The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  “What did you find when you got to the school, Shep?”

  “It’s just like I said in my report. When I arrived, the building was already evacuated. Someone said they saw the shooter run from the building. Someone else said there were still wounded kids inside. So I went in. And in the computer lab I found Danny holding the revolver and semiauto—”

  “Holding them? Not picking them up. Holding them.”

  “He’d just picked them up—”

  “Shep!”

  “All right! He was holding them, dammit. Holding both guns and looking faint. The minute I said his name, he pointed them at my head.”

  “And that doesn’t tell you anything?”

  “He was panicked, Rainie! Frightened and, ah hell, he’d been crying. I swear to you, there were tears on his cheeks. For chrissakes, this is Danny. Danny who used to wear your deputy’s badge. Danny who liked to play under the desks. Danny who always wanted to sit by you at dinner—”

  “Shut up! I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

  Rainie walked away from him. She stood at the edge of her deck, her arms wrapped tight around her middle for warmth. In the distance, she saw a flicker of light, as if the moon had caught a piece of glass. It troubled her, and she was trying to focus in on the source, when the trees rustled abruptly and a large bird took flight.

  “If Danny’s involved,” Shep said from behind her, “it’s only because someone else got him into it. He’s been … troubled lately. And maybe he’s impressionable. At thirteen all young boys are impressionable.”

  “We know about the lockers, Shep. And we know about Charlie Kenyon. The Danny in my mind is a sweet little boy, and just yesterday morning I would’ve agreed with you, but I’m not sure anymore. There is a lot more to him than meets the eye. And these kids … they’re always somebody’s sons, Shep. They’re always somebody’s children.”

  Shep’s head fell forward. Rainie had told him the truth with the best of intentions, but she couldn’t stand to see him look so defeated.

  She offered quietly, “We’re trying to learn more from the school computers. Maybe if we can find a record of him talking to someone on-line … hooking up with an outside influence … I don’t know.”

  “Good, good.” Shep’s voice had picked up. “That’s the thing. Find out who really did all this.”

  “You really want to know what happened, Shep, let us talk to Danny. The FBI agent, Quincy, he’s a trained psychologist and an expert in mass murderers. He’ll know how to handle Danny. He’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “No.”

  “Shep, you want me to help Danny, but you don’t. Make up your mind.”

  “No interviewing him! He’s confused right now. Maybe he even wants to take credit for things—some kids are like that, you know. But I don’t want my kid spending the rest of his life in prison because he felt a need to brag.”

  “What about Becky? She might have seen something—”

  “The doctors say she’s in shock.”

  “Quincy’s an expert.”

  “Since when did you start thinking so much of an outsider? Wait a minute. That’s where you’ve been, isn’t it? You went out with the fed!”

  “Well, tie stones to my feet and drown me in a river.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Shep, if you want answers, give me some help. At least let Quincy interview Becky.”

  “Our lawyer will never go for it.”

  “It’s not his call.”

  “I can’t. I don’t—I gotta talk to Sandy first. Let me talk to Sandy.”

  “Thank you, Shep,” Rainie said seriously. “Sandy has a good head on her shoulders. She’ll do the right thing.”

  Shep, however, didn’t look convinced. He said wearily, “I got a son in juvenile detention for murder. I have a daughter sleeping in closets, and I have neighbors spray-painting Baby Killer on my garage. The right thing? I don’t know what that is anymore. I already heard from the mayor that we’re not allowed to attend any of the funerals. He thinks it’ll upset people too much. For God’s sake, this is my town, Rainie. I know George Walker. I used to bowl with Alice’s uncle. Now—now it’s come down to this.”

  Rainie didn’t say anything. She didn’t have the words to comfort him.

  “Someone else pulled that trigger,” Shep said tiredly, stubbornly. “Mark my words. And you gotta help me prove it, because a state detective and a federal agent aren’t going to care. They don’t live here. They don’t know Danny the way we do. So it’s just you and me. The way it was fourteen years ago. Just you and me again.”

  “You didn’t do me any favors fourteen years ago, Shep.”

  Shep’s gaze simply fell to the deck.

  Rainie sighed. She moved over to the deck railing and dumped out her bottle of beer. She said what she needed to say, soft, so no one could hear.

  Shep didn’t pry. He knew better after all these years.

  After a moment she turned back to him. “Come on, Shep. I’ll drive you home.”

  Crouched behind a dense cover of trees, the man finally released his breath. It had been no good. She always ducked her head when she spoke, so even with the binoculars he couldn’t see clearly enough. Maybe if he brought a video camera one night. He could record her actions, then play them back for someone who specialized in lip-reading. An expert might be able to see enough.

  But that would be sharing. He didn’t want to share. Rainie was special. His.

  He planned to keep it that way.

  The man rocked back on his heels, pursing his lips as he considered his options. His head was buzzing a bit. He’d stayed in the bar long enough to have two beers, even though he shouldn’t have. But Ruddy-Face had still been standing there, looking down at him all stern and tough. It had punched buttons better left alone and he’d found he couldn’t back down. So he’d stayed, drinking down beer he couldn’t taste and feeling that measured, hateful stare.

  Then he’d simply started to laugh. The whole thing was too damn funny for words. Old men thinking war would be good for kids. Give ’em a Hitler and they won’t have to kill one another.

  The man had started to laugh, and he was still laughing when he left the bar, watching old Ruddy-Face shake his head. Fuck Ruddy-Face. Fuck ’em all. If only they knew …

  The first time the man had picked a town for one of his projects, he hadn’t been anxious. More like curious about what he could do. He’d had a vision. It started as a dream late at night, a way to pass the hours when he was alone and no one cared. Then it took over his waking hours. It became an obsession, a fierce, burning need gnawing away at his gut.

  Show the old man. Show up the old man. Fucking show up the old fucking man. He’d head out to the cemetery, guzzling hundred-dollar bottles of the fucker’s precious brandy and feeling the fury beat like a drum in his veins. You think I’m weak? You think I’m dumb?

  Well, let me show you.…

  The first time he’d been very careful. No ties between himself and the community. He’d selected the town by computer, researched it by computer, approached the players by computer. When it had finally been necessary to conduct some on-site activities, he’d worn disguises and used only cash. The three Ps of a successful mission: Patience, Planning, and Precautions. See, I was listening, you old fuck.

  In the end, it had been easy. Screams and smoke and blood. Beautiful, fantastical death.

  Not a tremor in his hand, not a care in the world.

  But then it had been over. Police came, investigated, arrested, moved on. Case closed. He returned to everyday life, visited the cemetery again, guzzled another bottle of brandy.

  Who’s weak now, old man? Who isn’t feelin’ very smart?

  And then …

  Nothing. Story faded from the news. Town got on with things. People moved on with life. And he was alone again, feeling his power, knowing the things he knew, and … bored.

  Time for a second strike. Raise the stakes, prove his p
oint, elevate the game.

  He picked the next town more carefully, spent longer reconning in the area, studying the rhythms of life. Still lots of patience and planning. Still many, many precautions. Computers were a wonderful tool.

  Then one day everything was in place. Screams and smoke and blood. Beautiful, fantastical death. This time he lingered afterward—from a ways away, of course, using binoculars—but still he lingered, adding an extra zing.

  Cops arrived on scene. Dull, unimaginative small-town yokels. Saw what he wanted them to see, thought what he wanted them to think. Made their arrest, felt good about themselves.

  In fact, everything went so well, the man decided not to go home right away. He hit upon the hotel plan—in a separate city, of course, though frankly he wasn’t convinced even that precaution was necessary. He rented a car, drove back into town. Hung out in the local bars and listened to the local folks talk. He had so much fun, he even went to the funerals and watched the mothers cry.

  Who’s smart now, you old fuck?

  Five days later it was all over and done. Reporters packed their bags. Lawyers worked out some deal. He returned to the ordinary world of his “acceptable life,” and eventually this film also faded from his mind.

  He needed something more. His plans worked, but the thrill was lacking. From what he could tell, he was too smart (Hear that, old man?). He could make the cops dance on a pinhead and they’d fucking thank him for the floor space.

  He needed a place more challenging, a target more riveting, and an opponent more worthy. He needed to expand the playing field.

  Bakersville had come to him like a goddamn wet dream.

  The perfect place, the perfect target, and the perfect cast of Keystone Kops hot on his trail.

  Finally, he was having some fun.

  Big, burly Shep, crying over his son. Smart, pretty Officer Conner, worrying about her town. And now Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy. Quantico’s best of the best.

  Finally, he had a game worth playing. Which was good, because as far as he was concerned he was no longer producing a single-act play. This game was just beginning.

  Do you remember what it felt like when you pulled the trigger, Officer Conner? Do you still dream about the wet sound of your mother’s exploding head?

  Someday I want to hear all about it.

  But not tonight. Tonight he had to drive to Portland. He still had work to do.

  The first time Becky O’Grady fell asleep, she dreamed she stood up to the monster in her school. She planted her feet in the hall. She yelled, “Bad, bad monster. Leave my brother alone! Don’t you hurt my friends!”

  The monster was ashamed. He crawled away. Then Alice and Sally hugged her and cried. Pretty Miss Avalon kissed her on the cheek and told her she was very brave. Everyone was happy, including her mommy and daddy, who never fought again, and Danny, who gave her a kitty.

  The second time Becky fell asleep, she dreamed she stood up to the monster and he bit off her head.

  At five in the morning, Becky O’Grady crawled to the hall closet and piled coats on top of her shoulders. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good.

  The monster was coming. She had not saved Danny, and she and the monster both knew it. Soon he would come for her. Soon it would be her turn.

  Becky whimpered for her mother. But mostly she cried for Danny, because when he had needed her most, she had not saved him.

  FIFTEEN

  Thursday, May 17, 7:50 A.M.

  Sandy stood at the kitchen sink, washing the same flower-bordered plate over and over again. Outside, the sun was shining. She had cracked the window to let in the fresh morning air, and now she could hear the sounds of her neighborhood preparing for a new day. Somewhere down the street a lawn was being mowed. Probably Mr. McCabe. He was a retired school principal who took religious care of his yard. In June, people drove in from miles around just to admire his roses.

  A dog barked three or four houses over. Then came the sounds of a mother yelling for her child. Andy? Anthony? Maybe Andrea, the Simpsons’ four-year-old daughter. Last Halloween she’d dressed up as a cowboy—not a cowgirl, she’d told everyone, a cowboy. Sandy really liked the child, even if she insisted on calling her Mrs. O’Grady, which made Sandy feel old.

  She turned the plate in her hand and rhythmically washed the back.

  When she and Shep had first moved into this neighborhood eleven years ago, they were one of the few couples with kids. Since then the neighborhood had grown and so had the families. There must be five toddlers on this block alone. Two of the girls in Becky’s class lived just four blocks over. There were a number of boys as well, though most of them were too young for Danny. Sandy had always thought that was a shame. It was so easy for Becky to find someone to play with, whereas Danny had to be driven to someone’s house. That took planning. That took having a parent home to serve as chauffeur.

  Danny had never complained, though. He seemed content to read books or stay at school or play on the computer. Later in the evenings she’d sometimes go on walks with him around the neighborhood. They’d wave at the other families. Danny would check out houses with DirecTV. Or sometimes she’d walk and he’d ride his bike around her and show off stunts like riding no-handed for her amusement.

  She’d always liked those walks. She’d felt safe, passing through their modest community where everyone worked hard and knew one another’s name.

  This morning Sandy didn’t feel comfortable enough to step outside to get the morning paper. She was too afraid people would stop and stare. And she wasn’t sure which bothered her most, the looks of anger or of pity.

  She stayed in her kitchen, a prisoner under house arrest, and scrubbed her appliances until they sparkled. Then she attacked the kitchen floor, all the while pretending it was just another day in the neighborhood and her life hadn’t really ended two days ago.

  This morning Sandy had called the detention center at promptly seven a.M. It had been forty-eight hours since she’d last spoken with her son, and she desperately needed to see him. Was he frightened, was he scared? Did he understand what was happening to him? Did he miss her or call out her name in the middle of the night?

  What if he was having nightmares? What if he wasn’t getting enough to eat or the blankets scratched or the sheets itched? For God’s sake, she was his mother and she needed to be with her son!

  The head of the detention facilities, a Mr. Gregory, had firmly but politely informed her that Danny had already begged them not to let his mother in. The director had located Danny in the cafeteria first thing this morning to mention that his parents wanted to visit. Danny had immediately grown so agitated that staff members had had no choice but to return him to his room.

  It appeared he was too traumatized to deal with his parents. Maybe in a week or two.

  Sandy had never heard of anything so ridiculous. If her son was traumatized, all the more reason for her to come. She could bring his favorite toy, bake his favorite cake. Please, something, anything …

  Don’t leave me on the outside like this. Don’t leave me feeling so helpless.

  Mr. Gregory informed her that her son was still under suicide watch. And they’d had to return Danny to his room because, at the mention of seeing his parents, he grabbed a fork from another youth and tried to puncture his own wrist.

  She and Shep were not to visit. Period.

  The sound of the lawn mower stopped. A sharp bang as Mr. McCabe removed the clippings bag. He was probably dumping the grass on his flower beds. Sandy had seen him do it a hundred times. Churning the grass clippings into the beds to replenish the nitrogen. Working the soil tenderly with his old, gnarled hands.

  She finally set the plate in the drying rack. The dishes were done. Her countertops sparkled, her floor was freshly mopped. She’d even cleaned the stove and wiped down the microwave. Now it was eight in the morning and Sandy didn’t know what to do.

  She turned toward Becky, who was eyeing her somberly from the ki
tchen table.

  “Would you like more cereal, honey?”

  Becky shook her head. The bowl of Cheerios placed in front of her fifteen minutes ago still appeared to be untouched.

  “What about some fruit?” Sandy coaxed. “Or what about pancakes? I can make you chocolate chip pancakes!”

  Sandy regretted the words the moment she said them. Chocolate chip pancakes were Danny’s favorite.

  Becky shook her head.

  Sandy resiliently turned toward the refrigerator, searching for more options. Becky hadn’t eaten in nearly two days.

  “I know,” Sandy said brightly, “how about some salad!”

  She eagerly pulled out the clear glass bowl. The salad had been among four dishes that had arrived on their front porch yesterday. The others had contained macaroni and cheese, a ham-and-potato dish, and some kind of mystery-meat surprise. This bowl had impressed Sandy, however. The mixture of strawberry Jell-O, apples, bananas, walnuts, and whipped cream was a favorite children’s salad, and it touched her that others were thinking of Becky. God knows, the little girl was suffering too.

  Sandy held up the brightly colored salad for Becky’s inspection. Becky had always loved Jell-O and whipped cream.…

  A slight hesitation, then finally Becky nodded. They had a winner!

  Sandy dished up a large bowl for her daughter, humming slightly to herself in honor of having scored a victory. She poured a glass of orange juice to go with Becky’s breakfast. After another thought, she poured a glass of juice for herself as well and joined her daughter at the table.

  From the living room came the sound of Shep snoring. He’d been out most of the night and returned at some small hour of the morning, reeking of beer. Sandy knew without asking where he’d gone. Rainie’s house. Whenever he was troubled, whenever he had something on his mind, he always went there.

  Once Sandy had entertained wild notions of what must be going on at the Conner residence. Everyone had heard stories of Rainie’s mother and what kind of woman she’d been. Sandy had imagined her husband and his deputy rolling around in a torrid embrace. She had fantasized about them laughing together and giggling madly over what an idiot pretty little Sandy Surmon must be not to suspect a thing.