The Naturals, Book 2: Killer Instinct (14 page)

“D
eviant Behavior, Criminal Minds: An Introduction to Criminal Psychology, Eighth Edition
.” Bleary-eyed and only half awake, I
looked from the textbook sitting on the kitchen table to Dean, then back again. “Seriously?” I said. “Agent Sterling wants us to read an introductory textbook?”

After the night Lia, Michael, and I had had, my head was pounding, and all my body really wanted was to go back to bed.

Dean shrugged. “We’ve been assigned chapters one through four.” He paused, his eyes drinking in my appearance. “You okay?”

No,
I thought.
I’m sleep-deprived, and I can’t tell you why.

“I’m fine,” I insisted. I could see Dean piecing his way through the dozens of ways that I was just a shade off this morning. “I just can’t believe Agent
Sterling’s idea of training us is…
this
,” I added, gesturing toward the textbook. From the moment I’d joined the program, I’d learned by doing. Real cases. Real
crime scene photos. Real victims.

But this textbook? Bryce and Derek and Clark had probably all read one just like it. There were probably little worksheets to go with it.

“Maybe it is a waste of time,” Dean said, plucking the thought from my mind. “But right now, I’d rather waste our time than Sterling’s.”

Because Agent Sterling was hunting down Emerson’s killer.

I took the textbook from him and turned to chapter one. “‘Criminal Psychology is the subset of psychology dedicated to explaining the personality types, motives, and cognitive
structures associated with deviant behavior,’” I read, “‘particularly that which causes mental or physical harm to others.’”

Dean stared down at the page. His hair fell into his face. I kept reading, falling into a steady rhythm, my voice the only sound in the room.

“‘Chapter Four: Organized vs. Disorganized Offenders.’”

Dean and I had taken a lengthy break for lunch, but my voice was still getting hoarse.

“My turn,” Dean said, taking the textbook from me. “If you read another chapter, you’re going to be miming things by the end.”

“That could get ugly,” I replied. “I’ve never been very good at charades.”

“Why do I get the feeling there’s a story there?” Dean’s lips twisted into a subtle smile.

I shuddered. “Let’s just say that family game night is a competitive affair, and I’m also pretty dismal at Pictionary.”

“From where I’m sitting, that’s not exactly a character flaw.” Dean leaned back in his chair. For the first time since we’d seen the body on the news, he looked
almost relaxed. His arms dangled loosely by his sides. His chest rose and fell slightly with each breath. His hair still fell into his face, but there was almost no visible tension in his
shoulders, his neck.

“Did someone say character flaw?” Michael sauntered into the room. “I believe that might be one of my middle names.”

I glanced back down at the textbook, trying to pretend that I
hadn’t
just been staring at Dean.

“Middle names, plural?” I asked.

Michael inclined his head slightly. “Michael Alexander Thomas
Character Flaw
Townsend.” He shot me a lazy smile. “It has a certain ring to it, don’t you
think?”

“We’re working,” Dean told him flatly.

“Don’t mind me,” Michael said, waving a hand in our general direction. “I’m just making a sandwich.”

Michael was never “just” anything. He might have wanted a sandwich, but he was also enjoying irritating Dean.
And,
I thought,
he doesn’t want to leave the two of us
in here alone.

“So,” I said, turning back to Dean and trying to pretend this
wasn’t
awkward. “Chapter four. You want to take over reading?”

Dean glanced over at Michael, who seemed amused by the entire situation. “What if we didn’t read it?” Dean asked me.

“But it’s our
homework
,” I said, adopting a scandalized expression.

“Yeah, I know—I’m the one who talked you into reading it in the first place.” Dean ran his fingertip along the edge of the book. “But I can tell you what it’s
going to say.”

Dean had been here five years, and this textbook was Profiling 101.

“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t you give me the abbreviated version? Teach me.”

There was a time when Dean would have refused.

“Okay,” he said, staring at me from across the table. “Disorganized killers are loners. They’re the ones who never quite fit in. Poor social skills, a lot of pent-up
anger.”

At the word
anger
, my eyes darted involuntarily toward Michael’s.
Never fit in. Poor social skills.
I could tell from the look on Michael’s face that I wasn’t the
only one thinking that sounded like a bare-bones description of Clark.

Dean paused. I forced my eyes forward and willed Dean not to think too hard about why it was that hearing a few words about disorganized killers had led to something unspoken passing between
Michael and me.

“In their day-to-day lives, disorganized killers are generally seen as antisocial and inept,” Dean continued after a long moment. “People don’t like them, but
they’re not scared of them, either. If the disorganized killer has a job, it’s likely to be low-paying and low on respect. Disorganized killers may behave like adolescents well into
adulthood; it’s statistically likely that they still live with one or more of their parents.”

“So what’s the difference between a disorganized killer and a loser?” Michael didn’t even bother to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping.

“If you were like Cassie and me”—Dean stared Michael down—”you wouldn’t have to ask.”

Dead silence.

Dean had never admitted that the two of us were the same before. He’d never believed it. He’d certainly never said it to Michael.

“Is that so?” Michael’s eyes narrowed, a sharp contrast to the seemingly unruffled smile on his lips. I looked down at the table. Michael didn’t need to see the
expression on my face—the one that said that Dean was right. I
didn’t
have to ask Michael’s question, because I
did
instinctively know the answer. Being antisocial
and angry and inept didn’t make someone a killer. Traits like those couldn’t tell us whether Clark had the potential for violence, or how much. The only thing they could tell us was
what
kind
of killer someone
like
Clark would be, if he ever crossed that line.

If Clark were a killer, he’d be a disorganized killer.

“Organized killers can be charming.” Dean swung his attention from Michael back to me. “They’re articulate, confident, and comfortable in most social situations.”
His hair fell into his face, but his gaze never moved from mine. “They tend to be intelligent, but narcissistic. They may be incapable of feeling fear.”

I thought of Geoffrey with a
G
, who’d lectured me on the meaning of modus operandi and mentioned Emerson without a whiff of grief.

“Other people aren’t worthy of empathy to the organized killer, because other people are
less
. To them, being average is the same as being disposable.”

I absorbed Dean’s words, memorized them.

“What’s the life of one more person when the world is full of so many?” Dean’s voice went flat as he posed the question, and I knew he was somewhere else.
“Organized killers feel no remorse.”

Dean’s father was an organized killer,
I thought. I reached across the table and placed my hand over Dean’s. He bowed his head, but kept talking. “Organized killers plan
things,” he said, his voice low. “Disorganized killers, they’re the ones who would do things on the spur of the moment.”

“They snap,” I said softly, “or they give in to their impulses.”

Dean leaned forward, his fingers curving around mine. “They’re more likely than organized killers to attack from behind.”

“Weapon choice?” I asked, my hand still intertwined with his.

“Whatever they have in reach,” Dean replied. “Blunt force trauma, a nearby kitchen knife, their own hands. The entire crime scene reflects a loss of control.”

“But for organized killers,” I said, my eyes on him, “it’s all about control.”

Dean held my gaze. “Organized killers stalk their victims. They often target strangers. Every move they make is calculated, premeditated, and in service of a particular goal. They’re
methodical.”

“Harder to catch,” I supplied.

“They like that they’re harder to catch,” Dean returned. “Killing is only part of the pleasure. Getting away with it is the rest.”

Everything Dean said made sense to me—incredible, intuitive sense, like he was reminding me of something I’d always known, rather than teaching me something new.

“You okay?” he asked me.

I nodded. “I’m fine.” I glanced over at the kitchen counter, where Michael had been making his sandwich. He was gone. At some point during my back-and-forth with Dean, Michael
had taken off.

I glanced down at the table. Dean slowly unfurled his hand from mine.

“Dean?” I said. My voice was soft, but cut through the room. I could still feel the exact place where his skin had touched mine. “Organized killers, they’re the ones who
take trophies, aren’t they?”

Dean nodded. “Trophies help them relive their kills. It’s how they sate their desire to kill in between victims.”

“Locke took a tube of lipstick from every woman she killed.” I couldn’t keep from saying those words out loud.
Narcissistic. Controlled.
It fit.

“My father was an organized killer.” There was an intensity to Dean when he spoke about his father. This was the second time he’d opened up to me, tit for tat. “He said
that as a child, people knew there was something wrong with him, but for as long as I could remember, he was well-liked. He planned things meticulously. He never deviated from the script. He
dominated the women he targeted. He controlled them.” Dean paused. “He’s never once showed remorse.”

I heard the front door open and shut. I thought it might be Michael, getting out of the house and away from us, but then I heard footsteps coming our way—two sets, one heavier than the
other.

Sterling and Briggs were back.

They appeared in the doorway just as Dean closed the textbook on the table in front of us.

“Cassie, can we talk to Dean alone for a minute?” Agent Briggs straightened his tie. This particular gesture, from this particular man, set off alarm bells in my mind. The tie was
something Briggs only wore when he was on duty. Straightening it was an affirmation of sorts. Whatever he wanted to talk to Dean about, it was
just business
.

I trusted Briggs less when business was involved.

“She can stay,” Dean told Briggs. His words fell on the room like a thunderclap. For as long as I’d known Dean, he’d been pushing me away.
Alone
was the name of
his game.

I caught his eye.
Are you sure?
I asked him silently.

Dean ran the heels of his hands over the fronts of his jean-clad thighs. “Stay,” he told me.
Dean wants me here.
He turned back to Briggs. “What do you need?”

Agent Sterling stiffened, her lips pressed into a grim line.

“The person who killed Emerson Cole is obsessed with your father,” Briggs said, ignoring the expression on his ex-wife’s face. “There’s a very real chance the UNSUB
has written to him.”

“And let me guess,” Dean interjected. “Dear old dad destroys the letters once he gets them. They’re all up here.” Dean tapped a finger to the side of his head.

“He’s agreed to assist us,” Briggs said. “But only on one condition.”

The tension was back in Dean’s shoulders, his neck. Every muscle in his body was strung tight.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Agent Sterling cut in.

“I know what the condition is.” Dean’s eyes burned with an emotion I couldn’t identify: not quite hatred, not quite fear. “My father won’t tell
you
anything. The only person he’ll talk to is me.”

YOU

Daniel Redding is one of the greats. Infamous. Ingenious. Immortal. You chose him for a reason. When a man like Redding speaks, people listen. When Redding wants someone
dead, they die. He is everything you want to be. Powerful. Sure of himself. And always, always in control.

“You were sloppy. Stupid. Lucky.” You banish the voice and run your fingers along the edges of a photograph of Emerson Cole standing next to a tree. Proof that for a moment, you
were powerful. Sure of yourself. In control.

Just. Like. Him.

Daniel Redding is not your hero. He’s your god. And if you keep going down this path, you will slowly remake yourself in his image. The rest of the world will be as insignificant and
powerless as ants. The police. The FBI. You’ll crush them under steel-toed boots.

What will be will be—in time.

S
tone walls. Barbed wire.
My impression of the maximum security prison that housed Dean’s father was fleeting. Dean and I were
ensconced in the backseat of an FBI-issued black SUV. Agent Briggs was driving. Agent Sterling sat shotgun. From my position directly behind her, I couldn’t see anything but her forearm,
resting on the armrest. At first glance, she seemed relaxed, but the pads of her fingertips were pressed flat and digging into the leather.