“To suffer? To pay in agony for a mistake she might have made a long time ago?” John was dimly surprised by the harsh sound of his own voice.
“We all pay for our mistakes, John. In this life—or the next. But if you believe that, you also have to believe we’re rewarded when we get it right. Yeah, Maggie’s suffering in this life. She’s also helping other people, easing their suffering. Whether she’s here to correct a mistake or just living another stage in her own spiritual development, I’d say Maggie is earning major bonus points this time around.”
John had to smile, albeit reluctantly. “So she’ll be rewarded in the next life?”
“Hey, maybe she’ll be rewarded later on in this one.”
“If she corrects her past mistake?”
Quentin shrugged. “Maybe. Then again, Maggie might already have balanced her books with the universe, John, despite the sense of responsibility she still feels. We have no way of knowing what’s expected of us.”
“Not even seers?”
“Not even seers.”
After a moment, John said, “That really sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
Long after Maggie left her, Hollis sat as she usually did, her face turned toward the window. She wondered idly if, after tomorrow, she’d still be able to hear as acutely as she did now. She could hear the cop out in the hall shift in the chair where he sat. She could hear the elevators at the end of the hall as the cars passed this floor on their journeys up and down. She could hear the murmur of somebody’s television. Outside and several floors down, she could hear the busy swish of traffic.
Would she be able to hear so well if, tomorrow, she could see again? Probably not. But that wasn’t what bothered her. She would happily trade the sharper hearing for the return of her sight. But would she, alone of all the victims so far, survive his attack still able to see? And if so—why? If Maggie was right about fate and destiny, there had to be a reason. What had she done to earn that?
Or . . . what was she supposed to do?
Quietly, she murmured, “Annie? Are you there?”
I’m here.
The voice was faint, hardly louder than a whisper, but at least it was a reply after many hours of silence.
“There’s a lot you haven’t told me, isn’t there?”
Yes.
“Why? Don’t you trust me?”
I had to be so careful, especially at first. Other times . . . other times, those I tried to warn could never accept me. I . . . frightened them. I didn’t want to frighten you.
“I’m not frightened.”
I know. Now.
“Then tell me what I can do to help Maggie. She helped me, more than she knows. She took away so much of the pain and fear. And . . . she’s fighting for all of us. I have to help her. Tell me how, Annie.” At first, she didn’t think there’d be any sort of answer. But finally, even more distantly and fading into silence, the answer came.
Soon. Soon, Hollis. . . .
When John finally reached Maggie on her cell phone, he had to force himself to speak calmly. “Where are you?”
“I’m leaving the hospital after checking on Hollis.” She sounded as calm as always, though John fancied he could detect a note of strain. “I just turned the phone back on.”
“Then you’re on your way back here?”
“I was. But there’s one more thing I think I should go ahead and do today.”
“What?”
“A walk-through of the building where they found Samantha Mitchell. Maybe I can get something useful. Can you give me the address?”
Immediately, John said, “You don’t need to do that alone, Maggie. I’ll meet you there.”
She barely hesitated. “Okay, fine. What’s the address?”
He found the Mitchell file on the cluttered conference table and read off the address to her, finishing with, “If you get there first, wait outside for me. All right?”
“I will. See you there.”
John closed his cell phone and said to Quentin, “She shouldn’t do it alone.”
“Did I say anything?”
“You wanted to.”
Quentin smiled slightly, but said very quietly, “She has to do this her way, just like I warned you days ago. But you already knew that, didn’t you, John?”
“Let’s just say I figured it out. I’ve gotten to know Maggie, to understand what makes her tick, or at least I think I have. You said all along that her motivation for feeling the pain of all those victims had to be deep, powerful. Maybe even . . . set in stone. Atonement. Whatever the . . . judgment . . . of the universe, in Maggie’s mind there’s only one way to truly correct the mistake she believes she made. Stop this bastard, here and now. And she means to do everything in her power to make sure that happens, no matter what the cost to herself.”
“I’d say so. I’d also say you won’t do her any favors by trying to protect her, and you won’t stop her from doing what she feels she has to do.”
“Are you sure about that? Can you be?”
“Are you asking me if I know what the future will bring?”
Visibly bracing himself, John replied, “I guess that is what I’m asking you. Can I protect her?”
“No.”
After a long moment, John drew a breath and said lightly, “You won’t mind if I try?”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
John nodded, then turned without another word and left.
Alone again in the conference room, Quentin murmured into the silence, “Fate doesn’t expect anything else of you either, John. I wonder when you’ll realize that.”
When Andy came into the conference room a few minutes later, he found Quentin slumped in his chair, feet propped on a closed file on the conference table and fingers laced together across his middle. He was frowning.
Andy didn’t know the agent well, but he knew preoccupation when he saw it. “Worried about John?”
“Hmm?” He looked at Andy and blinked.
“I asked if you were worried about John. I saw him leave a little while ago, and he looked a bit . . . upset.”
Absently, Quentin said, “Yeah, he isn’t hiding his feelings too well right now, is he?”
“He’s going after Maggie?”
“Yeah.”
Patient, Andy said, “And you’re worried?”
Quentin blinked again, then shook his head. “No, not about that. No sense worrying about something set in stone a long time ago.”
Andy started to ask what he meant by that, then decided he really didn’t want to know. “Then what?”
“Did you ever get the nagging feeling there was something you’d overlooked?”
“Occasionally.”
“And?”
“And I usually find I’ve overlooked something.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Quentin stared at the cluttered table. “Somewhere among all this stuff is a detail I should have paid closer attention to.”
“Can’t narrow it down any more than that?”
“No. Dammit.” He took his feet off the table and sat up, opening the closed file rather grimly. “But I intend to, because it’s bugging the hell out of me.”
Andy shrugged philosophically. “Let me know when you find it.”
When he reached the abandoned and deserted building where Samantha Mitchell’s body had been found, John wasn’t surprised to find the entire area all but deserted. It wasn’t an especially inviting day—cold, cloudy, and dreary, and misting rain from time to time— and the neighborhood wasn’t what anyone would have called appealing. Far from it. What few buildings within view hadn’t already been condemned or scheduled for demolition wore the barred-window, iron-grated-door look of desperate fortresses holding danger at bay.
Maggie’s car was parked in front of the building where Samantha had been found, and she got out as he parked his car, waiting for him on the sidewalk.
“This is not what I’d call a cheerful place,” he noted as he joi
ned her.
“Hardly,” Maggie agreed. She was hugging the sketch pad to her breast as she often did, as though it were a shield. The chill breeze made the tip of her nose pink and stirred her long hair so that it seemed to have an independent life all its own. “It’s almost as if he chooses the places where he leaves his victims partly for their desolation. As if he wants the women to feel . . . abandoned. Alone.”
“Maybe he does. Maybe it’s all part of his twisted game to isolate his victims in every sense of the word.”
She shivered visibly. “Yeah.”
“Maggie, maybe you should wait to do this.”
“We need all the information we can get, you know that.”
“Yeah, but it’s hardly fair—even of a demanding universe—to expect you to keep putting yourself through this.”
“Didn’t anybody ever teach you that life isn’t especially fair?”
He looked at her for a moment, then said lightly, “I’m learning that all the time.”
Suddenly a bit self-conscious, Maggie went to put the sketch pad inside her car. “No reason to take this in with me,” she said. “I never can sketch anything while I’m walking through anyway.”
When she rejoined him, John touched her arm. “Are you sure you’re up to this? After our all-nighter at the station, you can’t have gotten much rest.”
“I doubt anybody got much rest. Did you?”
“No—but I’m not an empath carrying around the weight of other people’s pain.”
Maggie smiled suddenly. “Can you imagine yourself even saying that a week ago?”
He had to laugh, however briefly. “No. In fact— hell, no.”
“We live and learn.” She started up the uneven walkway to the front doorway of the building.
John followed. “And you didn’t answer me. Should you be doing this today?”
“We don’t have a lot of time left.”
He caught her arm just short of the front steps and stopped her. “Something you feel? Or something you know?”
“Both.” She met his intent gaze as steadily as she could. “Tara Jameson could already be dead, but even if she isn’t, she’s suffering right now.”
“That isn’t your fault, Maggie.”
She didn’t try to argue with him. “If I don’t do everything within my power to try to find her, to stop him, I’ll blame myself for the rest of my life. Do you understand that?”
He hesitated, then with an oddly tentative movement as if he couldn’t really help himself, he reached up and brushed back a strand of her hair that had blown across her cheek, his fingers lingering only a moment against her skin. “If I don’t understand anything else, I do understand that,” he said. “But there’s something you have to understand, Maggie. I lost my sister to this bastard. Andy and his detectives have lived with the investigation for months. Quentin and Kendra put their lives on the line every day trying to put monsters of every kind in cages where they belong. Maybe we don’t feel the pain of the victims as intensely as you do—but we feel it.”
Maggie drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just not used to . . .”
“Being a team player?”
“Don’t tell me you’re used to it.”
He smiled. “Usually a team leader. So this isn’t so easy for me either. But as long as I can feel I’m contributing, I can handle not being the one in charge.”
Dryly, Maggie said, “I have a feeling you’ve been in charge since you got here. One way or another.”
“Don’t tell Andy that. Or Quentin, for that matter.”
“If you think they don’t know, you’re wrong.”
Realizing he was still holding her arm, John forced himself to let go of her. “Then they’ve been very gracious about it. So—we’re going in there, huh?”
“I don’t know if it’ll help. Maybe he spent as little time here as he did all the other places he left his victims. Maybe I won’t find anything new. But I have to try.”
“Okay. Hang on a minute—it’s so overcast out here, we’re bound to need flashlights inside.”
Maggie waited while he returned to his car for a couple of flashlights, and then they entered the building.
The flashlights helped them see a place very like the one where Hollis Templeton had been left—a dirty, ramshackle building that had long ago been stripped to its bare bones. The floor creaked underfoot, and they could both hear the whispering scurry of rats.
“Yuck,” Maggie said. “I hate rats.”
“I’m not crazy about them either. And there’s no blood trail to follow this time; according to the report, she was found down that hallway, a room at the rear, on the left side of the building.” John kept his voice matter-of-fact.
Maggie stood there for a moment, collecting herself, slowly opening the door to those inner senses. Almost immediately she could smell the blood, and it was no easier to bear than before, thick and cloying in her nostrils. But this time, she forced herself to push past that, to let her senses probe beyond the sickly sweet odor.
“Maggie?”
“I’m okay. It . . . feels different somehow.”
“In what way?”
“I’m not sure.” She began moving slowly down the long hallway toward the back of the building, where there were half a dozen rooms, their doors long gone and broken casings leaning drunkenly like a child’s drawing of doorways.
“Creepy place, even with only five senses,” John muttered.
Maggie wanted to tell him it was infinitely creepier with extra senses, but her attention was tunneling, fixing on the particular slanted doorway to the left that was drawing her toward it. The blood smell was growing stronger, and with it came flashes of darkness, much as she had sensed where Hollis had been left. Flashes of darkness, and pain, and terror, and—Why was it getting harder to breathe? Why did she feel an odd sensation, as if some great weight or . . . presence . . . hung over her, bent toward her—
She didn’t even hear John’s cell phone begin to ring.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Scott joined Quentin in the conference room, tired and dusty but triumphant, to add to the bulletin board two more photos of victims killed in 1934. “Dug these out of a file box over at the North station,” he reported. “Victims number three and seven in that year.”
Quentin stopped frowning over files on the conference table long enough to study the photos. “Resembling Samantha Mitchell and Tara Jameson, respectively.”
“Yeah. That’s six victims so far, and they match up with our six. Call me crazy, but I’d say that was fairly conclusive evidence that our guy is a copycat.”
Andy, who had come in virtually on Scott’s heels, nodded. “I’d say so.”
Quentin said, “We’re reasonably certain there were eight victims that year, right?”
Scott nodded. “According to that book Jenn found, yeah. But so far there’s no sign of the police files for the remaining two victims. I’ve got two more possibles to check, including a hell of a big box of old miscellaneous files that somehow ended up at City Hall.”
“Our tax dollars at work,” Andy muttered. “Well, we don’t know that finding photos of the last two victims will help us—but we don’t know that it won’t, either. Keep at it, Scott.”
“You bet.” Energy renewed by success, Scott hurried back out of the conference room.
Andy sat down at the table and rubbed his face with both hands. “I’m barely ten years older than he is, and it feels more like twenty. Jeez—what happens to stamina after thirty-five?”
“It’s still there,” Quentin told him. “It just has to be tended a bit more carefully. I like catnaps, myself.”
Andy eyed him. “How many of those have you had today?”
“I’ll get one later.” Quentin frowned at the cluttered table. “I’m still in search of whatever it is that’s bugging me.”
“Still no idea what it is?”
“Not yet. But I know it??
?s here somewhere.” He reached for another file. “Something a friend or family member of a victim said in an interview? Something in an autopsy report or crime-scene photo? I just don’t know.”
Before Andy could respond, Quentin’s cell phone rang, and as the agent answered, Andy could hear the excited, booming voice distinctly even across the table. It sounded like a big bear in a very small cave.
“Quentin? Hey, Quentin!”
“I hear you, Joey.” Wincing, Quentin put a prudent
few inches between the phone and his ear. “What’s up?”
“Listen, Quentin, I got to thinking maybe I could help you find that rapist you cops are after, so I been asking around, and I think maybe I got a lead.”
“Joey—”
“Guy I know swears he seen an old black Caddie like my dad used to drive parked weeks ago near where they found one of the ladies after he got done with her, and he thinks he seen it more than once since then. In the neighborhood, you know, around, ’specially at night.”
Quentin untangled that as best he could. “All right, Joey, but, listen, don’t—”
“The guy I know, he thinks he seen the car again just the other night, you know, where that poor Mitchell lady was found? So maybe it’s the bastard you’re looking for. I’m gonna check it out, Quentin, see if maybe I can find that Caddie for you.”
“Joey, we can—”
“I’ll let you know soon’s I find something, Quentin— and I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“Joey? Joey?” Slowly, Quentin turned the phone off. “Shit,” he muttered.
Andy said, “I gather that was the source who gave us Samantha Mitchell’s fake kidnapper?”
“Yeah.”
“You think he might be on to something?”
Quentin rose and went to a large city map on one wall, where several small red flags marked the locations where victims had been found. “Weeks ago, he said. Probably around the time Hollis Templeton was found. And if the car was seen again the other night near where Samantha Mitchell was found . . .” He indicated the two flags closest together. “Not more than three miles apart. Definitely what Joey would consider in the neighborhood. Yeah, he might be on to something.”