“Yeah. Have them meet us at the scene. I’m on my way.”
“Right.”
He turned off the phone and literally dropped it on the bathroom rug, immediately turning on the water and washing his hands in the hottest water he could stand.
Again.
Jesus Christ, again.
The gnawing fear that had been with him for so long was less acute this time, and he understood why. Because this morning he knew something he hadn’t known all the other mornings.
This morning, he knew there was something new and unfamiliar going on in his brain, and it wasn’t homicidal madness.
It was psychic ability.
You could be calling me rude names in your head or worrying about some deep dark secret you don’t want anybody to know, and I wouldn’t necessarily read that either.
Deep, dark secret. That’s what it had been all this time, a secret fear buried so deep he had almost been able to forget about it during the bright, sane light of day. Almost.
He was no killer. He knew that. He had known that all along, even with the fear that something inside him might have been capable of such acts.
But if he was no killer, then why had he been waking up with blood on his hands for nearly three weeks?
Yesterday morning, he hadn’t had a clue. This morning…
Rafe thought he was beginning to understand what was going on-though he only had a hunch as to why. And he thought he understood why his shield was so strong that it not only enclosed Isabel but also blocked her.
Gripping the sides of the sink, he stared into the mirror at his unshaven face and haunted eyes. “I have to be able to control this,” he murmured.
Because he couldn’t keep blocking Isabel, not even to keep her from knowing his secret fears, his self-doubts and uncertainties, all the demons a man carried inside him if he lived long enough and saw too much. In shutting that away from her, he had both shut her out and imprisoned her.
Imprisoned her abilities, the extra senses that could be all that was standing between her and a killer.
Isabel stood just inside the area blocked off with yellow crime-scene tape, her hands on her hips, grimly studying the clearing.
“Jesus, I don’t know where to start,” T.J. said as she and Dustin arrived with their crime-scene kits.
“Follow procedure,” Isabel advised.
Eyeing the ME, who was examining the body, Dustin said, “Even Doc looks queasy. And he was a state medical examiner, until he got tired of the parade of bodies.”
T.J. murmured, “Bet he’s sorry he chose Hastings to finish out his professional life.”
“I’m having second thoughts myself,” Dustin told her.
“I know what you mean. Come on, let’s get to work.”
Hollis joined Isabel as the two technicians moved away, saying, “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. I lost my breakfast the first three times I was called to an early murder scene.”
“I’ll remember that. Next time. I thought I could handle something like this, especially after a couple of weeks of classes at the body farm. But, Christ…”
“Yeah, he made a real mess this time.” Isabel half turned as Mallory joined them. “I’m betting her car’s clean, though.”
Mallory nodded. “Looks like it. It’ll be towed back to the station so T.J. and Dustin can go over it thoroughly, but the only difference I noticed is that she didn’t leave her purse in it.”
Isabel said, “If the doctor confirms that she died around midnight, then she’d have had to leave her house just after the patrol was called away for that accident. Maybe she left in a hurry and didn’t even bring a purse.”
“Had to be to meet someone,” Hollis said. “You’re a twenty-something blonde in a town where twenty-something blondes are being killed, including your own sister, and you go out alone near midnight? She was either very stupid or really trusted whoever she went to meet. Or both, if you ask me.”
Isabel looked at Mallory. “When we were in her home, I didn’t get any sense of a steady boyfriend.”
“Far as I know, she didn’t have one. Dated, but never anybody serious.”
Hollis shook her head. “Who could she possibly trust enough to meet, around midnight, at the scene of her sister’s murder?”
“And why?” Isabel mused, frowning. “The only reason I can think of is that someone must have told her she could help by coming out here so late. That there was something out here she needed to see, and after dark. If that’s true, I can’t see any possible answer as to who called her out here except-”
“-a cop,” Mallory said. “Has to be.”
Hollis looked around at the police technicians and the dozen or so uniformed officers searching the area surrounding the crime scene and in various positions between this clearing and the rest stop at the highway, which had also been roped off, and sighed. “Great. That’s just great.”
“We still can’t rule out some other authority figure,” Isabel reminded them. “For that matter, we can’t rule out a member of the media. Who’s to say some reporter didn’t offer Emily a nice big chunk of cash to meet out here where her sister was killed? And being here well after dark was the only real guarantee a passing patrol wouldn’t see them, since we’ve had all these areas under watch. Her car was well off the road and behind that thicket, so either the killer moved it there afterward or told Emily to park there to avoid being seen by a passing patrol.”
“But a reporter? For a story?” Hollis said. “That’s sick. Would Emily have gone for something like that?”
“To step out of Jamie’s shadow? I’m thinking yes.”
“That might explain this,” Mallory said, “but what about the other victims? Could a reporter have lured them out of their cars and into the woods?”
Hollis said, “You know, maybe we’re making a giant assumption that he does it the same way every time. He could be gearing his approach to each woman individually. Isabel, you and Bishop both believe he has to get to know his victims. Maybe this is why. To find the right bait for each catch.”
Isabel looked at her for a moment, then said, “If you ever feel useless in an investigation, remember this moment. Damn. Why didn’t I see that?”
Hollis was pleased, but nevertheless said, “You’ve had a lot on your plate.”
“Still.” Isabel took a step toward the body, then stopped and turned back. The other two women also turned to watch as Rafe approached them from the highway. He looked grim, and on a face as rugged as his, grim was an expression to make even the bravest soul take a step back.
Isabel met him halfway.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I got held up at the station.”
“What else has happened?” she demanded, reaching out without thinking to touch his hand.
His fingers immediately twined with hers. “The accident that pulled the patrol away from the Brower house,” he said. “There were two fatalities.”
“I’d heard that much.” She waited, knowing there was more.
“Hank McBrayer was one of them,” Rafe said flatly. “He was driving too fast, drunk, and apparently crossed over the center line. Hit the oncoming car head-on. The other victim was a sixty-five-year-old grandmother.”
“Jesus,” Isabel said. “Poor Ginny. This is going to eat her alive.”
“I know. I’ve got the department counselor with her and her mother now.” He glanced past her at the taped-off crime-scene area.
“He was incredibly vicious this time,” Isabel warned. “He cut her throat, probably first, and with enough force to nearly sever her head. And then he started to enjoy himself.”
Without releasing her hand, Rafe continued toward the crime scene. “Has the doc offered his preliminary report yet?”