26
On Tuesday morning, Catherine had second thoughts about meeting with the criminal profiler, even though she had called Jamarcus on Monday and told him she would. Officially, this was still a kidnapping investigation, though the entire public now assumed the infants had already been murdered. On Monday, police had released the content of both notes, stunning the public just like the notes had stunned Catherine, who now felt like she had met Hannibal Lecter face-to-face in her prison cell.
At 8:30 on Tuesday, two hours prior to the scheduled meeting, she decided to bite the bullet and call Marc Boland. She hated the thought of forking over an additional three hundred an hour just to get some advice on whether she should call off the meeting, but she was growing increasingly uncomfortable. This was her life. And this meeting could now be part of a serial murder investigation.
Unfortunately, Bo was on his way to a court appearance, but his assistant promised to reach him on his cell phone. He didn't return the call until 10:15, and Catherine was already on her way down General Booth Boulevard, heading to the commonwealth attorney's office.
She told Bo everything about the two visions in the cell and her meeting with the chief of police, Gates, and Jamarcus Webb on Sunday.
"They wanted you to take a lie detector test?" Bo asked incredulously.
"Yes."
She heard Bo grunt his disapproval. "And they asked about alibis?"
"Yes."
"And now they want you to spend an hour or two with their criminal profile expert to allegedly tap into your psychic ability to channel this criminal?"
"Well, they didn't phrase it that way. They wanted me to describe these visions to this profiler and see if it might help him."
"And you bought this?" Bo asked. "You really think they're after your expertise?"
The question made Catherine feel stupid, as well as a little defensive. "Bo, I saw two visions, including handwriting on a wall that tracked almost word for word the notes this Avenger of Blood sent to his victims."
"My point exactly," Bo responded. "Which means they believe one of two things: either your confidential source told you what those notes said or you are somehow involved in the kidnappings."
"That's ridiculous," Catherine said. And doubly ridiculous that I'm paying you three hundred bucks an hour to suggest it.
"Why didn't you call me before you met with them the first time, Catherine? If you pull out now, it'll look like you're trying to hide something."
Catherine hesitated but then decided she was tired of lying just so she wouldn't hurt people's feelings. "I couldn't afford to call you, Bo. I'm a reporter. I don't know how I'm going to pay you for what you've already done."
"This one's on me," Bo said, his voice going soft.
"Bo…" Catherine appreciated the gesture but hated being a charity case.
"I just want to make sure you don't get caught in the middle of this," Bo said. "There's a ton of pressure on the cops right now to make an arrest. If they can't get their man, they'll be looking for a good scapegoat. Let's not give them a reason to make it you."
This entire conversation frightened Catherine. Until now, she had been assuming the best, hoping this would all go away. Maybe she could even help them find the kidnapper. At worst, she might send them on a wild-goose chase. But now she was a suspect?
"Should I call off the meeting?" Catherine asked.
"No," Bo counseled. "You should let me call off the meeting. I'll tell them you wanted to help but I wouldn't let you. If they need to know specific facts, they can communicate through me. That's what lawyers are for-we like being the bad guys."
"Thanks." Catherine felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "But you're not going to do this for free."
"We'll talk about that later," said Bo. And before Catherine could protest, he was off the line.
Ten minutes later he called back. "You're off the hook," he said. "I didn't make any friends, but it's the right call."
Catherine felt like she could breathe again. "Thanks," she managed.
"No problem. But this isn't going away. We need to meet in my office."
The urgency in his voice worried Catherine. "What's up?"
"This is a ploy to get you to rat out your source," Bo said. "They build a flimsy case against you as a suspect, then force you to divulge your source so you can explain how you came across this information."
"But I told you; I didn't get this information from my source."
"All the more reason we need to talk. And not on a cell phone."
27
Paul Donaldson found the envelope in his mailbox. It contained no postmark but was addressed to him and marked "personal." When he opened it, he found a cryptic note composed of words cut out from various magazines. "Your lover is having an affair. If you want to know more, meet me in the back corner of the Hooters parking lot on West Broad Street at 11 p.m. Bring five hundred dollars and no weapons. Learn the name of the mystery man! Come alone."
The envelope also contained two pictures. The photos were dark and grainy, but Donaldson could tell that the woman was Rachel and that she was draped all over another man. Both pictures were taken from behind the man, so the back of the skinny runt's head was all Donaldson could see.
He studied the pictures carefully to see if this could possibly be airbrushed or whatever it was they did to doctor pictures these days. He analyzed the details for a few minutes, trying to figure out what bar the pictures had been taken in.
He fumed at the thought of Rachel's unfaithfulness, his rage so full that his hand literally began to shake. After everything he had done for her-how could she betray him? humiliate him in public like this? He had been faithful. He had bought her things. Kept her in clothes. Fed her drug habits. He had sacrificed so much to keep her happy.
Now this?
How could he have let himself fall for a woman this deceptive? As he stood there considering the treachery, his humiliation and anger turned into a blinding rage. He conjured up thoughts of spectacular revenge. He would cut off this man's head, then leave it on Rachel's side of the bed, Godfather-style. He would kill them both together so they could burn in hell with each other forever. He wanted to make an example of her, to somehow make her hurt even more than she had hurt him.
But he was just dreaming. None of that was really possible. He had beaten the system once. This time he would have to be careful, more subtle. He would find out the identity of Rachel's lover and kill the man. In an out-of-the-way place, he would show Rachel the man's dead corpse and watch her reaction. And after she begged him to forgive her, Donaldson would kill Rachel too.
He would dispose of the bodies far away from Richmond, Virginia. And he would be careful to leave no evidence.
First he needed the lover's name. Next he would have to kill the person who took these photos. He couldn't risk the possibility that this photographer would have a fit of conscience after finding out that Rachel and her lover had disappeared. The photographer might go to the police.
Donaldson walked from his mailbox to his car and slid the envelope under the driver's seat. Before he left, he would sheath his knife in his favorite pair of boots and tuck a gun in his waistband. He would down a few brews-not enough to slow him down, just enough to lower his inhibitions a notch or two. He would show up at Hooters a few minutes after eleven, nine hours from now.
He hadn't asked for this fight, but he wasn't going to run from it. Nobody made a fool of Paul Donaldson and lived to tell about it.
Marc Boland was all business, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, when Catherine showed up at his office that afternoon. He offered Catherine a glass of water with ice and poured himself one as well, then sat across from her at a round table in the corner of his office. As they talked, he took notes on a yellow legal pad and gently asked probing questions in his soft Southern drawl.