Blood of Dawn (21 page)

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Authors: Tami Dane

BOOK: Blood of Dawn
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“Um . . .” His gaze slid to Hough, then jumped back to me. “Why don’t you get yourself something to drink while I figure that out.”
“Okay.” Wishing I could get the hell out of Dodge now, I shuffled off to the kitchen so the lovebirds could figure out the sleeping arrangements. I wasn’t thirsty, so I put a little ice in a glass and added a splash of water. Then I tiptoed to the corner, where I could eavesdrop without being seen.
“I felt bad for her. She may be in danger, and she had nowhere else to go.” That was JT.
“It seems she’s always in danger, JT. You see? This is why this thing between us isn’t going to work. I know how you feel about Skye.”
“I told you, she and I are friends. We’re only friends.”
I could see why Hough wouldn’t believe that. I’d heard that “we’re only friends” bit from him too. Then I’d learned he’d fathered her child—and without the use of sterilized test tubes and pipettes. Of course she was questioning his motives.
Odd, how things had completely flipped around in such a short time. Once, she’d been the one trying to reassure me that there was nothing going on between her and JT. Now I was in that position. Oh, lucky me.
It was time for me to take control of this situation. I rounded the bend; my mind was made up.
“JT, in the interest of keeping the peace, I think it would be best if you drove me to the nearest hotel.”
“But, Sloan, what about the
impundulu
?”
“What about it? How would it know where I’m staying?”
His mouth twisted into a grimace. “I don’t know. If something happened to you—”
“I’ll be fine.”
He exchanged a look with Hough. She said absolutely nothing.
“All right.” He stuffed his hand into his pants pocket. “I’ll be back in twenty,” he told Hough. Evidently, things had progressed fairly quickly. Already he was at the must-report-all-movements stage of their relationship. I was impressed. He worked fast.
Back out to his car we went. I buckled in while JT stuffed his key into the ignition. “Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous?” he grumbled as he navigated the car out of the driveway.
“Dangerous? Like take a shower with a blow-dryer?” I joked.
JT wasn’t amused.
“I’m sorry I effed up your evening.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, it is. At least Hough will be glad when I’m gone.”
“I hope you’ll reconsider quitting, Sloan. You’ve done a lot of good work for the PBAU.”
“I’m not a quitter. I’ve never quit anything in my life. But this, I can see now it’s not for me.”
JT pulled in front of a Red Roof Inn and opened his door. I opened mine. He walked me inside, handed over the company credit card—despite my protestations—muttering something about protective custody. Once I had my key card in my hand, he gave me a stiff-faced good-bye and left. I headed up to room 209, took a long, hot shower, and tried calling Katie again. Still, no answer. After leaving a message for her, telling her where I was, and that I’d need a ride in the morning, I lay in bed and turned on the TV. There was no way I was going to sleep.
Hours dragged. There was nothing worth watching on television . . . unless you were in the market for the latest miracle vacuum cleaner or wrinkle-reducing system. At dawn, I dragged down to the breakfast room to check out the free Continental breakfast. Coffee. Danishes. Some sad-looking fruit. I helped myself and went back up to my room. My cell phone’s indicator light was blinking. Someone had called.
That someone wasn’t who I was expecting.
We are each on our own journey. Each of us is on our very own adventure; encountering all kinds of challenges, and the choices we make on that adventure will shape us as we go; these choices will stretch us, test us and push us to our limit; and our adventure will make us stronger than we ever knew we could be.
—Aamnah Akram
21
“Sloan, it’s Mom.” Of course, I knew it was Mom. Caller ID. “Dad said the alarm company received an alert last night, at about one in the morning. They sent a cruiser out to the house to check things out, but everything appeared to be fine. Are you and Katie okay? Call me, please, so I don’t drive your father batty, nagging him to take me home.”
End of message.
I dialed Katie’s cell first. It rang about ten times before kicking over to voice mail. And once again, I left a message for her to call. This time, I asked her to call ASAP. Then I started scrolling down to Gabe Wagner’s number, but he rang me first. I answered.
“Sloan, where are you?” he asked.
“Red Roof Inn, Baltimore. Why?”
“We’re at a crime scene. You need to get over here ASAP.”
“I can’t. My mom’s car is still sitting at the coffee shop.”
“Shit. Okay. I’ll be out there to pick you up in about forty-five.”
“But, Gabe—”
“Yeah, JT told me. You’re quitting. But you have to get over here.”
“Why is it so important I get over there? You and JT are already at the scene.”
“The address is 6036 Grove Street.”
That was Mom and Dad’s place. The alarm! “Was it . . . Katie?”
“She’s alive. The pool guy knew CPR.”
“Oh, my God.” I started pacing, wringing my hands. “Is she okay?”
“They’re taking her to the hospital to keep an eye on her, but she was alert and talking when I got here.”
I never thought I’d say this, but . . . “Thank God for Sergio.” I was pacing faster now, stomping from one end of the room to the other. Suddenly I felt trapped and powerless and antsy.
“He saved her life, for sure. There are some inconsistencies between this scene and the others. I’m not sure what we’re dealing with here.”
“Damn it, I wish I had a car!” I flopped my free hand to unclench the muscles. My eyes were burning, making me blink, blink, blink. My head was feeling a little spinny. My mouth was a little tingly.
“It’s probably better you don’t. I can just imagine how you would drive.”
Dizzy now, I plopped my ass down on the bed. Respiratory alkalosis. I was hyperventilating. I concentrated on breathing more slowly. “Katie and I have been best friends for years.”
“She was doing okay when they took her. Sloan, don’t worry.”
Ha. Easy for you to say.
“I’m heading to my car right now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I’d been saying that word, “thanks,” a lot lately. It seemed what independence I’d gained when I’d accepted the internship, I’d lost to some degree. I hoped I’d be back, standing on my own two feet soon.
 
 
It felt like Wagner took hours to get to the motel. But finally, just when I’d thought he’d been in a fatal crash or something, he called, letting me know he was down in the parking lot, waiting. Having already gone to the lobby to cash out, I left the key in the room, scampered down, and jumped into his car.
“What’s the latest on Katie?” I blurted out before I’d even closed the door.
“I haven’t called the hospital, but I’m telling you, she’s fine.”
Of course, I had my phone out and ready to dial. “What hospital?”
“St. Elizabeth’s.”
I looked up the phone number and rang the general line, asking for the emergency room. We were halfway back to my folks’ place before I got any information whatsoever. All the nurse could do, since I was not a relation, was confirm that they did have a patient with that name under their care. That was not good enough.
“Can you take me to the hospital first?” I asked.
“Sure, but I can’t stay. I need to get back to the scene.”
“I’d be more comfortable going home if I could just talk to her, make sure she’s really okay—”
“Let me see what I can do.” Gabe called; and when he was eventually transferred to the emergency department, he informed whoever was on the other end of the line that he was one of the agents at the scene and needed to speak with the patient. He repeated his speech a few times and gave his name. By the fourth time that he’d recited his little I’man-important-FBI-agent speech, I had some serious doubts he’d get through. A few seconds later, he clicked off the speakerphone and handed me the phone.
I put it to my ear. “Katie?”
“Hello?” came a weak voice.
My heart jumped. A sob tore through my gut. “Katie! It’s me, Sloan. Are you okay?”
“Sloan. Sergio saved my life. I’m tired and feeling a little strange, but the doctors said I’ll be okay.”
“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe it!” I repeated. “I didn’t expect him to come after you. If I had, I would’ve warned you. To hell with FBI policy.”
“Warned me about what?” she mumbled.
“It was the unsub we’ve been profiling. At least that’s what we’re guessing. Was there a lightning bolt right outside the house last night?”
“I don’t know. . . . Wait, yes, now that I think of it, there was. I almost forgot. It was strange, because it wasn’t even raining. But, Sloan, that’s not what—”
“Oh, God, Katie.” My hands were shaking. I was holding the phone with both of them, trying to keep it steady. If Sergio hadn’t been there, Katie would be dead.
Dead!
I couldn’t have dealt with that guilt, knowing it would have been my fault. “I’m sorry, Katie. So sorry.” I wiped my face, realizing it was all wet. I was crying. “I’m so done with this job. It’s not worth it, putting everyone I love in danger. I’m not even supposed to warn anyone if they might be in danger. Who the hell can live like that, just standing there—”
“Sloan, slow down. You’re quitting? Why?”
“There are so many reasons. But I don’t need to talk about that right now. I’m going to come up there, to the hospital. We can talk then.”
“No, Sloan. You don’t need to come up here. I’m fine. They’re sending me home tomorrow. I’m going to eat, take a nap, do some reading. If you want to do something to help, then get that profile done and catch that guy . . . before you completely lose it.” She clicked off before I had a chance to argue with her.
I dropped my phone into my purse.
“So?” Wagner asked.
“Gah!”
I dropped my head into my hands. “My best friend almost died. We need to profile this monster and figure out how to stop him. Today. Now. Right the fuck now.”
“Yes, we do. So what are you going to do, Sloan? Are you going to quit? Or are you going to help us?”
“I guess I’ll wait to hand in my resignation until after we’re done with this profile.”
Gabe didn’t speak. He just nodded and smiled.
 
 
We met up with JT and Chief Peyton at the crime scene. The chief gave us a quick rundown of what had been found, and what hadn’t. There was no mark outside a window, but the blow-dryer in Katie’s bathroom had been shorted out. She was found lying on the bathroom floor.
“She’s not a Fitzgerald High student. My cover must have been blown,” I pointed out. This didn’t surprise me. I’d waltzed into a crime scene with an FBI agent. Of course, the unsub made me.
“I don’t think that’s what happened here. But, just in case I’m wrong, I’d like to keep you under protective custody until the unsub is caught,” Chief Peyton informed me.
I wasn’t over-the-moon thrilled by that news, but it didn’t come as a surprise. I knew what I was dealing with, and I had some notion of how to avoid being attacked. But Katie was still vulnerable. And so were over twelve hundred Fitzgerald students. We needed to quit poking around and get to work. “What about Katie?”
The chief and JT exchanged looks.
The chief said, “We’ll take care of her too.”
I watched the team of crime scene techs bustle through the living room, carrying their gear. One of them stopped, informed the chief, “We’re finished up here.”
“Thank you.”
I watched them head outside. “I think we need to present what we have to the BPD. We can’t wait for more details. They not only need to know we’re dealing with two unsubs, but they need to understand that one of them can change forms and identities. He’s not just any predator. He’s virtually unstoppable.”
“You’ll present,” the chief stated. “I insist.”
“If you insist.” I motioned toward the door.
And we all headed out together.
 
 
Walking into the BPD within twenty-four hours of being interrogated for breaking and entering and assault was insanely uncomfortable, to put it mildly. I felt physically ill, and slightly paranoid. It felt as though everyone was watching me, waiting for me to say or do something suspicious.
Yes,
I do realize how that sounds. But if you haven’t been interrogated, you have no appreciation for what I had been through.
Entering today, I was flanked by JT on my right and the chief on my left. Both were muttering little words of encouragement as we made our way back to the room where the day shift of Baltimore’s finest had all gathered.
As he had the last two times, Commissioner Allan, of the Baltimore Police Department, gave me a friendly welcome and shook my hand. After greeting Chief Peyton and JT, he motioned to the front of the room. “We’re ready when you are.”
I forced myself to take a few deep breaths before stepping up to present our profile.
I cleared my throat, and the room went silent.
“I’m Sloan Skye, and I’ll be presenting our profile of the Fitzgerald High killer today,” I stated. My stomach clenched. Sweat beaded on my forehead. “We have generated a preliminary profile for the unsubs—plural—who are responsible for the murders of Stephanie Barnett, Emma Walker, and Hailey Roberts, and the attempted murders of Jia Wu and Katie Lewis. As I mentioned, we are looking for two individuals. I’ll profile each one separately.
“The first is a mythical creature called an
impundulu,
lightning bird, or
thekwane.
A creature of South African folklore, the lightning bird is able to take the form of a human-sized black-and-white bird. Depending upon which myth you read, he is able not only to produce lightning at will, but is able to take the form of lightning, traveling at the speed of light. He is also able to take the form of an attractive man. In this form, he is able to seduce young women. What makes the
impundulu
virtually unstoppable is his ability to shape-shift. He is able to change his identity at will, and hasn’t appeared as the same male twice. Additionally, he is capable of traveling at impossibly high speeds. In his lightning form, he cannot be caught and contained. It is a commonly known fact that energy cannot be destroyed. He is capable of using any form of electrical conduction to move in, out, and through buildings.”
I paused to give everyone a chance to take notes.
“Our best chance of stopping the
impundulu
is to identify and apprehend his owner.” I made air quotes with my fingers when I said the word “owner.”
“This individual has complete control over him, and is using him as his or her weapon, enacting revenge against enemies. We do not know the gender yet. He or she is highly intelligent, and most likely psychopathic. We would classify him or her as an organized killer, and would expect he or she is taking measures to evade capture and hide his connection to the murders and the
impundulu.
I believe this individual’s motivation will be instrumental in identifying him or her. Looking for some history of conflict with all the victims, both deceased and those who are still alive, should present a pattern over time. And that pattern should point to this unsub.”
“Can you give us more details on the second unsub?” one of the officers asked.
“Sure. We have profiled him or her as aged fifteen to eighteen, a student attending Fitzgerald High School, popular and well liked among his peers and teachers.”
“So we’re looking for a good kid?” another officer asked.
I nodded. “We are. He or she is smart. Charming. But with a dark side, which he may not always be able to hide. Based upon the level of severity of the crimes, we have concluded we are looking for an individual with a very high IQ. Highly intelligent psychopaths are notoriously difficult to catch. They masquerade as well-adjusted, successful people. But they are manipulative, cunning, impulsive, demanding, narcissistic, and egocentric. Someone out there has seen the real face of our unsub. The trick is finding that someone.” I glanced around the room, catching more than one squinty eye. For the first time, I sensed the officers weren’t 100 percent on board. If we were going to have any hope of stopping him, I needed them to believe in our profile. Ironic, it was the profile of the Homo sapiens that they seemed to have the hardest time swallowing.

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