by Kay Hooper
“How you feel about that?”
“All my life, I’ve counted on those extra senses to give me an edge when I needed it. When somebody else was bigger or stronger or smarter or faster—or just meaner. Without them, I don’t know if I’m good enough to do my job.”
I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Gordon said. “I’ve seen you accomplish plenty without the spooky senses.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Wish it helped the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.”
Maybe changing the subject, Gordon asked, “How’d the date go last night?”
She knew he wasn’t asking for details, and wouldn’t; he just wanted to know if her evening with Ash had changed anything.
It was an answer she didn’t have.
“It went…it was fine.” Riley hesitated, then said, “Tell me I can trust him, Gordon. Promise me I can trust him.”
“Wish I could, babe, but I don’t know the man well enough to promise anything. All I know’s what I hear, the little bit I’ve seen for myself, and for what it’s worth that’s mostly good. I’d want him on my side in a fight. My gut says I could depend on him to watch my back. But we both know that don’t mean he couldn’t be a bastard to the woman sharing his bed.”
“I don’t think…That isn’t what I’m afraid of.”
“What, then? Afraid he carved up a living human being out in the woods?”
“I don’t think he could do that. But I don’t know he didn’t. Gordon, I’m used to getting a sense of people. Deeper than reading expressions or voices or watching what they do. I know who I can trust and who I can’t, almost always, but it’s more than that. It’s a sense of who they are, deep down inside. With Ash, I have the nagging feeling there was something very important I sensed about him. Something I really need to know now. And whatever it was, I can’t feel it, can’t know it anymore. It’s gone.”
“Maybe not gone for good. Maybe just beyond reach right now.”
“Yeah. Yeah, maybe.” As well as he knew her, Gordon wasn’t psychic, and because he’d never lost a sense he couldn’t understand what it really meant to suddenly be without something you had depended on to help you steer your way through an often hostile world.
Riley was only just beginning to realize it herself. The queasy sensation in her stomach intensified.
After a moment, Gordon said, “You got involved with him, and I have a hard time believin’ you’d have done that if you’d sensed anything rotten inside him.”
“I hope you’re right.” Riley looked out over the peaceful summertime scenery visible from Gordon’s dock and wished fleetingly that she could join the fishing party he was expecting any time now and just sail off for a few mindless hours. That sounded a lot more appealing than looking at autopsy photos.
“Riley?”
She looked at him, then straightened away from the bench she’d been half-leaning against. “I’d better go. Jake expected me at the sheriff’s department half an hour ago.”
“I got a friend can take this party out.”
Grateful for the implicit offer, she nevertheless shook her head. “And we’d tell Jake what? That I felt threatened enough to bring along an army buddy to watch my back in broad daylight? I’m an FBI agent on vacation and he’s asked me to advise on an investigation, all nice and casual. So why would I suddenly feel the need for a bodyguard? Nobody else knows about what happened Sunday night, and I want to keep it that way, at least until I figure out a little more of what’s going on around here.”
“Whoever attacked you knows what happened. And if he left you for dead, he’s going to be mighty surprised if he sees you walkin’ around like nothin’ happened. Mighty surprised—and mighty worried about how much you know.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, and I’m not so sure he’ll be worried at all. Far as I can tell, I never even drew my weapon. Can’t be sure about that, but I certainly never fired it. And I was attacked from behind, obviously taken by surprise. Not bragging or anything, but it’s not all that easy to take me by surprise.”
“I would have said.”
“Yeah. So, chances are, I never got so much as a glimpse at whoever was holding the Taser. I think if he—or she, I suppose—believed I’d seen or heard anything that might be a danger to him or her, he or she—Oh, hell. He would have made damn sure I was dead.”
“That’s an awfully big assumption to hang your life on, babe.”
“Yeah, well.” She gestured to the holstered automatic she wore easily on one hip. “From now on, I’m openly armed most of the time and, as far as most people around here are concerned, officially on duty.” A decision she had made after Ash left that morning. “I didn’t want it to be this way, because it means some people are going to be less likely to talk to me. But, after thinking about it, I decided the risks of appearing unarmed outweighed the benefits.”
“Especially with you being a little bitty thing.”
“Yes, I know I don’t look very threatening. A gun tends to make people think twice. With my other edge gone, that’s one I need.”
Gordon pursed his lips. “I’ll be happy to spread the word you’re hell on wheels in a bare-fisted fight. It’s not like it’d be a lie.”
“Don’t go out of your way.” Riley shrugged. “But if the subject comes up, why not? Whoever the guy is, I want him to get the idea that taking me by surprise a second time won’t be so easy.” She held up a hand when he would have spoken to say, “Which also means I won’t be going out at night by myself, not again.”
“Call me,” he said. “It was me got you involved in all this, so you’d damn well better call me next time.”
With some feeling, she said, “Believe me when I say I do not want to go up against the bastard’s stun gun a second time. If I need to do any investigating at night, I’ll call you.”
“Any hour.”
“I know. Thanks.” Riley took a step toward the walkway that would lead her around to the street side of Gordon’s house, then paused and looked at him with a frown. “Gordon? What’s happening in Charleston?”
He looked blank for a moment, then said, “Oh, you mean the murders?”
“If that’s what’s happening. Murders?”
“Yeah. They got a serial killer, apparently. A real mean one, leaving his victims pretty much in pieces. Been at it awhile, I gather, but the cops just put it together about a week ago, at least according to the Charleston papers. Bastard’s targeting tourists, men only, and everybody’s pretty tore up about it all.”
“I guess so.” Riley felt suddenly cold in the hot July sunshine. Can’t be. Not the same M.O. And there must be a hundred serials operating right now in this country—
Gordon bent to check a bait bucket, adding, “The papers have been calling ’im The Collector. Seems he’s been leavin’ a mint-perfect coin on every one of the bodies. Well, not on the bodies. Inside the bodies, after he finishes cutting ’em up. Guess they could just as easily call ’im The Slot Machine Killer, but—Riley? You okay?”
She wondered if the sun had gone behind a cloud, if that’s why she felt so cold. Why everything seemed dark all at once and she could barely feel Gordon’s big hand on her arm. Except that she knew the sky was cloudless and the sun was hot, that it was a normal summer day.
Normal. That was it, that was the lie.
Because it’s not normal. Nothing is normal, not if he’s hunting again. A ghost can’t hunt, and that’s what he’s supposed to be. He’s dead.
I killed him.
2½ Years Previously
It was an unexpectedly cool night in New Orleans, which suited Riley. She liked heat when she was on the beach or at a pool, but otherwise not so much. Especially at night, and most especially on a night when she might have to move fast.
Being distracted by the sense-assaulting chaos of the French Quarter at night was bad enough without also coping with sticky clothing. What little she was wearing, anyway.
“Hey,
honey—how ’bout a date?”
“I’m off duty,” she said.
He blinked in surprise and nervously fingered a strand of alien-head Mardi Gras beads that were adding a nicely tacky flourish to his colorful shorts and floral shirt. “Aw, now, don’t be like that, honey. I can pay for a room.”
“I’m sure you can, champ, but I’m just not interested.” She kept her tone bored and her gaze moving; the last thing she needed tonight was to get picked up for solicitation, and she’d been on the watch all evening for cops patrolling the street on foot.
It made the job she was here to do even more difficult, and for at least the tenth time she regretted the skimpy clothing that made her blend right into the festive crowd but also made her a target of unwanted attention.
He’ll never notice me, but, dammit, every straight guy between fifteen and sixty-five has. I could make a bloody fortune. Probably should have picked an outfit closer to tourist and further away from hooker.
Not that there was much distance between those two seeming opposites, not with today’s skimpy summer fashions. Besides which, she wanted to look more like a native than a tourist and, clearly, had achieved that goal.
Realizing that the hopeful would-be john was still standing there, Riley allowed an edge to creep into her voice. “Look, it’s my night off, okay? Find another playmate.”
He hesitated, scanning her up and down with clear disappointment, then sighed and moved on.
Riley decided that she obviously looked too available just hovering, so she began to stroll slowly along the sidewalk, allowing the moving crowd to carry her.
It had to be New Orleans. She was certain of it. She had followed the killer from Memphis to Little Rock, a step behind him as she’d been for months, studying the butchered bodies he left for the police to find, trying to climb inside his mind far enough to do more than guess where he’d strike next.
Then, in Little Rock, looking at the bloody scene of his latest murder, something inside her had whispered Birmingham. She had hesitated, questioning her instincts, her clairvoyance, whatever it was trying to guide her.
But she had been right; his next victim died in Birmingham. And Riley had arrived just in time to view yet another scene of butchery.
By then her own anger at being once again too late to help the victim had nearly blocked her, but even through that fury she had heard the whisper. New Orleans.
I’ll be in New Orleans, little girl. Meet you there.
She hadn’t told Bishop that part when she reported it. It had probably been her imagination anyway, that’s what she convinced herself. Because she wasn’t a telepath and couldn’t possibly have heard the killer’s voice in her mind. So all she told her boss was that she felt sure New Orleans would be the next stalking ground.
So here she was. A month later.
And so far, nothing.
It was almost impossible to be bored in New Orleans, but Riley knew her patience was wearing thin. This killer had struck at least nine times—Bishop felt there were probably earlier victims not found or not connected, and Bishop was usually right about stuff like that—and all she was sure of after months of exhaustive effort was that her target was a salesman or traveling rep of some kind.
“It makes sense,” Bishop agreed. “He knows the cities and towns he visits. So he’d know where to hunt. All the local hangouts. It wouldn’t take him more than a few nights to be able to recognize the regulars.”
“And pick his target, yeah. But why family men, guys stopping for a beer or two on the way home from work? Jealousy? Because they have what he doesn’t?”
“Maybe. Jealousy. Resentment. Envy. Or just rage. Because it’s all so unfair. Because they’re normal and he’s not.”
“You think he knows that? Knows he isn’t normal?”
“Some part of him knows.” Bishop hesitated, then added soberly, “I hope that’s the part you’re tapping into, Riley. Because the other part of him is black as the inside of hell, pure evil, and that’s not a place you ever want to get caught up in.”
“I’m not a telepath.”
“No, you’re an ultrasensitive clairvoyant and you’ve gotten obsessed with this guy. Which means you’re letting his work seep into your mind, your emotions, into your very pores. It’s dangerous. I warned you—don’t get too close.”
“You knew I would,” she said, and it wasn’t quite an accusation. “When this started. When you recruited me.”
“Yeah. I knew.”
Hearing or sensing what might have been a touch of regret in him, she said, “It’s okay. I knew it too.”
“I wish that helped,” Bishop said. “Be careful, Riley. Be very, very careful.”
Three weeks after that phone conversation, Riley was tense, edgy, and getting a little too familiar with her surroundings. At night on Bourbon Street, it was noisy and colorful and held a particular flavor no other city on earth could match.
People filled the street, some of them lurching or staggering, their eighty-proof laughter scraping along her nerves. The spicy aromas of Cajun cooking mixed uneasily with that of the musty old buildings and cigarette smoke and people. Occasionally the breeze changed, and the muddy smell of the river was added to the rest.
A space had been cleared about halfway down for a juggler to entertain the crowd, his practiced patter loud and cheerful. The music booming from the clubs and strip bars lining the street clashed with the mournful wail of a folk singer, his guitar case open for contributions on the sidewalk before him.
And under the bright lights of the street, the appearance of the crowd ran the gamut from a few garish costumes apparently left over from Mardi Gras to men and women in business suits. In between lay everything from jeans and T-shirts to the brief skirts or shorts and halter tops of the teenagers—and hookers.
Riley was trying to close out all that, trying to focus her mind only on her prey.
You’re here, you bastard. The cops don’t know it yet, don’t know there’s a hunter prowling their streets. These people don’t know. But I know. I can feel you, like an itch on the back of my neck. Smell you, like the sour stench of cheap cologne and old sweat.
And need. You smell like need. You need to kill tonight, don’t you? It’s been too long since the last one. Why have you waited so long? You never did before. Three weeks, max, never a whole month. Why wait a month this time?
Is it me? Do you know about me?
Can you feel me the way I can feel you?
A peculiar dizziness swept over Riley, and her step faltered. She blinked at the sea of moving people, then managed to make her way far enough out of the flow to lean a hand against a building.
She realized she was gagging, that there was an awful metallic taste in her mouth. She put her free hand up to touch her lips and when she looked at it could see blood.
Her probing tongue could find no wound in her mouth, no reason for there to be blood. There was no pain. So why was—
The smell of it was suddenly thick in her nostrils, and for an instant she was sure her hands were slick with the viscous stuff, the knife in her grasp held securely only because he knew what he was doing—
Oh, Christ. It’s him.
Riley realized she was moving only when she passed the police cars blocking off the end of Bourbon Street as they did every night. She didn’t stop, didn’t even hesitate. As the smell and taste of blood grew stronger, her pace quickened, until finally she was running, away from the crowds and toward something she didn’t want to find.
At some point she drew her weapon from her shoulder bag; she was hardly conscious of doing it. She was only aware of running, faster and faster, her lungs burning and her side aching when, finally, she found it.
Him. What was left of him.
She was standing at a construction site, partially cleared for a new building but holding nothing yet except huge earthmoving machines, looming still and silent all around her. Stoic inhuman witnesses to the atrocities committed here.
There was nothing from the navel down except the grisly pulp of hacked-up internal organs.
Too late. Riley was too late. Again. And the taste of blood was still in her mouth.
Missed again, didn’t you? But don’t worry, little girl. You’ll get another chance. I’ll see you in Mobile.
She could have sworn she heard the echo of mocking laughter, but it wasn’t on the faint breeze blowing around her.
It was inside her own mind.
And this time she knew it wasn’t her imagination.
Present Day
“We don’t know it’s him. Not for certain,” Bishop said.
Riley sat in her car at the sheriff’s department, the cell phone to her ear, and struggled to keep her voice even and calm. “He’s leaving coins, right? Mint-condition coins inside the victims.”
“That shouldn’t have leaked to the press.”
“It didn’t leak before, we both know that. Which means this killer isn’t a copycat.”
Bishop’s voice held all the calm Riley’s lacked, and then some. “What we both know is that hundreds of people worked on the previous investigations over time, so we can’t be sure information wasn’t leaked—even if it didn’t make the newspapers.”
“He’s dead, Bishop. I killed him.”
“I believe you did.”
Riley realized that with her free hand she was gently rubbing the burns on her neck and made herself stop. “One of us needs to take a look at what they’ve got. Be sure. I can—”
He didn’t let her finish. “We haven’t been invited, Riley. And since our previous investigation was officially closed and our killer officially taken off the books, what’s happening in Charleston right now is being viewed as an entirely new case, most likely a copycat.”
“A full-blown serial killer just popping up out of nowhere? If his ritual is established, then he’s killed before.”
