Kitabı oku: «The Inquisitor»
Praise for GAYLE WILSON
“Gayle Wilson will go far in romantic suspense. Her books have that special ‘edge’ that lifts them out of the ordinary. They’re always tautly written, a treasure trove of action, suspense and richly drawn characters.”
—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard
“An exhilarating continual action thriller that never slows down.”
—TheBestReviews.com on Double Blind
“Wilson gives her readers just what they want: more thrilling adventure and heart-wrenching suspense…. Inspiring. Wilson is destined to become one of the suspense genre’s brightest stars.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub, 4 ½ stars, on Wednesday’s Child
“Gayle Wilson pulls out all the stops to give her readers a thrilling chilling read that will give you goose bumps in the night.”
—ReadertoReader.com on In Plain Sight
“Writing like this is a rare treat.”
—Gothic Journal
“Rich historical detail, intriguing mystery, romance that touches the heart and lingers in the mind. These are elements that keep me waiting impatiently for Gayle Wilson’s next book.”
—USA TODAY bestselling author BJ James
Also by GAYLE WILSON
DOUBLE BLIND
WEDNESDAY’S CHILD
IN PLAIN SIGHT
BOGEYMAN
The Inquisitor
Gayle Wilson
www.mirabooks.co.uk
To Dianne, Mary, Charlotte, Joy, Katsy, Becki and my mom for sticking with me throughout this incredible journey and for reading them all.
I love you!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
She had been a gift. Something that had fallen into his lap without any effort on his part. Surprisingly, she’d proven to be more satisfying than most of the others, all of whom had been carefully selected after weeks of study.
It hadn’t been time to begin thinking about the next one. By now he was conscious of the smallest sign of that, even those he had once thought bore no relationship to his needs.
A sense of anxiety that increased day by day until it became an urgency he could no longer ignore. The sensation that something wasn’t right in the pleasant world he inhabited. Those were inevitably followed by an indefinable feeling that things were slipping out of control. Then finally came the rage that still shocked him with its intensity.
None of that had occurred. Not this time.
Yet when he’d seen her standing on the street corner in the rain, strands of dark hair plastered against those alabaster cheeks, the compulsion to take her and make her his had been overwhelming. Irresistible.
This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be done. Not his normal attention to detail. But in this instance, he had no regrets that he had given in. His impulsive decision seemed to have worked out. And apparently no one was even looking for her.
Which meant there was no need to hurry, he thought with a degree of anticipation beyond any he could remember. He literally had all the time in the world.
Time for him. And for her.
A gift, he thought again, brushing a stray tendril of hair off her cheek.
When it was dry, her hair had demonstrated an unexpected tendency to curl. Something he would never have guessed from the way it had appeared that afternoon.
He smiled at the memory. She had looked like a bedraggled puppy, lost in the storm. Her face had lit up when he’d stopped the car, opened the passenger-side window, and leaned across the seat.
Do you need any help?
There had been no hesitation on her part. No fear. She had immediately stuck her head and shoulders inside the vehicle in response.
Only directions.
By then, despite what his intellect screamed at him, it had been far too late to provide those and drive away. He’d seen her smile. He’d seen those big, brown eyes and under them the mascara she’d applied to her lower lashes smudged from the rain.
He’d taken care of that imperfection, of course. As soon as he’d gotten her to a safe place, he had painstakingly cleaned off her makeup, leaving her skin smooth and bare as a baby’s.
Innocent.
Except she wasn’t. None of them were. No matter what they said, none of them were free from the stain. None were pure. Especially not the ones who pretended to be once they understood.
She hadn’t pretended. She’d been defiant. Angry. Profane.
He had found he liked her that way. It had broken the monotony of fear and pleading.
In contrast to the others she’d been…Sassy, as his grandmother would have said.
Sassy. He liked the word, too, now that he’d remembered it. He tasted the syllables in his mouth as he whispered them against her ear.
The perfect word. Perfect for her. And she, in turn, was perfect for him. His lovely, defiant unexpected gift.
“Time to wake up.”
Although he hated it, he had to keep her drugged on the chance that she might, by some miracle, free herself and get away. That had never happened before—and it never would. Not as careful as he was.
That was his nightmare, however. That one of them might escape and tell everyone about the things he’d done.
Those were only for the two of them. For them to share. As they would share this.
Her lashes fluttered, telling him she was almost awake. He had timed it to the minute. All he had to do was to wait while the drug wore off. And when it had…
Although he had not been conscious of his needs when he’d taken her, he knew them now. They surged through his body with an inexorable force, driving the ebb and flow of his emotions.
He touched her face, again relishing its smoothness. Devoid of the foundation she’d been wearing, her skin was that of a child. Even to the faint sweep of color that now overlay those perfect cheekbones. Another sign, if he had needed one, that she was conscious.
“I know you’re awake,” he said, bending close again to whisper the words into her ear.
Her hair moved against his lips, its softness stirred by his breath. Without raising his head, he turned, so that her face was in profile, as he watched the slow, sleepy lift of her lashes.
With the drug, she would be confused. They always were, no matter how many times he’d come to them.
He had watched the sequence of that confusion perhaps a hundred times and never tired of it. First, she would try to think where she was. To separate dream from reality. Nightmare from truth.
Then, in one fell swoop, it would happen. She would remember. She would remember everything.
And she would know.
The knowledge would suddenly be there in those wide, dark eyes. If he weren’t careful, he would miss it.
He straightened to smile down on her. Her eyes, slightly glazed, appeared to be focused on the ceiling above her head. She had probably memorized its every crack and imperfection. They, too, would help clear her disorientation. And in a few seconds—
She turned, her head rolling on the hard mattress until she was at last looking at him. Although he was smiling, it didn’t reassure her. But of course, they were too far along for her to have any delusions left.
Not his sweet, sassy drowning puppy.
She knew. She knew exactly what he was. And she knew what was going to happen to her. It was all there in the beautiful dark orbs locked on his face.
Her eyes widened, even as they stared up into his. They were no longer defiant, however. He had seen to that.
The only thing in them now were the questions neither of them yet had answers for.
When will this be over?
When will you let me go?
When, dear God, will you finally let me die?
One
“One more question, Dr. Kincaid. If you don’t mind.”
The damp December air had seeped through the multiple layers of clothing Jenna had donned in preparation for this interview. The station had insisted the clip be filmed in front of the mall, so that its steady stream of Christmas shoppers would be visible behind them. Although Jenna acknowledged it was an appropriate backdrop for a segment on holiday depression, that didn’t mean she was enjoying the setting.
As the largest mental health practice in the greater Birmingham area, Carlisle, Levitt and Connor was called on throughout the year to furnish speakers for a variety of informational workshops as well as for interviews on local news programs and talk shows. Those requests were unusually heavy this time of year, so the psychologists and psychiatrists on staff rotated the responsibility. Tonight had been her turn to be the public face of the practice.
Normally Jenna didn’t mind her thirty seconds in the spotlight. The visibility brought in new clients, which was beneficial to everyone. Sometimes they asked for an appointment with whichever of the group they’d seen on television or heard on the radio. And at this particular time of the year, it was never a bad thing to have increased billing.
“Of course,” she said, smiling at the young man who looked all of eighteen. She suspected he might be one of the station’s interns. Either that or the passage of another year had made her more aware of her own age in comparison.
At thirty-four she’d accomplished most of the goals she’d set for herself. At least, she amended, the professional ones.
There was plenty of time for the rest. Something she’d been telling herself for the last five years.
“This afternoon the police department conceded that the murders of Sandra Reynolds, Margaret DeSpain and Callie Morgan were the work of one killer,” the reporter said. “What can you tell us about the person who might have perpetrated those crimes?”
Jenna hadn’t yet heard that the police had issued that statement. Of course, she’d been seeing patients up until she’d left the office. Even if she had known, she wouldn’t have been prepared to comment publicly on those murders. This was outside the scope of the subject matter she’d agreed to, as well as outside any area of expertise she might claim.
She allowed the smile she’d been holding for the camera to fade, considering the topic that had just been introduced. She took a breath as she tried to decide the best way to handle the kid’s question before settling on simply telling the truth.
“I’m really not in any position to answer that. Not only have the details of those crimes not been made public, I’m not a profiler. Forensic psychology is a very specialized field, one I have little training for.”
The reporter’s mouth had tightened as she talked. A dull flush climbed up his neck and into his cheeks. It was obvious he felt her answer was either deliberately nonresponsive or, worse, a slam at his interviewing skills.
“I realize that,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t speaking in the particular. Just tell our viewers in general what makes a psychopath like this tick.”
From his standpoint, the amended question was a good recovery. From hers, it left her as much under the gun as the previous one.
Other than the courses in abnormal psychology she’d taught as a grad assistant, Jenna hadn’t had much occasion to think in depth about the kind of sociopath who enjoyed torturing and then killing women. And it was evident from the few details that had been released about the condition of the three bodies that this one found great pleasure in the suffering of his victims.
“From what I’ve read,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “this killer doesn’t appear to be psychotic. He’s apparently very well organized, selecting his victims with care and carrying out the murders while leaving behind little forensic evidence that might help the police.”
“He’s killed three people, and you’re saying he isn’t crazy?” The reporter’s tone was mocking, allowing his skepticism of that full rein.
“He’s clearly a sociopath, but…” Jenna hesitated, thinking how difficult it was to use appropriate terminology when the public had such clear, if erroneous, notions of what words like crazy, insane and psychotic meant. “The killer’s obviously incapable of feeling compassion for his victims, no matter how much they suffer, but if you met him in a social or professional environment, you might not notice anything out of the ordinary. Other than possibly thinking how charming he is.”
“Which would help him in getting his victims to trust him.”
“Unfortunately. Although he’s clearly manipulative, he may also be very personable and articulate.”
“So what creates someone like our charming sociopath?”
“No one really knows. The current thinking is that biological factors may play a role, some genetic predisposition if you will. There’s no doubt, however, that the majority of these people were also the victims of childhood abuse—either physical or emotional or a combination of the two. Some case studies done on serial killers reveal that mistreatment was both prolonged and severe. It isn’t hard to understand how a child subjected to isolation, a lack of affection, physical and mental domination, or actual physical abuse might become an adult who lacks the ability to feel normal empathy for his fellow human beings.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting that every abused child grows up to be a Ted Bundy.”
“Actually, a very small percentage do. However, it is a common background for those we’ve had the opportunity to study in depth. Unfortunately, we can never know which children will emerge from those situations to become sociopaths. Or more importantly, which of those sociopaths will go on to kill.”
“Because they’ve been trained in inflicting pain early on?”
“Pain. Domination. They desperately need to be in charge, possibly because as children they had so little control over what was happening to them.”
“You sound as if you have some sympathy for them, Dr. Kincaid.”
“I have sympathy for any child who’s abused. They’re helpless to prevent what’s being done to them, often by the very people who should be their protectors.”
“I meant that you seem to feel sympathy for the sociopaths they eventually become.”
As a psychologist who had read study after study detailing the horrors of the abuses she’d just spoken about, Jenna supposed that was true. Certainly in the abstract. In light of what had been made public about what had been done to the murdered women…
“Not all sociopaths kill,” she said again. “When they do, they must, of course, be subject to the laws that govern the rest of us. Once they’ve killed, it’s unlikely they’ll stop on their own. Before that can happen, they have to be apprehended. I hope the police find something to help them very soon, some piece of evidence that will lead them back to the murderer. Or that someone who knows something about those crimes will come forward with the information.”
“So…you’re saying he’s definitely going to kill again.”
And Merry Christmas to all, Jenna thought, realizing the trap she’d fallen into.
Still, there was very little that could be said in response to that question except the brutal reality. Despite the fact that hearing it was likely to inflame fears that had been rampant in the community even before today’s announcement, she really had no choice.
This was something else the killer would feed off of. Not only would the murders themselves give him a sense of power, so would the media attention they’d attracted, such as this interview, and the terror it would create.
She should have cut this kid off without answering his original question. Since she hadn’t, she could in good conscience now do nothing less than tell the truth.
“If he’s not caught. It may not be here. Not if the police get too close to discovering who he is, but…even if they do, he won’t stop killing. Not until he’s finally been taken into custody.”
“Or until he’s dead.”
Sean Murphy had already put his finger over the off button on the remote, when something made him hesitate. The reporter was busy closing out the segment, probably reiterating what the female psychologist had said. Nothing of what he was babbling about registered.
Sean was focused instead on the woman standing beside the interviewer, her hand clutching the collar of her coat as if trying to keep out the cold. It was clearly a defensive gesture.
An unconscious one? Or was it possible she was aware of how closely she matched the profile of the killer’s victims?
That was unlikely, he decided, since the local cops hadn’t yet publicly connected the latest three to the others. Maybe he should warn Dr. Jenna Kincaid that she met almost every one of the criteria the task force had put together over the course of the past four years of their investigation.
Late twenties or early thirties, Sean assessed. Tall and slender, with dark hair and eyes. Even her clothing, professional rather than provocative, followed the pattern the bastard had established with his first murder, which they now believed had been more than seven years ago.
His gaze having followed the line of the long navy coat down to the low-heeled boots she wore, Sean raised his eyes once more to the psychologist’s face. Her features were striking but not classically beautiful.
She wouldn’t draw every masculine eye, he acknowledged, but she’d find her share of admirers. The bone structure underlying that clear olive skin was too anatomically perfect not to attract attention. The discriminating would recognize it would be just that perfect when she was eighty.
And you’ve always considered yourself discriminating.
The image he’d been studying was suddenly replaced by an advertisement for a local car dealer. Sean punched the button, shutting off the television, before tossing the remote down on the bed.
He walked across his motel room toward its wall of glass, where he pushed aside the draperies to look out onto the interstate that paralleled the wide right-of-way just across the parking lot. The scene he encountered was depressingly winter-dreary, although the climate was generally mild.
The weather would make the killer’s hunting easier. More people outdoors than in the northern cities. Not that the bastard ever seemed to have a problem finding victims.
Maybe what Dr. Kincaid said was right. Maybe he was so charming the women made it easy for him.
He would have had to be something special to charm Makaela. His sister had been nobody’s fool. And unfortunately she’d had a lot of experience with phonies.
Apparently not enough to see through whatever ploy her murderer had used to persuade her to go with him.
Sean put his palm against the glass, using its coldness to fight the fury that flooded his brain whenever he thought of the things that had been done to his sister. They could still bring him wide awake, sweat pouring off his body, as he struggled against the nightmare images of what she’d suffered.
The press in Detroit were the ones who’d christened her murderer “the Inquisitor,” a name horrifyingly appropriate. Too soon the people in this town would learn what the others had about the maniac in their midst.
Unless the bodies were too decomposed to make them obvious, as the first two here had been, most law enforcement agencies now recognized those signature mutilations. The special agent on the FBI’s task force, the one who’d put Sean onto the Birmingham murders, had recognized them as soon as he’d read the description of the last victim.
Now that the locals had connected the three, they would be forced to take the next step and admit that these killings were part of a series, which, through the efforts of the Bureau, had been linked and credited to one man.
An unimaginably cruel and sadistic madman.
The cops here would add whatever information they had managed to uncover to the profile that was slowly, but relentlessly, being built. And when it was complete…
Sean’s hand closed into a fist that he slammed into the glass. The window shuddered in its frame, although the blow had not been particularly hard. It hadn’t been done in anger. It had been measured. Like a gavel pounded against a judge’s bench. Or a hammer driving a nail.
The last one in your coffin, you bastard. And as God is my witness, I’ll be the one who’ll put it there.
Long after the television screen had gone dark, he couldn’t get the psychologist out of his mind. After a while, he stopped trying, allowing her image to fill his head.
She’d been so perfect he had wondered—briefly—if the cops had put her up to that interview. After mentally reviewing the clip, something he was able to do with almost complete fidelity, as if he were watching a replay, he decided that what he’d seen hadn’t been a performance.
Her slight hesitancy and the care with which she’d worded her opinions made him believe she had really been speaking off the cuff. The expression on her face, although quickly controlled, had made it obvious that the reporter’s question about the murders had caught her off guard.
That’s what you get for trusting the media, my dear.
He smiled as he raised the wine he’d bought on his way home in a semitoast before he brought the glass to his lips. He grimaced slightly at the taste before setting it back on the coffee table.
He had thought the merlot would make the evening more enjoyable, easing his disappointment about how quickly the locals had tied these three victims together. Now that they had, he knew it would be only a matter of hours before they made the connection to the others.
His intent was always to break the pattern so that wouldn’t happen. But if he were able to succeed in that, then what would be the point of the entire exercise? Old habits die hard, he admitted with a smile.
As some of them had, fighting the sweet release of death until the very end.
At that thought, somewhere deep inside his body was a wave of sexual pleasure, so sharp, so pure, it literally stole his breath. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to relish both the feeling and the memories that had provoked it.
Instead of the faces of the women whose suffering at his hands had induced that remembrance, the image of Jenna Kincaid clutching her coat against the cruel invasion of the cold as she wept for the child he had been again formed behind his lids.
They’re helpless to prevent what is being done to them, often by the very people who should be their protectors.
It was rare that someone was able to articulate so clearly, so precisely, the nature of the injustice he’d suffered. That she had done so without knowing anything about him.
She was obviously someone of value. Someone he should get to know. Someone he should allow to know him.
Not like the others, of course. She was above all that. Just as he would be when he was with her.
She, unlike the rest, understood what drove him. Interacting with someone who could comprehend that on an intellectual level was a luxury he hadn’t allowed himself in a very long time.
Simply another kind of indulgence, perhaps, but one whose time had definitely come.
Two
The sound of her door being flung open brought Jenna’s eyes up. The secretary she shared with three other therapists was aware that she used the last ten minutes of the hour to make notes on the session that had just ended. Why she would interrupt—
Except it wasn’t Sheila. Not just Sheila, she amended. Her secretary was looking at her over the broad shoulders of the man who seemed to fill the opening.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Kincaid,” she said. “I tried to tell him—”
“We need to talk.”
The intruder offered no apology for the interruption. The curt sentence had been more of a command than a request. Whatever his problem—and Jenna wasn’t using that terminology in the sense of something that needed treatment—she didn’t have the time or the inclination to deal with it today.
“I’m sorry. You’ll need to make an appointment—”
“How much?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“How much is it going to cost to talk to you? What I have to say won’t take an hour, but I’m willing to pay for one if that’s what it will take to get you to listen.”
As if to prove his point, he took his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. Behind him, Sheila pantomimed dialing and then bringing a phone to her ear, brows raised in inquiry.
Jenna shook her head, the movement slight enough that she hoped it wouldn’t be noticed by the man now in the process of opening his billfold. She was unwilling to call the police until she knew more about what was going on.
The guy didn’t look deranged. Actually…
Actually he looked pretty normal, if you thought normal was six-foot-something of solid muscle enclosed in black chamois and denim. He was carrying nothing in his hands, and the worn jeans hugged his narrow hips too tightly to conceal a weapon. He was also clean-shaven, although there was a hint of a five o’clock shadow on the lean cheeks.
The black hair was so closely cropped it couldn’t possibly become disarranged, which might have given her some indication of his mental state. The fact that it had so recently been trimmed seemed a point in his favor. People who had really “lost it” weren’t usually concerned with personal grooming.
His eyes, however, were the most compelling argument that there was nothing seriously out of whack in his psyche. They were a clear, piercing blue, the color startling against his tanned skin and ebony hair.
And right now they were focused on her face as he calmly waited for her answer, wallet open, long, dark fingers poised to pluck from it whatever amount she named. Still evaluating him, as she would any patient, Jenna noticed that his nails were neatly trimmed, the hands themselves completely masculine, fingers square despite their length.
“Hundred and fifty?” he asked. “That do it?”
She blinked, breaking the spell he had cast. “I’m sorry. I’m completely booked this afternoon, as I’m sure my secretary told you. If this is an emergency, I can try to work you in early tomorrow—”
“Lady, I’m here in an attempt to save your life. And I’m even willing to pay for the opportunity. All you have to do is tell me how much.”
He strode across the room, stopping when he reached her desk. Her gaze had followed him, her chin automatically lifting as he approached, until she was looking up into those ice-blue eyes.
Above the right, a dark brow arched. “One seventy-five? Two hundred? Obviously I’m not up on the going rate for…therapy.”
Jenna’s lips were still parted from her uncompleted sentence. Despite the obvious sarcasm, she closed them, glancing back at Sheila with a slight shake of her head to indicate she was willing to see him.
The secretary’s mouth opened, probably to protest the decision, but then she snapped it shut. She reached for the knob of the door, pulling it closed behind her as she returned to her office.
Jenna wasn’t sure Sheila still wouldn’t place that call to the police, despite the fact it had been vetoed. She also wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be relieved if she did.
She looked back at the man who had invaded her office and now seemed to fill it. He, too, had watched the secretary’s departure. He turned back as Jenna refocused on his face. There was something in his gaze that looked like approval.
Because she’d been crazy enough to let him stay?
Or maybe he was pleased at the ease with which he’d gotten his way. Something he seemed far too accustomed to doing.
“You can put your money away, Mr….?”
“Murphy. Sean Murphy.”
Although she waited, he didn’t offer to elaborate on the information, so she went back to the salient part of what he’d told her. “You said you’re here in an attempt to ‘save my life.’ I’m not sure what that means, but given how serious it sounds, I’m willing to listen. You have…” She glanced at her watch to make her point. “Exactly ten minutes before my next appointment.”
He held her eyes, maybe assessing how serious she was about the timeframe she’d just given him. After a few seconds, he closed his wallet. He struggled to push it back into his pocket, verifying her initial assessment about the tightness of his jeans.
Now, if only she’d been equally correct in gauging his mental state…
“I saw your interview yesterday.”
Something shifted in the bottom of Jenna’s stomach, cold and hard and a little frightening. She swallowed, determined not to display any outward sign of that sudden anxiety.
“The one on holiday stress?”
“Must have missed that part. What I saw was you giving your professional opinion about the man who killed three women here.”
“I tried to make it clear to the reporter that serial killers don’t fall within my area of expertise—” she began, choosing her words with care.
“What you made clear, Dr. Kincaid, was that you thought the poor, mistreated son of a bitch just couldn’t help himself.”
The apprehension Jenna had felt was suddenly replaced by anger, most of it self-directed. She had known she should have cut the reporter off when he’d started that line of questioning. Instead, she’d been too conscious of the public-relations aspect of the interview. If she’d seemed uncooperative, that might well have been the only part of the segment to be aired.
And what if it were?
Of course, it was easy to sit here now, without the red light of the camera focused on her face, and know what she should have done. She’d made a mistake, but she didn’t deserve to be chastised for it by someone who obviously had his own agenda.
“I never said that. I never said anything like that.”
“Close enough. And as a psychologist, you had to know he’d feed off your remarks.”
She had thought something similar yesterday. Not that the killer would “feed off” her comment about sociopaths being the products of abuse, but that he would delight in hearing anyone talk about the murders. Just as he would relish the increased terror that kind of interview would bring within the community.
“He’s already feeding off the media frenzy,” she said, refusing to allow this jackass to intimidate her. “I doubt anything I said yesterday is going to add to his enjoyment.”
Since the police had announced the connection between the homicides, not only had the local media been all over the story, the twenty-four-hour cable news stations were carrying it as well. It seemed that the killer had now been linked to several murders in other parts of the country.
Jenna hadn’t had time to do more than glance at the lead story in the morning paper. That had been enough to let her know this was going to remain at the top of the front page until this killer was caught. Or until things got so hot for him here that he moved on to another location.
Which was essentially all she’d said yesterday, she reiterated mentally. Actually, there was nothing she’d said that wasn’t completely accurate.
She had talked about the interview to Paul Carlisle, the founder of the practice, as soon as she’d gotten to work. That’s when she’d discovered that the station had replayed the part about the murderer on both the late-night news and again this morning, although they hadn’t bothered to repeat the rest of the interview.
Maybe Sean Murphy had seen one of those broadcasts. In any case, there was nothing she needed to apologize for, she decided. No matter what he thought.
“You really don’t have a clue, do you?”
“I’m sorry?” Her voice rose on the last word.
“You tell someone who likes torturing women that he’s just some poor abused kid who isn’t responsible for what he’s done—”
“I never said that. I never said anything like that.”
“Yeah? Well, you can bet that’s what he heard.”
“And who made you the expert on what he heard?”
“A long and intimate acquaintance.”
Her analytical mind took over, replaying his words. “Are you saying…you know him? You know who he is?”
“I know what he is. And I know what he does. Apparently a lot better method of ‘knowing’ him than whatever crap you were spouting.”
Jenna stood so abruptly that her desk chair rolled back and hit the wall behind her. “We’re through here.”
She reached across the desk to punch the button on the intercom. If he didn’t leave, she’d tell her secretary to do what she had wanted to when he’d first barged in.
“You’re exactly his type, you know.”
Startled by the change in tone, Jenna looked up, her finger stopped in midair. There was no longer any trace of approval in his eyes. They were cold. And very angry.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You can look it up when the locals finally get their act together. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tall. Slender. And not a prostitute or a waitress among them.”
The trepidation she’d felt when he said he’d come to save her life stirred in her stomach again. Today’s front page had featured pictures of the local victims. And the description he’d just given fit them all.
“I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist,” Sean Murphy went on, seeming to relish the impact his words were having, “but I’ve got a feeling he’d be interested.”
“In me? Are you suggesting that the killer would be interested in me?”
“Since you’re out there telling the world what a poor, misunderstood bastard he is.”
She didn’t bother to refute the accusation again. He had decided that’s what she’d said. There was probably nothing she could do to dissuade him from his perception.
And what if he’s right? What if that’s what the killer heard, too?
Which would be a hell of an assumption. First, that the murderer had even heard the interview. And second, that he’d misinterpreted her words exactly as this arrogant SOB had.
“Thank you for your concern,” she said, working to keep any emotion out of the conventional words. It was obvious Sean Murphy had come here to frighten her. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded.
As soon as he was out of here, she would call the police and tell them what he’d said. That business about having a long and intimate acquaintance with the killer would probably be of interest to them.
“Believe me, Dr. Kincaid, concern for you isn’t what brought me. Since you didn’t seem to have any idea what you’d done, however, I did feel a certain moral obligation to warn you.”
“Then consider that your ‘moral obligation’ has been fulfilled. I assure you I feel duly warned.”
As she said the last, she again reached for the intercom button, hoping he’d take that as a hint that they were done. Instead of turning toward the door as she’d hoped, he stood there, directly across from her desk, his eyes once more assessing.
“He’s smart,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “And he’ll be in no hurry. He never is. A couple of months. Maybe more. Actually, it could be any time. Any time he chooses.”
“Thank you.” She held his eyes without letting her own reveal any reaction to the threat. And she now had no doubt that’s what it was. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”
For the first time a tilt at the corners disturbed the thin line of his lips. The smile seemed to soften the spare planes of his face, although it held not one iota of amusement.
“There is one thing he doesn’t know,” he added. “Something that may work to your advantage.”
Maybe he was disturbed. Maybe those signs of normality she’d noted didn’t mean jack shit.
“And what is that, Mr. Murphy?”
“That I’m every bit as patient as he is. When you see him, you might want to tell him that.”
The bite of the cold outside air was welcome after the overheated interior of the office building. Sean stood a moment in front of its double glass doors, staring unseeingly across at the lot where he’d parked the rented SUV.
Guilt had reared its ugly head even before he’d turned on his heel and walked out of Jenna Kincaid’s office. It hadn’t abated during the short ride down on the elevator.
He’d done what he’d come here to do. He’d frightened her so that the next time some reporter stuck a mike under her nose, she’d think twice before she made excuses for a murderer. And he couldn’t quite figure out why he felt like such an asshole.
Maybe because of what was in her eyes when you told her some sadistic bastard was going to torture and kill her? How the hell did you think she’d react?
Actually, he’d been surprised at how well she’d dealt with everything he’d thrown at her. He’d been so furious about the garbage she’d spewed during that interview, he hadn’t really stopped to think about her reaction.
He had been brutally—unforgivably—direct about the possibility that if the killer had heard her sympathetic explanation for his behavior, she would have attracted the attention of the last man on earth whose attention she would want. Despite his threat, Jenna Kincaid had kept her poise.
Only in her eyes had he seen any evidence of the fear he’d deliberately tried to create. And remembering what had been in them, he felt even more like a bastard.
He jammed his fists into the pockets of his leather jacket and started down the steps. After years of operating in hostile environments, he automatically scanned the parking lot, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Like someone staking out the place where she worked?
He’d meant the question to be mocking. As the thought formed, however, Sean acknowledged that if the Inquisitor had seen that interview, he’d know exactly where she worked by now.
That clip had been replayed at least three times. And after the official announcement from the cops yesterday, the bastard would have been glued to every newscast, hoping to catch any publicity his actions had generated.
He would have seen Dr. Kincaid’s pity party for him, all right. And by now, almost twenty-four hours later, he would undoubtedly know all about her.
Telling himself that wasn’t his problem, Sean punched the key lock remote as he approached the SUV. Although it was only a little after four, the halogen lights in the lot had already come on, glinting off the vehicle’s black surface.
It would probably be completely dark before Jenna Kincaid came out of her office. Certainly before she got back to her apartment.
Even if the killer had become interested because of what she’d said, it was probably too early to worry about her being followed. The Inquisitor would undoubtedly do his stalking electronically first. Maybe visit the library and check out microfiche from the local papers.
It might be weeks before he started tracking her physically. Or anyone else, Sean amended, attempting to reassure himself. At this late date, the killer wouldn’t break his normal pattern. Not unless something happened to interrupt the cycle.
Like finding a woman who expressed sympathy for him? One who also satisfied every other criteria of his sick hunt?
Sean realized he was standing beside the SUV, the remote in his hand still pointed at the lock. He opened the door, sliding into the cold leather seat. He inserted the key into the ignition, but for some reason his fingers hesitated before they completed the act of turning it.
His eyes lifted to the rearview mirror. Reflected there were the double doors through which he’d just exited.
He had no idea if Jenna Kincaid normally came out that way. No idea if there was a separate parking lot for the staff. Those were things he hadn’t thought he had any need to know.
Now he knew he was wrong.
He didn’t like dealing with feelings. He was far more comfortable with facts. Things he could see and hear. Prove or disprove. What he felt now fell into none of those categories.
The hair on the back of his neck had begun to rise, a phenomenon he’d experienced more than once in his career. On a street in Somalia. Before an ambush in Afghanistan. While his unit had been searching an underground bunker in Iraq, which they knew was very probably booby-trapped.
Every time, the premonition that something dangerous was at hand had proved to be accurate. And he’d never told anyone about any of them.
What he felt now was that same gut-level surety. Inexplicable. And yet undeniable.
The bastard was here. Close enough that if he had known where to look, he could have seen him. Close enough that Sean could feel the strength of his evil deep in the most primitive part of his brain.
The realization that he’d been right about the danger Jenna Kincaid was in was no comfort for the guilt he’d been feeling. He closed his eyes, seeing Makaela’s face as it had looked when they’d pulled out that stainless-steel drawer in the morgue in Detroit. After a fraction of a second he destroyed that nightmare image to replace it with the face of the woman he’d left inside the building behind him.
A woman he now knew with absolute gut-certainty he could use to finally get the man who’d flayed his sister alive.
Three
Jenna saw her four o’clock, operating on autopilot. She was unable to concentrate on what her patient said because the words of the man who had supposedly come to warn her echoed and reechoed in her head.
I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist, but I have a feeling he’d be interested.
That had so obviously been an attempt to frighten her that she was furious with herself for allowing him to succeed. She’d said nothing that was sympathetic to the killer in that interview. No one could have sympathy for someone who did what he did. Whatever her visitor’s agenda—
A long and intimate acquaintance…
Despite the man’s boast, she hadn’t placed a call to the police after he’d left. She couldn’t formulate a logical reason why she hadn’t. There had just been something about him that had made her believe he wasn’t involved in the murders.
Just like every woman who opened the door to Albert Di-Salvo believed he couldn’t be the Strangler.
She closed the folder in which she’d been attempting to add notations. That was as pointless as trying to get what had happened an hour ago out of her head, but surely she could put it into perspective. Hundreds of people had talked publicly about those three murders, both on the air and in the newspaper. Was the killer going to come after each of them?
Or maybe only the ones who fit the victim profile.
She realized that her hands were trembling. Just as they had been when Murphy walked out of her office.
That had been mostly the result of anger. If there was any consolation to be taken in how she’d conducted herself, it would be that she hadn’t given in to the tears she’d been on the edge of. Growing up, she’d always had a tendency to cry when she got really mad, a trait she thought she’d conquered long ago.
If she wanted to indulge that childish propensity, it would have to wait until she reached the privacy of her own home. Which couldn’t be soon enough, she decided.
She picked up the phone and punched in Sheila’s extension. “I’m leaving for the day. Any change in tomorrow’s schedule I should know about?”
“Nothing really. Staff meeting at nine. After that you’ve got a full slate of appointments. It is that time of the year,” the secretary said, her tone sympathetic.
That was something they would talk about in tomorrow morning’s meeting. Everyone was feeling the double stress of the holidays and the murders. She had overheard a couple of the other therapists talking about an increase in requests for appointments, even from their regulars.
“Try to fight off the least desperate,” she said aloud.
Sheila laughed. “Will do. Have a good night.”
Yeah, right. “Thanks, Sheila.”
She hung up and then looked at the folders stacked on the left-hand side of her desk. With the meeting in the morning, it was unlikely she’d have time to look over the files of the patients she’d be seeing during the day. Still, she wasn’t willing to stay late to review them. If she tried, she’d probably be unable to keep her mind on what she was reading.
She was going home instead and breaking open the bottle of Jack Daniel’s she’d bought to make sauce for the bread pudding she was to take to her mother’s on Christmas Day. Maybe that would help her sleep. If not, it would certainly be good company while she didn’t.
The staff parking deck was relatively full for this late in the afternoon, which was also a reflection of the season. Jenna had ridden down in the elevator with a couple of other staff members. Their cars had been closer to the building, so that she was now making her way to the outer perimeter of the deck alone.
The sound of her footsteps echoed off the concrete roof, seeming louder than they should. She realized as she approached the place where she’d parked this morning that the security light for this section was out, leaving the area in shadows.
She actually hesitated before she managed to control her uneasiness and continue toward her Accord. She punched the remote, the resulting beep and blinking lights reassuring in their normalcy.
Everything here was as it should be, she told herself. This was the building where she worked. The deck where she parked her car every single day. She mentally reiterated each phrase, a deliberate litany of the ordinary.
She didn’t relax, however, until she’d opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. As soon as she hit the autolock, the tension that had built as she’d crossed the deck released, leaving her drained.
Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror and then she turned and looked into her backseat. Something she’d never done before in her life. It was empty, of course.
And just what in hell were you expecting to be there?
Disgusted that she’d given in to her paranoia, she jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The dependable engine roared to life, its sound magnified by the low ceiling of the garage.
Looking over her right shoulder, she eased past Paul Carlisle’s Porsche, which had been pulled in beside her car at a slight angle. She cleared its back fender, but just barely, congratulating herself as she completed the maneuver, and aligned her car so that it pointed toward the exit.
She glanced down to shift into Drive when a tap on her window brought her head around so quickly she felt the strain in her neck. Her heart began to pound before she recognized the founder of the practice standing beside her car. She pushed the button that would lower the window, determined to keep any trace of that reaction out of her voice and expression.
“What is it?”
“Just wanted to check on you,” Paul said. “I meant to get down to your office this afternoon, but you know what they say about good intentions.”
She nodded, unsure what this was about.
“You okay?” Paul asked, his brow slightly furrowed as he leaned forward, peering into the car.
“Just tired and stressed. Like everyone else this time of year.”
“The thought of having to make the annual holiday pilgrimage to visit the folks in Douglasville has me thinking seriously about some good mood-altering pharmaceuticals.”
Although Paul had smiled at his own slightly twisted brand of humor, she knew there was a certain level of truth to what he’d just said. He’d often joked that he had gone into psychiatry because of the practice he’d already had with his extremely dysfunctional family.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share your stash?” she asked, answering his grin.
“You’re not still worried about that interview, are you?”
It was the perfect opportunity to tell him about the man who’d burst into her office. For some reason she didn’t; maybe it was the same ambiguity in her feelings about Sean Murphy that had prevented her from calling the police.
“As long as you don’t feel I said something I shouldn’t—”
“Nothing but the truth. If it makes one woman more cautious or one cop more diligent, that’s a good thing.”
She nodded again, hoping those would be the only consequences. Again the idea of unburdening herself to Paul brushed through her mind. Before she could, he smiled.
“We’re going to talk about all this tomorrow morning.”
“All this?”
Did he intend to warn the others to be wary of getting ambushed during interviews? Or maybe to keep their opinions to themselves if they were asked about the murders? She would be uncomfortable with his issuing either of those admonitions. As if he were urging the others to learn from her mistakes.
“If these homicides go on much longer,” Paul continued, “we’re going to have some serious fallout. People are naturally nervous just knowing there’s a serial killer in the area, and that stress is going to build with each subsequent murder.”
“Do you know…” Jenna hesitated, unsure she wanted an answer to the question she’d been about to ask. It was probably better to be informed, however, than to continue to operate in the dark. “Do you have any idea how long that might be? I mean, have the police given any kind of timetable…?”
The question ground to a halt. It seemed inappropriate somehow, with three women already savaged, to be wondering when they should expect the next victim to surface.
“One of the cable networks said he goes months between acts. Apparently he’s a meticulous planner. That’s one thing that’s made it hard for the authorities to get a handle on him.”
The matter-of-fact answer wasn’t comforting. Of course, Paul had no reason to suspect she might need comfort. And unless she told him…
“Anyway, glad you’re feeling better,” he said. “Don’t let the local yahoos get you down. If they were any good, they wouldn’t be stuck in this market.”
She laughed. “No, I won’t. I just didn’t want to say anything that might embarrass the practice.”
“I don’t think you could ever do that, Jenna. You did fine, especially considering you had no way of knowing what was coming.”
She’d explained to him that she hadn’t heard the announcement from the police. If she had, she might have been more prepared.
“Thanks. I really appreciate that.”
“Only the truth. Just like what you said.” He stepped back but kept his fingers wrapped over the opening in the door where the glass disappeared. “Okay then, I’ll see you in the morning.”
He tapped the knuckles of both hands on the window frame before he turned to walk to his car. As he opened the door of the Porsche, he glanced back at her. Although it was too dark to see his face, she imagined that same furrow forming again as he wondered why she was still sitting there.
She raised her left hand, palm toward him. He acknowledged the gesture with an answering wave.
She let her hand fall to the button that raised the window. As it slid up, she put the car into Drive and pressed down on the accelerator. The Honda responded, moving toward the ramp.
She exited the parking deck, turning to the right, which took her around the front of the building. A couple of patients hurried across the crosswalk that led from the main entrance to the public lot, causing her to slow.
As she waited for them to clear the street, her eyes considered the line of cars they were heading toward. Almost in the center of it, directly in front of the crosswalk, was a black SUV, with someone sitting in the driver’s seat.
Although it was too dark to determine the man’s coloring, there was something eerily familiar about the shape of his head. Something that created a trickle of alarm.
She strained to see through the twilight gloom. As the people who’d been crossing the street passed by the SUV, the man inside turned to look at them. His profile was backlit by the halogen lamp on the main road.
Not only was that close-cropped head familiar, she realized, so was the outline of his nose. She’d noticed it when he’d been in her office. Almost aquiline, it was marred by a slight ridge, indicating that at some time in the past, it had been broken.
A horn sounded behind her, one short tap. She looked into the rearview mirror, recognizing the distinct headlights of the Porsche. Caught up in the realization that the man who’d warned her about being a target of the killer was parked in front of the building, she hadn’t even been aware of the Paul’s approach.
With a last glance at the SUV, she pressed the gas, driving through the crosswalk and on toward the highway. As she did, she tried to decide whether that information tipped the scales in favor of calling the police.
To tell them what? That a man who believed she might be a target of the killer had come to warn her? That he’d been parked outside her building more than an hour after he’d issued that warning?
Neither fact made him a murderer. With all the tips and prank calls she knew would be flooding the hotline the cops had set up, that information would only peg her as another kook coming out of the woodwork.
She glanced in the mirror again, trying to decide if the SUV had pulled out behind her. There was definitely another car behind Paul’s, but the Porsche’s lights were too bright for her to be able to tell anything about its size, much less the make. Maybe when she made the turn out of the office park, she would be able to see the vehicle more clearly.
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