Thicker than Blood (Zoe Bentley Mystery)

by Mike Omer

  “Is the door locked?”

  “Y . . . yes.”

  “Is he still at the door?”

  “Yes, I can see him through the window. He’s talking to himself. Please send someone—I’m scared.”

  “Can you tell me your address?”

  For a moment she almost couldn’t recall it, but then she did, blurting it in panic.

  “Okay, miss, what’s your name?”

  “Joanne.”

  “Joanne, I need you to stay calm. I just sent a patrol car over. Can you still see the man at the door?”

  Joanne glanced through the window. The street was empty. “N . . . no, I think he left.”

  “The officer will come over, look around, and make sure you’re fine, okay? Joanne?”

  But Joanne couldn’t answer; her voice was gone. She’d just seen a shadow flit across the window of the kitchen. Just by the back door. The same door she constantly forgot to lock, one more task slipping due to the sleep deprivation that clouded her life.

  Had she locked the back door this time?

  She distinctly remembered opening it that morning to water the plants in the backyard. But she couldn’t remember locking it.

  The doorknob turned while the voice on the phone said, “Joanne? Are you there?”

  CHAPTER 35

  The door was locked. He rattled the doorknob several times, only half remembering what he was doing there. The baby wailed from inside, and he blinked, startled. He’d been standing in that strange backyard for several minutes, just staring at the door. Had he tried to open it? He rattled the doorknob. It appeared to be locked. Oh yeah, he’d tried it already.

  Someone was talking, and he paused to listen, but the voice became quiet, and only the baby kept wailing. Then he realized it was him. He was the one who had been talking, talking to himself.

  He tried to piece together the events of the evening. Had he really intended to snatch a baby out of its carriage?

  He was letting his control slip.

  That scared him more than anything. It had happened before, long ago, and since then he did his best, but tonight, no one drove the train, and it had gone off the rails.

  He turned and fled, not to the street—he was afraid someone would see him. Instead, he fled over backyard fences, running through private yards, stomping flower beds, knocking down patio chairs, his pants ripped by a thorny rose patch. He saw the blue light of a police car passing by from the corner of his eye. Were they looking for him? For a moment he got confused, thought he was running away from Catherine’s home after they had left her dead. But then he recalled a day had passed, or maybe two days? Four?

  He reached a fence he couldn’t climb over and decided instead to return to the street. It was dark, no sign of the police car, no passersby. Just him and the shadows.

  He forced himself to breathe deeply, the cold air clearing his mind. The nights were the worst. During the day, he did fine. Talking to people, doing his job, going through the motions. He was almost certain no one suspected a thing. But at night, it all became so much harder. It had always been that way.

  He found his way back home, locked the door, and barred it behind him. Evidence of his control slip was all over the place. Two of the vials discarded on the kitchen tabletop. One had rolled and fallen to the floor, shattering, leaking some leftover blood drops on the floor. The mug he’d used to drink the blood had been left on the counter, and the residue had coagulated. Glancing at the bathroom, he could see the toilet still spattered with his vomit.

  He cleaned it all up, then took a long shower, breathing heavily as he did so, trying to clear his head. He was in control. He was in control. He was in control.

  CHAPTER 36

  Zoe’s breaths were fast and shallow. The walls of the room closed in on her, the space around her shrinking with every heartbeat. She’d tried taking a long walk when she felt the creeping effect of claustrophobia, but as soon as she stepped outside, into the night’s darkness, she could feel the phantom presence of Glover somewhere nearby. Behind her.

  And who was to say that he wasn’t? He’d followed her before. What would prevent him from doing it again? Walking alone at night, with him lurking in the shadows, would be foolish.

  She backtracked into the room, locked the door, tried to calm down.

  But it was impossible to withstand the tidal waves of panic that kept hitting her.

  Even in her current state, a detached part of her kept analyzing. She could understand what was happening. The little sleep she’d had lately, combined with her PTSD, had triggered a full-blown panic attack. Her imagination, fueled by emotion, battered her with vivid scenarios that served to fuel the inferno of fear in her mind.

  Understanding it didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse.

  When she’d called Tatum, she’d hoped for help. But he’d said he was with O’Donnell, his tone slightly impatient. And suddenly she couldn’t figure out why she’d called him. What could he do to help her?

  Only she could help herself. She knew that, had always known that.

  She was shivering in her bed again, clinging to the sensation of the sheets around her. She wasn’t outside, chased by Glover. She wasn’t buried in a coffin underground. She was in a motel room. She was fine.

  She didn’t feel fine. She needed to throw up.

  She lunged, trying to untangle herself from the blanket. The sheet clung to her, and she struggled, the vomit rising up her throat. She retched several times as she threw up, gasping, clawing at the pillow. For a while she just coughed and gagged, acid in her mouth. Then she was shaking, spent, her heart pounding.

  Something else was pounding. The door.

  “Zoe?” Tatum called through the door. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m . . . fine.” Her voice was shaky. Choked.

  Pause. “Open the door.”

  “No. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Open the door, Zoe.”

  She shut her eyes in desperation, then squirmed out of the sheets, heart still racing. She stumbled to the door, unlocked it, wiping the vomit from her chin quickly. She pulled the door open.

  Tatum’s eyes widened as he saw her. She must have looked just as shitty as she felt.

  “Just some nightmares,” she croaked. “I’m fine now. Really.” She began shutting the door.

  He blocked it with his foot. “Like hell you are.” He pushed the door open, slowly so it wouldn’t hit her. Then he brushed past her and entered the room.

  She followed his eyes as he took in the bed, the messy sheets, her own stained shirt, her trembling hands.

  He grabbed her and pulled her close, his large arms engulfing her. She struggled, not wanting to get vomit on his clothes, but he just held her tight until she stopped squirming in his hug, becoming limp. The fear was gone, though she could still feel it lingering, waiting. Now, she was mainly mortified.

  “I think I ate something that didn’t agree with me,” she mumbled.

  “Maybe it was all that hot chocolate,” he suggested, still holding her.

  “Yeah. But I’m feeling better now.”

  “Go take a shower.”

  She did, stumbling to the bathroom, taking off her foul shirt in disgust. The hot water made her feel better. Tatum had probably left. She’d apologize tomorrow for being such a mess. She took the time to brush her teeth, getting rid of the acrid taste of vomit.

  He was still there when she got out of the bathroom, wrapped in the motel’s towel. He must have called for clean sheets and was now carefully making the bed, the old sheets crumpled in the corner of the room.

  “I can do that,” she said.

  “I’m almost done.”

  She quickly grabbed underwear, a sweatshirt, and yoga pants from her suitcase and dressed in the bathroom. She could hear Tatum moving around in the other room. She wanted him to leave. But the very idea of him leaving her alone in the room resulted in a stab of icy fear in her gut.

  She took a de
ep breath, and it was so easy to do now that she found it strange she couldn’t possibly do it before. Then she opened the door again. Tatum sat in the chair by her bed.

  “Thanks for the help,” she said. “I think I’ll be better once I sleep.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  She shuffled to bed, sat on the mattress, suddenly relieved that the sheets were crisp and clean. Tatum had spread them tightly, almost as if someone from the motel’s room service had done it.

  “Good night,” she told him.

  He didn’t budge. Didn’t say anything.

  “I had a panic attack,” she finally said. “I’ve been working too hard. But it’s over now. I’ll go easy for a few days.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

  “I will!”

  “No, you won’t. I’m calling Mancuso tomorrow. I’ll tell her she needs to pull you from the case.”

  “No!” She was horrified. Mancuso wouldn’t be able to make Zoe leave Chicago. But she could cut her off. Make sure she wasn’t involved in the investigation. “If you do that . . .” She searched for a threat, some way to intimidate him. She had nothing.

  “I need to know what happened to you tonight,” he said. “I’m your partner. I’m worried sick. But if you won’t talk to me—”

  “It was just a panic attack.”

  “It wasn’t. You’ve been acting strange for days now. I mean, you’re always a bit strange, but you’ve been acting . . . unlike you.”

  She shut her eyes and chewed her bottom lip. She wondered if maybe he was bluffing. Would he really get her pulled off the case? He knew what it would do to her. Opening her eyes, she glanced at him, saw his face.

  He wasn’t bluffing.

  “It’s something that happens to me,” she finally said guardedly. “I have these moments when I imagine what the victim went through.”

  “We all do that. It’s part of the job.”

  She shook her head, frustrated. “No. Not like that. It’s . . . more vivid. I lie in bed, and I can see it and feel it all happening. Almost like I’m her . . . the victim.”

  “Like a hallucination?”

  “No!” That would get her off the BAU for good, not to mention this case. “I know where I am and who I am. I know it’s just my imagination. But it’s very vivid, and I can’t stop it. Maybe that’s why I’m so good at this. I can get into everyone’s head. The victim and the killer. It’s part of the package.”

  She huddled in the blanket. Now that she’d started talking, she couldn’t stop. “I can almost feel the fear. And the pain. My body reacts to it all, so I have a bit of trouble breathing, fast pulse. It usually ends after half an hour.”

  “How many times did that happen?” Tatum asked.

  “I don’t know. Dozens.”

  “Jesus, Zoe.”

  “If you tell this to anyone, they won’t understand. They’ll kick me out of the BAU.” She already regretted telling him about it. “It’s really not a big deal. I’ve got it under control.”

  “You definitely looked under control when I showed up here.”

  “This time was different.”

  “Why?”

  “Part of it is what happened in San Angelo. I still have moments of claustrophobia.” She didn’t go on.

  “And part of it is this case?” Tatum said. “If you were putting yourself in Henrietta Fishburne’s place, feeling what you believe she felt . . . you were reliving Glover’s assault of her.”

  “Parts of it. Fragments. But I couldn’t make it stop.” She shivered, then forced herself still, clenching her teeth. “I never told anyone about this. You can’t . . . please don’t . . .”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he said heavily. “But you can’t go on like this. You know that, right?”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  He didn’t respond to that. She knew it was obvious that she couldn’t back that up in any possible way.

  “He’s careless now. And he has an unstable partner who’s spiraling out of control. It’s a matter of days until he gets caught.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And once he’s caught, I will never have to worry about him again. He’s already dying! He has less than a year left. Andrea will be safe. I will be safe. It’ll be over. But I need to see this through.”

  The silence stretched between them. Tatum kept looking at her, eyes soft and worried, until Zoe turned away, unable to take it any longer. She should have kept her mouth shut. She should never have called him. She shouldn’t have trusted him with this, it was too much, she should have known she could only trust herself, had always known it, should never have—

  “Okay,” Tatum said.

  “You won’t ask Mancuso to pull me from the case?”

  “I won’t.”

  She shut her eyes, blinking away a tear. “Thanks.”

  “Good night, Zoe.”

  He got up, walked to the door. And she could already feel the darkness, lurking, waiting.

  “Do you want me to stay here awhile longer, just to make sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t care. If you want.”

  Tensing up, she listened, her back to him, waiting for the door to open, for him to leave, not sure what she preferred.

  “I’ll just stay a bit.”

  A wave of relief washed over her, and she winced in embarrassment at her own reaction. “You can lie down here,” she said, shifting over.

  The bed creaked as he lay by her side with a sigh.

  She stayed awake for what felt like hours. Finally, certain that he wasn’t about to get up and leave, she relaxed and slept.

  CHAPTER 37

  Thursday, October 20, 2016

  The light woke up Tatum, accompanied by the fact that he still wore his socks. And his pants, for that matter. His mind was sluggishly figuring out the WWW of waking up. Not the World Wide Web, but the What? When? Where?

  There was gentle snoring beside him. He glanced sideways and saw Zoe. She was curled facing him, her hair a messy veil on her cheek. She was so surprisingly peaceful and gentle in her current state that for a few seconds he just lay there, transfixed. His gaze ran down her curved nose, her small parted lips, her slender neck, and stopped just as he realized that in this pose, her shirt collar was loose, exposing quite a bit of her pale skin. He tore his eyes away.

  He tried to get out of bed quietly, but the motel had a penchant for squeaking beds that almost seemed intentional. As he rose, the bed let out a startled squawk, as if it were offended by their unceremonious parting.

  Zoe’s eyes opened at once, and she blinked at him, already seeming much more focused and alert than he was. “What time is it?”

  “Uh . . .” He searched around for his phone. He’d fallen asleep with it in his pocket, which explained the dull throb in his thigh. He took it out. “Quarter past eight.” It was very late. They were usually on their way out by seven.

  Zoe blinked. “I slept well,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “It’s the first time in weeks I didn’t have nightmares. At least I don’t think I did.”

  Tatum thought back to his own dream. “I dreamed I was in the North Pole, doing the hundred-meter dash against a bunch of penguins. I was doing pretty well, since my legs were much longer than theirs, except I was naked, freezing my ass off. And I kept thinking that it was nationally televised, and everyone I knew was watching, which was pretty embarrassing.”

  “There are no penguins in the North Pole. Only in the South Pole.”

  “That’s true. I should have told that to the penguins. Who’s embarrassed now, right?” He needed to brush his teeth.

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “But from now on, we need to slow down. You need more sleep.”

  “Okay.” She fumbled at her nightstand. “Where’s my phone?”

  “It’s right there, by your hand . . . and now you’ve
dropped it on the floor.”

  Zoe bent down to pick it up, nearly toppling from the bed herself. Tatum looked away and searched for his shoes.

  “Oh, shit,” Zoe muttered. “He published the story.”

  “Who did?” He found his right shoe but not the left one, which was ridiculous. He’d taken them off together. Was there a shoe-thieving pixie in the motel, with a penchant for left shoes? Maybe it was the penguins from his dream, trying to hobble him so he’d lose the race.

  “Harry Barry. He saw me at the crime scene yesterday and put two and two together. The man is a public menace.”

  “I think that’s giving him too much credit. Public annoyance, maybe.”

  “Fishburne murder possibly related to the Lamb murder.” She read the title of the article from the phone. “Oh, for god’s sake, listen to this. ‘An aura of mystery envelops the two murder cases, and the police are still refusing to comment on why the accomplished profiler Dr. Bentley is advising on the case.’”

  Tatum sighed. “You need to get a leash for your pet reporter.”

  “He’s not my pet reporter.” Zoe put the phone down. “This might work in our favor. Both killers are under a lot of pressure. Keeping this story in the headlines might increase the pressure, and one of them will make a mistake. Especially the unsub, who is probably already losing it.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t go completely off the rails and start a killing spree,” Tatum said darkly. He found the left shoe and put them both on.

  “I’m really hoping he’ll snap and approach the cops to confess,” Zoe said. “It’s happened several times before. Kemper, Wayne Adam Ford, Spahalski . . .”

  “There was that guy from Britain,” Tatum said. “Michael Copeland. And what’s his name with the creepy smiley face drawings.”

  “Keith Jesperson. He was obsessed with the media.”

  “Oh, and Mack Rey Edwards.” Tatum scrolled through his own messages on his phone.

  “Edwards only confessed because some of his victims managed to escape. He knew he was about to get caught.”