The Silenced

  Unlikely, he thought. There were always black sedans around here. He returned to the hotel, dropped off his own pizza, then went to Meg’s room to deliver hers. Before he could knock on her door, he heard Killer growl. For a little dog, Killer could make some noise.

  Meg opened the door, one foot holding back the dog. Her hair was gleaming wet, as dark as a raven’s wing. She smelled sweetly of soap, and for the first time, he realized what a beautiful woman she was.

  He handed her the pizza.

  Killer was at his feet, jumping up, begging for attention.

  “All right, all right,” he told the dog, and stooped down to pet him.

  “Were you in the hall a few minutes ago?” Meg asked, setting the pizza box on the foot of the room’s one bed.

  “I just got back, put my pizza in my room and came here,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Someone was in the hall a minute ago. Killer was growling.”

  Matt laughed. They were both getting paranoid. “It’s a hotel,” he reminded her. “They rent rooms to other people, too.”

  He felt a little awkward. Maybe it was because he’d just really noticed her looks. No, of course not; he’d known she was attractive before. But now...maybe he was just standing too close to her.

  “Good night, Killer,” he said to the dog. “Meg, we have our meeting at nine. I think the RPD wanted it earlier, but they’re giving Kat and Will time to get here and meet up with our local counterparts, as well. So you can sleep in, but we need to leave at eight-thirty.”

  “Gotcha.”

  As he turned to leave, Killer whined.

  “I guess he doesn’t want you to go,” Meg said.

  “Hey, buddy.” He stooped to pet the dog again. “You can’t have us both, you know. And trust me, she’s much prettier.”

  He stood, gave Meg a wave and left the room.

  He was tired and ate his pizza quickly, downing it with a bottle of water he found in the room. He switched on the television. There had to be at least six local news stations and every one he turned to was talking about the DC killer who had now branched out into Richmond. He listened to a few of them carefully. The media didn’t know about the victims’ tongues being cut out, nor had they been given the information about the bodies having been slashed and stuffed with stones.

  Tired, he started to drift off.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep but he roused slightly.

  There were footsteps in the hallway.

  Late-nighters returning? He sat halfway up; the footsteps passed by.

  A second later, he heard the dog barking from down the hall.

  Matt leaped out of bed, reached for his Glock and ran to the door. He stood to one side of it and threw it open, then stepped out into the hallway.

  An elderly woman in a raincoat and a scarf was sliding a key card into a door. She noted Matt, his pajama pants and naked chest—he held the gun behind his back—and offered him a crooked smile and a wave. He waved and slipped back inside his room.

  Footsteps in a hotel hallway and black sedans on the road.

  Hell, he was getting paranoid.

  Yet he lay awake and finally got up. It was 2:30 a.m. according to the clock radio beside his bed. He walked down the now-empty hallway, stopped in front of Meg’s door and tested the knob.

  Killer didn’t bark this time. He whined. He knew it was Matt.

  Matt started to knock, to make sure that everything was all right. Dumb idea. He’d just wake her up.

  He headed back to his own room. He needed to sleep. This was a rough case, and whatever it took, they had to stop this man. Finding Lara Mayhew, dead or alive, might well be the key.

  He locked and bolted his door and put his Glock on the bedside table. He could sleep for another few hours.

  He did. When his alarm went off it caught him in a dream, a weird dream in which black sedans had taken on personas, like the friendly little cars in Pixar movies. But these sedans weren’t friendly. Their front lights were equipped with large, gleaming knives that went around the bulbs in a macabre fashion. Their grills were filled with sharp-looking teeth. And they were pelting down the street, apparently driverless, while he ran and ran—all the while knowing he couldn’t outrun a car.

  “Whoa, no more pizza that late at night,” he told his tired reflection.

  Then he stepped into the shower and forgot his dream, well aware that it was going to be a very long day.

  7

  The task force meeting was grim. Kat Sokolov, who’d gone to see the body of Genie Gonzales before coming in to the RPD, spoke with them briefly before they got together with the local officers. Matt then took the lead, telling them about the other two women and what they presumed about the killer from what they’d discovered so far.

  “We believe the killer is organized, although it seems he’s grown more careless with Ms. Gonzales. The odd thing about these murders is that he doesn’t seem to get off on the torture inflicted. In each case, the victim was drugged—heavily drugged with a pharmaceutical used in surgery—before her throat was slit and any cutting on the body began. There seems little doubt that we’re dealing with the same man, a serial killer. What makes this an all-points alarm is that the first young woman was killed nearly a month ago, the second just a few days ago and now we have Genie Gonzales. We ask that all officers on the case be extremely careful with the media. We need to keep the more gruesome aspects of these murders quiet. We don’t want to end up with copycats or other mentally defective individuals out there trying to take credit for the murders.”

  He went on to take questions, and then Will Chan stepped up to inform them that they’d work on nothing but this case until the killer was brought to justice.

  By ten o’clock, they’d finished. There was no additional information they could give, other than the fact that, thus far, the killer had chosen three blonde women—one whose hair had been bleached—and they did seem to be a physical type. Five-five to five-seven in height, age around twenty-seven. Young and pretty.

  Matt added, “I also believe that he stalks his victims and knows about them. The two women who’ve been identified were new to the areas they were living in. They were currently unattached. They didn’t have family or friends who’d be checking up on them immediately. If it hadn’t been for her dog’s barking, Ms. Gonzales might have gone several more days without a name.” He paused briefly. “As I suggested earlier, it also seems that her murder might have been rushed. Her body wasn’t as carefully weighted with rocks as the first woman.”

  “And no one saw or knew anything?” an officer asked.

  “So far, we have no witnesses. We assume the killer is able to clean up before being seen. In this corridor, it’s easy enough to drive into wooded areas near the rivers, perform the deed, dump the body and hop back into a car. I’m guessing he might have clothes in his trunk and that he washes up in the river, then changes his clothes. He’s in an isolated area, so he takes the opportunity to do that.”

  “We figure he’s stalking them,” another officer began, “but how does he snatch them?”

  “I believe he’s watching them—and since he stalks them, he knows their schedules, their routines. He plucks these women right from the streets, after work perhaps, out shopping, wherever, but he obviously avoids heavily trafficked parts of the city and he’s probably using the cover of darkness. It’s important for every patrolman and law enforcement officer to be vigilant and to ask neighborhood groups to keep their eyes open. All information from the centers here and in DC will be continually shared, no matter how minute. Remember, no detail is too small. The go-betweens from this office are Agents Sokolov and Chan.”

  Matt waited, looking around at his audience. “We’re also aware of one missing woman from the
DC area. Agent Murray and I are on her trail, hoping to find a living woman and not another victim. It’s crucial that we continue looking at missing-persons reports, since we don’t know how long the killer keeps his victims sedated before killing them or if he carries out the murders quickly. We owe justice to the dead, but our first priority is always the living.” When he finished speaking he heard a little bark and glanced down. Killer was at his feet.

  Killer was a big hit at the station. But no matter who had him or where he went, he always came back to sit at Matt’s feet.

  Hey, go see Meg! She’s the one who wants you.

  The dog wagged his tail. Shaking his head, Matt reached down to pick him up. The damned dog even had an underbite. He felt far too skinny.

  “So damned ugly you’re cute, huh?” he asked the dog.

  He hadn’t noticed that people in the room were still watching him until he heard laughter and a smattering of applause.

  Detective Wharton walked over to him, grinning.

  “The story’s traveled, and the dog is a hero. And it seems he likes you best. Don’t know about his judgment, though,” Wharton joked. “I’d be sucking up to Agent Murray.”

  Matt glanced over at Meg. The officers on the task force were splitting up to begin their day, and one of the RPD men was asking her questions. She was answering him in a low, modulated voice. She was going to be a good agent, he thought, then immediately qualified that. She was new and it would take a while to be certain, but...

  He realized that his reaction had been grudging. He wondered why. He had nothing against female agents; he loved the balance within the Krewe.

  Maybe he’d never seen himself training a first-time agent.

  Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t be proficient at it.

  Or maybe it was something even deeper. He had to accept that they needed to watch each other’s backs. Was he worried that she wasn’t capable—or that he wasn’t capable of trusting her?

  He forced his attention back to the matter at hand. “Detective,” he said to Wharton, “we have an appointment to speak with the missing woman’s aunt, but if you could give me an hour after that, I’d like to see Genie Gonzales’s apartment.”

  “We did a thorough job searching it,” Wharton told him.

  “I know you did. I’d just like to get a feel for her.”

  “Certainly. Say, about one this afternoon?”

  “That’ll be fine,” Matt replied.

  Meg was still speaking with the young officer. Matt checked his watch; they should leave. The situation here was covered by Kat and Will.

  He walked over to her and gestured that it was time to go.

  She nodded and shook hands with the young detective.

  Matt paused to let Will know they were leaving, then he and Meg headed out.

  “He does walk, you know,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Killer. He walks. You’re still carrying him.”

  “Oh.” That was when he realized that he was still holding the dog and had been for quite some time. In his arms, the animal had barely moved.

  He set the dog on the ground. Killer fell into step with him as they made their way to the parking lot. The dog obediently jumped onto Meg’s lap in the passenger seat when they reached the car.

  “You may be getting too attached, you know,” he told her.

  She shook her head. “Actually, I’m going to ask Aunt Nancy to keep him for me until I get back.”

  “Because he’s such a beauty?” Matt asked her. “Such a charming little guy?”

  She smiled. “Yes. He has the most beautiful soul an animal could have. Have you ever heard of Greyfriars Bobby? When I was child, my dad told me the story about him. He was a terrier who sat at his master’s grave in Edinburgh for years after his death—and he’s buried near him now. People fed him and cared for him, but he spent his days at his master’s grave. This little guy is a Bobby. So loyal. I knew I wanted a dog when I could, and this is the one. My town house is— Well, it’s really empty right now, but I figure even with furniture, it’ll feel cold for a while. Killer will fix that.”

  “Not too fond of the name,” Matt said.

  “I’ll think about it. I’m sure Genie named him Killer ironically, because he’s so little and so affectionate. Going against type. But...changing his name doesn’t seem right. Taking care of him does.”

  “Whatever you say.” Her dog, he told himself. Sort of. Her decision.

  She pointed to a street sign. “Turn here. Nancy has a beautiful old home at the end of this cul-de-sac.”

  They arrived at the house and Meg paused, touching his arm before he could turn to get out of the car. “I, uh, spent a lot of time here. Nancy is a very dear and old friend. I call her Aunt, too, although we aren’t related.”

  He felt her touch. Her eyes seemed oddly intense.

  “And you’re afraid I’m going to be a jerk and make her cry?”

  She frowned. “That’s not what I meant...”

  “That’s exactly what you meant. Hey, I’m the one suggesting Lara might be alive, despite the fact that you ‘saw’ her. But never mind. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  He got out of the car. As Meg had said, Nancy lived in one of the grand old places that spoke of all that had been good about the Old South—true warmth and hospitality. He smiled. Those were the things he loved about his own home, his own family.

  Granted, not everything about the South had been good—certain attitudes, beliefs, behavior.

  But kindness and graciousness also abounded.

  Yes, he’d be on his best behavior. His mother hadn’t sent him to dance lessons for nothing, he thought with amusement.

  Once they’d entered the house, Matt wondered why he’d been so certain that Nancy Cooper would be a fragile old lady.

  The woman who opened the door was dressed in workout clothing; she had a small but lean, muscled frame. Her hair, iron gray, was cut stylishly short. She wasn’t the kind of woman to hide her age, but her age didn’t matter—she was lovely. She seemed to glow with energy and intelligence. She welcomed Meg with a warm hug.

  She smiled at the dog, taking him from Meg’s arms and putting him on the floor, urging him to run about as if he were at home.

  Then she looked at Meg with a question in her eyes, one Meg couldn’t answer.

  They clung together again, and Matt remembered that it was this woman’s niece who was missing. She was certainly shaken with worry and dread.

  She drew away from Meg at last to shake hands with Matt. She made no pretense of doing anything but assessing him. To her credit, he had no idea what her assessment had been.

  “You’ve been with the Bureau long, Agent Bosworth?” she asked.

  “Ten years.”

  She nodded. “Come into the parlor.”

  He followed Meg into a handsome room with furnishings from the mid-1800s—all of it polished and well maintained. But this meeting wasn’t a cozy sit-down in the parlor; Matt almost felt as if he had arrived at a war summit. Nancy sat at the head of the table, where a service for tea and coffee was already set. Nancy briskly asked them if she might pour and if they preferred coffee or tea.

  When that nicety had been observed, she sat back. “I haven’t seen Lara in the past few days. Nor have I heard from her. As time goes by, I’m more and more concerned. However, I don’t believe she’s dead.”

  Meg bowed her head for a moment.

  “I pray you’re right,” Matt said. “But is there anything in particular that’s convinced you she’s alive? Has she contacted you in any way?”

  “No.” Nancy took a deep breath. “I would know. I’m sure of it. You may think this is silly, Agent Bosworth, but I knew the moment my sister—Lara’s mother—died. She was my twin. Th
ey say that twins intuit these things. And I did. Lara’s parents were killed in a horrible car accident more than fifteen years ago when we had that freak blizzard late in the season. At least twenty people in the area were killed in that storm. But I knew. Patricia and I—we often read each other’s thoughts. Make fun of me if you will.”

  “I have no intention of making fun of you,” Matt assured her.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he repeated. “I’m a big believer in intuition.”

  “Aunt Nancy,” Meg said, “I should explain. Matt belongs to a special FBI unit—and so do I, as of yesterday. We’re called the Krewe of Hunters. We all have some...intuitive abilities, I guess you could call it. We see people, like I saw Mary Elizabeth after she was killed.”

  Nancy seemed to relax as she studied them both. Then she let out a sigh. “The police are just humoring me, I think. I realize that when a young woman goes missing and she fits the profile of a serial killer’s victim, most people would assume there’s little hope.”

  Meg reached across the table and took Nancy’s hand. “Aunt Nancy, I have to tell you—I feared she was dead.”

  Nancy turned to Meg, meeting her eyes. “You had one of your visions?” she asked.

  Meg glanced over at Matt. “Brief. It was very brief. I’d taken a shower and the bathroom was filled with steam. I cleaned the mirror and she was standing behind me. I turned and she was still there—just for a second or two. I gave up hope—well, you know why. But Matt and some of the Krewe members believe I might have seen her in the mirror because she was reaching out to me...for help. That she might still be alive.”

  “She is alive,” Nancy said. “And that isn’t just hope speaking.” She looked at Matt. “My husband and I had no children. Even before her parents died, Lara was like my own child. She’s an idealist, the same way her father was. George was a columnist, and he wrote political essays that pointed out not only the negative, but how it could be fixed. He also worked tirelessly to petition congressmen for bills to benefit education and health care. Lara is a crusader, as well. She works passionately when she believes in a cause.”