“Yeah, but they lump you in just the same, and they still consider your mother the ninth victim. You have to admit, it was one strange, messed-up case.”
“Messed up is an understatement,” Addie muttered.
Matt continued, undaunted, “An FBI profiler with an almost godlike reputation helps capture the psycho and then ends up stalking and murdering a victim with the same MO in order to continue Finch’s mission. Talk about crazy.”
“Merrick obviously had a psychotic breakdown,” Addie said. “Which is why he remains to this day in the state psychiatric hospital in Columbia. He’s where he belongs. End of story. Let’s get back to Delmar Gainey. We’re standing in his house of horrors, after all.”
“Yeah, sure. We can get back to Gainey. But there’s a lesson to be learned from James Merrick. Especially for you.”
She frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Your new assignment.” He let his head fall back against the door frame as he observed her. “It’s a game changer. I’d be the last one to ever stand in your way.”
“I know that. I also know you deserve this assignment more than I do.”
“That’s not true. You’re a good detective, and you’re smart. You need to stop selling yourself short because of a stupid rookie mistake.”
Addie winced.
“Just stay smart, okay? The people who’ll be training you are a different breed. Next-level intense. What we found here is nothing compared to what they deal with on a daily basis.”
“What’s your point?”
“Sooner or later, what they do takes a toll. It has to if you’re human.”
“You don’t think I can handle it?”
“Oh, I know you can handle it. Just be aware. Profiling is a powerful tool, but it’s not without a dark side. It can mess with your head if you’re not careful.”
“You mean like James Merrick.”
“He entered the mind of a monster and created an opening, allowing the monster to slither back into his.” Matt’s gaze deepened, and he seemed uncharacteristically sober. “You go into that training with an open mind, Addie. Learn everything you can from this Gwen Holloway. Be a sponge. Soak it all up. Then you come back to the Charleston PD and put that knowledge to good use. But always keep your guard up. Always protect yourself. The moment you let that monster crawl inside your head and make a nest is the moment you become the next James Merrick.”
* * *
SPECIAL AGENT ETHAN BARROW stood at rigid attention beside his rented SUV as he eyed the abandoned house through his Ray-Bans. His gaze traveled over the crumbling roofline and then dropped once more to the sagging porch. The place was as dark and creepy as one might imagine the lair of a ruthless predator would be. Even the sun shining down through thick curtains of Spanish moss seemed muted, casting the house in perpetual gloom.
Ever since Ethan’s return to Charleston, the news had been dominated by the gruesome discovery inside that house, managing to overshadow the upcoming anniversary of Orson Lee Finch’s incarceration and James Merrick’s subsequent confinement to the state psychiatric hospital. Twenty-five years after the fact, Orson Lee Finch remained at Kirkland Correctional Institution, housed in a specialized unit for the state’s most violent inmates. Most people thought he deserved worse. James Merrick remained a patient on the infamous fourth floor, a ward for the criminally insane. Most people thought he deserved worse.
Ethan wasn’t one of those people.
He shifted his position so that he could glimpse around the corner of the house. He heard voices over the fence, but no one approached him. That was good. He needed a few minutes to plot his strategy. Or to work up his courage. No reason in the world Adaline Kinsella should agree to hear him out after what he’d once put her through, but she was the only person he could turn to right now. The only person he trusted with the potential bombshell that had fallen into his lap.
He moved back to the other end of the SUV, killing more time. It had now been twenty-four hours since his arrival in Charleston, and he had yet to make contact with Addie. He hadn’t slept much. He’d eaten poorly, consumed too much coffee, and now he was starting to feel the strain. He’d forgotten just how hot and humid the city could be in the middle of summer. Virginia was bad enough, but coastal South Carolina was a whole new level of misery. He wasn’t dressed for the weather. He loosened his tie and tugged at the collar of his starched shirt, but he didn’t remove his jacket. The dark suit was his uniform now. Both his identity and his camouflage.
His first order of business upon landing at Charleston International Airport the day before had been to rent a vehicle and drive to Columbia to interview Orson Lee Finch. Over the years, Ethan had studied dozens, perhaps hundreds, of photos and videos of Finch, but he’d never met him in person. Face-to-face, Finch’s appearance had taken him by surprise. The Twilight Killer was a small man, pale and wiry with bright blue eyes magnified behind the thick lenses of silver-framed glasses. His grooming was fastidious—crisp khaki uniform, combed hair, clean and clipped nails. He resembled a scholar or historian. He did not look like a serial killer. Ethan couldn’t help but wonder how Finch had managed to survive for as long as he had behind bars. Maybe he was small enough and his appearance so nondescript that he’d managed to go unnoticed. Or maybe his looks were deceiving.
They’d sat on plastic chairs, eyeing each other warily through the partition until Finch had picked up the phone. A few minutes of awkward conversation had ensued while Ethan tried to get a feel for his subject. Finch had struck him as quiet and reflective, a man who’d long ago made peace with his deeds and circumstances. His placid demeanor never altered until Ethan had broached the topic of Finch’s mother. Then the blue eyes seemed to intensify behind the glasses and the corner of Finch’s mouth twitched, as if he were suppressing a painful memory.
“Your mother never married, did she?” Ethan had spoken in a conversational tone, trying to draw the man out. “That must have been tough. Children born out of wedlock were stigmatized back in your day. You were probably teased in school, maybe even bullied.”
Finch said nothing.
“Your mother worked as a housekeeper, so I imagine money was tight. Barely enough for necessities, let alone extras. You wore hand-me-down clothing from the people whose houses she cleaned, and as much as you enjoyed having those nice things, you resented where they came from, didn’t you? You were hostile to the hand that fed you.”
Finch watched him avidly through the partition.
Ethan glanced down at his notes even though he had everything memorized. “Despite your disadvantages, you were a good student. Always the brightest in your class, but your financial situation limited your prospects. A full-ride scholarship must have been the answer to all your prayers. A dream come true. You studied horticulture at a state school, right? You wanted to be a landscape architect. Then your mother became ill during your junior year, and you were forced to drop out of college to take care of her. That’s when you got your first job as a gardener. You had to go back, hat in hand, to the people who had given you their throwaway clothing.”
Finch had stared at him for the longest moment before answering. “Is this your way of establishing rapport, Special Agent Barrow? Or do you wish to impress me with the amount of homework you’ve done?”
“How’s this for homework? You have a daughter out there somewhere. No one knows her name or where she’s been since your incarceration. Some believe her mother was your first victim. Did she fit your criteria? A single mother without morals. A loose woman who valued her freedom more than her child. What happened? Did she refuse to marry you? Is that what set you off?”
Finch’s expression never changed, but something dark glinted at the back of his eyes. “After all these years and all the files you people have amassed—mountains, I’m told—no one has ever gotten it right. Not even the esteemed James Merrick
.”
“Is that a denial?”
Finch studied his hand for a moment. “Merrick’s profile was flawed from the start. It was written from the cynical presumption that I harbored ill will toward my own mother. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was a happy child. We didn’t have money, but I never wanted for affection. I wasn’t starved for attention. Your psychological evaluations to the contrary, I wasn’t bitter then about my lot in life and I’m not bitter now. That must surprise you. You’re thinking, if he’s really innocent, how can he be so accepting of such a cruel injustice?”
“How do you accept it? If you really are innocent, that is.”
A smile flickered for the first time. “I could never give an explanation that would satisfy someone like you. Acceptance isn’t in your nature. A man like you will always be at war with his emotions. Tormented by what he can’t know. Unable to make peace with his past.”
Damn if the observation hadn’t been insightful and perhaps even prophetic.
After Ethan had left Orson Lee Finch, he’d driven to the state psychiatric hospital. He was no stranger to the layout of the parking area or the maze of hallways and wards. He’d visited regularly for years and was afforded certain privileges because of his position and background. He had signed in and then been escorted up to the fourth floor, where an orderly had unlocked a small room and waved Ethan inside.
James Merrick had been at the window, gazing out over the shady grounds. He hadn’t turned when Ethan entered, nor had he acknowledged Ethan’s presence in any way. That wasn’t unusual. He never gave any indication of recognizing Ethan from one visit to the next. Ethan had learned to ignore the long silences and unblinking stares, as well as the disturbing sounds that came from deep within the facility. He focused his attention instead on the patient’s journals, poring over pages and pages of painstakingly scribbled gibberish in the hope of finding the one clue that would break everything open.
He had that clue now. The last piece of the puzzle was finally within his grasp.
“I came here to tell you that new evidence has turned up in your case,” he’d said to Merrick.
The man had given no indication of comprehension, but Ethan hadn’t let the prolonged silence discourage him.
“I won’t go into the details yet. It’s early stages of the investigation. But I wanted you to know that I’m still out there looking for the truth. I never believed you were guilty. Not once in all these years.” Ethan walked over to the window and placed his hand briefly on the man’s frail arm. “Do you remember me?” he murmured. “I’m Ethan.”
Nothing so much as a blink.
“I work for the FBI just as you did. I even do support investigations for the BAU. Back in your day, it was called the Behavioral Science Unit.”
Still no response.
“My stepfather is Richard Barrow. You knew him once. I took his name when he married my mother, but he’s not my dad. My real name is Merrick. Ethan Merrick. I’m your son.”
Chapter Two
The muted thrum of a car engine drew Ethan’s attention, pulling him out of that twelve-by-twelve room, away from the power of his father’s vacant stare and back to his roadside vigil in front of the Gainey house.
He turned his head toward the sound, noting the presence of a black Dodge Charger—the preferred FBI pursuit vehicle—at the end of the street. The car did not approach, nor did the driver pull to the curb to accommodate oncoming traffic. The Charger sat idling in the middle of the road as if daring Ethan to notice.
Any hope he’d had of flying under the radar vanished. He’d seen that same vehicle or one like it parked outside his hotel that morning. Ethan had gone about his business, taking tortuous routes as he ran aimless errands, and eventually he’d lost the tail in downtown traffic. He had no doubt, though, that whoever was keeping tabs on him had already heard about his trip to Columbia and his visit that morning to the Charleston Police Department. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that they’d found him again so quickly—they were pros, after all—but it had only been by sheer luck that he’d overheard mention of Adaline Kinsella’s name and her whereabouts. He had no idea why the agents had thought to look for him here unless they’d known all along he would come to Addie.
He glanced around, once again scoping out his surroundings. He needed an exit strategy in case the occupants of the Charger got too curious. The house sat at the end of a dead-end street, nearly hidden by a canopy of live oaks and palm trees. The nearest neighbor was a block away, but Ethan was hardly alone. While he stood contemplating his options, the voices behind the fence grew louder, and through one of the grimy sidelights, he caught the silhouette of a woman.
Was it Addie?
Had she spotted him?
Probably not, he decided. If she had an inkling of his presence, she would have already come outside to give him a piece of her mind. Not that he could blame her. He deserved every insult and condemnation she could heap upon him. Still, he’d come here with his hat in hand, offering her the chance to help solve the case of a lifetime.
He squinted down the end of the road, trying to determine if the car had crept a little closer. Even from a distance, he could tell the windows were tinted and the license plate obscured. He wondered briefly if a tracker had been planted on his vehicle. Maybe that was how they’d found him again so quickly. More likely they’d used his phone’s GPS. Electronic surveillance usually meant clout and someone with serious intent.
The surveillance had annoyed him earlier, but now he was just plain pissed. He resented having his every move scrutinized and disseminated. He’d used personal days to come to Charleston on his own dime, relying on his own resources. As far as he was concerned, this was not the FBI’s business, but of course, his section chief would likely see things differently.
So be it. Might as well give them enough rope.
He climbed into his rental and made a U-turn in the street, picking up speed as he headed toward the Charger. The acceleration thrilled him. He pushed the pedal to the floor, and the powerful V-8 roared. The scenery blurred in the side windows as the vehicle shot forward.
For a moment, he wondered if the driver meant to call his bluff. The vehicle remained immobile for so long that a crash seemed imminent. Ethan braced himself and was just about to swerve when the car reversed down the street and backed around the corner in one smooth move. Then the driver shifted and the Charger catapulted through the intersection.
Ethan made the turn without slowing. He gripped the wheel as the SUV fishtailed and the tires spun on the graveled shoulder. Up ahead, the Charger careened around another corner and blasted through a stop sign, narrowly missing a woman and two small boys as they stepped off the curb. The mother had plenty of time to pull the children to safety on the sidewalk, but she froze. Ethan could have sworn he saw her lips move in prayer a split second before he hit the brakes.
The tires squealed in protest as the rubber gripped the pavement and the powerful vehicle skidded to a stop.
He hopped out of the SUV and called to the woman, “Are you okay?”
She spoke in a heavy accent. “Are you crazy? You could have killed us!”
She kept screaming at him, gesturing wildly with her arms as the boys clung to her legs. Ethan stood silently by and took it. She had every right to call him out. What had he been thinking, engaging in a high-speed chase?
He scanned the neighborhood from his periphery. Many of the houses along the street were in various stages of disrepair, but he could see signs of gentrification creeping in. He wondered what the upwardly mobile millennials would think of their fixer-upper investments when they learned about the house at the end of the dead-end street.
Apologizing profusely, he got back in his vehicle. He waited until the woman was safely across the street with the children and then he circled the block and headed back to the abandoned house, parkin
g in the very spot he had vacated only a few minutes earlier. The incident left him shaken. He’d been able to stop in plenty of time, but that was beside the point. What if his brakes had failed? What if he’d lost control of the wheel? He’d behaved recklessly, and that wasn’t like him. Not anymore. Maybe he’d played the game for too long, kept his head down and his nose clean for so long that his dangerous impulses were rebelling. Ever since he’d received the first email from a woman named Naomi Quinlan, his life had been one risky decision after another.
He locked the vehicle and walked through the tall weeds in the front yard, pausing at the bottom of the steps to scan the ramshackle facade. He could no longer see anyone inside. Whoever he’d glimpsed earlier had moved into another part of the house or perhaps had left the premises altogether. He hoped that wasn’t the case. Far better that he approach Addie on neutral ground than to show up unexpectedly at her house.
He lifted the crime-scene tape over his head and opened the front door. Before he could step into the foyer, a male voice halted him. “Stop right there. In case you can’t read that yellow tape, this is a crime scene. You need to get back behind the barricade and stay there.”
Ethan took out his wallet and showed the man his credentials. “My name is Ethan Barrow. I’m with the FBI.”
The man glanced at the badge and scowled. “No one said anything about federal involvement.”
Ethan returned the wallet to his pocket and removed his sunglasses. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Detective Matthew Lepear, Charleston PD.” He glanced behind him into the gutted room. “Delmar Gainey’s victims have been dead for over two decades, Agent Barrow. The man himself died five years ago. Why would the feds be interested in this case?”
“I’m not interested in your case, Detective. I’m looking for Adaline Kinsella.”
“What’s your interest in Detective Kinsella, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Criminal Behavior--A Thrilling FBI Romance Page 2
