Andy had sent word of their clearance, so they were waved through and pulled into the driveway with barely a pause. But with enough of a pause, unfortunately, for one photographer to get a picture.
"Shit," John muttered.
Maggie, who had done her best to make certain her face wouldn't be visible, said, "You'll make the papers tomorrow. I wonder if Andy realized that seeing you here would pretty much confirm the reporters' suspicions about this woman being the latest victim."
"It won't be an official confirmation, so all they can do is speculate. That isn't what's bothering me."
"Then what?"
"Drummond." John sent her a wry look. "He wasn't happy I was granted access to the investigation, and I more or less promised to keep my involvement low-key."
"Ouch."
"Yeah." Without saying anything else about that, John parked the car and they got out.
It was a big Spanish-style house in an upper-middle-class neighborhood where virtually every house had its own unique style. Manicured lawn, exquisite landscaping. Maggie glanced around as they made their way through the tangle of police vehicles clogging the upper part of the driveway and murmured, "Wouldn't you think a stranger would be noticed in this neighborhood?"
"I'd think so, yeah. Unless he was dressed as some kind of maintenance or service person. Hiding in plain sight."
Maggie knew the cops had undoubtedly made a note of that possibility; neither Andy nor any of his people was stupid. But it nevertheless struck her as distinctly odd that a rapist who went to such lengths to hide his identity from his victims could allow himself to move openly in neighborhoods and shopping malls where he was almost certain to be noticed- even hiding in plain sight.
The cop at the door said they'd been okayed to go through the house, and since the forensics team was packing up now, they could come in whenever they wanted.
"Where's Mr. Mitchell?" Maggie asked.
"He's in the kitchen with a couple of detectives."
Maggie nodded and stepped past him into the foyer. Several equipment boxes standing open and closed on the polished wood floor of the area attested to the presence of the forensics team, and an occasional voice could be heard from upstairs. It appeared they had finished their work downstairs.
She was momentarily highly conscious of John standing just behind her but forced herself to concentrate on what she was here to do. It was difficult to prepare herself for the painful and disturbing invasion even after all these years, especially when she could hear the forensics team. One of the reasons she always tried to delay a walk-through of the scene until after everyone else had finished their work and gone was because the emotions of other people could affect what she was trying to do.
One of the reasons.
"There's no blood trail here." John's voice was matter-of-fact. "So where do you start?"
She glanced at him, wishing she didn't have to prove herself to him this way. But if he couldn't accept and believe this, how would he ever be able to accept and believe the rest? And no matter which way it went, he'd have to believe the rest.
Wouldn't he?
Making up her mind abruptly, Maggie abandoned the I'm-just-an-overly-sensitive-person mantra. "I'm a human divining rod for violence," she said, matching his tone. "If there was any here, I'll find where it happened."
He was completely expressionless. "I see."
"I doubt it." Maggie hugged her sketch pad like the security blanket it virtually was and walked into the living room on her left. She didn't look at the comfortable and expensive furnishings or pay any attention to the decorating scheme but just stood in the center of the room, closed her eyes for a moment, and reluctantly opened the inner door to that unnerving sixth sense.
As always, it was a peculiar feeling, at first a distant murmur accompanied by flashes of scenes, like a strobe projector flickering images in her mind's eye. Then she caught the whiff of wine, the acrid smell of wood smoke, cologne or aftershave. Heard voices raised suddenly in an argument, felt her hand sting as if she'd slapped someone. Then hands gripping her wrists and a mouth coming down hard on hers…
Maggie took a jerky step backward to physically break the connection and under her breath muttered, "Shit."
"What?" John was watching her intently, a tiny frown between his brows.
She glanced at the fireplace, where no fire burned today, then looked at the apparently very comfortable couch and sighed. "There's violence-and then there's violence. Dammit. I hate being a voyeur."
"Maggie, what are you talking about?"
"Nothing was done in this room against anyone's will, John. I just picked up on… Well, let's just say the Mitchells have an active and… energetic sex life." He glanced at the couch as she had done, then looked quickly back at her face. "Oh."
Maggie didn't try to read his face or his emotions or waste time wondering if he believed her; she was reasonably sure he didn't. Instead, she moved into the next room. She didn't stop now but walked slowly, looking around her but allowing that inner sense to be the one seeing. And hearing. And feeling.
She caught the flicker of another marital argument in the den that seemed to be about, of all things, a parrot, another scene of rather violent lovemaking in the sunroom, and knew someone had been cut-oddly enough by a broken mirror-in the breakfast room. In Thomas Mitchell's study, many business arguments had taken place, the most recent of which had been between Mitchell and his father-in-law.
Maggie reported each event calmly and without looking at John, speaking aloud as much to keep herself grounded as to supply him with information. She was holding on to her control with all her will, determined not to allow herself to be lost within the emotional turmoil of these people's lives.
It was getting more and more difficult to keep herself separate and apart from what she sensed, and that frightened her more than a little. Could she actually get lost in the violence of past events? And if she did… would she ever be able to find her way out again?
They bypassed the kitchen, where they could hear the murmur of voices, and moved on to the other ground-floor rooms. There was nothing of interest to report in a powder room or exercise room, a butler's pantry or laundry room.
Maggie was beginning to wonder if everybody had got it wrong and Samantha Mitchell had walked out of this house of her own free will, when they reached the game room. Maggie walked into the fairly dark room and was staggered by an overwhelming wave of absolute terror.
It was as brief as it was fierce, just cold terror and iron arms around her and the bitter bite of chloroform-and then darkness so intense it was as if she had fallen into an abyss.
"Maggie."
She came out of it abruptly, shaken. It was John's arms she felt around her then, holding her upright, and the terrifying darkness receded, leaving only the bone-deep cold behind. And the terrible certainty.
"He's got her," she whispered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In what had once been an ordinary conference room of a New Orleans police station, now transformed by bulletin boards and computers and stacks of files into the base of operations for a very unique task force, Special Agent Tony Harte refilled his coffee cup and then returned to brooding over the photographs pinned to the center bulletin board.
"I just don't see a pattern," he announced.
"Look again."
Tony sighed. "Boss, I've looked so often and so hard my eyes are starting to cross."
Special Agent Noah Bishop looked up from the laptop where he'd been working and said dryly, "Maybe you'll be able to see better that way."