by Mary Stone
She strapped on the helmet she’d left dangling from the handlebars of her ten-speed, trying to ignore the fact that she felt like a kid grounded from driving. Pedaling home, though, her muscles loosening and warming with the exertion, she felt better. Winter hadn’t been running regularly lately, and she thought best when she dealt with stress through physical activity.
The burn in her underused muscles faded into the background as her brain focused on puzzles, profiles, and next steps. Everything in her wanted to talk things over with Noah. He’d gotten closer to her than anyone had managed to in a long time. Closer, even, than Aiden had ever gotten. But he’d made his position clear. He wanted her out of the case, and far away. He wouldn’t share information.
So, distance. She could accept that.
But she had to know what they’d uncovered in D.C. Not just reports, but firsthand information—everything he knew about the Delosreyes murder. He wouldn’t share it, and the realization was a bitter one. He didn’t know her as well as she’d thought he did.
Her heart jumped in her chest, bringing her surroundings into focus as she veered right to avoid a braking car. She pedaled hard, focusing on getting through the busy intersection ahead. Winter had forgotten how much drivers sucked when it came to coexisting with bicyclists, and a slip in her vigilance could easily land her useless and in traction in a hospital room somewhere.
She’d call Bree, she decided, after she navigated the traffic junction and settled into a fairly level straight away. Noah wouldn’t budge on this, but she might be able to talk Bree around into feeding her information.
Winter ignored the pang in her conscience. She was going to do this by any means necessary, she reminded herself, and trust no one in the process.
13
Noah parked his truck in front of a building in Richmond that looked more like a credit union than a doctor’s office. Neat beige brick, with a sign out front that read “Connections Psychology and Counseling.”
It looked no different from any other doc’s office, but that didn’t keep him from having an uneasy feeling about the whole thing. He turned off the ignition. He could be just nervous about prying into Winter’s past without her knowledge or permission. But that didn’t feel right. There had been something about the doctor’s voice when he’d called Noah back that had rung a distant warning.
But he had an appointment at nine, and there was no time now to question his plan.
The inside of the office was decorated in soothing pale greens and earth tones, with lots of plants and soft music. It was an environment that invited patients to relax, even though the lobby chairs were empty of any other patients. Even the receptionist was calming, a middle-aged, motherly woman with soft brown eyes and a quiet voice.
“Mr. Lomond,” she said, smiling up at him from behind the counter. “Welcome. I have a few forms for you to fill out while you wait for Dr. Ladwig.”
“Thanks, ma’am.” He smiled back, forcing himself to get into character. He was Brady Lomond. Former football player. Good guy, not real bright. Having brain issues possibly caused by a concussion as a teenager. “It was good of the doctor to see me so quick.”
Noah took the clipboard she handed him and sat down beside a quietly gurgling fish tank. An angelfish eyed him obliquely as he looked down at the paperwork. This would be interesting. He winged it, creating a fake medical history, fabricating personal background and insurance information as he went. He’d barely made it through the first page before the door from the offices to the lobby opened.
“Mr. Lomond?”
A tall, thin man in his mid-forties stepped into the seating area. He looked like a doctor should, with a white lab coat over a muted plaid shirt and plain tie, khaki pants, and polished, expensive loafers. He had a reassuring, friendly face and close-cropped brown hair, flecked with gray at the temples. His eyes were hazel, muted behind discreet tortoiseshell glasses, but the intensity of his stare caught Noah off guard.
The impression faded as Dr. Ladwig smiled, showing a slightly crooked front tooth and a deep dimple at one side of his mouth. “Come on back.” His voice was even and professional. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you since we spoke on the phone.”
“If I can just get your insurance card—” the receptionist began.
“Later, Sue.”
The receptionist blushed and subsided, giving Noah a curious look. “Sure. I’ll just catch you on your way out.”
The doctor led him to an office at the back of the building. Noah had never been to a counselor, so he wasn’t sure what to expect, but the room pretty much fit what he would have imagined. Dark colors, shaded windows, low lamps. He could have been in a wealthy guy’s home office instead of a modern doctor’s clinic. Walnut bookshelves lined the walls, with texts on psychology and brain function tucked next to thrillers by popular authors like James Patterson and Clive Cussler.
There was a desk and a computer, but they were off to one side of the room. The focal point was a conversational grouping of cozy-looking chairs. And the stereotypical therapist’s couch, of course. It wasn’t an old-fashioned chaise, but a big, squashy-looking leather piece. The perfect football watching couch, Noah thought.
“Have a seat,” Ladwig invited.
The couch was as comfortable as it looked, sinking and giving beneath his weight. Everything in the room, the doctor included, was designed to put a patient at ease and have him spill his deepest secrets. Brady Lomond would be no exception, but Noah Dalton had to keep his head clear.
Ladwig settled in the chair across from him, leaning forward with what looked like repressed excitement, his elbows on his knees.
“So, tell me about yourself, Brady. Do you mind if I call you Brady? You said on the phone that you’re experiencing some unique occurrences?”
“Yes, sir,” Noah said, his voice bashful and hesitant. “Sounds a little weird when I tell it out loud, though.”
“Trust me.” Ladwig laughed easily, the sound warm and confiding. “Nothing you could tell me would be anything I haven’t heard before in my line of work.”
“Well, when I was a kid, I used to play football.”
“Good,” Ladwig encouraged. “I could see that. You have the build of a football player. I knew you were a former football player right off.”
Actually, Noah had never played. He’d been too busy helping out on his grandparents’ ranch. The doc was like a carnival fortune teller, “predicting” things you already knew. But Noah smiled back at the doctor, aiming for a pleased and proud expression at the doctor’s “insight.”
“Took my team to the division finals my senior year.” Noah grinned through his lies before taking on a sober expression. “That last game, I took a hard hit. A defensive lineman collided with me, and that’s the last thing I remember. Lights out. After that, boom. I woke up in the hospital three months later.”
Ladwig’s eyes sharpened, though his professional facade didn’t slip. “Wow, that’s some story. What kind of cranial trauma did you suffer? What was your exact diagnosis?”
Noah shrugged, remembering that Brady Lomond wasn’t a bright guy. “I dunno. A hard knock to the head? All’s I remember is they were glad I came out of the coma. I’d gotten all skinny and stuff. Atrophy or something like that.”
Ladwig nodded with a tinge of impatience. “How about other symptoms? Any funny things you noticed right away?”
Noah pretended to think. “Besides being all scrawny? Well, noises were real loud and everything looked extra bright. I had a lot of headaches.”
“What about the ‘weird’ stuff?” Ladwig used air quotes. He was literally on the edge of his seat, waiting for Noah to answer. Noah thought about what Winter had told him.
“It was nothing I could put my finger on at first,” Noah cautioned. Ladwig nodded, silently urging him along. “I could see better, if that makes any sense. Lots of little things, details, I started noticing.”
“Good! That’s the kind of thing I’d
like to hear about.”
I bet you would, Noah thought. The man was way too excited about the whole conversation. It was creepy. This must’ve been why Winter hadn’t liked him. He was too…something.
“You ever heard of things like that before with people that came out of comas?”
“Oh, yes,” Ladwig enthused. “Though not many. Not that you’re unusual.” Ladwig’s laugh rang false. “As a matter of fact, I had one patient who came out of a coma the same length as yours with many unusual symptoms.”
“Like what?” Noah didn’t have to feign curiosity.
Ladwig answered carefully, aiming for a balance between putting “Brady” at ease and not giving suggestions.
“This patient received a blow to the head that knocked her out for three months. When she came around, she noticed her observational skills were enhanced. She took in more than the rest of the world, when it came to looking at things. Smells, colors, textures, tiny details…it was overwhelming at first, but really an amazing gift. With my help,” he added, a little smug, “the patient was able to filter out some of the new, visual ‘noise’ she was taking in, allowing her to use her gift properly.”
“And your patient,” Noah asked. “Did she have any other weird symptoms? Like, kind of…visions, maybe?”
“Is that what you’re experiencing?” Ladwig leaned over even farther, putting himself in immediate danger of falling off his chair.
“Maybe.” Noah kept his voice vague, inviting further confidences from the doctor. “Like, sometimes a dream or something will just come out of nowhere. Even during the day.”
“Do you get sharp headaches?” Ladwig produced a notepad and an expensive-looking pen. “Nosebleeds?”
“Is that what your other patient had?” Noah knew from Winter herself that her visions hadn’t started until college. This doctor had stopped treating her years before. Why did he know about the headaches and nosebleeds?
Ladwig nodded, distracted, still looking down at his notepad. Noah could see the top of his head, where the doctor’s hair was beginning to thin at the crown.
“Oh, yes. She sometimes feels completely debilitated. Her visions are very powerful.”
His vague sense of unease with the doctor intensified. There was no way the guy could—or should—know about Winter’s visions.
“You mean were very powerful?”
Ladwig’s pen stopped moving. He looked up at Noah for a moment, his face curiously blank. “I’m sorry,” he replied after a quick moment. “What did I say?”
The guy was weird. Noah pasted on his aw-shucks “Brady” smile.
“You were sayin’ something about the patient you had a long time ago?”
Ladwig’s face cleared, his professional mask sliding back into place with an almost audible click. “Yes. She had visions.”
“What caused ‘em, doc?”
It was Noah’s turn to falter. He wondered if he’d laid on the hayseed accent a little too thick when the doctor cocked his head, studying him intently.
“Unfortunately, I’m not sure. Her family discontinued treatment and moved away. California, I think. Now, tell me more about your headaches, Brady.”
Ladwig had no reason to add the lie about Winter’s family moving to California. That rang a louder alarm bell. To his experience, the average person didn’t lie about things they didn’t consider important. But before he could pin the doctor down on the falsehood, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Noah reached for it automatically, ignoring the doctor’s disapproving look.
He stood up in a rush, startling Dr. Ladwig. He had to go.
The text from Bree had been brief and to the point.
He got another one.
Robert Ladwig watched Brady disappear through the doorway with a narrow look. It could have been the meds making him paranoid, but Rob was proud of his skills. He could read people with great accuracy, and he had a feeling that Brady Lomond was more than he appeared.
He went to his chair behind his carved mahogany desk. It was an exact copy of the one he had in his office at home, built to replicate one he’d seen in a picture of Sigmund Freud. If his soon-to-be-ex-wife, Hannah, hadn’t sold it yet for coke money, he thought with a pang of irritation.
Going over his notes on Lomond again, he frowned. He’d been so sure, when he’d talked to Brady Lomond on the phone that he’d found another Winter. He hated getting his hopes up, but he’d been searching for a case like hers since her grandparents had discontinued treatment. He felt the familiar surge of rage. He’d been so close with her. So close, until her grandparents had turned her against him and taken her out of his reach.
He felt a pang of unease.
He’d told Lomond that his patient had relocated across the country, not to a different part of the state. As a brilliant psychologist, he could ask himself why and trust himself to be honest. But he couldn’t think of a good reason for the lie. He’d just said it.
And Lomond, Rob thought. Had Lomond been more interested than he should have been about his old patient?
Rob Ladwig shoved to his feet and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Pacing the Persian carpet that lined the floor of his office, he took calming breaths.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Clear your mind.
He was probably linking Brady Lomond with Winter Black in his mind because their cases had sounded so similar. He’d fallen into the trap of getting his expectations too high, and then being disappointed when the reality didn’t live up to the hype he’d created. Something he always cautioned his patients against.
Or, Rob reminded himself, his meds were making him paranoid again. He didn’t like the idea, but it was always a possibility with untested drugs. Why else would he be suspicious of a redneck who’d probably concussed his last brain cell to death as a teenager?
Still.
Rob picked up the papers Lomond had left behind and took them to his desk.
It wouldn’t hurt to do some digging. He’d have peace of mind, anyway.
14
This murder had taken place a month to the day after the first killing.
Bree held a handkerchief tightly over her mouth. The last crime scene almost had her breaking her own personal rule about puking during an investigation. This time, she’d brought one of her grandma’s embroidered linen squares, sprinkled with a couple of drops of ginger essential oil that Shelby had promised would help with any nausea.
It hadn’t been a stretch of the imagination to anticipate a crime scene as bad as the last one. And she didn’t mind looking like the heroine of a Victorian novel by carrying the lacy cloth if it meant she wouldn’t puke at a crime scene. She hadn’t, however, thought that the second crime scene could be worse than the first.
The victim, Audrey Hawkins, a thirty-six-year-old interior designer from Roanoke, Virginia, was left splayed out on her bed in much the same way Detective Delosreyes had been. Like Delosreyes, The Preacher had mutilated the body almost beyond recognition. He’d also written cryptic messages and Bible verses in blood on the walls, though not as prolifically this time. That was where the similarities ended.
Audrey’s body had already been taken away, but they’d seen the crime scene pictures. Any sign of Audrey’s identity as a female had been removed. Her breasts, her lips, her hair, and most disturbingly, her eyes. To Bree, it looked like The Preacher had either escalated sharply or held some kind of personal grudge toward the victim.
“Did they find them before they took her?” Bree asked Noah, her voice hushed in the empty room.
He didn’t look away from Audrey and was visibly shaken at the carnage. “Find what?”
“Her eyes.”
Noah shook his head grimly.
She suppressed a shudder, realizing that The Preacher must have them. Was there no end to this man’s depravity? She stifled the urge to curse as a couple of gowned crime scene techs came into the room.
“Have you seen enough?” the nearest tech asked. “We need to
finish up.”
Noah gave the room another look, his body tight with unsuppressed tension. Finally, he nodded.
Bree wasn’t sorry to leave the bedroom behind, but back at the local police station, it was almost worse.
The woman’s husband, Wesley Hawkins, sat at a metal table across from the Roanoke PD detective in charge. He was a weedy-looking guy, small and thin, dressed head to toe in black. The meticulously curled black mustache he wore, along with a pair of black Buddy Holly glasses and expensive black combat boots, marked him as a hipster. Bree wondered if his wife had been too.
The Roanoke detective, a solidly built woman who’d introduced herself as Monica Dunn, was questioning the husband. Noah and Bree didn’t interrupt but stood in the corner of the small room, quietly observing the interview.
Wesley Hawkins looked shell-shocked, answering Detective Dunn’s questions in a dull, flat monotone.
“Tell me your story again.” Dunn’s voice sounded probing and suspicious, and she held Wesley pinned with a hard stare. “Where were you yesterday?”
Bree wanted to speak up. The detective had been briefed on the reason for FBI involvement before they showed up. There was little doubt that the murder had been committed by The Preacher. This poor man had found his wife’s body less than ten hours before. Why was Dunn now treating the victim’s husband like this?
She could feel Noah stiffen beside her. He was probably biting his tongue too. They’d rushed straight out from Richmond, arriving late in the afternoon of the same day the murder had taken place. They’d been careful to make it clear that local LEOs were handling the investigation, assuring Dunn that they were only there as support and assist. The locals would run their own investigation, and the agents would run theirs.
Wesley Hawkins looked angry for a moment at Dunn’s tone, stirring himself enough to answer.
