Say You're Sorry

by Karen Rose

  She shook her head very slowly. “I walked and walked.”

  “All right,” Daisy said as the EMTs rolled a stretcher toward them. “You’re going to the hospital now but I’ll meet you there, okay?”

  Zandra nodded. “Can’t forget them.”

  “Who, honey?” Daisy soothed.

  “The others.”

  Gideon felt a chill race down his spine at those two little words. The others. Some of the names Zandra had recited were ones he had not recognized. Either Zandra had misunderstood or the asshole had killed more women than they’d thought.

  “You need to move, sir,” the EMT said briskly.

  Gideon rose, tugging Daisy up with him. “Where are you taking her?”

  “UC Davis.”

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 10:50 P.M.

  He slid his knee off Sydney’s chest, straddling her, then slowly pushed himself back to sit on his heels.

  She was dead.

  And it had been so easy.

  All those years wasted. I should have done this long ago. He drew a breath, feeling remarkably . . . free.

  Until his reason returned and he remembered why he’d flown into an explosive rage.

  Zandra was gone. Sydney had set her free. Had thrown her out.

  To go straight to the cops.

  Fuck.

  He closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow to a normal pace. What now? What if the police come?

  What if they do? They didn’t have anything on him. He’d never left physical evidence on any of his victims. Except with Daisy. But his own DNA was still not on record anywhere for them to match it to.

  So what if Zandra said she’d been held here? It was his word against hers and she was in pretty bad shape.

  The police probably wouldn’t have enough for a warrant. Probably. But he was too careful to wager on “probably.” If they did come in, he needed there to be no evidence that Zandra had ever been here.

  He needed to get rid of Sydney’s body for starters. And there was still Kaley Martell in the freezer.

  Of course . . . it was possible that Zandra was still out there, wandering the neighborhood. If Sydney had tossed her out with nothing, it was possible that she was still close by.

  He blew out a breath, frustrated with himself. He’d wasted valuable time killing Sydney when he could have been looking for Zandra. He’d try looking for her first.

  If he couldn’t find her, he’d come back and police-proof his house.

  He jogged up the stairs, through the house, and to his Jeep. He had no choice but to use his own car in a situation like this. He had a blanket in the back that he could use to cover her up when he found her, just until he got her back.

  When he’d simply kill the bitch.

  Then he’d take all three bodies to his dumping ground. And he’d be done. From here on out, he’d kill his prey in their natural habitat. No more bringing them home.

  He pulled out of his driveway, passing Sydney’s Mercedes on his way out. He’d have to do away with that, too. Eventually someone would start looking for her.

  He drove down his street slowly, watching for the white nightshirt he’d dressed Zandra in before leaving the house earlier. Watching for anything resembling a crawling, stumbling woman.

  He’d gone two blocks before realizing he’d automatically followed the route to Daisy’s house. He pulled into a driveway to turn around when an ambulance roared by, sirens and lights going.

  No, he thought. It can’t be Zandra. Hopefully some old person just had a heart attack.

  But something told him to follow the ambulance, so he did.

  And his gut turned inside out. The ambulance stopped in front of Daisy’s house, where a group of people had gathered. He recognized Daisy’s blond hair as well as the Fed he’d shot, who now wore a sling. They were huddled around something on the ground.

  No, not something. Someone.

  “Zandra,” he whispered. But how? How had she known to come here?

  And then he saw Mutt.

  He swallowed hard. The damn dog. Mutt had brought her here. Here. To the one place that Zandra should definitely not be.

  Carefully he turned the car around and headed for home. He hadn’t approached close enough to raise any suspicion, but when he got away from Daisy’s street, he floored it. He needed to destroy any evidence and then . . . Get away. I have to get away.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 11:00 P.M.

  Daisy walked with Zandra, holding her hand until they loaded the woman into the back of the ambulance. “We’ll meet you there,” she promised, but she was shaking her head as she stepped back from the ambulance. “I don’t think she heard me,” she told them once the ambulance was gone.

  “She looked dehydrated,” Frederick stated, then turned to Mercy. “Hi. I’m Daisy’s father, Frederick Dawson. You must be Mercy Reynolds.”

  Mercy’s flinch was barely noticeable, but Gideon saw it because he was watching. “Mercy Callahan,” she corrected. “It’s nice to meet you, Frederick.”

  “And that guy over there on the phone is Special Agent Hunter. He works with me at the FBI,” Gideon told her. Hunter had stepped away to update Agent Molina.

  “He’s your bodyguard?” Mercy asked.

  “More or less,” Gideon said. He looked down at the dog. “How did this dog know to come here?”

  Daisy looked at the house next door, waving to a man watching from an upstairs window. She gestured for him to come outside. “That’s Ned Eldridge, the guy who texted Rafe about Mercy being here. Maybe he saw something. He’s on the Neighborhood Watch committee.”

  “He’s been watching me for two hours,” Mercy confirmed.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Gideon asked her. “I moved away from here six months ago. I put my new address in my Christmas card in December.”

  Mercy looked down at her shoes again. “I . . . I didn’t notice it.”

  She hadn’t opened it, Gideon guessed, but that was a topic for another time. The dog and its owner were the highest priority now. “It’s okay,” he said softly because she looked ready to bolt. “Will you stay with me at my new place? I have plenty of room.”

  She nodded but said nothing. She had that overwhelmed, panicked look in her eyes that he’d seen when he’d found her in the foster home.

  The door to Eldridge’s house opened and the man rushed out in his bedroom slippers. “Daisy,” he said, grasping her hand. “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” Daisy said, then introduced the rest of them. “Did you see the woman in the blanket?”

  “I did. She came from that way.” He pointed behind him. “I was about to come outside when Miss Callahan got out of her car. I called 911.” He looked at Mercy. “I saw you on your phone and figured you were doing the same. I didn’t come out because Rafe told me not to scare you away.”

  Mercy smiled tightly but said nothing.

  “The dog has been by here before,” Ned went on. “I saw him earlier this afternoon. Not too long after you guys left. Some guy was walking him.”

  “Was he about six feet tall with glasses, dark hair, and a mustache?” Gideon asked, describing the man who’d dared come near Daisy on Saturday at the pet store.

  “Height’s the same, but nothing else,” Ned said. “No glasses, blond hair with a little gray in it, and no mustache.”

  Daisy narrowed her eyes. “That’s what the guy in the bus station looked like. You remember, Gideon, the one who bought a ticket when we were asking about Eileen.”

  “So he uses disguises.” Gideon blew out a breath. “Of course he does. How often did he walk the dog past here?”

  “I saw him a few times. I went out to talk to him this afternoon b
ecause I saw him lurking. I would have reported him to the Neighborhood Watch if he’d kept it up. I don’t like strange people wandering the neighborhood. No offense, Miss Callahan,” he added politely.

  “None taken,” Mercy said with a smile that loosened a knot in Gideon’s chest. He hadn’t seen that smile in too many years.

  “So when Zandra escaped, the dog brought her here.” Daisy petted the dog’s head. “Good boy.” Then her head tilted. “I wonder if he knows the way H-O-M-E?”

  Agent Hunter finished his call and joined them in time to hear her question. “Good idea. I need to get him a lead, then I’ll try the command.”

  “I have one,” Ned said. “Give me a minute to get it for you.” He jogged back to his house.

  “Now what?” Daisy asked.

  “I’d like you, Mercy, and your dad to go inside and wait for another agent to take you to the hospital,” Gideon said. “I’m going with Agent Hunter and the dog. If we can’t find where his H-O-M-E is, I’ll meet you at the ER.”

  Daisy frowned. “You can’t go. You’re still in recovery. If anyone goes, it should be me. I’m a better shot.”

  Gideon saw Frederick’s mouth open, the word “no” already on his lips, but he stayed the older man by lifting his hand. “You are a better shot,” Gideon agreed. “Even when I have two functioning hands. But if he can get to you, he’ll use you to force our hand. He could get away. With you.”

  Daisy took a deep breath. “And I would end up like Trish,” she said quietly. “And the others.”

  Frederick visibly paled and Mercy watched them all, clearly confused. I’ll explain to her later, he thought. Paramount now was keeping Daisy safe.

  “And the others,” Gideon repeated soberly. He cupped Daisy’s cheek. “So you’ll stay here? You’ll get to the ER faster this way,” he added when she didn’t respond. “And you did promise Zandra you’d be there.”

  The side-eye she gave him said he needed to shut up now. So he did.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “I’ll stay. But if he starts shooting, you let Hunter shoot back.”

  Frederick relaxed, shooting him a grateful glance.

  Gideon managed to hide his own relief. “I’ll let Hunter do all the heavy lifting,” he said. If I can, he added silently, and once again he saw he hadn’t fooled her. “Thank you. For now, stay together and we’ll figure out logistics later. Is that okay, Mercy?”

  Mercy nodded. “Although I am getting tired. I pulled an all-nighter before I flew out this afternoon. I’m on Central Time. Maybe I can crash in a waiting room.”

  She was being very accommodating. It made Gideon a little nervous, if he was honest with himself. “You won’t leave?”

  Her smile was faint. “I promised. I won’t leave until we get a chance to talk.”

  Ned returned with a collar and leash. “Here you go. It’s an extra, so no hurry in getting it back to me.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Hunter said. He put the leash on the killer’s dog and handed it to Gideon. “Let me do a sweep of Miss Dawson’s house before they go in,” he said.

  “I’ll call Molina,” Gideon said, “and ask for backup.” Gideon waited on the sidewalk, watching as Daisy, Mercy, and Frederick followed Hunter up to the house, then turned to Ned. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I appreciate you keeping watch over the house and letting Rafe know there was a car outside. And thank you for watching over her to make sure she didn’t leave. I . . . I haven’t seen my sister in a long time.”

  Ned smiled. “My pleasure.” His smile faded. “That guy I talked to, the one with the dog? He’s the killer they’ve been talking about on the news? The one that killed Daisy’s friend Trish?”

  “It’s likely,” Gideon said. “If you see anyone with that description again, can you call Rafe right away?” He had to fight his own wince, because telling the man to call someone else with information stung. But he was on medical leave and he wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize this case. Not when Daisy’s safety was involved. When they caught the bastard, he wanted him put in prison forever and wasn’t about to give some defense attorney reason to get the fucker off. “I’m not on the case anymore.” He pointed to his sling when Ned looked confused. “He shot me over the weekend.”

  “I read about that, too. Wow.” Ned looked partly horrified and partly fascinated. “I’ve never stood next to a killer before. I’m not sure how to think about it.” He shook himself. “I’m going to have a stiff drink and try to sleep. You have a good night, Agent Reynolds.”

  “You too.”

  Gideon stood on the sidewalk, scanning his surroundings for any movement as he phoned Molina. She answered on the first ring.

  “Agent Reynolds,” she said crisply. “I was just briefed by Agent Hunter. I was about to call him back, actually. I got a hit on Zandra Jones. She disappeared from Vail on Friday afternoon. She’d been in the bar, got into an altercation with a man there, another patron. She was, reportedly, very drunk at the time. Another patron said the man left for a little while, said he was going to call Miss Jones a cab. He came back after a few minutes, saying he’d sent the woman to the airport.”

  “Airport,” Gideon said quietly. “He’s not a truck driver like we thought. He works on a plane. A flight attendant maybe. Or maybe even a pilot. That’s how he could take victims from so many different places.”

  “Sounds right,” she said. “The woman couldn’t have walked far. You say the dog brought her?”

  “It looks like it. Daisy’s neighbor says he’s seen a man walking the dog around here.”

  “Smart dog.”

  “Hunter and I were going to see if it knows its way home.”

  “And Miss Dawson?”

  “She’s with her father. And my sister.”

  “Oh? That’s . . . very nice,” she said, a little stiffly, but not unkindly. “I think Daisy’s father can protect them until I get backup to transport them. He and Daisy came recommended by the Baltimore field office.”

  “Yeah. We had to let Hunter talk to Agent Carter before he’d let Frederick in the car with us.”

  “Are you able to drive?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said immediately, suspecting where she was going with this and not wanting to miss out. “I haven’t taken pain pills since this morning.”

  “I want you to drive Agent Hunter’s vehicle, tailing him while he sees if the dog knows his way home, providing backup if necessary. I’ll get you new backup as soon as I can. In the meantime, I’m going to get the addresses of any pilots who live in a five-block radius of Miss Dawson’s home.”

  Gideon remembered Trish’s body. “SY.” “Cross-reference the name ‘Sydney.’”

  “Just did it,” she said, “but thank you. I’ve requested SacPD backup. They’ll be there within three minutes. It’ll take a little longer for Bureau backup, but I’ll let you know who’s coming. If you find the house, inform me immediately. I’ll have someone draft a warrant right away.”

  “Will do. Hunter’s coming back. I’ll brief him and we’ll see what the dog can show us.”

  “Be careful, Gideon.”

  “I will be. Thank you.” He ended the call as Agent Hunter joined him. He told Hunter what Molina had said and Hunter traded him the keys for the dog’s leash.

  Hunter crouched in front of the dog, affectionately petting his head. “He’s in good shape. Clean, groomed. Good weight. Someone’s been caring for him.” He leaned in, letting the dog lick his face. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Let’s see how good.” He rose, lightly tugged on the leash. “Let’s go home.”

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 11:10 P.M.

  He looked around, trying to stay calm as he hurried. He didn’t have much time. Zandra had been talking to the FBI. To Reynolds. Of all people.

  The last of the gas poured from th
e can and he shook it before setting it aside. He took a final look at the house that had been the first thing that had been his.

  But it had to go. He wasn’t going to leave them any evidence to use against him.

  Damn forensics.

  The fire would destroy everything—his DNA, fingerprints, the Jeep he’d moved to the garage. The souvenirs in the basement. Sydney’s body. And good riddance to her. Without evidence, it was just his word against Zandra’s.

  He fumbled with the match, damning his bandaged hand. Damning Daisy Dawson. Ever since she’d fought him off in the alley, everything had gone to shit.

  I should have shot her that night. And that yappy dog of hers, too.

  But he hadn’t and now he was trying—and failing—to light the match to incinerate his own home. He looked over his shoulder, listening for the wail of sirens.

  He’d used precious minutes dousing the stairs leading to the basement and the back exterior wall, running out of gasoline before he could soak the rest of the perimeter. But this wall was closest to his guest room. Hopefully he hadn’t taken too much time.

  But there were no sirens. Not yet. All he heard was silence. So far, so good.

  Breathe. Just breathe. He flexed his good hand, trying to control the trembling. Gripping the matchbox between his palm and his three working fingers, he gripped the match in his right hand. Now, light the damn match.

  Finally. The match flared to life and he dropped it onto the gas-soaked ground at the back of the house. Picking up the gas can, he ran to the front of the house, threw it in the garage, then pulled his duffel from the back of his Jeep. It had emergency supplies like water and money. And at least one disguise. He closed the garage door, then hurried to Sydney’s Mercedes. Hopefully no one would be able to identify her body for a while. He needed time to get away.

  Climbing behind the wheel, he put it in reverse and calmly backed out of his driveway. Then he changed gears and drove.

  To where, he wasn’t yet sure. But he knew how he’d get there.