“How do you know about Stucky?” Maggie sat up, trying to ward off the tension brought on by just the mention of his name.

“That night at my house, you yelled out his name several times. I thought you’d tell me about him. When you didn’t…well, I figured maybe it wasn’t any of my business. Maybe it’s still none of my business.”

“By now it’s a matter of public record.”

“Public record?”

“Albert Stucky is a serial killer I helped capture a little over a month ago. We nicknamed him The Collector. He’d kidnap two, three, sometimes four women at a time, keeping them, collecting them in some condemned building or abandoned warehouse. When he got tired of them, he killed them, slicing their bodies, bashing in their skulls, chewing off pieces of them.”

“Jesus, I thought this guy we’re chasing was screwed up.”

“Stucky is certainly one of a kind. It was my profile that identified him. Over the course of two years, we tracked him. Every time we got close, he moved to another part of the country. Somewhere along the line, Stucky discovered that I was the profiler. That’s when the game began.”

The moonlight flooded the office now. She glanced at him, uncomfortable under his penetrating blue eyes that were filled with as much concern as interest. He must have bitten down on his lip. It was bleeding again. She shifted, dug in her jacket pocket and pulled out a tissue, handing it to him. “You’re still bleeding.”

He ignored the tissue and wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “What else is new? I fight like a girl.” Then his expression went serious again. “Tell me about the game.”

“Stucky probed my background. Somehow he found out about my family, my father’s death, my mother’s alcoholism. He knew everything, or so it seemed. About a year ago I started receiving notes. Actually, it’s not that unusual, but Stucky’s were. He always included a piece of his victims—a finger, sometimes just a piece of skin with a birthmark or tattoo, once a nipple.”

Nick shook his head but didn’t say anything.

“He started a sort of scavenger hunt with me,” she continued. “He’d send clues as to where he was keeping the women. If I guessed right, he rewarded me with a new clue. If I guessed wrong, he punished me with a dead body. I was wrong a lot. Every time we found one of his victims in a Dumpster, I felt like it was my fault.”

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to see the faces. All of them with that same horrified stare. She could remember them all, could recite their names, addresses, personal characteristics. It sounded like a litany of saints. She opened her eyes, avoided Nick’s and continued.

“He would quit for a while but only to move to another part of the country. We finally tracked him down in Miami. After a few clues I was almost certain I knew he was using an abandoned warehouse by the river. I dreaded being wrong. I didn’t think I could handle another dead woman on my conscience. So I didn’t tell anyone. I decided to check it out myself. That way, if I was wrong, no one ended up dead. Only, I was right, and Stucky was waiting for me. He ambushed me before I even saw it coming.”

Her breathing was uneven. Her heart raced. Even her palms were sweaty. It was over. Why did it still have such an effect on her?

“He tied me to a steel post, and then he made me watch. I watched while he tortured and mutilated two women. Actually, the second one was punishment because I closed my eyes while he was bashing in the skull of the first woman. He had warned me that he would just keep bringing out another if I closed my eyes. He seemed so oblivious to their pain, to their screams.”

God, it was hard to breathe. When would she stop seeing those pleading eyes, hearing those unbearable screams? “I watched him beat and slice and rip apart two women and I felt so…so goddamn helpless.”

She stared out at the moon and stars. “I was so close…” She rubbed her shoulders. She could still feel it. “I was so close I could feel their blood splatter me, along with pieces of their brains, chips of their bones.”

“But you did get him?”

“Yes. We got him. Only because an old fisherman heard the screams and called 911. We certainly didn’t get him on my account.”

“Maggie, you’re not responsible for those women.”

“Yes, I know that.” Of course, she knew, but it didn’t erase the guilt. She wiped at her eyes, disappointed to find her cheeks already wet. Then she stood, much too abruptly but gratefully closing the subject.

“That reminds me,” she said, trying to resume normalcy. “I got another note.” She dug out the crumpled envelope and handed it to Nick.

He pulled out the card, read it, and leaned back against the wall. “Jesus, Maggie. What do you suppose this means?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe he’s just having some fun.”

Nick untangled his legs and stood without assistance of the wall or desk. “So what do we do now?”

“How do you feel about raiding graveyards?”