Braedon grabbed his t-shirt and swatted her now covered butt. “Last one there has to make breakfast."
Half an hour later, he sat eating what passed for a morning meal. Katrina pushed around her dry cereal, picking out the marshmallows first. When she pursed her lips to blow on her coffee, he had to beat back the urge to kiss her. The cheating little wench. He'd been in the lead as they raced to the water's edge, until he heard her cry out. Concerned that she'd hurt herself, he turned to offer assistance, only to find her standing topless. She laughed and wiggled her fingers as she ran by, taking full advantage of his being stunned motionless.
This Katrina, the one with the amazing tattoo and the throaty laugh, was a sharp contrast to the buttoned-down consummate professional. Both of them turned him on. He'd be hard pressed to say which one had a bigger effect on him.
When she let loose, she reminded him so much of his sister. He wished, not for the first time, Serena was still alive. He missed his big sister and could use her advice. He had a feeling his sis would have understood this woman.
With a minimum of conversation, he and Katrina finished their breakfast, cleaned up the site, and started off to explore the last of the four murder scenes. He hoped to God it was the last of the crime scenes. They had to get this guy before he took another innocent life.
His thoughts slid back to his fiancée and his sister, two lives snuffed out way too young. As unbearable as that grief had been, how much worse might it have been if they'd been murdered? His heart reached out to the families of the victims. For them, he needed to catch this bastard and bring him to justice.
A loud chirping disturbed the silence, startling Braedon.
"What the heck is that?” Katrina watched as he fumbled with his pack, digging into a side pocket.
"It's the glorified walkie-talkie they tried to pass off as a cell phone. They gave it to us for use in the event of an emergency.” He dug around inside the pocket until his fingers latched on to the device, a satellite cell phone. “Powell here."
"It's Symansky. I need you to meet me at the parking area.” She rattled off GPS coordinates so fast he had difficulty memorizing them.
"Is there a problem?"
"I'll explain everything when you get here."
Shit. One look at Katrina's face confirmed that she'd reached the same conclusion he had. There'd been another murder.
Exchanging one gadget for another, Braedon entered the coordinates he'd been given. “It looks like we're about a mile from where we need to meet."
"Good. The sooner we get to the crime scene, the better."
Easy for her to say. She'd conducted previous crime scene investigations. While he'd seen more than his fair share of dead bodies, it was usually once they were in a body bag or covered up with something. Getting up close and personal with the newly departed was going to be a new experience.
"Katrina, something occurred to me. I've been thinking about the pictures from the crime scenes and our conversation with Ed. It's almost as if our UNSUB is strung out on drugs."
She paused, her lips twitching from side to side as she thought. “It's not impossible."
"Probable even?"
"Yes, I'd say so."
Satisfied, he headed them to the arranged site. The little map guided them to the parking area without incident. Symansky sat waiting in her unmarked car. In silence, they deposited their backpacks in the trunk and climbed into the car, Katrina taking shotgun. Once they were back on the road, the state trooper supplied what little details had been made available to her. A couple was found early that morning, murdered in their tent as they'd been camping near the Eckville shelter. Not much more was known. The Bureau and the State Police both had crime scene investigators on site and a coroner had been summoned.
Katrina's leg bounced on the floorboard, shaking her entire body. Her bra strap cut into her shoulder and under her breasts. She wanted to pick at the wedgie making it uncomfortable to sit. She twisted her ponytail around and around until she was sure it was a knotted mess.
Jeez Louise, couldn't the woman go a mile over the speed limit? It wasn't like she'd get a ticket if she actually got stopped. Heck, there probably weren't even cops in some of the tiny towns along the winding narrow roads. Her right foot pressed down on an imaginary gas peddle, hoping it would work.
A hand on her right shoulder startled her. Looking down, she recognized Braedon's strong fingers. Her leg stopped swinging and her bra fit again. The darn wedgie still annoyed her. His knuckles stroked up her neck to her hairline, then back down again to her collarbone. She longed to tip her head to the side to give him better access, to purr in delight. Only the presence of another person in the car stopped her.
After what felt like an all day cross-country road trip, but was in reality less than an hour, Symansky pulled off the four-lane highway. Tree branches crunched under the tires, the suspension tested by the rocks and gravel. Angling the car to a stop in front of a wooden marker, Symansky shifted the car into park and let the engine idle.
"I'd like to radio ahead and see if there's anything we should know before we head to the crime scene."
Katrina bit her lip and sat on her hands. The urge to scream and throttle the statie thrummed through her body. What did it matter? They needed to get to the scene while everything was still fresh. She drew a deep breath into her lungs and counted to ten ... twenty. “Tell them not to remove a single thing until we get there."
"Yes, ma'am."
At least the other woman knew who ran the show.
Ten.
Ten people now dead.
Two additional victims killed while she and Braedon...
No, she had to stop those thoughts. They didn't know the time of death yet. And even if it had been last night, they were miles away with no way to prevent the crime from occurring. Unless of course they'd started at the final crime scene and worked their way south instead of starting at the first one and working their way north. No, even then they might not have been close to here. She had to stop second-guessing herself. Everyone on the task force had made the decision to start where they did.
Plain and simple, they were dealing with a lunatic. A man with no discernible pattern. At this point, they couldn't even type the vics, except for the fact that they'd all been couples sleeping in tents on the Appalachian Trail. That didn't narrow things down any, especially at this time of year.
Her brief call to the scene completed, Symansky led Katrina along the narrow path. Glancing back over her shoulder, Katrina caught sight of her partner, hiking along behind. Heading south on the trail, she scanned the scenery for any signs, anything out of place. Anything at all.
The silence surrounded them as they covered the two-mile distance to their destination. Except that it wasn't really quiet. The crunch of their boots on the path and the rustle of the foliage disturbed the birds, which voiced their displeasure at the disruption. Katrina wished she'd have spent more time with her grandfather, whose love of all things ornithological used to drive most of the family to distraction. The only call she recognized was the distinctive whistle of the bobwhite, whose call mimicked his name.
After about half an hour of steady hiking, the unmistakable sounds of a crime scene investigation overpowered the sounds of nature. The calls of the technicians sounded out of place in such a normally peaceful place. The whole situation marred the bucolic beauty of the Appalachian Trail.
Darn it, they needed to catch this bastard.
Nothing about these crime scenes made sense. Usually by now, the law enforcement agencies involved had a much clearer picture of their UNSUB. They may not be any closer to locating him, but at least they had a sharper image of what they were after.
It's almost as if our UNSUB is strung out on drugs.
Braedon's random comment rung out as loud and clear as the report of an unsilenced gun. Was he on to something?
"Symansky."
The trooper stopped at the edge of the clearing, less than one
hundred yards from the hive of activity. Powell pulled up short next to her.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"I want a detailed listing of all illegal drug activities in the counties where bodies were found."
"Ma'am?"
"You heard me. I want a detailed listing of all activities, locations, drugs involved, major players. Anything else you have."
"May I ask the reason?"
"Powell has a theory we need to follow up."
He shot her a we do? look. She'd explain it all to him later if she needed to, but he was smart enough to put two plus two together. Now, they had an investigation to join.
"I'll have it for you at our next scheduled meeting."
"Thank you."
Striding past her two stunned colleagues, she made her way to the man who appeared to be coordinating the entire effort. His update was polite and efficient. Nothing in his tone or demeanor indicated that he believed she worked for the Fumbling Batch of Idiots instead of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The local law enforcement agencies generally despised Bureau involvement, looking at them as interlopers. It was actually nice to be asked for assistance for a change and appreciated.
"Agent Boyd."
The call from the edge of the crime scene diverted her attention. She jogged over to the technician on his hands and knees.
"We got a footprint.” Excitement gleamed in the young tech's eyes. “It looks like some sort of flip flop, so that won't help up much. But it's clear enough to give us a size and stature. If I can find any others, we can get a height."
"Great work.” Finally, a break. A small one, but a break nonetheless. Sometimes, that's all it took. Combined with a little luck and some screw ups from the UNSUB. If his anger was escalating, he might just begin to make some mistakes. “Let me know if you find anything else."
With a mumbled, “Will do,” the tech went back to crawling around. Katrina was tempted to cross her fingers as she hoped he'd find something. A cursory glance around the area located Braedon with the team leader whose name she couldn't remember. Quick strides closed the distance until she stood at his side. The investigator shifted his focus to address her.
"I was just explaining to Agent Powell that the tent has been processed, so you can conduct your own investigation whenever you're ready."
With all the testosterone jockeying back and forth between the two men, it became evident that Powell had wanted to start without her but the head tech wasn't having any of it. She hated having to soothe dinged male egos. Sometimes she wished they'd just whip out their precious penises and declare a winner based on size. Powell would win hands down just about every time.
"Agent Powell, if you'd like to take the lead, please do so."
Puffing out his chest and shooting an indecipherable glance at his opponent, Powell headed for the large structure. The tent was one of the largest Katrina had seen, leading her to believe this couple were not thru hikers but rather weekend adventurers. Snow White and all seven dwarfs could sleep in that thing. No self-respecting thru-hiker would want to lug that from Maine to Georgia.
Braedon pushed through the unzippered opening with caution and a hesitance recognizable only to Katrina. This was his first “live” homicide scene. Even the strongest—
He backed out of the same opening and darted behind the tent. The next sound Katrina heard was the unmistakable noises of him losing the contents of his stomach. Oh yeah, even the biggest and baddest had difficulties with their first couple of dead bodies, especially when there was carnage involved.
"I tried to tell him it was one of the worst I'd seen. He didn't want to listen to me."
Katrina heard the censure in the team leader's voice. Why couldn't she remember his name? “He wouldn't have listened to me either. Sometimes you just have to let them learn the hard way."
He nodded sagely and walked away, no doubt to spread the story of the wimpy fed. Poor Braedon. It probably wouldn't help his ego any to know that at least half the techs here tossed their cookies the first time they saw a dead body, or that she had, too.
Only the first dead body she'd seen hadn't been an anonymous victim, it had been her best friend Meg, crushed in the driver's seat of her car. She'd lost consciousness before she realized Meg had died.
Shaking away that thought, she made her way behind the tent, bottled water in hand. Braedon looked up when he heard her approach, the green tint around the gills fading. She thrust the plastic bottle in his direction. Tingles shot up her arm, to her breasts and on down to her crotch when their fingers brushed.
"How ya feeling?"
"Embarrassed as hell.” He rinsed out his mouth before taking a swig.
"No need to be. It happens to the best of us."
He arched a quizzical eyebrow. “Even you?"
"Even me.” She contented herself by letting him think it was in a similar situation. “I'm going in. You can wait here."
"You have got to be shitting me.” The muscles in his legs bunched and rippled as he pushed to his feet.
"Suit yourself."
At some point in time, she'd soothe his wounded ego by telling him about the time she'd lost her lunch at a crime scene.
* * * *
Two hours later, Braedon sat on a fallen log with Katrina, two state police troopers, and the chief crime scene investigator. The crime scene might have been two long miles from their present position, but he remembered every detail in vivid color, blood red in particular. When Hendricks, a rookie statie working with Symansky, fessed up to almost joining him behind the tent, he felt marginally better. It had been brutal. The UNSUB had escalated his behaviors, a typical, if not disturbing, pattern. Both of the middle-aged vics had their throats sliced to the point of near decapitation and been stabbed repeatedly. The true meaning of the word overkill. The female vic had been naked, but there'd been no signs of sexual contact pre or postmortem.
As the main point of contact for the task force, Symansky volunteered to notify the next of kin once they'd ascertained that information.
The team had located three footprints, enough for them to deduce that they were looking for a man of medium stature with a thin build. The first solid piece of evidence he'd given them. What it wasn't was enough information to narrow down the field of possible suspects.
Braedon had an idea he'd have preferred to run by Katrina first, but didn't want to lose valuable time by waiting until their next briefing with the task force. If he spoke with her in private, they'd be forced to wait three more days until the trooper's return. He wasn't willing to lose that much time. He was willing to risk pissing off Katrina. “Symansky, I'd like you to map out the coordinates of the five crime scenes and then find an area that's roughly equidistant from all of them. This guy can't be going far after freaking out like he did.” He risked a glance at his partner to see if he'd pushed too far.
She nodded her agreement. “I think Powell is on to something."
She did?
"In addition to our efforts on the trail itself, we need to expand our parameters. If we need to pull in more people from Philadelphia, we can. I'd like to get another pair of hikers on the trail, if not two. Whatever it takes to catch this guy. I don't want to see anymore people end up like the two today.” Anger flashed in Katrina's eyes.
After clarifying assignments and making arrangements for their next meeting, the task force broke up.
Rigor mortis, lividity, and body temperature narrowed the time of death to between ten and two in the morning. A passing hiker had noticed something wrong with the tent at around six in the morning and contacted local police on his cell phone. Braedon had sat with Katrina while she interviewed the shaken young man, coaxing details from him.
She'd been nothing but professional during the entire investigation. Well, except for that erotic lapse last night. Braedon had no idea what Special Agent in Charge Jack Griffin was looking for, because there was nothing to find. The special agent he'd witnessed in action was nothing short of amazing. If
the Office of Professional Responsibility, the Bureau's version of Internal Affairs, wanted to waste their time investigating an agent of Katrina's caliber, so be it. As the FNG, it wasn't his responsibility to tell them they were blowing valuable taxpayer money. Except that Jack had made it his business when he'd asked Braedon to watch for anything suspicious. The only thing Braedon found questionable was why they had their eye on her in the first place.
Enough of that train of thought or he'd drive himself crazy.
"So, do we work our way back to where we were or do we hitch a ride?"
She asked me? “Since we have no idea where this creep will strike next, I say we go back and examine the site we haven't seen yet and see if there are any clues to this rampage."
"I agree. I'll go grab Symansky before she heads out."
The wiggle of Katrina's ass as she quick stepped toward the clustered investigators captivated his attention. Damn, he had to get his hands on some condoms and in a hurry. As wonderful as her mouth felt last night, he wanted—no needed—to be inside of her in the worst possible way. He'd never before needed a woman with this much intensity. Not that he cared to examine that disturbing fact too closely.
"Everything's gathered up. We're ready when you are."
Shit. He must be losing his edge if he'd allowed Katrina to sneak up on him.
"I'm more than ready to vacate this place.” He'd rather not return to the scene of his most embarrassing moment. To think he'd actually hurled over the sight of a couple of dead bodies and some blood and guts. He'd been in war zones, for fuck's sake. At least Katrina hadn't said anything. “Is there a grocery store or someplace we can stop on the way back?"
Symansky pursed her lips as she thought. Normally, he found that gesture sexy. Not this time. “There's a supercenter not too far off the main road. We can stop by there if that works for you."
Any place with condoms worked for him, not that he planned to share that information. “Sounds fine."
The trio took a late lunch break at a fast food restaurant near the supercenter before Symansky returned them to the northern end of the spread out crime scenes. Part of Braedon wanted to complete the hike to their final destination. The other part wanted to set up camp, process what they'd learned over the course of the morning, and spend the rest of the evening using as many of the condoms he'd bought as possible.
Trail of Desire [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 2] Page 10
