by Whitley Gray
“I don’t have to tell any of you why we’re gathered here on a Saturday,” she began. “What we’re about to discuss doesn’t go beyond this room. That means no talking to anyone, including spouses and significant others. This killer has done this at least once before. Our job is to catch him before he does it again.”
Before the guy tries for Zach.
SJ eyed him. “Any new leads?”
“Nothing definite.” Only the fact that the killer had Zach’s cell phone number, and the gory pictures. “For the foreseeable future, we’ll work on gathering information and developing leads. In the meantime the lab is processing evidence from the scene. I’ll be working on a tandem lead related to the killer’s other known victim.”
“The guy in Omaha?” Van asked.
“Yes. And I’ll coordinate with Omaha’s homicide section. If there’s relevant information, I’ll make it available.”
“Okay.” SJ swirled her cup. “Anything else?”
Silence.
“Dismissed.”
Beck watched the assembly file out. SJ closed the door after the last patrolman and turned to him. “We’re handicapped by the multijurisdictional nature of this case. Two victims in Omaha and another here.”
“Ours is a fresh homicide investigation. There’s every likelihood he’s still in this area, and we’re developing leads. I’ll notify Detective Hogan of our findings.”
SJ poked at her glasses. “Dr. Littman’s background could be a big help in catching this guy.”
Beck crossed his arms. Here we go. “He’s on vacation. He doesn’t start with DPD until June first.”
“If he’s agreeable to work as a profiler, I can move up his start date.”
No. No, goddamn it. “He’s a possible target when it comes to the Follower, Captain. He’s been threatened.”
“When you update Special Agent Ruskin, let me know what he has to say.”
Great. Ruskin would return to Denver, talk to Zach, and get him caught up in the case. “Captain—”
“This isn’t a typical homicide, Beck. It’s not a commentary on your abilities to ask for a profiler’s perspective.”
“I realize that. I’m just concerned for Zach’s safety.”
“So you’ll call Agent Ruskin.” It wasn’t a question. She looked him in the eye. Tension crackled between them.
If Ruskin engaged, Zach would be off the hook. Beck didn’t want to know what Zach would say about acting as the department profiler. It’d be better to avoid the issue. “I’ll call Ruskin.”
“And if Special Agent Ruskin isn’t available, I’ll be speaking with Dr. Littman. Clear?”
“Clear.”
* * * *
“I’m swamped, Beck.” Ruskin sounded apologetic. Unintelligible shouts echoed in the background. “I can’t get back there anytime soon. With Zach gone, we’re short-staffed, and I’m in the field on another case.”
The evening sun angled in low through the window, casting long shadows across the bull pen. Beck rubbed the back of his neck. What a crappy day. “Can you give me any insights into what we should be looking for with this guy?”
“Just the generalities you already know. Hang on a minute.” The phone became muffled, and then Ruskin returned. “Look, I’m going to have to call you back. Zach could contribute—”
“I don’t want him involved. This guy has a hard-on for getting Zach tangled up in this. The Follower could go after him.”
“I understand. But short of putting Zach into protective custody, he’ll be out there, potentially being watched by the Follower.”
Tension moved into Beck’s shoulders. Maybe Zach should be in protective custody. “I need your help catching this guy.”
Ruskin sighed. “I’ll put a call in to Sands, see what I can do.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
An engine sounded, followed by frantic barking. “Gotta go.” Ruskin disconnected.
Beck could have pounded the receiver on the desk. Freaking Follower. At least he could tell SJ he’d called Ruskin. If she contacted Zach directly, would he agree to get involved? There must be a way to get a handle on this without pulling Zach into the vortex.
He contemplated the ceiling. Had the Follower known Perny? Had he known India?
Does he know Zach?
It still seemed like Perny was the key to finding the Follower. Beck’s cell buzzed. The morgue.
“Beck? Elmo Quick here.”
“Didn’t expect to hear from you this soon.”
“This is more than the typical Friday-night homicide.”
To say the least. “You’re doing the cut?”
“Started late this afternoon. Didn’t want to wait until Monday, given the nature of the crime.”
“I appreciate that.” More data meant more clues. “Have you finished?”
“No. But there are findings you need to know now.”
* * * *
Autopsy Suite Two was refrigerator-cold and had the foul breath of old blood and early decay. Automatically, Beck tried not to inhale deeply. Odors were born of particulates riding the air, and the thought of inhaling those… Nauseating.
One wall held a huge door leading to refrigerated storage. Another featured wall-hung cupboards and a steel-topped stretch of base cabinets. A third had a waist-high counter; above this, view boxes showcased black-and-white X-ray documentation.
A round surgical light illuminated the work area.
The girl lay on a centrally positioned steel table, face white as a shroud. She looked nothing like the young woman who had sat on the porch that day. Elmo and the autopsy tech stood next to her. The assistant was male, slightly built, with inky hair pulled back in a ponytail. His dark gaze met Beck’s and darted away.
A mask hid the lower half of Elmo’s face. “Evening, Detective.”
Beck stopped a yard away. It was still close enough for him to see the dead stare of dull gray-blue eyes, the gaping chest wound where the sternum should be, and the multiple stab wounds—some running vertical, some horizontal, some diagonal.
Murder seemed more heinous in this antiseptic atmosphere, the dead laid bare to reveal their secrets. Get it over with and get out of here. “What did you find?”
“The heart is missing. It’s not just chopped out. It’s excised, like the killer had some sort of medical knowledge. It’s a precision job.”
Jesus. Was the Follower a physician?
The diener glanced at Quick, then at Beck.
Should they be talking in front of the tech? The more people who knew, the more likely the case would spring informational leaks.
As if reading Beck’s mind, Quick said, “Please get the inventory forms, Mr. Fox.”
The tech turned and exited.
“And the second finding?” Beck wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this.
Elmo frowned. “It’s more disturbing.”
Beck’s gut clenched. More messages to Zach?
Elmo gestured with a gloved hand. “I did the autopsies on three of Xavier Darling’s victims.”
This couldn’t lead anywhere good.
Elmo’s expression softened. “I know you didn’t work those cases. But you should know—the technique used to remove the heart is similar.”
Beck battled the surge of panic that welled in his chest. Similar. Were they dealing with a Darling wannabe? “Anything else?”
“The little finger on the right hand is transected through the MCP joint, also the same as Darling’s victims. And one final thing.” Elmo nodded to a stainless-steel pan on the counter. “That was in the chest.”
Another gift from the Follower. Unwillingly, Beck took a look, and his stomach lurched. An inscribed red paper heart. Not the possessive Your heart belongs to me, Dr. Littman this time, or Your heart will be mine soon, Dr. Littman. Soon. Now it was,
Get in the game while three is still alive.
Play now, Littman, or you’ll be my number five.
* * * *
Af
ter nine, and Beck was still out working India’s murder. Zach paced the house. It was nauseating to contemplate he might be responsible for India’s death. Anyone around him might become a target. Beck might become a target.
They had to find the Follower sooner rather than later.
Ruskin might have fresh information. He’d promised to keep Zach posted about the case.
It was after ten in Minneapolis, but Ruskin could easily be at work. Zach pulled out his phone, selected Ruskin’s number, and hit Send.
Calling…
One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
“Hello?” The voice was low-pitched, male, and not Ruskin.
Who the hell is this? “I’m looking for Krell Ruskin. Is he available?”
There was a weighty silence, then, “Uh, no. Can I take a message?”
Enough of this crap. “This is Special Agent Zach Littman. I need to speak with him. Now.”
“Sir? This is Deputy Del Kirznak with the Union County Sheriff’s Office in Iowa.”
Ruskin must have a case out there. “Please put Special Agent Ruskin on the phone.”
“I can’t, Agent Littman. He’s been shot.”
* * * *
Some people handled stress with exercise. Zach cooked. He chopped onion for the salsa while the diced mango simmered. Life seemed out of control. Waiting sucked. Ruskin was an excellent marksman, always wore a vest. Cautious. How in the hell had he been shot?
Did it matter? What counted was Ruskin surviving surgery. Per Deputy Kirznak, Ruskin had been flown to a trauma center in Omaha. That had been the first and last information available.
Sands would know by now and notify Ruskin’s next of kin.
Who was Ruskin’s next of kin?
They’d worked together for two years, yet Zach knew nothing about the man’s personal life. Had he ever asked? Ruskin had been quiet, and Zach had taken that as an indication he didn’t want to talk.
When this was over, Zach would make an effort to get to know him. Krell. He must be Krell to someone.
Headlights swung through the front windows and slid past the house. Odds favored Beck, but just to be sure…
Zach went to the newly installed gun safe in the closet, retrieved his SIG, and crouched in the dining room. Outside, footsteps came up the stairs to the kitchen. The lock jiggled, turned, and the door opened.
Beck.
Zach stood. Beck reached for his weapon.
“Just me.” Zach flicked on the safety.
Beck let out a gusty breath. “Don’t do that to me.”
“Sorry.” Zach laid the gun on the counter and turned off the heat on the salsa. “Welcome home?”
“Thanks. I think.” Beck sounded exhausted.
“You want some dinner?”
Beck shook his head. “A beer and then bed.”
What’s happening with the investigation? Zach had envisioned the two of them working together, like they had last October on the Olivetti murders. Casework interspersed with romance. But now Zach was a non-LEO partner, a former profiler whom Beck expected to stay on the outside.
Wincing, Beck pulled off his shoulder harness. He set it next to Zach’s SIG and opened the refrigerator.
“Shoulder bothering you?”
“Just tension from this case. I’ll take a couple of ibuprofen and hit the hay. You want a beer?”
“Sure.”
Beck pulled two bottles, twisted off the caps, and handed one to Zach. The brew was cool and smooth and felt good going down. He eyed Beck, who was staring out the window.
Zach lowered his beer. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
Outside looking in, Littman. “While you were gone, I spoke with a deputy in Iowa. Ruskin’s been shot.”
Beck’s head snapped around. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. He’s in surgery.”
“God, Zach.” Beck pulled him into a hug. He smelled like beer. “I’m so sorry. Is he okay?”
Zach drew back. “I don’t know. The call was less than an hour ago.”
“A suspect?”
Was it? Zach assumed it had to be work-related. “I…don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.”
Beck rolled the bottle between his palms. “What would you think about leaving town for a few days?”
Zach snorted. “You’re in the middle of a homicide investigation.”
“I mean just you.”
A chill having nothing to do with the beer settled over him. “You want me to…what? Move out?”
Surprise was written on Beck’s face. “No. Not at all.”
The relief made him dizzy. Beck didn’t want him gone. “Then what?”
“Until we catch the Follower, I think you’d be safer somewhere unexpected. He knows you live here.” Beck swept an arm around the space. “He could get to you.”
“No.” Zach set the bottle on the counter with a clack. “Absolutely not.”
“Zach—”
“No.” The Follower might be taunting him, but Zach sure as hell wasn’t the kind of guy to turn tail and run. He’d always faced trouble head-on. “I won’t hide.”
Beck set his bottle next to Zach’s. Some unreadable emotion clouded his eyes. “The ME found another note when he did the autopsy.”
“Not the one you found by her head?”
“No. This one was in her chest, like the one they found inside Perny. It says, ‘Get in the game while three is still alive. Play now, Littman, or you’ll be my number five.’ He’s fixated on you.”
Zach crossed his arms. The Follower had upped the threat. “Maybe. But he wants me around. I think part of the reason he chose India was to spur me into action. For whatever reason, he wants me to figure out what he’s doing.”
Beck’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want you involved.”
“I am involved. Whether I choose to be or not, I’m involved.”
“If Perny is one, India is two. He may have selected number three. It’s a game to him, and he makes the rules. Hell, he could decide to jump the queue and make you number three.”
“Then we’ll have to stop him first.”
Chapter Fifteen
Drowsy, Beck drifted on a cloud. Warm and soft, smelling of fresh linen and the clean scent of Zach. Sleeping together…heaven. Smiling, Beck rolled over.
Cool sheets. Beck pried his eyes open. Unoccupied sheets.
Slices of Sunday-morning sunshine carved a pattern of parallel slats across the comforter. A breeze stirred the curtains. Beck scanned the nightstand. Zach’s phone sat there; he couldn’t be far.
Opposite the bed hung an oversize black-and-white photograph of a grove of bare-branched birch trees. Just visible, deep in the shadows, was a lone red shoe. The picture had a haunted-forest look to it, as if a goblin might appear at any moment. The skeletal trees seemed to beckon: Come see what’s hidden here…
Creepy. The lithograph was Zach’s. Beck preferred pictures that didn’t make him shudder. Really, he didn’t want to wake up to that every morning. Art had its place, but hell, he had enough nightmares without getting a nudge from the decor.
It had been an uncomfortable night, filled with half-awake thoughts of the investigation and worries about Zach.
Zach, who wasn’t taking up the requisite real estate on the king-size bed. Awfully early to be up on a Sunday. Zach was supposed to be on vacation; apparently he’d slept poorly too.
Water splashed in the bathroom.
Bzzz…
Beck snatched his phone. Blank screen. Not his call.
Bzzz…
On the other side of the bed, Zach’s cell rumbled on the night table. Beck lunged across the mattress and grabbed it. A photo of desert dunes showed. Goddamn it. Why in the hell was Sands calling? Zach didn’t work for the FBI anymore.
Bzzz…
Sands might try to pull that “only you can do this” bullshit again and send Zach away.
Head it off at the pass. Answer the call and tell him Zach’s
not available. Or tell him to fuck off.
Tempting, but nope. Not Beck’s decision. Better to let it go to voice mail. Maybe it was news about Ruskin.
Bzzz…
The final vibration cut off, and the screen changed to Missed Call. He returned the phone to Zach’s nightstand.
The water shut off. Sighing, Beck got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Sometimes doing the right thing sucked.
* * * *
Zach stepped out of the shower. Beck was at the sink, naked. Was there anything finer? Zach wrapped a towel around his waist. “Mornin’.”
Beck glanced up, expression grim. Something had squashed his usual randy morning mood. Zach’s smile faded.
“Hey.” Beck’s tone was warm, his eyes serious.
Please, no more bodies. Zach’s stomach clenched. “What happened?”
“You got a call from Sands. I didn’t answer it, but I thought you might want to call sooner rather than later, with Ruskin and all.”
So no additional Follower victims. “Yeah. Right.”
Beck put a hand on his waist. “You want me there?”
“It’s okay. Go ahead and shower while I call.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
Beck kissed him and then slid past him.
Towel-clad, Zach sat on the edge of the bed. The voice mail was brief and to the point:
“Littman. Urgent that I speak with you.”
It had been a week since Zach had said good-bye. Seven days. Sands would have nothing positive to say.
Sands could’ve called about Ruskin’s condition.
Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, Littman. Sands specialized in practical, not sentimental. The Minneapolis unit was down two profilers. The Follower case was a priority. It added up to one thing. Zach hit Return Call.
Stand strong. Say no. Sands can call Quantico. No more cases. I promised Beck. I can make a life without profiling—
“Sands.” Brisk, professional.
“It’s Littman. I got your message.”
“You heard about Ruskin.”
“Yes.” Zach’s shoulders relaxed. Maybe this was an update. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s in rough shape, but he’ll make it. Chest wound, intensive care after surgery. Not awake yet. Recovery will be long.”
