by Kay Hooper
“Not yet. I only took the report instead of you because I went into the office a bit earlier than usual. I couldn't sleep past six, so I just came in.”
“I thought I ordered you to accept an escort.”
“You suggested, just like you suggested it for Stacy, the only other female detective in the department. We both passed. She's a black belt, and I can take care of myself. And neither one of us is a blonde. You want me to call Isabel?”
“Yeah. Have them meet us at the scene. I'm on my way.”
“Right.”
He turned off the phone and literally dropped it on the bathroom rug, immediately turning on the water and washing his hands in the hottest water he could stand.
Again.
Jesus Christ, again.
The gnawing fear that had been with him for so long was less acute this time, and he understood why. Because this morning he knew something he hadn't known all the other mornings.
This morning, he knew there was something new and unfamiliar going on in his brain, and it wasn't homicidal madness.
It was psychic ability.
You could be calling me rude names in your head or worrying about some deep dark secret you don't want anybody to know, and I wouldn't necessarily read that either.
Deep, dark secret. That's what it had been all this time, a secret fear buried so deep he had almost been able to forget about it during the bright, sane light of day. Almost.
He was no killer. He knew that. He had known that all along, even with the fear that something inside him might have been capable of such acts.
But if he was no killer, then why had he been waking up with blood on his hands for nearly three weeks?
Yesterday morning, he hadn't had a clue. This morning . . .
Rafe thought he was beginning to understand what was going on—though he only had a hunch as to why. And he thought he understood why his shield was so strong that it not only enclosed Isabel but also blocked her.
Gripping the sides of the sink, he stared into the mirror at his unshaven face and haunted eyes. “I have to be able to control this,” he murmured.
Because he couldn't keep blocking Isabel, not even to keep her from knowing his secret fears, his self-doubts and uncertainties, all the demons a man carried inside him if he lived long enough and saw too much. In shutting that away from her, he had both shut her out and imprisoned her.
Imprisoned her abilities, the extra senses that could be all that was standing between her and a killer.
Isabel stood just inside the area blocked off with yellow crime-scene tape, her hands on her hips, grimly studying the clearing.
“Jesus, I don't know where to start,” T.J. said as she and Dustin arrived with their crime-scene kits.
“Follow procedure,” Isabel advised.
Eyeing the ME, who was examining the body, Dustin said, “Even Doc looks queasy. And he was a state medical examiner, until he got tired of the parade of bodies.”
T.J. murmured, “Bet he's sorry he chose Hastings to finish out his professional life.”
“I'm having second thoughts myself,” Dustin told her.
“I know what you mean. Come on, let's get to work.”
Hollis joined Isabel as the two technicians moved away, saying, “Sorry about that.”
“Don't be. I lost my breakfast the first three times I was called to an early murder scene.”
“I'll remember that. Next time. I thought I could handle something like this, especially after a couple of weeks of classes at the body farm. But, Christ . . .”
“Yeah, he made a real mess this time.” Isabel half turned as Mallory joined them. “I'm betting her car's clean, though.”
Mallory nodded. “Looks like it. It'll be towed back to the station so T.J. and Dustin can go over it thoroughly, but the only difference I noticed is that she didn't leave her purse in it.”
Isabel said, “If the doctor confirms that she died around midnight, then she'd have had to leave her house just after the patrol was called away for that accident. Maybe she left in a hurry and didn't even bring a purse.”
“Had to be to meet someone,” Hollis said. “You're a twenty-something blonde in a town where twenty-something blondes are being killed, including your own sister, and you go out alone near midnight? She was either very stupid or really trusted whoever she went to meet. Or both, if you ask me.”
Isabel looked at Mallory. “When we were in her home, I didn't get any sense of a steady boyfriend.”
“Far as I know, she didn't have one. Dated, but never anybody serious.”
Hollis shook her head. “Who could she possibly trust enough to meet, around midnight, at the scene of her sister's murder?”
“And why?” Isabel mused, frowning. “The only reason I can think of is that someone must have told her she could help by coming out here so late. That there was something out here she needed to see, and after dark. If that's true, I can't see any possible answer as to who called her out here except—”
“—a cop,” Mallory said. “Has to be.”
Hollis looked around at the police technicians and the dozen or so uniformed officers searching the area surrounding the crime scene and in various positions between this clearing and the rest stop at the highway, which had also been roped off, and sighed. “Great. That's just great.”
“We still can't rule out some other authority figure,” Isabel reminded them. “For that matter, we can't rule out a member of the media. Who's to say some reporter didn't offer Emily a nice big chunk of cash to meet out here where her sister was killed? And being here well after dark was the only real guarantee a passing patrol wouldn't see them, since we've had all these areas under watch. Her car was well off the road and behind that thicket, so either the killer moved it there afterward or told Emily to park there to avoid being seen by a passing patrol.”
“But a reporter? For a story?” Hollis said. “That's sick. Would Emily have gone for something like that?”
“To step out of Jamie's shadow? I'm thinking yes.”
“That might explain this,” Mallory said, “but what about the other victims? Could a reporter have lured them out of their cars and into the woods?”
Hollis said, “You know, maybe we're making a giant assumption that he does it the same way every time. He could be gearing his approach to each woman individually. Isabel, you and Bishop both believe he has to get to know his victims. Maybe this is why. To find the right bait for each catch.”
Isabel looked at her for a moment, then said, “If you ever feel useless in an investigation, remember this moment. Damn. Why didn't I see that?”
Hollis was pleased, but nevertheless said, “You've had a lot on your plate.”
“Still.” Isabel took a step toward the body, then stopped and turned back. The other two women also turned to watch as Rafe approached them from the highway. He looked grim, and on a face as rugged as his, grim was an expression to make even the bravest soul take a step back.
Isabel met him halfway.
“Sorry I'm late,” he said. “I got held up at the station.”
“What else has happened?” she demanded, reaching out without thinking to touch his hand.
His fingers immediately twined with hers. “The accident that pulled the patrol away from the Brower house,” he said. “There were two fatalities.”
“I'd heard that much.” She waited, knowing there was more.
“Hank McBrayer was one of them,” Rafe said flatly. “He was driving too fast, drunk, and apparently crossed over the center line. Hit the oncoming car head-on. The other victim was a sixty-five-year-old grandmother.”
“Jesus,” Isabel said. “Poor Ginny. This is going to eat her alive.”
“I know. I've got the department counselor with her and her mother now.” He glanced past her at the taped-off crime-scene area.
“He was incredibly vicious this time,” Isabel warned. “He cut her throat, probably first, and with enough force to nearly sever he
r head. And then he started to enjoy himself.”
Without releasing her hand, Rafe continued toward the crime scene. “Has the doc offered his preliminary report yet?”
“No, but I think he's about to.”
They ducked under the tape that Mallory and Hollis automatically held up for them.
“If nobody minds,” Hollis said, “I think I'll stand right here. I've seen all I want to.”
Nobody objected, and as they walked toward the body, Isabel murmured, “Hollis is dealing with her own guilt. She saw Jamie again, last night in the conference room, obviously desperately trying to say something.”
“And Hollis couldn't hear her.”
“No. At the end, Jamie was so frustrated she apparently focused enough energy to scare the hell out of Hollis by scattering half the paperwork on the table across the room.”
Rafe looked at her, frowning. “I seem to remember you telling me something like that would be unusual.”
“Oh, yeah. Jamie was a very strong lady. And she was trying very, very hard to communicate. She must have known her sister would be the next victim. Which is another indication to me that Emily knew something dangerous to the killer.”
“You don't believe she was killed just because she fit the victim profile?”
“No. She was too young, I think. Not successful enough for his tastes. I also think she would have died no matter what color her hair was. Emily snooped in her sister's life, and it got her killed.”
“And we still have a reporter missing.”
“Who may also have found out something dangerous to the killer,” Isabel said.
They stopped several feet from where Dr. James was still examining the body, and Rafe muttered an oath as he saw her up close for the first time.
Isabel didn't respond to that. Neither did Mallory. There wasn't much they could say.
Emily Brower lay sprawled out almost exactly as her sister had lain and almost exactly three weeks afterward. The slash across her throat was so deep the white vertebra of her neck was visible, and the gaping wound had literally drenched her in blood. Her once-pale T-shirt was soaked with it, and her blond hair lay in a pool of congealing blood and dirt.
“You were right about the escalation,” Rafe said, his deep voice raspier than normal. “That son of a bitch. Sick, evil, twisted animal . . .”
The killer hadn't just murdered Emily, hadn't just repeatedly stabbed her breasts and genitals as he had the previous three victims. It looked as if he had stabbed her once in each breast—but had twisted and turned the knife as though trying to bore holes through her body.
And rather than stabbing her genitals through her clothing, he had pulled her jeans and panties down around her ankles, pulled her knees up and pushed them apart, and used the knife to rape her.
“If it helps,” Isabel said, holding her voice steady, “she never felt that. Never knew about it.”
“For her sake I'm glad,” Rafe said. “But it doesn't help.”
Dr. James straightened and came to join them, his face very, very tired. “Anything you need me to tell you that you can't see for yourself?” he asked wearily.
“Time of death?” Rafe asked.
“Midnight, give or take a few minutes. She died almost instantly with both the jugular and the windpipe slashed. Blood gushed like a fountain, the last few beats of her heart pumping it out as she fell. He didn't touch her face, but he used something heavy to crush her skull in two places once she was on the ground.”
“Why?” Mallory wondered, baffled. “She was already dead, and he had to know it.”
“Rage,” Isabel and Rafe said in almost the same breath.
She added, “He had to make certain she couldn't see him. Couldn't see his sexual failure.”
“He knew before he tried that he'd fail,” Rafe said.
Isabel nodded. “He knew. Maybe he's always known.”
The doctor looked at them rather curiously but continued with his report in a monotone. “She fell backward, and he didn't move her much. Spread her arms out to the sides, judging by the abrasions I found on the backs of her arms. Fanned her hair out and then pressed it into the pool of blood around her head. God knows why. I don't.”
“What else?” Rafe asked.
“What you see. Did his best to gouge out her breasts, then brutalized her with the knife. It was a big knife, and it did a lot of damage. If I had to guess, I'd say he drove it between her legs at least a dozen times.”
“Excuse me,” Mallory said in a very polite tone. She walked to the edge of the clearing, lifted the crime-scene tape and ducked underneath it, and took several steps beyond, then bent over and vomited.
“I plan to get drunk,” Dr. James announced.
“I wish I could,” Rafe said.
The doctor sighed. “I'll write up the preliminary report when I get back to the office, Rafe. You'll have the rest when I get her on the table. It's going to be a long day.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Doc.”
When the doctor walked away, Rafe said to Isabel, “I'm not getting anything but rage here, and just the vaguest sense of that, not even enough to be sure it isn't my imagination—or the training telling me to draw logical conclusions from what I'm seeing here. I don't know how to reach for anything more. You have to do it.”
“I can't. I'm not getting anything either. Silence. Like you, I know he was furious from what I'm looking at, not from anything I hear or feel.”
“We need more, Isabel.”
“I know that.”
“We have to stop him here and now. Before he goes after anybody else. Before he comes after you.”
“I know that too.”
You have to do her. The first chance you get, you have to do her.
He tried to ignore the voice, because it wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. All it was doing was making his head hurt even more.
She knows. Or she will soon. And he's helping her know. Look at them. You understand what's happening, don't you?
“No,” he whispered, because he didn't, he really didn't. All he knew was that his head hurt and his gut, and it had been so long since he'd slept that he'd forgotten what it felt like.
They're changing.
An icy jolt went through him. “No. I'm changing. You said. You promised. If I did it. If I killed them before they told. You promised.”
Then you'd better do her. Kill her. Before they finish changing. Or it'll be too late. Too late for you. Too late for both of you.
17
IT WAS NEARLY NOON by the time T.J. and Dustin had done their work and the ME's people had removed Emily's body from the scene. The search of the area had produced nothing, not a scrap of anything that looked even remotely like evidence. There were still officers at the highway keeping the media and the curious away from the scene, but most of the other cops had returned to regular duties.
Isabel had spent the morning prowling the area, restless, watchful, making what she knew was a futile effort to reach through the barrier Rafe had created. To protect her.
She didn't think the irony was lost on either one of them.
“Anything?” Hollis asked as they studied the now empty crime scene.
“Nada. You?”
“No. And I am trying.” Hollis shrugged. “But from what you've said about her, I doubt Emily's is the sort of spirit we could expect to gather enough energy to come back. As for Jamie . . . I didn't hear her when it mattered.”
“Don't beat yourself up about it. I'm not exactly firing on all cylinders myself.”
“Is that why the watchdogs?” Hollis asked with a slight sideways movement of her head toward an area between them and the highway.
Isabel sighed. “The taller one is Pablo. The other one is Bobby.”
“Pablo? In Hastings?”
“Struck me too. But, hey, melting pot.”
“I guess.” Hollis studied her partner. “So when Rafe went to break the news to Emily's parents, he left two of his
uniforms watching you.”
“They're not to let me out of their sight. I heard Rafe tell them so. He made damned sure I heard him tell them so.”
“Well . . . you could be next, Isabel.”
“I can't work hobbled,” she said irritably.
“Then take the hobbles off,” Hollis suggested mildly. “And I don't mean the watchdogs.”
“Don't start spouting Bishop stuff at me, all right? I'm not in the mood. It's hot, it's humid, there's a storm building, and all I can smell is blood.”
Hollis grimaced. “Yeah, I was going to ask—how do we turn the spider senses off?”
“We don't. Once you learn to enhance, the increased sensitivity is pretty much always with you. There are a few team members who have to focus and concentrate, but for most of us it's just there. Like raw nerves.”
“That might have been mentioned before I was taught how to enhance.”
“Talk to the boss, not me.”
“You really are in a rotten mood, aren't you?”
Isabel pointed to the blood-soaked ground several yards away. “This should not have happened,” she said. “I should have seen it coming.”
“You did. You warned us Emily was a possible victim, and Rafe did everything he could to protect her. It's not your fault or his that a drunk caused a fatal traffic accident.”
“That's not what I mean. I should have been . . . tuned in. I should have been listening. Instead, I did just what you said I did—I let Rafe take control. I let him build this shield around my abilities. I went from needing to have absolute control over everything in my life to just . . . handing it over to him. Why in God's name did I do that?”
“You didn't hand over all control. You just let him shut off your abilities.”
“Why?”
“Maybe to find out if he could.”
Isabel stared at her, baffled. “Okay, if that's Bishop stuff, it doesn't make sense. I mean even more than his stuff sometimes doesn't make sense.”
“You're a strong woman, Isabel. You don't want to be dominated, but you do want to be matched, if only subconsciously. I think you felt Rafe reaching through this link you guys have, and I think you needed to know, before you decided whether to commit yourself, before you could take that leap of faith, just how strong he was.”