The knife. Ripping into her.
She stood, slamming her computer shut.
Before heading into the bedroom, she picked up what remained of their second bottle of champagne and drank it down in gulps.
Stupid. Champagne shouldn’t be guzzled. Now she didn’t feel like sleeping; she felt like she had swallowed a giant air bubble.
She made herself try anyway. Eventually, she sank into darkness.
She could feel the cool air on her face. Saw herself standing in a field of forgotten graves.
She was a short distance from the deconsecrated church, plain and stark among the stones. Many of the gravestones bore death’s-head carvings; they were wearing away, just like the memories of those who had lived and long been buried in the earth and by the passage of time.
She walked down the overgrown path that led to the old church, covered in faded graffiti.
It was a strange place to meet, and yet, so safe. No one ever came here; if anyone did, they could each explain being there.
She felt the breeze again, felt the dying sunshine, bearing down on her. Winters could be so harsh and brutal here, but when the sky was clear, it was a beautiful blue, and when the soft touch of the wind moved in from the water, it was as wonderful as a sweet caress, especially when the afternoon waned, and night was coming.
She arrived so happy, in love with love, anxious to see him.
Then, he was there, and the expression on his face stunned her. The way he wrenched hold of her was startling at first.
And then terrifying.
There was that first astonishing kiss of the blade...shock and agony.
Kylie woke with a start. She realized she was trembling; she was thankful she hadn’t cried out. In the bed opposite from hers, Corrine was still sound asleep.
It was barely six thirty. Kylie hurriedly rose and peeked in the other bedroom. Jenny and Nancy were still asleep. Of course. For a weekend vacation morning, it was ridiculously early.
Kylie knew she wasn’t going back to sleep. She showered quickly and snuck out of the room.
She was going to go back to see Special Agent Jon Dickson—whoever he might be—and try to make some sense of it all.
Three
“This will change things,” Ben Miller said glumly to Jon over the phone. “The killer has changed it for us—and for the country. They’re going to have to start watching for this man all the way up in Canada, if we don’t get somewhere. I mean, there are differences, but it has to be the same killer, right? Victimology—troubled women then, now a happy one. Annie Hampton was stabbed at least twenty times—medical examiner says he can be exact after autopsy—but man, that’s some kind of wicked mean anger, right? You came here afraid this killer would strike again. I pray we don’t have more than one person stabbing women like this at work on the East Coast. When you were telling me about the murders you’ve been following...solving...trying to solve...”
It was the crack of dawn, but Ben hadn’t had the least hesitation in calling him. He’d known Jon would be awake.
“It’s all right, Ben, you’re not going to offend me. I’ve been to the crime scenes. I’ve seen the bodies. But the first murder was considered a local affair, as were the second and by the third. We may have stepped in eventually, but a bright detective called us because he didn’t believe in throwaway lives, which, sad to say, isn’t an uncommon sentiment. When clues are nonexistent and there isn’t a family member pressing the police, a case can go into a cold file with painful speed. I wasn’t officially on this case until the third victim was found, though I did backtrack to the beginning,” Jon said.
He was quiet for a moment, then added, “Geographically, it was close enough for us to step in, but at that time, there was nothing to suggest it was a Bureau case. Knowledge that he might have started several years ago and killed four or more previous victims didn’t make it through all the channels until we were just about headed this way.”
“You knew, though,” Ben said. “You knew it was going to happen here. And we didn’t even have time to get the media to post warnings—it happened. And to Annie Hampton. That’s what I mean by it all changing things up. Don’t get me wrong, every human life is precious. Except for, sorry, the life of a monster who kills like that. It may sound bad in some circles, but if someone has to shoot that bastard, I won’t be sorry.”
He sighed. “But the general population isn’t as outraged when a sex worker or an addict is killed. It’s not that they think they deserved it, but with the lifestyle they were living, those victims played a dangerous game. I worked a case once where a call girl had been killed—autopsy showed she was half eaten up with cirrhosis of the liver and she would have been dead in another six months. But those six months belonged to her. People don’t see the violence and desperation that we see on a daily basis. Brings me back to this,” he said. “Annie Hampton was no invisible victim. Do you think that, up to now, the killer believed he was killing women who needed to be killed? Who were suffering?”
“I’m not giving this guy any humanitarian attributes,” Jon said.
“I’ve been going over it and over again, all night, working with the information you gave me on the other murders and comparing what happened to Annie Hampton,” Ben said.
Jon had spent the night going over the details as well.
With Obadiah Jones. A dead man, but one who’d stayed around and watched—and saw many things.
He had found Obadiah last night, sitting on a bench at the memorial at the Old Burying Point. He’d heard about the murder, but to his great regret, he knew nothing that could help Jon.
Now Obadiah would be watching and listening. Haunting the place with a passion.
Jon gave his attention back to his living friend, the county detective on the phone.
“There’s a lot of talk at the precinct,” Ben was saying. “You know, there were still those who doubted that one killer was committing all the crimes. Because if this is the same killer, he has an amazing capacity for movement, and an excellent knowledge of his surroundings, wherever he chooses to kill.”
“That’s true. He might be a trucker, or...it could be a woman trucker. Or a salesperson. Whoever it is, they’re smart and careful. Not a cigarette butt, gum wrapper, hair, fiber, or scrap of anything was found anywhere near the first two bodies. Not a thing, until the matchbox at the last crime scene in Rhode Island,” Jon reminded his friend.
“Yeah, I heard that. Except for that matchbox, the sites were so clean that plenty of officers believe the killer has to be a member of a police force or something like that. Or perhaps someone who worked in forensics and knew what would give them away. And there’s no real proof the crimes were committed by a man, right?” Ben asked.