Midnight Fear

by Leslie Tentler

  “Hey,” Mitch said, “Is your family there yet?”

  Reid’s hand twisted the bedsheets, frustration and worry bearing down on him. “Yeah.”

  “That’s good. Look, I’ve got some questions for you about what happened here. I hate to admit it, but you might be right about Treadwell. That he set Hunter up.” Mitch pulled away from the phone again, talking to someone about a chain of custody issue. Then he said, “Look, Reid, I’ve got to go. I’m going to get this scene closed down and go home and grab a few hours of sleep. I’ll talk to you in the morning when your head’s clear.”

  “I need you to find Caitlyn—”

  “And I’m telling you, she’s there at the hospital. Get some rest, okay?”

  The phone went dead. Reid looked at Megan. She sat bleary-eyed and yawning in a vinyl-padded chair, her gaze on a television infomercial, about the only thing airing at 4:00 a.m. Reid felt a wave of guilt. Still fighting the sedative effects of the medication, he laid his head on the pillow, again running through the possibilities of where Caitlyn could be.

  She had to turn up soon.

  Some time later, he opened his eyes, startled and angry with himself that he’d dozed off. He didn’t know which was worse—the soreness radiating through his arm and shoulder or the fuzzy cloud the drugs had put him in. Megan was gone but an orderly was in the room, emptying the wastebaskets. The aroma of the man’s spicy aftershave wafted in the air. The scent jogged Reid’s subconscious, causing him to remember the thing that had been eluding his grasp. There had been a recognizable scent in the dining room, mingling with the acrid odor of gunpowder.

  Cologne.

  The orderly walked out, taking the bagged trash with him.

  Reid dismissed the eccentric thought, chalking up the recollection of Mitch’s musky aftershave to confusion from the blood loss, or even the tumor jumbling memories inside his head. A glance at the room’s round-faced wall clock told him another thirty minutes had elapsed. Still no sign of Caitlyn. Where was she?

  Hoping to convince him to look for her, Reid called Mitch again using Megan’s cell, but this time he didn’t answer.

  A note in Megan’s handwriting lay on the nightstand next to the bed. He picked it up.

  You were sleeping and we didn’t want to wake you. We’re in the cafeteria having coffee. Call us on Dad’s cell and we’ll come back up.

  She’d drawn a smiley face at the end of the note. Her car keys were also there, lying next to a sweating water pitcher and a stack of disposable cups.

  He had to find Caitlyn. But the problem was that he had no idea where to look for her. Despite all the assurances, his gut told him she wasn’t at the hospital, and he had a growing sense that something was wrong. Reid sat up and dropped his legs over the side of the bed, waiting a few moments for the dizziness to subside. Wincing slightly, he pulled the IV needle from the back of his hand.

  He would locate Caitlyn, make sure she was safe, then return.

  Standing, he stepped to the room’s vanity. A cabinet held the jeans he’d been wearing when he had been brought into the E.R. With some difficulty, he put them on. But he had neither shoes nor a shirt. Reid looked at the sleeping form in the bed on the other side of the curtain—a male, probably in his early to mid-forties. He quietly shuffled through the man’s belongings that were placed neatly in a separate compartment. A pair of brown loafers appeared to be about the right fit. There was also a flannel, button-down shirt—a size too big—which could be helpful due to the thick bandage wrapped around his biceps. Reid pulled off the hospital gown. His arm stiff and aching with the effort, he put the shirt on and then slid his feet into the loafers.

  Picking up Megan’s cell and car keys, he walked to the door and looked into the empty corridor. Quietly, he moved down the hall, taking the stairwell to reduce the chance of running into the floor nurses or his family. He’d made it halfway through the hospital’s marble and glass lobby when someone called his name.

  “Agent Novak?”

  A Middleburg policeman came toward him. “I’m Officer Cusick—we met before? At the Treadwell house?”

  The man was young and fresh-faced. If not for the uniform, Reid would have guessed him to be a college student. “Right…Cusick.”

  “I bet you’re hurting,” he noted, glancing at Reid’s injured arm. “I’m surprised they discharged you already. You were bleeding pretty good when you got to the E.R.”

  “You were here?”

  “I answered the call at the Cahill house. Chief Malcolm sent me here to get a statement from Ms. Cahill. I followed the ambulance over.” He grinned. “I’m dating one of the nurses, so I’ve been hanging out. Playing a little hooky, you know? I should be getting back before they have my ass—”

  “You talked to Caitlyn Cahill tonight?” Reid asked.

  “Yeah. While you were in surgery.”

  “How long ago?”

  “It’s been a while.” The officer peered at him. “If you don’t mind me saying, Agent Novak, you look a little pale. Maybe you should sit down—”

  “Have you seen her since? It’s important.”

  He wedged his hands just above his gun belt, thinking. “You know, I did see her again.”

  The officer indicated a wood bench next to the information desk. “My girlfriend was on break, and she and I were sitting right over there. Ms. Cahill was with that big guy. You know him—he’s another FBI agent. I recognized him from the Treadwell house. That and he was packing heat. That kind of thing tends to get my attention in a public building.”

  “Agent Tierney?”

  “That’s him.”

  Reid had an unsettling feeling. Mitch had claimed he’d last seen Caitlyn in the surgical waiting room upstairs. The next question felt foreign and unexpected coming out of his mouth. He barely believed he was asking it aloud.

  “Did you notice if Ms. Cahill left with Agent Tierney?”

  Officer Cusick nodded. “Sure did. They went right through those doors into the parking lot.”

  46

  Reid pushed through the glass doors, exiting the hospital. By the time he located Megan and Cooper’s Jeep Cherokee among the rows of vehicles, he was perspiring, his body shaking from exertion. Climbing inside the vehicle, he took a minute, closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the driver’s seat.

  He wasn’t losing his mind. He did have reason for his disturbing thoughts. Mitch hadn’t told the truth about where he’d last seen Caitlyn, and he now had an eyewitness who saw them leave the building together. Reid considered the possibility they’d gone their separate ways outside, or that the rookie officer was just plain wrong. Regardless, something was definitely out of whack. He grappled with the idea that the cologne scent in the dining room had been real. Starting the engine, Reid tried again to visualize the shooter’s eyes as they peered at him through the mask’s slits. Rattled and uncertain, he rubbed a hand over his face.

  This was crazy. This was Mitch he was thinking about.

  In the meantime, Caitlyn had vanished. Pulling from the parking lot, he tried to ignore the stiffness and throbbing in his right arm. Not sure what else to do, he began driving toward Middleburg, hoping Mitch might still be at the scene. At least then he could confront him, try to figure out what was really going on.

  It was less than fifteen miles to Caitlyn’s home. Reid took the highway at a high rate of speed even though he was without his driver’s license or DOJ shield. As he drove, the spin cycle of his mind kept kicking out thoughts.

  Speaking of ice queens, how’s Ms. Cahill?

  He recalled a previous conversation with Mitch. They’d been in a bar, early in the investigation. Mitch had referred to Caitlyn as an ice queen. It was a term Joshua Cahill had used repeatedly to describe his victims during the psychological interviews Reid had conducted. He hadn’t reflected on it until now. Was it merely a coincidence Mitch had used the same description?

  He knew he was grasping at straws.

  S
till, on impulse, he called information and got the number to the Springdale Penitentiary. It took several minutes to reach someone capable of helping at the early morning hour, but he finally succeeded.

  “Agent Novak?” a guard with a heavy Baltimore accent said through the phone. “You say you need someone to go through visitor logs for prisoner 86213? Joshua Edward Cahill?”

  “I’m looking for a specific visitor. FBI Special Agent Mitchell Tierney.”

  “Well, I can see he was here yesterday,” the man noted after a few seconds. “His name’s on the registry.”

  Reid’s mouth went dry. “What time?”

  “He signed in at five-fifteen, back out just before six.”

  Mitch had gone to see Cahill immediately after the news conference. Why? It was a visit he hadn’t mentioned to Reid. It occurred to him that, although they’d been monitoring Cahill’s communications and visitors since the copycat’s emergence, they hadn’t been looking at Bureau personnel. And Mitch had been in charge of the surveillance.

  “I need you to look back over the past few months and tell me how frequently Agent Tierney’s been there.”

  “Each log is only good for that week, Agent. I’ll have to get into the records room to look at the old ones. I can call you back.”

  “Please do it as quickly as possible,” Reid said. He gave him Megan’s cell number and closed the phone as he made the turn up the wooded road leading to Caitlyn’s home. When he pulled onto the driveway in front of the farmhouse, a Middleburg Police patrol car was the only vehicle there besides Caitlyn’s BMW. Fortunately, the officer standing guard on the porch recognized him.

  “How long ago did Agent Tierney leave?” Reid asked as he got out of the Cherokee and approached.

  “About twenty minutes ago,” the officer said. He was balding and middle-aged with a slight paunch under his dark uniform.

  “Was he alone?”

  “I’m pretty sure.” He looked at Reid curiously. “You okay, Agent Novak? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

  “Discharged,” Reid muttered. Was it possible Mitch had stashed Caitlyn somewhere while he made himself present at the crime scene? He envisioned her bound and gagged in the trunk of his government-issued car, his chest squeezing at the image. He stepped onto the porch. “I’ve got to get inside to get my badge and gun.”

  “Your weapon was taken into evidence. Agent Tierney has your shield.”

  “I need in anyway.”

  The officer nodded, letting him pass. Reid lifted the crime scene tape and ducked under, feeling the flash of pain in his arm and shoulder with the movement. He went upstairs to Caitlyn’s office. To his relief, the combination to the gun safe was still inside the desk, written on a slip of paper. Reid opened the safe and removed a handgun and some bullets. He slipped the weapon into the waistband of his jeans, concealing it beneath his oversize shirt. As he passed through the living room, he picked up his cell phone, in case Caitlyn tried to contact him on it.

  In case the absurd path of his thoughts was wrong.

  He prayed to God it was.

  Reid had just started up the Cherokee when the twin orbs of headlights emerged from the wooded road. The Rambling Rose pickup truck roared up the drive. Reid braked and lowered his window as the two vehicles met.

  “I was up early and heard on the television about the shooting. A federal agent,” Manny Ruiz said above the growl of the truck’s engine. “I thought it was you.”

  “Caitlyn’s disappeared. Has she contacted you?”

  He shook his head, his forehead creasing with worry. “I tried callin’ the house and her cell phone, but she never answered. That’s why I came over. What can I do?”

  Reid advised him to look anywhere Caitlyn might be. “Check the stables as well as the woods. Do you have a gun with you?”

  “My double-barrel. That’s all I need.”

  “If you see anything that looks unusual, call me and then get in touch with the local police.”

  Ruiz gave a quick nod. As Reid started back down the wooded road, Megan’s cell rang. He glanced at the screen and saw that the incoming call was from his father. It looked as though his absence from the hospital had been discovered. Reid felt bad about it, but didn’t answer. A few seconds later, the phone shrilled again. This time the screen read Springdale Federal Penitentiary.

  “Agent Tierney’s been visiting Cahill two or three times a week,” the guard told him. “I’ve got his signatures right here in the logs.”

  “For how long?”

  “Every page I’m looking on has him registered. I’d say for the last several months.”

  Reid accelerated the vehicle. Mitch had never mentioned the visits to him. Why would he be going to see Cahill so often? And why did the visits start a few months ago? He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. The timing coincided with Mitch’s divorce. He’d been bitter. Angry. Had it triggered something inside him? He tried to imagine Mitch forming some sort of twisted bond with Joshua Cahill. If that were the case, both men had been conning him, starting with the prison interview two weeks ago.

  “Have the visits been recorded?” Reid knew it was standard protocol.

  “There’s a note here about that,” the guard said. “Agent Tierney enacted a strict embargo. No digital recordings. It was just he and the prisoner, alone. Cahill gave permission for it.”

  Reid ended the call. If Mitch had Caitlyn, if he was the one responsible for the killings…

  He didn’t want to think about what could be happening right now.

  Reaching the end of the tree-lined drive, Reid pulled back onto the main road. The white-painted Rambling Rose sign appeared behind him in his rearview mirror, swinging faintly in the early morning breeze. He made two more calls. One was to put out an APB for Mitch’s Crown Victoria. The other was to Agent Jimmy Morehouse.

  So far, the copycat had killed all his victims inside D.C. Reid didn’t see a reason he would deviate.

  Reaching the interstate exit, he headed toward the District.

  Caitlyn heard the approach of a car outside her prison. Her heart beat a rapid staccato inside her chest. She was cold, swathed in darkness, and she’d lost sensation in her hands some time ago due to the tight binding on her wrists and ankles.

  The cramped shed was filled with gardening equipment—a mower and chainsaw, a Peg-Board from which hung various shovels and rakes. Caitlyn lay on her side, the rough plywood floor scratching her cheek. How long she’d been here, she wasn’t sure. Vaguely, she recalled Agent Tierney reaching across the car seat, slamming her head against the passenger window hard enough to crack the glass. The rest of her memory was wrapped in shadow and fog.

  She heard the death of the car engine. Nearly hyper-ventilating, Caitlyn tried to breathe through the thick cloth gag in her mouth. Her lungs begged for air. Footsteps moved closer, and she prayed someone had found her.

  God. Please.

  The door to the closetlike space opened. Caitlyn blinked at the shadowed form staring down at her. Her heart jolted as she heard the deep, familiar voice.

  “Told you I’d be back. After I took care of business.”

  Tierney hoisted her up as if she were weightless, carrying her toward the waiting sedan. Over his shoulder she saw the metal-and-wood storage unit where he had hidden her. It sat a hundred or so feet off the rural road. Less than ten miles from Caitlyn’s own house. She had passed by it dozens of times, barely noticing. Above her, stars winked in a black velvet night.

  “Your brother’s a real son of a bitch, did you know that?”

  She cried for help, but the gag stifled the sound. The trunk was open, its black metal mouth waiting to swallow her.

  47

  Tall leyland cypresses flanked the rear of the Georgetown house, concealing the Crown Victoria from the street.

  “Walk.” Tierney had untied Caitlyn’s ankles, and he followed behind her, prodding her between the shoulder blades with the barrel of his gun. Fallen leaves crackled un
der her feet. Her head ached and she felt dizzy and unsteady.

  “Is the alarm on?” He punctuated the question with a sharp gun jab into her spine.

  Caitlyn shook her head, her mouth still gagged and her hands bound uselessly in front of her. They climbed the short flight of stairs onto the covered service porch. Tierney came around to face her. He stood close, his hot breath fanning her face. The scent of his musky cologne was strong.

  “You better not be lying to me.” He had gone through her purse and taken her keys, and he poked and jiggled each of them in the lock until he found the right one. Pushing the door open with a soft creak, he shoved Caitlyn inside ahead of him. They continued walking in darkness, passing through the gourmet kitchen with its black-and-white tiled floor and down the long, wainscoted hallway.

  “This isn’t my usual place,” he confided, his hand at her nape as he propelled her forward. She could feel his body heat and the bump of the duffel bag he carried against the small of her back. “It was Joshua’s idea.”

  Caitlyn felt a cold chill.

  They reached the two-story entrance hall, the elegant vestibule now seeming foreign and sinister. The unlit crystal chandelier floated like an apparition above their heads, and the arched entrance to her father’s library appeared dark and foreboding. The Palladian window facing the street let in only a feeble amount of moonlight, but it was enough to see the rusty swipe of Bliss’s bloody handprint still on the wall. Caitlyn closed her eyes in a vain attempt to block out the image of her friend being attacked here.

  Her heart raced with the probability she would be next.

  All this time, the copycat had been hiding in plain sight. The dichotomy of good and evil, of being the man chasing monsters and the monster itself was nearly more than her mind could process. Tierney had always seemed indomitable, and she wondered how Joshua had managed to infiltrate his psyche, his soul.

  “Upstairs.” She felt the thrust of the gun again at her back. At the bottom of the curved staircase, Caitlyn froze. The second floor would limit any opportunity she had for escape. Her legs felt wooden and unable to move. The gag muffled her cry as Tierney sank his hand into her hair, snapping her head back until it rested against his hard chest.