The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  Difford began to relax. He cocked his head and led Officer Travis to the garage door.

  “Set the coffee on the table. Take the lead. I already checked out the rest of the house. If he’s here, he’s in there.”

  “No, Difford. He’s right here.” Officer Travis moved faster than Difford would have thought a fat man could. He whirled, his arm arched up, and Difford saw his eyes right before the man’s fist snapped back his chin.

  He went down hard, but his hand got around his gun. Don’t panic, don’t panic.

  He pulled his gun out of his holster. Shoot, dammit, shoot.

  The baton caught him square on the forearm; dimly he heard the crack of his arm breaking. Fingers went numb. Gun flew across the room and hit the wall.

  Get his feet. Kick out his feet. Get him down.

  His ankle hooked Beckett’s. He pulled hard. The baton caught him across the cheek as Jim toppled. Ringing filled his ears. He tasted something rusty in his mouth, blood. Shit, it was pouring down his chin. What had happened to his teeth?

  He planted his good arm on the floor and started crawling for his gun. Faster, faster, faster.

  Tess, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  He heard the rustle of nylon and knew Jim was beginning to rise. He picked up the tempo, forcing himself to move. The gun was so close, twenty feet, ten. If he could just get his hand out—

  Beckett sat on his back hard, slamming Difford to the floor. The breath left him in a giant whoosh and he couldn’t get it back. Hands wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze. He fought, he squirmed against the floor. The world spun away and he sank into the blackness.

  The void didn’t hurt.

  And it lasted only a minute. Then the pressure was gone. His lungs instinctively inhaled, his eyes fought to see. Vaguely he felt Beckett rise. He saw his gun kicked far away. Beckett picked up a kitchen chair. He strode down the hall and jammed it beneath the closed door of Samantha’s room.

  And Difford knew what was going to happen then. The chair told him clearly what Beckett didn’t want his daughter to wake up and see.

  Beckett walked back down the hall. Difford tried to pull himself away, but his broken arm refused to move and blood and teeth were already pooling in his throat. He shimmied three more feet, then Beckett’s hand curled around his ankle, pinning him in place. He couldn’t quite stop his own whimper.

  “I have a few questions for you,” Beckett whispered in his ear.

  A sliding rasp. A knife appeared before Difford’s gaze.

  “Sergeant Wilcox was too easy,” Beckett murmured. “Have you ever noticed that cops have the lowest threshold for pain? They spend their whole life studying it and thinking that because they have, they’re immune to it. It will never happen to them.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Difford gasped.

  “Shh. Don’t wake Sam.”

  Difford’s eyes shut. He felt something trickle down his cheeks. It might have been tears.

  “Make it hard, Difford. Give me a challenge. I want a challenge.”

  Jim Beckett went to work.

  Beckett moved in the moon-shrouded living room. First he picked up the phone and dialed in to the officer on duty.

  “Bravo Fourteen,” he intoned. “Checking in, all’s clear.”

  “Roger, Bravo Fourteen.”

  “Talk to you in an hour.” Officer Travis signed off.

  It was now one A.M. At two A.M. the new shift would arrive. Jim had to keep on schedule.

  He opened the garage door. He arranged Difford’s body in the trunk. Returning to the kitchen, he attended to the mess with paper towels. Blood was oily, harder to clean up than people expected. He’d read of a couple in the Midwest who’d opened a business cleaning up after death. Homicides, suicides, they took care of everything and made a lot of money. While in prison, he’d been tempted to write to them for tips.

  Now he didn’t have time to be too neat. He got the worst and arranged furniture over the rest. Then he quickly stripped down to the jeans and T-shirt he wore beneath the bulky uniform, tossing the uniform in the washing machine next to the kitchen. He would turn on the washer before leaving. Removing his wig, he also took the time to scrub the makeup off his face—he didn’t want to scare Sam. Following that same vein of thought, he found one of Difford’s old baseball caps to wear over his bald head.

  He’d forgotten Difford’s affection for baseball. Had he remembered, he would’ve killed the lieutenant with a bat just for irony’s sake.

  One twenty A.M. Jim scrubbed his arms and hands in the sink, then placed the coffee mug inside. He’d left prints everywhere. It was the nice thing about being him now—he no longer had to hide. He could leave fingerprints, hair, blood, wherever the hell he wanted. As an escaped convicted murderer, his job was even easier.

  Finally he stood in the hallway before the closed door of Samantha’s room. His stomach fluttered with nervous butterflies, a unique sensation. He felt like he was about to ask out a girl for the first time.

  He rubbed his hands on his thighs and decided he was ready.

  He removed the kitchen chair, not hearing any movement on the other side of the door. Difford hadn’t made much noise. Jim had counted on Difford wanting to protect Samantha as much as he did. He twisted the doorknob and very carefully eased the door open.

  And the silvery moonbeam illuminated the bed like a spotlight, accentuating her white-blond hair and spilling over her cheek.

  Jim Beckett stared down at his little girl with awe, and his love for her bloomed in his chest.

  Her eyes fluttered open, sleepy and innocent. Then they widened with shock. He silenced her impending scream with a single finger pressed gently over her lips.

  “Sam,” he whispered.

  Her eyes widened more at the sound of his voice. “D-d-daddy?”

  “Yes, baby.” He smiled. She looked unbearably lovely. She looked perfect.

  “You came back.”

  “Of course I came back, Sammy. I came back for you. And we’ll never be apart again.”

  J.T. slipped out of bed and into the pool before sunlight. He swam one hundred laps, twenty-five butterfly, twenty-five backstroke, twenty-five breaststroke, and twenty-five freestyle. The chlorine stung the scratch on his cheek.

  At last he pulled himself out of the pool and wiped the water from his skin with his hands. The sun was just beginning to peer over the horizon. He stood there for a moment, watching the rays gently weave into his mesquite tree and illuminate his garden.

  He knew what he had to do next. He walked to Marion’s room.

  Her doorway was open, as he figured it would be. The room was empty, as he’d known would be the case. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He ran his hand over the pillow she must have hugged as she sobbed herself to sleep.

  Merry Berry, I am so sorry.

  “I should’ve killed him,” he said in the silent room. “I should’ve just killed him.”

  He found himself in front of the open refrigerator, staring at four bottles of beer. Corona Extra Gold. Cold and smooth going down. Takes the edge off—isn’t that what you want, J.T.? Something to take the edge off.

  Something to make you forget, because you never mastered denial like Marion did.

  His hand reached in. He curled his fingers around the cool neck of elixir. So easy to pull it out. He could be drunk before the sun even got high in the sky.

  He thought of Tess, still sleeping in his bed. He thought of the way she’d cradled his head between her breasts and stroked his hair. He thought of the feel of her lips, brushing his temple.

  She was a fool, he thought angrily. Hell, maybe they were both fools.

  His hand slid away from the beer bottle. He stalked back out to his pool and swam a hundred laps more.

  As he walked back to the house towel-drying his hair, he heard the phone ringing. He didn’t pay it any heed. Tess emerged from the hall, her footsteps fast and urgent. She’d obviously been searching for him.

&nbs
p; Once she spotted him outside, her shoulders immediately relaxed. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t scowl. He just looked at her in her big, oversize Williams T-shirt. Goddamn, he wanted to hold her.

  The phone was still ringing. She finally reached for it.

  He stepped into the living room in time to hear her say “Yes” in a wary voice.

  Her knuckles whitened, her body began to sway. Her gaze swept up and her beautiful brown eyes were dilated with horror.

  “My baby,” she whispered. “My baby!”

  The phone clattered to the floor and down she went.

  He caught her as she fell and wrapped her against his chest.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Special Agent Quincy rubbed the back of his neck. It was just after ten A.M. and he’d spent most of the night at the Difford crime scene. In the last three days he’d slept only eight hours and lost five pounds, and he felt it.

  “Tell me something good.”

  “The Red Sox finally won a game.”

  Quincy gave Houlihan a blurry glare. “Try again.”

  “Sorry, that’s it. When Officers Campbell and Teitel arrived for their two A.M. shift, they found Harrison shot dead in the car and the safe house empty. Traces of blood on the kitchen floor indicate violence, but we haven’t located Difford’s body or his car. Samantha and all of her belongings are gone. Also, the gun cabinet was forced open and emptied. We’re not sure what all Difford had in there, but he formally checked out a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun, a Smith & Wesson 9mm, his police issue .357 Magnum, and probably a Smith & Wesson .38 Special. Difford may have kept a few surprises in inventory as well. Maybe a sawed-off shotgun. You know how cops can be about guns.

  “We have Beckett’s latent and patent prints at the crime scene, paper towels with makeup residue, a state police uniform, and a state police badge issued to an Officer Travis four years ago. Beckett also left us his wig, nylons stuffed with padding, and yes, two plastic bags filled with neon purple Silly Putty. Then we have his note.” Lieutenant Houlihan’s voice grew somber. He said softly, “Beckett wrote: ‘Sergeant Wilcox sends his regards.’ Wilcox has been missing for twenty-four hours now. His wife thought he was on special assignment, we thought he was out sick. There, uh, there hasn’t been any sign of his body yet.”

  Quincy squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose where the tension had gathered like a hard knot, pressing against his eyeballs, trying to force them out of their sockets. “The neighbors? Did they see anything?”

  “Saw two cops sitting in an unmarked car most of the evening. One of the officers appeared to be asleep.”

  “Estimated time of death for Harrison?”

  “Six P.M. Beckett probably shot him beginning of shift, when Harrison first climbed into the car.”

  “And you last heard from the watch car at one A.M.”

  “Exactly. Difford called in a little after midnight. So sometime between midnight and two A.M.…”

  “Wonderful. You call in the National Guard?”

  “Are you kidding? If a person can dress himself, I have him looking for Jim Beckett. We’ve cordoned off a fifty-mile area. Samantha Williams’s picture has been sent to every TV station and newspaper in the nation. Soon her picture will be plastered on every milk carton in the goddamn free world.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “We’re going get him, Quincy. How the hell is he going to hide a four-year-old girl? No, he finally screwed up and we’re going to nail his ass.”

  “Humph.” Quincy wasn’t convinced. He leaned back and studied the cheap white ceiling, the kind that could double as a dart board and on slow nights, probably did. The inset lights increased the pounding behind his temples. Some days the pressure made him want to flush his whole head down the toilet and yet he still wouldn’t give up his job. What kind of sick bastard did that make him?

  “Want a few more ideas?” He phrased it as a question because the task force fell under Houlihan’s control and Quincy didn’t want to appear as if he were taking over. Crossjurisdictional coordination was never easy during the best of conditions, let alone when everyone had been up all night and the case seemed to be unraveling before their very eyes.

  “Well, you’re the Einstein. If you know the secret formula for catching Jim Beckett, cough it up. Our department can’t afford any more fucking nights like this.” Houlihan’s voice contained a bitter, rusty edge that they both felt. In Quincy’s career, he’d seen eight officers go down and two damn good agents. How many times had he listened to the guns firing their grim salute? It never got any easier. It never got less personal.

  “Okay, we know Beckett loves his daughter. We don’t believe she’s in any danger. So you’re right, let’s exploit this for all its worth. You have a four-year-old girl to keep happy. What do four-year-olds want?”

  “I’m the proud father of two Dobermans, Quincy. What the hell do I know about kids?”

  “Hmm, and I can’t even handle goldfish.”

  “Hold on a sec.” Lieutenant Houlihan opened the door of the office and shouted, “Rich, get in here!”

  The middle-aged homicide detective materialized a few seconds later. He’d also been up half the night, but he didn’t comment on it. Like all the task force members, his face was haggard and his shoulders drooped. In the last twenty-four hours they’d seen Lieutenant Difford and Officer Harrison brutally murdered. Most likely Sergeant Wilcox had met the same fate. They were angry. They wanted justice, they wanted revenge. Beckett’s chances of being brought in alive were diminishing exponentially—much to Quincy’s regret. They still had a lot to learn from a man such as Beckett. Except that the price was becoming too high.

  “You got two kids, right?” Houlihan pressed the detective.

  “One girl and one boy. Ages three and five.”

  “Good. Think like a four-year-old for us.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You’ve been woken up in the middle of the night,” Quincy supplied. “You’re tired and cranky. Beckett probably had to look for a hotel, right?”

  Rich shook his head. “He took Difford’s car, yeah? Kids sleep great in cars. We used to drive Shawn all night long when he was teething. It was the only thing that put him to sleep.”

  “Shit. So Beckett, with possibly one hour’s head start, can drive straight through. What about the morning? By the time she does wake up, she’s going to be scared, uncertain, cranky.…”

  “Happy Meals,” Rich supplied without hesitation.

  “What?”

  “Greatest form of bribery on the planet. Kids are unhappy or whining, take then to McDonald’s. Is Beckett a cook?”

  “No, he’s a chauvinist pig.”

  “Well, kids aren’t really into restaurants, especially four-year-olds. Check all the fast-food places. She’ll need to eat, and any kid worth her salt will want to eat at McDonald’s or Burger King or a place like that Those commercials really brainwash the little guys.”

  Quincy nodded. “There you go. Let’s get a map, plot out just how far he could get in one night of driving, and canvas fast-food joints with her picture. I can get the field office to help.”

  “Works for me,” Houlihan said curtly. Rich was excused. “I want the airports on alert too. LaGuardia, Logan, JFK, etcetera. Can you arrange it?”

  “He won’t try to leave the country yet.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Tess is still alive. He won’t leave until he’s gotten her.”

  “Come on. How’s he going to track down Tess with a four-year-old?”

  “I imagine he has a plan.” Quincy leaned forward. “Airports are alerted, Lieutenant. The international departure gates have had Beckett’s picture ever since he escaped. We can get them Sam’s picture too, but I don’t think he’ll fly the coop yet. Sam was step one. Killing Tess Williams will be step two.”

  “Then he’ll leave?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You’re the
expert and you don’t know?”

  Quincy remained silent for a moment, giving Houlihan a chance to take a deep breath and pull it together. When the lieutenant had succeeded in fisting his hands down by his sides, Quincy tapped his computer. “Remember the pattern—”

  “For chrissake, screw the pattern! He’s doing it personal now, not by the numbers.”

  “He’s doing both. Think, Houlihan. He uses the first letter from the place he leaves the bodies to play his little games. Two guards in Walpole, W. Shelly Zane in Avon, A. Harrison and most likely Wilcox in Springfield, S. Was. Jim Beckett was …

  “The best.”

  “Number one. Here. Supreme. It could be many things. The point is, the phrase is unfinished. And we still haven’t found Difford’s body. My guess is that he’ll drop it somewhere else for another letter. Perhaps he’s done the same with Wilcox’s body—we won’t know until we find it. But Beckett is still engaged in his little game, and he finishes what he starts. Maybe he’ll complete it out of the country. Maybe he’ll take a year off and then do it. But he’ll kill again. Until we find him, he’ll pursue Tess Williams and he’ll pursue others.”

  The silence stretched out long. Houlihan’s jaw was so tight, Quincy could hear the lieutenant’s teeth grind with frustration. Quincy didn’t say anything. Any comment now would merely light the lieutenant’s fuse. He sat back and waited it out.

  “I offered her police protection,” Houlihan said abruptly, his voice tight. “She turned me down. She won’t come in.”

  “Tess Williams?”

  “Yeah. Difford left her contact number in a safety deposit box. That way if anything happened to him, we could notify her. Difford liked to think of all the angles, plan for all contingencies.”

  “Beckett probably knows where she is,” Quincy said quietly. “He must have gotten the safe house information from Wilcox. He’ll have used the same tactics on Difford.”