What Are You Afraid Of?

  A sharp shake of his head. Apparently, she’d given the wrong answer.

  “One last time,” he warned. “Why me?”

  She glanced down at the envelope in her hand.

  A part of her understood his confusion. She had pictures of dead women. The cops should be all over the case, even if they didn’t personally like her, or the book she’d written.

  And deep inside she knew if she tried hard enough, she might find a police department that was willing to at least check into the possibility there was a killer out there.

  So why was she here?

  The answer was simple. She wanted him to find proof that the pictures were real so she knew beyond a doubt that this wasn’t a hoax.

  There.

  She’d admitted it to herself.

  She didn’t want to press the issue if there was a chance she was making a fool of herself.

  Acutely aware of his gaze that was watching the emotions flit over her face, she squared her shoulders.

  “I need to know the truth,” she told him. “You’re the only one who has the skill to give me that.”

  He frowned, but he didn’t throw her out the window. She considered that a win.

  “Flattery, Carmen?” he instead drawled.

  “It’s not flattery,” she retorted. “You’re the best, and you know it.”

  “If I find out this is some sort of stunt, I’ll make you regret trying to screw with me.”

  She spread her arms. “You can do your worst,” she assured him.

  Or his best, a wicked voice whispered in the back of her mind.

  Carmen was quick to squash the voice. Griff wasn’t doing anything to her or with her that didn’t involve photos of dead women.

  She grimaced. And as a means of dampening her lust, that was a doozy.

  Releasing an exasperated breath, Griff pointed toward a doorway near the fireplace.

  “Let’s go into my office.”

  With long strides he was across the room and entering the attached office. Carmen scurried to keep up, her eyes widening as she stepped over the threshold.

  Once again Griff managed to catch her off guard.

  He was a computer genius. The golden boy of every government agency, including Interpol, who she’d discovered had offered him a very large fortune to head up their cybercrime division.

  His office should be the latest in high tech, right?

  Instead, the room looked like it belonged to an English country squire.

  There were no metal shelves filled with servers and blinking modems. No rolled-up cords that connected twenty computers into one seamless machine. No sleek chrome-and-glass furnishings. In fact, the only computer was a laptop that was set on a heavy walnut desk situated near the French doors.

  “Give me the pictures,” Griff commanded, waiting for her to hand him the envelope before taking a seat in the leather swivel chair.

  She was vaguely aware of him opening a drawer of the desk to pull out a small scanner, but her gaze was traveling over the built-in bookshelves and collection of baseball cards that were framed and displayed in a glass case. The floors were covered by vintage rugs that looked like they’d come from a Turkish market, and the walls were paneled with glossy wood.

  It was a manly sort of office, but with the same shabby comfort as the living room.

  Her feet were carrying her toward the framed plaque on the wall. It had two small medals hung on ribbons mounted next to it and a folded American flag. Was it some sort of military award? Before she could get close enough to read what was stamped on the silver medal, Griff made a small sound of satisfaction.

  Pivoting on her heel, she hurried to stand beside his chair.

  “Did you find something?”

  He turned the laptop so she could see the screen. She flinched. He’d scanned the Polaroids into his computer, enlarging them so that they could make out every detail.

  It only made it all the more gruesome.

  The white faces frozen in horror. The weird hint of blue around the lips. The blond hair splayed outward like a tarnished halo. And the bloody wound that provided the only splash of color.

  Griff used the mouse to click on one of the images, allowing it to fill the screen. Then he zoomed in on the stacked boxes visible in the background.

  “A label,” he murmured, continuing to zoom in.

  Carmen felt a stirring of hope as she leaned forward. If the women were killed in the back of a freezer trailer as she suspected, the contents of the boxes might give them a real clue.

  The image went fuzzy, then cleared as he did something else with the mouse. Carmen grimaced, releasing a disappointed sigh.

  “There’s nothing that says what’s inside or where they came from.”

  “Actually, there is.”

  He used the tip of his finger to touch the screen. She leaned even closer, tiny shocks of pleasure racing through her as the side of her breast brushed against his shoulder.

  She shifted an inch away, hoping he didn’t notice the sudden heat that stained her cheeks.

  “A bar code,” she said, her eyes at last focused on the black smudge he was pointing at. “You can use that?”

  “We’ll soon find out,” he told her, his slender fingers flying over the keyboard.

  She blinked as the screen was suddenly filled with files that flickered by so fast she could barely see them before they were gone. Like a strobe light going full speed.

  Did he always work like this? It was a wonder he didn’t have a seizure.

  At last he slowed and then stopped the files, enlarging what looked to be an order form.

  “Did you get a hit?” she asked.

  He sent her an amused gaze. “A hit?”

  She rolled her eyes. Okay. She wasn’t a tech guru. She could turn her phone off and on. What more did she need?

  “Whatever you call it,” she said.

  He returned his attention to the file on the computer screen.

  “The box is packed with containers of frozen pasta,” he told her. “It left a warehouse in Denver, Colorado, on December sixth and arrived in St. Louis on the eighth.”

  “Of this year?”

  “Yep.”

  Around two weeks ago, she silently calculated. “So these aren’t from Neal Scott,” she said out loud.

  “Not unless he’s returned from the grave,” he agreed.

  “Can you tell anything else?”

  He clicked through more files. “I can give you the name of the truck line. Kirkwood Freight Carriers.”

  She reached into her purse to pull out an old-fashioned pen and small notebook. She scribbled down Kirkwood.

  “What about the driver?”

  “Lee Williams,” he said, clicking onto another file.

  Putting the name in her notebook, Carmen heard Griff make a small sound. As if he was startled by something he’d just discovered.

  “What is it?”

  “There was a police report filed,” he said.

  “On the driver?”

  He shook his head. “No. Williams reported the truck missing.”

  Her gut tightened with dread. Abruptly she realized just how much she wanted to believe she was overreacting. It would solve everything if Griff told her this was all some sort of bad joke. She could fly back to her cabin and crawl beneath the covers until the holidays were over.

  Maybe until the snow melted.

  “It was stolen?” she asked.

  He paused, reading through the file before he answered.

  “The report says that the driver stayed the night at the Fairview Hotel in Kansas,” he told her. “After he ate breakfast he went to the parking lot and discovered his truck was gone.”

  “Did they catch the thief?”

  “No. The truck was found abandoned a few miles away. On the shoulder of I-70.”

  I-70. The hunting ground for the Trucker. Plus, a missing freezer trailer . . .

  The dread intensified.

  “There
had to be video footage from the hotel,” she said.

  He used the mouse to skim to the bottom of the report. “There was a camera mounted in the parking lot, but according to the manager it was just for show.” He shrugged. “It looks like the cops talked to a few customers staying at the hotel, but no one wanted to get involved.”

  Of course not. An eyewitness would have made this too easy.

  “Predictable,” she muttered.

  He reached the bottom of the screen. “And since the truck was found with nothing missing, the report was closed and the driver finished his delivery.”

  She abruptly straightened. “If the case was closed, then I assume that means there wasn’t a body found in the trailer,” she said, speaking more to herself than her companion.

  “Doubtful,” he agreed with a grimace.

  “A difference.”

  He turned his chair to study her with a searching gaze. “A difference from what?”

  She hesitated before sharing the thoughts racing through her mind.

  “Scott always left his latest victim frozen in his trailer until he could choose a new one,” she explained.

  He studied her for a long minute. “Why do you assume this has anything to do with Scott?”

  “The M.O. is very close. Scott held his victims in the back of a freezer trailer before he smashed in the sides of their heads with a crowbar,” she said. “And all of the victims had been prostitutes known to work in the parking lots of truck stops along I-70.” She reached past him to pluck the envelope off the desk. Then, pushing her hand inside, she pulled out the sheet of notepaper. “And this came with the envelope.”

  Taking the note, Griff read the brief message. His brows snapped together, his stern features becoming downright grim. Almost as if he was personally bothered by the words.

  At last he lifted his gaze to study her face, his dark eyes smoldering with an odd intensity.

  “Whoever sent these wanted you to believe they were from a dead serial killer,” he said, an edge in his voice.

  She chewed her bottom lip. “That was my first assumption, too.”

  He blinked, as if surprised by her words. “And now?”

  Her gaze moved to stare out the French doors at the sunlit patio. It looked so bright and cheery. The complete opposite of the darkness that seemed to spread through her as she forced herself to consider the purpose of the envelope.

  If it was another serial killer trying to gain her attention, then there was no reason to imitate Neal Scott. Usually each monster had their specific method of murder. It was always a ritual that had meaning to them. An intimate connection to their victim.

  But by replicating the deaths from her book, and sending the proof to her, it seemed to indicate that this was as much about her as the victims.

  A shudder raced through her.

  “No, I think it was to taunt me,” she said in a low voice.

  “Why?”

  She struggled to put her fear into words. “I don’t know, but it feels . . .” Another shudder shook her body. “Personal.”

  She thought she heard him suck in a sharp breath. “You suspect it’s someone you know?”

  She gave a quick shake of her head, refusing to even contemplate the idea. Wasn’t it bad enough to receive pictures of dead women without the horrifying fear that the killer might be a personal acquaintance?

  “No,” she said. “But I think they read my book and it touched a nerve.”

  “Or inspired them,” he pointed out.

  Her lips pressed together. She wasn’t going to apologize for her work. Why should she? She’d told the story of American predators and the women who were left vulnerable in a society that should protect them.

  If it offended people, then tough luck.

  She jutted her chin, holding his searing gaze. “Can you tell anything about the victims?”

  He tapped the tip of his finger on the desk, his expression impossible to read.

  “Young. White. Blond hair,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes. She didn’t need a computer genius to figure that out.

  “Are they really dead?”

  “They look dead, but I’m not a doctor.”

  “Your computer can’t tell?”

  “No.”

  She hissed in exasperation. She now knew that the pictures had been taken within the past few weeks, which ruled out that they were victims of Scott. And she knew that the truck with at least one victim had been in the area of I-70.

  But she’d been hoping for more.

  She still didn’t know if the women were truly dead, or if it was some elaborate hoax meant to freak her out.

  She needed more.

  “Then is there anything we can use to identify the women?” she abruptly demanded.

  There was more tapping with his finger on the desk. Tap, tap, tap.

  “What is it you think that I do?” he demanded.

  She frowned. She didn’t know exactly what he was asking.

  “You create software that helps law enforcement catch the bad guys,” she at last said, referring to the astonishing program he’d created that had allowed the FBI to predict where Dr. Franklin Hammel would attempt to snatch his next victim. They’d managed to catch him in the act.

  “Exactly. I create the software.” He deliberately paused.

  “The information that gets put into that software comes from the authorities.”

  It was his condescending tone—like he was talking to a particularly stupid child—that was the breaking point.

  Enough.

  Carmen had known when she’d hopped on the plane that it would be a long shot. Griffin Archer didn’t like her. Didn’t trust her. And apparently felt as if he had no reason to treat her as anything more than an unwanted intruder.

  “So what you’re saying is that you won’t help me.”

  He frowned. “I’m saying that I can’t help you.”

  “Fine.” She folded her arms around her waist. It was the only way to hide the fact her hands were shaking with suppressed emotions. “Can you give me copies of the enlarged pictures?”

  “Sure.” He hit a button on the keyboard and there was a sound from a printer cleverly hidden behind a potted plant.

  “Thanks.” Carmen moved to grab the sheets of paper, stuffing them into her purse. “I’ll leave the originals here,” she said as she turned back to meet his guarded gaze. “I’m sure the cops will be more willing to look at them if they come from you.”

  “I have a few contacts in the FBI that might be interested,” he assured her.

  “Perfect.” With her spine stiff and her chin high, Carmen marched across the room.

  “Wait.” He surged to his feet. “Where are you going?”

  Well, that was a hell of a question, wasn’t it?

  A pity she didn’t have an answer.

  “Merry Christmas, Griffin,” she muttered.

  She walked through the door, and then out of the house.

  She’d figure out where she was going when she got to the airport.

  Chapter Five

  December 22, Kansas City

  Hunter was invisible.

  It was a trick he’d learned when he’d been very young.

  He didn’t scream and demand attention like other kids. He didn’t stand out at school or in sports or the arts.

  Instead, he would fade into background.

  It allowed him to see the world from the eyes of a predator.

  In the shadows he could detect the weaknesses of others. He peeked through windows. He listened at doors. And collected secrets like other boys collected girlie magazines.

  Then he would strike.

  Without warning. Without morals.

  “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!”

  Now he waited once again in the shadows, watching his prey as she stood in line to collect her keys for a rental car. The crowd ebbed and flowed around him, never giving him a second glanc
e. Neither did the woman who shifted her small overnight bag from hand to hand, her expression one of weary impatience.

  Excitement bubbled through him.

  It wasn’t sexual. No. This was sweet anticipation.

  She was close enough he could see the sheen of gold in her tumble of curls. And the soft curve of her breast beneath her sweater. It was too far to make out the clear blue of her eyes, or to see the dimples that dented her cheeks when she smiled, but he smothered his flare of frustration.

  All good things come to those who wait.

  Those were words his mother had whispered in his ear, never understanding what she was teaching him.

  So he had waited. Years. And years.

  His dark thoughts were interrupted as his phone suddenly vibrated. Keeping his gaze locked on his quarry, he pulled it out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear.

  He already knew who was calling.

  “What is it now?” he demanded, his voice edged with annoyance. His disciple, who’d taken the name Butcher, had called three times in the past two days.

  It’d been his own idea to create secret names. Just like the killers from The Heart of a Predator. He not only liked the thought of being called Hunter, but it’d helped to solidify his hold over the others. He’d created them. Molded them out of lumps of meaningless clay into killers with a true purpose.

  Now he controlled them.

  “I found her,” a childish voice breathed. Butcher was in his twenties, but acted more like a boy just entering puberty.

  Stunted. Both intellectually and emotionally.

  His parents had thrown him away, but Hunter swiftly recognized a weapon when he saw one.

  It had taken years to hone the fool into a suitable disciple, but now Butcher was loyal beyond question and willing to perform any task demanded of him.

  No matter how depraved.

  “Good for you,” he said, his voice low and soothing. Not for Butcher, but to keep any passerby from glancing in his direction.

  Invisible.

  Incapable of replicating Hunter’s Zen-like calm, Butcher was babbling with a hectic eagerness.

  “She’s lovely,” he assured his mentor. “Not too tall, and soft in all the right places.”

  “She’s blond?” Hunter asked. It was one of his three requirements.

  Their prey must be young, white, and blond.