One Scream Away (24 page)

Rick stood. “If he’s been watching Beth for that long, what has he learned?”

“Everything,” Standlin said. “What her interests are, who her friends are, where she’s most vulnerable.”

“Abby.” Neil’s heart formed icicles.

“No,” Standlin said, “he can’t know where she is. And even if he did, he wouldn’t go for her yet; it would end it too soon. He’ll save her daughter for last.”

The ice thickened. Neil felt like a player running onto the field in the middle of a game, without knowing the game or the rules or the opponent. It was an opponent who couldn’t be seen.

He had a thought. “Would Bankes want credit for what’s happening?”

“A lot of serials like the idea that they’re smarter than the authorities,” Standlin said. “They like to watch themselves on TV.”

“So what if we send O’Ryan with a press release, saying we’ve gotten a phone call from the stalker?”

“The Hunter,” Standlin said, snapping her fingers. “Call him ‘The Hunter.’ It’ll piss him off that we’ve pegged him wrong—again. He’ll want us to know what he’s really capable of.”

“Fine,” Neil said impatiently. “Let Bankes hear on the news that someone has claimed responsibility for one of the murders.”

“He’s too smart to fall for a newsbreak about it,” Harrison said, coming to the edge of his seat. “Have to make it look like it leaked—something we never meant to let out.”

“Then bypass O’Ryan,” Rick suggested. “Leak it to some network reporter, and let the Bureau be seen running around trying to plug it up.”

Copeland closed his eyes. Envisioning the public relations fallout, no doubt. “I can do it,” Neil said, “so it doesn’t come from within the ranks.”

Copeland rubbed his chin. Not happy. “Okay, you and Standlin put it together. But then get back to Denison. See if she can remember running into Bankes—or Chadburne—at any other exhibits. Can we make her home, work, and cell phones all ring to one of ours, give it to Denison so she can always answer herself?”

Brohaugh said, “Might take me an hour, depends who’s at the phone company now.”

“Wait,” Neil protested. “I thought Agent Carter was picking up those calls. I don’t want Beth having to talk to this bastard again.”

Copeland gave him a look meant to dissolve grown men into their shoes. “Tough. And while you’re at it, teach her how to keep him on the line long enough for a trace. Yes, Sheridan,” he said, following Neil’s thoughts, “it means you’ll have to tell her about Agent Carter.”

Neil cursed. He and Standlin had talked about it, decided it was better not to lay that on Beth, too. Standlin shrugged.

No choice, now.

C
hevy heard voices. Not in his mind, but from the TV. He could just barely make them out on the eleven o’clock report:
While the FBI earlier denounced reports that a man calling himself The Hunter had claimed responsibility for the murder of a woman in her van, a new report now confirms that information. Channel Three investigative reporter Carla Shorte has learned that FBI officials are now scrambling to ferret out a suspected leak…

What caller, what contact?

In addition, authorities are searching for a widow who may have been seen with Bankes…

Chevy blocked that out.
A man calling himself The Hunter…
He cursed. Someone had called the FBI and claimed to be The Hunter. The FBI was trying to cover it up, but someone else was taking credit.
Random murders.

Panic rose up from the center of his being. “Don’t listen to them, Jenny,” he said. “They weren’t random. And it wasn’t some fucking hunter. It was your brother.”

He tried to think, his leg cramping as the voice of one reporter after another streamed overhead like ticker tape.
A caller claims responsibility… Chevy Bankes, cold-blooded hunter from Seattle… FBI is comparing the rash of recent murders to other cases going back ten years… Random murders…

Mother started humming.

Shut up, bitch. You know who killed those women.

He needed his tapes. He could hardly think with Mother’s voice layered among the news reporters.

Chevy closed his eyes. Remember the cries; the cries would make Mother stop. Remember their voices. Gloria Michaels, Nina Ellstrom, Paige Wheeler, even the beginning of Anne Chaney… But try as he might, the only thing he could hear mingling with the TV anchors was Mother’s singing, and the only woman he could see when he closed his eyes was Beth. Silent Beth. Cruel Beth.

A mistake to have let her survive that night, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Chaney was gone, Jenny was hurt, and Denison—stubborn little bitch—wouldn’t shut Mother up. She’d stood there in the clearing with Anne Chaney’s blood steaming in the night a few yards away, and gritted her teeth, silent as a corpse. She hadn’t made a sound, not when Chevy hit her, split her cheek, or spread her legs… Not a sound.

But Jenny was there, needing his help. And Mother, getting louder.
Who’ll dig his grave? I, said the Owl…

The TV clicked off, the reporter’s drone ending. Chevy closed his eyes.

Anonymous caller taking credit for the murders… An elderly woman…

Well, it was time to set the record straight, that’s all. Bad news for Margaret Chadburne: She’d just outlived her usefulness.

* * *

Beth heard Neil in the hallway at eleven-thirty, just as the news ended. She skimmed her hands over the cards on the coffee table, pushing them into a pile. Solitaire is an awful game—something you play when you’re lonely or worried or tired or bored. Or all of the above.

“Hey,” he said, coming in. He crossed to the table and picked up her mug, sniffed. “Leaded?”

“I was just trying to stay up to hear what happened tonight at Quantico.”

“No, you weren’t. You were trying to make sure you won’t sleep deep enough or long enough tonight to have nightmares.” Her cheeks grew hot, and Neil said, “Jesus, Beth. I’m only in the next room. You don’t think I hear you pacing around half the night, crying in your sleep the other half?”

He dropped his coat over a chair—finished. No coddling, no fussing about the nightmares. Just matter-of-fact acceptance that Beth had emotional baggage. It disarmed her, made her almost feel as if that baggage wouldn’t matter to him.

“I saw the news,” Beth said as he sat down beside her. “Is there really a caller?”

“No, we want Bankes to think there is. He called again today. From near your house.”

“My God.”

“Listen, Beth, there are some things you should know.”

Neil was true to his word, catching her up on a litany of things the task force had been working on, each more shocking than the last: Mo Hammond’s murder; the discovery of two additional victims from years ago; the murdered women mimicking Chadburne’s dolls. Beth’s stomached soured as she remembered testing the first doll’s eyelids and now thought about the poor woman in Seattle. And the idea that a woman’s legs had been cut to match cracks in the second doll made her downright nauseous.

Neil had one more thing: Bankes had attended antiques shows.

“Dear God,” she said.

“He started cozying up to Mrs. Chadburne months ago. And stalking you.”

She hugged her arms to herself, trying to contain a shiver of revulsion.

Neil said, “Can you think of anything,
anything
Chadburne ever told you about her husband’s doll collection? Something that would tell us what else Bankes might be planning to do with it?”

Beth shook her head, feeling her skin start to crawl. Margaret Chadburne had been an enigma. Always asking about Abby and Beth and interested in the antiques business, but not giving up much about herself.

“Okay,” Neil said and shifted. “Listen, there’s one more thing. We put an agent in your house posing as you.”

Beth gasped. “You did
what
?”

“She’s a pro, honey. Her name is Lexi Carter. We’ve got people all over your street watching out for her, watching for Bankes.”

“And this Lexi Carter is supposed to just sit in my house and wait to be attacked?”

He cursed, which told Beth she’d pretty much hit the nail on the head, then handed her a phone. “All your numbers will ring to this now. Don’t say anything that would lead him to believe you aren’t there. And we need for you to keep him on the phone, set us up for a good trace.”

“Ask him about his day, talk dirty to him?”

A nerve twitched in Neil’s jaw. “Standlin says let him jerk you around. Act scared.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem,” she said, pacing.

“Yes, it will, because you can’t just get mad and hang up on him anymore. You’ve gotta play to him. Cry, whimper. Standlin thinks he’ll stay on the phone if he hears you messed up.”

“You mean don’t make the same mistake I made seven years ago.”

That stopped him. “Fuck,” he said and closed the distance between them in two strides. He took her shoulders. “Screw Standlin, do you hear me? Don’t say a word to Bankes unless it’s ‘Go to hell, you bastard.’ ”

Beth quailed at Neil’s about-face: Never mind what Standlin or anyone else wanted if Beth decided she didn’t want to do it. She gazed up at the tortured lines on his face and thought that, at this very moment, he might be willing to do anything to keep her from hurting. Even risk not being able to trace Bankes. “Why?” she asked quietly.

“Why what?”

“Why has it been so important for you to fight my monsters?” She paused. “Is it because of your wife?”

“Christ, Beth.” He dropped his hands. “Where did that come from?”

So you think about it some more, then. Let me know what you decide.
“I’ve been thinking, that’s all. Like you told me to.”

“About my wife?”

“About us. About the fact that we both have a history. You know mine—”

“All of it?”

Ouch. She lifted her chin. “A lot more than I know of yours.”

Beth waited, watching him turn it all over in his mind, trying to decide how much he would say. For a second it seemed almost comical, the epitome of the male dilemma: How far to go to get a woman in bed? But when the moment dragged to an end and she realized Neil wasn’t going to open up to her in spite of the honesty he’d demanded of her, she was amazed how deeply it hurt. “All right, then,” she said and headed for the bedroom.

“I had a daughter,” Neil said.

Beth stopped. “Oh, my God.” She turned and stared, but Neil didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were glued to a small piece of ribbon and plastic in his hands: a barrette with a lavender bow. It had seen better days.

“Her name was Mackenzie. She was almost three years old.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “What happened?”

He crossed to the sofa and sat down, fingering the barrette. “I was working a kidnapping case with the Bureau—a college girl named Gloria Michaels. She was Bankes’s first murder.”

Beth went still.

“I was gone on Gloria’s case for a month. During that time, an old boyfriend of Heather’s showed up—Brad. He’d just split with his wife.” He sighed. “Honest to God, there was nothing sexual going on; I know it wasn’t like that. But Heather was a nurse and Brad was an addict. Crack, meth, heroine. Heather didn’t tell me.”

“She knew you’d worry, that’s all.”

“She knew I’d bust the son of a bitch.” He drew a deep breath. “I nailed a man named Anthony Russell for Gloria’s murder—the wrong man, but I didn’t know that then. I was headed home when he escaped. Heather said she needed me but didn’t tell me why. I told her to handle things herself until I finished with Russell.”

“Did you find him?”

“Almost three weeks later, yeah. But by then, Brad was over the edge. DTs, blackouts, hallucinations. One night, Heather pulled some drugs from the shelves at the hospital and went to get him. She thought she could help him down. Kenzie was in her car seat, asleep.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “Brad was scoring a deal when Heather drove up, and the dealer freaked. Started shooting.”

Beth could barely breathe. Tears leaked from his eyes.

“Kenzie never woke up. A stray bullet went through her chest.” For a long moment he said nothing more, just sat with his right hand flexing and fisting, flexing and fisting. Beth had seen him work that hand whenever something bothered him. She moved to her knees on the floor in front of him, taking the hand in hers.

Her touch seemed to pull him back. He splayed the hand. “I put it through a wall when they told me,” he explained. “Got a couple of metal plates and screws holding it together now.”

“Did you ever find him? The drug dealer?”

“Yes.” The word was a chip of ice. He pointed to the scar on his face. “That’s when this happened.”

“Is he… dead?”

“No. I wasn’t alone. Geneviève Standlin, damn her, made sure a slew of federal agents went with me.” The subtext was clear: If Neil
had
been alone, the outcome would have been different. “He has three more years on his sentence. Then he’ll be out.”

“Oh, Neil. What about Heather and—”

“Brad? Brad committed suicide. And Heather… She never forgave me for not being there. A couple years later, she bailed.”

“And you?”

“I bailed, too. Colombia. Bosnia. Iraq. Anywhere they needed a gun with no conscience to hinder it. Fuck the world. It worked okay until my brother almost died.” He met her eyes. “And I met you.”

“I didn’t mean to drag you into my problems,” she said honestly.

“Yeah, you were pretty clear about that. But everything about you set me off. Beautiful, secretive, independent. The mother of a little girl who might get dragged into someth—” He took a minute to regroup. “I couldn’t walk away.”

So that’s why he wanted to slay her dragons. He was slaying his own.

Beth laid her cheek against his knee, and they sat in silence. One of his hands stroked her hair; the other idled with Mackenzie’s barrette. There was nothing sexual in his touch, yet the moment was so intimate Beth could hardly remember what it was like not having him in her world. Like Abby. There wasn’t a mother alive who could remember just ten minutes after giving birth what it was like to be childless. The new life came in and filled a place so huge it was impossible to imagine the world without it.