Like a morning dream, life
becomes more and more bright the longer we live, and the reason of
everything appears more clear. What has puzzled us before seems
less mysterious, and the crooked paths look
straighter....—Jean Paul Richter look
straighter... .
—Jean Paul Richter
14
JT dropped me off at the office before
taking the sample to his friend. I didn’t need the backward-ticking
clock to know we could have another victim tomorrow morning. The
sense of time slipping away, not to mention my growing concern
about Katie, made me jittery. When I’d gone home to get the sample,
she’d been in her room, sleeping. I’d found the soup container,
full, in the refrigerator.
I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t
concentrate. And I’d made at least ten trips to the bathroom in the
last hour.
I don’t know how long Chief Peyton had
been watching me, but about fifteen minutes after I’d finally
settled in, ready to map out our crime scenes, she pulled a chair
up to my cubicle and sat down.
“How are you doing, Skye?” The chief
crossed one knee over the other.
I wanted to tell her the truth, that I
was frustrated, scared we wouldn’t solve the case, worried that
dozens—or even hundreds—of women would die because I couldn’t do
this job. But I couldn’t say those things. “I’m doing fine.” I
pointed at the map on my computer screen. “I’ve plotted out the
homes of all four victims. And where they died. There’s no
connection between the crime scenes. But three out of
four—Richardson, Miller, and Yates—live in the same subdivision.
And all three backyards are adjacent to the same school playground.
It’s unclear, at this point, what tie-in Hannah Grant has with the
other victims. She lives close, walking distance from the others,
but not in the same neighborhood. In addition, a couple of them are
runners. We don’t have much of a profile of the unsub yet,
though.”
Peyton took a closer look at the map.
“That’s a good start.”
“We also have an eyewitness who claims
she saw one of our victims, Patty Yates, being attacked. But,
unfortunately, the witness’s eyesight is horrible. She was a fair
distance from the alleged attack, and the testimony is a little too
far-fetched to believe.”
“Remember, Skye, it’s your job to check
out the far-fetched.” The chief stood. “Where is JT?”
“He ... got a call from another
potential witness.”
“Why didn’t you go along?”
“He wanted me to stay here and get all
the details of my undercover operation hammered out. We’re going to
do some surveillance early tomorrow morning, since all four victims
died in the morning.”
“Good idea. Be sure to keep me updated.
I’m counting on you and JT to handle this. Be careful, Skye. Keep
your eyes open.”
“Will do, Chief.” I didn’t take a deep
breath until the chief was back in her office. Acting as
nonchalantly as possible, I dug my cell phone out of my laptop case
and dialed JT’s number. But before he answered, somebody nudged me
on the back. I swear, my butt flew at least a foot off my chair.
The phone flung out of my hand. It clattered on the floor, and the
battery and back cover skidded across the tile, traveling one way,
the phone the other.
“Shit,” I said.
“Sorry.” Gabe scooped up the backless
phone while I went for the rest of the parts.
“It’s okay.”
“Jumpy, a little?” He handed me the
phone.
“Thanks. A bit.” I snapped the pieces
back together and crossed my fingers, hoping it would work. I don’t
have good luck with cell phones. It didn’t power up. “Damn it. This
is all I need right now. Looks like I’ll be making a trip to the
cell phone store once again. I wonder if they make phones that are
kidproof ?”
“I saw your car.”
“Yeah,” I said, pushing buttons and
hoping for a miracle. “I don’t know what to think about that. Was
it an accident? Was it not? Being on a military base, I would think
the parking lot would be secure.”
“Yeah, you’d think. Was anything
missing?” He gave me a look, the kind that said it was a certain
something he was asking about.
“No. Nothing was
missing.”
His shoulders descended at least a
couple of inches. “Good.” He sprawled into the chair Peyton had
abandoned. “So what’s new?”
“About ... ?” I asked.
“The case.”
“Nothing yet.” I sighed. “To tell you
the truth, this case is making me mad. We just can’t catch a break.
I was hoping the witness we interviewed today would give us
something.”
Gabe leaned closer. “You had a witness
come forward?”
“Yeah, a hundred-year-old blind woman
with diabetic dementia who claims she saw a woman leap over a
six-foot fence like a kangaroo to have a lesbian encounter with
Patty Yates.”
Gabe’s eyes bugged. A wide grin spread
over his face. “Sorry, I can’t help myself.” He
laughed.
That did nothing to lighten my
mood.
“By the way, I passed your mom on the
way in.” And that made it even worse. “She parked in a lot across
from the base’s entry. I think she’s waiting for you or
something.”
I didn’t even try to hide the eye roll.
“She told me she’s working as a private investigator. I’m not
convinced someone is actually paying her.
But at least it’s keeping her busy. She hasn’t shorted out her
apartment building since she started.”
“Who is she
investigating?”
“ Me.”
Once again, I got to listen to Gabe
have a good laugh, at my expense. But it was my fault. I was the
one who’d volunteered the information.
After he’d settled down, he added,
“It’s too bad she can’t come on base. If she could, she might’ve
seen who busted out your window.”
“Yeah, it’s too bad.” I decided a
change of topic was a good idea. “What’s your case
about?”
“Missing kid.”
“Oh. A kid. That explains why the chief
would pull you off the other case. But why did it end up a
PBAU case?”
“Because a witness claimed the unsub
lifted a car off the ground and tossed it about twenty yards. And
our witness isn’t a hundred-year-old blind woman.”
“That may be the case, but the witness
has to be wrong.”
“Tell that to the uniform who saw
it.”
I felt my own brows jump to the top of
my forehead. “Your witness is a police officer?”
“Yep.” Gabe leaned closer still. “And
get this, the witness swears the unsub is a woman.”
“Crazy.” Maybe I had been right about
that.
Gabe moved closer yet. I was really
getting uncomfortable. “What’s the story with the sample? Did you
get it to someone?”
“Kind of,” I mumbled, looking
away.
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s in the hands of the right
person.” I wasn’t going to tell Gabe about giving it to JT. I had a
feeling he’d freak out. “Hopefully, we’ll have a ‘fast and dirty’
analysis by tomorrow sometime.”
“Cool. You’ll tell me what you
get?”
“Absolutely.”
Gabe shifted back, thank God. “What are
you doing now?”
“Trying to decide how I can make myself
look like a thirty-something suburbanite with shoulder-length
hair.” I ran my fingers through my hair, currently cut in a
no-nonsense, utilitarian chin-length bob. “And trying to convince
myself that I won’t die if I try to run six miles.”
“So you’re going
undercover?”
“I guess that’s what you’d call
it.”
“Damn!”
That was an I-wish-it-were-me damn. I
could tell. “Your father can try all he wants, but there’s no way
you could do this one. I don’t think even Mrs. Ester would buy your
being a woman.”
“How deep are you going?” Gabe
asked.
“At this point, I’ll be taking up
residence in a bank-owned house for a day or two. Luckily, the
people who vacated the property left all their
furniture.”
“Good luck.” Gabe leaned forward and
set a hand on mine. “And be careful.” When I nodded, he stiffened,
pulled his hand away, and stood. “I’ve got some research to do. The
kid’s got some crazy allergies, and the parents are worried she
might have an allergy attack while she’s being held
hostage.”
“Good luck to you too. I hope you find
her.”
“We will. And we’ll find her
alive.”
That was one thing about Gabe I was
coming to respect—he was always confident, positive, optimistic.
Unlike me. I could work on that.
I finished planning out the details of
my activities over the next few days, called a hair salon I found
on the Net, and begged and pleaded for an appointment for
extensions. It was only after I told the salon’s receptionist it
was for an important FBI investigation that she miraculously found
an opening for me. I had ten minutes to make a twenty-minute
drive.
I did it in twelve minutes. And,
fortunately, I didn’t get a speeding ticket. A beaming girl with
too much makeup and too much body for the itty-bitty clothes she
was wearing fired questions at me, interrogation style, as she led
me to a chair in the back of the salon. Most of them I answered
with the standard “It’s FBI business. I can’t answer that
question.” But I did indulge her curiosity a little by answering
what questions I could.
Mom strolled in just as Carl, the
stylist, was introducing himself.
Mom said, “Honey, you just got your
hair cut last week. What are you doing?”
“Did you talk to Katie?” I combed my
fingers through my natural-for-the-time-being hair.
“Yes, Sloan. She’s fine. It was just a
little anxiety. Everyone gets anxious sometimes.”
“I’m worried,” I confessed, staring at
my reflection in the mirror.
“You’re a good friend.” Standing behind
me, Mom smiled at me in the mirror. “Now, about your hair
...”
“I have to get extensions. And maybe
some color.”
“Really? Why would you do that? Your
hair is so cute the way it is. And the chemicals they use in hair
dye aren’t good for you.” Mom made herself comfortable in the chair
next to mine. A female stylist wandered up and asked Mom if she
wanted anything: cut, blow-out, or set. “Oh, that sounds lovely.
But I can’t.”
“Go ahead, Mom. My treat.” I nodded at
the stylist. “Give her whatever she wants.”
“In that case, maybe I will get a
little something done. Can you give me the same thing my daughter’s
getting?”
The stylist looked askance at
Carl.
“Extensions,” Carl volunteered. “And
maybe a little color, to brighten her up.” My credit card was going
to be steaming tonight.
“No color!” Mom said. “Unless you have
henna.”
The stylist beamed and grabbed a black
plastic cape. “We have henna. As well as several other herbal dyes.
My name’s Crystal.” She pinned the cape on Mom and dug
in.
“So, Mom, how’s your case going?” I
asked, holding my head still as Carl started working.
“Not as well as I’d
hoped.”
“Really? What were you hoping for? You
should know by now what to expect, since it’s me you’re
tailing.”
“I was hoping you were hiding some
things from me. Scandalous things. A steamy affair with a married
man, something amusing. I’ve come to the conclusion you’re a very
boring person.”
I swallowed a laugh. I didn’t want her
to think I was amused by her. She might take that as encouragement.
“Me? Have an affair with a married man? Never going to
happen.”
“Never say never, dear.”
“I totally agree,” Carl
said.
“I had an affair with a married man, on
and off for three years,” Crystal confessed.
“What about you, Mom?” I asked, not
sure how to respond to Crystal’s confession.
Mom’s cheeks went red.
“No. Really? When?” I
asked.
“It was a long time ago, before I met
your father. I was young then. I’d had a sheltered childhood. Gone
to an all-girls school for most of my life. Didn’t know a damn
thing about men.”
“Me too!” Crystal said. “I went to an
all-girls Catholic school.”
“You were very lucky, then, to find
Dad,” I said.
“I was. Very lucky, indeed.” Mom
reached across the space between our chairs. Our fingertips barely
touched. We all remained silent for a while. It was a sweet moment,
the kind I have rarely shared with my mother over the years. The
kind I’d craved for most of my childhood. I hated to break it, but
I knew I had to.
“Mom, I’m going undercover
tomorrow.”
“I know.” She didn’t sound shocked at
all.
“How?”
“I told you, I can’t give up my
client.” This was getting a little frustrating. “That’s why I’m
here. I want to tell you to be careful. There are things out there,
evil you can’t imagine. I did all I could to prepare you. I taught
you everything you need. When the time comes, I hope you’ll
remember.”
This was the kind of nearly
incomprehensible logic I was accustomed to hearing from my
mother.
I responded with, “I hope so
too.”
“It’ll be hard for me to tail you while
you’re under surveillance.”
“Don’t try, Mom. I don’t want you to
get hurt.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Mom said. “I’ll
be fine.”
“I’d feel better if you kept an eye on
Katie for me. Maybe you could stay with her until I’m done with
this undercover thing? I’m leaving early tomorrow morning.
Five-thirty or six at the latest.”
“Okay, Sloan. I’ll be
there.”
Five hours later, I dragged myself out
of the salon, flung my stiff and sleepy body into my car, and drove
toward home with Mom’s headlights glaring in my rearview mirror. I
made a quick stop at a Burger King for some fries and a chicken
sandwich. And I ran into a CVS and grabbed a cheap prepaid cell
phone to get me through the next day or two. She escorted me
through the drive-through and to my building’s parking lot. But
then she pulled a U-turn and drove home without so much as a word,
or a French fry.
I was starving and exhausted, both. I
dragged inside, dumped my laptop case next to the door, and set my
dinner on the coffee table.
The place was quiet. No bouncy greeting
from Katie. No smoke. Nothing. Right now, I was really unsure about
leaving Katie to go undercover when she needed me so much. She’d
been such a good friend to me all these years.
I decided it could be no coincidence
that Katie was so like my mother, brilliant and seemingly mentally
ill. There had probably been little clues all along. My
subconscious had recognized them, drawn me to her. Kind of like
some women are always attracted to men who will abuse
them.
I watched the news as I ate. Before I
realized it, both French fry containers were empty—I’d ordered an
extra, expecting Mom to come in—and my chicken sandwich was gone
too. I slurped down the last of my root beer and stumbled into my
bedroom.
I didn’t drift off to sleep. I
plunged.
“Little
mouse.”
It was back again.
Dread twisted in her stomach. Her skin puckered, goose bumps
prickling her arms and legs. The hair on her nape
stiffened.
No more. Please.
“Come out of your hole.
I have a treat for you. A special treat, only for
you.”
The stench of death hit
the back of her throat. Something sharp pierced through the
blanket, nicking the skin of her upper arm.
“There you are, little
mouse.”
The blanket slipped
away. She tried to grasp a corner, but she couldn’t hold on. She
opened her eyes and looked up, toward the voice, and saw two
glittering eyes in the shadows. A flash of
light.
I jerked upright and blindly pawed the
empty bed, looking for my blanket. I was sweating and
shivering.
“Little mouse,” somebody
whispered.
My heart stopped.
That was a real voice, not a
dream.
Who was in my room?
My spine stiffened and a fresh coat of
goose bumps covered my arms and legs. My upper arm was stinging. I
wanted to check it, but the room was dark and I was afraid to turn
on the light. I was petrified of what I’d see.
“Little mouse, it’s almost time,” the
voice said.
I gagged. Frozen with terror, I sat
curled on my bed, wishing the voice would go away. What was
happening? Who was hiding in the shadows?
Was it the unsub? Male? Female? I
couldn’t tell.
Silence.
Was it here? Or had it
left?
Oh, God, tell me it’s
gone. Pleasepleaseplease.
Phone. I needed to call
911.
Damn, my cell was out in the living
room.
I wasn’t going out there. Not yet. Not
until I was certain it was safe.
I heard some rustling in the living
room, a dragging sound, like something hard and heavy was sliding
across the kitchen’s tile floor. It wasn’t safe. I hoped Katie was
in her room. Asleep.
My heart was thumping so hard in my
chest, my breastbone hurt. My ears strained, catching every minute
sound, the rattle of the refrigerator’s motor, the clatter of the
plastic window blinds in the living room blowing in a breeze, the
soft thud of heavy footsteps coming down the carpeted
hall.
The intruder was coming
back.
I flung myself onto the floor and
scuttled like a crab into the closet.
“Little mouse, there’s no reason to
hide in the dark. I have a lot of surprises for you. You’re going
to love them. But not yet. I have to go now.”
Thank
God!
I heard the soft click of the front
door’s lock. The creak of hinges. Then the sound of the lock
sliding home.
Was it gone? Had he or she left? Or was
it a ruse, to coax me out of hiding?
A long time later, I crawled out of the
closet. I dashed across the bedroom. At the door to the hallway, I
listened for any sound that might indicate the intruder was hiding
somewhere in our apartment. When I didn’t hear anything, I tiptoed
down the hall. I checked the bathroom. Nothing there. I checked
Katie’s room. I checked the kitchen and living room. All clear. I
checked the front door. Locked. I checked the windows. They were
both open a couple of inches, but the wood pieces we’d wedged in
the frame—after that note episode—were still in place, keeping the
windows from opening any wider. I flipped on every light in our
apartment and checked every corner and closet. There was no sign of
the visitor. Nothing out of place. And no sign of forced
entry.
What did he or she want? And how had he
or she gotten into our apartment?
Did he or she have anything to do with
my car’s broken window?
Lastly I checked my arm.
There, on my forearm. A fat red droplet
of blood had dried, sealing a tiny puncture wound.
Oh, my God, what the
hell?
I grabbed the biggest, sharpest knife
out of the wood block sitting on the kitchen counter and went back
to bed. I set the knife on the nightstand, within easy
reach.
Tomorrow I’d ask the property manager
for a new lock.