by Mary Stone
Rather than admit he hadn’t been paying attention when she’d mentioned it, Noah changed the subject. “Have you talked to Detective Bardo about the speeding ticket I flagged in the files? Happened about three days before the murder?”
Bree shuffled through the print copies of the incident reports in front of her, looking for the one he was referring to. Behind her, a tall, dark-skinned woman appeared in the doorway of the conference room. Shelby was the yin to Bree’s yang, he could tell right away. Where Bree was curved, Shelby was sleek. Bree’s skin was light brown. Shelby’s was dark as night. Bree dressed for work in whatever happened to be closest when she opened her closet. Shelby looked like she modeled for Gucci in her spare time.
Shelby smiled at Noah and held a finger to her lips.
“I think it might have slipped out of the stack,” he told Bree helpfully. “Did you check under the table?”
Bree rolled her chair back with a clatter, almost running over Shelby’s toes. “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice muffled as Shelby silently pulled out a chair and slipped into it, at the head of the table. “There’s a paper by your foot. Is that it?”
Noah leaned down and grabbed the paper. “Must’ve been mistaken,” he said with a grin.
Bree sat up. When she saw Shelby, she let out a startled laugh.
“Ready for lunch?”
“You scared the shit out of me.” Bree waved a hand in front of her face, like she was having palpitations. But her eyes lit with a warm glow as she scolded Shelby. “You know I hate it when you sneak up on me like that. You’re like a fricking cat, even in heels.”
Shelby glanced at Noah and gave him a sly wink. “She doesn’t hate it that much.”
“You want to come along, Dalton?”
Bree stood, straightening up her work area. He’d discovered she was a little OCD. His own spot at the table was covered with Danish crumbs and coffee rings, plus enough sticky notes to make a full pad of them.
“I’m good. Thanks for the invite, though.”
He waved them out, glad of the chance to be alone for a while. Noah liked Bree, but his head was feeling cluttered and having other people around didn’t help. He also couldn’t focus on the case like he should be until he shoveled out some of that clutter.
Noah flipped a page in his notebook to get to the list he’d started. He had several lists in his notebook, but if this one needed a title, it would be “Worries about Winter.” On the top was her visions. It was easier to call them migraines, but he had to stop dancing around the issue. The visions were a part of her.
She’d had them since she was a kid, she told him once, after she’d come out of her coma post-Preacher. She’d also lived in Harrisonburg at the time, and had stayed for a few months after the murders, with her grandparents in a rental house in the same town.
He pulled up Google Maps. There weren’t a lot of doctors in or nearby a small town like that that would deal with brain function post head trauma, and he had an idea on how to get more background on Winter’s exact injury. The trick would be finding the doctor or psychologist her grandparents had taken her to.
He didn’t expect to find many, and there weren’t. But when he expanded his search area, wondering if Winter’s grandparents had taken her to a big-city specialist, the number became hard to manage. He deliberated for a good ten minutes, but finally decided the best way to do this was by calling Beth McAuliffe himself.
“Dr. Robert Ladwig,” Beth told him after getting over her surprise at his call. “He’s the psychologist we took Winter to.”
“I’ll let my sister know.” Noah would have felt just as miserable lying to his own grandma in that moment, but he’d needed a valid-sounding reason to call that wouldn’t provoke any probing questions. An imaginary niece had been his excuse. “I meant to ask you at Christmas and forgot. Thank you, by the way, for the invite. I’m sorry we had to leave so soon.”
“Oh, that’s okay. We’ll be sure to invite you back for Easter,” Beth promised. “Do you like ham as much as you like meatloaf?”
Noah laughed. It was no secret that he’d steal Beth away from Grampa Jack for her meatloaf alone. “I’d eat chocolate-covered shoe leather if it came out of your kitchen, ma’am.”
Her delighted laugh lasted a few seconds. “Tell Winter to call me, will you, Noah. Why didn’t you just ask her about her doctor? I thought you’d be working the case that brought you back to town. Were you assigned to a different one?”
Winter hadn’t told her grandma that she’d transferred departments.
“No,” he answered truthfully. “We weren’t assigned together this time.”
“That’s too bad,” Beth replied, her tone a little coy. “I know Winter enjoys spending time with you.”
He wrapped up the conversation quickly after that. Gramma Beth was getting ideas about them. It wasn’t that he had a problem with it. It was the guilt he felt over the current state of their friendship, and the fact that he’d just told Beth a bald-faced lie to get information Winter wouldn’t want him to have.
Wouldn’t do any good to grapple with his conscience right now.
Noah looked Ladwig up on Facebook and LinkedIn. The guy was younger than he’d imagined. Good-looking, with dark hair and intelligent gray eyes but probably no older than his mid-forties. He got great reviews from patients, which struck Noah as odd since Winter made it clear she hadn’t liked him.
Ladwig’s office was in the greater Richmond area, which would make things easier. The Preacher case would be taking up the majority of his time, but the doctor’s office was in Lakeside, which wasn’t far from the FBI offices. He could make time to see the guy, find out what he could indirectly about Winter’s condition.
He called and spoke with a receptionist. Giving his name as Brady Lomond, he explained his cover story. He told her he’d experienced a concussion in his teen years, playing football. He was recommended to Dr. Ladwig after he’d begun experiencing some strange symptoms recently, including odd dreams that seemed to come true.
The woman took his number and said she’d give it to the scheduler, her tone carefully neutral. But less than five minutes later, when his phone rang, it was the doctor himself calling. Noah hung up after the brief, oddly intense conversation with an appointment in Ladwig’s office for the following day.
He was looking forward to it. Not only because he might get some answers about Winter, but because something about Dr. Ladwig was making his own intuition stand up and take notice.
12
“Thanks for meeting with me.”
“No problem, boss.” Winter’s tone was sharp with annoyance. The implication that she’d had no choice in the matter was clear.
Aiden acknowledged her inference with a small smile.
“I hope you’ve been settling in all right. I decided to give you a day or two to acclimate.”
“I didn’t need them,” Winter replied flatly, leaning back in the leather chair across from his desk. “I’m not here to win friends and influence people.”
He kept a close eye on the happenings in his own department, and he’d heard murmurs about Winter already. Mostly curious ones, wondering for the reasons behind her transfer and why she hadn’t been assigned to any teams yet. Others were already steering wide of her. Her keep-away attitude had a few people convinced she was a bitch.
“Can I assume you’ve called me in here to finally hold up your end of the bargain?”
Aiden slid a thumb drive across his desk. “Here’s all of the information we have. Victims. Profile. Extra things I’ve added on over the years. Familiarize yourself with it, but that information doesn’t leave this office.”
“Why?” Her eyes were clear and direct on his. They were also suspicious.
“Because. I told you that you could work on this case, but I want to stay apprised of any moves you plan to make. You garnered the reputation of somewhat of a loose cannon in the VCU.”
“Will you just stop?” Winter grabbed
the thumb drive and shoved it in the breast pocket of her blazer. “You may have gotten me here, but you’re my boss in name only. Don’t pull this bullshit condescending front, acting like I’m some new hire off the street.”
She pushed to her feet, laying her hands on his desk and leaning forward until they were eye level. “I’m still Winter. I’m the messed-up kid you’ve been looking out for since she was barely a teenager. I thought that I was also your friend. What I never intended to be was a member of your staff. I’m here because you blackmailed me into it. I never promised to play by your rules.”
Winter turned and left. He’d expected her to slam his office door until the mini blinds rattled, but she’d just closed the door with an ominous click.
He spun his chair around and looked out his office window at the wet, gray parking lot outside. Only when his back was to the door, did he let himself smile. She wasn’t a kid anymore, that was for sure. Winter wasn’t even the same person she’d been twelve months ago. Everything she’d gone through—the trouble in college that had brought her back on to his radar, the cases she’d seen so far as an agent—it had all been steadily whittling away at who exactly Winter was.
She was developing some very interesting sharp edges.
Aiden’s smile fell away.
She could struggle all she wanted. Those new sharp edges wouldn’t cut her out of the net she was wrapped in now.
Winter left Aiden’s office, ignoring curious looks from other members of the unit. She didn’t know anyone’s names. She wouldn’t be here long enough to learn anyone’s name. The thumb drive in her pocket felt like it was burning a hole in her shirt as she walked briskly past her own desk and out of the office.
Instead of heading for the elevator or the restrooms, she turned right. She knew a guy in computer forensics, and she needed some help.
Doug Jepson sat at his computer looking like a linebacker pretending to be a computer nerd. He was tall, dark, and built like a brick house, with shoulders so wide he probably had to turn sideways to get through doorways. He looked like Terry Cruz. He also wore thick glasses and spoke softly around women, blushing pretty much constantly.
Noah had told her not long ago that Doug had a crush on her. Winter hoped not. He was cute and sweet, but she already had enough men in her life.
She knocked on the top of the short divider that separated his cubby from an empty one. “Hey, hero.”
He looked up and moved his chair too fast to face her, almost knocking over a half-empty bottle of Coke on his desk. “Winter. How’s it going? I meant to thank you.”
“For what?” She grinned at him. “You’re the guy whose skill saved our asses last month with the Presley heists. I’m not here about that, though. I have a tech question.”
He took off his glasses and set them on his desk. “Thank you for talking to my boss. I got a raise out of it, so I owe you. But whatever it is that you need help with,” he went on, grinning, “did you try turning it off and back on first?”
“IT humor. Nice.”
She sat down on the edge of the desk beside him and pulled out the thumb drive, glad that the other cubby was currently empty. “No, I have a different kind of question.” Setting the drive down beside Doug’s keyboard, she lowered her voice. “I’m not supposed to let this leave here. Is there a discreet way that I might be able to liberate the information on it so that I can follow a direct order from SSA Parrish to not let that drive leave this building?”
His eyes widened as he looked up in surprise. “Um…”
“Just a yes or no nod will do.” She kept her tone low and friendly, conscious of any possibility of being overheard. Inside, she was worried that she’d overstepped, and Doug would go to Aiden.
Doug looked at her silently for a moment, his expression wavering between disappointment and resignation. He gave a brief nod. A few minutes later, the info had been copied through a cloaked program and Doug was handing her back two USB drives.
“Thanks a lot.” The words were breezy, but the look she gave him was grateful.
“No problem. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
He didn’t smile at her again, just put his glasses on and turned back to his screen, a deliberate cut. Obviously, Doug had read into the fact that she wasn’t asking him for a favor as a friend. She was out to get something, and she didn’t mind using him to do it.
She didn’t blame him for the cold shoulder. Whether or not it made her feel shitty, that was exactly what she’d just done. Used him.
As she headed back to the BAU offices, she hoped that she hadn’t just squashed a possible friendship. Finding The Preacher first, though, was the most important thing. Everything—everything—else had to take second priority. If she had to take advantage of any relationships she’d made along the way, so be it. Relationships were fleeting.
Winter stared straight ahead on her way back to her desk, ignoring the look from Aiden she intercepted on her way. He was watching from his office. She didn’t react to the scrutiny, even though her palms were sweaty. She rolled her chair in front of her computer, moving quickly. Knowing that he could likely access her computer at any time, she pulled the original thumb drive out of her pocket and put it in the USB port.
She spent the next twenty minutes skimming over the information on the file. Then, she went over and read again, deeper. Keeping in mind everything she knew about the killer. Creating a fuller picture. Aiden, Noah, the murmurs of other unit members, everything else was forgotten as she lost herself creating the most complete outline of The Preacher to date.
The FBI profile was sketchy, as she’d been told to expect, but there was enough there to solidify some of the empty spaces in the shadowy figure of The Preacher. He was estimated to have begun his killings sometime in 1970, a man who killed without conscience, or apparent rhyme or reason.
It was a shock to realize that he’d been working—targeting and killing—since the days of Charles Manson, John Wayne Gacy, the Zodiac Killer, Son of Sam, The Hillside Strangler, Jim Jones. The 1970s were a scary decade to be alive.
Ted Bundy was apprehended in 1975 and later escaped to kill again. He managed to murder somewhere between thirty-six and a hundred women before he was caught. The Preacher’s body count was unknown. Sixty-four victims had been attributed to him in the last five decades. Fifty-eight more unsolved murders were listed as possibly linked.
And while Bundy was sitting in his electric chair in 1989, The Preacher was continuing to kill. Undetected by police because his methods were so varied and his victims so disparate, no one had even thought to attribute them to one man.
Until the Black family.
A feeling of unreality came over her as she read the file. In cold, analytical language, her family tragedy had been parsed into reports, statistics, and theories. One document, a single-spaced, two-page list of known or suspected victims, hadn’t been updated since its creation in 2007. The four entries at the bottom of the last page caught her attention.
Bill Black, male, aged 44. Deceased. Cause of death, cranial trauma from medium-velocity GSW.
Jeanette Black, female, aged 42. Deceased. Cause of death, homicidal cut throat.
Justin Black, male, aged 6. Missing. Condition unknown.
Winter Black, female, aged 13. Blunt force cranial trauma. Currently hospitalized, with score of seven on Glascow Coma Scale (GCS) at last update. Prognosis unknown.
It was jarring to see everything laid out in sterile terms. Medical terms. Emotionally unattached. The brief descriptions on paper were far from adequate when it came to the bloody, terrifying scene she witnessed and experienced.
She didn’t remember the coma—it was just a blank spot, even years later—but she remembered being grateful that night when pain exploded behind her head and dragged her into blackness. She hadn’t wanted to deal with the awful reality of what she’d seen, and at thirteen, had wanted to die beside her family. In that quick second, she’d assumed her brother was dead too. That
the killer would have dispatched him first, so he could focus on the grisly project ahead.
Living was unthinkable in that moment, and she’d been grateful to the killer for not sparing her.
But she hadn’t died. And, it seemed, neither had her brother. If he was still alive, she had to find him. To do that, she’d have to catch The Preacher.
Winter took a deep breath and shook herself loose from the grip of the past. The office was silent, and she glanced at her watch. It was already after eight. She stood cautiously, muscles protesting her hours of focused stillness.
Aiden was still in his office. She felt his eyes on her before she looked up and saw him watching her. Even from a distance, his cold blue stare was intent on her. She stifled an instinctive shudder.
Trust no one.
Oh, she wouldn’t.
She pulled out the thumb drive he’d given her and left her cubicle, winding her way through the office to his. Aiden’s door was open, paperwork spread out on his desk.
“Did you stay late for me?”
“No.” His tone was flat, unconcerned, but he was lying.
She reached out and set the drive on his desk. “I feel like maybe you were waiting around to make sure I returned this.”
Aiden made no move to pick it up. “Any insights yet?”
Plenty. None that she was going to share with him, though.
“I’m still processing. Heading home to get some sleep.”
“Do you need a ride? It’s cold, and I noticed you’ve been biking.”
She gave him a tight smile. “No. I can take care of myself, thanks.”
“I never doubted it,” she heard him murmur as she turned to leave.
She grabbed her jacket and headed out. The halls were quiet, and there was no one at the elevator. Winter’s nerves were strung tense as violin strings, and she was glad Aiden hadn’t followed her out. She had a lot to process—she hadn’t lied about that—and would have rather taken the stairs than subject herself to the uncomfortable ride in the elevator with him.
