“Martha,” Edith acknowledged at last.
“I apologize for intruding.”
“No need.”
Martha squared her shoulders. “I have a visitor,” she announced. Her gaze met Edith’s. It was a touch defiant.
“A visitor?” The hair still danced up Edith’s arms with wild electricity. Her chest was beginning to tighten with a familiar pain.
“My granddaughter.”
“You have a granddaughter?”
“From the boy. The salesman who travels.”
“I see.”
“I had to meet him, unexpectedly. Something came up; he needs me to watch my granddaughter.”
“Uh-huh.”
Martha looked at her again. In this dark moment before dawn, her gaze appeared flat, as if she were dead. “Will you meet her this morning?”
Edith wasn’t certain. Finally she nodded. “If you’d like.”
“If . . . if something should happen to me, will you take care of her, Edith? I would trust you with her.”
Again there was that stare. That only-half-alive gaze. There was no pleading in Martha’s voice, not even fear. It was strangely matter-of-fact, and that scared Edith more.
“Yes,” she agreed softly. “I suppose. But I’ll need the address and phone number of your son.”
Martha shrugged. She said, “Don’t worry. He’ll find you.”
TWENTY-THREE
THEY MET AT a small diner, one of those places where people bring their children because the ice cream sundaes are better than the hamburgers, and senior citizens laid claim to corner booths to enjoy the “two eggs, two strips of bacon, two pieces of toast for $2.22 special.”
Against an unlikely backdrop of a swirling sea of red and blue floral carpet, Marion perched on the edge of a brown vinyl booth and waited impatiently for her brother and Tess to arrive.
One long, slim leg was carefully crossed over the other. Her back was ramrod straight. She hadn’t dressed for her surroundings, but had donned a navy blue pants suit trimmed with gold braid around the cuffs and collar. The outfit inspired enough awe to halt a two-year-old, who stared up at her icy, perfect posture as if maybe he should salute. Even her hair was obedient, pulled back harshly into its usual French twist with not a single strand escaping to curl delicately around her cheeks.
She glanced down at the toddler, her blue eyes cold and impenetrable. With a startled squeal he bolted on stubby legs. Marion simply raised her cigarette to her pale pink lips and inhaled.
“Scaring off another admirer, I see,” J.T. drawled, walking across the restaurant to her with Tess in tow. A moment later he leaned against the booth, hip thrust out. A homemade sling decorated his arm.
She exhaled into his face. “It’s a gift.” She looked at him steadily, waiting to see who would draw first blood.
Tess positioned herself between brother and sister. Marion flicked her a cold glance. “And you’re playing ref?”
“Apparently,” Tess said, but didn’t sound happy about it. She had just started sliding into the booth, when Marion shook her head.
“Not here. Too public.”
The cool agent collected her cigarettes and led them toward the back, where the banquet rooms were open and unoccupied. She commandeered the smallest one, closing the door behind them and gesturing to the collection of empty tables.
Tess selected one in the middle of the room. J.T. sat next to her, while Marion took the seat across.
“Nice,” Marion commented, nudging her chin toward J.T.’s sling. “Making a fashion statement?”
“Beckett.”
Marion arched a brow, stubbed out the remains of her cigarette, and consulted her pack for a second. “Found him already? Then why do you need me?”
“He found us. Last night.” He recapped events briefly, Tess filling in portions. Marion smoked, nodded, and smoked some more.
When they were done, she split her disapproving gaze between the two of them. Law enforcement never looked kindly on civilians taking matters into their own hands, and Marion was no exception.
“Do you know what happens when you hook up a psychopath to electrodes and tell him he’s going to receive a shock?” Marion asked.
“Not really.” J.T.’s tone was laconic. Tess could tell that he already had all defenses up.
Sensing the same, Marion turned her attention toward Tess. She said, “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. His heartbeat does not accelerate, he will not sweat. There is absolutely no response, no fear of pain. That is the nature of the psychopath—impenetrable, cold, and immune to fear.”
She said the words quietly, but Tess already knew what Marion was driving at.
Marion stubbed out her cigarette. “I pulled Beckett’s files as you requested, J.T. I read them myself on the plane. I’m only going to tell you this once—you’re in over your head.”
“Thanks. Now tell me what’s in the file.”
Her gaze remained on Tess. “Jim Beckett is a pure psychopath. You survived him once, now you’ve survived him twice. Be grateful for that, Tess. And let the police handle it—let the FBI handle it—because you won’t be so lucky the next time. Beckett isn’t someone who’s made a lot of mistakes.”
“I don’t plan on asking him to dance,” J.T. said curtly. “And I’m too old for lectures. Trust me just once, Marion. I know what I’m doing.”
Her tight lips said she doubted that.
J.T. gave up with a disgusted shake of his head. “Fine, we’ll skip the foreplay. Tell me where he is.”
Marion lit a fresh cigarette. “Oh, dear me.” She drew out the words, matching his mood inch for inch. “I meant to bring the magical map to his hiding place, but I must have left it on the plane. Whatever will we do?”
“Smart ass.”
“I learned it from you.”
“And I’m so damn proud.” His gaze narrowed, pinning her in place. “His friends and associates. You said he escaped with the help of some prison groupie.”
“Dead.”
“Dead?”
“So he killed the prison groupie. Then he broke into the safe house?”
“No, then he kidnapped Sergeant Wilcox and tortured and killed the man. Two kids found the body early today in the woods. Beckett had covered everything but his hands with rocks. Of course, wildlife had taken its toll on the man’s hands.”
“He likes to mutilate people’s hands,” Tess whispered.
Marion looked at her curiously. “It’s true. Quantico isn’t sure why. Maybe because hands are so personal. Or maybe simply because it makes the process of identifying the body that much more difficult.”
“Have they found Difford’s body?” J.T. quizzed.
“No. But they found his car. Twenty miles from Difford’s house, so Beckett probably had another vehicle parked there for the exchange. The trunk of Difford’s car was soaked through with blood. We’re pretty sure he’s dead. We’re not so sure why Jim has kept the body.”
“Sam?” Tess asked. She couldn’t keep the plea from her voice.
Marion looked away. “Nothing. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“He told me we’d see Difford again.”
“What?” Both Marion and Tess stared at J.T.
“Back in the bedroom he said, ‘When you see Difford again, you can ask him about it.’”
“So you think Difford’s still alive?” Marion prodded.
J.T. shook his head. “Too risky, particularly with Samantha around. But Big Bad Jim doesn’t do things randomly. He kept the body for a reason. We just have to get better at anticipating him. After all, he does such a nice job of anticipating us.”
“The pattern,” Tess muttered. She felt frozen and numb. They sat in such an ordinary banquet room in an ordinary restaurant in an ordinary town. And they spoke casually of murder, torture, and the best way to use a corpse. This was why Jim played games. Because more than killing, he enjoyed tormenting. Somewhere right now she was
sure he was thinking about what he’d done to her life and enjoying every minute of it. She didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.
“Pattern?” J.T. quizzed.
“Was,” Marion supplied. “Jim Beckett was . . . ? Quincy has some theories. Jim Beckett was number one? Jim Beckett was here? Jim Beckett was the best? Whatever. What’s relevant is that Beckett forms his pattern based on where he leaves the bodies. Obviously that’s why he took Difford’s.”
J.T. frowned. “In other words, he’s running out of time.”
Marion looked at him with a puzzled expression. “How do you get from A to B?”
“Well, he’s been killing at each location, right? Now, however, he’s . . . recycling bodies, so to speak. Instead of leaving Difford in Springfield with the others, he took the body to a new city, gaining a new letter. Obviously he wants to finish his statement, but he realizes he doesn’t have unlimited time. Maybe since he took Sam he’s decided he has to wrap things up and get on with it. I thought he would hole up.”
Tess began rubbing her temples. She still couldn’t get the pictures out of her mind. Her four-year-old daughter being driven around in a car with Difford’s corpse in the trunk.
“Look, Marion, the man must have a hiding place or accomplice,” J.T. continued. “Surely you guys are looking into it.”
“Oh, no, J.T., we thought we’d just sit back and see how many cops he kills. Of course we’re looking into it! But you know as well as I do that the logical starting place for any investigation is friends and relatives. Beckett has none.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I read the reports, of course! His family is dead—”
“Did they check for death certificates?”
“They’re not stupid, J.T.! Yes, they checked.”
“Death certificates can be forged. How thorough was the check?”
For the first time Marion faltered. “What do you mean?”
“Did they actually call the doctors or hospitals that signed the certificates? Come on, it’s one of the most elementary ways to start a new life. Forge your own death certificate, then assume someone else’s birth certificate.”
“I . . . I don’t know. I’d have to ask.”
“Ask.”
“Well, yes, sir! Even then, J.T., it’s hard to believe a member of his family faked their own death so they could hide a killer. Far more likely is that he found a new friend. The man is good with women.” Marion’s glaze flicked to Tess.
Tess bowed her head with shame. Yes, she was the Bride of Frankenstein. She’d fed and clothed a killer. She’d even bore his child. Some nights she watched Samantha sleep so sweetly and she wondered if evil could be inherited. No one knew what caused a psychopath. Were they born? Were they made? Could they pass on that cruelty to their children?
J.T. took her hand. “If he was to find someone else, Tess,” he asked softly, “what should we look for?”
Tess shrugged. She felt weary again, but she forced herself to function. This was what it was all about. Not giving up. Not letting him win. “She’ll be blond, pretty, no older than early twenties. She won’t be a professional or college educated. She could be a waitress, a stewardess, the woman working at the dry cleaner’s. Maybe a police receptionist. He would like that.”
“It’s tough search criteria,” Marion murmured. “Not that some police officer wouldn’t love the assignment of cataloguing all the young, beautiful blondes in the area.”
J.T. shook his head, then rubbed the back of his neck with his one good hand. “In other words, we have no leads. How can a man kill sixteen people, kidnap a child from beneath the police’s nose, and leave no trail?”
“It’s his specialty. He’s studied it. He’s careful.”
“Discipline is the key,” Tess whispered. Her eyes squeezed shut. She felt so much horror, because she knew the truth. It didn’t matter that he had their daughter. It didn’t matter that he’d brutally savaged Difford. Jim still wasn’t done. “He’ll strike again. He always finishes what he starts. He’ll finish the pattern. He’ll come after me.”
She saw Difford, telling her everything would be all right. She saw Sam, asking her why she had to go away, why they couldn’t stay together.
She saw herself, standing at the altar, saying I do.
“Tess, are you all right?”
She turned her head slowly. She stared at J.T. She wondered if Beckett would kill him too.
“I . . . I need some fresh air.”
Marion and J.T. exchanged glances.
“Please. I’ll be back . . . in a minute.” She pushed herself away from the table.
“Tess—”
She shook her head, ignoring J.T.’s outstretched hand. She made it to the banquet room doors, pushed them open, and plunged herself toward the daylight. The sun streamed through stained glass trim of blue and red.
She saw the reflection on her hands as she leaned against the hallway wall. She thought it looked like blood.
“SHE DOESN’T LOOK like she’s doing so well.”
“She’s tough. She can handle it.” He wanted to sound firm, but he didn’t. Offering comfort wasn’t his strong suit. And watching Tess suffer tore at him in ways he didn’t want to be torn.
He glanced at Marion. She wasn’t as calm as she pretended either. Every time she raised her cigarette, he could see her hand tremble. After a moment she held out her pack of cigarettes to him. He accepted, lighting one quickly. They sat there and smoked.
“How are you doing?” he asked at last to cover the silence.
“Just dandy. I’m thinking of suing Roger for all he’s worth, and he’s worth a lot. Old money. What more can you ask for?”
“Physical harm,” J.T. suggested lightly. “I’ll help you burn down his place if you’d like. I know a thing or two about setting explosives.”
“Really? Hmm, blow him up. Why not? It could be fun.”
“You’re a trained professional, Marion. Think of how well you could stalk him. It would be an example for hundreds of women with traitorous husbands.”
The corners of her mouth lifted briefly. J.T. kept his hand on the cigarette so he wouldn’t do something so stupid as reach out and take her hand.
“I’m glad you came,” he offered abruptly.
“Why did you ask me to?” Her smile was gone. Now she was cool, but perhaps also a bit nervous.
“Because I needed the information and I knew you could get it.”
“No other reason?”
“No other reason. Why did you come?”
“Because I want to get Beckett.”
“No other reason?”
“No other reason.”
“We’re both bad liars, Marion.”
She turned away, but not before he caught the flash of vulnerability in her eyes. The tension in his body increased.
“Next time Beckett will kill you, J.T.” She motioned her head toward his arm. “Two-handed you couldn’t take him on. What are you going to do with one?”
“Fire the gun faster.”
“Don’t be stupid. Take Tess and get out of Massachusetts. Special Agent Quincy is one of the best. He’ll take care of things.” She paused for a moment. “I think I may try to volunteer my services. The FBI still balks at putting its female agents on violent crime cases, but my caseload is relatively light right now. I know they need more manpower. Perhaps something could be arranged.”
“You think you can take on Beckett?” He kept his tone indifferent.
“I’m a trained professional.”
“Yeah, Marion, and so am I. But you’ve been trained to follow rules. Where I’ve been, there were none. Beckett knows law enforcement. He can anticipate you guys, think like you guys. On the other hand, he’s never met the likes of me before.”
“Oh, yes, J.T. You’re just tough shit, and you have the arm to prove it.”
“Both Tess and I walked away alive. That’s more than anyone else can say lately.”
&n
bsp; Marion shook her head furiously. “You’re so damn arrogant. If you ever met God, the first thing you’d say is What are you doing in my chair?”
“And as long as She got up and handed it over, we’d do just fine.”
“Drop it, J.T. Get out. You’re good at running, why quit now?”
His face darkened. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because I have nothing better to do than piss you off, why do you think? Marion, I took the job, dammit. I’m trying to follow it through. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me to do? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” He leaned forward abruptly. “And I want Beckett. I want him dead.”
“So you’ll know you’re the biggest, baddest, toughest thing around?”
“No,” he said, angry enough to lash out with the truth. “So Tess can sleep at night. So she can have her daughter back. So two people can get on with their lives, because we sure as hell aren’t doing a great job of getting on with ours.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He hit the table with his fist. “Yes, you do, Marion. I know you do. I can see it in your eyes. And I know it’s the real reason you came, just like it’s the real reason I called you.”
Her face fired to life. It filled with a venomous rage that froze the breath in his lungs. He knew that kind of anger. He knew that kind of hate.
“He left everything to you, you son of a bitch!” Marion hissed. “He left everything to you.”
J.T. couldn’t think, couldn’t respond. He sat there and took it.
“You hated him. You walked away from him, tossed everything in his face, blackened the family name, and became a first-class loser . . . and he left the bulk of the estate to you! Emma gets a trust fund to keep her shopping until she finally cracks up completely. My child gets a trust fund. You get the rest. You bastard. You bastard, you bastard, you bastard!”
Her face was no longer icy, it was haggard and unbearably tortured. J.T.’s hand began to shake. It was out in the open now. And it hurt more than he’d thought.
“I don’t want the money. I won’t accept it. Take it all.”