Blood of Dawn

by Tami Dane

  Mrs. Roberts stood. I moved closer, in case she collapsed again. “Why do you need it?”

  “Because I believe I saw your daughter last night,” I explained in a low voice. “She left a party with a boy.”

  “What party? Where?”

  “It was only a couple of blocks away.”

  “At whose house? I’d like to know. Whoever held that party is responsible for my daughter’s death.”

  “No, Mrs. Roberts. Please don’t lay that blame at their feet. It’s not their fault. It’s not your fault either. It’s the killer’s fault. Only his. And we’re working hard to catch him so he can’t do this again.”

  She stared down at her hands, wringing a wadded-up tissue. “But I didn’t protect her. I failed.”

  “You did the best you could. No parent is perfect.”

  “True, but not every parent’s failing leads to her child’s death.”

  “Don’t blame yourself—”

  “Don’t do that!” the anguished mother screeched. “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t feel.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  She clapped her hands over her face and started sobbing. I stood there, mute, feeling like crap for making her cry again. I wanted to leave the poor woman in peace, but I needed to get my hands on that yearbook.

  JT nudged me. “Maybe we can get a copy from the school. Let’s go.”

  I nodded. “I think I’ve done enough damage here.”

  We headed out to Mom’s car. JT dumped the stereo onto the backseat while I cranked the engine, powered down the windows, and tried not to sweat. Of course, I failed. And within minutes, as we wove through the narrow streets of the subdivision, my face was shiny and little rivulets of sweat were dribbling down my cleavage.

  JT was quiet, staring out the passenger window. He said nothing until we were almost back in Quantico. “Thanks for stepping up back there, Sloan. I’m the agent. You’re the intern. But you’re doing most of the work on this one.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He rubbed his temples. “I want to get my head together. I’m trying. It’s just so fucking hard.”

  “It takes time. Everyone handles grief differently, but there are four stages and it generally takes—”

  “Sloan, please. I don’t need to hear a psychological analysis right now.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Do me a favor. Take me back to my place.”

  We drove the rest of the way to JT’s apartment in silence. Strained silence. Luckily, traffic was light. Saturday morning. No rush hour.

  We rolled up and I let him out. I popped the trunk so he could get his go bag.

  He stepped up to my window. “Are you heading into the office for a while?”

  “Yes, I think I’m going to make some calls, see if I can get anyone to take a look at that thing.” I hooked my thumb over my shoulder at the backseat.

  “I think I’m going to call it a day. Ring me if anything comes up.”

  “Will do.”

  He disappeared into his building as I backed out of the parking spot.

  When I strolled into the PBAU a little while later, a bag of food in one fist, the portable stereo cradled in my arms, I was greeted by Gabe, who appeared to be packed up and ready to head home for the day.

  “What’cha have there?” he asked, flicking his gaze to my hands.

  “A stereo.” I lifted it up.

  “Yeah, I see that. Is there a reason why you took it from the last victim’s house? Wanting to crank the jams while you’re doing your Sloan-super-profiling thing?”

  He was so silly. “No. It’s fried. The crime scene techs didn’t want it so I thought I’d get someone to look at it.”

  Wagner’s brows furrowed as he shouldered my cubby wall. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe, if the unsub caused the damage, we can find out something about him from it. I wanted to get someone to look at it.”

  “I have a friend who plays around with stuff like that. Want me to ask him to take a look at it?”

  “Sure. That would be great. Thanks.” I handed off the stereo to Gabe. Our fingers brushed as he slid his arms around it, and my face started warming. I backed up.

  Gabe’s eyes locked on mine.

  I swear, the earth stopped spinning for a split second. Then it started again, and I felt this lurch. Or maybe that was just my imagination. I silently muttered a curse, vowing to find a way to get my memories of Gabe back before things got weird.

  “What are you doing here on a Saturday, Sloan?”

  That was a silly question. Not to mention, I could easily turn it right back on him. Stating the obvious, I said, “Working. What about you?”

  “No plans?” He set the stereo on his desk; then he came back to my cubby to harass me some more.

  “No.” I didn’t want to talk about my personal life with Gabe Wagner, though I sensed he knew plenty about it. I was really hating Elmer right now.

  “How about we head out for some lunch?” He stepped closer, leaning his butt against the edge of my desk. His arms were crossed, and he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. His biceps looked huge, a lot bigger than I remembered. His skin looked a little darker too. His teeth were whiter.

  I plunged my hand into the paper bag I’d hauled in and pulled out a wrapped six-inch sub. “I’m all set. Thanks.”

  “Hmm.” He dug into the bag, produced a bag of Sun-Chips, and tore them open. “Mind if I have a couple?”

  This was getting to be a regular thing with us.

  “Not at all.” I took a big bite of my turkey and Swiss and chewed as I fished my laptop out of its bag.

  Gabe stood there, watching me, crunching. “Need some help?”

  “No thanks.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “Just poking around the Internet. Doing some research.”

  “On . . . ?”

  “Electricity, electrocution, that kind of thing.” I took another bite of sandwich while Windows loaded. “I wish my father’s research hadn’t burned up in the fire. I’d love to see if there are Mythics tied to electricity. The one book I do have only contained a small portion of his body of work.”

  “I haven’t read any of your dad’s research, but I know there’s at least one.”

  “You know this?”

  “Sure. I’ve read ghosts can create electrical disturbances. And then there’s the Mongolian Death Worm, which may or may not be a Mythic—there’s no evidence to support it’s real, which means it’s technically a cryptid. It is said to be able to produce bursts of electrical energy.”

  “‘Mongolian Death Worm’?” I repeated.

  “Yeah. I’ve been doing some online research. It lives in the Gobi Desert, and only surfaces after a rain.”

  “Interesting.” It took me no time at all to see a connection I’d missed before. All three victims had died after a storm. “Do you have more information on this worm? Could one have made its way here from Mongolia somehow?”

  “Who knows? We import somewhere around twelve million dollars of goods a year from there. Mostly food products, sugar, salt. Maybe it found its way into a shipping container, burrowed underground once it landed here. In Mongolia, it lives in sand dunes and only surfaces during the hottest months of the year.”

  “We’ve had some muggy, hot weather lately.”

  “We have.”

  “And it has rained before every attack.”

  “It has.”

  “Could we be onto something? Why didn’t you mention this possibility to the chief?” I asked while I typed Mongolian Death Worm into a Web search.

  “Because I see one major issue with the Mongolian Death Worm theory. Its skin is supposedly toxic to the touch, and victims die instantly. Since we’ve found every one of our victims on the second floor of their homes, that would suggest the worm is entering their houses and traveling up the stairs by its own means. The victims couldn’t carry the worm without dying.”


  That just blew a small hole in the Mongolian Death Worm theory. “I see what you mean. But would it be impossible? How do they move? Can they fly?”

  “Nope. They use a rolling form of locomotion. I can’t see a two- to five-foot snake rolling up a staircase.”

  “Hmm. Still deserves some further investigation.” I hit the enter button. The screen filled with links: 115,000. I was going to have plenty of reading ahead of me. “Thanks for the information. And for getting your friend to look at that stereo.”

  “No problem.” He didn’t leave.

  I elevated my eyes up at him, giving him the okay-you-can-leave look.

  “Listen, Sloan, about all the stuff that’s been going on between us lately.”

  I wish I could recall what that “stuff” was. “Gabe, we need to work together. So I’d rather keep things professional.”

  “So you’ve said. But . . .” He leaned closer, invading my personal-space bubble; for some crazy reason, I didn’t want to back away.

  His gaze flicked to my mouth, and warning sirens squealed in my head. A flash of heat blazed through my body. And I suddenly found myself facing the possibility that a longtime fantasy was about to come true.

  Gabe was going to kiss me.

  One thought raced through my head: What about Damen? I’m supposed to be courting him. That has to mean something.

  Gabe’s face descended toward mine. Seconds dragged by; time seemed to slow to a crawl. I had plenty of opportunity to react. But I just couldn’t seem to comprehend what was about to happen.

  His mouth hovered over mine. “Sloan?” he whispered.

  My eyelids fluttered shut.

  The image of Damen’s face flashed in my head.

  I smacked my hands on Gabe’s chest and gave him a shove. “I can’t do this.”

  Gabe moved back, not fighting me. His gaze searched my face. “I’m not going to apologize. Sloan, I’ve cared about you for years. Waited for my chance to tell you how I feel. And I did, and I can tell you have feelings for me too.”

  “There’s someone else,” I enunciated.

  “No, there’s not. If there really was someone else, I wouldn’t have even made it that close.” Without saying another word, he went back to his desk, grabbed the stereo, and left the unit.

  His words echoed in my head as I watched the glass door swing shut behind him.

  What he’d said—it was true.

  All that is necessary to break the spell of inertia and frustration is to . . . act as if it were impossible to fail.

  —Dorothea Brande

  13

  After that little episode with Gabe, I couldn’t concentrate. I had no choice but to pack up my computer and head home. During the entire drive, I chastised myself for what I’d almost done. He was right, damn it. If I cared about Damen as much as I said, Gabe shouldn’t have been able to get that close.

  I called myself several unflattering names as I zoomed up the Capital Beltway toward Mom and Dad’s. I wasn’t feeling any better about my actions when I pulled into the driveway.

  Or when I let myself inside.

  “Sloan, is that you?” Mom shouted when I tromped through the house, heading toward the stairs.

  “Yes, it’s me, Mom.”

  She yelled, “There’s a package in the front hall for you.” “A package?”

  I hadn’t placed any orders. I wasn’t expecting a package.

  “Yes. Also, we’ll be leaving in a few hours. We decided to take a honeymoon now, before the baby’s born. We’re flying to Tahiti.”

  “Tahiti, that’s great.” Much more curious about the package than Mom and Dad’s travel plans, I went out to the front hall, finding a large box sitting on the table next to the front door. The return address was Amazon. I took it, along with my loaner computer, upstairs.

  Katie intercepted me in the hallway. “Sloan, I need a girls’ night out.” Her mascara had run down her cheeks. She looked like a very bad impressionist’s representation of a Procyon lotor—aka, a raccoon.

  “Oh, hon, what’s wrong?”

  “I finally heard from Viktor.”

  A flare of guilt buzzed through me. Why had I let her talk me out of calling Damen to see if I could find out what was going on with him? I might have been able to ease the blow if I’d known what was coming. “You did?”

  “He called to tell me he’d left something in my car. That was it. Didn’t mention seeing me again.” She started sniffling. Her eyes started watering once more.

  I set the box on the floor, then grabbed and hugged her. “Men are such jerks.”

  “Jerks,” she said, snuffling and sobbing.

  Stepping out of the embrace, I rubbed her arms. “You deserve so much better than that. You realize that, right?”

  She sniffed. She dripped. She nodded. “I know.”

  “You’re intelligent and beautiful. Sooner or later, you’ll meet the one. I promise.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She eased out of my hold, smiling and crying at the same time. “I hate that I get so worked up about this stuff.”

  “We all do. It’s part of being a woman.”

  She snorted. Her gaze gravitated to the box I’d all but forgotten about. “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her brows lifted. “Open it.”

  “Sure. Okay.” I hauled it into my room and set it on my bed. I broke several fingernails, trying to pull off the tape, before Katie sighed, went to her room, and returned with something slender and silver. She pushed a button and, click, a knife blade sprung out. “What the heck is that?”

  “It’s a knife.” She ran the tip of the blade along the seam between the box flaps, slicing through the tape like it was tissue.

  “I can see that. But where did you get it? I mean, is that even legal?”

  “It depends.” She hit the button and, snap, the blade went back in.

  “Upon . . . ?”

  “What state we’re in. It’s legal to possess in Maryland.”

  “We’re not in Maryland,” I pointed out.

  “This, I’m aware of.” She handed the opened box to me and returned the deadly weapon to its home. “My father bought it for me ages ago. It usually sits in my dresser. I’ve thought about getting rid of it a few times, but it’s one of the few things I have that he gave me. Plus, you never know when it might come in handy.”

  “I guess I see your point.” I folded the box flaps out, revealing a lot of white foam peanuts. I slid my hand in, found a smaller box, and pulled it out.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Another box.”

  “I can see that. Any idea who sent it?”

  “No.”

  I opened the smaller box, and inside that one was yet another box. “Sheesh, reminds me of those Russian nesting dolls.” Borrowing Katie’s knife again, I opened the third box. The outside of this box had a familiar logo on it. And inside the box, I found an Alienware laptop with practically enough memory to run the National Archives and Records Administration database. At the bottom of the receipt was typed:

  I thought you could use this. Had to leave town for a few days. Will be thinking about you. Damen.

  My phone rang.

  JT.

  “Sloan, I just received a call from Mrs. Roberts. She has her daughter’s yearbook. Would you like to call her?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He recited the number; then, after another quick thank-you on my part, he hung up. I was on my way to the Roberts house ten minutes later, after calling to make sure she’d be there. Katie rode shotgun. I didn’t have the heart to leave her at home. Not in her condition. Could I have waited until tomorrow? Probably. But I couldn’t get my hands on that book fast enough. Not with three girls dead now. Luckily, traffic was relatively light. I was on the Roberts family’s front porch in record time.

  “If this will help you catch whoever did this, before they kill someone else’s daughter, then it’s the least I can do
. Right?” the grieving mother said as she reluctantly handed over the book.

  “I promise I’ll take care of it. You’ll get it back very soon.”

  Eyes tearing, she nodded and thanked me.

  I forced myself to wait before flipping through the pages. While I drove back to Mom and Dad’s, Katie complained about men, highlighting every fault she’d found in all the male Homo sapiens she’d ever met. Of course, being her best friend, I agreed with her. Men sucked. Men were rotten. Men were downright evil. And we women were better off without them.

  The minute we got back to Mom and Dad’s, I started poring over the pages of the yearbook, looking for the kid I saw in the dark.

  I found him on page twenty-two. I called JT first. Then Chief Peyton.

  And then I called Elmer. We had some business to discuss.

  I talked to JT. He returned my call within ten minutes.

  I talked to the chief. She returned my call within twenty minutes.

  I didn’t hear back from Elmer.

  He was not going to be able to avoid me forever.

  On Sunday morning, JT and I met at the BPD’s Southwest District police station. I was driving JT’s freshly cleaned car. He had caught a ride from someone. He would take me home later, once the interview of the student I recognized, Benjamin Gardener, was over.

  Inside, we exchanged pleasantries. JT was most definitely still not himself.

  “Any news on Brittany?” I asked as we checked in at the front desk.

  “She’s stabilized.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Yeah. But she’s a long way from being okay.”

  “She’s lucky to have such a dedicated friend.”

  “Yeah, ‘friend,’” he echoed.

  Forrester intercepted us on the way back to Interview Room C.

  “We haven’t talked to him yet.” To me, he said, “Are you absolutely sure this is the one?”

  “I have an eidetic memory. I can tell you what he was wearing, what she was wearing, what they were doing, and where they were doing it.”

  Forrester’s gaze slid to JT. “Good enough. I’m going to let you two have a go at him first. Good luck.”