“Fear is an interesting thing,” he said, and her gaze ripped back to his face. He was smiling, his eyes cold and cruel. I’m going to die. “Many fears, like the fear of snakes, are somewhat instinctive. They represent a heightened awareness of danger. It’s when those fears take control of our actions that they become phobia. You, Rachel, have an extreme phobia. Given your personal history, an understandable one.”
She could feel his breath on her face. “I think your incarcerated ex-husband will get quite a chuckle out of hearing that you were incinerated. Poetic justice, wouldn’t you say?”
He produced an extra-long match from his pocket, waved it like a wand. No. New terror shivered down her spine and she clenched her eyes shut.
“I am remiss,” he said. His fingers forced her eye open and she felt wetness over her eye a split second before he pressed her eyelid back. Glued. She struggled when he tried to glue her other eye and he slapped her face with a snarl. “Don’t move.”
He stepped back, flicked the lighter, touched it to the long match. “And without further ado.” A line of fire spread in a ring. Around me. Anywhere she looked. Coming closer. It hurt. Burned. Stop. Make it stop. Make the pain stop. The howl in her throat was muffled by the tape, her ears filled with the crackling, hissing of the flames.
And then the man was there, winding twine around her throat and all she could see was his eyes, alive and laughing. He was laughing.
She could hear him laughing, far away. Then he was groaning. So far away…
He let out a long, ragged breath, torn between elation and fury. He hadn’t held it in, hadn’t been able to control it. He’d let go. And it had been… incredible. He shuddered, his muscles twitching in the aftermath. Incredible.
His eyes were inches from hers. Empty now, they’d been wide, terrified, staring up at him because he demanded it. The whores always stared up. Never down. Never again. He relaxed his grip and the twine around Rachel’s throat went limp in his hands. His mind was clearing, logic returning. Incredible, but insane. He stepped from the carefully constructed fire zone and grabbed the extinguisher, putting out the flames, which in another few moments would have leapt free of the ring of flame suppressant he’d placed around the accelerant. The fire was out. In more ways than one.
He glanced down at his trousers, annoyed. His clothing probably had contained his ejaculate, but he had to be sure. He could leave no DNA behind. He had bleach in the back of his car. That and the fire would suffice to hide the evidence of his loss of control. Nothing of his would remain.
Wednesday, February 24, 2:30 a.m.
Harvey woke abruptly when the phone rang. He fumbled for it blindly. “What?”
“Wake up, Pop,” Dell said. “Our boys are on the move.”
“Where are you?”
“Following Phelps, like you told me to. Just use the GPS unit like I showed you to find Webster.”
Something was wrong. There was a satisfied note in his son’s tone that he just didn’t trust. He swung his legs over the bed and grabbed his pants. After tonight, they’d switch. I’ll follow Phelps. Before Dell did something foolish that they’d both regret.
Wednesday, February 24, 2:45 a.m.
“This is it? You’re sure?” Noah stood on the sidewalk next to two uniformed officers.
The uniforms nodded. “Yes, Detective. The address Dispatch gave us for Rachel Ward is this mailbox store.”
Noah looked around, wearily. Jack was nowhere to be seen. He’d called him three times each on his cell and his home line, getting Jack’s voicemail each time. He thought of Jack’s state of mind when they’d parted at the coffee shop hours ago. He could see Jack going home and getting totally drunk.
Which is his business on his own time. But this wasn’t Jack’s time. And Rachel’s time could be running out. “Thanks.” He dialed Eve. “Say the address again.”
“Why? Is Rachel all right?”
“I don’t know. This is a mailbox store. Check again.” She read the address again. “It’s a match. She didn’t give her home address when she registered for your study.”
“What are we going to do?”
“What I should have done already-run her through the system. I’ll call you.” He got in his car and radioed in his request for addresses for Rachel Ward.
Unable to sit still, he called Jack again. Still no answer. Dispatch came back with four possible addresses for Rachel Ward, one of which was only a mile from Jack’s house. Dammit. Jack, where the fuck are you?
Noah needed backup. His finger was a hairsbreadth away from calling Abbott, but something held him back. Face it. You don’t want to turn in your own partner. Not yet. His mind ran through the possibilities, settling on Olivia. She was already up to speed, no onboarding required. They could split the addresses and find Rachel faster.
Olivia answered on the first ring of her cell. “Sutherland.”
“It’s Noah Webster. Where are you?”
“Cruising downtown, looking for a witness for a trial next week. Why?”
“I need your help.”
“Where’s Jack?”
“I… don’t know.”
“Oh.” The single syllable said it all. “Okay, tell me where. I’ll meet you.”
“No, we need to split up. I’ve got four addresses to check for a potential victim.” He gave her one of the addresses, then told her to be on the watch for an open bedroom window. If they found one, they’d be too late. If they found one, he’d need a partner.
“What about the others?” she asked.
“I’ll take one and have cruisers go to the other two. Thanks, Liv.”
Wednesday, February 24, 3:05 a.m.
He stepped back, surveying his handiwork. Five of six. Rachel Ward hanging by the neck had never looked better. Her feet were a little blistered, but the police would know a fire had occurred as soon as they entered her house. He wondered how quickly she’d be discovered. She’d be late to work tomorrow, obviously.
Sitting at her laptop, he went into her open Shadowland account and hung the wreath on her virtual door. He already knew he couldn’t paint her avatar’s face. Rachel hadn’t bought her Delilah from Pandora, so he’d have to be content with hanging the dancer from a virtual rope and setting the virtual scene. He could do it in a couple of clicks, as he’d done it so many times already. Then he took her computer, let himself out of Rachel’s house, locking her deadbolt behind him, and pocketed her key.
He’d driven to the edge of Rachel’s neighborhood when his heart nearly stopped. Pulling into the subdevelopment was a cop. Not just any cop. A homicide detective.
Olivia Sutherland. His heart started to pound in his ears. How had she known? Who told her to come here? Her car slowed as she passed and he held his breath. She had no legal reason to stop him. After the police had seen the car he’d used in Christy’s murder on the diner’s security video, he’d changed cars and plates. All part of the plan.
Sutherland resumed driving, and letting out the breath he’d held, he carefully pulled onto the nearly deserted two-lane highway, going east when he really needed to go west. West was toward the highway and home. But if any other cops were joining her, they’d come the same way she did and he didn’t want them finding him.
Who called Sutherland? he fumed. Who the hell had known about Rachel Ward? Now that he was breathing again, he had a pretty good idea.
Noah Webster had the study participant list, he knew. But there were five hundred names on that list. How had they guessed that Rachel Ward was next? He’d left no pattern, left no clues that would alert them to his next victim. Webster was smarter than the average cop, he allowed, but that still didn’t make him very smart. And Webster was no clairvoyant, that was for damn sure.