“The kind that gets beneath your skin, jumps into your brain and haunts your dreams, until five, six, ten, twenty years later you still sometimes wake up screaming? No, sugar, I wouldn’t know a thing about that.” She stubbed out her cigarette, then reached in her purse for another.
“Sugar,” Mac mocked gently, “you’re lying through your teeth.” He held up a lighter again and watched how her blue eyes appraised him even as she leaned toward his hands and accepted the flame.
She sat back. She inhaled. She exhaled. She said abruptly, “All right, pretty boy. There’s no dealing with you tonight, so you might as well tell me about your meeting.”
“It never happened,” he said readily.
“Blew you off?”
“For bigger fish. According to Dr. Ennunzio, it’s now all terrorism all the time.”
“Versus your five-year-old case,” she filled in for him.
He grinned crookedly, leaned back, and spread out his darkly bronzed hands. “I have seven dead girls, Genny. Seven little girls who never made it home to their families. It’s not their fault they were murdered by a plain-vanilla serial killer and not some imported terrorist threat.”
“ Battle of the budgets.”
“Absolutely. The Behavioral Science Unit has only one forensic linguist-Dr. Ennunzio-but the nation has thousands of whackos writing threats. Apparently, letters to the editor are low on the list of priorities. Of course, in my world, these letters are about the only damn lead we have left. National Academy prestige aside, my department didn’t send me here for continued education. I’m supposed to meet this man. Get his expert input on the only decent lead we have left. I go back to my department without so much as saying boo to the fine doctor, and I can kiss my ass good-bye.”
“You don’t care about your ass.”
“It would be easier if I did,” Mac said, with his first trace of seriousness all night.
“You ask anyone else in the BSU for help?”
“I’ve asked anyone who’ll give me the time of day in the hall for help. Hell, Genny, I’m not proud. I just want this guy.”
“You could go independent.”
“Been there, done that. Got us nowhere.”
Genny considered this while taking another drag from her cigarette. Despite what she might think, Mac hadn’t let the great set of boobs fool him. Genny was a sheriff. Ran her own twelve-man office. In Texas, where girls were still encouraged to become cheerleaders or, better yet, Miss America. In other words, Genny was tough. And smart. And experienced. She probably had many of those cases that got under an investigator’s skin. And given how hot it had become outside, how hot it would be by the end of the week, Mac would appreciate any insight she could give him.
“It’s been three years,” she said at last. “That’s a long time for a serial predator. Maybe your guy wound up in jail on some other charge. It’s been known to happen.”
“Could be,” Mac acknowledged, though his tone said he wasn’t convinced.
She accepted that with a nod. “Well, how about this, big boy? Maybe he’s dead.”
“Hallelujah and praise the Lord,” Mac agreed. His voice still lacked conviction. Six months ago he’d been working on buying into that theory. Hell, he’d been looking forward to embracing that theory. Violent felons often led violent lives and came to violent ends. All the better for the taxpayers, as far as Mac was concerned.
But then, six months ago, one single letter in the mail…
Funny the things that could rock your world. Funny the things that could take a three-year-old frustrated task force and launch it from low-burn, cooling their heels, to high-octane, move, now, now, now in twenty-four hours or less. But he couldn’t mention these things to Genny. These were details told only on a need-to-know basis.
Like why he really wanted to talk to Dr. Ennunzio. Or why he was really in the great state of Virginia.
Almost on cue, he felt the vibration at his waist. He looked down at his beeper, the sense of foreboding already gathering low in his belly. Ten numbers stared back up at him. Atlanta area code. And the other numbers…
Damn!
“I gotta go,” he said, bolting to his feet.
“She that good-looking?” Genny drawled.
“Honey, I’m not that lucky tonight.”
He threw thirty bucks on the table, enough to cover his drinks and hers. “You got a ride?” His voice was curt, the question unconscionably rude, and they both knew it.
“No man’s that hard to replace.”
“You cut me deep, Genny.”
She smiled, her gaze lingering on his tall athletic build, her eyes sadder than she intended. “Sugar, I don’t cut you at all.”
Mac, however, was already striding out the door.
Outside, the heat smacked the grin off of Mac’s face. Merry blue eyes immediately turned dark, his expression went from teasing to grim. It had been four weeks since he’d last received a call. He’d been beginning to wonder if that was it.
GBI Special Agent Mac McCormack flipped open his cell phone and furiously started dialing.
The person picked up after the first ring. “You are not even trying,” an eerily distorted voice echoed in his ears. Male, female-hell, it could’ve been Mickey Mouse.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Mac replied tightly. He stopped in the Virginia parking lot, looking around the dark, empty space. The phone number always read Atlanta, but lately Mac had begun wondering about that. All a person had to do was use a cell phone with a Georgia number, then he could call from anywhere with the same effect.
“He’s closer than you think.”
“Then maybe you should stop speaking in riddles and tell me the truth.” Mac turned right, then left. Nothing.
“I mailed you the truth,” the disembodied voice intoned.
“You sent me a riddle. I deal in information, buddy, not childish games.”
“You deal in death.”
“You’re not doing much better. Come on. It’s been six months. Let’s end this dance and get down to some business. You must want something. I know I want something. What do you say?”
The voice fell silent for a moment. Mac wondered if he’d finally shamed the caller, then in the next instant he worried that he’d pissed off the man/woman/mouse. His grip tightened on his phone, pressing it against the curve of his ear. He couldn’t afford to lose this call. Damn, he hated this.
Six months ago, Mac had received the first “letter” in the mail. It was a newspaper clipping really, of a letter to the editor of the Virginian-Pilot. And the one short paragraph was horribly, hauntingly similar to other editorial notes, now three years past: planet dying… animals weeping… rivers screaming… can’t you hear it? heat kills…
Three years later, the beast was stirring again. Mac didn’t know what had happened in between, but he and his task force were very truly frightened about what might happen next.
“It’s getting hot,” the voice singsonged now.
Mac looked around the darkness frantically. No one. Nothing. Dammit! “Who are you?” he tried. “Come on, buddy, speak to me.”
“He’s closer than you think.”
“Then give me a name. I’ll go get him and no one will be hurt.” He changed tack. “Are you scared? Are you frightened of him? Because trust me, we can protect you.”
“He doesn’t want to hurt them. I don’t think he can help himself.”
“If he’s someone you care about, if you’re worried for his safety, don’t be. We have procedures for this kind of arrest, we’ll take appropriate measures. Come on, this guy has killed seven girls. Give me his name. Let me solve this problem for you. You’re doing the right thing.”