  Taking a tense breath, he began traveling slowly down the staircase with his back against the beadboard wall. He scanned the living room but saw nothing in the dark except furniture and the glow of dying embers in the hearth. The next place to check was the dining room and beyond that, the kitchen and mudroom.

  Leaving the staircase and turning the corner, Reid’s gaze swept the large dining area. His stomach flip-flopped. One of the French doors leading onto the wraparound porch stood partially open, and a breeze from outside caused its bottom to r
asp against the aged pinewood floor. Going over, he checked the door and saw that its lock had been broken. But the room itself appeared empty. With watchful steps, he retreated and began traveling down the long corridor toward the kitchen.

  He made a quick check of the powder room and came back into the hallway. Reid heard the gun’s roar, felt the spray of plaster inches from his head. He spun, aiming and firing at the shadowed figure who had appeared from somewhere behind him. He wore a ski mask.

  The man dove into the dining room. His adrenaline spiking, Reid pressed himself against the wall with his gun poised, waiting. Had he hit him? From the floor above, he could hear Caitlyn frantically calling his name.

  “I’m with the FBI!” Reid yelled into the darkness. “Put your weapon down and come out now!”

  There was no response. Chances were if the intruder wasn’t down, he’d run back outside through the open door. Steeling himself, Reid inched forward. He took a breath and cut sharply into the shadowed room the intruder had entered, prepared to shoot again.

  The French door moved with another nighttime gust. Wind chimes clattered wildly on the porch.

  A barely audible creak sent electricity through him. He turned, at that same moment seeing the flash of a gun muzzle. The explosion sounded like cannon fire, the bullet’s force knocking Reid to the floor. His right arm felt heavy, numb. The figure stepped from the closet behind the butler’s pantry, the black mask concealing his face except for his mouth and eyes.

  Reid tried to suck in air, but his lungs refused to respond. He was bleeding from the wound in his upper biceps. Where was his gun? He searched the dark floor. Seeing it a few feet away, he tried to reach for it but his fingers wouldn’t cooperate.

  The man stared down at him, gun pointed. Reid tried to push himself up against the wall, his heart hammering as he awaited the trigger’s squeeze. But the next gunfire came from outside the room. The man flinched as the windowed doors of the butler’s pantry shattered behind him, raining down glass. He took off through the open door.

  “Reid!” Caitlyn ran into the room, dropping to her knees beside him. She held a small derringer. “Oh, God!”