by Kay Hooper
“She’s a hostage?”
“She’s bait.”
She was my only child.”
“Yes. I know.”
Senator Abe LeMott looked up from the framed photograph he had been studying and directed his attention across the desk to a face that had become, these last months, almost as familiar to him as the one that had belonged to his daughter, Annie.
Special Agent Noah Bishop, Chief of the FBI’s Special Crimes Unit, possessed an unforgettable face anyway, LeMott thought. Because it was an unusually handsome face but, even more, because the pale silver-gray eyes missed nothing, and because the faint but wicked scar twisting down his left cheek was mute evidence of a violent past. Add to that a streak of pure white hair at his left temple, shocking against the jet-black all around it, and you had a man who was not likely to be overlooked, much less easily forgotten.
“You and your wife don’t have children.” LeMott set the photograph aside carefully, in its accustomed place to the right of the blotter.
“No.”
The senator summoned a smile. “And yet you do. Brothers and sisters, at least. Family. Your unit. Your team.”
Bishop nodded.
“Have you ever lost one of them?”
“No. A few close calls, but no.”
Not yet.
The unspoken hung in the air between them, and LeMott nodded somberly. “Bound to happen. The work you people do, the evil you face. Sooner or later, there’ll be a…an unbearable price demanded. There always is.”
Choosing not to respond to that, Bishop said instead, “As I told you, we lost what faint trail we had near Atlanta. Whether he’s in the city or somewhere nearby, that’s the area. But until he makes a move…”
“Until he kills again, you mean.”
“He’s gone to ground, and he isn’t likely to surface again until he feels less threatened. Less hunted. Or until his needs drive him to act despite that.”
“It’s gotten personal, hasn’t it? Between you and him. The hunter and the hunted.”
“I’m a cop. It’s my job to hunt scum like him.”
LeMott shook his head. “No, it was always more than that for you. I could see it. Hell, anybody could see it. I’m betting he knew it, knew you were hunting him and knew you’d crawled inside his head.”
“Not far enough inside his head,” Bishop said, a tinge of bitterness creeping into his voice. “He was still able to get Annie, he was still able to get at least eleven other young women, and all I know for certain is that he isn’t finished yet.”
“It’s been months. Is it likely that’s why he’s been waiting, for the heat to die down? Is that why he left Boston?”
“I believe that’s at least part of it. It wasn’t the spotlight he was after, the attention. He never wanted to engage the police, to test his skills and will against ours. That’s not the kind of killer he is, not what it’s about for him.”
“What is it about for him?”
“I wish I could answer that with any kind of certainty, but you know I can’t. That’s the hell of hunting serials: The facts come only after we’ve caught him. Until then, we have only speculation and guesswork. So all I know is bits and pieces, and precious few of those. Despite all the bodies, he hasn’t left us much to work with.”
“But you know Annie was a mistake, wasn’t she?”
Bishop hesitated, then nodded. “I think she was. He hunts a type, a physical look, and Annie fit like all the others fit. If he needed to go deeper than looks, needed to know anything else about his targets because knowing more than the surface was important to him, he would have known who she was, known the extreme risks in targeting her. The way she was living, quietly, like any other young woman in Boston, the ordinary surface appearance of her life, didn’t warn him that the response to her disappearance would be so immediate and so intense.”
“That’s why he stopped, after her?”
Bishop was only too aware that the grieving father he was talking to had spent years as a prosecutor in a major city and so knew the horrors men could do, perhaps as well as Bishop himself, but it was still difficult to forget the father and think only of the fellow professional, to discuss this calmly without emotion.
This killer isn’t the only man I’ve been profiling, Senator. I’ve been studying you as well. And I’m very much afraid that you’ll take a hand in this investigation yourself before too much longer.
A deadly hand.
“Bishop? That is why he stopped?”
“I think it was part of the reason, yes. Too many cops, too much media, too much attention. It interfered with his plans, with his ability to hunt. Put his intended prey too much on guard, made them too wary. And it became a distraction for him, one he couldn’t afford, especially not at that stage. He needed to be able to concentrate on what he was doing, because he was practicing, for want of a better word. Exploring and perfecting his ritual. That’s why—”
When the other man broke off, LeMott finished the observation stoically. “That’s why each murder was different, the weapons, the degree of brutality. He was experimenting. Trying to figure out what gave him the most…satisfaction.”
You have to hear this over and over again, don’t you? Like picking at a scab, keeping the pain alive because it’s all you’ve got left.
“Yes.”
“Has he figured it out yet?”
“You know I can’t answer that. Too little to work with.”
“I’ll settle for an educated guess. From you.”
Because you know it’s much more than an educated guess. And I know now I made a mistake in telling you what’s really special about the SCU.
Bishop also knew too well how utterly useless regrets like that one tended to be. The mistake had been made. Now he had to deal with the fallout.
He drew a breath and let it out slowly. “My guess, my belief, is that the response to Annie’s abduction and murder threw him off balance. Badly. Until then, he had been almost blindly intent on satisfying the urges driving him. To kill a dozen victims in less than a month means something triggered his rampage, something very traumatic, and whatever it was, the trigger event either destroyed the person he had been until then, or else it freed something long dormant inside him.”
“Something evil.”
“About that, I have no doubts.”
LeMott was frowning. “But even evil has a sense of self-preservation. The brightness of the unexpected spotlight following Annie’s murder woke up that part of him. Or, at least, put it in control.”
“Yes.”
“And so he retreated. Found a safe place to hide.”
“For now. To regroup, rethink. Consider his options. Perhaps even find a way to alter his developing rituals to fit this new dynamic.”
“Because now he knows he’s hunted.”
Bishop nodded.
LeMott had given himself a crash course in the psychology of serial killers, immersing himself in the art and science of profiling despite Bishop’s warnings, and his frown deepened now.
“Even if he was testing his limits or just figuring out what he needed to satisfy his cravings, to kill so many over such a short period of time and then just stop has to be unusual. How long can he possibly resist the sort of urges driving him?”
“Not long, I would have said.”
“But it’s been more than two months.”
Bishop was silent.
“Or maybe it hasn’t been,” LeMott said slowly. “Maybe he’s done a lot more than go to ground. Maybe he’s adapted to being the hunted as well as hunter and changed his M.O. already. Dropped out of sight for a while, yes, but moved and began killing elsewhere. Killing differently than before. Altered his ritual. That’s what you’re thinking?”
Shit.
Weighing his words carefully, Bishop said, “Most serial killers have been active for months, even years, by the time law enforcement recognizes them for what they are, so there’s more to work with in mapping th
e active and inactive cycles over time, the patterns and phases of behavior. We don’t have that with this bastard. Not yet. He moved too fast. Appeared, slaughtered, and then disappeared back into whatever hell he crawled out of. We had no time to really study him. The only way we even pegged him as a serial was the undeniable fact that the young women he killed could have been sisters, they looked so alike.
“That was all we had, all we still have: that he targeted women who were smaller than average, petite, almost waifish, with big eyes and short dark hair.”
“Childlike,” LeMott said, his voice holding steady.
Bishop nodded.
“I know I’ve asked you before, but—”
“Do I believe he could begin to target children? The accepted profile says he might. I say it isn’t likely. He’s killing the same woman over and over again, and that is the experience he’s re-creating every time. Whatever else changes, he needs her to remain the same.”
LeMott frowned. “But if he is changing or has already changed his ritual, if he knows he’s being hunted and is as smart as you believe him to be, he must know what commonalities the police will be looking for in any murder case. He must know his M.O. is noted and flagged in every law-enforcement database in the country. Can we afford to assume he’ll still target women who fit that victim profile?”
Bishop wasn’t particularly reassured by the senator’s calm expression and his matter-of-fact, professional tone; if anything, those were worrying signs.
Like nitroglycerin in a paper cup, looks could be terribly deceiving.
LeMott had kept a lid on his emotions for a long time now, and Bishop knew the pressure inside was going to blow that lid sky-high sooner or later.
A grieving father was bad enough. A grieving father with little left to lose was worse. And a grieving father who was also a powerful United States senator and former prosecutor with a reputation for having a tough stance on crime as well as a ruthless belief that justice be served no matter what was something way, way beyond worse.
But all Bishop said was, “He can’t change who he is no matter how hard he tries. He’ll try, of course. Try to overcome his urges and impulses, or just try to satisfy them in some way that won’t betray who he is. But he’ll give himself away somehow. They always do.”
“At least to hunters who know what to look for.”
“The problem isn’t knowing what to look for, it’s the sickening knowledge that he has to kill again to give us something to look at.”
“Always assuming he hasn’t killed again and the murder was just different enough to fly under the radar.” LeMott wasn’t about to let that idea go, it was clear.
Bishop said, “That is a possibility, of course. Maybe even a probability. So I can’t say with any certainty that he has or hasn’t killed again since he murdered your daughter.”
If he had hoped to distract LeMott, back him away, shake him somehow with those last three very deliberate words, Bishop was disappointed, because the senator didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He just responded to the information Bishop had provided earlier.
“And yet you know he headed south. That he’s somewhere near Atlanta.”
Shit.
“And you know how I can be certain of that—without any real evidence—when the federal and police task force is still combing Boston for any sign of him.”
“You are certain?”
“In my own mind, yes. He’s not in Boston anymore. He’s somewhere near Atlanta. Probably not the city itself, though it’s certainly large enough to get lost in.”
“You have someone there?”
“Senator, I’ve spent years building a network, and it’s still growing. We have people just about everywhere.”
“Human people. Fallible people.”
Bishop heard the bitterness. “Yes, I’m afraid so. We believe he’s in the area. We suspect he may have killed again. But we have no hard evidence of either belief—and the visible trail ends in Boston.”
“How can you know so much—and yet so little of value?”
Bishop was silent.
LeMott shook his head, his mouth twisting. Blinking for the first time in too long, even looking away, however briefly. “Sorry. God knows and I know you’ve poured more than your energy and time into trying to find this bastard and stop him. Just…help me to understand how it’s possible for us to do nothing except sit and wait for him to kill again.”
Once more, Bishop chose his words with care. “Officially, there isn’t much else I can do. All the hard evidence we’ve been able to find on this killer has been in Boston; all the victims we can be certain died by his hand lived and worked in Boston; all the tips and leads generated have been in Boston, and the task force is still following up on those, probably will be for months.
“My team has been ordered to remain in Boston and continue working with the task force for the duration. Unless and until we have strong evidence, solid evidence, that he’s surfaced elsewhere, Boston is where we stay.”
“I’d call that a waste of Bureau resources.”
“Officially, it’s being called the opposite. The city is still on edge, the national media is still there in force, and all the media—from TV and newspaper editorials to Internet blogs—call daily for more to be done to catch this killer before he targets another young woman. And the fact that his most recent victim was the daughter of a U.S. senator is virtually guaranteed to keep that spotlight very bright and that fire burning hot. For a very long time.”
“Jobs are at stake.”
“Yes.”
“There’s a new Director,” LeMott said.
“Yes.” Bishop’s wide shoulders rose and fell in a faint shrug. “Politics. He’s been brought in to fix what’s wrong with the Bureau, to improve the very negative image a string of disastrous circumstances has left in the public’s mind. Removing top agents from an investigation the entire country is watching wouldn’t, from his point of view, be the best of moves.”
“I could—”
“I’d rather you didn’t. We may well need your influence at some point, but using it now isn’t likely to help us—or the investigation.”
LeMott nodded slowly. “I have to defer to your judgment on that.”
Whether you want to or not. “Thank you.”
“But why would the Director object to exchanging some of your people for more-conventional agents?”
“He doesn’t really see the difference.”
“Ah. The crux of the matter. He doesn’t believe in psychic abilities.”
“No. He doesn’t.” With another faint shrug, Bishop added, “We’ve weathered a changing of the guard before. We will again; our success record is too good to easily dismiss, no matter what the Director may or may not think about our methods. But in the interim…”
“You have to follow orders.”
“If I want the SCU to continue, yes, I do. For now. At least officially.”
“And unofficially?”
Reluctant for too many reasons to list, Bishop said, “Unofficially, there’s Haven.”
2
THE BOX CUTTER’S blade was new and sharp, so he used it with care as he cut around the part of the photo’s image containing the girl.
She was pretty.
She was always pretty.
He enjoyed her curves. It was one reason he took such care in cutting the images out of the photographs and newspapers, because his knife could slowly—so slowly—caress the curves.
He was careful even with her face, though the curves of nose and chin and jaw barely caused a ripple inside him.
But her throat. The very slight, gentle curves of her breasts, just that faint hint of womanliness. The delicate flare of hips. Those his knife lingered on.
Sometimes he scanned the pictures into his computer and manipulated the images to suit a variety of fantasies. He could replace clothed flesh with naked, change all the different hairstyles to the short, dark, nearly boyish look she almost
always wore. He could pose her any way he liked, do wild things with color and texture. He had even found autopsy photos and superimposed her head onto those bodies that were laid out, their exposed organs gleaming in the cold, clinical light.
But that sort of thing, he had discovered, gave him little satisfaction. It was too…remote.
Maybe that was it. Or maybe it was something else.
All he knew was that the computer, while useful as a research tool, had proved worse than useless in satisfying his urges.
But the photos…
He finished the last cut on this particular photo and carefully lifted her out. A candid shot, it showed her coming out of a pharmacy, juggling bags, her face preoccupied.
Though it was October, the day was warm enough that she was wearing short sleeves and a light summer skirt, with sandals.
He thought her toenails were painted. Deep red, or perhaps bright pink. He was almost sure of it, though the picture didn’t confirm that pleasant suspicion.
He held the cutout in his cupped hands for a moment, just enjoying it. His thumb rubbed the glossy paper gently, tracing the flare of her skirt, the bare thighs below.
He studied every detail, memorizing.
He closed his eyes.
And in his mind he touched her.
Soft skin. Warm. Almost humming with life.
The blade cold in his other hand.
His lips parted, breath coming faster.
Soft skin. Warm. A jerk now. The hum becoming a primal sound of terror and pain that sent fire licking through his body.
Soft skin. Wet. Slick.
Red.
He smeared the red over her jerking breast. Watched it glisten in the light as she moved. Listened to the un…un…un… grunts that were primitive sounds of agony. They thrummed in his ears like wings, like a heartbeat, like his own quickening pulse.
The fire in his body burned hotter and hotter, his breath came faster, the blade in his hand penetrating in forceful thrusts, again and again and again—
He barely heard his own hoarse cry of release above the wordless, keening sounds she made dying.
