The Hunted Girls

by Jenna Kernan

  “It’s my fault,” she said. “How do I make this right?”

  “You can’t. Done is done, as they say. But what you can do is make sure there are no repeats. I’ll do the same. From here on, we talk about things, especially decisions that involve risk.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Then he took her hand and lifted it to his lips, brushing a kiss on her knuckles.

  “Don’t shut me out, Nadine.”

  “I won’t.”

  Forgiveness, she realized, and a second chance. He’d given her both, simply at her word that she’d do better.

  She glanced at the nightstand where her ring hid. The object seemed to be drawing her like iron to a magnet. She wanted to slip it on. Tell him she would marry him, that she longed to marry him. But they needed to have another conversation first.

  “Clint?”

  He released her, giving her a gentle smile. “You better get back out there.”

  He left her. She took a few moments to summon her courage, then returned to the meeting, slipping into her place to review the preliminary list of locations she had frequented, and begin to compile a list of women with whom she had had casual contact.

  One of Skogen’s people left to organize security teams on the top ten potential targets.

  Finally Wynns briefed them on cold cases. Two drew Nadine’s interest. One was a series of four missing persons dumped in a wildlife area near New Orleans. The cases were over a year old. Each woman had vanished from wetland trails in the Barataria Preserve. No bodies had ever been recovered.

  “Because he didn’t want them found,” she said.

  The second cold case was a single murder of a white female ornithologist whose body was discovered tied to a tree in a Delaware state forest.

  “Mode of death?” asked Skogen.

  “Unknown,” said Coleman. “There wasn’t much left of her. The ME was unable to determine if there were soft tissue injuries such as lacerations or punctures.”

  “How long after her disappearance was she recovered?” asked Skogen.

  “She disappeared in May and was not discovered until September.”

  Nadine glanced at the tabletop. Four months. The elements, predation by animals and insect infestation, she assumed, removed most of the evidence leaving nothing but bone and sinew.

  “Clothed?” she asked.

  Special Agent Wynns met her stare. “I don’t know. Let me find out.”

  “Jack,” said Nadine, “see if any of our list of male contacts lived in Delaware or Louisiana.”

  Twenty-Three

  SUNDAY

  After Nadine had read his words, the FBI announced a press conference. He knew they’d found Summerville. The scanners told him that much. A call to the news confirmed that she had not survived.

  He sat down to watch the FBI’s four-thirty press briefing. He’d had to bail on the afternoon workload to see this. His boss was not happy. Not that he cared. She was lucky to have him, didn’t deserve him and certainly did not pay him enough for his qualifications.

  He could have turned on the set in the office and watched there. But he wanted privacy. He knew he would rewatch it many times, focusing on every detail of Nadine’s face. He’d taken notice of what she wore and how she tried to hide her feminine willowy beauty beneath the façade of professional attire. She had a natural appeal with a rosy complexion and tempting features. Symmetrical. And they had so much in common. He could hardly wait to have the conversations with her that he had had in his mind. Soon, he promised himself.

  He was proud that his work had now gained national attention. The broadcaster introduced the clip from the FBI press briefing.

  He pounded his fist on the arm of the chair in anticipation. The players were already in position. FBI lead investigator, Jack Skogen, stood at the podium looking calm and in control, which he was not. She stood behind and to his left.

  Nadine Finch wore her hair up in a bun. She looked pale except for the lipstick. He leaned in. The color was a soft pink, the near-identical match to the satin blouse she wore beneath the navy blazer.

  Skogen spoke about the newest victim, Jo Summerville. He smiled at the memory of securing her dying body to a sturdy oak at the foot of Nadine’s father’s grave.

  He had been there. At the dig, dressed as a forest ranger, and spoken to several of the patrolmen. From one of the anthropologists, who needed frequent smoke breaks, he learned what was happening but had not ventured to the dig site until after they had finished.

  He had had his prey trapped in that small cage so long that her lower half had begun to shut down, shunting blood to her core so that her feet and ankles turned purple and her toes turned black. When the maggots appeared on her feet, he knew he had to act quickly. He’d moved her to her display area before dawn. She had been mainly deadweight at that point. Unable to struggle, semiconscious. The arrows had roused her and he had enjoyed watching her squirm along with the maggots. They were both the same. Inferior species.

  It was a shame he couldn’t stay to watch. He’d left after a long backward glance, fixing the image in his mind.

  Moving his attention back to the screen, he watched Skogen clear his throat before speaking.

  “We have recovered the remains of Jo Summerville. The Huntsman failed to honor his agreement to release her alive because he is without honor.”

  “She was alive when I left her,” he muttered.

  “He is a despicable, heinous murderer of innocent women and a liar without integrity.”

  “I’m not a liar. I did as I promised. It’s your fault she died.”

  Skogen introduced Nadine.

  And then he noticed something else. His eyes narrowed as he moved to the edge of the chair, leaning so far forward that he nearly toppled onto the carpet.

  Was she gazing at Skogen?

  She was! She wasn’t just staring at him—she was fawning. Batting her eyes as she cast him an adoring smile.

  His insides clenched and he set his teeth together as he watched them.

  “I’d like our lead forensic psychologist to give the public a few characteristics that might help us catch this killer.” Then the FBI agent turned toward Nadine and extended his hand.

  She slipped her palm against his and held his gaze as he made a disgusting show of escorting her to the podium. There he retained her hand a little too long before finally releasing her and stepping back. Nadine cast Skogen a seductive smile before turning to the camera.

  He shot to his feet.

  “No!” he bellowed. “No! She’s not interested in him. She’s mine. She knows she’s mine.”

  He gripped the remote, glaring at the rival male who stood just behind Nadine. Maybe it was his imagination. He rewound the live broadcast and watched again. This time when Skogen dared touch Nadine, he bellowed, the sound shaking the room.

  Rage built and then pounded through his bloodstream, drenching him in sweat. He lowered his chin, targeting this challenger. He would not lose her to that inferior male.

  Nadine spoke into the microphones.

  “His condition is called compensatory narcissism. This disorder leads him to strike at others before they have a chance to strike at him. He can do this because he believes that societal rules do not apply to him.”

  Nadine was now looking at the camera.

  “In other words, a coward attacking solitary women, while believing these attacks should foster in us a sense of admiration at his cleverness.”

  His jaw gaped and his skin prickled. How could she not understand?

  “He has no capacity for empathy or for love. But thinks himself deserving of both. No. Not deserving—entitled, when he is, in fact, a cold, calculating, arrogant, remorseless killer.”

  Rage bubbled through him. He lowered his chin. “I suppose that makes me like looking in a mirror,” he said to the screen. “We’re the same. I know it. You know it.”

  Nadine finished. Skogen placed an arm around her shoulders as he s
witched positions with her. As Nadine turned, Skogen rested his hand momentarily at the nape of her neck.

  He switched off the television and hurled the remote. It collided with the wall, expelling its batteries.

  He’d watch it again later when he got himself back under control. Right now, while the lead investigator and two of his agents were conducting a press conference, he would continue clearing the area of troublesome females. He had an itch to hurt someone and had already targeted his next victim. Her shift started in just a few minutes and she was a woman of habits. He grabbed his keys, determined to make this one suffer for everything he’d suffered today.

  “Damn her. He’s not the superior male. Why can’t she see? He’s not for her. She can’t choose him.”

  He drove to his camp, deep in the forest, and gathered his supplies. His bow and arrows, skinning knife and the spike strip. He’d use this device on the highway to puncture her tires. When she stopped, he’d take her.

  He caught the flutter of white at his periphery and paused to admire the ghost orchid that he’d collected by skinning the bark from the tree where it had clung. This prized plant was so rare that most people would never see one. Just as they would never see the giant sphinx moth responsible for pollinating them. The flower’s feathery petals sparkled white, pristine and perfect. He thought the name frog orchid less poetic but a good one, as the long labellum resembled the legs of a frog. The plant had tolerated the move, thriving for months already because he recognized what it needed to flourish, just as he understood what all creatures needed to survive.

  Or to perish.

  He headed out, to lay the trap. He knew her vehicle. It was a simple matter to lay the strip. If he spotted a different car, he’d drag it off with monofilament fishing line. This stretch of road, between her work in Silver Springs and her trailer, was remote and little traveled, especially at this hour when most folks had already made it home for supper. But hers was the night shift.

  Rosie reported to work at 8 p.m. She was never late, and her car passed this stretch between 7:31 p.m. and 7:39 p.m.

  The woman was slim and athletic. He imagined seeing her naked, staked to the ground before him, and his mouth watered. That tingle and zing of excitement zipped through him.

  He’d take Rosie and then he’d move to Nadine’s pretty, doe-eyed assistant, Tina Ruz. Oh, the sounds she’d make when he released his first arrow into her pink flesh.

  The ATV started up with a twist of the key and he roared toward the road, anxious to catch his next bird.

  Nadine stood beside Skogen as he fielded questions from the press. She admitted that he was excellent at this piece of his job, leveraging the media to help them narrow the search. She was, however, painfully aware that their offices would soon be flooded with tips that led nowhere, false leads and contacts by some profoundly disturbed individuals. His people would sift through them like a pan full of mud and rock to extract the gold.

  When one of the reporters asked if the two of them were involved, Skogen’s smile made her squirm.

  “Actually, we were together prior to Dr. Finch’s completion of her FBI training.”

  When the questions became repetitive, Skogen called a halt, thanking the media for their attendance.

  Coleman and Vea preceded them as Skogen escorted Nadine with an arm resting familiarly around her waist, hand cupping her hip. She smiled up at him, resisting the urge to shake loose. When they stepped through the doorway and the door closed behind them, she glanced expectantly at him, but he didn’t remove his hand from around her waist. Instead he drew her closer.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  She stepped away, frowning. “It went well.”

  “I would assume that there will be some media in the lobby and outside the hotel. I think we should hold hands as we leave the building,” he said.

  She nodded her consent.

  He was correct. Several of the reporters lingered in the lobby snapping their picture as they exited hand in hand.

  Outside, they emerged into a thunderstorm, waiting beneath cover for their cars. Their driver emerged with an umbrella, which Skogen used to cover them both, holding her at his side with one hand as he extended the umbrella up high enough to allow photographers to catch their exit.

  She respected Skogen but did not enjoy his touch, his scent or his overconfident smile. However, she thought he made an excellent target for the Huntsman.

  That afternoon, Jack Skogen stopped at the safe house to check in. Tina alerted her and she found Jack in the kitchen accepting a cup of coffee from her assistant.

  “Did you see the list Wynns forwarded?” he asked Nadine.

  “Yes.” She slid onto one of the four stools at the kitchen island. There, Nadine opened her laptop and pulled up the document.

  Tina set the mug before Skogen and took her leave. Nadine resisted the urge to call her back and then felt foolish at the impulse.

  “Any word on the missing bellman?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Skogen lifted the mug and then came to stand beside her.

  Kurt Wynns had narrowed their existing list of male contacts down to thirty-two Caucasian males who had moved into the area within the last seven months.

  “Any live in Louisiana or Delaware?” she asked.

  “Wynns is running their IDs now for previous addresses. He’ll send it along. You have anything else on the profiles?”

  “I’ve narrowed the range based on the last victim’s capture and recovery. You’re sure she was taken from the pub where she worked?”

  “Her car is still in the lot.”

  “Okay. And I’ve added it and the recovery site.”

  “Great.” He looked over her shoulder at her map, leaning in too close. He could have looked at this at the office. A Zoom meeting would have sufficed, and she would not now have his breath fanning her neck or his scent invading her nostrils.

  “Could you let me know what this updated profile adds to our current target region?” He placed a hand beside her laptop keyboard, inches from hers as he leaned in. Nadine cast a sideward glance at his hand, and the dusting of dark hair on his knuckles. Was he hitting on her?

  “My team found something else. We wanted to alert you.”

  She turned to face him.

  “Someone placed a tracking device on your vehicle.”

  Her heart gave a jolt as she straightened.

  “What? When?”

  “Unknown. It’s been there awhile. Wynns went over it after you suggested that our target might have been watching you. It’s likely how he knew you had arrived and where you were staying.”

  She was now glad that her vehicle had remained parked at the FBI field office since they’d moved to the safe house.

  “The other vehicles?”

  “Checked and cleared. It was only you. You were right again, Nadine.” His appreciative smile made her uncomfortable.

  Jack’s phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen, then took the call.

  “Skogen,” he said and then paused. “Where?” More silence as he listened. “Hold on.” Jack flipped the call to speaker. “Say that again.”

  “I said, one of the surveillance teams stopped an assault. Victim is Rosie Napper.” That was Axel Vea’s voice.

  Rosie was the cheery desk clerk at their initial hotel. She worked nights and Nadine had spoken to her often.

  “Did we get him?” asked Skogen.

  “Negative. Suspect fled from Route 314 south of Salt Springs in an ATV into the forest. They’re in pursuit.”

  Skogen was up and out before Nadine had time to close her laptop. He paused in the doorway, gripping the frame.

  “Come on.”

  Skogen stood with Nadine on the shoulder of Route 314. On either side of the road, just beyond the trimmed grass, stood the dark wall of foliage marking the wilderness of the national forest. From somewhere within came the ominous howl of a coyote, sending a shiver up Nadine’s spine.

/>   Behind them, Nadine’s protective team waited inside their SUV. Before them an FBI special agent, whom Nadine recognized from Orlando, emerged from a sedan. He met them at the shoulder.

  “What have we got?” asked Skogen.

  “Napper is en route to the sheriff’s headquarters. No injuries. Her would-be attacker used a spike strip to rupture her tires.”

  He pointed to the chunks of rubber illuminated in their headlights and strewn across the road; beyond were the skid marks where Rosie had obviously tried to steer her car to the shoulder. “Pursuit car was within sight. Napper saw the attacker drag the strip off the road with a rope or something in her rearview. He was approaching Napper’s vehicle when support pulled in behind her and scared him off.”

  “Our guys?”

  “Sheriff’s deputy.”

  “Damn it.”

  Before arrival, Skogen had a chopper in the air, dogs en route and roadblocks up.

  “The ATV?”

  “Abandoned in the woods.”

  “Is he on foot?” asked Skogen.

  “Unknown.”

  “Show me.”

  “Two-mile hike,” said the agent.

  “Let’s go,” said Skogen.

  “I’ll wait with my security,” said Nadine.

  She was not leaving her protective detail to march into the forest at night, in the dark, with two agents—or ten, for that matter.

  “You should wait, too,” she said to Skogen.

  He frowned at her and then seemed to belatedly recall that they were both now bait in the trap they set.

  “Okay.”

  Coleman, Vea and the agent out of Orlando headed into the woods with flashlights. It shocked Nadine how quickly all traces of the trio disappeared.

  “I’d like to speak to Rosie Napper,” she said.

  She followed Skogen back to his vehicle and he drove them to the highway patrol headquarters in Ocala.