Bishop's voice held all the calm Riley's lacked, and then some. "What we both know is that hundreds of people worked on the previous investigations over time, so we can't be sure information wasn't leaked-even if it didn't make the newspapers."
"He's dead, Bishop. I killed him."
"I believe you did."
Riley realized that with her free hand she was gently rubbing the burns on her neck and made herself stop. "One of us needs to take a look at what they've got. Be sure. I can-"
He didn't let her finish. "We haven't been invited, Riley. And since our previous investigation was officially closed and our killer officially taken off the books, what's happening in Charleston right now is being viewed as an entirely new case, most likely a copycat."
"A full-blown serial killer just popping up out of nowhere? If his ritual is established, then he's killed before."
"Yes. Which is why I've reached out to a cop friend of mine in Charleston. He's getting duplicate reports to me for an unofficial profile. I'll know soon enough if this is someone we've seen before."
"You mean we'll know soon enough if I missed." There was a bitter taste in her mouth, not unlike the blood in New Orleans.
"You didn't miss. You never miss. You fired your weapon and hit John Henry Price at least three times full in the chest, and he went down."
"They never found the body."
"That river never gave up its dead."
She drew a breath and let it out slowly. "Very convenient thing, wasn't it? That he just happened to fall into the river after I shot him. That he ran out onto that dock but past the tied-up boats, all the way to the end. What if he planned the whole thing, Bishop? He could have. We both know he was smart enough. What if he just wanted to stop for a while, get us off his back and off his trail, and he knew the only way was if we believed he was dead?"
"Riley-"
"You didn't get there until later; none of the telepaths or mediums were there to tell us for sure if he was gone. Just me. And all I could feel, all I could sense then, was terror, because he'd gotten so damn close. Because I knew he'd been the one to crawl into my head instead of the other way around."
"It happens sometimes when the predator we're tracking has some active or even latent ability."
"And you warned me. I know."
"It's been nearly two and a half years," Bishop said quietly.
"If he was alive, he would have been killing."
"He could have been more careful. Picked victims who wouldn't be missed. Hidden or destroyed the bodies when he was done with them. You said yourself at the time that going public the way he did, when he did, leaving the bodies to be found, was because he wanted a challenge, because it had gotten too easy for him. He wanted the world to watch him, to see how clever he was. Maybe the challenge now is to convince everybody else he's not the same killer we tracked for so long. Maybe that's why he's hunting tourists rather than locals."
"Maybe," Bishop said at last. "But we have some time; this killer is apparently on a monthly schedule, and his most recent victim was discovered only a few days ago."
"He's killed one victim a month?"
"For the past six months. The police caught on early because of the coin signature but managed to keep that bit out of the press until the most recent victim last week. Political decision."
"Didn't want to hurt tourism."
"Exactly. But word's out now, and they're getting plenty of heat for not warning their visitors. Not the best example of Southern hospitality on record."
"Hardly." Riley frowned. "If they're taking heat-"
"-then chances are good they'll call for help sooner rather than later. Yes. I'm counting on it. As to whether this killer really is someone we've seen before, I won't know anything until I see those reports. In the meantime, you have trouble enough where you are now."
He was right and she knew it. Riley tried to focus, to put that other killer out of her mind, but it was almost impossible. She had never felt more vulnerable in her life, and even the faintest possibility that John Henry Price was still alive and on the hunt less than fifty miles away had turned the queasiness in the pit of her stomach to churning fear.
Even on the other end of a cell-phone connection, Bishop didn't miss that.
"Riley, what else is going on? Has the situation there worsened?"
She didn't want to but knew she had no choice, so Riley made her report matter-of-factly. She told him about the murder and about the evidence that she herself had been attacked with possibly lethal intent.
And before he could say a word, she finished with, "Don't recall me, Bishop."
"Why the hell not?" His tone was grim. "Riley, I have absolutely no idea what a direct jolt of electricity could do to a psychic's brain, not under those conditions. But I can pretty much promise you there's not much chance of a reversal of whatever damage was inflicted."
"You mean I might never recover my memories. Never get my senses back to normal-any of them."
"That's exactly what I mean. It's more than a chance, Riley. It's a probability. Electrical energy affects us. It can strengthen our abilities, change them-or destroy them."
She drew a breath, then said, "That's all the more reason I should stay here. Look, I know it sounds irrational. But every instinct I have is telling me that if I leave, what's happened to me will be permanent. That I'll never get back the lost time-or the lost senses."
"Riley-"
"Bishop, please. It's more than just a case now. Somebody attacked me, maybe tried to kill me. And the same person most probably killed a man on the same night. Tortured and decapitated him. It might be his blood that was all over me, and I don't even know his name, not yet. I have to stay here. I have to work this investigation. Whatever answers I can find will be here, not studying inkblots for some doctor at Quantico."
He was silent for a moment, then said, "Tell me you aren't asking to stay just to be close to Charleston. In case."
"I can't," she admitted. "That's part of it. Because if it is Price, I'm the only one who got close once before. I'm the one you'd have to send if-when-they ask for our help."
"The last time nearly destroyed you, Riley. With all your senses and memories intact."
"I know. And I'm not looking for a repeat performance, believe me. I don't need a profiler to tell me he would be really pissed at anyone who'd taken him out of the game even temporarily. Pissed as in out for revenge and in a major way. That was his nature, right? Vengeful?"
"Among other things."
Riley didn't want to think about those other things. "So we both hope there's a copycat in Charleston. But whether I have to face a worse possibility or not, I'll be no good to myself or to the SCU if I can't fix whatever that bastard with the stun gun broke."
"Which is all the more reason to return to Quantico."
Riley hadn't wanted to but ended the argument with a simple fact neither of them could dispute, because both were cops.
"Memories or not, I did something on Sunday night that left me covered with blood. Maybe the blood of a murdered man. Until we know for sure, I can't leave."
Chapter 9
Leah Wells had wanted to be a cop since she was eight years old. Maybe even longer, but she remembered back to eight. She had turned her dollhouse into a jail, imprisoning three dolls, two teddy bears, and a ninja action figure borrowed from her brother when he hadn't been looking.
The ninja had committed the most heinous act; he had kidnapped Malibu Barbie and held her for ransom. The battle to capture him and free the hostage had been intense.
Leah's mother was somewhat bemused by all this, rightly fearing the childhood games heralded a less traditional life than the one that she, at least, hoped for. But Leah, instead of spending her college years joining a sorority and pursuing a degree in child psychology or some such, had studied criminal psychology and criminal investigation, interning with the state bureau of investigation.