was heavy with an earthy, musty scent. It made her want to gag. No, fresh air wasn't helping.
A professional killer. My God, she thought.
She exhaled and tried to clear her thoughts. Deal with what you know as fact, she told herself. Think it through.
Anne Trapp. Sara Collins. Those two women were throwing a wrench in her analysis. What was the common denominator?
"There has to be a connection," she said, and as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she shook her head. "No, I can't assume that."
He concentrated on the road. He had increased the speed once again because there weren't any other cars around, and he was betting the highway patrol was busy monitoring the more congested areas. He eased up on the gas pedal when the needle hit seventy.
"Road ends in five miles."
She grabbed the map. "How do you know?"
"I just read the sign."
"We're supposed to take the access road."
"I'm looking," he said.
She glanced at the watch for what had to be the hundredth time and saw that a full twenty minutes had passed. Then she measured the distance in her mind to the red X.
He glanced over at her. "Without good roads, it's going to be close. We might not make it, Avery."
"We'll make it," she insisted. "We have to make it."
"Ah, here we go," he said as he swerved off the road onto an access. Gravel spit up over the tires and hit the windshield as he flshtailed up the winding road. It was only wide enough for a single car, and the branches of the evergreens scraped the sides
of the SUV as it zoomed past.
"We're headed in the right direction, and that's all that matters," he said.
"If we're lucky, maybe farther up we'll hook into a better road."
"Or no road at all."
"How exactly do you know Monk?"
"I've never met him, if that's what you're asking. He's become a hobby of mine. He went after someone close to me."
"Someone hired him to kill this friend of yours?"
"No," he answered. "But she got in the way. It was my sister. He was hired to get some information she had, and he tried to kill her to get it. Fortunately, his plans got all screwed up, and he ended up going to ground."
"So you've been tracking him for some time."
"Yes," he answered. "The man I called from Cannon's office also has a vested interest in Monk."
"Who is he?"
"Clayborne," he answered. "Noah Clayborne. He's FBI," he added with a note of disdain.
"But he's a friend of yours?"
"I wouldn't call him that."
She tilted her head as she studied him. What was his problem? He turned her attention then when he said, "Like I said, Monk went underground for over a year. Couldn't find more than a hint of his work… until now."
"How did you know he was in Colorado?"
"He used a bogus credit card he'd used before in Bowen… that's where I live," he said. "Bowen, Louisiana."
"Then the FBI knows he's in Colorado too," she said.
"No, they don't."
"But if you tracked him with the credit card receipt, surely the FBI-"
"They don't know about the credit card receipt."
"You didn't notify them?"
"Hell, no."
There it was again, that surly edge of hostility.
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't want them to screw it up."
"The FBI does not screw up investigations. They're experts and extremely efficient in their-"
He cut her off. "Spare me the platitudes. I've heard all the propaganda before. I didn't buy it then, and I don't buy it now. The Bureau has become too glutted with bosses all trying to break the backs of the agents working under them so they can get to the top. There isn't any loyalty these days. It's just dog eat dog. They're… bureaucratic," he added with a shudder.
"You're cynical."
"Damn right."
She looked out the side window. "Thank you anyway."
"What are you thanking me for?"
"Coming with me. You could have refused."
"Just so you understand. I'm not doing this for you or your aunt. I want to get Monk before he kills anyone else."
"In other words, you have your own agenda, and you aren't doing me any favors. I understand," she said.
She didn't understand, though. How could anyone be that hardened? She found herself wondering if he ever went out of his
way to help anyone in trouble. Probably not. He was the type of man who drove past accidents and stepped over heart attack victims.
They rode in silence for several minutes, and then Avery said, "Tell me what you've learned about Monk. He must have a
pattern. They all do."
He thought it was odd she'd know about such things. "Actually he did have a pattern, but it's obviously changed."
"How has it changed?"
"Monk always kept a low profile. In and out as fast and as clean as possible."
"You sound like you admire him."
"No, I don't admire him," he said. "I'm just saying his pattern never varied much before. In the beginning, the murders he committed all took place within a two-week span every year. That didn't change for seven years. I have a theory about that."
"You think he holds down a full-time job somewhere? That he's living two separate lives."
"I think he used to," he corrected. "Murder obviously pays a hell of a lot more, so I'm guessing he probably quit his other job. Couldn't you just picture him sitting at his desk, diligently working. He would have been the nice guy. You know, the one who draws the chart for the football pools, and because he was so well liked, people would tell him their troubles. I'll bet you this, Avery. When he gets caught, the people he worked with will be shocked. They'll all say the same thing. Bob was such a sweet, charming man."
"So was TedBundy."
"Exactly my point."
"How do you know the early murders were his work? Did he leave a card or something so he'd get credit?"
"Sort of," he answered. "He likes roses. He leaves a long-stemmed red rose."
"That's eerie," she said. "So he used to be a nine-to-fiver, and killing people was his idea of a great vacation, but now he's strictly
a professional killer… any time of the year. What else is different about him these days? You seem to have studied his work closely."
He nodded. "He's never tried anything like this… taking three victims. He isn't a showman. And he's always acted alone before. Now it appears that he's hooked up with a woman. Maybe he's showboating to impress her."
They struck a bump in the road. Avery grabbed the dashboard again as the top of her head hit the roof.
"Are we still headed north?" It was impossible to tell. The trees hid the sky, and it was ominously dark in this stretch of forest.
"Northwest," he said.
She heard a scream in the distance. No, it was more like an animal's screech. The sound gave her chills.
"How does he get his contracts? Do you know?"
"No, but I'm guessing the Internet," he answered. "It's easy. It's anonymous, and up until now, he's been careful and discriminating in selecting his targets. He probably has enough work to keep busy for the next fifty years. You'd be surprised how many husbands want their wives dead and how many wives would pay through the nose to get rid of their husbands."
"My uncle Tony had nothing to do with this."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure," she answered emphatically.
He let it go for the moment. "You said there had to be a connection between the women…"
"I was analyzing what we know, trying to put it together. I made the assumption that one man or woman hired Monk to kill all three women, so that's why I was trying to think of something they all had in common. But my premise might not be valid."
"Meaning?"
"We have to allow for the possibility that three different people hired Monk, and that, for whatever reason, he decided to kill the victims all at the same time."