by Cassie Miles
“We go there first. The parking lot.”
Guns held at the ready, she and Flynn edged down the street. Her gaze scanned the flat surfaces of walls, the irregular branches of a lilac shrub, the shadows. She listened for the rustle of footsteps, the hiss of the shooter’s breathing.
Flynn circled the fence, gun braced in both hands. He stepped back beside her. “Nobody in sight. Two cars in the parking lot.”
It had been too long since she’d engaged in this kind of action. Her reflexes were slow. Her movements lacked the crisp focus she’d learned at Quantico.
In the convenience store parking lot, Flynn preceded her. Head low, he ran across the asphalt and quickly checked out the parked cars. “Clear,” he called out.
If the shooter had run down a side street, they might never catch up. Two cars drove on the street behind her. A door slammed. She heard the sound of laughter. Moments ago, this town seemed nearly deserted. Now there was too much distraction.
“Inside the store,” she said.
He went first, and she followed through the glass doors. This convenience store was all windows. The overhead lights made them highly visible targets if the shooter was outside. Tension prickled up and down her spine. Keep moving. Don’t be a sitting duck.
Inside, they split up. He went right. She went left. At the far aisle, she encountered two young women. One was dressed all in black. “FBI,” Marisa said. “Drop the purses. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
They stared at her with wide, terrified eyes. She quickly patted them down and flipped open their bags. Tucked in the side pocket of one purse was a plastic baggy with three joints, which Marisa ignored.
There was no one else on her side of the store. “Clear,” she called out to Flynn.
“Same here,” he echoed. “Did any of you see a person dressed in black?”
She looked at the young women. “Did you hear the gunshot? The sound of breaking glass?”
“No.”
“Anything suspicious?”
“Am I under arrest?” asked the one with the joints. “I swear I don’t know how those joints got in there.”
“This isn’t a drug bust.” Marisa directed them away from the windows. “Did you see anyone? A person dressed in black?”
“In the parking lot when we pulled in.”
“Can you describe the person?”
Her lip quivered. “I don’t know. They were like, kind of skinny. And the hood of the sweatshirt was up so I couldn’t really see their face.”
Marisa turned to the other. “You?”
“I got the munchies. I was thinking about chocolate-swirl ice cream.”
Police sirens wailed as two cruisers pulled into the parking lot. Uniformed officers charged toward the door.
Their shooter was gone. Escaped.
Marisa was mad at herself. She should have foreseen this possibility, should have arranged more sophisticated surveillance. The technology was available and she knew how to use it. She should have been more prepared.
Her investigation was falling apart.
She wasn’t fit to be a field agent. For the past two years, she’d been riding a desk. The only place she drew her weapon was at the shooting range.
Flynn handled the officers while she stood by, seething with frustration.
Why had the shooter come after them? There had to be a reason. If the attack was meant to be fatal, it had been poorly executed. Only one bullet. What kind of assassin fires one bullet and runs?
In her mind, she stepped back to see the big picture. The shooter might have been providing a distraction so Sterling could leave his motel room. Though they hadn’t heard him make a phone call, he might have arranged the assault.
She joined Flynn and the officers. “We need a visual check on our subject.”
“The motel room,” Flynn said.
Leaving the officers in charge of the search, she and Flynn ran across the street to the Dolores Motel.
“Sterling could have set this up,” she said.
“His truck is still in the parking lot.”
“He could be riding with the shooter.”
“Not if he’s the Judge,” Flynn said. “He works alone.”
“Except for Russell Graff,” she reminded him.
She climbed the staircase to the second floor and charged down the walkway to Sterling’s room at the end. Breathing hard, she rapped on the door. “Dr. Sterling.”
Silence answered her summons. If Sterling used this ploy to slide out from under surveillance, he could be on his way to the hideout where Grace Lennox was hidden.
“Dr. Sterling,” she said more loudly.
The door swung open. Alex Sterling, dressed in blue pajamas, greeted her with a blank stare. “Agent Kelso, can I help you?”
“Step aside, sir.”
She pushed open the door and entered. The shooter might be in here with him. Quickly, she searched the closets and the bathroom. No one else was in the room.
Beside the bed was a thick tome on global warming, bookmarked in the middle. Sterling’s closed briefcase rested on the dresser. “What’s in here?”
“Open it,” he said. “I have nothing to hide.”
Inside his briefcase were file folders, journals, an appointment book and a cell phone. She looked up into the expressionless face of Dr. Sterling—so bland that he could have been faking. “Did you hear the gunshot? The police sirens?”
“I assumed something was going on at the convenience store.” He cocked his head to one side. “Why are you here? Were you watching my room?”
Their observation hadn’t been especially covert, but they hadn’t informed Sterling that he was under surveillance. No one knew they were here. She mentally paused. No one knew.
Flynn answered Sterling’s question. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
“I’ll try to be a bit more interesting.” His unwavering gaze stayed on Marisa. “You seem upset, Agent Kelso. Can I get you a glass of water?”
“I’m fine.” How had the shooter found them? Except for people in law enforcement, no one knew their exact location tonight.
“Is Dr. Treadwell accompanying you?” Sterling asked.
“No.”
But he knew where they were. Both Sterling and Treadwell knew they were in town. And who else?
A uniformed officer appeared in the doorway to Sterling’s room. A stout man, breathing hard. “There’s something out here you need to see.”
Marisa cast a final glance at Sterling. In his pajamas with his arms folded across his chest, he appeared to be harmless. Could this middle-aged academic possibly be responsible for these heinous murders? “We’ll be in touch,” she said.
“Until we meet again, Agent Kelso.”
She exited the motel room and followed the officer. Flynn was at her side. She kept her tone confidential. “There’s something bothering me.”
“Getting shot at? Yeah, that’s a bitch.”
“Something else,” she said. “How did the shooter know where to find us? Who besides Sterling and Treadwell knew we were here? We weren’t followed, were we?”
“I didn’t notice a tail.” He shrugged. “Maybe someone was able to pick up your cell phone signal?”
Of course, it was possible. But not easy. Though there were supposed spyware devices that could be picked up in any electronics store, communication intercept took some fairly sophisticated equipment.
“There’s a pattern here, Flynn. From the very start. The helicopter explosion.” She was on to something. “Before landing, the pilot received a transmission through his headset. On the FBI frequency.”
As they crossed the street, he asked, “How was that done?”
“The Judge has access to our signal. Our codes. He’s been monitoring our communications, listening to every word of the investigation. No wonder he’s always one step ahead.”
But how was he able to obtain that access? She took her reasoning one step farther. “This m
ight be an inside job.”
“An informant.” He stopped dead. “The only other agents at the safe house when the chopper blew were my guys, Zack and Wesley.”
“The informant doesn’t have to be on-site. All he needs is access, monitoring capabilities.”
Someone inside the FBI could be feeding information to a serial killer. She didn’t want to believe such disloyalty was possible, but she’d been a Fed long enough to be cynical. For the right payoff, people were capable of almost anything.
The officer led them to the ice machine outside the convenience store. Leaning against the far side was an eight-by-ten padded envelope—the kind that was sold in every post office. Block letters spelled out her name.
“We didn’t touch it,” the officer informed her. “Didn’t want to mess up any fingerprints.”
“That was smart.”
Careful to follow forensic procedure, Marisa called for the crime scene investigators to take photographs and look for any minuscule clue.
Half an hour later, she had the envelope in her hands. It felt nearly weightless. She slit the top of the envelope and pulled out a typed note.
It read:
The FBI agents O’Conner and Kelso
Suspect Graff and Sterling more or less so.
Run back to the house.
And hide like a mouse.
Or fly away home on the wings of a Crowe.
Aloha.
She opened the envelope wider. Coiled at the bottom was a long, gray braid.
Chapter Nine
Grace Lennox pried open her eyelids. She lay flat on the mattress on the floor. Her wrists and ankles were still bound. Though the ligatures weren’t tight, her muscles ached. It was night again. Eternal darkness.
She opened her mouth to call out. Her voice creaked like a rusty hinge. Water. She needed more water.
Rolling to her side, she reached awkwardly for the plastic bottle on the floor beside her and lifted it to her lips. The liquid was probably laced with drugs, but she had no choice. She had to stay hydrated or die. After a few gulps, she lay back gasping.
The drugs were a blessing. They dulled her fears and kept her from feeling the pain. Without their numbing effect, she would have been terrified. Her breathing calmed, but her heartbeat was accelerated.
The next time the masked man came in here, she’d tell him that she needed her blood pressure pills. If he ever came back…
Last night, he’d spoken to her in a whispery voice. He’d told her that they weren’t so different. “We’re both judges.”
“Are you the one they call the Judge?” she’d asked. “The serial killer?”
“Have you ever ordered the death penalty?”
“Never.”
“Have you ever wanted to?”
Though her vision had been blurred, she’d squinted into the eyeholes in his plastic mask, trying to discover any feature that would identify him. “There have been times when I believed the death penalty was deserved.”
“As have I,” he said.
How could he possibly compare himself with her? His victims had done nothing to deserve the ultimate punishment. They were young women. Innocent.
Earlier, when she’d thought she was being held captive by professional assassins, she’d assumed their goal was to keep her from testifying. This was worse. She was in the clutches of a madman. “What do you want with me?”
“To prove a point.”
“What point?” she demanded. “What are you talking about?”
He’d said nothing more, leaving the room soon after.
And she’d slept.
How many hours ago was that encounter? She couldn’t guess. Time had become immeasurable. All she could tell was that it was night.
The door to the room swung open, and a young woman entered. She wore all black—an unzipped, hooded sweatshirt and a knit ski mask with holes for the eyes and mouth. In her pale hands, she held a tray, which she placed on the floor beside the mattress.
Grace tried to notice details. If she got out of here alive, she wanted to be an effective witness. The woman wore several rings on her slender fingers.
“I need my pills,” Grace said. “I have high blood pressure.”
“Eat something. You’ll be okay.”
“I could have a heart attack.”
“Not my problem.”
The woman in black went to a plain wooden table against the wall. Pushing up the sleeves of her sweatshirt, she lit one of the votive candles that had gone out. Her movements were careful and measured, as if she were trying to be perfect.
When she stood straight and placed her hands on her hips, Grace saw a gun holster attached to her belt. If she could get her hands on that weapon, she might have a chance.
Though she felt herself slipping back toward unconsciousness, she fought the encroaching darkness. “Where are we?”
“A long way from anywhere. It won’t do you any good to yell for help because there aren’t any neighbors.”
“Is there anyone else here? In this house?”
“Too damn many questions, lady.”
Gathering all her strength, Grace forced herself to sit up. The room swirled like a wild carousel. “If you help me escape, you’ll be rewarded.”
The woman gave a short laugh. “If I help you, I’ll be dead.”
“I can make sure you won’t be arrested.” She raised her bound wrists in appeal. “You’ve got to help me.”
As the woman stared, Grace thought she saw a smile under the ski mask. A connection. The young woman came back toward her. She knelt and unwrapped the cellophane on a sandwich. “Ham and Swiss. This is real good. Have a couple of bites.”
The gun was close. This might be Grace’s only opportunity. Though she hated to destroy the glimmer of empathy between this young woman and herself, she lunged. With her bound wrists, she caught hold of the sweatshirt. Pushing with her legs, she came closer to the weapon.
“Hey!” The woman shoved at her shoulders. “What the hell are you doing?”
She clutched the woman’s belt. Her fingers were inches away from the holster.
She felt a slap. A harder blow against the side of her ribs. The young woman twisted and tore herself away, leaving her sweatshirt behind.
In her jeans and black tank top, she towered over Grace. On her right arm was a tattoo. A goddess with long flowing hair.
The woman stepped back, distancing herself. “Crazy old lady.”
THE NEXT MORNING, MARISA STOOD in the kitchen of the safe house, leaning against the counter and sipping her third cup of coffee. It probably wasn’t smart to have this much caffeine, but her nerves were already shot to hell. The tension from Mackenzie and the FBI search team simmered on high, threatening to boil over at any moment. They didn’t like being wrong. Who did? But the gray braid in the envelope had destroyed their entire premise. Grace Lennox had not been abducted by a professional hitman to keep her from testifying. She’d been snatched by the Judge.
There had been tremendous grumbling as their focus shifted to the cryptic poem he’d left as a clue. A five-line limerick, addressed to her.
Mackenzie had called on expert FBI code-breakers to decipher the Judge’s note. They took apart every letter, assigned mathematical values and reassembled the lines. Ultimately, their analysis found nothing useful.
The only point of agreement among the experts was on the line, “Run back to the house.” The Judge wanted Flynn and Marisa to return to the safe house. And so, she was here. Waiting. Playing his game by his rules.
Tick, tock. It was after ten on the second day. This afternoon would start the countdown to the last twenty-four hours before the Judge made his kill.
From down the hall, she heard angry voices raised in yet another discussion. More futile plans. More empty schemes. Why couldn’t they understand? There was nothing they could do until the Judge contacted them. He was calling the shots. Again.
Leaving her coffee behind, she went down the corri
dor and out the front door to the wraparound porch. Fresh air was a sheer relief, and the pure blue of the sky took her breath away. Sunlight shimmered on the buffalo grass and the leafy cottonwoods.
As she stepped off the porch, the armed guard spoke. “Where are you headed, Kelso?”
“For a walk.”
“Nobody is supposed to leave the perimeter.”
She really didn’t give a damn what she was supposed to do. If she didn’t decompress, the inside of her head was going to explode. “I’ll stay close.”
She strolled around to the rear of the house. The simple act of moving her arms and legs gave her tremendous satisfaction, like when she was a little girl running away from home, leaving adult anxieties behind. Though the setting for her childhood in rural Wisconsin had been peaceful, her family had suffered tragedy, and many times she had needed to escape.
Pushing those memories aside, she approached the red barn behind the safe house. Inside the corral, a big black stallion nuzzled a gray mare. Beautiful animals. For a moment, she considered leaping bare-back onto the stallion and riding off across the fields, leaving the investigation to Mackenzie.
Her career ambitions had faded to a small nagging voice in the back of her mind. Supervising really wasn’t her thing. She much preferred being at her desk in San Francisco, where she could deal with the evidence from a calm, detached distance. She hated this intensity—the frustration of juggling ten different things at once and knowing that at least one would fall. She’d fail. And if she didn’t handle everything perfectly, Grace Lennox would die.
Last night, a shooter had come after her and Flynn, but they hadn’t been in any real peril. The obvious purpose of the bullet through the windshield was to get their attention. The more subtle message was that the Judge was using other people to do his dirty work. His former profile had changed. He now had followers. First, Russell Graff. Now, this shooter dressed in black. And an informant inside the FBI?
She heard someone approaching and turned to see Flynn saunter up to the corral fence. He rested his elbows on the top rail and stared at the horses. “Wish there was time to take you riding.”