Praise for GAYLE WILSON

“Gayle Wilson will go far in romantic suspense. Her books have that special ‘edge’ that lifts them out of the ordinary. They’re always tautly written, a treasure trove of action, suspense and richly drawn characters.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

“An exhilarating continual action thriller that never slows down.”

—TheBestReviews.com on Double Blind

“Wilson gives her readers just what they want: more thrilling adventure and heart-wrenching suspense…. Inspiring. Wilson is destined to become one of the suspense genre’s brightest stars.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub, 4 ½ stars, on Wednesday’s Child

“Gayle Wilson pulls out all the stops to give her readers a thrilling chilling read that will give you goose bumps in the night.”

—ReadertoReader.com on In Plain Sight

“Writing like this is a rare treat.”

—Gothic Journal

“Rich historical detail, intriguing mystery, romance that touches the heart and lingers in the mind. These are elements that keep me waiting impatiently for Gayle Wilson’s next book.”

—USA TODAY bestselling author BJ James

Also by GAYLE WILSON

DOUBLE BLIND

WEDNESDAY’S CHILD

IN PLAIN SIGHT

BOGEYMAN

The Inquisitor

Gayle Wilson

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Dianne, Mary, Charlotte, Joy, Katsy, Becki and my mom for sticking with me throughout this incredible journey and for reading them all.

I love you!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Prologue

She had been a gift. Something that had fallen into his lap without any effort on his part. Surprisingly, she’d proven to be more satisfying than most of the others, all of whom had been carefully selected after weeks of study.

It hadn’t been time to begin thinking about the next one. By now he was conscious of the smallest sign of that, even those he had once thought bore no relationship to his needs.

A sense of anxiety that increased day by day until it became an urgency he could no longer ignore. The sensation that something wasn’t right in the pleasant world he inhabited. Those were inevitably followed by an indefinable feeling that things were slipping out of control. Then finally came the rage that still shocked him with its intensity.

None of that had occurred. Not this time.

Yet when he’d seen her standing on the street corner in the rain, strands of dark hair plastered against those alabaster cheeks, the compulsion to take her and make her his had been overwhelming. Irresistible.

This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be done. Not his normal attention to detail. But in this instance, he had no regrets that he had given in. His impulsive decision seemed to have worked out. And apparently no one was even looking for her.

Which meant there was no need to hurry, he thought with a degree of anticipation beyond any he could remember. He literally had all the time in the world.

Time for him. And for her.

A gift, he thought again, brushing a stray tendril of hair off her cheek.

When it was dry, her hair had demonstrated an unexpected tendency to curl. Something he would never have guessed from the way it had appeared that afternoon.

He smiled at the memory. She had looked like a bedraggled puppy, lost in the storm. Her face had lit up when he’d stopped the car, opened the passenger-side window, and leaned across the seat.

Do you need any help?

There had been no hesitation on her part. No fear. She had immediately stuck her head and shoulders inside the vehicle in response.

Only directions.

By then, despite what his intellect screamed at him, it had been far too late to provide those and drive away. He’d seen her smile. He’d seen those big, brown eyes and under them the mascara she’d applied to her lower lashes smudged from the rain.

He’d taken care of that imperfection, of course. As soon as he’d gotten her to a safe place, he had painstakingly cleaned off her makeup, leaving her skin smooth and bare as a baby’s.

Innocent.

Except she wasn’t. None of them were. No matter what they said, none of them were free from the stain. None were pure. Especially not the ones who pretended to be once they understood.

She hadn’t pretended. She’d been defiant. Angry. Profane.

He had found he liked her that way. It had broken the monotony of fear and pleading.

In contrast to the others she’d been…Sassy, as his grandmother would have said.

Sassy. He liked the word, too, now that he’d remembered it. He tasted the syllables in his mouth as he whispered them against her ear.

The perfect word. Perfect for her. And she, in turn, was perfect for him. His lovely, defiant unexpected gift.

“Time to wake up.”

Although he hated it, he had to keep her drugged on the chance that she might, by some miracle, free herself and get away. That had never happened before—and it never would. Not as careful as he was.

That was his nightmare, however. That one of them might escape and tell everyone about the things he’d done.

Those were only for the two of them. For them to share. As they would share this.

Her lashes fluttered, telling him she was almost awake. He had timed it to the minute. All he had to do was to wait while the drug wore off. And when it had…

Although he had not been conscious of his needs when he’d taken her, he knew them now. They surged through his body with an inexorable force, driving the ebb and flow of his emotions.

He touched her face, again relishing its smoothness. Devoid of the foundation she’d been wearing, her skin was that of a child. Even to the faint sweep of color that now overlay those perfect cheekbones. Another sign, if he had needed one, that she was conscious.

“I know you’re awake,” he said, bending close again to whisper the words into her ear.

Her hair moved against his lips, its softness stirred by his breath. Without raising his head, he turned, so that her face was in profile, as he watched the slow, sleepy lift of her lashes.

With the drug, she would be confused. They always were, no matter how many times he’d come to them.

He had watched the sequence of that confusion perhaps a hundred times and never tired of it. First, she would try to think where she was. To separate dream from reality. Nightmare from truth.

Then, in one fell swoop, it would happen. She would remember. She would remember everything.

And she would know.

The knowledge would suddenly be there in those wide, dark eyes. If he weren’t careful, he would miss it.

He straightened to smile down on her. Her eyes, slightly glazed, appeared to be focused on the ceiling above her head. She had probably memorized its every crack and imperfection. They, too, would help clear her disorientation. And in a few seconds—

She turned, her head rolling on the hard mattress until she was at last looking at him. Although he was smiling, it didn’t reassure her. But of course, they were too far along for her to have any delusions left.

Not his sweet, sassy drowning puppy.

She knew. She knew exactly what he was. And she knew what was going to happen to her. It was all there in the beautiful dark orbs locked on his face.

Her eyes widened, even as they stared up into his. They were no longer defiant, however. He had seen to that.

The only thing in them now were the questions neither of them yet had answers for.

When will this be over?

When will you let me go?

When, dear God, will you finally let me die?

One

“One more question, Dr. Kincaid. If you don’t mind.”

The damp December air had seeped through the multiple layers of clothing Jenna had donned in preparation for this interview. The station had insisted the clip be filmed in front of the mall, so that its steady stream of Christmas shoppers would be visible behind them. Although Jenna acknowledged it was an appropriate backdrop for a segment on holiday depression, that didn’t mean she was enjoying the setting.

As the largest mental health practice in the greater Birmingham area, Carlisle, Levitt and Connor was called on throughout the year to furnish speakers for a variety of informational workshops as well as for interviews on local news programs and talk shows. Those requests were unusually heavy this time of year, so the psychologists and psychiatrists on staff rotated the responsibility. Tonight had been her turn to be the public face of the practice.

Normally Jenna didn’t mind her thirty seconds in the spotlight. The visibility brought in new clients, which was beneficial to everyone. Sometimes they asked for an appointment with whichever of the group they’d seen on television or heard on the radio. And at this particular time of the year, it was never a bad thing to have increased billing.

“Of course,” she said, smiling at the young man who looked all of eighteen. She suspected he might be one of the station’s interns. Either that or the passage of another year had made her more aware of her own age in comparison.

At thirty-four she’d accomplished most of the goals she’d set for herself. At least, she amended, the professional ones.

There was plenty of time for the rest. Something she’d been telling herself for the last five years.

“This afternoon the police department conceded that the murders of Sandra Reynolds, Margaret DeSpain and Callie Morgan were the work of one killer,” the reporter said. “What can you tell us about the person who might have perpetrated those crimes?”

Jenna hadn’t yet heard that the police had issued that statement. Of course, she’d been seeing patients up until she’d left the office. Even if she had known, she wouldn’t have been prepared to comment publicly on those murders. This was outside the scope of the subject matter she’d agreed to, as well as outside any area of expertise she might claim.

She allowed the smile she’d been holding for the camera to fade, considering the topic that had just been introduced. She took a breath as she tried to decide the best way to handle the kid’s question before settling on simply telling the truth.

“I’m really not in any position to answer that. Not only have the details of those crimes not been made public, I’m not a profiler. Forensic psychology is a very specialized field, one I have little training for.”

The reporter’s mouth had tightened as she talked. A dull flush climbed up his neck and into his cheeks. It was obvious he felt her answer was either deliberately nonresponsive or, worse, a slam at his interviewing skills.

“I realize that,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t speaking in the particular. Just tell our viewers in general what makes a psychopath like this tick.”

From his standpoint, the amended question was a good recovery. From hers, it left her as much under the gun as the previous one.

Other than the courses in abnormal psychology she’d taught as a grad assistant, Jenna hadn’t had much occasion to think in depth about the kind of sociopath who enjoyed torturing and then killing women. And it was evident from the few details that had been released about the condition of the three bodies that this one found great pleasure in the suffering of his victims.

“From what I’ve read,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “this killer doesn’t appear to be psychotic. He’s apparently very well organized, selecting his victims with care and carrying out the murders while leaving behind little forensic evidence that might help the police.”

“He’s killed three people, and you’re saying he isn’t crazy?” The reporter’s tone was mocking, allowing his skepticism of that full rein.

“He’s clearly a sociopath, but…” Jenna hesitated, thinking how difficult it was to use appropriate terminology when the public had such clear, if erroneous, notions of what words like crazy, insane and psychotic meant. “The killer’s obviously incapable of feeling compassion for his victims, no matter how much they suffer, but if you met him in a social or professional environment, you might not notice anything out of the ordinary. Other than possibly thinking how charming he is.”

“Which would help him in getting his victims to trust him.”

“Unfortunately. Although he’s clearly manipulative, he may also be very personable and articulate.”

“So what creates someone like our charming sociopath?”

“No one really knows. The current thinking is that biological factors may play a role, some genetic predisposition if you will. There’s no doubt, however, that the majority of these people were also the victims of childhood abuse—either physical or emotional or a combination of the two. Some case studies done on serial killers reveal that mistreatment was both prolonged and severe. It isn’t hard to understand how a child subjected to isolation, a lack of affection, physical and mental domination, or actual physical abuse might become an adult who lacks the ability to feel normal empathy for his fellow human beings.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that every abused child grows up to be a Ted Bundy.”

“Actually, a very small percentage do. However, it is a common background for those we’ve had the opportunity to study in depth. Unfortunately, we can never know which children will emerge from those situations to become sociopaths. Or more importantly, which of those sociopaths will go on to kill.”

“Because they’ve been trained in inflicting pain early on?”

“Pain. Domination. They desperately need to be in charge, possibly because as children they had so little control over what was happening to them.”

“You sound as if you have some sympathy for them, Dr. Kincaid.”

“I have sympathy for any child who’s abused. They’re helpless to prevent what’s being done to them, often by the very people who should be their protectors.”

“I meant that you seem to feel sympathy for the sociopaths they eventually become.”

As a psychologist who had read study after study detailing the horrors of the abuses she’d just spoken about, Jenna supposed that was true. Certainly in the abstract. In light of what had been made public about what had been done to the murdered women…

“Not all sociopaths kill,” she said again. “When they do, they must, of course, be subject to the laws that govern the rest of us. Once they’ve killed, it’s unlikely they’ll stop on their own. Before that can happen, they have to be apprehended. I hope the police find something to help them very soon, some piece of evidence that will lead them back to the murderer. Or that someone who knows something about those crimes will come forward with the information.”

“So…you’re saying he’s definitely going to kill again.”

And Merry Christmas to all, Jenna thought, realizing the trap she’d fallen into.

Still, there was very little that could be said in response to that question except the brutal reality. Despite the fact that hearing it was likely to inflame fears that had been rampant in the community even before today’s announcement, she really had no choice.

This was something else the killer would feed off of. Not only would the murders themselves give him a sense of power, so would the media attention they’d attracted, such as this interview, and the terror it would create.

She should have cut this kid off without answering his original question. Since she hadn’t, she could in good conscience now do nothing less than tell the truth.

“If he’s not caught. It may not be here. Not if the police get too close to discovering who he is, but…even if they do, he won’t stop killing. Not until he’s finally been taken into custody.”

“Or until he’s dead.”

Sean Murphy had already put his finger over the off button on the remote, when something made him hesitate. The reporter was busy closing out the segment, probably reiterating what the female psychologist had said. Nothing of what he was babbling about registered.

Sean was focused instead on the woman standing beside the interviewer, her hand clutching the collar of her coat as if trying to keep out the cold. It was clearly a defensive gesture.

An unconscious one? Or was it possible she was aware of how closely she matched the profile of the killer’s victims?

That was unlikely, he decided, since the local cops hadn’t yet publicly connected the latest three to the others. Maybe he should warn Dr. Jenna Kincaid that she met almost every one of the criteria the task force had put together over the course of the past four years of their investigation.

Late twenties or early thirties, Sean assessed. Tall and slender, with dark hair and eyes. Even her clothing, professional rather than provocative, followed the pattern the bastard had established with his first murder, which they now believed had been more than seven years ago.

His gaze having followed the line of the long navy coat down to the low-heeled boots she wore, Sean raised his eyes once more to the psychologist’s face. Her features were striking but not classically beautiful.

She wouldn’t draw every masculine eye, he acknowledged, but she’d find her share of admirers. The bone structure underlying that clear olive skin was too anatomically perfect not to attract attention. The discriminating would recognize it would be just that perfect when she was eighty.

And you’ve always considered yourself discriminating.

The image he’d been studying was suddenly replaced by an advertisement for a local car dealer. Sean punched the button, shutting off the television, before tossing the remote down on the bed.

He walked across his motel room toward its wall of glass, where he pushed aside the draperies to look out onto the interstate that paralleled the wide right-of-way just across the parking lot. The scene he encountered was depressingly winter-dreary, although the climate was generally mild.

The weather would make the killer’s hunting easier. More people outdoors than in the northern cities. Not that the bastard ever seemed to have a problem finding victims.

Maybe what Dr. Kincaid said was right. Maybe he was so charming the women made it easy for him.

He would have had to be something special to charm Makaela. His sister had been nobody’s fool. And unfortunately she’d had a lot of experience with phonies.

Apparently not enough to see through whatever ploy her murderer had used to persuade her to go with him.

Sean put his palm against the glass, using its coldness to fight the fury that flooded his brain whenever he thought of the things that had been done to his sister. They could still bring him wide awake, sweat pouring off his body, as he struggled against the nightmare images of what she’d suffered.

The press in Detroit were the ones who’d christened her murderer “the Inquisitor,” a name horrifyingly appropriate. Too soon the people in this town would learn what the others had about the maniac in their midst.

Unless the bodies were too decomposed to make them obvious, as the first two here had been, most law enforcement agencies now recognized those signature mutilations. The special agent on the FBI’s task force, the one who’d put Sean onto the Birmingham murders, had recognized them as soon as he’d read the description of the last victim.

Now that the locals had connected the three, they would be forced to take the next step and admit that these killings were part of a series, which, through the efforts of the Bureau, had been linked and credited to one man.

An unimaginably cruel and sadistic madman.

The cops here would add whatever information they had managed to uncover to the profile that was slowly, but relentlessly, being built. And when it was complete…

Sean’s hand closed into a fist that he slammed into the glass. The window shuddered in its frame, although the blow had not been particularly hard. It hadn’t been done in anger. It had been measured. Like a gavel pounded against a judge’s bench. Or a hammer driving a nail.

The last one in your coffin, you bastard. And as God is my witness, I’ll be the one who’ll put it there.

Long after the television screen had gone dark, he couldn’t get the psychologist out of his mind. After a while, he stopped trying, allowing her image to fill his head.

She’d been so perfect he had wondered—briefly—if the cops had put her up to that interview. After mentally reviewing the clip, something he was able to do with almost complete fidelity, as if he were watching a replay, he decided that what he’d seen hadn’t been a performance.

Her slight hesitancy and the care with which she’d worded her opinions made him believe she had really been speaking off the cuff. The expression on her face, although quickly controlled, had made it obvious that the reporter’s question about the murders had caught her off guard.

That’s what you get for trusting the media, my dear.

He smiled as he raised the wine he’d bought on his way home in a semitoast before he brought the glass to his lips. He grimaced slightly at the taste before setting it back on the coffee table.

He had thought the merlot would make the evening more enjoyable, easing his disappointment about how quickly the locals had tied these three victims together. Now that they had, he knew it would be only a matter of hours before they made the connection to the others.

His intent was always to break the pattern so that wouldn’t happen. But if he were able to succeed in that, then what would be the point of the entire exercise? Old habits die hard, he admitted with a smile.

As some of them had, fighting the sweet release of death until the very end.

At that thought, somewhere deep inside his body was a wave of sexual pleasure, so sharp, so pure, it literally stole his breath. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to relish both the feeling and the memories that had provoked it.

Instead of the faces of the women whose suffering at his hands had induced that remembrance, the image of Jenna Kincaid clutching her coat against the cruel invasion of the cold as she wept for the child he had been again formed behind his lids.

They’re helpless to prevent what is being done to them, often by the very people who should be their protectors.

It was rare that someone was able to articulate so clearly, so precisely, the nature of the injustice he’d suffered. That she had done so without knowing anything about him.

She was obviously someone of value. Someone he should get to know. Someone he should allow to know him.

Not like the others, of course. She was above all that. Just as he would be when he was with her.

She, unlike the rest, understood what drove him. Interacting with someone who could comprehend that on an intellectual level was a luxury he hadn’t allowed himself in a very long time.

Simply another kind of indulgence, perhaps, but one whose time had definitely come.

Two

The sound of her door being flung open brought Jenna’s eyes up. The secretary she shared with three other therapists was aware that she used the last ten minutes of the hour to make notes on the session that had just ended. Why she would interrupt—

Except it wasn’t Sheila. Not just Sheila, she amended. Her secretary was looking at her over the broad shoulders of the man who seemed to fill the opening.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Kincaid,” she said. “I tried to tell him—”

“We need to talk.”

The intruder offered no apology for the interruption. The curt sentence had been more of a command than a request. Whatever his problem—and Jenna wasn’t using that terminology in the sense of something that needed treatment—she didn’t have the time or the inclination to deal with it today.

“I’m sorry. You’ll need to make an appointment—”

“How much?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“How much is it going to cost to talk to you? What I have to say won’t take an hour, but I’m willing to pay for one if that’s what it will take to get you to listen.”

As if to prove his point, he took his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. Behind him, Sheila pantomimed dialing and then bringing a phone to her ear, brows raised in inquiry.

Jenna shook her head, the movement slight enough that she hoped it wouldn’t be noticed by the man now in the process of opening his billfold. She was unwilling to call the police until she knew more about what was going on.

The guy didn’t look deranged. Actually…

Actually he looked pretty normal, if you thought normal was six-foot-something of solid muscle enclosed in black chamois and denim. He was carrying nothing in his hands, and the worn jeans hugged his narrow hips too tightly to conceal a weapon. He was also clean-shaven, although there was a hint of a five o’clock shadow on the lean cheeks.

The black hair was so closely cropped it couldn’t possibly become disarranged, which might have given her some indication of his mental state. The fact that it had so recently been trimmed seemed a point in his favor. People who had really “lost it” weren’t usually concerned with personal grooming.

His eyes, however, were the most compelling argument that there was nothing seriously out of whack in his psyche. They were a clear, piercing blue, the color startling against his tanned skin and ebony hair.

And right now they were focused on her face as he calmly waited for her answer, wallet open, long, dark fingers poised to pluck from it whatever amount she named. Still evaluating him, as she would any patient, Jenna noticed that his nails were neatly trimmed, the hands themselves completely masculine, fingers square despite their length.

“Hundred and fifty?” he asked. “That do it?”

She blinked, breaking the spell he had cast. “I’m sorry. I’m completely booked this afternoon, as I’m sure my secretary told you. If this is an emergency, I can try to work you in early tomorrow—”

“Lady, I’m here in an attempt to save your life. And I’m even willing to pay for the opportunity. All you have to do is tell me how much.”

He strode across the room, stopping when he reached her desk. Her gaze had followed him, her chin automatically lifting as he approached, until she was looking up into those ice-blue eyes.

Above the right, a dark brow arched. “One seventy-five? Two hundred? Obviously I’m not up on the going rate for…therapy.”

Jenna’s lips were still parted from her uncompleted sentence. Despite the obvious sarcasm, she closed them, glancing back at Sheila with a slight shake of her head to indicate she was willing to see him.

The secretary’s mouth opened, probably to protest the decision, but then she snapped it shut. She reached for the knob of the door, pulling it closed behind her as she returned to her office.

Jenna wasn’t sure Sheila still wouldn’t place that call to the police, despite the fact it had been vetoed. She also wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be relieved if she did.

She looked back at the man who had invaded her office and now seemed to fill it. He, too, had watched the secretary’s departure. He turned back as Jenna refocused on his face. There was something in his gaze that looked like approval.

Because she’d been crazy enough to let him stay?

Or maybe he was pleased at the ease with which he’d gotten his way. Something he seemed far too accustomed to doing.

“You can put your money away, Mr….?”

“Murphy. Sean Murphy.”

Although she waited, he didn’t offer to elaborate on the information, so she went back to the salient part of what he’d told her. “You said you’re here in an attempt to ‘save my life.’ I’m not sure what that means, but given how serious it sounds, I’m willing to listen. You have…” She glanced at her watch to make her point. “Exactly ten minutes before my next appointment.”

He held her eyes, maybe assessing how serious she was about the timeframe she’d just given him. After a few seconds, he closed his wallet. He struggled to push it back into his pocket, verifying her initial assessment about the tightness of his jeans.

Now, if only she’d been equally correct in gauging his mental state…

“I saw your interview yesterday.”

Something shifted in the bottom of Jenna’s stomach, cold and hard and a little frightening. She swallowed, determined not to display any outward sign of that sudden anxiety.

“The one on holiday stress?”

“Must have missed that part. What I saw was you giving your professional opinion about the man who killed three women here.”

“I tried to make it clear to the reporter that serial killers don’t fall within my area of expertise—” she began, choosing her words with care.

“What you made clear, Dr. Kincaid, was that you thought the poor, mistreated son of a bitch just couldn’t help himself.”

The apprehension Jenna had felt was suddenly replaced by anger, most of it self-directed. She had known she should have cut the reporter off when he’d started that line of questioning. Instead, she’d been too conscious of the public-relations aspect of the interview. If she’d seemed uncooperative, that might well have been the only part of the segment to be aired.

And what if it were?

Of course, it was easy to sit here now, without the red light of the camera focused on her face, and know what she should have done. She’d made a mistake, but she didn’t deserve to be chastised for it by someone who obviously had his own agenda.

“I never said that. I never said anything like that.”

“Close enough. And as a psychologist, you had to know he’d feed off your remarks.”

She had thought something similar yesterday. Not that the killer would “feed off” her comment about sociopaths being the products of abuse, but that he would delight in hearing anyone talk about the murders. Just as he would relish the increased terror that kind of interview would bring within the community.

“He’s already feeding off the media frenzy,” she said, refusing to allow this jackass to intimidate her. “I doubt anything I said yesterday is going to add to his enjoyment.”

Since the police had announced the connection between the homicides, not only had the local media been all over the story, the twenty-four-hour cable news stations were carrying it as well. It seemed that the killer had now been linked to several murders in other parts of the country.

Jenna hadn’t had time to do more than glance at the lead story in the morning paper. That had been enough to let her know this was going to remain at the top of the front page until this killer was caught. Or until things got so hot for him here that he moved on to another location.

Which was essentially all she’d said yesterday, she reiterated mentally. Actually, there was nothing she’d said that wasn’t completely accurate.

She had talked about the interview to Paul Carlisle, the founder of the practice, as soon as she’d gotten to work. That’s when she’d discovered that the station had replayed the part about the murderer on both the late-night news and again this morning, although they hadn’t bothered to repeat the rest of the interview.

Maybe Sean Murphy had seen one of those broadcasts. In any case, there was nothing she needed to apologize for, she decided. No matter what he thought.

“You really don’t have a clue, do you?”

“I’m sorry?” Her voice rose on the last word.

“You tell someone who likes torturing women that he’s just some poor abused kid who isn’t responsible for what he’s done—”

“I never said that. I never said anything like that.”

“Yeah? Well, you can bet that’s what he heard.”

“And who made you the expert on what he heard?”

“A long and intimate acquaintance.”

Her analytical mind took over, replaying his words. “Are you saying…you know him? You know who he is?”

“I know what he is. And I know what he does. Apparently a lot better method of ‘knowing’ him than whatever crap you were spouting.”

Jenna stood so abruptly that her desk chair rolled back and hit the wall behind her. “We’re through here.”

She reached across the desk to punch the button on the intercom. If he didn’t leave, she’d tell her secretary to do what she had wanted to when he’d first barged in.

“You’re exactly his type, you know.”

Startled by the change in tone, Jenna looked up, her finger stopped in midair. There was no longer any trace of approval in his eyes. They were cold. And very angry.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You can look it up when the locals finally get their act together. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tall. Slender. And not a prostitute or a waitress among them.”

The trepidation she’d felt when he said he’d come to save her life stirred in her stomach again. Today’s front page had featured pictures of the local victims. And the description he’d just given fit them all.

“I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist,” Sean Murphy went on, seeming to relish the impact his words were having, “but I’ve got a feeling he’d be interested.”

“In me? Are you suggesting that the killer would be interested in me?”

“Since you’re out there telling the world what a poor, misunderstood bastard he is.”

She didn’t bother to refute the accusation again. He had decided that’s what she’d said. There was probably nothing she could do to dissuade him from his perception.

And what if he’s right? What if that’s what the killer heard, too?

Which would be a hell of an assumption. First, that the murderer had even heard the interview. And second, that he’d misinterpreted her words exactly as this arrogant SOB had.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, working to keep any emotion out of the conventional words. It was obvious Sean Murphy had come here to frighten her. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded.

As soon as he was out of here, she would call the police and tell them what he’d said. That business about having a long and intimate acquaintance with the killer would probably be of interest to them.

“Believe me, Dr. Kincaid, concern for you isn’t what brought me. Since you didn’t seem to have any idea what you’d done, however, I did feel a certain moral obligation to warn you.”

“Then consider that your ‘moral obligation’ has been fulfilled. I assure you I feel duly warned.”

As she said the last, she again reached for the intercom button, hoping he’d take that as a hint that they were done. Instead of turning toward the door as she’d hoped, he stood there, directly across from her desk, his eyes once more assessing.

“He’s smart,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “And he’ll be in no hurry. He never is. A couple of months. Maybe more. Actually, it could be any time. Any time he chooses.”

“Thank you.” She held his eyes without letting her own reveal any reaction to the threat. And she now had no doubt that’s what it was. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

For the first time a tilt at the corners disturbed the thin line of his lips. The smile seemed to soften the spare planes of his face, although it held not one iota of amusement.

“There is one thing he doesn’t know,” he added. “Something that may work to your advantage.”

Maybe he was disturbed. Maybe those signs of normality she’d noted didn’t mean jack shit.

“And what is that, Mr. Murphy?”

“That I’m every bit as patient as he is. When you see him, you might want to tell him that.”

The bite of the cold outside air was welcome after the overheated interior of the office building. Sean stood a moment in front of its double glass doors, staring unseeingly across at the lot where he’d parked the rented SUV.

Guilt had reared its ugly head even before he’d turned on his heel and walked out of Jenna Kincaid’s office. It hadn’t abated during the short ride down on the elevator.

He’d done what he’d come here to do. He’d frightened her so that the next time some reporter stuck a mike under her nose, she’d think twice before she made excuses for a murderer. And he couldn’t quite figure out why he felt like such an asshole.

Maybe because of what was in her eyes when you told her some sadistic bastard was going to torture and kill her? How the hell did you think she’d react?

Actually, he’d been surprised at how well she’d dealt with everything he’d thrown at her. He’d been so furious about the garbage she’d spewed during that interview, he hadn’t really stopped to think about her reaction.

He had been brutally—unforgivably—direct about the possibility that if the killer had heard her sympathetic explanation for his behavior, she would have attracted the attention of the last man on earth whose attention she would want. Despite his threat, Jenna Kincaid had kept her poise.

Only in her eyes had he seen any evidence of the fear he’d deliberately tried to create. And remembering what had been in them, he felt even more like a bastard.

He jammed his fists into the pockets of his leather jacket and started down the steps. After years of operating in hostile environments, he automatically scanned the parking lot, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Like someone staking out the place where she worked?

He’d meant the question to be mocking. As the thought formed, however, Sean acknowledged that if the Inquisitor had seen that interview, he’d know exactly where she worked by now.

That clip had been replayed at least three times. And after the official announcement from the cops yesterday, the bastard would have been glued to every newscast, hoping to catch any publicity his actions had generated.

He would have seen Dr. Kincaid’s pity party for him, all right. And by now, almost twenty-four hours later, he would undoubtedly know all about her.

Telling himself that wasn’t his problem, Sean punched the key lock remote as he approached the SUV. Although it was only a little after four, the halogen lights in the lot had already come on, glinting off the vehicle’s black surface.

It would probably be completely dark before Jenna Kincaid came out of her office. Certainly before she got back to her apartment.

Even if the killer had become interested because of what she’d said, it was probably too early to worry about her being followed. The Inquisitor would undoubtedly do his stalking electronically first. Maybe visit the library and check out microfiche from the local papers.

It might be weeks before he started tracking her physically. Or anyone else, Sean amended, attempting to reassure himself. At this late date, the killer wouldn’t break his normal pattern. Not unless something happened to interrupt the cycle.

Like finding a woman who expressed sympathy for him? One who also satisfied every other criteria of his sick hunt?

Sean realized he was standing beside the SUV, the remote in his hand still pointed at the lock. He opened the door, sliding into the cold leather seat. He inserted the key into the ignition, but for some reason his fingers hesitated before they completed the act of turning it.

His eyes lifted to the rearview mirror. Reflected there were the double doors through which he’d just exited.

He had no idea if Jenna Kincaid normally came out that way. No idea if there was a separate parking lot for the staff. Those were things he hadn’t thought he had any need to know.

Now he knew he was wrong.

He didn’t like dealing with feelings. He was far more comfortable with facts. Things he could see and hear. Prove or disprove. What he felt now fell into none of those categories.

The hair on the back of his neck had begun to rise, a phenomenon he’d experienced more than once in his career. On a street in Somalia. Before an ambush in Afghanistan. While his unit had been searching an underground bunker in Iraq, which they knew was very probably booby-trapped.

Every time, the premonition that something dangerous was at hand had proved to be accurate. And he’d never told anyone about any of them.

What he felt now was that same gut-level surety. Inexplicable. And yet undeniable.

The bastard was here. Close enough that if he had known where to look, he could have seen him. Close enough that Sean could feel the strength of his evil deep in the most primitive part of his brain.

The realization that he’d been right about the danger Jenna Kincaid was in was no comfort for the guilt he’d been feeling. He closed his eyes, seeing Makaela’s face as it had looked when they’d pulled out that stainless-steel drawer in the morgue in Detroit. After a fraction of a second he destroyed that nightmare image to replace it with the face of the woman he’d left inside the building behind him.

A woman he now knew with absolute gut-certainty he could use to finally get the man who’d flayed his sister alive.

Three

Jenna saw her four o’clock, operating on autopilot. She was unable to concentrate on what her patient said because the words of the man who had supposedly come to warn her echoed and reechoed in her head.

I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist, but I have a feeling he’d be interested.

That had so obviously been an attempt to frighten her that she was furious with herself for allowing him to succeed. She’d said nothing that was sympathetic to the killer in that interview. No one could have sympathy for someone who did what he did. Whatever her visitor’s agenda—

A long and intimate acquaintance…

Despite the man’s boast, she hadn’t placed a call to the police after he’d left. She couldn’t formulate a logical reason why she hadn’t. There had just been something about him that had made her believe he wasn’t involved in the murders.

Just like every woman who opened the door to Albert Di-Salvo believed he couldn’t be the Strangler.

She closed the folder in which she’d been attempting to add notations. That was as pointless as trying to get what had happened an hour ago out of her head, but surely she could put it into perspective. Hundreds of people had talked publicly about those three murders, both on the air and in the newspaper. Was the killer going to come after each of them?

Or maybe only the ones who fit the victim profile.

She realized that her hands were trembling. Just as they had been when Murphy walked out of her office.

That had been mostly the result of anger. If there was any consolation to be taken in how she’d conducted herself, it would be that she hadn’t given in to the tears she’d been on the edge of. Growing up, she’d always had a tendency to cry when she got really mad, a trait she thought she’d conquered long ago.

If she wanted to indulge that childish propensity, it would have to wait until she reached the privacy of her own home. Which couldn’t be soon enough, she decided.

She picked up the phone and punched in Sheila’s extension. “I’m leaving for the day. Any change in tomorrow’s schedule I should know about?”

“Nothing really. Staff meeting at nine. After that you’ve got a full slate of appointments. It is that time of the year,” the secretary said, her tone sympathetic.

That was something they would talk about in tomorrow morning’s meeting. Everyone was feeling the double stress of the holidays and the murders. She had overheard a couple of the other therapists talking about an increase in requests for appointments, even from their regulars.

“Try to fight off the least desperate,” she said aloud.

Sheila laughed. “Will do. Have a good night.”

Yeah, right. “Thanks, Sheila.”

She hung up and then looked at the folders stacked on the left-hand side of her desk. With the meeting in the morning, it was unlikely she’d have time to look over the files of the patients she’d be seeing during the day. Still, she wasn’t willing to stay late to review them. If she tried, she’d probably be unable to keep her mind on what she was reading.

She was going home instead and breaking open the bottle of Jack Daniel’s she’d bought to make sauce for the bread pudding she was to take to her mother’s on Christmas Day. Maybe that would help her sleep. If not, it would certainly be good company while she didn’t.

The staff parking deck was relatively full for this late in the afternoon, which was also a reflection of the season. Jenna had ridden down in the elevator with a couple of other staff members. Their cars had been closer to the building, so that she was now making her way to the outer perimeter of the deck alone.

The sound of her footsteps echoed off the concrete roof, seeming louder than they should. She realized as she approached the place where she’d parked this morning that the security light for this section was out, leaving the area in shadows.

She actually hesitated before she managed to control her uneasiness and continue toward her Accord. She punched the remote, the resulting beep and blinking lights reassuring in their normalcy.

Everything here was as it should be, she told herself. This was the building where she worked. The deck where she parked her car every single day. She mentally reiterated each phrase, a deliberate litany of the ordinary.

She didn’t relax, however, until she’d opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. As soon as she hit the autolock, the tension that had built as she’d crossed the deck released, leaving her drained.

Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror and then she turned and looked into her backseat. Something she’d never done before in her life. It was empty, of course.

And just what in hell were you expecting to be there?

Disgusted that she’d given in to her paranoia, she jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The dependable engine roared to life, its sound magnified by the low ceiling of the garage.

Looking over her right shoulder, she eased past Paul Carlisle’s Porsche, which had been pulled in beside her car at a slight angle. She cleared its back fender, but just barely, congratulating herself as she completed the maneuver, and aligned her car so that it pointed toward the exit.

She glanced down to shift into Drive when a tap on her window brought her head around so quickly she felt the strain in her neck. Her heart began to pound before she recognized the founder of the practice standing beside her car. She pushed the button that would lower the window, determined to keep any trace of that reaction out of her voice and expression.

“What is it?”

“Just wanted to check on you,” Paul said. “I meant to get down to your office this afternoon, but you know what they say about good intentions.”

She nodded, unsure what this was about.

“You okay?” Paul asked, his brow slightly furrowed as he leaned forward, peering into the car.

“Just tired and stressed. Like everyone else this time of year.”

“The thought of having to make the annual holiday pilgrimage to visit the folks in Douglasville has me thinking seriously about some good mood-altering pharmaceuticals.”

Although Paul had smiled at his own slightly twisted brand of humor, she knew there was a certain level of truth to what he’d just said. He’d often joked that he had gone into psychiatry because of the practice he’d already had with his extremely dysfunctional family.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share your stash?” she asked, answering his grin.

“You’re not still worried about that interview, are you?”

It was the perfect opportunity to tell him about the man who’d burst into her office. For some reason she didn’t; maybe it was the same ambiguity in her feelings about Sean Murphy that had prevented her from calling the police.

“As long as you don’t feel I said something I shouldn’t—”

“Nothing but the truth. If it makes one woman more cautious or one cop more diligent, that’s a good thing.”

She nodded again, hoping those would be the only consequences. Again the idea of unburdening herself to Paul brushed through her mind. Before she could, he smiled.

“We’re going to talk about all this tomorrow morning.”

“All this?”

Did he intend to warn the others to be wary of getting ambushed during interviews? Or maybe to keep their opinions to themselves if they were asked about the murders? She would be uncomfortable with his issuing either of those admonitions. As if he were urging the others to learn from her mistakes.

“If these homicides go on much longer,” Paul continued, “we’re going to have some serious fallout. People are naturally nervous just knowing there’s a serial killer in the area, and that stress is going to build with each subsequent murder.”

“Do you know…” Jenna hesitated, unsure she wanted an answer to the question she’d been about to ask. It was probably better to be informed, however, than to continue to operate in the dark. “Do you have any idea how long that might be? I mean, have the police given any kind of timetable…?”

The question ground to a halt. It seemed inappropriate somehow, with three women already savaged, to be wondering when they should expect the next victim to surface.

“One of the cable networks said he goes months between acts. Apparently he’s a meticulous planner. That’s one thing that’s made it hard for the authorities to get a handle on him.”

The matter-of-fact answer wasn’t comforting. Of course, Paul had no reason to suspect she might need comfort. And unless she told him…

“Anyway, glad you’re feeling better,” he said. “Don’t let the local yahoos get you down. If they were any good, they wouldn’t be stuck in this market.”

She laughed. “No, I won’t. I just didn’t want to say anything that might embarrass the practice.”

“I don’t think you could ever do that, Jenna. You did fine, especially considering you had no way of knowing what was coming.”

She’d explained to him that she hadn’t heard the announcement from the police. If she had, she might have been more prepared.

“Thanks. I really appreciate that.”

“Only the truth. Just like what you said.” He stepped back but kept his fingers wrapped over the opening in the door where the glass disappeared. “Okay then, I’ll see you in the morning.”

He tapped the knuckles of both hands on the window frame before he turned to walk to his car. As he opened the door of the Porsche, he glanced back at her. Although it was too dark to see his face, she imagined that same furrow forming again as he wondered why she was still sitting there.

She raised her left hand, palm toward him. He acknowledged the gesture with an answering wave.

She let her hand fall to the button that raised the window. As it slid up, she put the car into Drive and pressed down on the accelerator. The Honda responded, moving toward the ramp.

She exited the parking deck, turning to the right, which took her around the front of the building. A couple of patients hurried across the crosswalk that led from the main entrance to the public lot, causing her to slow.

As she waited for them to clear the street, her eyes considered the line of cars they were heading toward. Almost in the center of it, directly in front of the crosswalk, was a black SUV, with someone sitting in the driver’s seat.

Although it was too dark to determine the man’s coloring, there was something eerily familiar about the shape of his head. Something that created a trickle of alarm.

She strained to see through the twilight gloom. As the people who’d been crossing the street passed by the SUV, the man inside turned to look at them. His profile was backlit by the halogen lamp on the main road.

Not only was that close-cropped head familiar, she realized, so was the outline of his nose. She’d noticed it when he’d been in her office. Almost aquiline, it was marred by a slight ridge, indicating that at some time in the past, it had been broken.

A horn sounded behind her, one short tap. She looked into the rearview mirror, recognizing the distinct headlights of the Porsche. Caught up in the realization that the man who’d warned her about being a target of the killer was parked in front of the building, she hadn’t even been aware of the Paul’s approach.

With a last glance at the SUV, she pressed the gas, driving through the crosswalk and on toward the highway. As she did, she tried to decide whether that information tipped the scales in favor of calling the police.

To tell them what? That a man who believed she might be a target of the killer had come to warn her? That he’d been parked outside her building more than an hour after he’d issued that warning?

Neither fact made him a murderer. With all the tips and prank calls she knew would be flooding the hotline the cops had set up, that information would only peg her as another kook coming out of the woodwork.

She glanced in the mirror again, trying to decide if the SUV had pulled out behind her. There was definitely another car behind Paul’s, but the Porsche’s lights were too bright for her to be able to tell anything about its size, much less the make. Maybe when she made the turn out of the office park, she would be able to see the vehicle more clearly.

With that thought, she looked up at the traffic light, which had already turned green. Trying to avoid having Paul blow at her again, she accelerated rapidly, directing the Honda out onto 280.

Merging into the heavy afternoon traffic took a few seconds of complete concentration. By the time she was able to check her mirror again, the Porsche’s headlights were right behind her. The reflection of the crowded intersection beyond them appeared as simply a mass of lights and cars. It was impossible to determine if the one that had followed Paul around the office building had already made the turn.

The line of traffic ahead began to move. Forced to focus on the normal rush hour stop-and-go of the busy thoroughfare, a major artery on this side of town, Jenna was unable to check behind her very frequently. In none of those quick surveys was she able to identify a black SUV.

She took a breath, again trying to put things into perspective. Although she was sure Sean Murphy had been sitting in that SUV, she couldn’t prove he’d been waiting for her. And she couldn’t be sure he’d followed her away from the office park.

All she was sure of right now was that she was becoming paranoid. She’d let some stranger rattle her so badly that she was looking over her shoulder, imagining that someone was stalking her.

She’d bought into the hysteria that had been growing in this town since the suggestion was first made that the three local murders might be connected. Now that they had been officially, the nutcases were starting to surface.

Including the one who’d shown up at your door today.

She often told patients that their fears had only the power they gave them. Right now she was giving far too much credence to one man’s opinion. Even if the killer had heard what she’d said, the idea that it would cause him to target her was so far-fetched she should refuse to spend another second worrying about it.

She was approaching the intersection where she would exit onto the road that would eventually take her up the crest of the mountain to her apartment. She concentrated on the promise of a long, hot bath, followed by a stiff drink and some mindless television.

She wouldn’t watch the news. She would put this negative merry-go-round out of her mind and get on with her life. She was no more likely to be a target than any other dark-haired woman in Birmingham. And she couldn’t even venture a guess how many of those there might be.

Jenna slowed for the red light, glancing to her left to check for oncoming traffic before she made her turn. As she waited for a couple of cars to clear the intersection, she unthinkingly allowed her gaze to drift to a car pulling up beside hers.

Her recognition of its driver was instantaneous. Although she couldn’t see their color, she could feel the intensity of those blue eyes. Fear jolted through her chest, as powerful as if Sean Murphy had pointed a gun at her.

He nodded before he turned to look out his windshield. Apparently the light had changed in the seconds he’d held her gaze because he put the SUV into motion immediately, moving past her car and on through the intersection. Paralyzed by a combination of disbelief and dismay, she watched until his taillights became indistinguishable in the string of red that stretched out in front of her.

At some point she became aware of the blare of horns behind her, their cacophony not nearly so patient as Paul’s quick honk had been. Hurriedly she made the turn, hands trembling on the wheel.

Only when she had reached the peace of the narrow street that led to the apartment complex overlooking the city did she begin to calm down. As the noise of traffic faded behind her, so did the burst of terror she’d felt when the SUV had eased up beside her.

Coincidence, she told herself. Even if it weren’t, it would have been easy enough for him to find out her home address. She was listed in the phone book as J. Kincaid, not exactly a reach for anyone of normal intelligence. And obviously not the smartest decision she’d ever made.

That listing had been done before she’d finished her Ph.D. and gone into practice. Although it could be rectified—and it would—it was too late to do anything about it in this case.

Too late. The words had a finality to them she didn’t like. Or want to accept. She would call in the morning and get her number unlisted in the next book. Right now…

Right now she was home. And there had been no headlights coming up the street behind her.

She pulled into one of the vacant parking places in front of her unit and turned off the engine. Music drifted out into the night from inside one of the apartments. Mannheim Steamroller. One of their Christmas albums.

Peace on Earth.

Except not tonight. Despite the Jack Daniel’s and the long, hot bath she’d promised herself, Jenna knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Everything would run through her head like a videotape on high speed. All she’d read or heard about the murders. The descriptions of the victims. What Sean Murphy had said.

Those were the things that would reverberate over and over again. The accusation that she’d fed the killer’s fantasy of his own importance. That she’d been sympathetic. The troubling claim that she fit the victim profile.

She took a breath, knowing none of this was getting her anywhere. She needed to get inside, lock the door and try to forget it all. There was nothing else she could do tonight.

As with most of the other things she’d worried about during her life, this would all look better in the morning. She’d have that talk with Paul and get his advice, which she’d always found to be both reasoned and knowledgeable. Until then…

Until then she would do her best to put Sean Murphy’s words out of her head, refusing to give them—or him—any more control over her life.

Four

“We’ve seen the tip of this iceberg in the questions that were thrown at Jenna. We should all be prepared to be asked about that same kind of information concerning serial killers, particularly this one. Background, psychological profile, predictions. We’ll be questioned by the media and by whomever we’re standing beside at the next Christmas party. And we damn well better be prepared to answer them.”

Although Paul hadn’t looked in her direction, the fact that he’d prefaced his admonition with a mention of her interview made Jenna feel that his comments had been directed at her. Responding that way was just what she’d thought yesterday—paranoid. She was simply the first to be ambushed. It could have happened to any one of them.

And would any of the others have come across as being sympathetic to a serial killer?

The fact that she’d gotten so little sleep last night wasn’t helping her put this into perspective. She shouldn’t be so worried about the opinion of one man. And as far as she knew, that was all Sean Murphy’s warning amounted to.

“Unless someone has something else…?” Paul waited, allowing the silence to build. “Okay, then, I guess it’s back to the salt mines. Have a good day. Or at least try to.”

People began to rise from the table, the casters on the heavy leather chairs moving silently over the thick carpet of the conference room. Several people began conversations with those seated around them. Not one of them met her eyes or tried to include her.

Although that isolation could certainly be attributed to a normal give-and-take among colleagues or even to her proximity to the head of the table where Paul was still standing, it felt to Jenna as if something else were going on. Some kind of censure, perhaps, for the way she’d handled herself?

She pretended to be occupied with gathering up her notes and putting them into her briefcase. When she finished, she bent to pick up her purse. She straightened to find Paul watching her.

“Sheila said you had a visitor yesterday.”

She shouldn’t be surprised that her secretary had told someone what had happened. And gossip traveled as quickly in this office as in any other. She should have anticipated that and talked to Paul about it herself. Since she hadn’t…

“Some kook with an ax to grind,” she said, trying to remember how much of the conversation Sheila might have heard.

Nothing more than Murphy’s opening salvo, she decided. That in itself had been revealing enough.

“Narrow the field,” Paul suggested. “What kind of kook?”

“He’d seen the interview I did and wanted to berate me for being sympathetic to the killer.”

“Is that all?”

She hesitated, wondering if she wanted to give more validity to the man’s warning by mentioning it. She waited until a couple of people had moved away from where she and Paul were standing before continuing. She didn’t want an audience.

Beth Goldberg, the member of the staff Jenna was closest to, had stopped behind Paul, her brows raised. She was obviously wondering what was going on, and knowing Beth, also wondering if she needed rescuing.

Jenna tilted her head toward the door. A gesture of dismissal that Beth immediately recognized.

When the rest of the staff had also eddied toward the exit, she turned back to meet Paul’s gaze. He had propped his hip on the edge of the conference table, obviously prepared to wait until she spilled her guts.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. If she suddenly disappeared, she wanted someone to be looking for her.

And why in the world would you suddenly “disappear”? Stop buying into Murphy’s mind games.

“He claimed I was a match for the police profile of the victims.”

She realized that she’d managed to surprise Paul. The head of the practice was seldom at a loss for words, but the silence after her statement stretched for several seconds.

“I didn’t know they’d issued one.”

“Neither did I. Apparently, someone has. Maybe the FBI. Maybe it’s based on the murders he’s committed in other locations. I don’t think the police here are talking about it yet, but…” She took a breath, reluctant to put reality into words. “The pictures on TV this morning…” The images she’d worked so hard to dismiss last night were again in her head. “He could be right, Paul. They all had dark hair. And they were career women, not street people or prostitutes—”

“Stop it.” Paul took her elbow and shook it.

She hadn’t even realized she’d crossed her arms over her body. Or that her voice had risen as she’d repeated the things Sean Murphy had said to her yesterday.

“Just stop it,” Paul repeated, sliding his hand comfortingly up her arm until it rested on the top of her shoulder.

Despite the fact that the room was now deserted, he leaned nearer and lowered his voice. “First of all, we need to talk to the police. If there is anything to this profile business, we’ll deal with it. He could have been making that up, you know. You said he was a kook. Maybe he saw you on TV and decided to have some fun at your expense.”

“That’s not how I read him. I know that’s what I called him, but…” Unconsciously she shook her head. “He seemed serious. Deadly serious. He clearly didn’t like what I said in the interview, but I think his warning about the profile was genuine.”

That’s why it had bothered her so much. Whether the guy was right or not, he had believed what he said. And if he were as well informed as he appeared to be, then…

“I think I’d like to talk to the police,” she said, the words out almost before she realized she’d made the decision.

Paul nodded encouragingly, as if she were a patient who’d just made a breakthrough, before he released her shoulder and again took her arm. “Then let’s make the call and set it up.”

Jenna had told everything to the officer who’d taken her statement. What had happened in her office. That she believed Murphy had been waiting for her to leave the building last night. About his car pulling up beside her as she’d prepared to make her turn.

The policeman had barely seemed interested, making her decide halfway through that she’d wasted the afternoon. None of the murders had been committed in the jurisdiction of the small police department where her office was located. When he’d called, however, Paul had been told to send her there.

The three separate law enforcement agencies where the three bodies had been found were only taking calls that directly related to the murders. Whoever Paul had talked to obviously hadn’t believed that her call did, so she’d ended up telling her story to someone who didn’t seem to know any more about what was going on with the investigation than she did.

She’d attempted to remedy her own lack of knowledge as soon as she’d gotten home. Paul had insisted she have Sheila clear her schedule for the entire afternoon, so when she’d left the police station, she hadn’t returned to the office. Instead she’d picked up both the morning and evening newspapers and read every word they contained about the case.

Tonight’s had included a lot more information on the previous murders, as well as the FBI’s psychological profile of the killer. There was nothing in it she hadn’t already suspected. Maybe this wasn’t her field, but the fact that this guy had killed so often and still avoided detection gave plenty of clues as to the kind of person he was.

Exactly the kind Murphy had described. Smart. And in no hurry.

As for the victims…

The photos in the paper were grainy and too dark to distinguish details. Still, it was clear that the facts he’d laid out before her yesterday afternoon concerning the type of women the killer was attracted to were essentially correct. And if he was right about that—

It didn’t mean he was right about the murderer coming after her. To think that he would feel a compulsion to kill her because he’d seen her on television…

Talking about him. Dissecting him.

Jenna straightened, as if backing away from that double row of black-and-white pictures. When she did, she realized her back was stiff from the hours spent leaning over the coffee table where she’d spread out the newspapers.

With one hand pressed against her spine she reached down with the other and picked up the plate with her half-eaten sandwich. As she did, she glanced toward the front windows and saw that in her haste to read the news, she’d forgotten to close the blinds.

She must have reached over and turned on the lamp at the end of the couch at some point, but she hadn’t consciously realized it had gotten dark outside. She looked at her watch as she set the plate back on the coffee table and walked across to pull the cord. It was already after six.

Without thinking, she looked down at the next section of the complex, which stretched out across the mountain perhaps a hundred feet below her own. Her gaze had already traced across the cars parked behind those units, most of them familiar, when she noticed the black SUV in the row almost directly across from her apartment.

There were thousands of big, dark SUVs in this upscale neighborhood. She would swear that this one, however, had someone sitting in the driver’s seat. Someone—

She quickly stepped away from the window, hardly able to believe what she was thinking. Could Sean Murphy be sitting out there watching her apartment? Hoping she’d come out?

The policeman who had taken her story this afternoon had told her that if she had any more trouble with the man who’d come to her office she should call them. Paul had told her the same thing.

But what if it wasn’t him out there? What if she was seeing dangers where they didn’t exist?

She turned to look at the phone on the table at the end of the couch. And then her eyes flicked back to the newspapers still spread out over the coffee table.

Although the reporters had been careful about what details they’d released, there had been enough of them to leave no doubt the murdered women had suffered horrifically. Had one of them been suspicious and not called the cops because she didn’t want to make a fool of herself?

Jenna walked across the room and picked up the phone. She hesitated another second or two before she punched in 911.

As she waited through the rings, she looked back toward the window, but from this angle she couldn’t see the line of cars.

“Jefferson County 911,” a woman answered. “What’s your emergency?”

“I talked to the Mountain Brook Police today about a man who’s been harassing me. I think he’s outside my apartment.”

“He’s at your door, ma’am?”

“I think he’s parked across the parking lot.”

“You think? Can you see him?”

“I can see someone sitting in a car that looks like his.”

“And what’s he doing, ma’am?”

“He’s just sitting there. I think he’s watching my apartment.”

There was a long silence. Although the dispatcher’s voice had been expressionless, the questions themselves had become more telling.

“The officer I spoke to this afternoon told me to call if he bothered me again.” Jenna fought the urge to slam down the phone in the face of the almost palpable disbelief.

“Did you get a restraining order, ma’am?”

“Nobody suggested that. Do I need one?”

“Well, it would require him to stay so many feet away from you or your property. If you don’t have one, and if he isn’t bothering you…”

The dispatcher let the sentence trail, but it was obvious what the woman was suggesting. The police weren’t going to do anything. Not until Murphy did.

“You do know there’s a serial killer on the loose?” Jenna asked, no longer bothering to hide her own frustration.

“Yes, ma’am. Most of the officers in this area are working on some aspect of those murders.”

Again, although there had been only politeness in her voice, the dispatcher had made her point. Jenna could only commend whoever had trained her.

“Ma’am, if you really feel you’re in danger…” Again the dispatcher’s words were allowed to trail.

Did she? Did she believe Sean Murphy was the murderer the police were seeking? Did she believe he was out there in the parking lot because he intended to kill her?

“Thanks,” she said, pushing the off button with her thumb.

If she got the police out here, what were they going to do? Tell Murphy to move on? He wasn’t doing anything except sitting in his car. Even she was forced to acknowledge that.

Carrying the phone with her, she walked to the window again. This time she made no attempt to hide the fact that she was looking out it.

Nothing had changed during her conversation with the dispatcher. The SUV was parked in the same place, the security lights shining down on its top.

Her eyes focused on the interior. That’s when she realized she’d been wrong. Something had changed. There was no one in the car now.

She scanned the parking lot. Although the people who lived in this complex usually came and went throughout the evening, not a single soul was outside now. Even the curtains on the lighted units across the way were drawn, shielding their inhabitants from the night.

Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe one of them had been sitting in his car. Listening to the ending of a song. Or to one of the popular sports discussion shows. Finishing a conversation on their cell phone.

There were a dozen legitimate reasons for someone to be sitting in their car.

Jenna almost dropped the phone when it shrilled, vibrating in her hand. She lifted it, holding it out in front of her as she waited for the number to appear on the caller ID display.

It wasn’t one she recognized, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe someone from work who’d heard about what had happened was checking on her. Or maybe the dispatcher had decided to pass her call on to the police after all.

When the phone rang a second time, she punched the talk button, bringing the receiver to her ear. “Hello?”

“Should I be expecting a visit from the cops?”

There was no doubt in her mind who was on the line. The same deep voice. The same nearly unidentifiable accent.

“Any minute now.”

“You don’t lie worth a damn, Dr. Kincaid. I would think that someone with your training would be much better at that.”

“I’m not lying.”

He laughed, sounding genuinely amused. That should probably have unnerved her as much as seeing him sitting outside her building had. It made her angry instead.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded.

“Absolutely nothing, I assure you. Not one thing.”

“Then why are you out there?”

“Out where?”

He wasn’t going to admit what they both knew. He had parked across from her apartment so he could watch her.

“I’m sorry you thought I was sympathetic to him.” If placating the man would put an end to this nonsense, Jenna was more than willing to do that. “Nothing could be further from the truth. He’s vicious and sadistic, and believe me, I want him caught as much as anybody in this town.”

“It’s good to hear we’re in agreement.”

“Look, I’ve said I’m sorry for the way I came across. I don’t know what else you want me to say—”

“I told you. I don’t want a thing from you, Dr. Kincaid.”

“Then why are you outside my apartment? Why did you wait for me to come out of the office last night? What kind of game are you playing?”

“I’m not your concern, Dr. Kincaid. Believe me, I don’t intend you any harm.”

“Then stop stalking me.”

“Legally, what I’m doing—”

“Don’t talk to me about ‘legally.’ You followed me. You’re outside my apartment. You’re calling me. If that isn’t stalking—” She stopped the tirade because she knew she was giving him what he wanted. Control. “Just go away and leave me the hell alone.”

The catch in her voice on the last word made her furious. The day she let this bastard make her cry—

“Did you read those papers, Dr. Kincaid?”

He must have been parked out there when she’d arrived this afternoon, the newspapers under her arm. She had been so focused on getting inside and devouring them that she’d never thought to check out the parking lot. Of course, that wasn’t part of her normal homecoming routine. It would be from now on.

“I read them,” she answered.

“Then you know what I told you yesterday is true.”

About how well she fit the profile? “I don’t think—”

“Good,” he interrupted. “Don’t think. Just close your blinds, lock your doors and stay inside.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if I were a woman in this town who looked so much like the rest of them, that’s what I’d do. It’s what other women all over this town are doing right now. I’m suggesting you join them.”

Jenna tried to come up with a response, but she couldn’t find words to express how his advice made her feel. Angry, of course. Yet fearful, too. And furious with herself that with a few words he could make her feel that way.

“Leave me alone.” Her voice was soft, but she allowed the emotion she felt into her tone, something she rarely did.

“I know you won’t believe me, but that really would be your worst nightmare. You do exactly what I tell you, and I promise nothing is going to happen to you.”

Jenna opened her mouth to respond, but the click on the other end of the line told her it was too late. He’d had the last word, just as he’d intended.

Frozen in shock by what had just transpired, she realized she was standing with the phone still pressed against her ear and her mouth open. She closed it, swallowing her fury, and lowered the phone. She pushed the off button as she took a deep breath, trying to think.

She wasn’t going back through 911. And she for damn sure wasn’t going to talk to the Mountain Brook police again. She was going straight to the task force instead and demand that she be allowed to meet with one of the detectives working the case.

At the very least, Sean Murphy had some kind of fixation with the killer. And at the worst…

She’d get the restraining order the dispatcher had mentioned. Something that would keep him off the grounds of her apartment complex and away from her office as well.

Paul knew a lot of people in this town. He would help her figure out whom she should call. Then, if this bastard pulled this same stunt tomorrow night—

The police would deal with him, and she wouldn’t have to. Never again.

And right now, that’s really all she wanted.

Five

“I saw the segment you did for Channel 47 on holiday depression. I confess that it struck a little too close to home. Especially the part about feeling let down that things don’t live up to your expectations.”

Despite Paul’s undoubtedly kind intentions in insisting she take yesterday afternoon off, it had made today a scheduling nightmare. And when Sheila had asked her this morning, Jenna had reluctantly given the okay for a new patient to be added to the end of her already full appointment calendar.

After less than five minutes spent with John Nolan, she was wishing she’d put him off until another day. Nothing he’d told her so far seemed to warrant the urgency he’d expressed when he’d called the office.

He had asked for her by name, however, and more importantly, he’d specifically mentioned the television interview. That had set off a few alarms. Enough that she had decided to work him in, just to see what kind of read she got.

Even before he’d arrived, she had discarded as ridiculous the idea that a serial killer would be brazen enough to show up at her office. Calls like Nolan’s resulted from most of the interviews the staff gave. Add that to the increased demand for counseling brought on by the pressures of the season, and there was nothing unusual about the guy’s request for an immediate appointment.

She’d already been booked solid the rest of the week with the makeups from yesterday and her regular patients, many of whom also had trouble dealing with the holidays. If she hadn’t agreed to see him today, Nolan would have been forced to wait until after the New Year, which Sheila said he really didn’t want to do.

“That’s something that’s extremely common,” she said, trying to sound interested. “Not only with Christmas, but with any occasion we look forward to with a lot of anticipation. Is this something you experienced last year?”

“Last year. Every year I can remember. It seems that nothing I do is quite good enough.”

“For your family? Or for yourself?”

“Both, I suppose. It just doesn’t seem to matter how much I plan or how hard I work, things…unravel. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“And that makes you feel…?” She hesitated, allowing him an opportunity to fill in the blank she’d left.

His lips pursed slightly as he looked down at his hands. They were well shaped, the nails clean and neatly trimmed.

On the paperwork John Nolan had filled out, he’d written self-employed. He hadn’t put anything in the section on insurance or in the one that asked for his occupation. Which meant he could be anything, she supposed, from a writer to a day trader.

Nor had she been able to glean much about either his education or financial status from his appearance. The maroon V-necked sweater, which he wore over a white button-down collar dress shirt and the khaki trousers were too generic to offer much socioeconomic information.

His hair, light brown and slightly sun-glazed, appeared to have been freshly cut, although it was a little longer than she normally found attractive. And yet he was, she admitted. Very attractive.

Just as she reached that conclusion, he glanced up, meeting her eyes. His were hazel, tending more toward green than brown. They widened as he realized she’d been watching him.

“So how does that make you feel?” she prodded.

“Inadequate.”

Her smile widened. “The human condition. At least for most of us. Do you want to talk specifics? Something particular that happened last Christmas?”

“Not really. Suffice it to say that I again fell short. And they let me know about it.”

“Your family,” she clarified.

“My mother in particular. She’s always been hard to please. I know I should be used to it by now, but for some reason I always think that this time I’ve found something she’ll have to approve of.”

“So this is a pattern that’s been repeated over and over, no matter what you give her.”

“Implying she’s the problem and not me?”

His question was a little too glib, but perhaps he’d done some reading on the subject. Many people did these days, especially with the proliferation of mental health information on the Web.

“Is that a possibility?” she asked, her tone neutral.

“More than a possibility. It’s almost certainly the case.”

“Then if you recognize that…” Again she hesitated, waiting for him to draw the obvious conclusion.

“I should be able to do something about it. You’re right, of course. And believe me, I’ve tried. I still manage to end up feeling as if I’ve failed. Her. And myself.”

“Then maybe the first step in changing your feelings is to acknowledge that no matter what you do or how much trouble you go to, you probably aren’t going to please her. That should lower your expectation to a more reasonable level.”

“It sounds simple, but…Look, I’m a grown man. I’ll be the first to admit that she shouldn’t have that much power over me. Not enough to spoil one holiday after another.”

“She’s your mother. Most of us were raised to care about pleasing our parents. Just not, I hope, to the detriment of our own well-being. You mentioned that my comments during the interview about holiday depression had struck a chord. Do you think that what you’ve felt over the years might be classified as depression?”

“I don’t know. I guess one person’s depression is another person’s excuse for a stiff drink and a good dinner.”

Not too far off the mark, Jenna thought with an inward smile. Not that depression wasn’t real and serious, but to some people, anytime they felt disappointment or sadness about something, even if those feelings were justified by the situation, that qualified in their minds as depression. John Nolan seemed to have a more realistic attitude.

“Is that what you do? Indulge yourself to make up for how she makes you feel?”

“Occasionally. After hearing you talk, I realized the mistake I make every year is in still having any expectation of pleasing her.”

“So will that help with the stress this year?”

“It should. But then, I am here.”

“Taking steps to deal with your feelings is definitely a move in the right direction. So what do you think you need to do next in order to feel better?”

“What do you think, Dr. Kincaid? That is why I came, you know. To hear your advice.”

Again, something about the exchange seemed contrived. It was all too pat.

Of course, some patients didn’t want to give voice to the obvious conclusions. They wanted to have them spelled out, so that they became more like directives. Since Nolan’s mother was obviously controlling if not domineering, perhaps he needed that kind of instruction.

“All right. Other than on gift-giving occasions, what kind of relationship do you have with your mother?”

“Distant,” he said with a laugh. “Both physically and emotionally. That’s by choice, by the way. Probably by both our choices.”

“And she doesn’t want a closer relationship?”

“If she does, she’s never given any indication of it.”

Which was strange, considering the apparent power play at Christmas. Still…

“Then if you’re both comfortable with not seeing one another, why not mail her presents to her. That way she can’t express any overt disappointment in them. Not any that will be up close and personal.”

“She’s the only family I have. I’d feel terrible not flying out there for the holidays.”

“And how would that be different from how you feel now?”

He laughed, and Jenna gave him points for acknowledging the absurdity of the caveat he’d just offered. Actually, she liked him better for the laughter.

Still, she’d begun to feel that he was a little old to be so thoroughly manipulated by his mother and perhaps less than truthful about why he was here. Somewhere in the back of her mind was a sliver of uneasiness.

“Maybe I’d just feel more guilty.”

“Or maybe you’d feel more in control,” she suggested. “You said it doesn’t matter what you give her. This year send her an expensive bouquet of roses and then go out and have that good dinner, knowing that you’ve done the best you can. If she doesn’t like your gift, you haven’t lost anything. Except the experience of watching her disapproval.”

“Do you really think something like that will work?”

“I think if you tell yourself this Christmas is going to be different, it will be. Call her and tell her you aren’t going to be able to make it this year. Send the flowers. Then tell yourself that you’ve done your part, and if she doesn’t like them, that’s her problem.”

“She is my mother.”

“Yes, she is. And ultimately it’s your choice as to how much control you’re going to allow her.”

His eyes again dropped to his hands. “You’re right, of course. I know that. It isn’t easy to change the dynamics of a relationship as it’s existed all your life.”

“You want to or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I think I believed that you would just give me something to make me feel better about myself.”

“I thought I was,” Jenna said, smiling at him when he looked up. “You thought I’d give you some medication.”

“I did, but…If I may, I’d like some time to think about what you’ve said.”

“Of course.”

“And I can call you again if I want to talk?”

“Call my secretary and ask for an appointment. I have to warn you, though. I may not be able to fit you in so quickly.”

“I know. And I appreciate that you saw me today. I didn’t expect it, to tell the truth. Not with what you said about how many people have problems this time of year.”

“That’s why we try to see anyone who needs us.”

He nodded, and then he stood. Jenna rose as he extended his hand. She took it and was surprised to find his handshake firm, his palm slightly callused. Of course, a couple of sessions a week at a gym could explain that.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly.

“You’re welcome. Call again if you want to talk more.”

“I will.”

He released her hand, stepping away from the desk. He had almost reached the door before he turned back, nodding once more before he went through it.

Jenna blew out a breath, before sinking back into her chair. She should write up her notes on the session, but instead she pushed the folder that held John Nolan’s paperwork to the middle of her desk.

She crossed her arms over her chest and exhaled again, this one audible in the silence of her office. All she wanted to do now…

…was to have a stiff drink and a good dinner.

Maybe her last patient was a better therapist than she was. She picked up the phone and punched Sheila’s extension.

“I’m gone,” she said when the secretary answered. “Nothing at eight tomorrow, right?”

“And a cancellation at nine. You’re in luck.”

“Thanks, Sheila. Hold that thought.”

“I will, believe me. See you tomorrow.”

Jenna put the phone down and pushed her chair away from the desk. As she did, she turned to look out the expanse of glass behind her. Although she was an hour later than usual leaving, for some reason she was surprised to find that night had fallen with seasonal suddenness.

The anxiety she’d managed to hold at bay most of the day bubbled up again. She was no longer able to distinguish between the unease caused by the general hysteria that gripped the city and that created by her personal nemesis. All she knew was that she hadn’t had time to take care of the restraining order, and that she now faced the prospect of returning to her apartment to find him waiting for her again.

She thought about giving in and driving out to spend the night at her parents’ home. Only the knowledge of how isolated that big, empty house was made her decide that going back to her own apartment was the lesser of two evils. And if Sean Murphy was there again—

She would call the police. And this time she would keep calling until someone paid attention.

Head lowered against the wind, Jenna hurried across the parking deck, the sound of her heels echoing off the concrete. She had deliberately parked nearer the building this morning.

A good idea, she decided, since the staff lot was practically deserted. Of course, this close to Christmas everyone was eager to get away from the office as quickly as they could to take care of the hundred and one things that still needed to be done in preparation for the holiday.

She was going to have to learn to say no to additional appointments at the end of an already full day. It wasn’t good for her or for the client.

Tonight she had felt her patience unraveling as John Nolan droned on and on about not being able to please his mother. Normally that kind of thing wouldn’t have bothered her, but she’d had to fight the urge to tell him to get a grip.

Maybe that’s what she should have done, she thought as she fumbled in her bag to retrieve her keys. She had already punched the unlock command before she looked up.

The driver’s side of the dark blue Accord was directly in front of her. In the accumulation of road splatter from the last few rainy days, someone had written “Help me” on its side.

The H began on the left side of the door, the other letters tracking neatly across its length. She stopped, reading the words twice to make sure they said what she thought they did.

Help me? Why would someone write “Help me” on her car?

She glanced at the three remaining automobiles on this level. None of them bore a similar message.

Some kind of prank? Except this was a monitored area, used only by the staff. And they gained access to it with a card.

She was sure the words hadn’t been there this morning. Given their position, she would definitely have noticed.

“Something wrong?”

She turned to find Gary Evers, one of the other psychologists on staff, watching her. She shook her head, embarrassed to admit she’d been stopped in her tracks by some words scrawled in the road dirt on the side of her car.

“Just trying to figure out who’s been leaving me messages,” she said, nodding toward the Honda.

Gary looked at the door and then back at her. “Help me? The tradition where I come from is ‘wash me.’”

Jenna tried to remember where Gary was from, but all she knew was that it wasn’t anywhere in the South. Of course, the tradition here was the same as the one he’d quoted.

“That would make more sense.”

“Maybe it’s a message from someone who feels he can’t afford your services.” Gary’s smile invited her to share his amusement.

For some reason, she couldn’t see the humor in the situation. Maybe it was the result of the long hours she’d put in today. Or—more likely—the result of everything that had happened during the last three. Of second-guessing her own actions and reactions. Just as she was now.

Was this a staff member’s idea of a joke because she’d come across as sympathetic to the killer? Or had it been written in anger by someone else, someone who had taken her research-based explanation about the forces that created such a monster as a defense of his actions.

Someone like Sean Murphy?

However the words had been meant, she could find nothing the least bit amusing about them. “I don’t think that’s the proper avenue for someone seeking pro bono therapy. Or for a co-worker having a laugh at my expense.”

“You think someone here did that?” Gary’s eyes again touched on the scrawl.

“It is a secure lot.”

“Yeah, but…” Realizing she’d been serious, Gary shook his head. His smile had been replaced by a slightly quizzical expression. “You want me to wipe it off?”

Realizing that she was making herself ridiculous, Jenna forced a smile. “I have to get the car washed, anyway. Maybe that was the intent.”

“To get you to wash your car?” His tone had lightened in response to hers. “Think Paul’s been out here nosing around?”

Although Carlisle was a stickler for having the staff present their best faces to the world at all times, the thought of him prowling the parking deck looking for dirty cars was also ridiculous. Pointing that out was obviously Gary’s intent.

“If not Paul, then somebody,” she said. “I get the message.”

Gary laughed. “I’ll let you know tomorrow if I’ve got a similar inscription on mine. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going home to a long, hot bath and a tall drink.” Something that was getting to be a habit. “I have no idea why this…” She stopped, refusing to admit how much the writing had bothered her.

“Everybody’s on edge right now. With good reason. God, you weren’t thinking—” He stopped, realizing that was exactly what she’d been thinking. “Look, this is somebody’s idea of a joke. A stupid one, granted, but…You can’t really think he did this.”

“I think maybe someone who was angered or annoyed by what I said in the interview decided to mock what I do.”

“Why would anyone have been angered by your interview?”

“Did you hear it?”

“Just the part about the killer.”

The clip they’d played over and over. The one without her take on holiday depression.

“Did you think I came across as sympathetic?”

“You came across as a professional discussing someone who’s obviously mentally ill. And doing it in a reasoned manner.”

“And if you weren’t a psychologist? How would it have come across to you then?”

His hesitation was slight, but it was enough. “Look, I don’t—”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Jenna said, her words strained and flat. “Thanks for trying, though.”

“You can’t let yourself be held hostage to the morons of the world. If you do, then they win. You said nothing wrong, Jenna. Believe me, nobody here thinks so.”

That at least sounded genuine. It didn’t explain the writing on her car, but it did make her feel marginally better about who might have put it there.

“You want me to follow you home?” Gary asked.

“I appreciate the offer, but I have a couple of things to pick up on the way. I’ll be fine. Really.”

“Everybody’s feeling the pressure. I honestly don’t mind following you, even on your round of errands. We could stop and grab a bite to eat. Or get a head start on that drink you mentioned.”

She was a little surprised by the offer. Although Gary had been a member of the practice for well over a year, she’d gotten no vibes that he found her attractive.

Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was being kind because it was obvious she’d been upset by the message. She was reading more into the gesture than it warranted.

“That’s really very sweet, but…maybe I can get a rain check. Some night when we haven’t both been working late.”

“You got it.”

Jenna couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed. As he made the agreement, he’d stepped forward, reaching for the door handle of the Honda.

She realized that she hadn’t punched the remote. The accompanying beep when she did echoed through the nearly empty deck, just as her footsteps had.

Gary opened her door, and she slipped into the seat, using the excuse of fastening her seat belt to delay looking up at him. When she did, he was peering down into the car, his lips slightly pursed.

“Lock your doors.”

“You think—”

“I think I’d tell any woman in this city the same thing right now. Better safe than sorry.”

Unsure how to respond, she nodded. “I will.”

“Be careful,” he added, closing the door. He put the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the glass for a moment before he straightened, allowing her room to back out.

She inserted the key and started the engine. Then she looked out through the window to smile at him again. Before she put the car into Reverse, she lifted her hand and waved.

He didn’t return the gesture, but he stood watching as she headed toward the exit. When she looked back, just before she began the descent to the lower level, he was still standing in the same spot. And he was still watching her.

Six

Sean came awake with a start, neck muscles straining as his head jerked up off the pillow. His breath rasped in and out of his lungs as if he’d run a race.

He had. One he’d lost a long time ago. One at which he would never get a second chance.

Not unless you counted this.

He stretched his eyes wide in an attempt to wipe away the last of the dream. The motel-beige walls and plastic-backed floral draperies, which he had pulled across the window in order to sleep, helped to orient him.

He remembered where he was. And he knew why he was here.

The nightmare he’d just had was the same one he’d experienced over and over in the years since Makaela’s disappearance. Although he was painfully aware of how his sister had died, the dream never played out to that end. He always awoke before it could, his body drenched in sweat and his heart beating as if it would tear its way out of his chest. Today had been no different.

He closed his eyes again, waiting for the pump of blood to slow. He hadn’t experienced the terror of the dream in a long time, but he knew he shouldn’t be surprised it had happened now.

He was closer to Makaela’s murderer than he’d ever been before. He knew that with a certainty for which he could offer no rational explanation. He simply knew it.

Just as he had known outside Jenna Kincaid’s office two nights ago that the man he sought was also there. So near he could feel his evil. Could sense it in the air around him.

This was a smaller city than the ones the killer had chosen before. A limited population spread over a relatively contained geographic area, bound by the narrow valley that ran between the two mountain ridges in which the original settlement had been made.

Not only was the hunting ground here more contained, thanks to the friend Sean had made on the FBI task force, he’d gotten in on this spurt of homicides early. While the bastard was feeling invincible. Maybe this time…

Feeling his expectations rise to a level experience had taught him was premature, Sean released a slow breath, deliberately focusing on his plans for today. One step at a time. He had learned long ago that was the best way to keep the images from the dream, as well as those that represented the fulfillment of his quest, out of his consciousness.

After a moment, he held his wrist up so that despite the artificially darkened room, he could see the hands of his watch. It was 3:30 p.m. Which meant he would have time to shower and shave and maybe get something to eat before Jenna Kincaid left the office.

It would all get easier once he’d completed his move into the vacant unit in the building below hers, which might take place as early as tomorrow. The apartment he’d chosen wasn’t directly across from hers, but it did have a view of both the front entrance and the expanse of glass in Jenna’s living room.

He could only imagine how she would react when she discovered he was there. As much as he’d like to, there was probably no way to prevent her from finding out, which would almost certainly mean a confrontation with the local cops.

He wasn’t overly concerned about that. He had his own resources within the law enforcement community, people who would be willing to speak to the locals on his behalf.

And he wasn’t breaking any laws. Not by moving into an empty apartment. Nor would he be by sitting outside in the parking lot.

From now on, he was going to keep a very low profile. The only way he had any chance of finding the man he’d come here to kill was to fade into the background of Jenna Kincaid’s world, so that when the real stalking began, the man he was hunting would never know that he, too, was being stalked.

“Hey, sport. Whatcha doing?”

“Watching Wiggles,” Ryan said.

His nephew’s voice was so soft Sean had to strain to hear the words. If he hadn’t already known the probable answer, he wouldn’t have been able to decipher it.

Sean had long ago learned to keep his feelings about the boy’s choice of TV shows and books to himself. The kid didn’t need criticism, not of any kind. Especially not from him.

His day-care teachers all praised Ryan’s sweet nature and gentle disposition, assuring Sean that his nephew would eventually grow out of his shyness. Of course, none of them knew the kids’ backgrounds. He had figured that the fewer people who knew about Makaela’s murder, the better.

“You have a good day at school?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not much longer now,” Sean said, allowing his voice to rise teasingly at the end.

“Till Christmas?”

“That’s right. You getting excited?”

“Are you coming home?”

Sean swallowed the lump that hopeful question created. He knew he was their security blanket. Knew and accepted that that was his role. They were his family. And he was theirs. Literally all they had.

The problem was that he had also undertaken another role. One he took just as seriously. One he was far more suited to than playing mama and daddy to a couple of youngsters.

“As soon as I can,” he said, being careful not to make any promises he couldn’t keep.

“Before Christmas?”

“I don’t know, Scout. I hope so.”

“I got you something. Me and Cathy.”

“Yeah?”

“Something good. You’re gonna like it.”

“I know I will.”

“Cathy don’t think we’re getting a puppy, but I asked Santa.” They’d been over the dog thing a dozen times. Ryan had been told over and over again that it wasn’t possible. The lease didn’t allow it. Besides, it was hard enough to get someone good to live in and take care of the kids while he was away. If the job required cleaning up after a non-housebroken animal in the bargain—

“Uncle Sean?”

“I’m here. Look, we talked about the puppy. Maybe next summer. If we can find a house with a fenced-in yard—”

“That’s what she said.”

“Well, she’s right. I explained all that.”

“I still asked Santa. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

Sean closed his eyes, wishing he weren’t several hundred miles away. Wishing he had answers for that kind of question. Wishing most of all that this wasn’t the kind of fucked-up world where somebody could murder a little boy’s mother.

Makaela would have known how to respond to that wishful tone. She would probably have been able to juggle a full-time job and a puppy. When all he seemed able to manage—

“Uncle Sean? You still there?”

“Yeah. It’s okay to ask Santa, Scout, just as long as you’re prepared for him saying no.”

“Like when you pray.”

“What?”

“That’s what Maria says. It’s okay to pray for something, but that don’t mean you’re gonna get it.”

“Doesn’t mean,” Sean corrected.

“Doesn’t mean you’re gonna get it. Santa’s like that, too?”

“Something like that.”

“But sometimes you do.”

Get what you pray for, Sean thought, automatically filling in the missing syntax. “Sometimes.”

“I wish you were home.”

“Me, too.”

“You want to talk to Cathy?”

“Sure. You be good, now. Mind Maria.”

Maria Alvarez had been a godsend. She was older than he’d been looking for, but she had become the grandmother the kids had never had. Despite her references, when he’d first hired her, Sean had thought about setting up one of those home-surveillance cameras. It had quickly become apparent by the way the children responded to her that wouldn’t be necessary.

“Hey, Uncle Sean.”

“Hey, Princess. How are you?”

“Fine. How are you?”

Where Ryan was withdrawn, Cathy was the proverbial chatterbox. She never met a stranger, something that occasionally gave him nightmares, too. Only, her radar seemed pretty good in detecting the good guys from the bad.

The same thing you thought about Makaela.

“Missing you guys. Wishing I was home,” he said aloud. That was the truth. There was no need to prevaricate.

“Maria and I are making a fruitcake.”

Visions of the brick-shaped, perennial butt of holiday jokes flashed through his mind. “Yeah? Sounds good.”

“My job is measuring out the fruit.”

As far as Sean was concerned, the word fruit when used in conjunction with fruitcake was a misnomer. The artificially colored bits of red-and-green gunk it usually contained bore no resemblance to the real stuff.

“Your grandma used to make fruitcakes.”

The memory was just suddenly there in his head. Unexpected. And unwanted.

“Really? Cool. Did Mama help?”

“Yeah,” he said, fighting the rush of memories that had accompanied the first. “Yeah, she did.”

That was the problem with allowing any of them in. It opened the door to the rest. The ones he had fully intended never to think about again. Another reason the interview Jenna Kincaid had given had bothered him.

“We’ll save you a piece, but you have to promise that you’ll be home in time for Christmas.”

He swallowed, fighting two sets of emotions. Determined to give in to neither.

“I can’t promise that, Princess. I told you.”

“But you’ll try, won’t you? Ryan really wants you to be here. He needs you to. He’s started all that stuff about wanting a puppy again.”

“I know. He told me. You keep talking to him, okay? Make him understand that…That now just isn’t the best time for something like that.”

“I will. He’s just a baby.”

The gulf between Cathy’s seven-going-on-thirty maturity and Ryan’s immature four-almost-five seemed immeasurably wide. At least it was better than it had been three years ago when family services had handed the kids off to him.

He’d had no idea what to say to a four-year-old who had just lost her mother in the most brutal way imaginable. And no clue in hell what to do with a two-year-old.

That initial panic had, in the intervening years, given way to more normal concerns like whether or not he was providing all the right things for them. Child-care issues. Keeping up with vaccinations and checkups. Just getting them to bed at a reasonable hour sometimes seemed Herculean.

At least it had before he’d found Maria. And if it all worked out here…

He destroyed the thought, realizing how far from those concerns the one he was currently embarked upon was. How foreign to his problems with childcare.

“Gotta go,” he said, glancing at his watch again.

It was already four-thirty. With traffic, making it to Jenna Kincaid’s office before five would be a close-run thing. And it would mean doing without dinner again.

“But you’ll think about it, won’t you?” Cathy said, bringing his attention back.

“The puppy?”

“No, I know we can’t have a dog. Getting home before Christmas. You’ll try, won’t you?”

“I told you the last time. It just depends on how things go down here.”

“In Birmingham.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s where that killer is, right?”

The question caught at Sean’s gut, twisting it. He hesitated, wondering if someone could possibly have said something to the little girl about those deaths here.

“Who told you that?”

“I saw it on the news. Maria turned it off, but they said ‘Birmingham.’ I’m pretty sure.”

“And it worried you?”

“Yeah. A little.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Princess. You can quit worrying about that.”

There was silence on the other end. It lasted long enough that he felt that same squeeze of dread in his belly.

“You hear me, Princess. I’m taking care of business down here, and then I’ll be home. I swear to you.”

“Okay.”

“You take care of your brother. And save some of that cake for me.”

“Okay.”

The usually bubbly voice was still subdued. Sean closed his eyes, trying to find words that would comfort a child whose world had already been destroyed once.

“Have I ever lied to you?” he demanded.

“No,” she said softly. “At least I don’t think so.”

“What does that mean?”

“Is it him?”

“What him?”

The question was too harsh. He’d guarded them against everything he could possibly think of and still she’d somehow learned what had happened.

“The man who killed Mama.”

There was no way he could deal with this. Not from this distance. Not over the phone.

“I don’t know.”

“But you think so. That’s why you went down there, isn’t it?”

“I thought I could help the cops.”

“Because of what you know about Mama?”

“That’s right.”

His heart rate was beginning to slow. Maybe she’d known all along. Even at four, not much had gotten by her. And he had no idea what the social workers had told her before he’d gotten stateside. He’d never asked, and she hadn’t volunteered the information.

“You promise that’s why you went.”

“I promise.”

There was no response. The silence stretched until he wondered if she’d hung up.

“Princess? You okay?”

“I’m okay. But…I really think that even if you haven’t finished helping them, you need to come home for Christmas. For Ryan’s sake. Tell them everything you know as soon as you can, okay?”

“Just as soon as I can,” Sean promised. “Mind Maria, now. Tell her to give you a kiss for me.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Uncle Sean.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

The line went dead before he was forced to tell another lie. He punched the off button on the cell and closed it to stick it back into his jacket pocket.

Tell them everything you know as soon as you can….

If only it were that simple. That clean. A collaborative effort between him and the local cops.

He knew what was likely to happen instead. Despite the fact that the guy had murdered at least fourteen women, Sean would be arrested if he so much as touched him.

Jenna Kincaid was his ace in the hole. No one could possibly object to his killing the bastard in order to protect a prospective victim. All he had to do was to wait until the Inquisitor made his move against the psychologist, as he was now convinced he would. Then he could avenge Makaela’s murder under the guise of preventing another one.

There would be a couple of people on the national task force who would know what he’d done, but he could trust them to be pragmatic about the guy’s death. One less maniac on the loose. One less murderer to lose sleep over. And one less victim’s photograph to pin on their whiteboard.

No one who had seen those pictures was going to come after the guy who’d put an end to this monster. Nobody involved in the manhunt was going to grieve for that bastard’s death. That was the one absolute certainty he had had going into this.

It was the one he intended to cling to until this was over and he headed back to Michigan to buy a puppy for a little boy and to prove to a little girl that he still had never lied to her.

Seven

It was cold. It was dark. And it was beginning to rain.

Jenna knew she was being ridiculous again, but the knowledge of how irrational this was didn’t stop her from pulling into the service station three blocks from her office, which offered a free car wash when you filled up your tank.

She had planned to do exactly that, but when she pulled next to the pumps, she noticed a windshield squeegee and a roll of paper towels sitting in the middle of them. Nearby was a container of soapy water. With those, she could clean the writing off her car while her gas was pumping.

That method also had the advantage of getting her home and out of the cold more quickly. Something that at this point weighed heavily in its favor.

She stepped out of the car, her shoulders hunched against the assault of the wind and rain. She swiped her card and at the prompt lifted the nozzle. As she turned to stick it into her tank, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a black SUV pulling onto the service road she’d taken to get to the station.

She watched as it drove by and into the lot of the upscale supermarket next door. The nozzle still in her hand, she continued to track its progress as the driver maneuvered the vehicle into a parking space. The taillights winked off. Although she waited, eyes straining at the distance, no one emerged from the car.

Jenna started as a horn blasted at close range. Her eyes jumped from the car she’d been watching to the pickup that had pulled up behind her at the pumps. The driver rolled down the window and stuck his head out.

“You gonna get gas or not, lady? I gotta pick up my kid at basketball practice.”

In an unthinking response to that demand, she began once more to direct the nozzle she held toward the opening of her tank. As she did, the writing on the side of her car seemed to leap out at her.

Help me. Sean Murphy’s idea of a practical joke? An attempt to make her believe the killer had sent her a message?

It seemed to fit with all the rest. His contention that she’d been sympathetic to a murderer. His attempt to terrorize her by telling her she matched the victim profile. Even his mocking phone call last night.

This had gone far enough, she decided. Too damn far.

She turned, slamming the nozzle back into its niche on the body of the pump. She opened the car door and climbed behind the wheel. She started the engine and then maneuvered around the rear end of the car in the line in front of her.

The man behind her yelled something through his open window, but his words were lost in the wind and growing distance between them. Her total concentration was on the SUV in the next lot.

It was parked near the main entrance of the grocery store, where the shoppers who were coming in and out walked right by it. At this time of the evening, the place was crowded because of the deli-bakery this market was noted for. Since it was on her way home, she had often stopped here to pick up something for supper.

In addition to the people coming in and out of the store, the lot was well-lit and patrolled by a security cart. If she was determined to confront Murphy, this was probably as safe a place as she could find. Undoubtedly safer than the deserted lot of her apartment complex last night.

As she approached the SUV, she realized that the nearest open space was in the next row over and three or four slots down. Only when she’d pulled in and turned the key, killing the motor, did doubt about the wisdom of her actions resurface.

Despite her initial assessment in her office that day, there was really no way to know if Murphy was dangerous. He was certainly out of line in following her. And if he had written those words on her car—

Remembering the chill she’d felt when she’d seen them—obviously the effect he’d been trying for—she grabbed the keys from the ignition and climbed out. She hit the remote to lock the car and dropped the key ring into the pocket of her coat.

As she walked toward the SUV, she expected him to peel out of the parking place in an attempt to avoid her. The vehicle didn’t move, however, not even when she crossed in front—clearly visible through the windshield—to get to the driver’s side.

She glanced up long enough to verify that Sean Murphy was watching her approach. Before she could knock on the driver’s side window as she’d intended, he opened his door, forcing her to step back against the car parked beside him.

In the light of the halogen lamp, he seemed to loom above her. She fought panic caused by the sudden realization that this was probably not the smartest thing she’d ever done.

She had deliberately provoked this confrontation. It was too late to back out now. Besides, the best defense…

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She sounded like a broken record. They’d had this conversation last night. Obviously, it had gotten her nowhere.

“Stopping to pick up something for dinner.” His voice was conversational, in contrast to the shrillness of hers.

“And you were going to do that without getting out of the car.”

“Actually, I was listening to something on the radio.” He inclined his head toward the open door. From inside the SUV came the sound of a country song.

“Are you honestly going to tell me that you aren’t following me?”

“I believe I was here first. Are you sure you aren’t following me, Dr. Kincaid?”

The amusement in his voice produced the same reaction it had last night. Jenna couldn’t remember ever striking anyone in her life. She couldn’t even remember wanting to. But she wanted to hit him.

“I was at the service station when I saw you drive by and then park over here. You didn’t get out of the car. You didn’t go inside. It’s pretty obvious you were just waiting for me to finish getting gas.”

“The last time I checked this was a free country. I told you. I stopped by to pick up something for dinner. I’m in the process of moving and cooking’s difficult right now. Somebody recommended this place, so I thought I’d give it a shot.”

She didn’t believe him. Nor did she believe his story about listening to whatever was on the radio.

“I’m going to get a restraining order against you.”

“That’s your prerogative. Just be warned they may want you to demonstrate I’ve actually done something I need to be restrained from doing. Something illegal. You should probably be prepared for that.”

“How about storming into my office?”

“I offered to pay for your time. And I left as soon I said what I had to say. Which, if you remember, was a warning that you might be in danger. And I haven’t been back.”

“You followed me home.”

“I drove down a public thoroughfare at the same time you did. You turned off. I went straight. That hardly constitutes ‘following’ you.”

“And last night? At the complex? How do you explain that you were sitting out in the parking lot looking in my window?”

“I told you. I’m moving.”

It was so unexpected, so thoroughly brazen, that it took a moment before the implication registered. “Moving where?”

“There are several units available. Have you been satisfied with the management? They seem nice enough, but you never really know until you’ve lived somewhere—”

“Are you saying that you’re moving into my building?”

“I couldn’t afford anything on the crest. Just into the complex itself.”

The audacity left her breathless. Renting one of those units not only meant that he’d be living practically next door to her, it effectively destroyed her claim that he’d been spying on her when he’d been parked across the street last night. He could say that he had simply been checking out the place before signing a lease.

“You can’t do that.”

“As of tomorrow, I can.”

Tomorrow was the fifteenth. Her own lease ran from midmonth to midmonth, so it was possible he was telling the truth.

“Why?”

“I’m a good neighbor, Dr. Kincaid. I swear you won’t even know I’m around.”

“And I guess I can expect more of what you did today.”

There was a beat of silence. Given his glibness in answering every other question she’d thrown at him, she was surprised he didn’t have a ready response for this one.

“And what was that?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You wrote on my car.”

His mouth opened, and then he closed it to shake his head. She thought she heard a breath of laughter, but it was cut off so quickly she couldn’t be sure.

“Believe it or not, I don’t write on cars. I haven’t since I was twelve. Something interesting?”

“What?”

“Whatever was written on your car.”

“Not to me.”

She couldn’t make a dent in that wall of supremely confident male arrogance. He mocked both her anger and her threats, treating her as if she were some hysterical female who just didn’t get it. Not the killer. And certainly not him.

Despite everything, her impression was still that they were not one and the same. She wasn’t afraid of this man. No matter what he said, she knew he’d been following her. And yet standing within two feet of him, she had no sense of danger.

That wasn’t the result of any logical thought process, because it couldn’t be. It was strong and instinctive, however, and she was practiced enough in making that kind of evaluation that she respected this one.

“I’d still like to know what it said,” he repeated, the mockery carefully controlled.

At this point she could see no reason not to tell him. Actually, she found that she wanted to tell him, which implied, as incredible as it seemed, that she believed he hadn’t written those words.

“It said ‘Help me.’”

A crease formed between his brows. “Somebody wrote ‘Help me’ on your car? While it was in the staff parking deck?”

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