“Good. Makes it much easier on you.” Agnes flashed me a smile, softening her face. She set out more pencils. “I’m going to be using a technique called a composite-specific interview.” As if by habit Agnes’s voice had fallen to a comforting cadence, one that would soothe a victim. “I’ll draw the basic proportions of the face as you remember them. Then we’ll layer in the details using pictures from the FBI Facial Identification Catalog.” She tapped the large book. “At first I’ll just let you talk. Tell me everything you can remember. Then we’ll work from there. Just relax. We’ll do fine together.”
I nodded.
She waved a hand over her ready materials. “This pad I use is of Bristol paper. It’s a smooth finish, which allows me to draw with more detail than a rougher paper would. These pencils are both hard and soft lead. I’ll use the more rounded ones for the initial phase, then the finer points for the details. A couple of erasers here, a soft rubber eraser and a harder one.” She pointed them out, then smiled at me again. “The tools of my trade. That”—she tapped her head—“and the knowledge up here.”
Agnes opened her pad of paper. “At first while you talk I’ll take notes. A picture will begin to form in my head. Then I’ll get it on paper. So—you ready?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes.”
Silence fell over the three of us. I closed my eyes, sitting very still, and relived the beginning scene of the murder. The living room with large couch and matching love seat. The seascape painting and hardwood floors. Chinese rug. Glass coffee table, white marble fireplace. The woman storming in.
“She’s small, maybe around five two. Narrow shoulders and slim. Very pretty. She has dark, shiny hair to her shoulders. Parted on her right side. The hair’s straight. She has wispy bangs cut with that uneven stylish look.”
The scene began to play. No, no. I fought it, tried to push rewind. It didn’t work.
The woman started yelling, threatening. The man’s hands shook with anger. He surged toward her, reaching for her throat . . .
My body heated up. I clutched the sides of my chair.
The woman drew closer, her brown eyes widening . . .
Stop, stop!
Vaguely I heard my mother whisper to Agnes, “She’s reliving it. Just let her go.”
“Reliving what?”
I squeezed my eyes tighter, focusing on the woman’s face. “She . . .” I swallowed. “Brown eyes. Arched eyebrows. She has no wrinkles. Maybe . . . late thirties? Her cheeks are well defined, with curves under them. Sort of like little rounded apples. Her face is oval. The nose is . . . I don’t know, not anything unusual. Straight. Right proportion. Her mouth too, except that her lips are kind of full.”
I sat stiff-backed, hearing my own pulse in my ears. Straining to see anything else. But nothing came.
My eyes opened. I licked my lips. Agnes was busily scratching notes.
“I’ll get you some water.” Mom pushed back her chair. Concern etched her forehead.
Agnes sat back with a loud exhale. “Well. That was great.” She frowned and started to say more, then apparently thought better of it. “I can see the woman forming in my mind already.” She switched to a pencil with rounded tip and began to draw.
Mom set a glass before me.
“Thanks.” I drank it down.
Over the next forty-five minutes Agnes drew, occasionally stopping to ask me questions. How far apart were the woman’s eyes? How wide was her forehead? Each time I would close my eyes and refocus on her face before answering. My mother sat without a word, eyes flicking from Agnes to me. I couldn’t begin to guess what she was thinking. Deep inside, did she wonder if this woman in my head existed?
Finally Agnes set down all her pencils. For a long moment she eyed her drawing, almost as if she didn’t like what she saw. “All righty.” She looked up. “I’m ready to show you what I have so far. Remember we’ll refine from here. Okay?
I nodded. My heart picked up speed.
Agnes turned her pad of paper around. I stared at a rough drawing of someone who looked like the woman in my memories. The woman who was now dead. “It’s almost her, but not quite.”
“That’s fine.” Agnes sounded as if she expected the response. “Let’s fix it.”
She opened her FBI book. One by one we went over the woman’s features as Agnes showed me different eyes, noses, mouths, and jawlines. Did the woman’s look more like this—or that? Surprisingly my answers weren’t difficult. The more we refined, the more I believed the process was working. My pulse slowed as I concentrated with all my might.
Agnes drew some more. When she finished she again stared at the result, a slight frown on her face.
She turned the pad around. “How’s this?”
My mother leaned toward me, focusing on the drawing.
Oh. My mouth opened. It was exactly right. The woman I’d seen stabbed and strangled. Dumped in a suitcase. “That’s her.” My words came out breathy. “You . . . that’s amazing.”
Agnes gave a slight nod. She turned the pad a little, giving my mother a clearer view.
Mom shook her head. “She’s beautiful.”
Was beautiful.
Agnes twisted the drawing back toward me. “You sure you’re satisfied?”
“Yes.”
Agnes flipped the sketch back toward herself. “Well, first time this has happened.” She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “I recognize this woman.”
Chapter 17
IT TOOK A MINUTE FOR AGNES’S WORDS TO SINK IN. “YOU know her?”
Mom stared at the artist, eyes round.
Agnes bit the inside of her cheek, focusing again on the drawing. “I don’t actually know her. I’ve seen her. I’m sure I’ve seen this face.” She frowned at the pad of paper, then shook her head. “I just can’t remember where.”
She was real. This woman was real. Vindication burst in my chest. So much for Jerry’s “panic attacks.” So much for my needing a psychiatrist. I was fine, it was the chip. That killer’s memories were on my chip, and now they’d invaded my brain.
Cognoscenti had done this to me.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear off my own head.
“Did you see her in this area?” Mom pressed.
“I . . . don’t remember. It could be that I just saw her picture, for all I know.”
“When?” Mom’s voice was sharp. “Recently?”
Agnes’s mouth worked as she thought. “I just don’t know. I think fairly recently. But . . .” She lifted a hand. “Maybe it’ll come to me.”
How could she be so cavalier about this? “It has to come to you. You have to remember!”
Mom patted my arm. “Calm down, Li—”
“But this is . . . everything. She’s real, Mom! We have to find out who she is.”
“I know, just—”
“Why?” Agnes’s gaze bounced from my mother to me. “What has she done?”
“Been murdered.” My voice clenched.
“What?”
“She’s dead.”
Agnes looked at me askance. “She’s dead.”
“Yes!”
“How do you know that?”
“Because . . .” I ran a hand across my forehead. “I saw it.”
“You witnessed the crime?”
“Yes.” Sort of.
Agnes nodded, as if she now stood on familiar ground. “But you didn’t tell the police?”
“Not yet.” Mom gestured toward Agnes. “That’s why we called you.”
Agnes thought that over. “Do you know who killed her?”
“No,” I said. “We have to find out who she is first.”
“I see.” Agnes tapped her finger against the table, as if she didn’t see at all.
I bounced one fist on top of another. “Are you sure you didn’t see her picture as the victim of a crime?”
Agnes shook her head. “That I would remember.” She stuck a hand in her hair. “Do you want to do a sketch of the perpetrator?”
“Not right now.” Mom’s tone was smooth. She stood. “Lisa, you want to get your checkbook so we can pay Agnes?”
My mother to the rescue. Good thing, because my throat had closed up. The woman was real. She’d been choked and stabbed. Stuffed in a suitcase. And I knew every detail of her murder.
“Lisa?”
“Yeah.” Robot-like, I rose and headed for my purse, sitting on the counter. I filled out a check with a trembling hand. We had to find this woman now more than ever. To think we were so close . . .
Agnes busied herself with putting the pencils away in her portfolio. A dozen more questions must have bounced in her head, but she said nothing.
“Thank you.” I handed her the check.
She gave me a little smile, akin to one she’d give to a slow-witted child. “You’re welcome.” With care she pulled the drawing from her pad of paper and slid it onto the table. “Hope this is helpful to you.”
“Oh, it is.” Weakness fluttered through me. I needed to eat again already. “More than you can know. Just please—if you remember where you saw her, call us right away. Okay?”
The artist searched my face. “I’ll do that. And here.” She slid a small case from her portfolio and took out a card. “If you need me again.”
“Thanks.”
Mom and I walked her to the door. As she stepped out into the hallway something crinkled underneath her shoe. “What’s this?” She lifted her foot.
The three of us stared at the floor. A plain white envelope lay there, with my name written in block letters.
Cognoscenti. It had to be from them. Heat swept through my veins.
Before I could stop her Agnes bent over and picked it up. “Looks like this is for you.” She held it toward me.
I didn’t want to touch the thing.
“Thanks.” Mom reached for the envelope, her facial muscles tight. “I’ll take it.”
Agnes slipped it into her hand. “Nice meeting both of you.” She nodded at me.
I managed a tight smile.
Agnes headed down the hallway. Mom closed the apartment door.
We looked at each other, then at the envelope. Mom held it by the corner with her thumb and forefinger.
She spun on her heel and headed toward the counter. Dropped it on the hard surface. “You have some cleaning gloves?” She walked around the counter.
“Under the sink.” My heart spasmed. I clutched my hands together and pressed them against my mouth. Someone had been here. Right outside my door. Of course they’d had my address for weeks now. But to know someone had come right up to my apartment . . .
Mom pulled a pair of yellow gloves from the cabinet and snapped them on. “Agnes’s prints are already on the envelope, and mine are in that one corner. Don’t you touch it at all.”
I stood back from the envelope, not even wanting to get close.
Mom took a knife and slid it open. She pulled out a single piece of plain paper and looked at it. Her eyes flashed. “It says ‘You’ll be sorry, Lisa.’” She held it up for me to see.
My skin sizzled.
Mom growled in her throat. I knew that angry sound from childhood. “Who do they think they are, trying to stop us like this.” She dropped the paper onto the counter and hit it with her fist.
Us. I licked my lips, staring at the words. If Mom weren’t with me, I’d be coming unglued right now. “What do we do?”
My mother’s mouth firmed. “We keep on, that’s what. Every time they do something this stupid it only makes me want to fight back.”
Really? I just wanted to run to my bedroom and slam the door.
“And when the time is right, this little note will be one more piece of evidence for us.”
I shivered. “I doubt they left fingerprints.”
“You never know.” Mom stuck a yellow-gloved hand on her hip. “Where are your plastic bags?”
I pointed to a drawer. She marched over and yanked out a large bag. Slid the envelope and piece of paper inside and sealed it. She placed it on the counter. “There.” She took off the gloves and threw them back into the cabinet.
“What if they come after me?” My tone sounded dead, like the days just after my attack. What had happened to my new strength from the Empowerment Chip?
I clutched the counter, my body swaying.
“Lisa.” Mom laid her hand on my arm. “Go sit down. I’ll feed you something.”
She led me to the table, where I slumped into a chair. The eyes of the murdered woman stared up at me from Agnes’s drawing. I could almost feel her pleading for justice. I turned the drawing over. “Why am I so tired?”
Mom moved the drawing to the counter, setting it beside the bagged message. “It’s only been four days since your surgery. You’re not back to normal yet.”
She fussed about the kitchen, making me a sandwich. I sat like a zombie, hearing myself breathe. When she set the food in front of me I ate every bite. Then I needed to lie down.
“Go ahead, take a nap.” Mom put my plate in the sink. “I’ll get online and see if I can find anything more.”
What else could she do right now? But I couldn’t argue. I headed toward bed on wobbly legs.
I stretched out on my back and closed my eyes. But my mind rebelled, kicking up a dust storm of memories and fears. Ryan’s car accident, the attack, my miscarriages. After the last one I’d lain on the bathroom floor, my heart and body bleeding. I’d so wanted children for Ryan. For us. A child would have been someone to nurture. An extension of my husband to make me whole.
From deep inside a voice whispered, “Can any other person really make you whole?”
“I guess not, God,” I whispered. But sometimes it was easier to believe that.
This was something I’d have to deal with. If I was going to build a new outward life, I’d have to work on the inside, too. But right now I was facing so much already. Right now I just felt crushed and exhausted.
God, help me, please. When I can handle it.
Drowsiness cold-drizzled over me. I slipped under the covers and burrowed down. The world fell away.
Another nightmare bared its fangs and hissed into my sleep.
Chapter 18
I WAS INSIDE THE KILLER.
Through his eyes I saw his arm slam the SUV’s hatchback shut, sealing the black suitcase inside. He exited the garage, back into his kitchen. Then—a glass under the sink faucet, filling with water. He brought it to his mouth and drank, gazing through the window at his expansive backyard. To his left the sun had half disappeared below the horizon.
The dishwasher opened. He put the glass inside. Brought up his left arm to glance at his watch. The time read 5:48.
He turned toward the door leading to the garage. I saw it approach, heard his footsteps. He opened the door and returned to the car. Slid into the driver’s seat. I saw a beige center console. When the engine started, a dashboard full of digital readouts lit up. It included a GPS.
The man’s finger—my finger—pushed a button, and I heard a garage door begin to open. He backed out, pausing at the end of the driveway to close the door. The three-car garage was painted off-white. Small windows ran across each door close to the top. The man had exited from the door on the far right.
His car backed out onto the street. For a second he looked at his house. A magnificent two-story colonial, with a large front porch and pillars. Lots of windows with shutters in dark green. A curving front sidewalk lined with multicolored flowers. Three birch trees.
He drove down the street, expensive homes slithering by the passenger seat window. He hit an intersection and turned right onto a road with mature trees on either side. Houses were set back from the road behind large walls and gates. Glimpses of the homes showed they were expensive.
I saw an intersection ahead—wider, busier. Trees now canopied the road. The man reached the intersection during a green light and turned left. Businesses glided by. A Jack in the Box on the right. Jewelry store and an exotic car dealersh
ip on the left. A number of blocks later, just before an overpass, he veered right onto another major road, merging into traffic. Lots of cars. Stop lights. Then he hit the freeway.
Abruptly the scene switched to night. A speedboat skimmed over black water. The suitcase lay on the floor of the boat.
The engine cut. The boat gently rocked. The man’s arms—my arms—reached for the suitcase. He hauled it up and over the edge of the boat. I heard a large splash.
He gazed into the water. In the darkness I could just make out one side of the suitcase sinking. It upended itself, then disappeared under water—
I awoke with a start, muscles twisted. Sweat dampened my back. My eyes locked onto my bedroom ceiling, my pulse clanging. The moment pulled me apart, half of me still in the dark boat, the other screaming to escape to reality.
It was just a dream . . . But of course it wasn’t. We knew the victim was real. This had happened. I could still feel the rock of the boat, hear the splash of the suitcase going into water.
But . . .
I checked the clock by my bed. Five fifteen. I’d slept over two hours.
It took awhile to sit up, then stand. My mind buzzed with the pictures. The house, the boat. Sunset, the time. More details to help me find the man.
My feet took me into the kitchen. Mom still sat before her computer, as if she’d never moved. She barely glanced at me. “I’ve been looking for pictures of women in this area through local newspapers. Haven’t found her. It’s a needle in ten haystacks.”
I sprawled into the chair opposite her. She looked up and me and stilled. “What’s wrong?”
In my mind the suitcase splashed into water. “I had another dream. I saw so much. Maybe too much. Maybe it’s just my brain, trying to fill in details. But all of it felt so real.”
“About the murder?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve never heard you doubt any of the details you’ve seen before.”
“I don’t really doubt these either. It’s just . . . there’s so many.”
She thrust the pad of paper toward me. “Can you tell them to me? And write them down. Then we can look at all of it.”
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