His weapon fired, sending a 9mm hollow point toward its target. Jeremy’s ears rang, but his aim never wavered. The soothing smell of gunpowder covered him, sticking to his sweat. The chanting had stopped.
A crimson stain grew on the right shoulder of the man in the chair. Jeremy knew that the back would be worse. Much worse. The bullet did its job, entering, expanding, shredding. At this range, some of the shrapnel would have exited his body as well. Maybe that’s what happened to the missing chair slat.
“Everything okay?”
Jeremy turned to a Marine who had hurried into the room. “Everything’s fine. We were just having a discussion.”
The Afghan moaned and tried to hold his head steady.
The Marine smiled and turned to leave. “Yes, sir. Let me know if you need more bullets.”
Jeremy leaned toward the Afghan and lifted the man’s chin. “Now, where were we? Huh? I think you were just about to—”
The man looked over Jeremy’s shoulder, blinked slowly, and muttered.
“Nezam, ask him again.”
Silence, save for the heavy-pitched remnants of the gunshot still bouncing between his ears.
“Nezam?” Jeremy glanced over his shoulder.
The translator’s turban lay on the floor, and his body shook violently. “My mother. They have my mother.”
Jeans and T-shirt and scruffy beard. The translator was like any other twenty-something kid. Except for the grenade in his hand.
Jeremy pivoted, fired twice, and spun toward the door as Nezam crumpled to the floor, the grenade bouncing once in the dirt.
Got to get out. Holly and Miranda. Faster.
Too far.
Yell. Warn the others.
Chanting and laughter.
Past the tarp. Turn. Faster. Almost th—
Light and dirt and gunpowder.
Flying and falling.
Left leg. Both ears. Numb. Burning pain.
Screaming and silence and screaming.
Then nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Rebecca hollered a warning from her room. “Almost done! Don’t come in here!”
Jeremy’s head was bowed, staring at knees that bounced rapidly without rhythm. Maggie’s hands remained in his, steady and warm.
“It’s okay, baby,” she said. “It’s okay.”
“I’d have killed him. No question. I can still feel it. How much I wanted to empty my magazine into him. I never hated anybody like that before.”
“It was a different time. We were all angry. Desperate to strike back any way we could. The point is that you didn’t kill him. You’re not Cronfeld.”
He released her hands. “But what if I had? I wouldn’t have been sorry. Maybe now, but not then. And after I’d killed him, they’d have brought another man into the room. Would I have shot him too?”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled against him. “You didn’t. In a way, Nazem may have saved you.”
“I’ve thought about that. About him. Wondering if his mother’s still alive. If they let her go or if he died for nothing. Lots of people did.”
“It’s history. What happened, happened, and what didn’t, didn’t. You’re who you are now. Nothing’s changed about how I feel about you. It couldn’t.”
He pulled away and stood. “Killing’s not so hard when you think you’re right. When you can justify it by saying lives are at stake. I know that now, Maggie. What I don’t know is whether I could live with myself after the fact. These people I chase ... these serial killers. It’s not that hard for them, you know? The murders, I mean. And they seem to go on with life just fine.”
Maggie shifted to face him. “You’re not them.”
“No. But I can feel it sometimes, especially at night. Afghanistan is there, waiting to come out again. And in case I might forget, I’ve got something to remind me.” He tapped his left leg.
“Is it flaring up again? Seriously, get it checked out. Schedule the doctor and let me know when the appointment is.”
He frowned and tapped a finger on his leg. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“Just making sure you take care of yourself, that’s all. Sure you don’t want me to schedule it for you? Or can I trust you?”
He placed his hand on her knee. “I’ll do it. Promise. Kind of nice to have someone looking out for me.”
“You know, you weren’t only wounded physically. The dreams, the night terrors. It’s been a long time. Shouldn’t it be getting better? I mean, maybe you have PTSD. There’s no shame in asking for help, Jeremy.”
“It’s not just what happened over there.”
She looked up at him and ran her hands along his arms, shoulder to wrist and back up.
He stared over the top of her head. “He’s still out there. Whoever killed Holly and Miranda. I’m going to find him. And when I do, I’m afraid of what’ll happen.”
“Okay, first of all, you don’t know he’s not already dead or in jail. Second, if he is still out there, you’ll do the right thing.”
“I wish I could be as sure as you are. You know, the Bureau waited almost a week after my family had been killed before they told me. Said they wanted to hold off until my injuries were no longer life-threatening. Make sure I could handle it. Told me by the time I got back to the States, they’d have the killer in custody.”
She brushed a tear away and laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey. I can’t imagine what you went through.”
He rested his cheek on top of her head. “Time doesn’t heal the wounds. It just pushes them deep down inside, and you hope you can keep them there, but you can’t. There’s always something or someone to drag the memories back to the surface.”
“Cronfeld?”
“Yeah. This time. Next time it’ll be different.”
“Why, Jeremy? Why is he so insistent? Why now?”
He sighed. “If I had to guess, his wife’s calling the shots.”
“The senator?”
“Yeah. She’s putting pressure on him. Maybe she’s worried about it coming out during her reelection campaign. Or could be she’s set her sights a little higher.”
“President?”
He shrugged. “Why not? Worst thing that could happen is she loses and goes back to being a high-ranking member of the Senate. A scandal involving her husband certainly wouldn’t help her chances.”
Maggie closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. “When did life become so complicated? Sign the agreement. Don’t sign the agreement. I don’t care. Do whatever you think is best for your future. We want to be a part of that, Jeremy, if you’ll let us.”
He kissed her forehead. “I’m working on it. Not going to sign the agreement, though. I’ll try to talk Bailey into letting me finish out this case. Work out some sort of understanding. I’ll tell him I’ll play nice, and we’ll keep everything status quo before I ride off into the sunset.”
She grinned up at him. “Aren’t you moving east?”
“Okay, until I ride off into the sunrise. That better?”
“Much. Now, why don’t you mosey on down the hall and check on Rebecca? I don’t want to spend the afternoon scrubbing crayon off the walls again.”
He tipped an imaginary cowboy hat. “Yes, ma’am. And why don’t you rustle us up some vittles before we go out and wash my covered wagon?”
She rolled her eyes and headed for the kitchen. “What am I getting myself into?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mason’s hands lingered inches from his wife’s throat. His root cellar. His workshop. His bones.
Paula tilted her head, lips parted, and brow wrinkled. “Honey, I don’t ...”
He grabbed her shoulders and bent down, his face inches from hers. The short, warm bursts of her breath pulsed against his lips. He flexed his hands and moved them back toward her neck. Had no choice. Couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to.
She inclined her face and closed her eyes.
; His right hand cupped behind her neck, his left brushed against her side. He leaned over and skimmed his lips across hers before pulling her closer and kissing her deeply. “Sorry, babe.”
She pushed him away. “You said you were going to teach me. Let me do the next one. That was the deal.”
He bit his bottom lip. “I came down to clean up. That’s all. But I had to kill some time before I could move the new batch of beetles over.”
She squinched her mouth to the side and propped her hands on her hips. “Uh-huh. If you say so.”
Mason escorted her to the workbench. “Look. I didn’t finish the left hand. You do it. I’ve got plenty of other stuff to work on anyway.”
Paula poked him in the side. “Oh. I get the scraps, huh? Sounds like frozen pizza for dinner tonight then.”
“Bleh. Tell you what. I’ll grill out burgers and hot dogs. See if the kids want to invite some friends over. Maybe have a movie night or something. Give me an excuse to snuggle with my girlfriend.”
She crossed her arms and squinted at him. “You’d better be talking about me.”
Mason winked and pulled her to him again. “No one else for me. Ever.”
She grinned up at him. “Well, we agree on that at least. Any problem if I invite my boyfriend over?”
He laughed and kissed her forehead. “Been keeping secrets from me?”
“Our secrets are our secrets. Not mine. Not yours. Ours.”
That was certainly true. Within days after his first kill, he’d broken down and confessed to her. Told her everything. In return, she’d nodded and asked only one question. Does this affect our family?
It was the same question she asked about any major decision. He understood. He’d seen the toll a fractured family took on her. Not long after they began dating in high school, she’d shared details of her home life. How her dad was an alcoholic and sometimes hit her mom. How her older brother cried at night and had recently started drinking too. And how she’d never, never, allow that to happen to her family.
Not long afterward, her parents had died in a drunk driving accident. Less than two years later, her brother, consumed by guilt, had taken his own life. She’d seen the destruction of her family. It would not happen to her children.
He’d assured her that his action did not affect the family. The police had ruled the death an accident by a careless hunter. The Remington now lay buried three feet underground in a spot known only to Mason. The police weren’t coming, and even if they did, there was no evidence.
She’d hugged him and told him to be more careful in the future. He said he would.
.......
And then he’d killed Sarah Goldman. A random encounter in the woods. She’d been alone, smoking pot. He’d been hunting for the same rush he’d felt after his first kill. It did not go as planned.
He’d smelled the smoke from her joint and had no trouble tracking her. Young and pretty. A twinge of conscience annoyed him and he hesitated. She’d spotted him and stared, her eyes glassy and a smirk on her lips. He’d walked over, still undecided. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
She held out the joint. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. You out here by yourself?”
She took a long drag and held it for several seconds before letting the smoke escape her lungs. “What’s with the gun?”
“Out doing a little hunting, that’s all.”
“Yeah? For what?”
The girl was too stoned to even stand, or so he thought. “Anyone I can find.”
When he’d raised the rifle, she’d lunged at him, screaming and fighting, leaving scratches and a bite mark on his right arm. Anger and adrenaline easily chased away any conscience remnants. He’d kicked her to the ground, then finished her with a gunshot to the chest.
But his DNA was under her fingernails and in her mouth. Couldn’t leave it there. His hunting knife, sharp as ever, sliced through her skin like it was a tomato. The bones took a bit more effort, but his blade didn’t chip. At least he didn’t have to gut her, though comparing her innards to a deer’s might be interesting. Something to look forward to next time. Fifteen tiring minutes later, her hands and head lay separate from the rest of her remains. The abandoned trailer he’d passed on his way in served as a good distraction if—when—what was left of her body was found. Hide her ID, scatter her clothes, and let the police focus on any vagrants in the area. Good enough.
And playing with her bones had been an unexpected bonus. It relaxed him, cleared his mind, and gave him the freedom to daydream about what, or who, he’d do next. The hands were like working a jigsaw puzzle. Some assembly required. The skull was easier, though pulling any cavity-filled teeth had made him squeamish at first.
After that, Paula had insisted on being more involved. Said she had to if she was going to protect her family. Mason had no illusions about her participation. She didn’t enjoy it, at least not the way he did. But she tolerated his adventures, making suggestions, even helping lure victims or drive their car when necessary, like that guy up in Big Oaks. She said she’d do anything to keep her family intact, and she proved it over and over.
Best of all, she didn’t judge him. Life at home was better with less stress, she said. More laughter, more time together, more of the good stuff. And look at her now. Upset that he hadn’t let her wire the bones together. Mason smiled and hugged her again.
He’d picked a good woman.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The sun’s early morning rays bounced off the trunk of Jeremy’s freshly washed Taurus, hit the rearview mirror, and reflected into his eyes. He gave up and donned his sunglasses. Monday morning westbound traffic was already building on I-64 as the truckers awakened and started their treks across the nation. Lexington, Kentucky, home of Roslyn Martin’s mother, was several hours ahead. Enough time to think about his plans and what-ifs.
He needed to call Bailey. Tell him he had no intention of signing the agreement and would be turning in his resignation. Not that the Director would care much. Another political headache scratched off his list. Still, Jeremy had built up enough goodwill to swing a deal. Or at least he hoped so.
Six-thirty. Bailey’s administrative assistant wouldn’t be there yet, but the boss would be in the office and working on his second cup of coffee. The man was nothing if not regular. Jeremy turned down the radio and hit the speed dial. He punched the speakerphone button and dropped the phone in the center cup holder.
Half a ring. “Bailey.”
“Good morning, sir. Agent Winter. Wondered if you could spare a few minutes?”
“Good weekend?”
Images flooded Jeremy’s mind, from thrown soap-soaked sponges to the construction paper grizzly bear, now riding in the passenger seat. “Great weekend. Sir, about the, um, document. I—”
“Scan it and email it to me after you sign. Follow up with the hard copy.”
“I’m not going to sign the agreement.”
Muttered expletives were followed by a heavy sigh. “Not the way I wanted to start my week, Agent Winter.”
“I understand, sir.”
“You’ve thought this through? What it means—could mean for your career?”
“I have.”
“This puts me in a very difficult position.”
You? What about me? “Can’t do it, sir. I know that’s not what you wanted to hear. I’ve done my job. Gone above and beyond more times than I can count.”
“Won’t disagree with that. And you can keep doing your job. Just realize there are repercussions for the decisions you make.”
“No one knows that better than I do, sir. I’d like to propose a resolution that might make things simpler for both of us.”
“I’m listening.”
Jeremy pushed back against his seat and stretched his leg. Really flaring up today. Too much time in the car. “I’m offering my resignation, effective in two weeks. I believe that solves your problem.”
“Won’t lie. It would cert
ainly help.”
“And in return, I want my full retirement package. All benefits effective on my last day.”
Bailey chuckled. “You got any idea how much red tape I’d have to cut through to make that happen?”
“I think I’m owed that much, sir. And you can tell your friends I’ll keep my mouth shut. I haven’t talked about it before, and I won’t start now. Agent Keeley knows, but no one else.”
“They’re not my friends, Winter. But I do have to keep them happy. You know how this works.”
“I do, and it’s why I want out. This way, everybody’s happy.”
“I’m not so sure this’ll satisfy certain people, but it’s good enough for me. I’ll do what I can to make your retirement benefits happen. You email me your resignation today. We can both move on.”
“Will do. And while I work out my last two weeks—”
“You’ll be digging into your serial killer theory. Alone.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Will there be anything else, Agent Winter?”
“Have a great day, sir.”
“Yeah. You too.”
He turned the radio back up, just in time to catch the end of Reba’s latest. Two weeks. It wouldn’t be enough, but it was a start. If he could scrounge up enough evidence to at least make his theory plausible, he’d turn what he had over to the Bureau and let them handle it.
Or not.
This was his case. If it meant carrying it into his post-FBI future, then that’s what he’d do. Maggie would understand he couldn’t turn loose of the chase. Not as long as the guy was still out there. He’d share everything he had with the authorities, of course. But this was his case. All he needed was a push in the right direction. Somewhere to start.
His best chance, possibly his only one, waited a few hours ahead of him. Donna Martin. If she had any information on the meetings between her daughter and Barry Thornquist, that could be the catalyst.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jeremy idled down the street, alternating his view between the houses and the scribbled note in his hand. There. That’s the place. Faded green siding, freshly mowed lawn, and a concrete path leading from the sidewalk to an oversize front porch, complete with wicker rocking chairs and a swing. The home Roslyn Martin had shared with her mother epitomized Lexington charm. All that was missing was the pitcher of lemonade.
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