by Nora Roberts
“Probably not.” He took a swig from the Coke she’d provided. “But if he does, he’s not going to find you alone.”
She cast her eyes up to the puffy clouds dotting the sky. “Maybe I should start serving refreshments.”
“Cookies would be good. You can’t go wrong with cookies.”
She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Look, here comes one of the next class. Go protect and serve someone else.”
He waited until the car came close enough for him to see the driver was female. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget the cookies.”
Davey gave a nod to the other driver as he got into his cruiser and she parked.
She climbed out, a tall, pretty brunette with a swingy wedge of chin-length hair and what Fiona thought of as city boots. Stylish and thin-heeled under trim gray pants.
“Fiona Bristow?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, what great dogs! Can I pet them?”
“Sure.” Fiona signaled, so her dogs stepped up to the woman and sat politely.
“They’re so sweet.” She shoved her enormous shoulder bag behind her back and crouched down. “The pictures on your website are good, but they’re even better in person.”
And where’s your dog? Fiona wondered. But it wouldn’t be the first time a potential client came out to scope her and her setup before signing up.
“Did you come to monitor a class? I have one starting in about ten minutes.”
“I’d love to.” She angled her face up, all fresh style and perky smile. “I was hoping I’d hit between classes so I’d have a few minutes to talk to you. I checked the schedule on your website and tried to time it. But you know how the ferries are.”
“Yes, I do. You’re interested in enrolling your dog?”
“I would be, but I don’t have one yet. I’d love a big dog, like one of yours, or maybe a golden retriever, but I’m in an apartment. It doesn’t seem fair to coop one up that way. But once I get a place with a yard . . .”
She rose, offered a smile and her hand. “I’m Kati Starr. I work for—”
“U.S. Report,” Fiona finished, in a tone that went cool. “You’re wasting your time here.”
“I just need a few minutes. I’m doing a follow-up, actually a series of stories on RSK Two, and—”
“Is that what you’re calling him?” It revolted her on every level. “Red Scarf Killer Two—like a movie sequel?”
Starr traded in her smile for a tough-eyed stare. “We’re taking it very seriously. This man has already killed four women in two states. Brutally, Ms. Bristow, and with his latest victim, Annette Kellworth, that brutality escalated. I hope you’re taking it seriously.”
“Your hopes aren’t my problem. My feelings aren’t your business.”
“You have to understand your feelings are relevant,” Starr insisted. “He’s reprising the Perry murders, and as the only woman known to have escaped Perry, you must have some thoughts and feelings on what’s happening now. Insight into the victims, into Perry and RSK Two. Will you confirm the FBI has interviewed you regarding these latest homicides?”
“I’m not going to comment. I already made that clear to you.”
“I understand you may have felt reluctant initially, Fiona, but surely now that the death total is up to four, and these abductions and murders are heading north, from California to Oregon, you must want to be heard. You must have something to say—to the families of the victims, to the public, even to the killer. I only want to give you a platform.”
“What you want are headlines.”
“Headlines draw attention. Attention needs to be paid. The facts need to get out. The victims need to be heard, and you’re the only one who can speak.”
She might have believed that, Fiona considered, or at least part of it. But reality dictated that the attention focused on the killer with the catchy nickname.
“I have nothing to say to you, except you’re trespassing on private property.”
“Fiona.” All calm and reason, Starr pushed on. “We’re women. This man is targeting women. Young, attractive women with their lives ahead of them. You know what it is to be that target, what it’s like to be a victim of that kind of random violence. All I’m trying to do is get the story out, get the information out so maybe his next target is more aware, and maybe she’ll keep having her life ahead of her instead of ending up in a shallow grave. Something you know, can say, may be what helps her live.”
“Maybe you mean that. You’re only trying to help. Or maybe what you want is another front-page story with your byline. Maybe it’s a little of both.”
She didn’t know; she couldn’t allow herself to care.
“But here’s what I do know. You’re giving him what he wants. Attention. You published my name, where I live, what I do. And that helps no one except the man who’s emulating Perry. I want you off my property, and I want you to stay off my property. I don’t want to call the deputy who was just here to escort you off, but I will.”
“Why was the deputy just here? Are you under police protection? Do the investigators have any reason to believe you may be a target?”
So much for facts and the public right to know, Fiona thought. What this one wanted, at the base of it, was dish.
“Ms. Starr, I’m telling you to get off my property, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.”
“I’m going to write the story with or without your cooperation. There’s interest in a book deal. I’m willing to compensate you for interviews. Exclusive interviews.”
“That makes it easier,” Fiona said, and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “You’ve got ten seconds to get in your car and get off my property. I will press charges. Believe it.”
“Your choice.” Starr opened her car door. All pretense of the perky dog lover was stripped away. “The pattern says he’s chosen his next victim, or he’s preparing to. Scoping out the area for the right target. Ask yourself how you’re going to feel when he racks up number five. You can reach me through the paper when you change your mind.”
Hold your breath, Fiona thought. Please.
SHE PUT IT out of her mind. Her work, her life were more important than a persistent reporter hoping, Fiona imagined, to springboard a book deal off tragedy.
She had her dogs to care for, her little garden to tend to and a relationship to explore.
Simon’s toothbrush took up residence in her bathroom. His socks scattered messily in one of her drawers.
They weren’t living together, she reminded herself, but he was the first man since Greg who slept consistently in her bed, whose things mixed with hers under the same roof.
He was the first man she wanted with her in the night when ghosts haunted her sleep.
HE WAS THERE, and she was grateful for it, when Tawney and his partner returned.
“You should go on to work,” she told Simon when she recognized the car. “I think I’ll be safe in the hands of the feds.”
“I’ll stick around.”
“All right. Why don’t you let them in? I’ll make some more coffee.”
“You let them in. I’ll make the coffee.”
She opened the door, holding it open to the morning air. It looked like rain heading in, she noted. That would save her from watering her pots and garden beds—and add a realistic element to the training classes she had on tap for the afternoon.
Dogs and handlers couldn’t pick just sunny days for a search.
“Good morning,” she called out. “You’re getting an early start. Simon’s making some fresh coffee.”
“I could use some,” Tawney told her. “Why don’t we go back, sit in the kitchen?”
“Sure.” Remembering Mantz’s aversion, she gestured the dogs out. “Go play,” she told them. “I’m sorry I missed you the other day,” she added, leading the way back. “We’d planned to be back earlier, but we dragged our feet. If you want a place to go and unwind, it’s the spot for it. Simon, you’ve met Agents
Tawney and Mantz.”
“Yeah.”
“Have a seat. I’ll get the coffee.”
Simon left her to the pouring and doctoring. “Anything new?”
“We’re pursuing the avenues,” Mantz told him. “All of them.”
“You didn’t have to make another trip out here to tell her that.”
“Simon.”
“How are you, Fee?” Tawney asked her.
“I’m all right. I’m reminded daily how many people I know on the island, as somebody drops by to see me—read: check in on me—several times a day. It reassures, even as it makes me itchy.”
“We can still offer you a safe house. Or we can work putting an agent here, with you.”
“Would it be you?”
He smiled a little. “Not this time.”
She took a moment just to look out the window. Her pretty yard, she thought, with its tender spring gardens just starting to pop with color and shape. And all that bumping up against the tower of trees that climbed up the slopes and walked down again, offering countless paths to stroll, lovely surprises of wild lupine and dreamy blue cannas.
Always so quiet and restful to her, so hers season by season.
The island, she thought, was her safe house. Emotionally, yes, but she absolutely believed in every practical sense as well.
“I think, realistically, I’m covered. The island itself makes me less accessible, and I’m—literally—never alone.”
Even as she spoke, she watched her dogs wander by. On patrol, she mused.
“He broke pattern with Annette Kellworth. It’s possible he’s not interested in me anymore, not interested in mirroring Perry.”
“His violence is increasing,” Mantz stated. “Perry duplicated himself, obsessively repeating the same details with each murder. The UNSUB isn’t as controlled or disciplined. He wants to flaunt his power. Sending you the scarf, increasing the time he holds his victims, and now the added physical violence. But he continues to use Perry’s methods, to select the same type of victim, to abduct and to kill and dispose in the same way.”
“He’s adapting his work, finding his own style. Sorry,” Simon added when he realized he’d spoken out loud.
“No, you’re not wrong. Kellworth may have been an aberration,” Tawney continued. “Something she said or did, something that happened that pushed him to the increased violence. Or he may be looking to come into his own.”
“I’m not his.”
“You’re still the one who got away,” Mantz pointed out. “And if you’re going to talk to the press, it keeps you front and center, and makes you more of a challenge.”
Annoyed, Fiona turned from the window. “I’m not talking to the press.”
Mantz reached into her briefcase. “This morning’s edition.” She laid the paper on the table. “And the article’s been picked up by a number of online venues and cable news crawls.”
TRAIL OF THE RED SCARF
“I can’t stop this. All I can do is not give interviews, refuse to cooperate.”
“You’re quoted. And your picture runs inside.”
“But—”
“ ‘Surrounded by her three dogs,’ ” Mantz read, “ ‘outside her tiny woodland home on scenic and remote Orcas Island where purple pansies tumble out of white pots and bright blue chairs sit on the front porch, Fiona Bristow presents a cool and competent demeanor. A tall, attractive redhead, slender in jeans and a stone-gray jacket, she seems to approach the subject of murder with the same practical, down-to-earth manner that has made her and her canine training school fixtures on the island.
“ ‘ She was twenty, the same age as Annette Kellworth, when she was abducted by Perry. Like Perry’s other twelve female victims, Bristow was incapacitated by a stun gun, drugged, bound, gagged and locked in the trunk of his car. There, she was held for more than eighteen hours. But unlike the others, Bristow managed to escape. In the dark, while Perry drove the night roads, Bristow sawed through the rope binding her with a penknife given to her by her fiancé, Officer Gregory Norwood. Bristow fought off Perry, disabling him, and used his own car to reach safety and alert authorities.
“ ‘ Nearly a year later, still at large, Perry shot and killed Norwood and his K-9 partner, Kong, who lived long enough to attack and wound Perry. Perry was subsequently arrested when he lost control of his car in his attempt to escape. Despite her ordeal, and her loss, Bristow testified against Perry, and that testimony played a major role in his conviction.
“ ‘ Now, at twenty-nine, Bristow shows no visible scars from that experience. She remains single, living alone in her secluded home where she owns and operates her training school for dogs, and devotes much of her time to the Canine Search and Rescue unit she formed on Orcas.
“ ‘ The day is sunny and warm. The dogwood trees flanking the narrow bridge over the creek that bubbles across the property are in bloom, and the native red currant flames in the quiet morning. In the deep green woods where shafts of light shimmer through the towering firs, birds twitter. But a uniformed deputy drives his cruiser down her narrow drive. There can be little doubt Fiona Bristow remembers the dark, and the fear.
“‘ She would have been XIII.
“‘She speaks of the “movie sequel” title this mimic of George Allen Perry has been given, and the headlines his brutality has generated. It’s attention this man known as RSKII seeks, she believes. While she, the lone survivor of the one who came before him, wants only the peace and the privacy of the life she has now. A life forever changed.’ ”
“I didn’t give her an interview.” Fiona shoved the paper aside. “I didn’t talk to her about all of this.”
“But you did talk to her,” Mantz persisted.
“She showed up.” Struggling with rage, Fiona barely resisted ripping the paper to shreds. “I assumed she was here to ask about a class—and she let me assume that. She talked about the dogs, then she introduced herself. The minute she did I told her to go. No comment, go away. She persisted. I did say he wanted attention. I was angry. Look what they’re calling him, RSK Two, so it gives him flash and mystery and importance. I said he wanted attention, and she was giving it to him. I shouldn’t have said it.” She looked at Tawney now. “I know better.”
“She pushed. You pushed back.”
“And got just enough to run with it. I ordered her off the property. I even threatened to call Davey—Deputy Englewood—back. He’d just left because we both thought she’d come for class. She was here five minutes. Five goddamn minutes.”
“When?” Simon demanded, and a quick chill skipped up her spine at the tone.
“A couple of days ago. I put it away. I made her go, and I thought, I honestly thought I hadn’t given her anything—so I put it aside.”
She let out a breath. “She’s made him see me here, with my dogs and my trees. The quiet life of a survivor. And she’s made him see me there, in the trunk of that car, tied up in the dark—another victim, who just got lucky. The one line, the one about attention. The way she’s written it, that’s me speaking to him, dismissing him. It’s the sort of thing he might fixate on. I understand that.”
She glanced at the paper again, at the photo of her standing in front of her house, her hand on Newman’s head, Peck and Bogart beside her. “She must have taken this from her car. You’d think I posed for it.”
“You shouldn’t have any trouble getting a restraining order,” Tawney told her.
Discouraged, Fiona pressed her fingers to her eyes. “She’ll eat that up. I wouldn’t bet against her adding column inches on me to that article, my pansies, my chairs—painting a damn picture—because I wouldn’t play ball. She’ll only be more determined to write about me if I make her an issue. Maybe I played it wrong. Maybe I should’ve given her the interview the first time around. Something dull and restrained, then she’d have lost interest in me.”
“You don’t get it.” Simon shook his head. He had his hands in his pockets, but Fiona knew there was noth
ing casual about it. “Talk to her, don’t, it doesn’t matter. You’re alive. You’re always going to be part of it. You survived, but it’s more than that. You weren’t rescued, the cavalry didn’t come charging up. You fought and escaped from a man who’d killed twelve other women, and who had eluded authorities for more than two years. As long as this bastard’s strangling women with red scarves, you’re news.”
He looked back at Mantz. “So don’t look down your dismissive FBI nose at her over this. Until you catch the fucker, they’ll use her for print, for ratings, to keep it churned up between murders. And you fucking well know it.”
“Maybe you think we’re just sitting on our hands,” Mantz began.
“Erin.” Tawney waved his partner off. “You’re right,” he told Simon. “About the media. Still, Fee, it’s better for you to stick with the straight ‘No comment.’ And you’re right,” he said to Fiona, “that this kind of press will very likely pump up his interest in you. You need to continue all the precautions you’re taking. And I’m going to ask you not to take on any new clients.”
“God. Look, I’m not trying to be difficult or stupid, but I have to make a living. I have—”
“What else?” Simon interrupted.
Fiona rounded on him. “Listen—”
“Shut up. What else?” he repeated.
“Okay. I want you to contact me every day,” Tawney went on. “I want you to keep a record of anything unusual. A wrong number, a hang-up, any questionable e-mails or correspondence. I want the name and contact for anyone who inquires about your classes, your schedule.”
“Meanwhile, what are you doing?”
Tawney glanced at Fiona’s flushed and furious face before answering Simon. “All we can. We’re interviewing and reinterviewing friends, family, coworkers, neighbors, instructors, classmates of all the victims. He spent time observing them, he has to have transportation. He’s not invisible. Someone saw him, and we’ll find them. We’re doing background checks and interviewing anyone associated with the prison who had, or may have had, contact with Perry over the last eighteen months. We have a team working the tip line twenty-four hours a day. Forensic experts are sifting through the dirt from every gravesite, looking for any trace evidence—a hair, a fiber.”
