Twisted

  As I drive away, I wonder what the reaction will be when Nurse Bulldog is discovered. If her personality matches her demeanor, the cheers will outnumber the sobs.

  For some reason, that strikes me as amusing.

  2:45 P.M.

  Nurse Kate Reilly was more than ready to go off duty. That unexpected Code Blue had really thrown her. When she last checked, Mr. Remis had been doing just fine. He was recovering from a head injury sustained in a car accident. His vitals were stable. The respirator had been functioning perfectly—every connection checked and double-checked.

  It hadn’t been hard to restore the situation to normal. But the fact that someone had unplugged him from his respirator? That was beyond chilling. Who would do such a thing? Especially to Mr. Remis, who was a sweetheart, with a loving family, very little money, and a kind heart. The whole incident had been a nightmare.

  To top that off, she was getting a little worried about her supervising nurse, Gertrude Flyer. Gertrude was a stickler for punctuality and responsibility. She never missed a day, never neglected a patient, and never gave less than her all. The instant the Code Blue had sounded, she’d rushed off to get potentially needed medication for Mr. Remis. But she’d never come back. That was unprecedented.

  Bothered, Kate went looking for Gertrude. As she passed the front of the nurses’ station, something on the floor toward the back of the station caught her eye.

  Abruptly, she stopped, all the color draining from her face.

  She never heard herself scream. She just stood there, her hands covering her mouth, staring at the gruesome sight before her.

  A river of blood was flowing out from the back of the nurses’ station. And crumpled in front of the open medication cabinet was Gertrude Flyer’s butchered body.

  FBI New York Field Office

  26 Federal Plaza, New York City

  3:45 P.M.

  Sloane paced back and forth in Derek’s cubicle.

  “Okay, you ordered me to accompany you to your office straight from our interview with Tina. I’ve been here for hours while you tried to hunt down your language analyst and then your partner. Are you going to tell me what they said or what I’m doing here?”

  “I bought you lunch,” Derek reminded her, settling himself at his computer and calling up his e-mails. “That’s two meals in one day. One for each hour you had to wait. To my way of thinking, that makes us even.”

  “Derek.” Sloane marched up to his desk, folding her arms across her breasts and staring him down. “I’m not amused. I’m pissed. And not only about this afternoon’s runaround. About this morning’s, too. What was that phone call you took during the interview about? I know it had something to do with this case. I could feel it when you came back. You were practically vibrating.”

  “Such an astute woman,” Derek taunted under his breath. “Can’t pull the wool over your eyes.” He concentrated on his computer screen as he ran through the new e-mails in his in-box. “No, no, no…yes. There we go.” Double-clicking, he opened the e-mail from Joe.

  Here’s the rough photo, it read. Let me know what you think. Final version in the A.M.

  Derek glanced around impatiently, then spotted a chair. He dragged it over and set it behind his desk, then gestured for Sloane to walk around and view the screen with him.

  “First, I couldn’t find either Jeff or my language analyst, Yan Dié,” he replied. “I have calls in to both of them. We’ll have our dialect answers soon. Second, that call I got during the meeting was from Quantico. It was the forensic engineer who’s enhancing the video footage for me. He found something.” Derek went on to detail what Joe had told him. “So let’s take a look and see what we’ve got.”

  Sloane leaned forward, watching intently as Derek opened the jpeg. The image appeared slowly, and it was definitely rough and gravelly looking. But the glint of light was unmistakable, as was the shadow around it. And they each had a definite shape.

  “That light is a knife,” Sloane stated decisively. “A long, thick knife, just like the one Tina described. And the shadow around it could definitely be a man.”

  “I agree. So does Joe, at least about the knife. He’s fine-tuning the image for us just to be sure. I’ll have his final jpeg first thing tomorrow. If it turns out we’re right about the knife and the man—which I think we are—I’m going to ask Joe to check out the corresponding footage from the path around the lake. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe we’ll not only get a good fix on the Unsub, but we’ll be able to spot Penelope from one of the camera angles.”

  “Look at the time stamp,” Sloane said, pointing. “Eleven twenty-nine. It coincides perfectly with the time line Deanna Frost gave us for Penny’s walk around Lake Fred.”

  “Yup. So if Joe’s final product comes in as I suspect it will, we’ve got our Unsub placed at Penelope Truman’s crime scene. We’ve also got more than enough connections between the three woman—and you—to establish a pattern. It’s time to get the BAU involved.”

  “I agree.” Sloane looked pensive as she raked a hand through her hair. “The only thing that’s still bugging me is how the Unsub knew Penny would be at Stockton that day, taking a walk around Lake Fred at that specific hour. Tina and Cynthia had routines that he could easily have kept track of. But Penny’s routine was to catch a subway to work. So how did he know—” Sloane broke off as a possibility occurred to her.

  “What?” Derek asked, reading her expression.

  “Give me a minute to follow up on a lead. It’s a long shot, but it might give us our answer.” She opened up her file folder and flipped through her notes. “Here we go,” she murmured. She held the spot she’d found by placing her index finger on it, then flipped open her cell phone and punched in the relevant number.

  “Doug Waters’s office,” a professional female voice announced.

  “This is Sloane Burbank. I need to speak with Mr. Waters immediately.”

  “He’s in a meeting, Ms. Burbank. If you’ll leave me a phone number where you can be reached—”

  “Is his meeting in the building?” Sloane interrupted.

  “Well…yes, but—”

  “Page him,” Sloane instructed. “Tell him I only need three minutes of his time. He can excuse himself to go to the bathroom and be back before everyone’s refilled their coffee cups. I apologize for the inconvenience. But this is an FBI matter. So there’s really no choice.”

  “Of course.” The poor girl sounded like she was going to faint. “Can you hold for just a minute? I’ll track him down.”

  “Certainly. And thank you.”

  “Boy, you’re an even bigger bulldozer than you used to be,” Derek muttered. “That girl’s probably popping a Xanax as we speak.”

  “Very funny.” Sloane shot him a look. “We’re talking about catching a serial killer. That trumps whatever’s going on at Merrill Lynch.”

  “It’s good you never had dreams of joining corporate America. You’d suck at the politics.”

  “So would you.” Sloane’s mouth snapped back down to the receiver as she heard the click that indicated someone had picked up.

  “This is Doug Waters.”

  “Doug, hi, it’s Sloane Burbank.”

  “So my secretary said when she dragged me out of an important client meeting.”

  “I’m sorry for that. But the FBI and I have acquired new information on Penny’s disappearance. I’m assuming that finding out what happened to her is more important to you than three minutes of a meeting, no matter how high-powered the client and how many millions your firm will pocket in the process.”

  “You know it is.” Doug’s tone changed entirely, the edge gone from his voice. “Have you found her?”

  “No. But we believe we’re getting closer. I have one or two questions for you, and then I’ll let you get back to making your next million.”

  “Shoot.”

  “When you and I last talked, we discussed the Classical Humanities lecture-series seminars given at Richard S
tockton College. I know they were held one Saturday afternoon a month. You mentioned that Penny really got into the academic scene and attended the seminars with some regularity. You also mentioned that she’d written the date of that last seminar—April fourteenth—on the calendar months beforehand. Did she normally do that? And last, since she went to a bunch of these lectures, can you elaborate, give me an idea of her routine—from registration to attendance? Any procedure she usually followed, predominantly on the days of the seminars themselves?”

  “Sure. First of all, yes to your first question. Penny was organized. And since she registered in advance, the dates went on our calendar in advance. As for the rest…” Doug was quiet for a moment, obviously gathering his thoughts to give Sloane the most comprehensive answer possible. “I told you when we first talked about this that humanities seminars aren’t my thing. But they definitely were Penny’s. She kept the seminar brochure in her purse so she could juggle other commitments around those dates, if possible. She missed a few of them because of work or other plans, but on the whole, she went to the majority of them.” He paused, blew out a breath. “On those days, she had a distinct routine. She took the same early bus out of the Port Authority. She knew she’d get to Stockton early, but that was her plan. She was a city girl through-and-through. You know that; you grew up with her.”

  “You’re right. She was.”

  “But every once in a while she liked the fresh air and open spaces of a rural town.”

  “Yes. She did,” Sloane replied quietly, memories rushing through her. She and Penny had spent many happy weekends at the cottage in Hunterdon that Sloane now called home. Penny loved apple picking, nature hikes, and marveling at the wildlife that didn’t exist in the city.

  “I get bored in the country,” Doug was saying. “So that became part of Penny’s alone time. She used the extra time before the seminar started to take a long walk on campus. She enjoyed the birds, the scenery—that sort of thing. She especially liked that big lake. I don’t recall its name.”

  “Fred,” Sloane supplied. “Lake Fred.”

  “Right, that was it. She’d either walk around it, or hang out and feed the ducks.”

  Sloane squeezed her eyes shut for a second to shake off the nostalgia. Besides, she had her answer. Keeping track of Penny’s routine at Richard Stockton was as easy as keeping track of Cynthia’s or Tina’s. So it was no accident that the Unsub had been lurking in the woods at the same time that Penny was walking around Lake Fred. He knew she’d be there. And he was lying in wait.

  “Thank you, Doug,” Sloane said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “I’m glad.” He cleared his throat. “I might not have any right to ask, but would you let me know when the case is solved? Relationships are complicated. Even though Penny’s and mine ended, I still care about her. I want to know what happened—and by whose hand.”

  “I understand. I’ll call you personally as soon as I have answers I can share.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Sloane punched off her phone and glanced over at Derek. “Penny had a routine every time she went to Stockton, which was nearly every time there was a Classical Humanities seminar. The lecture schedule was published well in advance, and each lecture was on a specific Saturday a month. Her ritual was to show up early and take a walk around Lake Fred. So even though it was broad daylight, even though the area was crowded with students, the Unsub knew it was his best chance to grab Penny. It wasn’t spontaneous. It was planned. And he pulled it off.”

  “I’m not an expert on the minds of serial killers,” Derek replied. “But I do know they’re usually smart, methodical, and single-minded. Penelope was clearly the Unsub’s target. He wasn’t going to stop until he had her.”

  “To do what with? Kill her? Rape and torture her beforehand? And where’s her body? We’ve got to find her. And we’ve got to find him—the vile animal who did this.” Sloane lowered her head, fighting the quaver in her voice. “If I’m the common link here, then it’s my fault that Penny was taken.”

  “You know that’s irrational.” Derek’s response was quiet but definitive. “We’re dealing with an unbalanced offender. You represent something pivotal in his abnormal mind. That makes you a victim, not a catalyst. None of this is your fault.”

  A long silent moment passed.

  Then Sloane inhaled sharply and raised her head, her composure restored. “You’re right. I apologize for losing it. As we both know, I’m neither immune nor objective when it comes to Penny’s case.”

  “Don’t apologize. You’re human. You and Penelope grew up together. For you, this is personal as well as professional.” Derek hesitated, then reached out, taking Sloane’s uninjured hand in his. “We’ll get him. I promise.”

  Sloane’s gaze shifted to their joined hands, but instead of pulling away as Derek had expected, she gave him a grateful smile. “I know we will. But thanks for the promise. Thanks also for…”—she paused, searching for the right words—“…for your commitment and support.”

  That clearly was not the entirety of what she wanted to say. Derek knew it, and so did Sloane. But before Derek could explore the issue, his cell phone rang, interrupting the moment.

  Visibly irked, he snapped open the phone. “Parker.” His tone was curt, his jaw tight.

  A minute later, his entire demeanor transformed from annoyance to frustration and anger. “Goddammit,” he ground out. After that, he fell silent again, listening intently. His expression grew grimmer by the minute. “Yeah, I heard you. Southern Jersey Medical Center on Hamilton Road. I’m on my way.” He punched off the phone, shoved it in his pocket, and rose.

  “What happened?” Sloane asked.

  He angled his head toward her. “It seems that Tina did more physical damage to her attacker than she realized. A shitload of narcotics were just stolen from a pharmaceutical closet in a Trenton hospital not ten miles away from TCNJ. Whoever stole them created a Code Blue by disconnecting a patient’s respirator tube and diverting the entire staff to his room. The supervising nurse went to get the necessary meds. She unlocked the narcotics cabinet, and was promptly killed for her efforts.”

  “How?”

  “Her throat was slashed. The bastard severed her carotid artery. It looks like the weapon used was a small Bowie-type knife.” Derek grabbed his jacket. “I’m heading down to Trenton now.”

  Sloane had already jumped to her feet and was gathering her things. “I’m going with you.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  DATE: 8 April

  TIME: 0830 hours

  Nightmares. Sweat. Flashes of Tyche, dying by my hand. Glimpses of hell. Hallucinations or realities. No longer sure. Can’t resume my other life. All my strength must go to serving the demons, and finalizing my arrangements. Then the goddesses and I will all move on to Mount Olympus.

  I used to want only the eternal beauty of the afterlife for her. Now I crave peace for me. And Artemis. I need Artemis. She’ll heal my pain, join me in my splendor. I missed her yesterday. I drove by her house. Need to see her. Worth everything. But she’s not home. Where is she?

  What if something happened? She could be hurt…violated…No. She can defend herself against anything. FBI agent. Too much time with him. Can’t let him try to corrupt her.

  There’s no place on earth worthy of a goddess like Artemis. Her strength, her beauty, and her purity are lost on this world.

  They’ll be embraced on Mount Olympus.

  Must warn her.

  Couldn’t do it yesterday. Tried to wait, but the morphine was making me sick. Gagging. Sweating. If I didn’t get home soon, I’d black out.

  Tyche. It’s her fault. All of it. Filthy slut. Unworthy whore.

  Men are pawns. Captives to the sluts who share their beds. Gone are decency, chivalry, protectiveness. Destroyed by society’s immorality and degradation. Destroyed by the whores who rule it.

  Biao zhi. Infected me with her black soul. Kept me from Ar
temis, from my mission. Rage and hatred eat at me. Need vengeance. But the howling of the demons cripples me. Need to appease their rage…silence them…only one way to do that.

  I’ll leave early…satisfy the demons. Then they’ll release me long enough to destroy Tyche. I can purge, move on. All accounts must be settled. All goddesses must stand at the sacrificial altar. As must I.

  It’s her will. And the will of the gods.

  Hunterdon County, New Jersey 9:15 A.M.

  Yesterday’s crime scene had left both Derek and Sloane quiet and grim. The murder of that poor head nurse had been horrifying. Even after the body was removed, the memory lingered—Gertrude Flyer, in pools of her own blood, her throat sliced open, not to mention the image of the weapon that must have done this to her—all that had thrown Sloane more than she’d expected.

  It had taken a glass or two of Merlot and a long, hot shower—one she’d intended to take solo, but wound up otherwise—to start Sloane’s unwinding process.

  The process had been furthered by the massage Derek had given her afterward.

  And brought to a successful conclusion by a long night of marathon lovemaking.

  Now Derek’s fingers were biting into Sloane’s hips, his grip anchoring her as he drove them both toward orgasm. Sloane sat astride him, her thighs clamped against his sides. She was trembling from exertion, her body rising and falling, moving faster and faster as the urgency to climax increased.

  She was so close…so close.

  “Now,” she managed, her nails digging into Derek’s shoulders as she reached the limit of what she could bear. “Now!”

  His grasp tightened to just short of painful, and his lower body thrust upward so fiercely that he lifted Sloane off the bed. It was exactly what she needed, his penis lodged so deep inside her, stretching and filling her until it pushed her over the edge. She exploded into orgasm. It wasn’t gentle, tender, or shivery. It was hot and wild and primitive, boiling up from the very core of her being, then erupting, storming through every pore of her body.