Where Evil Waits (24 page)

L
UKE’S FEATURES TIGHTENED AND
Kara saw his entire body go to steel. He started to hand the photograph back to Agent Hogan, bypassing Kara, but she said, “Give me that,” and snatched it away.

Her lungs seized. Luke moved against her back.

It was a woman’s body—Megan Kessler—propped up in the corner on a floor. The barrette was still in her hair and the garrote lay on her lap. Her head had been tugged back to reveal the ligature marks on her throat, and her face—

Fear sprang to Kara’s breast. Megan’s face wasn’t visible. It was covered by a picture of Kara’s.

“Oh, God,” she said, but she wasn’t sure whether her voice made it past her lips.

“Honey.” Luke’s voice was close above her shoulder, his hand on her waist.
Jesus, keep it together
. For God’s sake, she was a prosecutor. She had to think. Ask questions. Dig for answers.

Her first question wasn’t so brilliant. “You’re sure this is Megan?”

“The other waitress confirmed that those are the
clothes she was wearing at work the night before last,” Hogan said.

Knutson chimed in. “There’s a team in Megan’s apartment now. But we’re pretty sure she never made it there after work on Friday night. It looks like she was killed in the alley behind the club, less than a block away.”

“I need to see,” Luke said, but Agent Hogan was quick to bat him down.

“I just came from there; forensics is doing its thing. Besides, the last thing you need right now is for some TV station to put you on the air analyzing a crime scene. Never mind that Ms. Chandler and her stalker already know you’re law enforcement. My understanding is that it would be a bad time for anyone else to find out.”

Luke mouthed a curse; Kara was still trying to make sense of everything. Friday night, after the club closed… Megan was being strangled to death with barbed wire in an alley while Kara was running to safety with Luke.

Coward.

“The good news,” Knutson said, “is that it’s a pretty good crime scene. There are signs of a struggle, scuffs, a limited number of places he could have parked without getting too much attention. Even blood,” he added, “though we don’t know whose. It’s a crime scene that’s likely to produce information; we just have to give the team time to process it. APD uniforms are canvassing the streets in that area for someone who might have seen the van or heard something. From the picture with Penny Wolff, it looks like a 2000 or 2001 Dodge Ram, white. They’re running those now.”

But they didn’t have much more time. Kara could feel it. What was it—eleven? Eleven murders in the past year and three of them just this week? He was moving faster.
She’d read about that with serial killers. He’d hidden his actions in cryptic messages to her for months and then, this week, started being blatant. He had a plan and now that he was close to the end he was taking out anyone who got in his way. His killings would escalate and his psyche would unravel and—

“Ms. Chandler.” She blinked. She hadn’t been listening. Luke ran his hand down her arm as if to regain her attention. Agent Hogan said, “What we need from you now is for you to connect the victims together. If we can figure out what his plan is, we can name him and find him.”

Kara felt dizzy. “I don’t know.”

“Damn it, listen to me,” he said, advancing on her. “These victims aren’t random. He’s not killing blondes and he’s not killing young women. They aren’t all hitchhikers or hookers or gay men; they aren’t all waitresses or dancers or anything else. Now, who was Megan Kessler?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of her before.”

“Who was Tony Fietti?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was Evelyn Cam—”

“Back off,” Luke snarled, stepping in front of Kara. “She doesn’t know, damn it.”

They glared at each other, chest to chest. “She
does
know,” Agent Hogan insisted. “Somehow, she knows. No one plans this sort of death display without a reason. She’s the only one who can figure that out and by God, if she doesn’t, we’re going to get another picture of another body with wire marks around their neck, and since he can’t get to her, he’ll do someone else, maybe by the end of the day. This guy’s starting to unwind. We don’t have time for you to hole up in fancy cabins for a little ass while th—”

Luke sprang, and Hogan’s back slammed against a wall. Knutson grabbed Luke, dragging on his shoulders, but Luke held Hogan in place with a forearm across his chest, growling words Kara couldn’t understand. She called his name but he didn’t seem to hear her and it wasn’t until she pushed between them that he backed down.

“He’s right, Luke,” she said, waiting for him to take a full step back. She looked up at him. “I have to do this.”

Kara turned from him, squaring her shoulders to Agent Hogan. She tried to sound strong but her voice vibrated with emotion. “If you think I know who’s doing this, then help me figure it out. Help
me
help
you
. Please. I can’t go on watching people die because of something I once did or said or didn’t do or didn’t say or—”

“Kara,” Luke said, and reached out to her. She steeled her spine, refusing to give in. If she sank into his arms now, she might never come back out again. He was strength and determination and protectiveness, and although she was amazed at how much she longed for those things, she still had enough sense to know she didn’t dare get used to them.

They’d had one night together. One night and a roller coaster ride trying to dodge a killer. It would be crazy for her to think there would be more than that, or to lean on him too hard.

Hogan shook his shoulders like a boxer shaking off a punch and glared at Luke. “I’m sorry,” he said, surprising everyone. “That was uncalled for.”

“No shit,” Luke said, but Hogan let it go.

“Agent Knutson,” he said, “can we set up command from here? I’m going to need some time with Ms. Chandler.”

Knutson nodded. “Give me an hour.”

They set out the food Agent Knutson had brought and Mike Hogan moved his briefcase and laptop to the table where Luke and Kara had already been working. Hogan looked weary and rough; Luke was calmer but still rippling with tension. There was something between him and Hogan; that was for damn sure. But Kara didn’t care about that just now. Seeing her own face on the body of a girl who’d been strangled had shot terror to the marrow of her bones. She’d known this man was after her; she’d known she and Aidan were in danger. That’s why she’d gone to Luke Varón in the first place. But seeing that threat in such a clear, macabre manner—seeing herself portrayed dead with the marks of barbed wire around her neck—she hadn’t been prepared for that.

She tried to brush it off. Agent Hogan swore she was the one who could figure out the killer’s master plan. She had to try.

Knutson moved into the other room to make some phone calls—working to bring in computers and printers and phones and whatever else setting up “command” required. Meanwhile, Hogan brought his briefcase to the table and invited Kara to sit. Luke joined them, pushing a bowl of fruit and yogurt in her direction.

“Here’s what I think,” Hogan said, and started laying out pictures. “The killer is working with two different groups of victims. In this group on the left are people you know or who are connected to you. Your husband and the agent he was with, Elisa Moran.” He laid out a photo of each of them, alive. “John Wolff. Your friend, Detective Guilford. Penny Wolff.” He laid out copies of the pictures she’d received, then paused before setting down one more. “Your son.”

Kara’s heart stopped.

“No, nothing’s happened to him,” Hogan said quickly. “Aidan is safe. I have an open line of communication with the agents guarding him. But the killer threatened him—he identified him as a target—so in the killer’s mind, Aidan belongs in this group.”

“Except for Penny Wolff, none of these people were killed by strangulation,” Luke said.

“Right,” Hogan said. “He saves his wire for the special kills. The people in the right column.”

“Special?” Kara asked.

“Serial killers often favor a certain weapon,” he said. “This garrote has
meaning
.” Again, Hogan went into his folders. He came out with a photo of Penny Wolff—the one Kara had seen on her cell phone, except that it had been cropped and enlarged. The striped scarf lay on her lap. And the garrote.

Kara swallowed, air snagging in her throat. It was the first time she’d seen that photo in detail.

“This is a single-strand, fifteen-and-a-half gauge high-tensile barbed wire. It has tensile strength up to nine hundred fifty pounds. The barbs are five inches apart and it’s a four-point wire—there are four points at each twist.”

“Meaning?” Luke asked.

“It’s not a common wire, and it’s not easy to use. You may think of barbed wire as flexible, but most of it—the kind you see strung around cow pastures—is too stiff to handle the way he would have to handle it for murder. It wouldn’t have tightened on a throat very easily.”

“Gibson said Alexander was a bodybuilder,” Kara said. “He’s strong.”

“And he’d need that strength even with this wire, especially when one considers that his victims aren’t standing
still and cooperating. They’d be fighting, flailing. Hard work to kill someone like this, especially when you’re good with a gun. Why not just shoot?”

Kara swallowed. She couldn’t let Hogan’s words get to her.

“Can we trace where he purchased it?”

“People usually buy it in giant coils; it’s not like it’s sold by the yard. My guess is that he came across this length of wire and that’s all he ever needed. He used it over and over.”

“The handles,” Luke said.

Hogan looked at him. “You noticed.”

“Knutson and I talked about it. They’re nice. Cherry, maybe, and handmade.”

“Wild cherry, to be precise,” Hogan said, and a memory pinched the back of Kara’s mind. Wild cherry was toxic to horses. Guapa, the horse she’d told stories about when Aidan was little, had died when a fence blew down and she got trapped in a patch of wild cherry trees.

Agent Hogan went on. “Whoever made these handles worked at them. They’re turned and sanded like good furniture and polished, maybe with tung oil or some other finish. They’re the perfect size and shape for a large man’s hands.”

“Form
and
function,” Luke said.

“That’s the point: He takes pride in this weapon,” Hogan said. “Without the bodies, we can’t be sure he strangled all of these people on the right, but I’m betting he did. And what ties them together is you, Ms. Chandler.
TRUTH
.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Kara said.

“It means he holds you responsible for something, probably something that he believes no one else knows. And you’re the only one who can figure out what it is.”

S
ASHA WENT TO GET
his father for the day. A beautiful day, a Sunday morning—hot and clear. The day of truth for dear old Dad. Today, he would learn just how smart his son really was.

And then, he would serve as Sasha’s ticket to safety.

He sauntered in through the front doors of the nursing home. Managed an insincere smile for the gaggle of nurses and a couple of orderlies who had gathered around a small TV behind the reception desk, and headed straight back to his father’s room. His father sat in the wheelchair, head drooping, chair aimed toward the window as if he might be enjoying the view.

Such bullshit.

“Papa,” Sasha said, walking in behind him. His father jerked at the sound of his voice and Sasha wheeled him around. “Did you have a nice night?” Dmitri’s eyes bulged, lips worked, throat rasped. The dribble formed at one corner of his mouth.

Disgusting old man.

“I know I did,” Sasha said. He braced his hands against the arms of the wheelchair and bent down, speaking right
against his father’s ear. “It’s done,
nana
. I did the last one last night, just like I told you I would. Everything is ready. I can’t wait to show you.”

A sound came from his father’s throat but it was garbled and soft. Sasha ignored it and wheeled him from the room, then went back in and got a small blue throw and tucked it around his father’s scrawny knees. He added a rimmed straw hat from the small closet of clothes. Wanted to look like a caring, dutiful son taking Dad out in the sunshine.

He stopped at the front desk to sign him out—like a child being taken out of school early—and managed another smile for the receptionist, who patted his father on the shoulders and spoke in a too-loud voice.

“You have a nice day with your son, Mr. Rodin. We’ll see you tonight.”

No you won’t,
Sasha thought, but kept that comment to himself. He was too close to the end to make any foolish mistakes now. The day had finally come.

He had a party to go to.

Sarah Fogt had only worked at Mountain Ridge Nursing Home for two months. But she’d helped her mom take care of her grandfather at their house for more than ten years, so there wasn’t much that grossed her out. She’d also grown up hunting with her dad and brother and she could skin a rabbit or tan a deer hide with the best of them. Sarah didn’t get the heebie-jeebies easily.

But she had them now. Real bad.

Barbed wire. It was on TV. A whole bunch of the nurses and orderlies had gathered around a little TV at the front desk, watching the Sunday morning news show, freaking out at the idea that it had happened so close to
home. That Penny Wolff woman had lived just an hour or so away. It had been bad enough when the news reported that she’d been abducted from her own house and that her little one-year-old girl was left behind. Even worse when they said they’d found her body in freaking Mississippi. But now, this morning, they were saying someone had strangled her with barbed wire. Sarah had never heard anything that creepy before. It made her think of that poor old Russian man in Room 144. He’d had a tragic run-in with barbed wire, or so she’d been told. She only knew about it because she was the one who bathed him on the days she worked mornings and she’d finally asked Ms. Henderson about the marks on his neck.

Henderson told her that Mr. Rodin’s son had explained it—how his father had worked on a horse farm and gotten caught up in the wire once while trying to free a horse that was tangled up. The horse had spooked, panicked, and dragged Mr. Rodin for two hundred yards. By the time they’d gotten him free, he’d been without oxygen for too long.

And now, he was a vegetable. Well, that wasn’t the term they used for it in the nursing home, but that’s what he was. He couldn’t talk or move or handle his most basic needs. He couldn’t feed himself or communicate, and the only time she’d ever seen him show any sign of brain activity at all was when his son came to visit.

Like now.

His son came in the front door and through the lobby and Sarah got a little chill. She tried to chalk it up to having just been thinking about the woman Penny Wolff and then thinking about Mr. Rodin’s accident, but it didn’t work. True, Sarah didn’t get the creeps very easily but Mr. Rodin’s son managed to give them to her every time. All
she had to do was check his father’s vitals in the moments after a visit, and she’d find his heart rate elevated and his blood pressure in the sky, a look of sheer panic in his eyes.

She stepped back from the small crowd surrounding the TV and watched the man head down the hall, tried not to let her imagination run wild, but she couldn’t help the sheet of goose bumps that rose on her skin. Ten minutes. She’d give him ten minutes and then she’d go check in on Mr. Rodin.

She didn’t have to. Five minutes after the creepy man came in, he was out again, wheeling his father through the lobby. He stopped and checked him out for the day.

Sarah frowned, hearing the TV reporter’s voice in the background expounding on the possibilities of someone in the Atlanta area strangling two women with barbed wire, and the weird coincidence of having a patient here who’d once experienced the same thing, even though by accident.

And then there was the look in the younger Mr. Rodin’s eyes as he met her eyes over his shoulder and pushed the wheelchair through the door:
Stop me,
the look said.
I dare you.

It was official: Sarah had the heebie-jeebies.