“I do live alone,” she reminded him somewhat tersely.
“Not this week.”
“Right.” She gritted her teeth. “So. What else did you do today?”
“I sweated,” he said, recalling that last walk around the block.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
She began to pick through her mail.
“So.” She opened a bill and scanned it. “About dinner. I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook. But we have some great take-out places in town. If that’s okay with you?”
He opened the refrigerator and took out a shallow pan. “Chicken cacciatore.” He peeled back the foil.
“You made that?” She peered closer, then closer still, before the corners of her mouth began to turn up. “Nah, that’s from Giorgio’s. Nice try, though. Almost had me.”
He almost smiled.
She turned the oven on and set the timer, thinking how odd it was to be sharing her home with a strange man.
“Look, you don’t have to do all this. You don’t have to walk my dog or answer my phone or bring in my mail or buy my food. All you’re supposed to be doing is watching me so that some psycho doesn’t get me. In the event that said psycho, in fact, has an interest in me. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything else, except what Annie asked you to do.”
“Well, let’s put this into perspective, shall we?” Aidan placed the pan on top of the stove with the same cool, precise control as his words. “I spent the day here because I had nowhere else to go. While I was here, I got bored, took a walk or two. I took Spike along. The mail was sticking out of the box when we came back from our last walk so I brought it in. I answered your phone because it was ringing, and because if the caller was the person I’m supposed to be protecting you from, I wanted him to know that I am here. I stopped and picked up something for dinner because I get hungry around six every day and had no reason to think I wouldn’t be hungry tonight. End of story.”
“And I appreciate it. I really do. I just don’t want to impose on you any more than my sister already has.”
“Fine. Maybe what we need here are a few ground rules. If you don’t want me to answer the phone, or bring in the mail, or walk the dog, or—”
“No, no, it’s fine. I didn’t mean . . . that is, I’m grateful. Really. I am. And I do appreciate that you might get bored here during the day.” She pushed a chin-length strand of dark hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear, trying to mirror his control. “It’s just that I’m used to being alone, except for those times when Annie is here. I’m not used to having . . . someone”—She’d almost said a stranger—“in my house. It’s just going to take a little getting used to, that’s all.”
“I understand,” Aidan told her, because he did. “Look, if you want to watch television alone tonight, or read a book, or whatever, it’s okay. I can go upstairs and read, or go sit outside . . .”
“I wouldn’t expect you to go sit outside while I sat in here and watched TV.” The idea struck her as absurd, and she laughed out loud.
“I wouldn’t mind. You have a clear overhead view from your deck. Do you ever sit out there at night and look at the stars?”
“No. Are you into stargazing?”
“It passes the time. Tonight might be a good night, if the sky stays clear. I brought my telescope with me. I think I’ll set it up on the deck.”
“Isn’t it going to be cold?”
“That’s why the jacket was invented.”
“Maybe I will join you.” She backed out of the kitchen, suddenly needing to escape from his presence. “But right now, I think I’d like to change. I’ll just be a minute. . . .”
Mara took the steps two at a time, seeking the sanctuary of her room. Once inside, she closed the door and collapsed onto the bed, her head spinning. She hadn’t expected it to be easy, having someone here with her, but she hadn’t expected it to cause this level of tension, either. She was trying her best to act normal—whatever that was—but it was hard. She was used to living with ghosts, and Aidan was very much alive.
Mara closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, and tried to will away the sense of unrest that filled her. If she stayed there, in her room, she wouldn’t have to talk to him, wouldn’t feel compelled to make conversation that he was only pretending to be interested in.
She wanted nothing more than to stay right where she was, facedown on the bed, until the morning came and she could leave again for work.
Which, of course, she could never do. That would be inexcusably rude.
Not that he was a model of civility. The man had apparently left a good deal of his charm in Rehoboth.
Snap out of it. He’s doing you a favor.
No, he’s doing Annie a favor.
Did it really matter? Wasn’t it was enough that he was here, that she was safer for his presence? And wasn’t that the point?
She would get herself under control enough to have dinner with Aidan, do her best to be polite and genial. And if it didn’t go well, then maybe she’d feign a headache so that she could retreat back up to Julianne’s room, where she could pretend they were saying bedtime prayers together, just like they had every night before Julianne disappeared. Mara was aware that over the years the prayers had taken on the air of a ritual, but she couldn’t help herself. In the still and darkened room, she could almost imagine Julianne’s pale blond hair fanned out on the pillow, could almost hear her child’s voice whispering her child’s prayer, and wondered if, wherever she was, Julianne was saying her prayers and pretending that her mother was there.
Last night, Mara had waited until she felt certain that Aidan was sound asleep before she tiptoed to Julianne’s room and closed the door softly behind her. She just didn’t want to have to explain to a near stranger that she couldn’t fall asleep until she’d tried to reach out to her daughter in the only way she could.
Mara rested for a few more minutes, then sat up, her legs dangling over the side of the bed, her toes just grazing the carpet, and marveled at the power of anxiety. Over the course of the past few years, she had faced off with some of the worst that mankind had to offer. She had seen mothers who had sent their preteen daughters out onto the streets to turn tricks or had loaned out their sons to pedophiles, fathers who had repeatedly raped their daughters and others who had sold them. She’d stood in court and recited these abominations to judges, reading aloud carefully and without emotion, wanting the facts alone to call for justice and for compassion for the children for whom she stood. And she had never blinked, never faltered. Yet here, now, in her own home, she felt unsure of herself, vulnerable.
It was just the damnedest thing.
Mara cleared her throat, forced herself off the edge of the bed, and began to change from her office attire. Resenting Aidan’s presence really wasn’t fair to him at all, she reminded herself as she slipped off her skirt and panty hose. It wasn’t as if he wanted to be here any more than she wanted him around. No wonder he was a little grumpy at times. Given the choice, certainly he’d rather be back at his own apartment, doing his own thing. But he hadn’t been able to say no to Annie.
No one could say no to Annie.
She pulled on her jeans and searched her bottom drawer for a sweatshirt.
The thought occurred to her that it was probably as hard for Aidan to be out of his element as it was for her to have him in hers.
She tied on an old pair of running shoes and took one more deep breath, turned off the light, then opened her bedroom door and headed downstairs. They’d have dinner and try to be polite to each other, and maybe later they’d sit out back and look at the stars through his telescope. She wasn’t certain it would be necessary to pretend that they were enjoying each other’s company.
Wrapped in a heavy red sweater, the hood pulled over her head, Mara drew her legs up onto the chair and tried not to huddle. The night had grown unseasonably cool since she’d followed Aidan out onto the deck and watched him set up his telescope on
the tripod. She hadn’t wanted to go, had never had much interest in astronomy, but thought it would be impolite to send her guest outside alone.
She watched him patiently adjust the lens, then turn the scope this way and that, looking for God only knew what. Well, she’d look, she’d pretend to be interested, and then she’d go to bed. He could stay out here all night, if he wanted to. But for now, the least she could do was show some curiosity.
He was bent over the scope, moving the device ever so slowly, his face a study in concentration.
“Here,” he said without taking his eyes from the lens. “Take a look.”
Trying not to shiver, she stepped forward. He stood behind her and grabbed her by the elbow to lead her into position. “What am I looking at?”
She raised her hands to take hold of the scope, and he stopped her by taking her hands in his own. The sudden and unexpected intimacy of his hands trapping and holding on to hers disconcerted her, and she fought the urge to pull away.
“No, don’t. You’ll move it and then I’ll have to adjust it again. Just . . . here . . .” He guided her to the lens. “Just look right through here.”
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at.”
“What do you see?”
“A bright light—a big star, with other stars around it.”
“That’s Jupiter.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“It looks big. I mean, it looks small through the lens, but it looks big compared to the other stars.”
“It’s the largest planet in our solar system. And those little ‘stars’ are its moons.”
“I knew that,” she heard herself say. Of course she knew it. She just hadn’t been thinking about it.
“Let’s see what else.” He leaned in next to her, one hand in the middle of her back, the side of his face momentarily close to hers. He moved the telescope slightly, adjusted the lens, then brought her back into position.
“Take a look.”
“What am I looking at now?”
“That’s Castor. In the constellation Gemini.”
“Like the astrological sign,” she said without thinking, then realized how silly that must have sounded. Laughing, she turned to him. “Sorry. That sounded incredibly stupid.”
“Astronomy, astrology. All those A words sound alike,” he said dryly.
She turned to look up at him, was surprised to find how close he still was. He smelled of soap—her soap—and just a hint of the chamomile candle that burned on the table next to the telescope.
“I didn’t confuse the two. I just wasn’t thinking, that’s all. Of course I know the difference.”
He didn’t bother to reply, merely reached around her and turned the scope to his own eyes. Over the next hour, he showed her constellations, the names of which she recalled from a long-ago science class, and pointed out the stars Polaris, Sirius, Pollux.
“I’m really impressed,” she said honestly. “Maybe you should have been an astronaut.”
“I’d thought about it once,” he admitted as he removed the telescope from the tripod.
“Are you serious?” She studied his face. Of course he was.
“When I was a kid, I used to dream about it, going into space. I wanted to be the first man to land on Mars.”
For the briefest of moments, he appeared almost wistful. She’d almost caught a peek of the child he had been. Almost.
“If that was your dream, why didn’t you pursue it?” She sat back in her chair. “How’d you end up in the FBI?”
“It’s the family business.” The phantom child she’d almost glimpsed had slipped back into hiding.
“Oh, you mean because your two brothers were agents? Why would you feel you had to follow in their footsteps?”
“It wasn’t just my brothers. It was my father. An uncle. A couple of cousins.”
“Oh. I can see how you’d feel . . .” She paused. Actually, she couldn’t understand feeling obligated to follow a course merely because it was expected of her. “Have you ever regretted your decision?”
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes dark and guarded.
“Every day for the past year.”
He slipped the telescope into the case, snapped it closed as neatly as he had closed off himself, then headed into the house, leaving Mara alone with the night sky, biting her tongue.
“Hmm, let’s see . . . Esposito, Esposito . . .”
Muttering to himself, Curtis Alan Channing traced the list of names with his right index finger. He knew the address—that had been given to him—but he needed to make sure that Flora Esposito still lived at 2703 Edge Hill Road in Brownville, three small towns down the main pike from where he sat.
He found the address and dialed the number.
“Hello? Is this Mrs. Esposito?” he asked.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Mrs. Flora Esposito?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“I’m an old friend of your daughter’s and I’m just back in town for a night and was thinking it would be nice to just give her a call and say hi. . . .”
The silence was long and strained. Finally, she asked, “Who did you say you were?”
“I went to grade school with Diane, fourth through sixth grade, but then we moved to Chicago. I was just wondering how she was and, well, maybe she won’t remember me at all, but I thought, hell—oh, I apologize, Mrs. Esposito—I thought maybe I’d give a call and see if you were still around, and maybe you’d give me her phone number.”
“Diane is . . . Diane died almost three years ago.”
“Oh, my God, no!” He was getting into it now. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Esposito, I had no idea. . . .”
“Well, you wouldn’t have, I suppose.” Flora Esposito’s throat began to constrict, the way it always did when Diane’s name came up out of the blue like that.
“May I ask . . . how . . . what happened?” His voice dropped an octave or two.
“She . . . she was murdered.” Even now, the words were so hard to speak.
“Oh, God, that’s horrible! Horrible. She was such a sweet girl. I always thought she was the cutest girl in our class, you know, in sixth grade. I had such a crush on her.” He pretended to be choked up for a moment before adding, “Who would do such a terrible thing to such a sweet girl?”
“Well . . . what did you say your name was?”
“Bill. Bill Callahan.”
“Billy Callahan, old Dr. Callahan’s nephew?”
He was tempted, but it was too risky.
“No, I’m afraid not. I was the other Billy Callahan.”
“Oh. I hadn’t remembered that there had been more than one.”
“You were telling me about Diane.” He knew, of course, that he had the right person, but some perversity in his nature wanted to hear her say it. It would help set the stage emotionally for what would come later that night.
“Her husband shot her. Her and her two boys. His own wife and his own sons, his own flesh and blood. What kind of a monster puts a gun to the head of his own children and pulls the trigger?”
“I just don’t know what to say.” He picked idly at a cuticle on his left thumb. “I’ve never been so shocked. . . . Oh, I’m so sorry to have brought this up. I can’t apologize enough, Mrs. Esposito.”
“It’s all right, son. You wouldn’t know. And it’s not as if I don’t think about it every day, anyway.”
“I’m sure you do.” He nodded absently. “I’m sure you do.”
“Every day of my life, Billy, and I will until the day I die. . . .”
Billy said his kind good-byes and hung up the phone. Mrs. Esposito wouldn’t be missing her Diane for much longer.
Till the day you die, indeed . . .
He’d debated over and over whether he should simply shoot her and have done with it, or take his time and do what he did best. In the end, as much as it pained him, he opted to use the gun. In the wake of the Mary Douglas killi
ngs and the resulting circus of media attention—the last one being the courthouse Mary and all that—killing Flora Esposito in the same manner could lead an investigator with some smarts directly to the county prison and to one Vince Giordano with a lot of questions. He didn’t think that Giordano was the type who’d rat him out, but with one more victim to go before his part of the deal was done, why take stupid chances?
He’d enjoyed the game so far—even after his early missteps—and after tonight, there’d be only one name left on the list before he could take off for parts unknown. He was giving some serious consideration to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Someone had been talking about it in the restaurant the other day, and it had sounded like a nice place to visit. Then again, anyplace down south was nice. He’d have to give it more thought.
He checked the gun—an old handgun he’d won in a poker game about fifteen years ago and had used only a few times. Guns were loud and had a tendency to draw attention, something he wisely avoided. He much preferred the knife, which offered so much more in the way of artistic expression.
Even now, knowing he needed to complete this task in a manner that could not be associated with his recent kills, it was with regret that he left the knife in his bag. He zipped the bag shut quickly and tucked it next to the bed, then opened the door and left the room without looking back before the knife could call to him and remind him of what they could do together.
Flora Esposito would never know just how lucky she was.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
MIRANDA CAHILL RESTED HER CHIN IN HER HAND and leaned in a bit closer to the computer screen as she scrolled down the file that had been sent, at her request, from FBI headquarters. She carefully sorted through the facts before shaking her head.
Close, but no cigar.
This latest file had outlined a series of killings that had occurred over a period of four years in western Missouri, and though the MO was somewhat similar to that of their Mary Douglas killer, she knew instinctively that the differences distinguishing them indicated two killers. All the victims in the Missouri cases had had their throats slashed. None of them had been blindfolded. Anne Marie McCall’s profile had noted that both the identical knife wounds to the chest and the blindfolding of the victims were integral components of their killer’s signature. Also, the Missouri killings had been disorganized, showing none of the deliberation of the killer whose identity they now sought.
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