What Are You Afraid Of?

  “True,” he agreed. “Or someone might have followed us from the hotel.”

  She released a shaky breath. “This is insanity.”

  “You’re not going to get an argument from me,” he said in dry tones, giving one last glance around before he shoved open the door of the truck. Even if he wasn’t one hundred percent certain that the attacker wasn’t waiting down the road for them, they couldn’t stay there all day. “I’m going to check the truck.”

  He climbed out, grimacing as his feet sunk into the muddy field. His shoes would be ruined. No big loss. But his wet socks were going to make the drive to Chicago uncomfortable.

  Moving down the side of the truck, he bent to examine the crumpled metal where the SUV had slammed into them. The impact had dented the side panel just behind the wheel, and a section of the tailgate, but the damage was mostly cosmetic. Now the only worry was whether he could get the thing out of the muddy field.

  Oh, and whether there was still a crazed killer on the road who wanted them dead.

  Climbing back into the truck, he shut his door and pulled on his seat belt.

  “Well?” Carmen demanded as he ensured they were still in four-wheel drive.

  “I’m glad I got the insurance, but it’s okay to drive,” he assured her, pressing his foot on the gas pedal.

  The wheels began to spin, spraying mud and chunks of cornhusks behind them. Seconds later, they caught traction and lurched forward. Griff wrapped his fingers tightly around the steering wheel, turning them in a wide arc that took them back to the road.

  Then he veered to the left. He still wasn’t going to cross the icy bridge. They would have to find another way to Chicago.

  * * *

  Carmen remained locked in her dark thoughts as they reached the interstate and headed north. How had her life descended into chaos? Each day seemed to bring a new attempt to terrorize her. If not outright kill her.

  On top of that, she was still reeling from her less than spectacular homecoming. It was hard to be all warm and fuzzy when you suspected your remaining family had stolen three million dollars from your inheritance and were now conspiring to keep you from discovering their treachery. By any means necessary.

  It wasn’t until Griff pulled the truck to a halt in a half-empty lot that she realized they’d already driven into Chicago, and were parked in front of the FBI headquarters. She narrowed her eyes as the early afternoon sunlight reflected off the large glass building.

  Although it was a weekday, the manicured grounds that surrounded the area appeared empty. She guessed the agency was running with a skeleton staff during the holiday season.

  Not waiting for Griff, Carmen unhooked her seat belt and slid out of the truck. She’d been too distracted to consider why they’d been driving to Chicago. Now she pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to ease her sudden tension.

  She’d taken fewer than a half dozen steps when Griff was at her side, his arm wrapping around her waist. She leaned closer to his solid form. She told herself that she wanted the heat from his body. The wind was frigid as it howled around the street. But if she was being completely honest, she’d admit that the feel of him pressed against her side offered a welcome sense of security.

  She wrinkled her nose, but she didn’t try to pull away from his tight grip.

  Even Lois Lane depended on Superman every once in a while, right?

  In silence they walked up the pathway and stepped through the front entrance. Carmen glanced around the long, narrow lobby. Like the exterior, glass seemed to be the major focal point. Glass wall, a glass crescent-shaped front desk, and polished marble floors.

  It was all very shiny. And cold.

  They moved to the front desk, where a man demanded their IDs. Then, before he could question them further, the sound of heels clicking against the marble echoed through the lobby.

  “I expected you a half hour ago,” a crisp female voice said.

  They both turned to watch the agent who walked toward them with the brisk steps of a woman in complete charge of herself and her surroundings. She was dressed in dark slacks and a snowy white shirt that should have looked severe. Instead, it gave her a sleek, elegant appearance. Her hair was a light shade of red, shimmering like copper in the sunlight, and smoothed into a knot at the base of her neck. The style emphasized the perfect oval of her pale face and the bright green eyes that were surrounded by thick black lashes.

  Carmen felt an instant stab of envy. This agent was the tall, sophisticated sort of female she’d always wanted to be. Not to mention she had the expression of a true ball-buster.

  “We had some troubles,” Griff said, moving toward the woman.

  Carmen watched as they shook hands. Friendly, she decided, with none of the awkwardness that came from previous lovers.

  “What kind of trouble?” the woman demanded, her gaze moving toward Carmen.

  “First, let me introduce you to Carmen Jacobs,” Griff said in firm tones. “Carmen, this is Special Agent Nikki Voros.”

  Carmen moved to stand at Griff ’s side. “Special Agent,” she murmured.

  Nikki offered a brief smile. “Please call me Nikki.” The green gaze snapped back to Griff. “What trouble?”

  Griff sent Carmen a rueful glance. He was clearly used to the agent’s one-track mind.

  “Someone tried to ram us off a bridge.”

  “You’re sure it was deliberate?” the agent pressed. “The roads are slick.”

  “It was deliberate.”

  She gave a small nod, pivoting on her heel. “Come with me.”

  Griff reached to grasp Carmen’s hand, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze as they followed Nikki out of the lobby and down a hallway.

  “Her bark is worse than her bite,” he assured Carmen.

  “No, it’s not,” Nikki denied, pushing open a door to lead them into a small conference room. “Although I’m not a complete bitch.” She moved across the silver carpet toward a cabinet set against the glass wall. On the top was a tray with a stainless steel coffeepot and cups along with several bottles of water. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Carmen shook her head, slipping off her coat. Griff took it from her, and hung it next to his on the hooks near the door.

  “Nothing for me.”

  “I’m fine,” Griff said.

  “Please have a seat.” Nikki waved a hand toward the rectangular table in the center of the room. It was made of smoked glass and steel with five chairs arranged around it. Nikki moved to sit at the head of the table where there was a file folder, along with a pad and pen already neatly arranged.

  Griff instinctively pulled out a chair for Carmen next to Nikki. She moved to sit down, her gaze briefly skimming over the room.

  There was a flag on a stand in one corner, and a whiteboard on the wall next to the door. On the opposite wall there was a framed map of the United States.

  It was all very austere, she decided.

  Waiting until Griff was settled next to Carmen, Nikki folded her arms on top of the table.

  “Now tell me what happened,” she said, her gaze locked on Griff.

  In clipped tones he told Nikki about stopping at the icy bridge and then the SUV ramming them from behind. Nikki grabbed her pen, making quick notes.

  “So you didn’t see who was driving or get a license number.”

  “No,” Griff said.

  “Do you know someone who might want you to be at the bottom of an icy river?” Nikki asked.

  Griff hesitated before heaving a rough sigh. “I have a few guesses. But no proof.”

  “I’ll see if I can get any video from the area that might have caught the SUV so I can pull a plate,” she told Griff. “I assume you’ll be checking out the rental agencies?”

  Griff nodded. “And the local auto shops,” he added. “The driver will need to get the damage to his vehicle repaired before he can drive it on the highway.”

  Nikki abruptly lifted her hand. “Don’t tell me how you
get your intel.”

  Griff shrugged, and Carmen’s gaze once again darted around the room. This time she realized they were being monitored by at least one camera. Maybe more.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured her.

  “Once we have proof of who is responsible we’ll contact the police,” Nikki said, her attention shifting to Carmen. “Until then, I’d like you to tell me everything you can about the pictures that were sent to you.”

  Carmen clenched her hands in her lap, trying to match the other woman’s cool composure.

  “Why?”

  “I promise to explain my interest, but first I’d like to hear about the pictures.” Nikki offered a smile. It was as perfect as the rest of her. Straight white teeth, and just the right amount of professional charm.

  She probably practiced in front of the mirror, Carmen thought. Then she heaved a small sigh. She was being a bitch because she felt grubby and tired and scared out of her mind.

  This woman was an FBI agent. Exactly the person she’d desperately wanted to get involved in the investigation.

  She wasn’t going to waste this opportunity because she was jealous.

  Trying to match Griff ’s ability to share the pertinent points without getting bogged down with unnecessary detail, she told the woman about the package left on her porch, and the fact that it had been sent to her PR firm under a false name. She also made sure to point out the cops had refused to believe that the pictures were anything more than a publicity stunt, so she’d asked Griff to help her.

  “A smart choice,” Nikki murmured, scribbling notes on her pad.

  “Not so smart,” Griff disagreed. “I managed to trace the freight in the back of the freezer truck, but I let Carmen travel to Kansas City alone.”

  Nikki lifted her head. “Did something happen?”

  “I was cut on the arm,” she admitted.

  “By who?” Nikki demanded.

  “I’m not sure.” Carmen reached up to touch the wound, which remained tender. “The man was bundled in winter clothing and I didn’t notice I’d been hurt until I was in my room.”

  Nikki stared at her as if trying to process why anyone would randomly slash a woman’s arm, before giving a slow shake of her head.

  “Strange,” she murmured. “What about the flowers?”

  Carmen blinked at the abrupt question, but then she remembered that Griff had sent photos of the roses to this woman.

  “They were waiting when I returned to my hotel room. I didn’t see or speak with the deliveryman.”

  Nikki’s gaze flickered toward Griff before returning to Carmen. “Sounds like a gift from a lover.”

  Carmen shook her head. “They were from the same person who sent me the Polaroids.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because they were a clear warning that the killer was going to Baltimore.”

  Nikki set down her pen, laying her palms flat on the table as she leaned toward Carmen.

  “Why Baltimore?”

  “That’s where the second serial killer in my book hunted his prey,” Carmen said. “He was called the Professor.”

  Nikki once again grabbed her pen. “I haven’t had the opportunity to read your book. Why don’t you give me a quick overview of the killers you profiled?”

  Carmen hid a wry smile. The fact that this woman hadn’t read the book was probably a good thing. Carmen had spent an entire chapter detailing the FBI failures that allowed two of the killers in her book to remain on the streets.

  “There are five of them,” she said.

  “Why five?” Nikki asked.

  Carmen shrugged. “They were the only ones who would agree to be interviewed.”

  “And that’s the only reason you chose them?”

  Carmen frowned in confusion. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  “You didn’t have a personal connection to them?”

  Personal connection? Carmen’s brows snapped together. What was the agent implying? That Carmen’s past was littered with friends who just happened to be serial killers?

  “No,” she snapped. “I hadn’t met any of them until the actual interviews.”

  Nikki held her gaze, almost as if she was judging whether Carmen was lying. Then she gave a small nod and scribbled something on her pad.

  “Did any try to stay in contact after you were done with the interviews?”

  Griff reached to lay his hand over Carmen’s fists, which were clenched in her lap. His touch was warm, soothing. Reminding her that Nikki wasn’t the enemy.

  Carmen forced her stiff muscles to ease.

  “Not that I know of,” she said. “I didn’t give any of them my personal contact information.” The original interviews had been set up while she was still in college, so she’d had all the original correspondence sent to her professor’s office.

  Indifferent to Carmen’s attempt to remain reasonable, Nikki tapped her pen on the pad.

  “Tell me about the killers,” she said. The words were a command, not a request.

  Griff gave her fingers another squeeze, but this time Carmen was prepared for Nikki’s brusque style.

  Instead of bristling, Carmen settled back in her seat and focused her mind on the men who’d become woven into the fabric of her life.

  “The first was Neal Scott,” she told Nikki. “He was called the Trucker by the reporters for the obvious reason he drove a semitruck with a freezer trailer. He chose his victims from prostitutes who worked the truck stops along I-70. He would rape and kill them with a crowbar. Then he would keep the last victim hidden in his truck until he could find a new one.”

  Nikki made several notes before she returned her gaze to Carmen.

  “Number two?”

  “The Professor,” Carmen said without hesitation. The sooner she finished with Nikki’s questions, the sooner she could learn why they’d been summoned to Chicago. She had to assume the FBI agent had a damned good reason for demanding they drive three hours to meet with her. “His real name was Dr. Franklin Hammel. He was an out-of-work English teacher in Baltimore who was obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe.”

  Nikki glanced toward Griff. “You mentioned him when you sent me the pictures of the flowers in Carmen’s hotel room.”

  Griff nodded. “His name was used on the credit card.”

  A shudder shook through Carmen. All the men she’d interviewed had been monsters. But Franklin had truly terrified her. He had no remorse. No regret. As far as he was concerned, he was a creative genius who had the right to do whatever he wanted. And if he ever escaped from jail he wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.

  “He would snatch girls from the local campuses and use them as his muse,” she said.

  Nikki sent her a quick glance. “Muse?”

  “He raped and beat them for inspiration.”

  “Nice,” Nikki muttered.

  “When they no longer satisfied his creativity, he would strangle them and leave them with copies of Poe’s stories on their chests and a bottle of cognac next to their bodies,” Carmen continued, deliberately blocking the memories of the women she’d seen in police photos. She still had nightmares.

  Nikki’s fingers tightened on her pen, revealing she hadn’t been completely hardened by her job. She still reacted to the horror humans could inflict on one another. Then she gave a motion of her hand, indicating that she wanted Carmen to continue.

  “Number three?”

  “The Morning Star,” Carmen said, referring to him by the name she’d given him in the book. “Harlan Lord. He would hunt for his victims up and down the West Coast. He usually chose older women who reminded him of his mother.”

  Nikki glanced up, her expression curious. “How old?”

  Carmen understood the woman’s surprise. Most people assumed that serial killers always hunted young, beautiful women, or men, who could fulfill their sexual fantasies.

  “Between forty and sixty,” Carmen said. “His mother was some sort of religious fanatic w
ho brutalized him when he was young. He showed me scars on the bottom of his feet where she tried to burn out the demon in him.” She paused. It’d been difficult during her interview not to feel sympathy for what he’d endured. At least until she’d read the autopsy reports. He’d been a vicious killer. “So in turn, he would burn his victims on the beach at sunrise to cleanse his sins.”

  Nikki jotted down more notes. “Go on.”

  Carmen released a sharp sigh. She was trying to be patient. She truly was. But rehashing the crimes of men who were either dead or locked in jail didn’t seem the best use of their time.

  “Wouldn’t it just be easier to read the book?” she demanded.

  Nikki lifted her head, her expression impossible to interpret. “Right now I just want a brief idea of the killers and their victims.”

  Carmen muttered a curse beneath her breath. She’d always thought that she was stubborn, but next to Special Agent Voros she was an amateur.

  “Number four was Rob Merill, who was known as the Clown, although he wasn’t one.” Her voice was clipped. “He actually was the owner of a small carnival that traveled through the South. He never sexually assaulted the women he kidnapped, but he always shaved their heads before he would drown them in the dunking booth and dump them at a local junkyard.” She held the agent’s gaze. “He told me he wanted to humiliate them like they used to humiliate him.”

  Nikki gave a small nod. “And the last?”

  “Mike Clayborn, Mr. Clean,” Carmen said. “He was a rancher in Montana who would lure male lovers to his remote home and dispose of them in barrels of bleach. Most of his victims were undocumented workers who no one would ever report as missing.”

  Nikki was silent as she studied her pad, which was covered with hasty notes. Then she lifted her head and stabbed Carmen with a suspicious glare.

  “They don’t appear to have anything in common beyond the fact that they were all ruthless killers.” She leaned forward. “And in your book.”

  Griff abruptly wrapped an arm around Carmen’s shoulders, even as his free hand landed on top of the table with a sharp bang.

  “Okay, Nikki,” he growled. “What the hell is going on?”