Because I have no life
. “I started digging a little into Meacher’s background and realized he was a perfect fit to the profile your unit provided, sir. So I took the information to SSA Danbridge”—her boss’s eyes glowed with approval, because,
yes
, they both worked late almost every night and weekends and now everyone knew it—“and then we received a call from state police concerned that The Snatcher had claimed another victim.”
Danbridge interrupted her.
Thank God
.
“I took the information to the Special Agent in Charge and we moved immediately to act on the information we’d received.”
Relief that a vicious killer was off the street was evident on every face
.
“Where are you on identifying the anonymous tipster?” Danbridge asked her.
Crap
. “Call was made using an untraceable cell and the voice was electronically enhanced. It’s a dead end.”
SSA Hanrahan met Mallory’s gaze. If she’d given them anything useful she might have smiled, but she’d contributed nothing.
Danbridge’s lips tightened. “Keep on it. Don’t let those IT geeks drop the ball on this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mallory wanted to be involved in the Meacher investigation, not investigating an anonymous phone tip but she bit down on her frustration.
Danbridge moved on with the briefing. “We found photographic evidence of what appears to
be Meacher torturing fifteen different women. Comparing those photographs to images of missing or murdered women using a preliminary facial analysis program the BAU brought in, we are almost positive at least ten of those victims’ remains have been recovered.” Which left five victims unaccounted for—presumably dead.
“We have teams of people collecting DNA from the farmhouse and tomorrow we’re sending cadaver dogs to search out any possible bodies buried on the property. We’ll enter the DNA samples into
CODIS. The work will continue until we identify every woman featured in those photographs and videos.” Her boss’s knuckles whitened. “Meacher was forty-four years old and we believe he’s been killing since his late teens, early twenties. Again—this is based on photographic evidence and the details need to be verified. We know he moved at least four times over the last two decades and we need to search each of those properties for potential evidence.”
How to increase the property value of your home—not.
Danbridge was finishing off. “Although there’s no criminal prosecution for Meacher we need to make sure the scene is processed carefully so that we can find his killer and gain closure for all the victims
’ families.” The woman’s eyes blazed. “We are treating Meacher’s death as a homicide. Special Agent Randall will be case officer on that investigation.”
Mallory’s gaze shot to
Lucas. He sent her a wink. Chances were the tipster and killer were related in some way, so hopefully that meant she’d get to help him out once she’d finished pissing off every IT technician she knew.
The meeting broke up and Mallory
snuck out behind Lucas and went back to work. It was November and the anniversary of her sister’s abduction loomed large, as did her mother’s annual request to pose for photographs.
Not this year.
Payton was dead. She’d finally accepted it. Maybe it was the twin thing, but for years after her abduction she’d sensed her sister was out there somewhere. Now there was nothing but a cold and empty void. Try explaining that phenomenon to her mother.
I don’t think so
.
When she got back to her desk she
had a message from Mike Tanner saying he’d managed to narrow the call down to the eastern seaboard of the United States—which was a real bonus given that millions of people lived there. She investigated different units that electronically disguised voices but couldn’t pinpoint exactly what unit had been used, and according to Mike, neither could NASA.
Mallory leaned back in her chair. The shooter had hit the
exact
same bull’s eye twice on a moving target. That was a hell of a shot. He’d also cleaned up after himself—no shell casings. It was almost like this guy was a professional hit man.
That was crazy, right?
She frowned and opened ViCAP. Entered “suspected killer” and “nine-millimeter” and got several thousand hits. She palmed her face.
Okay
. She typed in “suspected killer found dead.” Still a lot of hits. She delved deeper into some of the files—it included suicide, accidental death.
Damn
. She rubbed her eyes. “Suspicious death” “suspected killer found dead.”
Still a lot of hits but manageable.
She went over to the coffee machine and filled another mug. The office was buzzing, despite the fact most of the agents in this office had skipped bed last night. She smothered a yawn and trudged back to her computer and pulled out her notebook, going through each record, looking for similarities with Meacher.
Hmmm
. Last April, a serial sexual offender had been found in his Tampa apartment with a matching pair of slugs rattling around in his brain. Cops had no idea who killed him, but they’d received an anonymous tip-off
after
he was dead suggesting he was a rapist they were hunting.
Bingo
.
She trolled through thirty more cases where suspected criminals had OD
’d on crystal meth or been killed by rival gangs. Not what she was after. Then she found another case similar to Meacher. Suspected pedophile. Nine millimeter between the eyes. Anonymous tip.
Mallory straightened.
Holy shit
.
A yawn grabbed
hold and contorted her face and she knew it was time to go home before she passed out from exhaustion. Okay, there was no solid evidence, and every case was just different enough not to create alarm bells ringing in the system, but...
“Agent Rooney.”
It was SSA Danbridge standing with her coat over her arm.
Mallory jerked. The office was dark except for her desk.
“You’re making the rest of us look bad. Go home.”
“Yes,
ma’am.” Eyes drooping, she typed in one last search term “vigilante” while she pulled on her coat and scarf. The file was huge so she forwarded the results to her email. “Night, boss.”
She headed out the front door of the building and into the star-spangled night and found herself recalling the exact shade of Alex Parker’s eyes as
he’d asked her to go to dinner. Her lips tightened. She’d messed that one up.
Tears made the stars blur. “Sorry, Pay. I’m so damn sorry.”
F
our AM was a lonely time, the darkness had an empty feel to it. Trees cracked and creaked as the temperature dropped. The icy breeze scraped over exposed skin like pumice, raising a dull flush. A light dusting of snow made everything brighter, colder. Lonelier.
He pulled his ski-mask low
er over his face, got out of his SUV, and checked that no one was around. He drew on gloves, blowing into the palms of his hands to heat cold flesh. Getting rid of a body was harder than most people would credit. He was physically fit and even he had trouble pulling a full-grown woman out of the back of his car and moving her dead weight any distance.
The body bag made it awkward to get a grip but with a little effort he managed to get it over his shoulder. He closed the trunk quietly, picked up his flashlight and headed into the bush.
There was a spot he remembered from a hike last summer, about three hundred yards off one of the official paths. She was unlikely to be found before spring, and it was close enough to the creek that critters were bound to come across the body sooner rather than later and help destroy any lingering evidence. And as careful as he’d been he wasn’t naive enough to believe there was nothing left to link her to him.
He
’d have buried her, but the ground was like concrete. This would have to do.
He ducked off the path
, crunching through the detritus that littered the forest floor. He found the spot he’d earmarked and turned, scanning with his flashlight, looking for the best way to conceal the body. There was an eroded bank undercutting a huge sugar maple. He strode over, dumping the heavy bag on the ground, relieved to be rid of his burden, rolling his shoulders to ease the ache.
It took a moment to gra
sp the zipper with his gloved fingers, then he rolled her out like a broken toy. Except for the bruises, she was pale against the snow. He caught her wrists and pulled her up against the wall of the earthen bank. Her hair dragged through the dirt, leaves tangling in the black strands.
She’d been a mistake.
Her hair was the right shade, but her eyes were mud rather than whiskey. Jaw line too square. Hands too big. Mouth too vulgar and bitchy. By the end she’d repulsed him. He straightened her legs, moving her hands to cover her pubic hair. He’d burned her clothes; wiped her body down with Lysol.
There was a dull
throb in his chest. A heaviness that affected his breathing. He’d thought she might be the right one, but she wasn’t. He touched the initials carved above her heart, regret and loneliness slamming into him. His fists curled.
She
shouldn’t have died. He shouldn’t have lost her.
It wasn’t fair.
His breath shuddered
out of his chest and he wanted to smash his fist against something. He eyed the girl’s swollen features and looked away. She’d been a mistake, but he couldn’t stop searching until he’d found a replacement. He stood, kicked leaves over the body, covering it from prying eyes, removing it from his sight. In a few hours the snow would shroud her, and when spring came the creek bubbling lazily at his back would flood this spot and sweep her away like garbage. He picked up the body bag, quickly scanned the area for anything he might have left behind, and started back to his car. Fifteen minutes in and out.
Cold air burned his lungs and he shivered beneath his sheepskin jacket. He got in the SUV and started her up, blasting the heater.
Taking someone so close to home posed a risk in some ways, but in others it was smart and might throw people off the scent. And he didn’t need to keep killing...just until he found the right one. He hadn’t realized it would be so hard.
You
know where to find the right one...
He gripped one hand over his skull, knees
automatically curling into his stomach as he fought to control the SUV.
He couldn’t do that.
It made sense.
No, no!
But Mallory Rooney’s features superimposed themselves over those of the last victim. How many other women had to die because of some stubborn misplaced loyalty to the family?
His
gut churned. If he carried on like this eventually he’d get caught. His fingers tightened around the leather of the steering wheel and he straightened in his seat. No way in hell was he getting caught. No way in hell.
***
Alex stood on the top step of the Lincoln Memorial and watched people stream toward the WWII Memorial for the early morning Veterans’ Day ceremony. He’d arrived back from North Carolina late last night. He should be sleeping but instead he was here.
The jingle of a police horse’s harness
rang across the wide open space. Elderly men, many using canes or wheelchairs, were helped by relatives and friends to attend the laying of wreaths at the monument at the far end of the Reflecting Pool.
He remembered being a small boy standing beside his grandfather—a man who’d flown bombers over Germany—not understanding why they were out on a cold November morning, dressed up in their Sunday best. He remembered slipping a hand into his grandfather’s palm and the feeling of safety that had enveloped him in that moment.
Heat tingled in his palm. His fingers curled.
This was why he came to the ceremony every year.
To honor the dead. To beg their forgiveness. As minutes marched onward there was a hum of respectful silence. An energy of fierce pride that was both emotionally charged and quietly stoic. It made him proud to be an American. Despite its idiosyncratic betrayal, he still loved his country.
“
Reveille” echoed through the mist that clung to the smartly shorn grass and elegant marble edifices. The piercing notes of the bugle rang through his bones and made him quiver like a tine. His chin lifted, shoulders stiffened, fingers itched to form a salute. But he wasn’t worthy.
Working in the shadows was a cold
dark place.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Choice had been taken from him when he’d failed his last mission, and failed his country so he edged through the crowd, away from the dignified tribute to fallen comrades. Without the bargain he’d made he’d still be rotting in that North African jail with all the other vermin. He put his phone to his ear.
“I need to see you in your office.”
Jane Sanders
. His boss’s lackey.
He clicked off and hailed a cab.
Ten minutes later he stood in front of the old brownstone in Woodley Park, which held a small brass plaque beside the front door with “Cramer, Parker & Gray. Security Consultants” etched in small block letters. It was quiet on the streets. Early morning on a national holiday. He hadn’t been followed.
Jane got out of her car and came up the steps behind him. They didn’t speak.
He unlocked the door and walked inside. The house had all the appearance of a normal business—reception counter, row of uncomfortable-looking chairs, low coffee table with glossy magazines laid neatly across the surface. Although they weren’t exactly the usual nine-to-five operation, he and his partners—Haley Cramer and Dermot Gray—ran a legit security and crime prevention business that had made all three of them rich. They’d been best friends since MIT.
Haley and Dermot knew he hid stuff from them. They knew he’d been in jail in Morocco and had fought hard to get him released. But they sure as hell didn’t know what he did for the government
on a part-time basis. And that was the whole point of being a covert operative.
Welcome to the dark side
.
He turned off the alarm system and unlocked his office door, indicating Jane should precede him inside. She flinched at the sound of the lock turning
behind them. His office was soundproofed and swept for bugs before and after every appointment. Not that he handled many clients—just enough to make it look like he earned his pay the traditional way. Which didn’t involve blood.
He turned on the signal jammer a
s a precaution he only used when the building was empty. Jane Sanders also had another job, but it was their work with The Gateway Project that brought them together.
“The Gateway Project”
sounded so innocuous, like a community garden or construction company. Instead they did their best to show serial killers and pedophiles the Gateway to Hell. The Project involved some rich, very powerful people at the highest level of government. Dangerous people. Ruthless people. People who had a hell of a lot to lose should things go sideways. The work was more covert and deniable than any foreign assassination he’d ever carried out and, morally, he had less of a problem with his current targets than his former ones. The fact he had a problem at all was why there was a time limit on his commitment.
As always Jane found it impossible to hold his gaze for more than a fraction of a second. His being an assassin made her nervous
, even though the only woman he’d ever shot had been decked out in a suicide vest. No direct orders necessary.
He didn’t say anything.
Just slumped in the chair behind the desk. Fading into the background was one of the things he did best and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy needling this woman. They were about the same age and there the similarity ended. She was blond and pretty and put together like DC Barbie. If she had a mind of her own it was hidden under the thick agenda of their mutual task-master. She watched him from the corner of her eye the way you watched a supposedly tame lion—very, very carefully.
She stood in her tailored black suit, looking out through the window’s old fashioned net curtains, so beautiful he wondered why he wasn’t the least bit attracted to her.
One touch of Mallory Rooney’s hand had electrified his skin, heart tripping like a teen on speed. Of course,
she
didn’t know what he really did for the government and had blown him off anyway. Smart woman.
“Any trouble?”
Jane asked.
Again he said nothing. She wasn’t his superior and it pissed him off when she pretended she was. She was as complicit in the deaths of these people as he was,
but she never got her hands dirty. They weren’t pals. They weren’t brothers-in-arms. He’d bet two fingers on his left hand she’d never even seen a dead body—why that irked him so much he didn’t know.
“Did you find anything...?”
He waited for her to make full-on eye contact. Shook his head.
She cleared her throat. “I suppose you’re angry because we cut it a little fine with the timing the other night.”
He raised one brow. He’d had to call upon all of his magician skills to disappear without being seen at Meacher’s house. Not that he’d really worried. The Bureau always followed procedure while the Agency did its best work by bending the rules. Not that Alex worked for the CIA anymore; and on paper he never had. But he expected this new operation to keep their end of the bargain, part of which was to supply critical intel and insider information on the exact movements of specific law enforcement personnel in a timely manner.
“My source said there were technical issues—”
“They fucked up.” Accidentally or on purpose he didn’t know. “If I go down I take everyone with me. Don’t forget that.” It was his only insurance from being screwed by these people. He’d learned his lessons the hard way.
Her hands fluttered over the hem of her jacket, the first physical sign of real nerves he’d seen in the woman. “They said there was some sort of dead zone.” Her gaze flashed uneasily to his.
More silence, lengthening to discomfort. Hers.
“Who tipped off the cops?”
“I don’t know—”
“
Someone called it in
before
I’d done the job.”
Her eyes went wide and frightened, and he felt a thousand years old.
Between the early tip-off regarding Meacher’s identity and the delayed warning that the cops were on the way, the op had almost been compromised. Alex rubbed his hands over his face. He was exhausted and didn’t want to deal with Jane’s paranoia on top of his own. “Forget it. I’ll figure it out.”
Eager to be gone, she fumbled open a briefcase and pulled out a file. She almost handed it to him but changed her mind and slid it onto his cherry wood desk instead.
Scared was good.
Scared
kept people at a distance and that’s where he wanted them. For some reason Mallory Rooney popped into his head again, with her short hair as dark as a raven’s feather and sparkling amber eyes. No point lying to himself—he wouldn’t mind a little less distance between himself and that particular federal agent.
“They found another body,” Jane Sanders said without preamble.
“Where?”
“In a remote wooded area in Virginia, near the West Virginia state line.
A couple walking their dog. The killer took the trouble to hide the body.” Excitement vibrated low in her voice. “I don’t think he expected this one to be found until next spring.”
Alex stood and opened the file.
Looked down at the graphic color photographs of more pointless death. On top of eliminating serial killers they were also trying to solve one cold case. He picked up a photograph. Frowned. “The connection’s a little thin, don’t you think?”