"I should go home." Her gaze moved restlessly over the people milling all around the parking lot, where lights were beginning to flicker on as darkness rapidly approached. There were plenty of uniformed sheriff's deputies coming and going from the mall and questioning people in the parking lot, but there were even more concerned citizens just standing around, taking it all in. "You have work to do, and I'm just in the way."
Matt stepped closer, not touching her even though he wanted to. He had gone cold to his bones when he had seen her among the mall shoppers and realized how close she had been to an insane killer. "You could never be in the way." He knew why she was worried, of course, and her next words confirmed it.
"Matt, if somebody sees me just hanging around you and starts to wonder…"
Roughly he said, "I don't want to let you out of my sight."
Her tense expression softened. "I'll be fine. I'll take Bryce home and we'll lock ourselves in the house. And wait for you."
He didn't like it but knew he didn't have much choice. "All right." Because he couldn't help himself, he lifted a hand to touch her cheek briefly. "But, for God's sake, be careful."
"I will. You too."
Matt watched her all the way to her car, and it wasn't until she drove past him and lifted a hand in farewell that he turned back to his duties, reluctantly pushing her out of his thoughts.
Unseen by either of them, Gary Montgomery sat in his car gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers and watched his wife drive away. Then he turned his gaze to the sheriff busily directing his men.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered. "Sonof a bitch."
"I'm glad I scared you," Joe Mooney declared stolidly, escorting Hannah to her car. "Jesus, Hannah, you weren't even looking where you were going!"
"I was in a hurry." She knew only too well that this time she wouldn't be able to defend her actions. That poor girl, snatched from the mall in broad daylight – and the monster that took her might well have passed Hannah only minutes before! She shivered.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with you," Joe said.
Hannah suddenly felt like crying. "Can you stay home tonight, Joe? Please?"
He gazed down at her as they reached her car. Even though he knew the third shift at the plant would be short a number of workers on this night as more than one man stayed home, he said, "I've got a sick day coming. Get in the car, honey, and I'll follow you back to the house."
Hannah threw her arms around his neck, scattering fabric all over the pavement.
As Matt had predicted, John Logan's bloodhounds could follow a trail only a few yards from one of the mall exits, where Deanna Ramsay's abductor had obviously forced her into a waiting car. The mall property had been thoroughly searched, and with the girl's trail vanishing into thin air, there was nothing for the sheriff to do but disband the waiting group of volunteer searchers and send his officers out to patrol the town in the hope of seeing something – anything – suspicious.
The volunteers were reluctant to go even with Mart's assurances that he'd call them if it was decided a search was in order for the following day. There was a great deal of grumbling and growling from the group, and Matt was careful to make sure that they did indeed disperse and go their separate ways before he and most of his officers also left the mall.
The officers scattered, some to return to the office but most to begin patrolling. Matt's mercifully brief trip out to the Ramsay place had dashed his faint hopes that the girl had somehow gotten herself safely home; he had left a couple of his people gathering the names and numbers of Deanna's friends from her stricken parents so that every possible avenue of information could be followed.
He didn't expect it to help.
Deanna Ramsay had been abducted by a monster smart enough not to leave a trail, and the next they knew of him would undoubtedly be when her body was found.
Her raped and tortured body, if Cassie was right.
Her demonstration that day had very definitely given him pause. Even a skeptic would have been forced to say that she had been in the grip of something extraordinary, and he doubted he would ever forget that horrifying emptiness he had seen in her unseeing eyes.
He wondered if Ben had any idea what he was getting himself into.
The station was quiet with so many of his deputies out questioning Deanna's friends and looking for some hint of where her abductor had taken her, and Matt welcomed the relative silence. He needed to think.
He went into his office and closed the door. He called Abby first to make sure she had arrived home safely and that she was securely locked inside, and told her that if he could get to her place tonight, it would be before midnight; if he wasn't there by then, he wouldn't be coming tonight.
As always, Abby understood.
Matt spent the next hour and more at his desk going over every note and report concerning the three murders. He looked at photographs, studied the coins and the knives found at the scene, read every last detail of the autopsies.
When he finished, he was no closer to knowing who had killed the three women and, apparently, abducted Deanna Ramsay.
A knock at his door interrupted his brooding, for which he was grateful, and he looked up to find one of his deputies, Sharon Watkins, looking at him questioningly.
"What is it, Sharon? Any news?"
"Not about the Ramsay girl, no," she replied.
"I'm afraid to ask what else has happened."
"Nothing – that I know of. There's someone here to see you, Sheriff. He doesn't have an appointment, but I think you'll want to see him."
"This can't be good," Matt muttered.
"It isn't." Her expression told him she was glad it was his problem rather than hers.
Matt gave her a wry smile. "All right, send him in."
He absently tidied the files on his desk and rose to his feet as Sharon showed the visitor into his office. And he didn't need to hear the man's introduction or see his badge to know exactly what he was looking at.
"Sheriff Dunbar? My name is Noah Bishop. I'm with the FBI."
He was a tall man, lean but with the wide shoulders and athletic carriage that spoke of a great deal of physical strength. He had black hair boasting a rather dramatic widow's peak, piercing gray eyes, and a strikingly handsome face marred by a jagged scar that ran from the corner of his left eye almost to the corner of his mouth.
It was not a face that inspired comfort.
"Agent Bishop." Matt gestured to a visitor's chair, then reclaimed his own. "What can I do for the FBI?"
"Relax, Sheriff." Bishop smiled. "I didn't come down here to stick my nose into your investigation." His voice was cool but matter-of-fact.
"No?"
"No. This is your jurisdiction. The FBI would be happy to offer its expertise, especially if you do indeed have a serial killer operating in the area, but we have learned in such situations as this that it's more politic to wait until we're invited."
"Glad to hear it."
If Mart's brevity disturbed the agent, it wasn't apparent. "Then we understand each other."
Matt inclined his head. "Care to tell me how you heard about our little investigation?"
"The local newspaper."
"Which you have delivered to you in Virginia?"
Bishop smiled again. It was rather frightening. "I have access to certain computer data banks, including one in this state. Your local paper, like so many others, archives its issues for research – and posterity. Once the phrase 'serial killer' was used, it showed up on my system when I did a routine search for information."
"The Internet," Matt said with ironic admiration. "It's just wonderful."
"It does tend to make secrecy difficult." Without waiting for a response to that provocative statement, Bishop went on calmly. "As I said, Sheriff, the FBI would be happy to offer any aid or advice you might require. However, I'm not here primarily because of your investigation, but on a related matter."
"Which is?"
"I'd like to talk to you about Cassandra Neill."
FEBRUARY 27, 1999
When Cassie woke, it was with the leaden sensation of having slept a long, long time. She lay there for a while, not particularly concerned about anything, staring drowsily up at the ceiling. But then the niggling suspicion that she had slept in her clothes intruded, and she finally forced herself to sit up and push back the covers.
Yes, shehad slept in her clothes.
Why on earth had she done that?
The clock on her nightstand told her it was a bit after nine in the morning. She was reasonably sure it was Saturday.
And somebody was frying bacon in her kitchen.
Bewilderment rather than anxiety was uppermost in Cassie's mind. It took her several minutes of careful thought to recall what had happened the previous afternoon, and when she did she realized that Ben must indeed have stayed all night.
After carrying her to bed. And leaving her there.
She pushed that realization away and the covers with it, sliding stiffly out of bed and standing on the rug beside it for a moment as she automatically assessed her condition. Her thinking was still a bit fuzzy. Her muscles, having obviously remained in one exhausted position all night, complained with every movement, and her growling stomach told her it had been too long since her last meal, but other than that she felt surprisingly well.
A long, hot shower took care of the stiff muscles and cleared her head, and by the time she was dressed and on her way downstairs, her head was clearer and she felt ready to face just about anything. Even a prosecuting attorney frying bacon in her kitchen.
He had the table already set for two, and her portable radio was quietly playing oldies in the background. It was a cheerful, welcoming scene.
"Good morning," he said when she came in. "The coffee's hot."
"Good morning." She headed for the coffee, desperately in need of caffeine and hoping it didn't show.
Max, sprawled out near the back door with a rawhide treat between his front paws, thumped his tail in welcome but didn't stop chewing. The honeymoon, Cassie decided, was definitely over.
"I hope you don't mind, but I've made myself at home," Ben said casually and without looking at her.
"How could I mind?" she murmured.
"I imagine you might." His voice remained conversational. "Yesterday you told me to leave."
She vaguely recalled that. "I told you to leave me alone. You did."
He sent her a glance that was no less sharp for being brief. "How do you feel?"
"Better. Sleep usually helps." Though not usually sixteen hours' worth. Sipping her coffee, Cassie looked at Ben, noting both his ease in the kitchen and the fact that he had changed clothes since yesterday. Where had he slept?
"Do you like pancakes?" he asked. "Say yes."
"Yes." She went to get syrup and butter from the refrigerator, then poured orange juice for them both as he finished cooking.
She wanted to ask him about the poor girl who'd been taken yesterday, but her mind shied away from it. There was nothing she could do, she reminded herself fiercely. Not for that girl. Not now.
She remained silent while Ben transferred the food to the table and they both sat down to eat. The silence between them stretched out for most of the meal. It didn't seem to bother Ben at all. Cassie was in no hurry to break it; she was not uncomfortable with him, though she was highly conscious of his every movement. She just didn't know what to say to him.
They were nearly finished when she finally spoke. "This is good. Thanks."
"I specialize in breakfasts and steaks. Other than that…" He shrugged, smiling.
She thought that expertise had probably taken him as far as he wanted it to but didn't say it aloud. Instead, driven, she said, "That girl – "
"They haven't found her yet."
"I could – "
"No," Ben said. "You couldn't."
"I'm all right now."
"Maybe." He shook his head, watching her intently. "And maybe not. Do you remember it all, Cassie?"
"More or less."
"Do you remember speaking in the first person, in the killer's words?"
She felt a chill. "No."
"You did. I managed to pull you back, but – " He drew a breath. "Now I understand what you meant when you said you needed a lifeline."
Cassie didn't ask what, specifically, she had said. Instead, she shook her head and murmured, "Every case is a bit different, but… I don't understand anything about this one. Peculiar things have been happening almost from the beginning."
He hesitated. "Something else. Your eyes were open during most of the contact. That isn't usual, is it?"