The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  She grabbed the bag, held it in front of her swollen belly, as if that would make a difference …

  “I can’t be a daddy,” the boy whispered. “I can’t be around little kids. All I know how to do is destroy them.”

  And then, in the next heartbeat, the gun turned, found his temple. Her voice, starting to scream. “Nooooooo!”

  “Don’t let your baby ever meet someone like me. Don’t ever let it fall into the hands of the Burgerman.”

  The boy pulled the trigger.

  The shot deafened her. Or maybe it was her own desperate wail, trying to call it back, as the far side of the boy’s skull opened up, blew against the wall, rained gray matter across the bedside table.

  She was still screaming when her father forced open the door, when Rainie and Sal bolted into the room, when the boy’s body finally fell with a silent thud against the carpet and she could see one sightless eye, staring at her accusingly, and she still didn’t know his name.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The woman who used to be my mother was waiting where she said she’d be. She sat at a little wrought-iron table, outside a busy coffee shop. She had one leg crossed over the other, her hands clasped nervously on her knee.

  I watched her from across the street, hidden in the shadows of a doorway. I kept telling myself to step forward. But my legs didn’t want to move yet. I stood, I watched, I felt something heavy and hard grow in my chest.

  First time I called, she hung up on me. Second time, she accused me of playing a cruel prank. Then she’d started to cry and that upset me so much I hung up on her.

  Third time, I composed myself better. I kept it simple. I had information on her missing son. I wanted to meet with her. I thought I could be of help.

  I don’t know why I put it like that. Why I didn’t just say I was her little boy. I’d been snatched out of my own bed when I’d been too young to save myself. I’d spent the past ten years surviving unspeakable horrors. But I was old now. The Burgerman didn’t want me anymore. Maybe I could return home. Maybe I could go back to being her little boy.

  I wanted to tell her these things. I wanted to see the smile I remembered from my sixth-birthday party, when she led me to the garage where there was a brand-new Huffy bike topped by a big red bow. I wanted to watch her flip back her long dark hair the way she did when she leaned down to help me with my homework. I wanted to snuggle up with her on the sofa, my head against her shoulder as we watched Knight Rider on TV.

  I wanted to be nine years old again. But I wasn’t.

  I caught my reflection in the glass of the store window. My sunken eyes, hollowed-out cheekbones, overgrown shaggy hair. I looked like a hoodlum, the kind of kid shadowed by security officers at the mall, the kind of kid other parents didn’t trust hanging out with their son. I didn’t see my mother’s features imprinted onto my own; I saw the Burgerman.

  Across the street, my mom was fidgeting restlessly, twisting a ring on her right hand over and over again. She kept glancing over her left shoulder as if waiting for me to appear.

  All at once I got it. She wasn’t looking for me. She was checking in with someone else.

  I followed her line of sight, and finally made out the uniformed officer, standing just around the corner from the coffee shop. He turned to frown at my mom, as if to warn her to settle down, and I saw his face.

  I sucked in my breath.

  These are the things that no one tells you, that you must experience in order to learn:

  You never can go home again. A boy raised by wolves will someday only have wolf left inside him.

  And a mother’s love can burn.

  I arrived back at the apartment at 3:05 p.m. I remember because when I walked through the door, the first thing that I noticed was the clock hanging on the far wall. It read 3:05 and that struck me as funny. Such a normal time. Such a normal day. Such a normal afternoon.

  For such an abnormality.

  I didn’t take off my coat. I didn’t kick off my shoes. I had never crossed the street to my mother. Instead, I had headed to a pet store five blocks away. Now, I had a brown paper bag in one hand, a brand-new Louisville Slugger in the other. I left the apartment door wide open and strode straight into the Burgerman’s bedroom.

  He slept on his back, one hand on his doughy stomach, the other hand flung above his head. He was naked, the sheet tangled low around his waist. At the far edge of the bed, the boy was curled up, also naked, no covers, shivering in his sleep.

  I slapped his shoulder hard. His eyes popped open.

  “Get out,” I ordered harshly.

  The boy eyed me blankly. I leaned down until we were nearly nose-to-nose. “Get your scrawny ass out of this fuckin’ bed,” I told him, “or I will cave in your fuckin’ skull.”

  The boy scrambled out of bed and hightailed it out of the room. Did he leave the apartment? Run for the neighbors? Yell for the police?

  I didn’t care. Not about him, the police, the neighbors. I came here with one thing to do, and by God, I was getting it done.

  I opened the brown paper bag, took out the box. I’d wanted a pit bull or maybe a python. With thirty bucks, however, this was the best I could do. I remembered what the kid at the pet store had told me—spiders made great pets, actually hated to bite. In fact, they only attacked if you really pissed ’em off.

  So I opened the box and tossed the huge black spider smack-dab in the middle of Burgerman’s chest. Then I reached down and pinched one of the spider’s legs—hard—to make sure the female was good and pissed off.

  The tarantula promptly sank her fangs into Burgerman’s hairy chest. And he bolted awake with a roar.

  The next few moments happened in a blur: Burgerman, looking down, seeing the huge black tarantula dangling from his chest. Screaming harder, plucking at its bristled body, then shrieking louder when the tiny barbs covering its legs needled his fingertips.

  Me, hefting back the baseball bat.

  Burgerman, looking up, yelling, “Get it off, boy! Holy mother of God, get it off get it off get it OFF!”

  Me, swinging the Louisville Slugger, connecting nice and solid with Burgerman’s nose.

  There was a cracking sound. The spray of blood. A deep oomph as Burgerman whomped backward onto the mattress, one hand now clutching his shattered nose, the other hand still groping blindly at the spider.

  “Aaargh!” Burgerman yelled, something wet and slurpy gargling in the back of his throat.

  The Burgerman ripped the tarantula out of his chest. I had an image of a hairy black spider, suspended midair, giant flap of skin still dangling from its fangs, blood pooling in the hole left behind. Burgerman dropped the spider, started to rise up with another enraged roar.

  So I hit him. Right kneecap. A crack. A scream. Left kneecap. A fresh crack. A fresh scream.

  “Boy, boy, boy, what’re the fuck’re you doin’, boy? Don’t cha know I’m gonna kill you, boy? Boy, boy, boy …”

  I thought, coolly, with composure I never knew I had, that the Burgerman was a first-class whiner.

  He was on his side. Fingers clawing at the stained sheet, trying to find traction. If he could just pull himself up, he’d come after me. I could see it in his eyes. Even now, about to meet his Maker, the Burgerman was not thinking about repenting. He just wanted to kill somebody.

  I wondered if that’s what I looked like. And instead of feeling ashamed, for the first time in my life, I felt strong. Powerful. In control.

  I wound up the bat and hit him. Again. In the face this time. Connecting with his jaw, hearing his teeth shatter, then aiming for his cheekbone. I stood over that mattress, and I swung my bat until my arms ached and I gradually became aware that Burgerman didn’t make any sound anymore and the only noise I heard was the wet smack, smack of my baseball bat connecting with his caved-in skull and the moisture running down my cheeks wasn’t tears at all, but Burgerman’s blood and brains, dripping off the bat, into my hair, down onto my clothes.

  I think I start
ed laughing then. It was hard to be sure. I just knew I couldn’t stop swinging that bat because at any time, the Burgerman’s eyes would pop back open and he’d rise out of the bed and get me again. That’s the way it worked in the movies. No matter what you did, the monster always rose from the dead.

  Eventually, however, my shoulders gave out. The bat came down and no matter how much I wanted, I couldn’t raise it again. I sank down on the carpet, panting hard, sweat-soaked, gore-spattered, my bloody hands cradling my bloody head.

  I waited for a while, I don’t know why. For the neighbors to knock on the door. For the cops to come pounding up the steps. For the new boy to return and see that I’d finally done it: The Burgerman was dead.

  After a time, when nothing happened, I walked to the bathroom, trailing the bat behind me. I noticed idly that the boy had closed the front door behind him; maybe that’s why the neighbors never came, or maybe it was because the Burgerman had a knack for choosing apartments where the neighbors didn’t care.

  Once in the bathroom, I turned on the water, climbing in fully clothed, trying to rinse off the worst of the gore. But not letting go of the bat. Just in case, you know. Just in case.

  In my bedroom now, shedding my wet clothes into one bloody pile. Pulling out my second pair of jeans, an old T-shirt, sweatshirt, the few articles of clothing I had left.

  At the last minute, I got smart. Found a duffel bag in Burgerman’s closet, went to the front hallway, and loaded up on cash and porno tapes. Given that I starred in most of the home movies, I figured they were the least I deserved.

  I tried to think of what else to take with me; there was so little of value in this place. Burgerman spent money on booze, drugs, and whores. He’d never even bought me a goddamn video game.

  The rage hit me all over again, and for an insane moment I wanted to go back into the bedroom and resume whacking him with the baseball bat. I had to catch myself, focus. The other boy was long gone. No doubt already spilling his guts to the police.

  I had to get out of here.

  At the last second, as I headed for the door, I caught a faint blur of movement out of the corner of my eye. I stumbled over my feet, groping blindly for the baseball bat, pivoting toward Burgerman’s bedroom.

  I’d just raised the bat over my head, when I realized that wasn’t Burgerman’s foot moving under the sheet. Instead, the white folds parted and a hairy black spider emerged.

  The tarantula lived, working her way carefully around the bloody sheets.

  After another brief hesitation, I found the pet store box, scooped her inside, and slid her into my duffel bag.

  I’d never had a pet before.

  I thought I’d name her Henrietta.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Spiders may feed on other spiders, and because of this tendency to cannibalism a social or communal life is hardly to be expected.”

  FROM How To Know the Spiders,

  THIRD EDITION, BY B. D. KASTON, 1978

  She wanted to call Mac. It was her knee-jerk reaction, born of terror and the resulting aftermath. But of course, he was out in the field now, doing the job he loved and beyond her reach just as she was so often beyond his.

  So Kimberly huddled on the floor of her hotel room, arms wrapped protectively around her unborn child, aware of the blood on her cheek, and the fact she shouldn’t wash up until the crime scene photographer had documented her face. She’d already contacted her supervisor who in turn would raise the local sheriff as a courtesy call. Sheriff Wyatt would be leaving his D.A.R.E. training. Sheriff Duffy would be roused out of bed. And with their blessing, her own ERT would probably be activated to process the scene.

  So many wheels in motion. The law enforcement machinery grinding into gear. She knew it. She understood it. She lived it.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and felt nearly dumbstruck with exhaustion.

  “Water?” Sal asked. He took a seat beside her, careful not to touch. Quincy and Rainie were outside the room, standing in the hallway with the wide-eyed hotel manager, discussing something in low tones they obviously didn’t want her to hear.

  “You okay?” Sal asked.

  She nodded.

  “The baby?”

  She nodded again, best she could do. Her belly felt fine, no cramping, no nausea. Mostly she felt jittery with the adrenaline dump, while her arms stung from a myriad of tiny cuts. Nothing a Band-Aid couldn’t cover. She was fine, absolutely, positively fine, except for the fact that she would never be fine again.

  The boy’s body still lay slumped on the floor. A cursory attempt at finding a pulse had confirmed that he was dead. They had not bothered to call 911 or raise an EMT; this stage of the game was all about protecting the crime scene.

  Which included the blood in her hair, the gore on her cheek, the rich, coppery smell she could not get out of her nostrils.

  The boy’s voice, trying to explain to her that he was tired, so very tired.

  It was the senselessness that was hardest to take. That a life could be born into this world and, through no fault of its own, never stand a chance. Kimberly pressed the heels of her hands against her eye sockets, not wanting to see what she saw, not wanting to know what she knew.

  “He confirmed that Dinchara murdered the missing prostitutes,” she whispered finally, taking the glass of water from Sal, watching it tremble in her hand. She didn’t want to drink. She forced herself to take little sips of water anyway, because she couldn’t risk dehydration while pregnant.

  Sal’s turn for silence.

  “The boy also shot and killed Tommy Mark Evans, acting under Dinchara’s directions. It was considered his practice run, for his ‘graduation.’ There’s another boy as well, younger. The teen referred to him as his ‘replacement.’ ”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere close. According to the boy, Dinchara knows we’re here asking questions. Maybe we even walked right by him, I don’t know. But he’s local. Definitely local.”

  “What else?”

  She closed her eyes tiredly, resting the glass of water against her forehead. When she opened them again, she saw she had smeared blood on the curve of the glass and the sight of it, dark, fleshy, made her stomach roil dangerously. She fought to hold it together.

  “He helped dispose of the bodies. They pulled them by litters up Blood Mountain. But not the primary trail—Dinchara has his own. Someplace above the main traffic flow where they could look down at the activity below. That should help narrow our search.”

  “Okay.”

  She turned to him finally, her agitation starting to slip through the cracks, ruining her attempt at composure. “Okay? I just watched a teenage boy blow out his brains, and all you can say is okay? Dinchara kidnapped this child. He raped him, he corrupted him, he turned him into an accomplice until the boy would rather die than risk a future with his own child. Nothing about that is okay!”

  Sal looked at her strangely. “Kimberly, it isn’t your fault—”

  “What isn’t my fault? That a child was kidnapped? That nobody ever rescued him? That Dinchara used him as a tool for murder over a dozen times and no one ever noticed? We’re the cops, Sal. If it’s not our fault, whose fault is it?”

  “The kid shot Tommy Mark Evans—”

  “Because he had no choice!”

  “He could’ve just as easily shot you.”

  “You know what? That doesn’t make me feel any better!”

  And then, through her own rising hysteria, remembering suddenly: “Shit! Ginny Jones. She’s waiting for him in the parking lot. Quick, before she hears the sirens, we gotta find Ginny Jones!”

  Quincy and Rainie were unarmed civilians. They were not the type, however, to let such details stop them. Quincy took the lead with Rainie following him swiftly and quietly over the dark, rain-slicked asphalt.

  The worst of the thunder and lightning seemed to have passed, leaving behind merely the pouring rain and howling wind. It was difficult to hear. Even more difficult to s
ee. For Quincy, the conditions brought to mind another time, not so long ago, when he and his future son-in-law, Mac, had slipped and slid their way through the Tillamook County Fairgrounds in a desperate bid to get a glimpse of the man who was holding Rainie for ransom.

  That day had not gone as planned. And this moment?

  The streetlamps reflected off each car’s water-beaded windshield, distorting the view, making it difficult for them to peer in while not so hard for a driver to see out. It occurred to Quincy that they were going about this all wrong. They didn’t need to inspect each vehicle’s interior; they simply needed to examine each exhaust pipe.

  Bank Robbery 101: The getaway car was already fired up and ready to go.

  He motioned for Rainie to take the right side of the parking lot, closest to the street. He worked to the left, running in a half-crouch down the line of vehicles. Then, straight ahead, right by the exit for the side street, a small economy car with its engine running.

  He caught Rainie’s attention with a wave of his hand. She started over and he realized at the last moment that they had a problem after all. Ginny Jones was armed with a car at the very least, and perhaps a gun as well. All they had was their charm and wit.

  Quincy went with plan B. He picked up a large rock, placed it in his fist, and wrapped the whole affair with his coat. Four strides later, he suddenly loomed in the driver’s side window. Ginny Jones opened her eyes in alarm. He slammed his covered knuckles through the window, shattering the glass and yanking the keys from the ignition.

  The girl screamed.

  He popped open the door and gave her his best predatory smile.

  “Bad news,” he said, “my daughter’s still alive and you’re coming with me.”

  Ginny Jones screamed again.

  “Please,” Rainie said, materializing at his side. “As if either of us care.”

  They dragged Ginny from the car into the storming night, just as the first police cruisers roared into view.