Sleep Tight

by Anne Frasier

  Pain stabbed through her shoulder, redirecting her thoughts. "You need to get in the right lane so you can get on 494 East. Oh, and Anthony? My mother doesn't know about my being shot, so don't mention it to her."

  He pulled away from a green light and then cut to the right lane. "You're a little old to be hiding things from your mother, aren't you?" He sounded puzzled and slightly annoyed.

  "She worries about me enough as it is," Mary explained. "So please don't say anything."

  He shrugged, but didn't press the issue.

  It was late afternoon, and traffic was heavy, adding fifteen minutes to their return trip. Once home, Mary took her pills, retrieved her laptop from her room, and handed it to Anthony, determined to get back to business as usual. "The profiles are finished. Would you mind going over my notes before I present them to Detective Wakefield and Quantico?" Every breath made her shoulder hurt. "I'm going upstairs to lie down for a while. The kitchen is that way, the bathroom over there." She pointed. "My mom should be home in a couple of hours."

  After she left, Anthony wandered around the living room. Over the years he'd conjured up a mental image of Mary at her childhood home in Minneapolis. The place he'd put her was nothing like this living room with its red walls, framed artwork, exotic rugs, wild plants, and strange sculptures. This wasn't at all the landscape he'd expected the rigid, unbending Mary Cantrell to come from.

  Her shooting had scared the hell out of him.

  She almost died.

  Up until then he'd thought of them both as invincible, with Mary seeming even more of a superhero for some reason. Although she didn't know it, the trauma he'd experienced over her being shot had been crippling. So much so that he was seeing an FBI therapist, who'd suggested he and Mary quit working together for a while. The only problem was, he worried about her twice as much when she was out of his sight.

  He settled into a soft ottoman, opened Mary's laptop, and turned it on. While waiting for it to boot up, his mind drifted to thoughts of his ex-wife. Ex. Such a negative word. As if she'd been crossed out of his life. Divorce papers didn't suddenly mean they no longer cared about each other, because they did. Things were just different now.

  With hindsight, he could see that their marriage had been a recipe for disaster. She was so sensitive that TV ads for horror movies gave her nightmares. There was no way he could talk to her about his work, no way he could tell her what was bothering him. She'd begged him to quit, but he couldn't. She said he didn't love her enough, and he thought she might be right.

  In the end, she was even jealous of Mary. "You spend more time with her than you do with me," she'd shouted at him one particularly ugly night. It was true, he'd realized. Then he'd had an ever more alarming thought: This is never going to work.

  On Mary's laptop, the FBI screen saver was humming at him. He opened the writing program and quickly found the most recent file.

  He read her notes, then looked at the background information on the murders and personal observations. That was followed by the profile.

  The crime scenes reflect characteristics of the organized offender. Most likely a chameleon personality. Cunning. Cruises for victims.

  Crime Scene: Kills at undetermined location, then disposes of body at abduction site. Very likely tortures victims, either psychologically or physically or both.

  Leaves little or no physical evidence.

  Development: Has been hurt in some way, and is angry, yet feeling fear or loss.

  Thinks himself superior to others. Selects victims he can manipulate, dominate, and control.

  He constantly feels the need for approval and feminine admiration. He is self-confident and arrogant, but may have doubts about his own sexuality. Could be attracted to men, and his denial of that attraction is taken out on innocent women.

  Method: He usually preselects his victims, but if a victim doesn't work out, he may take one by opportunity. He uses the surprise approach, attacking between midnight and 5:00 a.m. The victim will always be alone.

  Sex of Offender: Male

  Race: White

  Age: 24 to 35 Physical Description: 5'11" or above, muscular Scholastic Achievement: High school, possibly some college.

  Lifestyle: Single, but may have friends or relatives who only see one side of him.

  Social Adjustment: Did well in grade school, but when he reached adolescence, began to cause trouble. Has leadership qualities.

  Demeanor: Confident, possibly quite charming.

  Mental Problems: Phobias. Some type of stressor most likely occurred to bring about the first kidnapping and murder.

  Grafted Rose Branches: Symbolic of his need to seek perfection in a mate along with his need to manipulate his victims in impossible ways.

  The next file contained the victimology, which was every bit as important as the offender profile.

  Sex: Female

  Race: White

  Age: 15 to 25

  Height: 5'4" to 5'8"

  Weight: 110 to 135

  Hair color: Blond Victim will most likely be someone who is young and healthy, dresses stylishly, yet can be manipulated. Offender is an opportunist, and if the right victim can't be found, he makes do.

  A note at the bottom proposed sending the profiles to the media as soon as the FBI signed off on them.

  As Anthony shut down the computer and put it aside, he heard a key turn in the front lock. He was getting to his feet when the door swung open and an attractive woman walked in. Mary's sister? Mother?

  He didn't want to frighten her, so he quickly pulled out his ID, nipped open the leather case, and introduced himself. Did she know who he was? he wondered. Had Mary ever mentioned him? "I'm Mary's partner," he explained in case she hadn't.

  "Anthony! How wonderful!" the woman said, extending a hand. "I'm Blythe. I'm so glad to finally meet you." She was looking at him with curiosity.

  "Excuse my hands," she said, smiling warmly. "I've been mixing clay all afternoon, and you know how hard clay is on your skin."

  He hadn't known, but now he did.

  She glanced around. "Where's Mary?"

  It was tempting as hell to blow Mary's cover for her own good, but if he did, he doubted she'd ever speak to him again. "She didn't feel well, so she's upstairs sleeping."

  "I knew something was wrong with her earlier today." Blythe frowned. "Is it Bu, do you think?"

  This was Mary's mother. How could he lie to Mary's mother? "Hard to say," he replied uncomfortably.

  "I'll just go up and check on her."

  Blythe disappeared, then returned a few minutes later. "She's sound asleep, poor dear." She clasped him on the upper arm. "What about you? Did you just fly in? Have you had anything to eat? Come in the kitchen, and we'll have a chat while we wait for Mary to wake up."

  She led him through the house to a kitchen that was as cluttered and as warm as the living room, with copper pans hanging above the stove. He noticed in particular a wire mesh bust in the corner. She talked while she pulled out condiments and heated water for tea. "Would you prefer beer? Wine? Soda? Oh, please sit down."

  He could see that she was the kind of person who loved taking care of people, who would love to be taking care of Mary. Mary had recently told him she hadn't been home in five years. Not for the first time, he wondered why.

  There was a little table in front of sliding glass doors that looked out onto a deck and backyard. He chose one of the stools at the kitchen counter.

  "You and Mary don't look much alike," he observed.

  "Mary's dark, like her father," Blythe said. "And Gillian's light like me. As far as personality, Mary and I are nothing alike either," she added, slicing a tomato. "But believe it or not, she used to be a lot more like me."

  "Really?" He was having a hard time picturing Mary fluttering around a kitchen, wearing bright colors and talking nonstop.

  "You should have known her before."

  "Before? Before what?"

  "Why, before Fiona died."

>   Mary awakened abruptly.

  She could hear the soft, indistinct murmur of voices coming from downstairs. Disoriented, she turned on the lamp next to the bed and checked her watch. A little after seven.

  She changed clothes, slipping into a pair of jeans and digging out a long-sleeved top. Downstairs, she found her mother and Anthony huddled together in the kitchen.

  Blythe got to her feet. "I was just getting ready to come up and check on you." She gave Mary a quick hug. "How are you feeling?"

  "Much better."

  She leaned back to examine her. "Do you think it's the flu?"

  Mary glanced at Anthony, thankful he hadn't told her mother everything. "It's not the flu; it's my arm."

  "I was afraid," Blythe said with drama, "that there was more to your injury than you were letting on."

  "I'm going to have to take it easy for a few days."

  "Can I get you anything?"

  "No." She put her uninjured arm around her mother and gave her a hug. "Everything's going to be fine."

  Blythe was an optimist, so it was easy to convince her that there was no reason to worry. Satisfied with Mary's response, she excused herself, leaving the two of them alone to "talk business."

  "Did you look at the profile?" Mary asked once her mother was gone.

  Anthony nodded and lifted a glass to his mouth. The liquid was light green-Blythe was already plying him with herbal tea. "The profile looks pretty good as far as I can tell."

  "Do you have anything to add, or anything you feel different about?" When it came to crime scene psychology they were a perfectly synchronized pair, and Mary had total faith in his judgment.

  "He has some strangely conflicting qualities."

  "I know. I keep going over everything and coming up with descriptions that seem more suited to two people than one. That's why I wanted to get your reaction."

  "I really can't say until I have time to go over the victims' case files."

  She waved her hand in impatience. "I promised Detective Wakefield a rough draft by tomorrow morning."

  "I'll try to get everything read before that. What about the decomposed victim? Were you able to link her to the other two murders?"

  "It's going to take a crime lab to do that."

  He gave her a disapproving look. "This wasn't quite the break I envisioned for you."

  "I didn't need a vacation."

  "Come on, Mary." It had to be one of his favorite lines.

  "You're not going to win this argument. Believe me, I'll be fine. I'm feeling much better already."

  He seemed to be considering something and then finally said, "I'm sticking around."

  "To keep an eye on me?"

  "You weren't sent here to do the work of two people. Take tomorrow off. I've got a reservation at a hotel a few blocks from police headquarters, so I'll deliver the profile to Detective Wakefield in the morning. If he has any questions, he can call you. How does that sound?"

  His idea seemed a fair compromise. "You're welcome to stay here," she offered. "There's a private area at the back of the house that used to be my father's work space. It has a bed and shower."

  He stared at her for what seemed like a full minute.

  Why was he looking at her like that? Had he misconstrued her invitation? she wondered. She was just trying to be friendly. But of course he wouldn't want to stay at their house. Not when the government was putting him up in a nice hotel.

  His eyes cleared as if he'd finally made sense of her offer. "You're not trying to keep me under your thumb, are you, Mary?"

  "Idiot." They were back on familiar ground. That evasive cat-and-mouse teasing that was so much a part of their relationship.

  "You really are feeling better."

  "I was just trying to be nice."

  "Well, cut it out. You're scaring me."

  She laughed.

  "Thanks for the offer, regardless of how it came about," he said. "But I have to turn it down. I wouldn't want to be any trouble."

  "It's too late for that."

  "I'm afraid you're right." He glanced at her shoulder.

  "That's not what I meant."

  A look of resignation crossed his features, and she suddenly became aware of how tired he was.

  She cupped his face with her hands, feeling abrasive stubble against her palms. She'd never touched him in such a way. "Quit beating yourself up about my injury," she whispered. "It happened. It's over. Forget about it."

  "I can't."

  It was unsettling to catch herself looking so deeply into Anthony Spence's eyes. She broke contact and moved away, suddenly embarrassed by her impulsiveness.

  "Yeah, well… I'd better get going." He bustled around to cover the awkward moment, gathering up his jacket, quickly shrugging into it. "I've got a lot of homework." Two minutes later, he was gone.

  Chapter 8

  The following morning, when she should have been resting, Mary decided to make a long overdue visit. She rang the doorbell and stepped back, her heart beating rapidly as footsteps inside the house came closer. The door opened, and there stood Abigail Portman, Fiona's mother.

  Abigail had always seemed a throwback to a delusional fifties mom, the mother who had turned her back on a career to stay home and raise her only daughter. She wore aprons and baked cookies, and all the kids in the neighborhood seemed to end up at her house. And no matter how busy she was with all that cooking, and running Fiona from piano to cheerlead-ing practice, no matter how busy she was with PTA and the latest school fund-raiser, she always looked immaculate.

  Back then Mary had often regarded Fiona's life with longing and wished her own could be more like it.

  Poor Mrs. Portman's once beautiful Betty Crocker hair was gray and frizzy, and her eyes looked out from deep, lined sockets. Her white sweatshirt was stained and ragged. On her feet were slippers Mary suspected rarely left her feet.

  "Hello, Mrs. Portman. It's me. Mary."

  The woman's blank expression disappeared. "Mary! Oh, Mary!" She opened the door wide and pulled Mary inside.

  It was like stepping into a tomb.

  The hallway was dark and stuffy, smelling as if fresh air and sunlight hadn't touched the house since Fiona's death.

  Abigail Portman wrapped her arms around Mary, hugging her tightly. "You're so grown up!" she said, stepping back to look at her. "I can't believe it! I always think of you just like Fiona-a perpetual teenager. Are you still with the FBI?"

  "Yes. Actually, I'm in town on a case."

  The light left Abigail's face. "Those girls."

  "Yes."

  "I've read about them. I keep thinking of their poor mothers. I wondered about dropping them a note, but what words of comfort could I give when there aren't any? I would just remind them that they aren't in the middle of a horrible dream and that ten years from now they'll still be in pain."

  "Is that how it is for you?" Mary asked, sad to see that things were so bad.

  "Frank and I got divorced. He couldn't take it anymore. Said I was always moping around. He wanted to sell the house and move out West somewhere. He begged me to go. I thought about it, but I couldn't leave. It's different for men. He didn't understand that this house is my connection to my daughter. I can't imagine anybody else sleeping in her room. I can't imagine children running down the hall, laughing and screaming. I don't want happy children here. It wouldn't seem right. Like laughing at a funeral."

  "I understand."

  "I think you do." She waved her hand. "Come in and have a snack with me. Remember how you and Fiona used to charge in after school for milk and cookies?"

  Mary smiled. "I remember. You made the best chocolate chip cookies in the world."

  "I don't bake anymore." It was a statement of the way things were. "I don't cook at all."

  Mary followed her through a living room that was frozen in time. Being in Fiona's house gave her a weird feeling of dislocation. Nothing had changed. The furniture. The curtains. Where the furniture was placed. All
the same. She almost expected to pick up a newspaper to see that it was dated the day Fiona had died.

  The kitchen hadn't changed either. Same wallpaper. Same laminated table and matching chairs with plastic-covered cushions that left strange designs on a child's bare legs. Same bland motel oil painting on the wall. Abigail may have been Betty Crocker, but she'd never had an esthetic eye.

  "Take off your coat."

  Mary removed her trench coat and draped it over a kitchen chair.

  "You became an FBI agent because of Fiona, didn't you?" Abigail asked, tearing open a bag of ginger-snaps and getting two cans of diet soda from the refrigerator.

  "I think you're right." Why not be honest? "I'm sure you're right."

  They drank the soda and munched the gingersnaps, which turned out to be atrocious. Abigail talked about Fiona as if she'd been waiting for this day, for someone who would listen, for someone who would understand without telling her she needed to forget about what happened and move on-which was the last thing people like Abigail wanted to hear.

  The conversation turned away from the tragedy to the sharing of fond memories of a girl who would always be sixteen. Abigail dragged out scrapbooks. Together she and Mary reminisced. They went through page after page of newspaper clippings about the spelling bees Fiona had won, and about recognition by the mayor for the money she'd raised for the homeless. There was a photo of her accepting a plaque for a state speech competition, another for Academic Bowl.

  "She was such a special person," Abigail said, stroking the photo. "I never pushed her. I was never one of those mothers who pushed her kids to do things they had no interest in. She pushed herself."

  "She had so much energy," Mary said. "She wanted everything."

  "She wanted to be the first female president. Did she ever tell you that?"

  "Yes. And I think she could have done it." Mary recognized an echo of the old enthusiasm she used to have for Fiona's ideas.

  The last photos in the album were obituaries, cut from several papers. There was even a photo taken at the cemetery of the grieving mourners. With a weird jolt of recognition, Mary spotted her much younger self standing with Blythe. Gillian stood a little to one side.