by Karen Rose
Mike sighed heavily. “I don’t know, Steven,” he murmured. “But I do know that in spite of all you’ve done to protect your family, it hasn’t made any of you any happier.”
There was nothing to say to dispute that so Steven said nothing and Mike removed his steadying hand and leaned back in the pew.
“I take it I’m still the only one who knows,” Mike said after another minute of quiet.
Steven opened his eyes, then narrowed them. “You are.” “Hmm. So I’m the only person you could come to when you finally realized you’ve painted yourself in a corner with this ridiculous ban you’ve put on marriage.”
“It’s not ridic—”
“Hush, Steven. Save it for yourself because I’m not buying. So tell me about this Jenna.”
“There is nothing to tell,” Steven insisted through clenched teeth.
“I sincerely doubt that. What’s her last name?”
Steven twisted in the pew so he faced forward, his arms pulled tightly across his body. “Marshall,” he answered.
“And what does she do?”
“She’s a teacher.” He threw a sour look over his shoulder. “She’s Brad’s teacher.”
“Oh. Well, now the picture’s a bit clearer. I bet she’s kind.”
“Yes.”
“Pretty?”
Steven drew a breath, irritated. “Yes.” Let it out. “She’s kind and pretty.” Anger started to simmer deep inside him. “You want to know the truth, Father Leone? You want to know it all? Every last dark thought in my soul? Okay, fine. I want her. I haven’t had sex in four years and I want her.” He exhaled, the burst of temper leaving him drained. “But
I can’t have her.”
“Because you choose not to marry her.”
Steven stiffened at the disapproval in Mike’s voice. “That is correct, Father.”
“You’re a fool, Steven Thatcher.”
“Why, because I believe in sex within the sanctity of marriage? I thought that would earn me some brownie points,” Steven said bitterly.
“It earns you a hair shirt and a flogging strap,” Mike snapped back. “If you want to be a martyr, do it in somebody else’s church, because I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
Steven turned back in the pew to find Mike red-faced and visibly trembling. “What does that mean exactly, Father Leone?” he asked coldly.
Mike’s chin came up, challenge in his dark eyes. “It means that you have set up a situation that’s a no-win for everyone.”
“So what do you recommend, Father?”
“If you ask me as Father Leone, I’m not going to recommend anything,” Mike said sharply.
Mike was hurt, Steven realized with a shock. He’d always thought Mike impervious to insult, but that was obviously not the case. This man was his best friend. He’d been best man at his wedding, had christened both Matt and Nicky. Softening, he met Mike’s flashing eyes and asked, “So what do you recommend, my friend?”
Mike stilled. “Don’t swear you’ll never marry again, Steven. It’s not right for you to be alone. You need help with the boys, someone to support you when life doesn’t work out the way you plan.”
Steven thought about the support he’d felt just talking to Jenna Marshall. He could easily see her in that role—helping with the boys, supporting him. But still . . . “I don’t want her around the boys,” he insisted. “They’ll get attached to her, and if it doesn’t work out . . .”
Mike nodded thoughtfully. “I can see where that is a legitimate concern. So spend time with her away from the boys. Take her to dinner.” He lifted a brow. “Take her to church.”
Steven smiled. “Yes, Father.”
“But also realize you are putting this woman under an enormous level of scrutiny. That’s not fair to her. At some point you will know enough. You need to know in advance what that point is.”
Steven was considering that advice when the clock in the old tower chimed. One in the morning. Where had the time gone? He stood up. “I have to get up in a few hours for a meeting at the office.” He stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Mike.”
Mike looked at his hand a moment, then stood and embraced him over the pew. “I’ve missed you, Steven. Please don’t make me wait so long before I see you again.”
“You can come see me. They don’t lock you up in here, do they?” Steven asked, going for a jaunty grin that felt forced.
“Only on Thursdays.” Mike patted his stomach under the black robes. “And that’s only because Sal’s Pizza has an all-you-can-eat special that night.” He walked with Steven toward the doors. “What case are you working now that has you meeting so early on a Saturday?”
Steven sighed. “You’ve heard about the two girls missing from their beds?”
Mike’s face tightened. “I have. Their families are part of this parish.”
Steven stopped. “You’re kidding.”
Mike shook his head and looked back toward the altar.
“That’s why I was here so late tonight. Samantha Eggleston’s parents were here most of last night praying for her return. I thought they might come back tonight.”
“Can you think of anything the two girls had in common?”
Mike frowned. “I’ve thought of nothing else since the Egglestons called me yesterday morning. Only that they were both cheerleaders. Both were shy, which surprised me. I always thought cheerleaders were outgoing and confident, but neither of these two were. They went to different schools, really didn’t hang out with each other while they were here. I can have their youth pastor call you tomorrow, if you like.”
Steven’s mind was racing again. “Please. Thanks, Mike.” He started off toward the door, but Mike caught his sleeve.
“I want to help those families any way I can, Steven, but it’s hard to hold out hope. Do you think there’s a chance we’ll get Sammie back? Alive?”
Steven hesitated. “Between you and me, no. But please don’t tell her parents that.”
“You have my word.”
Steven pushed the door open and felt the cold night air on his face again. “Thanks, Mike.” He walked out of the church with more to think about than when he’d gone in. But there was a peace as well, one he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
He’d focus on Samantha Eggleston and Brad for now, but the idea of exploring a relationship with Jenna Marshall little by little held incredible appeal. Soon, he promised himself. He’d call her up and ask her out to dinner sometime soon.
EIGHT
Saturday, October 1, 7:45 A.M.
STEVEN STOOD AT THE COFFEEPOT IN THE CORNER of the SBI conference room, his arms crossed, his fingers drumming his upper arm impatiently. The coffee dripped in slow motion, just to annoy him. If he pulled the carafe away now he’d have a mess and he still wouldn’t have a full cup of coffee.
Which, when he got it, would be his fourth. Helen, bless her heart, had set up the machine in their kitchen to start brewing at six in the morning. She knew his habits well, knew he’d be calling an early-morning status meeting. So the pot at home had taken care of his first three cups.
Hopefully the fourth would actually wake him up. He dragged his palms down his cheeks, wincing when he touched the razor nick on his jaw. His hands had been unsteady this morning. It was a small wonder he hadn’t cut his face to ribbons. He hadn’t slept all night, worries about Brad in the front of his mind periodically interrupted by thoughts of Brad’s teacher that lurked in the back. He wished he could say another night of worrying had miraculously solved the mystery of his son’s problem but that was no more true than his hope that the morning light would dispel Jenna Marshall’s soft voice that still echoed in his mind. Have courage, Steven. If only it were that easy.
“An IV would be faster.”
Steven looked over his shoulder to find Lennie Farrell leaning against the wall behind him, his tie perfectly knotted, not a wrinkle in sight. Special Agent in Charge Lennie Farrell was a Joe Friday cop if there ever was one. His cardboard
walk was mimicked by the department, although never with malice. Lennie was a good man. He even laughed when they called him “Joe.” As much as Lennie laughed, anyway.
“And probably less painful,” Steven responded, looking back at the coffeepot that hadn’t speeded its drip one single iota. “When I finally get my cup, it’s going to scald on its way down.”
“You could wait for it to cool,” Lennie said, his tone wry. “But that would require patience.”
Steven glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “I am patient.”
Lennie pushed away from the wall and walked over to the bulletin board Steven had set up the night before. Photos of both young girls were hung with thumbtacks, smiling year-book photos provided by their terrified parents. Lennie bent down to look at the photo of the mutilated body of Lorraine Rush, the first victim, then straightened as he drew a deep breath. “Steven, if you are patient, I’m a stand-up comic.”
“Your point. This time.” Steven grabbed a chair and swung it around so he could straddle it. “What are you doing here this morning? I’d planned to call you with an update at the ninth hole.”
Lennie sat down at the table. Heavily. “I got a call from the governor last night.”
Steven sighed. In a case with the potential to become such a high profile, it was only a matter of time. “We knew it was coming. Well?”
“He’s concerned, of course, and wanted to know what we had. I told him I’d call him after this morning’s briefing.”
“At least we don’t have help from the Feds or the press yet.”
Lennie lifted a brow. “Let’s try to keep it that way.”
“I talked to Kent Thompson last night.” Steven pulled a folder from his briefcase, conscious of Lennie watching his every move. Steven knew why and it pissed him off. Lennie was looking for signs of strain. Of stress. Of anything that might suggest Steven was ready to blow a gasket because this was his first abduction case since Nicky. He’d felt like a fish in a damn bowl for six months now and Lennie’s watchful stare wasn’t helping matters. He drew a deep breath. “You know Kent, don’t you?”
Lennie nodded. “New guy. Works in Diane’s department.” “Yeah. Seems like he knows his stuff. Anyway, he was here until midnight last night, doing some lab tests on the material we found in the hypo at the clearing. Said he needed to let the samples sit overnight before running the chromatography test. He should be here any minute.”
“I wish Diane were here,” Lennie mused. “This is a big case for a rookie. Maybe I should call in someone from the Charlotte office until Diane gets back from her cruise.”
Steven shook his head. “Give the guy a chance, Lennie. Let’s see what he’s come up with. Coffee’s done, finally. Do you want some?”
“Not till Nancy comes. Don’t forget I’ve tasted your coffee.”
Steven grimaced. “So have I. Caffeine addictions can be a real bitch.”
One corner of Lennie’s mouth lifted. “So what time is this meeting scheduled to start, Steven?”
Steven glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes. Everybody will be here.”
Within ten minutes the conference room was filled with the team Steven had assembled Thursday morning, a few hours after receiving word of Samantha Eggleston’s disappearance. Kent Thompson brought up the rear, carrying an overstuffed folder and looking like he’d slept in his suit. Steven could see Lennie giving him a look that clearly wondered if he’d made a mistake in not calling for Charlotte reinforcements sooner.
“Sorry,” Kent mumbled and took the last empty chair. Nancy put a cup of coffee in front of the young man who stared at it warily. “Did Steven make this?” Kent asked and Steven rolled his eyes at the chuckles that rippled through the room.
“You’re safe, honey,” Nancy said and patted Kent’s shoulder in her motherly way. “I dumped Steven’s pot and made a new one.”
“And I called the plumber to repair the corrosion to the pipes,” Harry chimed in with a grin.
“Yeah, yeah,” Steven muttered. “Are we ready to begin?” Steven asked loudly and the side conversations abruptly ceased. “Thanks.” He looked around the table at the team he’d assembled. Seven men and women, including himself. Solid agents, all of them. Kent Thompson was their forensic scientist, Harry Grimes and Sandra Kates his fellow investigating agents, Meg Donnelly would profile the killer they sought, and Nancy Patterson would provide the database support. He’d added Liz Johnson, the assistant DA, to ensure any move they made would stand up in court.
He knew they’d need every drop of talent the group offered to stop this killer before Samantha Eggleston’s battered body ended up in a clearing like Lorraine’s. “I want to start with results from Forensics, then review the database search of like perps.” He raised his eyes across the room to Meg, the staff psychologist. “And then, Meg, I’d like you to give your take on who we’re looking for.” Steven turned to Kent, hoping that he had something decent to say or Lennie would have a more experienced replacement up from Charlotte before lunchtime. “Showtime, Thompson. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Kent opened his file folder, exposing a two-inch stack of papers. “I have a number of items to cover this morning. Please stop me if I talk too fast.” He gave a funny little smile. “I’m a little nervous, but I’m sure I’ll get over it.” Everyone smiled back in encouragement, including Lennie.
“Let’s begin with the underwear Bud Clary found under the tree in the clearing yesterday morning,” Kent said and pulled out a photograph showing two magnified hairs. “They were the same size and brand worn by Samantha and I found these two pubic hairs stuck in the cotton fibers. We can compare the DNA to hairs from her brush and epithelial cells from her toothbrush.”
“So we at least can put her underwear at the scene,” Sandra Kates commented. She was a seasoned agent with a niche expertise in sexual deviants. Steven didn’t envy her dreams. His own were bad enough.
Kent nodded. “Exactly. I searched the flattened grassy area for hair from Samantha’s head, but found none which I thought a bit odd.”
“Why?” Lennie asked, leaning forward slightly in his chair.
“Because Samantha has very long curly hair.” Kent pulled another photograph from his stack, one magnified with a microscope. “Here’s a blade of grass from the clearing at fifty-ex. See the way the little thorny structures protrude all up and down the blade? It makes the grass like Velcro.”
“Which should have pulled at least one or two hairs if she’d been laid on the grass,” Steven finished and Kent nodded again.
“Exactly right, especially with how dry the grass is right now.”
Steven glanced over at Meg. “He shaved her head? Just like Lorraine Rush.”
Meg shrugged. “That would be my guess.”
Steven looked back at Kent. “What about the dark hair you found?”
“The hair was clipped at the edge, almost like it had been shaved with a razor or some other kind of blade. It’s not Samantha’s, I can tell you that. As for DNA, there was no follicle, like I told you yesterday, so I’ll need to use mitochondrial cells for the DNA print instead of cells from the nucleus. It doesn’t provide the full range of gene mapping as it only holds genetic material from the mother.”
Steven turned to Assistant DA Liz Johnson. “Admissible?” Liz nodded. “Yes, I’ve used it before. Not often, but enough.”
“What else do you have?” Lennie asked brusquely and Steven knew he was impressed.
Kent’s expression hardened. “The hypo had traces of ketamine.”
Steven’s shoulders slumped as murmurs ran round the table. “Shit. Are you sure?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I ran the GC three times, which is why I was late this morning. All the peaks match up.”
Steven looked to Harry. “Did Latent find anything on the hypo itself?”
Harry shook his head. “Not a print. Bastard wore gloves.” Nancy raised her hand. “I’m out of the loop here. What’s ketamine?”
“Close relative of PCP,” Sandra answered grimly. “Widely used as an anesthetic, especially with vets. Veterinarians,” she specified. “Available from most veterinary supply catalogs.”
Meg pushed away from the table and walked to the window. “Legally used, it’s an effective replacement for general anesthesia, especially outside of hospital environments.”
“Doctors on charity missions to Africa will use it when they’re operating out in the field,” Kent offered. “It completely immobilizes the patient.”
Meg nodded. “That’s right. And when used correctly it’s quite safe.”
“But?” Nancy asked.
“But it’s one of the fastest-growing illicit drugs out there today,” Steven said grimly. “If you take enough you enter what users call the ‘k-zone.’ Users have out-of-body experiences. Some even say they witness their own death.”
“Our perp uses ketamine to immobilize these girls,” Nancy murmured. “Like a date-rape drug.”
“Something like that,” Meg replied. “But unlike rhohypnol where the victim doesn’t remember anything, ketamine users have a detached awareness of their surroundings.” She turned to the group. “But the worst part is what they call the reemergence dreams. They can be simply horrific.”
Steven rubbed the back of his stiffening neck. “Wonderful. Was there anything else, Kent?”
“The dog’s teeth were clean. If Pal bit our perp, he didn’t bite deep enough to take any flesh. His stab wounds were deep and wide. I took some digital photos before the vet sewed him up.”
