Midnight Fear

by Leslie Tentler

  Reid turned upon hearing Mitch’s low drawl. He’d entered the parking deck from the stairwell, where he was conversing with two policemen assigned to keep out civilians. He gave Reid a wave, motioning him over.

  “She got a call, supposedly from a Nurse Hillary at the Vinings adult care facility where Caroline Cahill resides,” Mitch said once Reid reached him. He dismissed the cops to go about their duties.

  “You’ve talked to Caitlyn?”

  “Yeah. She’s pretty shaken up, understandably.” Mitch scratched the side of his face. “The E.R. doc admitted her around five this morning. She’s got a concussion and a messed up hand. They’re still waiting on X-rays. She’s a little dopey from the pain meds, but she did say the nurse told her that her mother had been hurt and was taken here for treatment. She drove back to D.C. in the middle of the night.”

  Reid frowned. “How’s her mother?”

  “That’s the hell of it. I just called the Vinings facility—Caroline Cahill is fine. There was no accident involving her mother. Not to mention, there’s no one on staff named Hillary.”

  Anger welled inside Reid. “She was lured here?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “You should’ve called me sooner.”

  “I called you less than an hour after I found out. You’re not officially on the case yet anyway,” Mitch reminded.

  It occurred to Reid that Caitlyn hadn’t tried to get in touch with him. He wished she had. He could have been with her in the E.R. “Who contacted the police?”

  “An elderly couple. They must’ve spooked the perp when they got off the elevator.”

  “Can they give a description?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The assailant had already gotten into his vehicle by the time they noticed Ms. Cahill on the ground. He took off like a bat out of hell in a nondescript white van with dark windows parked right about there.” Mitch pointed out a nearby space. “No lettering or signage on the vehicle. They didn’t get even a partial number off the plate. If you want to talk to them, they’re still in the E.R. waiting room. I had to get them to some chairs.”

  Reid looked at the metal elevator doors, about twenty yards away. Unlike the other fluorescent lights in the shadowy garage, the one that lit the elevator bay appeared to be out of operation.

  “He took out the lights,” he noted. “What about security cameras?”

  “I’m going downstairs to look at the tape now. Want to come?”

  What he wanted was to see Caitlyn. But instead, Reid gave a small nod.

  The poor lighting made the digital recording dark and grainy, but what Reid could see sickened him. He sat forward in his chair, watching as the slender form he knew to be Caitlyn was attacked. The man was large, but other than that he appeared as only a darkened mass coming at her out of the shadows. He wore a black bomber-style jacket and black pants, and a ski mask concealed his face.

  Reid’s gut wrenched. Even after Caitlyn was dragged out of camera range, he could still hear her cries. When the tape showed the elderly couple emerging from the elevator, he got up and paced the small room.

  “Do you want me to back it up?” A member of the hospital security staff held the remote. He looked at the two agents expectantly.

  “Yeah,” Mitch said, studying the freeze-frame of the screen. “And we’re going to need you to make us a copy.”

  Reid looked away as the scene restarted. Despite his training telling him that he needed to view and review the footage, he didn’t think he could take it again. Besides, the video appeared to be useless. Other than the size of the attacker, not much else was discernible. Not even his race. Reid doubted the lab techs would be able to increase the video resolution enough to make any real difference.

  “How often do you patrol the parking garage?” Reid asked the hospital guard.

  “We have a golf cart that goes through on the half hour.”

  “Which means the guy either planned well or got lucky,” Mitch commented. “Do you have a camera on the garage exit?”

  Reid knew what he was thinking—that maybe they’d be able to get a license plate off the van. He waited tensely as the guard fiddled with the remote again, shuffling through digital images of the garage until he got to the ones on the main floor. He rewound until the white van approached the steel arm of the automated attendant’s booth. Reid’s stomach sank as the van’s rear came into view. The license plate had been removed.

  The door to the private hospital room was half-closed. Reid knocked tentatively and went inside. Caitlyn appeared pale against the blue hospital linens, her blond hair spread across her pillow. Already he could see the shadowed bruise on her temple where the man had struck her.

  Although she didn’t speak, her reddened eyes met his as he came closer. Her left hand was pillowed in an inflatable cast, and the normally slender fingers that peeked out of it appeared puffy and bluish.

  “Is it broken?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Severe bruise.” Her lips were dry, and Reid could see the dilation in her pupils that nearly overtook the vivid green of her irises. Whether it was from the pain medication she’d been given or the concussion, he wasn’t sure.

  “I got a suture, too.” Weakly, she pointed to her hairline with her good hand. Reid flinched inwardly at the dried blood still matting her hair around the wound.

  Sitting in the chair beside her, Reid shook his head. “Caitlyn…”

  “I should’ve been more careful. My caller ID said ‘unknown,’ not Vinings Care Facility.” Her voice thickened. “I just got so scared about Mom—I wasn’t thinking.”

  The fact that a woman had lured Caitlyn to the parking garage meant someone knew who the unsub was, Reid thought. It also meant there was a possibility he had an accomplice.

  “Agent Tierney already checked,” he told her. “The call was made from a disposable cell phone. It’s untraceable.”

  Reid laid his hand on Caitlyn’s forearm. He could feel her pulse under her skin, and he thanked God for the elderly couple that for some reason had been leaving the hospital in the very early morning hours. If they hadn’t been there—if they’d arrived even a minute later—it could have been too late.

  “Caitlyn,” Reid said gently. “The man who tried to abduct you…he’s probably our copycat.”

  And he intended for you to be his next victim. Reid couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud, but he could tell by Caitlyn’s unsurprised expression she’d already made the realization, as well.

  “I’m going to see about getting a security detail at your house.”

  He half expected Caitlyn to argue with him, but she gave a faint nod of agreement. This had all gone too far. But things would have to change now—Caitlyn’s connection to the case was no longer some vague hunch he had based on a piece of jewelry found at a crime scene. The killer had lured her to the parking garage with the intent of taking her.

  “I wanted to call you last night,” Caitlyn said quietly. “After seeing Joshua yesterday…after digging up that poor woman…”

  And yet she hadn’t. He cursed himself for not being there for her.

  “I want to see my mother,” she whispered.

  “I’ll take you as soon as you’re discharged. For now you just need to rest.”

  After a short while, her eyelids drifted closed and her breathing slowed. Rubbing a hand over his face, Reid tried to get control over his own careening emotions. He remained there, struggling not to drown in the heavy tide of his thoughts, until a nurse rolled a blood pressure cart into the room. Reid rose from the chair and went into the hallway just as Mitch walked into the corridor.

  “You want to tell me this was just coincidence?” he asked sharply, pointing to Caitlyn’s room. “You think the intention wasn’t for her to have ended up as victim number three?”

  Mitch raised a hand to stop him. “I’m not arguing with you. But I need to make a correction. Ms. Cahill would have been victim number four.”

  Reid felt a spiraling dread.<
br />
  “I just got a call, which is why I came looking for you. Two calls, actually. First off, we’ve got another body.”

  He’d barely had time to absorb the information when Mitch made his second announcement. “The second call was from the psych ward at Washington Hospital. David Hunter escaped last night.”

  24

  A cold drizzle had begun to fall. Reid watched somberly as the nude female corpse was zipped inside a black body bag and loaded onto a gurney. It had been there for days, apparently, lying amid the garbage in a Dumpster behind a K Street restaurant. A homeless person who’d been rooting through the bin had found the body, and Reid wondered how the stench had gone unnoticed for so long.

  Mitch was talking to the man now, a gaunt junkie with café-au-lait skin and unwashed hair. His partner held in one latex-gloved hand the cellophane evidence bag. It contained the chess pawn that had been wedged inside the victim’s mouth. Two workers with the M.E.’s office rolled the gurney past and loaded it into a van.

  Walking to where Reid stood, Mitch jerked his thumb toward the homeless man. “He wants to know if there’s a reward for calling 911.”

  He handed the evidence bag to Forensics, then turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain and looked around. “Where the hell did Morehouse go with my umbrella?”

  On the drive over, they’d spoken briefly by phone to the administrator at the psych ward from which David Hunter had escaped. The details of exactly how he had eluded the hospital staff were still sketchy, but his disappearance hadn’t been discovered until early that morning.

  “We’re lucky—thanks to the District’s stretched resources, the garbage hasn’t been picked up yet. Based on decomposition, the body’s been here at least a week,” Mitch said. “Hunter was arrested just four days ago—do the math. Not to mention, his breakout sometime last night puts him in the running for the attack on Ms. Cahill.”

  “The man on the surveillance tape’s too big.”

  “What’s Hunter? Six foot?” Mitch pointed out. “He’s on the thin side, but with the heavy jacket and mask the guy’s wearing and the bad-to-no lighting, it could be him. I don’t think we should overlook the basic rules of means, motive and opportunity.”

  “It’s not him,” Reid said quietly.

  “I forgot. Hunter doesn’t fit your psychological profile.”

  Morehouse cleared his throat, letting them know he was approaching. He looked at Mitch. “We need to go to the morgue with the Jane Doe—”

  “You do it.” He tossed him his car keys. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry. And give me my umbrella.”

  “Bigger fish?” Reid asked once the younger agent had relinquished the black umbrella and headed in the direction of the sedan, his shoulders hunched against the increasing downpour.

  “You’ve got your intuitions and so do I. I’m going to see this Dr. Abrams at the hospital and try to figure out how Hunter could slip away without anyone noticing.” Mitch nodded toward the SUV. “Want to give me a ride?”

  Reid’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open, his stomach tightening as he saw the call’s source. But instead of answering, he replaced the phone in his jacket pocket. “I’ll go with you.”

  As they walked toward the vehicle, Mitch asked, “How long are they keeping Ms. Cahill?”

  “A couple of nights, I’d guess.”

  “She didn’t look good.”

  Reid climbed into the driver’s side of the SUV. “No.”

  Once they’d pulled from the alleyway, he said, “We need to get protection for her.”

  “We can try, but resources are tight. The Feds have had job cuts along with everybody else.”

  “She’s in trouble. Whoever attempted to abduct her is going to try again.” Reid looked at Mitch. “I’ll call SAC Johnston, extend my leave another few weeks and stay with her myself if I have to.”

  “Let’s not jump the gun. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Caitlyn’s hospital room had darkened with the falling evening, and silvered raindrops trailed along the window glass. For most of the day, she’d been drowsy, the pain medication providing a measure of anesthesia against her thoughts. But she assumed the physician had begun tapering her dosage, since her mind was now growing clearer and with that clarity came anxiety and memories she couldn’t stop—of a man wearing all black, his face concealed by a ski mask. Caitlyn nudged the mobile tray that held her uneaten dinner away from the bed. She reached for the television remote, hoping to find something that might distract her from her thoughts.

  “Let me clear that, hon.” A pleasant-faced hospital worker in floral-print scrubs came through the door. She smiled brightly. “How are you feeling?”

  Caitlyn put the television speaker on Mute. “I’m…fine. Thank you.”

  “You’re looking a little better. How’s the head?”

  “It hurts,” she admitted.

  “I’ll bring you some acetaminophen as soon as I come back through.”

  “Do you know when the doctor will be making rounds?” Caitlyn asked as the woman covered the plastic food tray with its top and began rolling it toward the door. Despite how she felt, she desperately hoped to be discharged in the morning. She hated the antiseptic hospital smells and the constant threat of needles.

  “Dr. Singh should be by sometime in the morning, but his schedule varies.” She gave Caitlyn a sympathetic look. “I’ll be right back with the meds.”

  Once the woman left, Caitlyn looked back up at the television screen. The six o’clock news was on, and a female journalist stood in front of an alley. Police crime scene tape crisscrossed its entrance, and the blue light bar of a patrol car flashed in the background.

  The hair on Caitlyn’s nape stood up as she saw the caption across the bottom of the screen.

  Capital Killer Copycat.

  She searched for the television remote lost in the bed’s sheets. Finding it, she clicked on the volume button with a sense of dread.

  “…believed to be the third victim. Preliminary forensics estimate the body had been concealed in a Dumpster here for the past week. Although the Federal Bureau of Investigation and District Police are not releasing the details, certain aspects of the crime scene suggest a copycat may indeed be at large…”

  The throb inside her head grew a little more insistent, drowning out the reporter’s monologue. The killer had claimed a third victim. She absently twisted the sheets with her uninjured hand.

  “I was hoping to tell you first.” Reid stood in the doorway, his leather jacket and his dark hair damp from the rain. He came into the room and sat in the chair beside her bed. “The copycat story broke this afternoon. They’ll probably release the newest victim’s identity soon. Her name was Sherry Halston. She was a D.C. events planner.”

  Caitlyn felt sick thinking about it. “Do the press know about the attack on me yet?”

  “So far it hasn’t been reported by any of the media outlets. But if it comes out, they’re undoubtedly going to make a connection.” Reid’s gray eyes were filled with concern. “There’s something else I need to tell you, Caitlyn. David Hunter escaped last night from the hospital psych ward.”

  25

  “Hello, Mom,” Caitlyn said softly, her chest tightening as her mother looked at her with no sign of recognition on her unlined, still-pretty face. A fashion magazine open in her lap, Caroline sat on a chintz sofa in one of the Vinings common rooms. Behind her, a wide picture window framed by raw-silk curtains provided a view into the facility’s well-tended gardens.

  Moving closer, Caitlyn sank onto the adjacent wing chair, carefully adjusting the sling that held her arm against her chest to protect her badly bruised hand. Her fingers were stiff and swollen, and the dull throb of her headache lingered. Caitlyn wore the same clothes she’d had on yesterday morning when she’d rushed to the District, thinking her mother had been hurt. She had come directly from the hospital as soon as they discharged her, needing to see for herself that her mother was really all r
ight.

  Caitlyn’s eyes met Reid’s, who stood inside the doorway but hadn’t come any closer. “This is a friend of mine, Mom. Reid Novak?”

  She wondered if the name might cause some flash of memory inside Caroline’s weakened mind, that perhaps the sheer duress that had once been attached to the name Novak might cause some reaction—anger, hostility—to rise inside her. But Caroline simply blinked at Reid, studying him for a few moments before returning her gaze to Caitlyn.

  “And who are you?” she asked, puzzled.

  Caitlyn’s face burned. “I’m your daughter. It’s me. Caitlyn.”

  Caroline tucked a few stands of her hair behind one ear, nodding thoughtfully. Its pale color—lighter than Caitlyn’s—held only a touch of gray. Even then, the color was an attractive, lush silver.

  “Do you live in the District?”

  “No.” Caitlyn shook her head. “Not anymore.”

  “There’s a soiree next month. It’s invitation-only—the First Lady’s Fire and Ice Ball. I’m picking out a gown.” Caroline bent her head in concentration as she flipped slowly through the magazine she held. She stopped at a page with its top corner dog-eared and placed her finger on a photo of a statuesque model in an ice-blue evening gown. “I like this one. What do you think?”

  Caitlyn knew there was no ball, and if there were, Senator Cahill’s widow would not be on the guest list. Still, she looked into Caroline’s eyes and smiled. “You’d be beautiful in it.”

  “I…don’t know you,” her mother admitted. “Do you work here?”

  When Caitlyn stared up at Reid, the pain she felt was reflected on his features. He held her gaze for several long moments, and the sympathy and guilt emanating from his eyes was almost more than she could bear. Caitlyn took a breath. She moved to the sofa to sit next to her mother and continued studying the magazine. When she looked up again, Reid had disappeared into the hallway.

  “It was a good visit,” Caitlyn said quietly as they walked out to Reid’s vehicle. He held the lobby’s glass door open for her, his hand on the small of her back as he guided her down stone steps that led to a patio with wrought-iron benches and a gurgling fountain. Caitlyn took the steps slowly, still feeling stiff from the attack.