Seven Bridges

by Ciana Stone

February 14, 2020

  It was going to be a perfect evening. He could feel anticipation singing in his veins, putting a spring in his step. Were it not for the fact he had no desire to attract attention, he'd have been tempted to do like the old song from the classic film his father had loved and "whistle a happy tune."

  Not that he needed the act of whistling to feel happiness rise like effervescent bubbles inside him. Everything was perfect, just as planned. The quarry had been chosen wisely, as always, to get the most pleasure possible from the evening.

  It was a Valentine's gift. While he wouldn't be spending it with the woman he wanted, he would, nonetheless, think of her every moment, and imagine her bearing witness to the events of the evening.

  And one day, he'd share these special moments with her. He was currently rethinking his methods of winning her devotion but knew their time would come. Until then, these missions satisfied his cravings and helped him to stay at the top of his game. And on the top of the FBI's most-wanted list.

  He took pride in that accomplishment.

  Tonight, he'd completed his first mission of the new year. He thought about it as his footsteps crunched on the gravel of the narrow path. It'd taken a bit longer than expected to locate the perfect candidate, and he deliberately chose one he felt would put his skills to the test.

  The location had to fit a strict set of parameters. He was utterly inflexible on those requirements and would not budge even a fraction from the rules he'd established. Even if the woman was a perfect candidate, if the location of her home did not meet his criteria, he moved on.

  Finding the right woman was more complicated than anyone would imagine. First, she had to be a mother with small children living in the home. Her partner, or ex as the case might be, had to be someone who offered little support and wasn't interested in exercising custodial privileges.

  Meeting this strict criterion and locating the perfect target was a challenge and a test of his skills.

  He enjoyed pushing himself and each time he made a selection; he felt a sense of pride.

  Seducing the woman was the easy part and definitely in his wheelhouse. He prided himself on being able to read a woman and know how she'd respond and how fast she was willing to let things progress between them.

  He preferred women who were ready to invite him into their homes and beds within a couple of weeks.

  More than that, and he quickly grew bored.

  This month's delectable was harder to win than he'd expected, but by the time twilight fell on Valentine's Day, the woman's handsome new suitor was walking up to her front steps. A leather duffle bag was slung over one shoulder, and he carried a dozen roses in a crystal vase in one hand.

  Naturally, there was red tissue paper covering the glass. Leaving a fingerprint would be unacceptable. He thought back to his mentor, and all the times he'd had to clean up after the man.

  Those mistakes would not be attributed to him. History would record that fact. The most prolific serial killer in the history of man, and the smartest. The one who was never caught.

  That thought made him smile. He was still smiling when she opened the door.

  "For you," he offered the flowers.

  The smile of happiness and lust she rewarded him with was amusing. Soon that would change, and she would give him what he craved.

  Her pain and fear.

  February 15, 2020

  It was a day of potential. A day to choose happiness in whatever form it was offered. But then what day was not? She reminded herself of that daily. Like morning prayers, it was her mantra. Sooner or later, it would take hold and become part of her instead of something she had to remind herself to strive for.

  Isabelle looked around as she walked across the side yard to a large planting bed near the driveway. She'd meant to get it weeded for some time and if she didn't pay attention to it soon, once spring arrived, the weeds would choke out her flowers. Funny how weeds always seemed to be much hardier than whatever she planted.

  She smiled as it dawned on her that the concept held true for mental gardens as well. You had to stop the negative before it became too rooted. Once it was well dug in, it grew robust and could choke out your mental well-being and happiness, leaving you scared, angry, or just unhappy.

  Her smile faded as she considered all the times she'd held on to her negative. A lot of work had gone into ridding herself of that habit. She couldn't claim she'd achieved success, but with luck, one day she'd be free of it. Until then, she'd continue to be mindful and put in the effort.

  The sound of a plane passing overhead had her shielding her eyes and looking up. It was unseasonably warm today, hovering in the mid-sixties. Fluffy clouds decorated the field of blue overhead. As she watched, the plane disappeared into one of those clouds. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, remembering what it felt like to fly through clouds.

  Her first time experiencing it had been like something from a dream. Being enveloped in clouds, out of touch, literally, with the earth. She liked it and was scared of it at the same time. That, and other flights taught her she was a creature of the earth. She liked being grounded, feeling the earth beneath her feet, being able to dig her fingers and toes into the soil.

  Like she would do today. She opened her eyes and smiled. Yes, this was a good day to be outside. Tomorrow could be back down into the thirties, so she'd make good use of the beautiful weather while it lasted.

  Isabelle towed her garden cart to the edge of the flower bed, removed a five-gallon orange bucket from the cart to put weeds into, pulled on her gloves, and knelt. There was something calming and peaceful about working in her flower and herb gardens. She'd spent many hours this last year working outside, searching for and soaking up whatever peace and serenity was available to her.

  For a time, she turned her attention to her weeding, setting her mind free. Thoughts came and went, and she observed and noticed but didn't settle on any single one. Instead, she recognized things she'd circle back to later for more in-depth reflection.

  She thought perhaps she'd reached a milestone in her healing. At least she thought that until she felt the change in the air. The wind of change. The corners of her mouth rose as she considered how many people over the years had smiled at her for such statements. Until they realized her words were not made in jest, nor were they a boast.

  Isabelle's senses were… different. Maybe it wasn't even that. Perhaps she'd just been forced as a child to develop insights that everyone had, but rarely used. Most people adhere to the assumption that humans have five basic senses: touch, sight, hearing, smell, and taste. The sensory organs associated with each of these senses send information to the brain to help us perceive and understand the world around us.

  Because of the unique nature of her childhood she developed additional senses. It was those "extras" that inspired Isabelle to dig deeper into potential human abilities. She needed to convince herself that she wasn't a freak, and that quest had netted knowledge she'd used as stepping-stones to discovery.

  Her first breakthrough came from reading a paper that stated some scientists believe all humans have far more than five senses. The exact number was and is still a point of disagreement. Most of those familiar with the subject agree there are between fourteen and twenty, depending upon how one defines a sense.

  Isabelle used the most straightforward definition. That a sense is a channel through which your body can observe itself or the outside world.

  That definition was one she felt became metaphorically etched in stone at the age of sixteen, her first year in college, thanks to a parapsychology lecture she sneaked in to observe, being given by one of the top researchers in the field.

  Since that day, her definition had held firm, and her knowledge base had grown. That comprehension was what helped her to let go of perceptions others ascribed to her and to accept herself, without the label, "freak."

  Now, what some would call her psychic ability, alerted her to the fact that a visitor would soon arri
ve, and would, quite likely, put her boast of achieving peace to the test.

  Gib looked at the unopened pack of cigarettes on the car’s console. He hadn’t smoked for twenty years, but he kept an unopened pack with him. That way, those cancer sticks were available should he decide to break his fast and light up.

  Right now was as close as he’d ever come to opening the pack. It made him feel ashamed when he realized that he hadn’t wanted to smoke this bad when his wife, Diana died. How in hell could this be worse than losing a woman you spent over twenty years of your life with?

  Gib removed one hand from the steering wheel of the rental car and wiped it on the leg of his slacks. What was it about facing Isabelle Adams that had him so nervous?

  Like you don’t know.

  If there was one thing Gibson Foster disliked about himself, it was that his conscience, a noisy bastard at times, loved to carry on a conversation with him and was exceedingly vain about its propensity for being right more times than not.

  Like now. Gib might get annoyed with that inner voice, but was honest enough to admit when it was right. He knew all too well why he was nervous.

  Seeing Isabelle Adams was going to bring back feelings he’d spent the past year trying to erase. No matter that he’d been involved with another woman for six months now, he’d never moved beyond his feelings for Izzi. Probably never would.

  The world was full of pretty women, but there was only one Izzi. As downright silly as it sounded, it was true. She was the woman he wanted, and the woman he couldn’t have. She’d made that plain.

  Which made his trip to see her all the more problematic. Gib wasn’t sure how he was going to convince her to do what he asked. He didn’t even know if she’d listen to him. But he had to try. Lives were at stake.

  He went over in his mind what he wanted to say, tried to come up with ideas on how to convince her that what he wanted from her was a good idea. He discarded ideas, one after the other, and by the time he made the turn onto her graveled driveway, he was as lost on how to convince her as he was when left Quantico.

  The sound of a car's tires on gravel was enough of an announcement to let her know her hunch was right. Her visitor had arrived. Aa car rounded the curve in the long drive and slowed to a stop near her garden cart, currently blocked the driveway. Isabelle looked up, and the driver's side door, which was on the opposite side of the driveway from where she sat, opened.

  Some things never change. The first time she set eyes on Gibson Foster, it took her breath.

  Time hadn't dulled the effect he had on her. She peeled off her gloves and stood.

  "Iz."

  At thirty-two years old, Isabelle had heard her name, or some diminutive form of it spoken thousands of times, possibly tens of thousands. It'd been voiced in compassion, friendship, anger, jest, praise, flirtation, condemnation, threat, and lust, but no one had ever spoken her name like Gib.

  When he spoke her name, it sounded like a prayer, a deep-seated wish given sound. It thrilled and humbled her, made her weak and not just physically.

  Her resolve threatened to evaporate like mist in sunlight. Dear God, where was her strength when she needed it the most?

  "Gib," she found her tongue.

  He closed the car door and walked around to the front of the vehicle. She'd forgotten what a striking figure he cut. Standing three inches over six feet, Gib carried his two hundred, plus pounds, well. Slim in the waist with a full chest and muscular arms, he gave the impression of strength and power, a commanding presence.

  And was still as handsome as the day she met him, despite the added gray in his hair and the short, Van Dyke beard that adorned his face.

  "Iz, I…" he reached up to rub his index finger and thumb over his beard, from the corners of his mouth, downward. She recognized the motion. It signified he was at a loss for words, which didn't happen often.

  He didn't need words.

  She knew why he was there. For her, but not for them.

  "The answer is no." She gave an answer before he could ask.

  "Can we at least talk about it?"

  "To what end?"

  "So that I can say my piece and know I did everything I could to stop this bastard. At least give me that."

  "Fine," she tossed her garden gloves onto the cart, turned, and headed for the house.

  Gib followed, thinking of the reason he'd come here today. There'd been a murder in Mississippi, one that matched the pattern of an Unsub the FBI been trying to capture for decades. The Seven Bridges Killer.

  In 1995, a series of grisly murders earned the Unsub the title of the Seven Bridges Killer. Over eight months, seven families were destroyed. In each instance, a mother and her children were murdered, and something—an organ or body part–was taken from the mother and left, along with the murder weapon, hanging on a nearby bridge.

  Because the items were found on seven different bridges, law enforcement assumed the location of the bridges held significance. So far, that theory had neither been substantiated nor refuted. The Unsub had, however, become something of a legend. To date, there'd been no other evidence found at a murder scene. No material or trace evidence that would lend clues to his identity had ever been found. Not one.

  The knifes used to murder the victims were ones taken from the homes of the victims; thus, all trace evidence led back to the family.

  Three times, Gib convinced Isabelle to help them catch this killer. The first time, she fell in love with him.

  Gib wasn't ignorant or blind. He knew it was happening. Hell, he might even have encouraged it, if he was completely honest. They started as friends, or at least that's how he wanted to remember it. Maybe the truth was, he was attracted to her at first glances.

  Nevertheless, he was married, and despite having feelings for her, he didn't want to screw up his life or break up his family. Isabelle didn't hold that against him. But then things went south, people died, and after admitting she was in love with him, she returned home and took a job teaching. He went on with his life, trying to fool himself into believing he was over her.

  The next time another member of Gib's Unit, Leo Grant, almost died. Isabelle and Leo had history. He was the first member of the BAU to meet her, the first to be her friend and for a time, her lover. She told Gib once that when she thought Leo would die, it made her realize that her monster would never stop. With him, it was kill or be killed. That's when she decided she wanted the monster to die.

  It just didn't happen. A few years later, the Unsub kidnapped her. It took Gib and his team three months to find her. Gib nearly died saving her. Izzi confessed to him that she saw it for what it was, that she was a danger to all of them. They were safer without her around. So, once he healed, she left again and returned home again to North Carolina.

  She hadn't spoken to him since.

  Gib wasn't psychic, but it didn't take special abilities to know that she didn't want any part of an investigation dealing with what she called her monster. Gib wasn't stupid or insensitive. Isabelle was the only known survivor of the Seven Bridges Killer. He'd deliberately let her live after blinding her. Luckily her sight was restored through surgery and since that time, her senses had multiplied, taken on more power.

  Isabelle was convinced there was some kind of psychic link between her and the Unsub. She feared if she helped the FBI with the case again, the killer would know and would make sure to hurt or kill someone she cared for. She thought that's why Gib and Leo almost died. Gib didn't discount her feelings or her conviction about the psychic connection. He'd seen too much to write it off. But he still needed help and had to try.

  Her back was ramrod straight as she walked in front of him. He noticed she was thinner than the last time he saw her a year ago. She'd also cut her hair. A year ago, it'd reached her waist. Today it was just past her shoulder blades, falling in uneven layers, giving her that look she had when they first met.

  A nymph from the forest, or a fairy princess.

  As if hearing h
is thoughts, she looked over her shoulder at him, and when she did, she stumbled. With one slightly larger than a normal step, he had hold of her, sweeping his arm around her for balance. Then without thinking, he pulled her close.

  For a moment, they were frozen, gazes locked, and bodies pressed together. Feelings he'd spent a year trying to quell, raced to the surface, expunging all the effort that had gone into putting a lid on them.

  "Don't."

  It wasn't an admonishment but a plea, and one he understood because of the feelings rampaging inside him.

  "Please."

  Gib released her, and they continued to the house. Once there, she led him to the back porch, mounted the steps, kicked off her shoes, and opened the kitchen door. He followed her in and stopped just inside the door.

  All houses have smells, the leftover odors from cooking, the residuals of cleaning solutions, washing detergents, dryer sheets, perfumes, furniture polish and a host of other scents. Izzi's house always smelled like a blend of sweet herbs and spices, both energizing and calming, despite the dichotomy of that description.

  Perhaps he perceived it that way because until a year ago, it'd been his home away from home, the place they came to escape the world.

  "Coffee?" she asked. "Tea, iced water?"

  "No, thanks."

  She fixed herself a glass of iced water and turned to him. "Porch?"

  Gib stepped aside and gestured for her to precede him. She did and took a seat on the porch swing. He followed and hesitated until she patted the seat beside her.

  He sat and was struck, not for the first time, by how small she was. Her feet dangled free, not touching the floor. From habit established some time ago, he started slowly rocking them.

  "Do you remember the first time you came here?" she asked, took a drink from her glass and then set it on the table beside the swing.

  That question took him back twelve years.

  Chapter Three

  As long as his mind functioned, Gib would remember. At that time, he was thirty-six years old and just starting his new position as Special Agent in Charge of Unit Four of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. Being young and new to the position, he was eager to make a name for himself, and took things seriously. Deadly serious, as his wife, Diana often scolded, and added as a warning.