When the Storm Breaks

by Heather Lowell

  “So your witness can’t remember anything and the killer has focused on the one that got away. Any more gifts?”

  “No.”

  “Interesting,” Agent Keeley said. “Maybe he’s found a distraction.”

  “That would be good news for the witness and bad news for the investigation.”

  “Yeah. Okay, here are my general impressions, off the record of course.”

  “Absolutely. So far we have exactly nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Anyway, I’m going to assume that you’re basically familiar with the different categories of serial killers, based on their motivations.”

  “Yes. I’m thinking we have a control freak or a thrill-seeker here,” Sean said.

  “So am I. At this point, I’d lean toward control-oriented over the hedonistic or thrill-seeking killer. Given the risky nature of these attacks, and the fact that he’s never been caught or left so much as a fingerprint behind that we know of, I’m fairly sure he plans his killings in advance.”

  “Agreed. Although he may not have always been this good,” Sean said. “I’m willing to bet he left some forensic evidence behind at his earlier crime scenes, but it somehow got overlooked. Maybe the investigators’ techniques or tools weren’t up to today’s standards.”

  “That’s possible. At this point in his ‘career’ the killer probably stalks his victims for several days to learn their routines and choose the perfect site—one that’s risky, but not stupidly so.”

  Sean nodded as he wrote. “I figure it’s like a game to him. He might get caught, so that adds to the thrill when he’s selecting his location and victim.”

  “Yes. The stalking phase is a vital component in his fantasy life. I’m willing to bet he gets off on the process of planning the killing almost as much as the actual deed itself,” Agent Keeley said.

  “That’s one thing that confuses me. It’s almost like the killing is perfunctory. There’s no sexual assault, no torture, no indication of restraints, no defensive wounds. He kills with a single stab wound, but then gives her three or four more postmortem. Then he leaves them where they’re lying, possibly taking a small trophy with him.”

  “I’d say he has no respect for women. Once the operation has gone as planned and they’re dead, he’s essentially through with them. Then he walks away without looking back.”

  “And the postmortem stab wounds?” Sean asked.

  “I imagine they’re a crack in his self-discipline. He possibly doesn’t even remember inflicting those additional wounds.”

  Sean closed his eyes, trying to visualize how the attacks had taken place. “So the first stab is done while the victim is upright. It’s a fatal wound. Then she falls and he stands over her and stabs her again, probably in the heat of the moment.”

  “Yes, it’s an angry act. He may not realize that it’s rage against a slice of the female population that’s driving him. He thinks it’s the stalking and killing of his prey that motivates him—if he thinks about it at all. There’s an underlying disdain for women you can see in his acts.”

  “Isn’t that true in most cases?”

  “Some, but not all. I imagine this guy had a very dominant father, and a mother who was either submissive or abandoned the family. But I don’t think his mother was the defining female presence in his life. He definitely has rage toward a particular group of women, which the victims all represent.”

  “They’ve all been Hispanic females, similar in coloring and build. But I don’t understand why most were prostitutes, while the last one was a teacher. The only thing the victims had in common was living on the wrong side of town, but for Renata Mendes that was in her past.”

  “It’s not uncommon for this type of predator to change his victim selection and modus operandi as he perfects his craft. Sometimes, these guys hit on something they really like, and go back to repeat it and feel that gratification again,” Keeley said.

  “Is that what you think is happening here?”

  “I see a couple of possibilities. First, prostitutes are often a target of opportunity because of the reality of their profession. They’re always out there, always easy. But as the killer matures, he wants more of a challenge, which could explain the shift in victims.”

  “You sound like you think there might be something else.”

  “It’s possible. Let’s go back to the Herrera case,” Agent Keeley said. “Cristina Herrera was a young mother of two, a reformed crack addict, and a former prostitute. She’d been living in a halfway house for a year and had just been cleared to get custody of her children again.”

  “In other words, she was a rehabilitation success story,” Sean said thoughtfully.

  “Exactly. When she was killed in her old neighborhood, just a couple of days before getting her children back, what was the local media reaction like?”

  “They were all over it. She’d previously been profiled for a news story about a promising new rehabilitation technique. Her death was considered doubly tragic because she seemed to be on the verge of turning her life around,” Sean said, remembering the newspaper coverage.

  “You hit the nail on the head. The press was all over the story. I’m positive that fed the killer’s need for more. He loved it—couldn’t get enough, actually. That’s why the next murder followed so closely after the first, at least compared to your estimates about his previous pace.”

  “That must be why he selected Renata Mendes,” Sean said. “She was a poor kid from a bad neighborhood who had managed to make something of her life.”

  “And the media was sure to cover that angle of the story. It’s one of the reasons she stayed in the headlines for more than one day. I’m sure he’s still living off the thrill of that.”

  “Think of what would happen if the media got wind of the witness as his next potential victim,” Sean said, feeling a cold sensation in his gut.

  “Yes. I don’t need to tell you she’s in grave danger. This new victim he’s stalking has raised the bar, so to speak. She’s more challenging and alluring than any of the others, so he’s probably willing to go to greater lengths to get at her. The payoff, in his mind, will be worth it.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “There’s more. I see an element of ritual in the killer’s MO, especially in the weapon selection, crime scene layout, and taking of the trophy. Ritual is very comforting to this type of killer, but in the case of Renata Mendes the routine was accidentally broken by your witness.”

  “She messed up his sick little game,” Sean said. “She changed the rules.”

  “I’m afraid so. That may give him an even more powerful motivation, because he may feel the need to get things right this time. I think it’s going to make his behavior even more risky, and certainly more difficult to predict.”

  Sean couldn’t speak as rage and fear washed over him—even though he knew emotions wouldn’t help him catch the guy who was threatening Claire.

  But the killer’s own escalating drive and need to take risks would.

  Sean thought quickly. “If the killer is changing his patterns, taking more risks, wouldn’t it stand to reason that he’d be more likely to make mistakes? After all, he hasn’t perfected his new methods yet.”

  “That’s a logical conclusion,” Keeley said. “Many serial killers are caught when their thrill-seeking behavior and growing boldness take them out of their comfort zone. In essence, they become too caught up in the game.”

  “Like when you’re playing chess and get so wrapped up in planning your strategy you forget to watch what your opponent is doing.”

  “Exactly,” Keeley said. “I think that’s how you’ll eventually nail this bastard. The only question is when.”

  Chapter 50

  Washington, D.C.

  Friday evening

  Claire stepped into her high heels and tiredly rolled her head, trying to ease some of the kinks out of her neck. It had been four weeks since she’d stumbled across a murder scene, and the po
lice weren’t any closer to the killer than they had been that night. Now she was heading out on yet another date from Camelot’s catalogue.

  While some of the men had gone out of their way to be charming and attentive, she couldn’t say the same for herself. She did only what was required for the investigation—eating fine food, drinking sophisticated wines, playing a role to gather information, and then going home with a police escort.

  And every night she went to bed alone, knowing that the investigation was mired in Camelot’s endless catalogue and her own lack of memory—except in dreams. She didn’t remember then either; she just woke up clammy and terrified. Awake and alone, she told herself that the murderer had lost interest in her, but she couldn’t believe it. She sensed the lurking, malevolent threat as clearly as she had when she’d received her purse and a victim’s bloody sash, a cruel gift from a sadistic mind. Added to the strain of being around Sean day after day, it was enough to make her jump at every strange sound.

  Sean wasn’t doing anything to lower her level of tension. Night after night he sat at the bar with his gaze fixed on Claire. Their eyes frequently clashed when she looked around the room during the evening, and each time was like a physical jolt. When she got up to leave the room, she could swear his eyes were burning into her back.

  They had hardly spoken two words alone since the night they’d made love. He went out of his way to avoid her and communicate through others. The mixed messages she was getting from his piercing blue stare and his standoffish actions kept her awake long into each night.

  She supposed it was better than obsessing about the killer stalking her.

  With her mouth turned down at the thought, Claire fastened a set of dangling earrings in her lobes and picked up a light shawl from the chair in Afton’s guest room. In the cab on the way to Camelot, she reviewed the file on her date for that evening. Just another normal guy, who worked a normal job and had no apparent fractures in his psyche.

  “Seeking a true soul mate in a world of imposters.” Claire smiled faintly as she read the line beneath his photo. Who isn’t, my friend?

  When the cab dropped her at Camelot, she was taken to the nursery in the back. Afton was on the floor changing one of her babies, while the other howled loudly from the crib.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” Claire asked.

  “No, come on in. The troops have just been fed, but Justin seems to be a little annoyed at being put down for his evening nap. My nanny is gone, so it’s just me, and the little monster will have to tough it out.”

  “Maybe he needs a little help to fall asleep, hmmm?” Claire set aside her purse and shawl and stepped out of her uncomfortable shoes.

  Crossing to the crib, she looked down at the red-faced baby crying in frantic gulps. She draped a cloth over her shoulder and lifted Justin out of the crib. As soon as she bounced him gently against her shoulder, he calmed down. Trying to fit a clenched fist in his mouth, he surveyed Claire with owlish brown eyes.

  “Someone’s pretty tired,” she said in a soothing voice. “I bet a little time in the rocking chair will do the trick.”

  She sat down in the rocker near the crib and gently adjusted the baby against her shoulder. He lay there, content to rest his head on her chest and look up at her shiny earrings.

  “You’re going to spoil him,” Afton said affectionately.

  “It’s not possible to spoil something this sweet.” Claire pressed her lips to Justin’s forehead, then leaned her head against the back of the chair and sighed tiredly. “Lord am I beat. No offense, but when this is over I’m canceling my membership with your company. If I never go on another date it would be fine with me.”

  “Then how are you going to meet a man and have one of your own screaming babies some day?”

  “There has to be another way. Besides, I don’t see you going out on a lot of dates, either.”

  Afton laughed. “I’m a single mother with twin babies. Plus I’m trying to run a business. Some days I don’t even get around to brushing my hair, so where would I find time to date?”

  “I know it’s tough, but some companionship might balance out your life. Besides, you might meet someone and fall in love. Then you’d have a partner to help you raise the boys.”

  “I don’t think so.” Afton hesitated, then confided in Claire. “There’s only one man for me—and he’s dead.”

  “I’m so sorry. You never said anything, so I wasn’t sure…” Claire trailed off.

  “It’s all right. It’s been a year, so I should be getting used to the idea by now. But it still hurts. Even more when I think how he never even knew I was pregnant before he died.”

  Claire tried to imagine how Afton must feel, but couldn’t. “You’re very strong.”

  “That implies I had a choice. With two babies, I’m just doing what has to be done every day and nothing more. Believe me, I never thought I’d be doing it alone. But he had a dangerous job which took him all over the developing world, so I should have known that something…could happen.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was a geologist working for an international petrochemical company. He went on a surveying trip and was murdered in a robbery attempt at the compound where he was staying. I found out I was pregnant three days after I was told about his death. We were never married.”

  Claire bit her lip, unsure how to respond.

  Afton looked up at her and smiled sadly. “It’s okay. I’m learning to deal with it. And I can’t regret the time we spent together, or the fact that I have two healthy boys to always remind me of their father. I don’t want them to grow up without a male influence in their lives, but I’ll never love another man the way I loved their father.”

  “Of course not, but that doesn’t mean you can’t love again, in a different way,” Claire said.

  “There isn’t any point. I’ve known real love, so why would I settle for second best? As for finding another man, who would want to be my consolation prize, knowing my heart is already given to someone else?”

  Claire felt her insides clench as the words hit dangerously close to home. Over the last week it had been almost impossible to work up enough energy to make small talk with her dates. Her thoughts were focused on Sean, and when she measured other men against him, they came up short.

  Consolation prize. Is that what she would have to settle for once Sean was no longer in her life?

  “Do you really think there’s just one man out there for you?” Claire asked, cradling the sleepy weight of the baby against her shoulder. “One true love for everyone?”

  “Yes. If you’re really lucky, things work out. If not, you take what you can for as long as you can have it, and then you have your memories to get you by. I’m lucky to have Cameron and Justin.”

  Claire looked down at the child sleeping against her and envied Afton her certainty and her children. “They’re wonderful boys, and you’re a wonderful mother.”

  “You’ll be a great mother, too. Look at how you settled him right down.”

  “First I need to meet the father,” she said wryly.

  “Which reminds me—it’s time for your date.” Afton stood up with her other son.

  “Can I have just a few more minutes?” Claire asked, brushing her lips over the baby’s incredibly soft hair.

  “Would you watch them for a second then?” Afton said, putting Cameron in the crib. “I need to clean up in the kitchen.”

  “No problem.” Claire closed her eyes. “We’ll be right here.”

  And so would the question that she couldn’t duck and couldn’t answer. Was Sean the one love of her life?

  She’d certainly never felt this way about anyone before. He was affecting her work, her sleep, her social life, and her peace of mind. Worse, he’d become her measuring stick for the male of the species.

  And they could hardly bear to be in the same room together.

  Shoving away the unanswerable questions, Claire continued to rock and cuddle the ba
by against her. Gradually the certainty of being watched made her eyes snap open.

  Sean was staring at her.

  “Sorry to wake you,” he said. “Your date’s here.”

  He didn’t know how he’d managed to make a coherent sentence. He’d never really thought about having children, though he had always assumed it would happen someday—when he was ready. The sight of Claire, barefoot and dressed in a cocktail dress, gently rocking a sleeping baby in her arms, gave him an almost prescient feeling, a certainty that someday she would hold his child. It jerked the world out from under him.

  He didn’t say another word to her. He was having enough trouble breathing past the tightness in his chest without trying to talk.

  Chapter 51

  Washington, D.C.

  Friday evening

  The man frowned as Marie Claire’s cab pulled away from the curb, quickly followed by an anonymous beige sedan. Watching, he clicked his thumbnail against his teeth in a nervous habit he wasn’t even aware of.

  This is ridiculous. Don’t the police have anything better to do than follow her around?

  At first he’d worried that she’d remembered something, perhaps even identified him, but after two weeks, he didn’t think so. There was absolutely no sign that the police were interested in him. Even so, he decided that there wasn’t any point in risking being noticed by following the cab as he had for the past three nights. Same time, same restaurant, different date, same cops.

  My gift must have really shaken Marie Claire and the police if she has round-the-clock protection. He smiled at the thought and considered sending her something else just to watch the fuss and freshen up the story for the media.

  It was a delicious idea, but he decided against it as he had every other time it occurred to him. It wasn’t that he was frightened by the police—they added spice to the game even as they made it more difficult—but the longer he watched Marie Claire and her escorts, the more he believed that the cops were using her as bait to get to him.