In the end, however, Joshua claimed one last victim before the FBI could stop him.
Caitlyn had always known about Joshua’s sickness—the schizophrenia and borderline personality disorder he had been diagnosed with, the antipsychotic medications he took—but never had she imagined him a killer. At twenty-eight, still dabbling in graduate school but in and out of psychiatric treatment centers, Joshua would seem normal for weeks at a stretch, then suddenly turn secretive and morose. Often during those times, Caitlyn, his older sibling by three years, was the only person he would talk to.
Joshua’s psychiatry records were confidential and her parents rarely spoke of his condition, instead shielding him from the public eye as much as possible. When the FBI had first taken interest in Joshua due to his connection to the murdered women, Senator Cahill had done everything he could—calling in favors all over the District to get the investigation directed elsewhere. And Caitlyn had been instructed to speak to no one.
What her father had done was wrong, she conceded. But it was out of love and a staunch denial that Joshua could be capable of something so heinous. Even though they weren’t his biological children, Braden had been devoted to his adopted son and daughter. Defending them to a fault. In the end, Caitlyn had managed what he could not—she’d turned Joshua in to the FBI. But she had been too late to halt the death of another woman and equally powerless to stop her family’s very public unraveling.
Her father had died, disgraced by Joshua’s crimes and hating her for what she had done.
Stop this, she thought, sitting with her feet tucked under her on the camelback sofa. Stop dwelling on the past and things out of your control. Caitlyn continued to stare at the television screen, the sound turned too low to hear. She tried to take the worrisome feelings off her chest—and her mind off Reid Novak—but without much success.
Reid had been professional, aloof at Joshua’s trial—a change from the man who had come to her and appealed for her help in capturing a killer. From the man who had comforted her. Then he had simply disappeared, all connection broken between them. What had she expected?
And now there was the possibility of a copycat killer on the loose. Outside, Caitlyn heard a dog barking somewhere in the distance. The room’s picture window was a large black square, the rural darkness outside opaque and all consuming. Maybe she should have taken Sophie and Rob up on their offer. Finishing the wine, she sat the balloon goblet on the end table and stood, letting the soft cashmere throw she had wrapped around her shoulders slip to the couch. Caitlyn closed the curtains, then went to the front door to double-check the lock and make sure the security system was activated. But as she stood in the foyer, her eyes fell on the small, white rectangle that lay on the hardwood floor. Had she walked over it earlier without noticing? She bent and picked up the business card.
Harold Feingold, True-Crime Author.
The card included his contact information. A handwritten note on its back said simply, we need to talk. She felt a spiraling sense of anxiety. He had been here today at some point, still trying to get an interview for his tell-all book despite her adamant refusal. Apparently, he’d shoved his card under the front door when no one answered his knock. Caitlyn had the distinct impression he wouldn’t give up.
Especially not if Reid was on target and there was someone out there looking to repeat her brother’s crimes.
“So let me get this straight. You went all the way out to see Cahill’s sister, just because of the damn charm?” Mitch drained his whiskey and signaled the bartender to pour him another.
“I had a hunch.”
Mitch let out a sardonic laugh. “Makes sense. Cahill likes horses. The vic likes horses. They have to know each other, right?”
Reid took a sip from his beer bottle. He’d met Mitch at the Lucky Irishman, a pub near the VCU offices in Judiciary Square that was a popular hangout for law enforcement. The place was dark, noisy and tonight filled to overflowing.
“What if I told you a horse on her property was mutilated?”
The information gave Mitch pause. He took a sip from his newly filled glass, then shrugged. “I doubt it’s related. There are freaks running around everywhere these days. The District doesn’t have a monopoly on them. Did she call the local police?”
“They think it was a bunch of teenagers turned Satan worshippers.”
“They might be right.”
“Still, I’d like to run a criminal history check on her employees, both for the farm and stables. I can get the names and socials from her.”
Mitch shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got three weeks left on your leave, remember? Why don’t you take a vacation? If I were you, I’d be soaking up the sun on a beach somewhere, preferably one of those nude ones in Miami.”
“Just run the CHC for me.”
“Whatever you want, partner.” Mitch gave the once-over to an attractive redhead who had seated herself at the opposite end of the bar. Then he offered, “But if you ask me, I think you’re just looking for an excuse to sniff around Caitlyn Cahill.”
Reid didn’t respond, instead nursed his beer. He had taken the opportunity to drive all the way out to the Rambling Rose stables, instead of just contacting her by phone. He’d wanted to see her, he admitted to himself.
“I’m assuming as long as you went out there, you showed her the vic’s photo?”
Reid nodded. “She didn’t recognize her.”
“I’m shocked.”
“Any word from Tiffany’s?”
“The charm was discontinued two years ago. We should have a registry list, including purchases made in the D.C. area, by tomorrow,” Mitch said. “The horseshoe is platinum and the diamond is a quarter-carat, VS1 quality, which, judging by the way the guy said it, is a big freaking deal.”
Reid considered that the pricey jewelry also made it likely the victim was in a similar socioeconomic status as Joshua Cahill’s preferred targets. “Do we know how many were sold?”
“Less than a thousand nationally—no idea how many locally at this point. Hey, another round,” Mitch called to the bartender as he passed by. “And white wine for the redhead at the end of the bar.” He glanced at Reid. “You want another brewski?”
“No, thanks.” He held up his bottle, indicating it was still half-full.
“Lightweight.”
Reid had never been much of a drinker—and certainly not able to keep up with Mitch, who still went at it like a frat boy. They’d been partnered since shortly after Reid joined the FBI following graduate school at the age of twenty-five. Nine years later, he acknowledged that Mitch hadn’t changed much…except for the fact that he’d packed on twenty pounds, gotten more cynical and gone through a recent, ugly divorce—his second. The woman accepted the wine the bartender took over to her. Flipping her hair over one shoulder, she smiled coolly at Mitch, who gave her a little salute with his whiskey glass.
“Probably a real ice queen, but worth a shot, right?” His mouth quirked up. “Speaking of ice queen, how is Ms. Cahill?”
“She’s fine…considering,” Reid answered, ignoring his barb. “She’s running an equine therapy program for disabled and disadvantaged kids.”
“Big farm?”
“About ninety acres, I think. It looks like an English countryside out there.”
Mitch grunted. “Money will buy that.”
Reid knew Mitch had his own share of money troubles related to his latest divorce. “How are things going with the house? Are you going to be able to keep it?”
“Probably, if I can refinance.” Mitch scowled in thought. “Eileen would like to see me lose it. It’s about the only thing she didn’t get handed to her in the settlement.”
After another twenty minutes, Reid left Mitch to pursue the redhead, who had accepted a second drink and gotten a little friendlier. Shouldering his way toward the front of the bar through the packed crowd, he tried to disregard the faint throb that had started in his temples a few minutes earlier. It’s
only a headache. Anyone could get one in a packed bar buzzing with loud music and too much conversation.
It was nothing to worry about.
Reaching the exit, he welcomed the rush of cool night air onto his face and headed left toward the side street where he had parked his SUV. But as he clicked the key fob to open the door, the pain inside his skull suddenly became sharper and more insistent. Reid closed his eyes and raised the fingers of his right hand to his forehead, leaning against the vehicle to steady himself.
A minute later, the dizzying pain subsided. He felt a momentary anxiety that the tumor was back—that it had somehow regrown or the surgery had failed to remove all of it.
He shrugged off the irrational thoughts. His last MRI was one hundred percent clean.
Reid opened the door to the SUV and slid onto its leather seat. He felt fine now. The headache had come and gone like a summer storm. Still, he sat inside the vehicle for several more moments, staring out through the windshield and contemplating his lengthy recuperation. Although the tumor hadn’t been malignant, its location had been in a vital region, making its removal necessary. The surgery had been complex and invasive, and it had taken months to get his life back. He’d been weak, fragile, two things he had no intention of ever being again.
The crime scene photo—the one he’d shown to Caitlyn—lay on the passenger seat. Seeking a new direction for his thoughts, Reid allowed his gaze to settle on it. The victim in the row-house basement eerily mirrored the dead women Cahill had left behind. Frowning, he picked up the photo and studied it more closely. For him, the chess pawn removed any possibility of coincidence.
He wondered how long it would be before a second body turned up.
5
The snapshots were stored in a cardboard box, in back of the closet shelf almost out of reach. He had placed them there after the funeral, unable to bear seeing her beautiful face in the photos that marked the ridiculously short time they’d had together. Someday, he would give the photos to his daughters, who had been too young to remember much about her. But he needed no reminders.
Her image was burned into his mind.
Sometimes, he imagined seeing her—in the throngs of shoppers at the Georgetown mall during the holidays, or among the businesspeople headed to work on a busy Tuesday morning. His heart would lift until reality grabbed him by the collar.
She’s gone. Let her go.
Once, he had followed a woman for five city blocks, mesmerized by the sway of her blond hair in the morning sunlight. She had worn a navy peacoat that looked achingly familiar. Winded, he had caught up with her, his throat tight and his heart beating in hopeful anticipation. He’d reached for her, whirling her around to face him. But the eyes, nose, the tilt of the chin were all wrong. Not even close to her beauty.
Startled, the woman had backed away as he offered a broken apology, his face red and eyes tearing with another foolish disappointment.
He knew better—knew that sick son of a bitch had killed her—and yet he continued searching. His children were being raised mostly by nannies now, and his in-laws were seeking custody. Of their children. They were the only things he had left of her. His hand closed more tightly around the perspiring tumbler he held, half-full of gin and tonic, mostly gin.
She had suffered a brutal death. Afraid. Cold. He realized some time ago that he’d died right along with her in that dilapidated building. The bastard had destroyed them both. Sometimes he believed his pain and anger were the only things tethering him to this world.
Leaving the tumbler on the dresser, he reached onto the shelf, his hands touching the solid presence that represented what his life used to be. For a moment he considered a walk through memory lane, but he didn’t take the box down. He didn’t want to open it. Not yet. The cardboard felt like a coffin to him. The flat, static photos of her were dead. He wanted warm skin against his body, the feel of silken hair slipping through his fingers. When he closed his eyes he could almost hear the husky sound of her laugh. What he wanted was answers.
He wanted to keep looking for her.
6
Caitlyn drove on the two-lane rural highway toward her home. The night out with Sophie and Rob had been relaxing, although she’d stayed longer than intended. After dinner at a local bistro, they had gone to an outdoor symphony concert that was part of the Middleburg Fall Arts Festival. The digital clock on the BMW’s dashboard indicated it was already after 9:00 p.m. Overhead, an obsidian blackness had set in that not even the occasional streetlight could penetrate. Growing up in the District, Caitlyn hadn’t realized how dark nighttime could be without the endless cityscape surrounding her.
At the stacked-stone and wood sign announcing the Rambling Rose stables, she took a left onto the long, private road that led to her house. The car’s headlights illuminated tall oaks and maples, their branches moving in the breeze that had picked up. Fall leaves rustled in the air and crunched under her tires.
Something on the road suddenly darted in front of her, two large shapes in the darkness. Caitlyn gasped and slammed on her brakes. The tires slipped on the canvas of leaves, causing the car to fishtail slightly before coming to a screeching stop. Two white-tailed deer froze in her beams before leaping gracefully back into the woods.
Breathe, Caitlyn, she chided herself as the deer vanished. She accelerated and continued along the drive, albeit more slowly. But the ease she’d felt during the evening ebbed away. If she had lost control of the car, skidded into the forest and crashed into a tree, would anyone even notice she was missing?
She had come to the countryside seeking privacy and refuge from her family’s very public drama, but there were times the isolation out here was unnerving.
I’m still a young woman, thirty-three, and living alone in an old farmhouse like a spinster. Instead of cats, I have horses, Caitlyn thought glumly. At the concert, as she sat on the wool blanket Sophie had brought and sipped Chardonnay, a man had come by and asked her to dance. He had been good-looking enough, she supposed, but Caitlyn politely refused. Later, Sophie had scolded her and Rob insisted she dance with him, if only to bring her out of her shell. She’d let him lead her into the swaying crowd as Sophie watched. She’d felt out of place, like a third wheel.
Would she always punish herself for Joshua’s crimes, closing herself off from others and retreating from any opportunity to have a normal life? Lost in thought, Caitlyn gripped the steering wheel harder as she exited the wood-lined drive and the farmhouse came into view.
The main floor of the house, with its wide, wraparound porch and black-painted shutters, was dark. But on the second floor, a pale light emanated from her bedroom. Caitlyn slowed the car. She had turned the light off after getting ready to go out that evening. She was certain of it.
The fine hairs on the nape of her neck rose as a shadow passed behind the room’s closed curtains.
For several seconds, she stared up at the window, unsure of what she had just seen. The deer had already spooked her—was it only her overactive imagination? Still, the image of Aggie’s bloated corpse filled her mind.
Ed Malcolm thinks it was a cult….
Caitlyn turned off her headlights and backed the car slowly away from the house, until it was hidden in the dense shadow of trees.
She made an instinctive decision. Her fingers clumsy with nerves, she opened her purse, searching for her cell phone and the piece of paper on which Reid Novak had written his number.
“Are you all right?”
Reid looked at his sister, Megan, who sat across from him at the kitchen table in her home in the D.C. suburb of Silver Spring. Two years his junior, her dark hair and slate-gray eyes mirrored his own.
“I can always tell when you have something on your mind,” she added, tapping a spot on her forehead. “You get this line right…here.”
“I’m fine. Just a little preoccupied,” he admitted. “There’s a case—”
“Honestly, Reid. You’re not even back to work yet. Are you?”
He stared at the remnants of the apple cobbler on the plate in front of him, then took a sip from the coffee mug he held cradled between his palms. Over the past six months, he and his sister had grown even closer as she helped him to recover from his surgery. For the first twelve weeks, he hadn’t even been allowed to drive. Reid didn’t know what he would have done without her.
“Oh, God. You are back to work—”
“I’ve been called in as a consult, that’s all,” he said, downplaying things with a small shrug. “The crime scene had similarities to an investigation I handled a couple of years ago.”
“It’s too soon.”
“It’s not. I’d be going back in another few weeks officially, anyway.”
“Couldn’t stay away any longer, could you?” Reid’s brother-in-law, Cooper, quipped as he passed through the kitchen, grabbing a bag of potato chips on his way to the den. He grinned at his wife. “Meg, you owe me fifty bucks.”
“Shut up, Cooper.”
Reid raised his eyebrows. “You had a bet on me?”
“He was sure you wouldn’t make it all the way through your leave. Cooper’s been saying as soon as you got half a chance, you’d be back on the job.” Megan gave him a pointed stare. “I guess he was right.”
“Cooper just thinks everyone loves their job as much as he does.”
“It’s football. What’s not to love?” he called from the comfort of his leather recliner in the den. A former player at the University of Virginia, Cooper now headed up the football program for one of the suburb’s largest high schools. “Hey, are we going to watch the game or not? Halftime’s almost over.”
“Let me know when it’s back on—”
“Reid,” Megan said quietly as he stood from the table to take his plate and mug to the sink. “You are okay, right?”
Midnight Fear Page 4
