The Silenced (17 page)

She jumped out of bed, startling the dog, who gave a worried “Woof!”

“It’s okay, Killer,” she said.

She hurried over to the TV stand and turned on the light, then stared at the note again. She still couldn’t read that part, but the
b-a-r-d
was the end of a word—the beginning of which had smudged.

She ran to her door, ready to tear over to the next bedroom. But when she opened it, Matt Bosworth was already there. He wore just his trousers, bare chest and hair damp from the shower.

“Bard,” he said. “I know...”

“Me, too. Bard.
Hubbard
.”

“Yes, Hubbard. Lara’s note to you is about Congressman Hubbard. I’m pretty sure that your friend suspected something about his death wasn’t right.”

“And,” Meg said, “it has to do with Congressman Walker!”

He nodded, then stepped back. She realized that her hair was tangled around her face and she was inappropriately dressed in her giant sleep tee.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he said. “It’s still early. Not quite six.”

“I was awake. I can be ready to go in about ten minutes.”

“Good. Great. I’d like to get that note in, see what our experts can tell us. They have lights that can detect what’s faded, trace the slightest indentation on paper.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s perfect.”

“Perfect,” he echoed.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, and then he spun around to return to his room.

Killer followed him.

“Hey, you!” Meg called to the dog.

The animal ignored her.

“It’s all right,” Matt said. He disappeared into his room with Killer trotting behind him. She ran into the shower, anxious to be as good as her word.

When she stepped out of her room, he was waiting for her. There was a somber look on his face.

“Has something happened?” she asked.

He nodded. “We have another one,” he said grimly.

“Another...”

“Dead woman.”

Meg’s heart leaped to her throat. “Not—not Lara?” she asked.

10

S
lash was tired as all hell. For once in his life, he wished he didn’t work alone.

He’d spent part of the night trying to determine how to break in on the agents. But they had the damned dog. The stupid creature had barked at him when he’d been quite a distance away, hidden in the trees. What would it do if he tried to get into that ramshackle inn with the agents sleeping? Not only that, Slash knew that agents slept with their firearms by their beds, always within reach.

He’d given up watching the old bed-and-breakfast and headed out in the early-morning hours. He was tired and irritated, but he’d worked out his next moves carefully. First, where to grab someone. Second, where to leave her. This latest killing would change the focus yet again.

It would have every law enforcement agent in the tristate and District area fixated on one thing and only one thing.

The killings.
These
killings. The dead women. Eventually, he’d know what he needed to know. Eventually, it would work out. This spate of serial killings would end as swiftly as it had begun. As swiftly as it had ended years before. Once again, the killer would disappear into the annals of crime history.

That was too bad. He realized he’d acquired a taste for what he did. Maybe Slash would remain active; the persona of Slash was so alive and so real now. Sometimes he woke up believing he was Slash McNeil. Sometimes it was difficult to pull back, to remember who he really was.

Last night hadn’t been easy. She’d been a fighter and a squirmer. He’d chosen her differently. But in the end, it didn’t matter. And in the end, the river would be his salvation, washing away any trace of what had happened.

None of the women mattered. They were nothing—nothing at all. The end result was everything.

Except of course...

The agents. He wanted them dead. But that would create a disruption that would cause an even more intense kind of manhunt, would change the dynamics, could ruin everything.

Perhaps, though...

He thought about the one he’d been ordered not to kill, at least not yet. Made no sense. A hole in the ground was a hole in the ground.

Maybe she was already dead. Maybe he could find the time to go and watch her beg and plead, let her know exactly who had done this to her, let her see his face before he watched her die. Maybe that would calm his soul, stop this terrible craving to find a way to kill the agents.

But killing a man wouldn’t fit Slash’s profile, he told himself.

Killing her, though...

He ached, longing to kill them, to see them die.

His phone rang. “Hey, up and at ’em—boss wants you!”

Slash silently gritted his teeth.

Some people—who weren’t women—deserved to die, too.

And Slash imagined a different kind of killing as he rose to face the day.

* * *

Meg stood at the autopsy in Dr. Wong’s OCME, trying not to shake. She knew that the victim wasn’t Lara. And yet she’d felt that terrible dread when she first heard the news. It was painful to stand where she was, completely still and listening, as stoically professional as possible.

When they’d driven here that morning, she’d tried to reassure herself that it wasn’t going to be Lara. Lara had been in Harpers Ferry; she’d left the note. She’d known something—about Hubbard, about Walker—and that was why she’d disappeared. Not because she was dead.

“The victim was killed early this morning, probably about 2:00 or 3:00 a.m.,” Wong said. “The throat is slashed, the body was ripped from throat to groin and stones were stuffed into the resulting cavity. We’ve rushed tests. She was drugged in exactly the same manner as the previous victims. She was found in the Potomac River. What I believe is different about this woman is that she’ll prove to be a prostitute. She was sexually active previous to her murder, but there’s no sign that it was forced.”

“That makes her a prostitute?” Matt asked, puzzled.

Wong shook his head. “She’s got a tattoo on her inner right wrist. A rose. It signifies a loosely organized group of working girls who keep tabs on one another. Kind of a sisterhood. I know that because a john went crazy and killed a member of the group about six months ago. He was familiar to some of the other girls. The victim was seen leaving him, he was identified and arrested and he confessed to the crime. But it was nothing like this. I believe this one has our serial killer’s signature.”

“The tongue is missing?” Meg heard herself ask.

“It is. I’m not an investigator on the case,” Wong said, “but I’d like to point out that I believe this to be a rush job. The cuts are more jagged. The body was poorly stuffed—she floated almost immediately. Unless, of course, the killer needs a faster kick—needs the body to be discovered more quickly.”

“Let me know when you get an ID,” Matt said.

“You bet. Jackson Crow had an artist in, one of your people, Jane Everett. We’ve got her sketch going out in the media.”

“You have any idea where we’ll find other girls belonging to this sisterhood?”

Wong gave them an address and the two of them thanked him and then left. Outside, Meg was startled when she felt Matt’s hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. He pulled her gently into his arms.

“We’re going to find her alive,” he whispered.

Maybe it was the unexpectedness of his action, or maybe it was because she’d become more and more aware with each passing hour of the physical attraction between them. But she was suddenly more afraid of his touch than even the bad news that might be coming. She couldn’t explain it to herself—other than to suspect that she feared losing control. Losing independence. And yet...she stayed in his arms for a moment, feeling the heat of his chest and breathing in his clean scent.

Then he stepped back and looked at her, searching her eyes. “You okay? Really?”

“Yes, I’m okay.”

“We’ve got to get to the office,” he said. “Then we’ll go see what our newest victim’s friends have to say.”

They returned to the car, where Killer was waiting for them; the windows were down far enough to allow him plenty of air. Meg had been afraid to leave him alone in the car on such a hot day, but Matt had taken care of it. He’d parked in a shady spot, and also made a purchase in a convenience store on the way here—a cloth water bowl that could be folded to fit into a pocket. They could fill it from a water bottle and empty it when they had to drive again.

Meg dumped the water, then slid into the passenger seat.

“Another murder. Here. And we might have been followed in Harpers Ferry. Maybe these murders and Lara’s disappearance
aren’t
related,” Meg said.

Matt glanced over at her. “But we’re both pretty sure that Lara wrote something about Walker having a connection with Garth Hubbard’s death.”

“That’s what I don’t understand. Hubbard wasn’t murdered. He died of a heart attack.”

“There was no autopsy. His private physician signed his death certificate. He had a heart condition, so there was no reason to suspect anything...untoward. Or anything in the way of a cover-up.”

“He was in his own home,” Meg said. “These women who are being murdered... The killer watches them and takes them off the street.”

“But now a prostitute. None of the other women were prostitutes. They were all new to the area from which they disappeared. Why change his choice of victim?”

“Because...he needed a kill last night or early this morning. He hadn’t chosen a new target yet. Could be that his desire to kill has escalated, that he’s not getting the same fix. And a prostitute is easily picked up on the street.”

“The timing would fit—if the killer is also our stalker. It’s only an hour and a half back to DC from Harpers Ferry,” Matt said.

They arrived at the Krewe headquarters and went directly into Jackson’s office where he was waiting with Will Chan, Angela and Kat Sokolov.

Kat had been to the OCME already; she’d gone in as soon as the body had been discovered. She told them she was as certain as Wong that the killer was the same man who’d perpetrated the previous crimes and she was equally certain that the time of death had been early morning.

Matt described their visit with Nancy Cooper in Richmond and how Meg believed that someone in a black sedan had watched them at a rest stop. He also mentioned the black sedan seen at her new town house, which Angela corroborated. Then he went on to tell them about Joey finding Meg—and their recovery of the note from the gravestone marker. He produced the note; Angela said she’d get it down to tech support right away.

“We believe that it’s all connected somehow—although we’re not sure why,” Matt said. “But Lara’s note seems to imply something about the death of Congressman Hubbard.” He paused, looking at Jackson. “Somehow, we have to get an autopsy done on Congressman Hubbard. I can’t help thinking that he was, shall we say, helped to die—and that it had to do with his political stand. Perhaps it was an assassination. If he’d lived to run for the presidency, there’s a good chance he would’ve been elected.”

“These women are being killed because of a government conspiracy?” Jackson asked incredulously.

“I know it’s far-fetched,” Matt said.

Jackson drummed his fingers on the wooden surface of his desk. “It sure is,” he agreed. “Unless...”

“Yeah, it’s far-fetched—unless Lara turns out to be one of his victims,” Matt said flatly, looking at Meg, sympathy in his eyes. “Here’s my theory. Lara is supposed to show up as a victim of this crazed serial killer. The thing is, if she was the only one dead, the investigation would fall on Congressman Walker and his team. But if a number of women die, then the suspicion falls on someone who’s a sociopathic killer.”

Meg knew that what they were saying was true. It was what she’d feared all along, even if she hadn’t actually voiced it aloud. Even if Lara’s body hadn’t been found. “Can Adam get Congressman Hubbard exhumed—and arrange for an autopsy?”

“We have no evidence against Ian Walker,” Jackson said. “We have no evidence at all, really. I don’t think there’s a judge in the world who’d allow Hubbard to be exhumed. But there’s one person who can do it—his widow. I’ll call Adam now, see what he can work out. Will, go down to tech and see if you can be of assistance. The rest of you—we have copies of Jane Everett’s sketch of the last victim. Get out on the streets and see if you can find someone who can identify her—and who she was with last night.”

They all rose, everyone taking a moment to pat Killer on the head. Meg smiled as she watched and wondered what it was about a dog...

“What?” Matt said, and she realized he was watching her.

“Killer,” she replied. “What a name—but he makes people smile.”

“Hmpff,” he muttered.

He was full of it, she thought. Matt liked the dog.

Did he actually like her, too?

She stepped away, wondering how she’d come to feel so drawn to the man. She was just a fledgling agent to him. He could be decent, but the work always came first. And yet, if she was honest, she’d have to admit she’d been attracted to him from the start—frightening though that attraction could be. He had a certain magnetism. Was it because of his strength? Because she wasn’t as strong as she wanted to be and needed that strength?

No, she was dangerously attracted to the man. And she had to stop feeling that way. If she could...

Supplied with copies of the sketch Jane Everett had drawn, the two of them headed to the address where the latest victim had been working, at the intersection Wong had given them. For the first few hours, they could find no one who claimed to recognize the dead woman.

They had Killer with them, and he was an invaluable asset. While the women they wanted to talk to tended to scurry away from anyone who looked official, they were captivated by the ugly little dog and stopped to pet him.

Finally, a tall brunette in very short shorts and a leopard halter top glanced at the picture—and her face crumpled.

“It’s Marci,” she said. “Marci Henning.”

“You’re certain, and she was your friend?” Matt asked.

The woman nodded, big tears appearing in her eyes, rolling down her face. “Of course I’m certain, and yes, she was my friend. Such a good kid. She came here with stars in her eyes and then she drank too much one night, got into drugs...and wound up with an arrest record. After that, she couldn’t even get a job in a coffee shop. Me, I’m out here because I’d rather be doing this than dealing with jerks in a crappy, low-paid job in the service industry. Marci...she wanted something more.”

“I’m sorry,” Meg said. “But...this is important. We desperately want to catch her killer. Justice for her, and for the other victims. What can you tell us? Did you see anything? Do you know anything about her last customer?”

“I wasn’t with her. I was at the bar over there. Drunks are easily seduced,” the woman said. She offered her hand. “I’m Ollie. Olive Warner. And I do know who was with Marci around the corner. Hold on. I’ll find her.”

“Thank you.”

“Now no one can work the street,” Ollie muttered as she started walking.

She was headed toward a seedy bar, and they followed her in.

The place fell silent, except for the old jukebox wheezing out a country tune as they entered. Meg could feel the distrust all around them.

Matt stepped forward, holding up his badge. “We’re not here to bust anyone for anything. We’re searching for a murderer, someone who gets off on chopping up women. We need your help.”

Killer let out a woof that sounded almost like the word
please
. Meg lifted him in her arms, not at all sure about bringing the dog into a dive bar. Later, she wondered whether it was Matt’s request, Ollie’s plea or Killer’s woof that changed things.

There was silence for another moment and then Ollie Warner spoke up. “Marci is dead. This horrible killer is attacking
us
now. I know one of you was with her—one of you saw something.”

The bartender, a grizzled man who looked as if he hadn’t seen water or soap in a week, was the first to respond. “Marci was here until about one in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Meg said.

A slim woman in a skintight blouse rose from a bar stool. “I saw her after that. We were...we were on the same block. I saw her get into a car.”