Contents
MIND OF A KILLER
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
Blood Storm
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
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Kill Shot
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
The Bone Whisperer
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
CHAPTER NINETY
Dead Ringers
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN
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MIND OF A KILLER
CHAPTER ONE
The horror movie credits rolled as Kacy Deering took one more sip of gin and pulled Braden’s arm off her shoulder. Braden touched her bare thigh and she swatted his hand, softening the gesture with a smile.
“Not now.”
“Come on, Kacy.”
“What if the Walshes come home?”
The television volume was low so it wouldn’t disturb five-year-old Chase upstairs. The hands on the grandfather clock edged closer to eleven. Though the Walshes weren’t due back until midnight, Kacy remembered them returning an hour early the last time she babysat. A few minutes earlier and they would have caught Braden sneaking down the driveway in the dark.
The boy moved his hand back to her thigh. She grabbed his wrists with a playful giggle.
“Stop.”
He sighed.
“Fine. Be that way.”
“It’s not like I don’t want to.”
“Yeah, yeah. But never tonight, always next time.”
He pushed himself off the leather sofa and snatched his sweatshirt. Yanking it over his head, he ripped the keys from his pocket. That was another thing. His Charger was parked in the driveway. Old Clyde Sullivan next door wouldn’t notice the car due to the bordering oaks and privacy fence, but he’d hear the thumping bass of the car stereo and see the headlights burning holes into the garage. And if the Walshes happened to pull up…
Kacy brushed the hair from her eyes and folded her arms.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking down at the floor.
“It’s not a problem.”
The way he glared at the door indicated it most certainly was a problem.
“Call me in the morning. I’ll make it up to you soon. I promise.”
Braden nodded. Then he was gone into the June night.
Through the closed door she heard the engine gun, followed by music blasting. Something pinged off the undercarriage, probably a rock. Then nothing. Worrying again about Mr. Sullivan, Kacy parted the curtains and stared across the property. Thick foliage cloaked the Sullivan’s house.
Just the dark night.
The quiet of the sprawling Dutch Colonial pressed down when she closed the curtains, strangely deafening. Kacy rubbed goosebumps off her arms and turned on the news. Anything to break the silence.
Thump.
She was about to flop onto the couch when the noise scared her. Couldn’t discern if it came from upstairs or outside.
“Chase? You awake?”
She turned off the television and listened. No pitter-patter of feet crossing the upstairs hall, no toilet flush or water running.
She called the boy’s name again and shrugged when no reply came. Running her eyes across the living room, her heart leaped as she eyed the half-empty bottle of gin on the end table.
“Shit,” she said, quickly snatching the bottle and stuffing it into her backpack, wondering how she could be so careless.
Kacy’s feet slapped the polished hardwood as she carried their glasses into the kitchen. While she waited for the sink to fill she breathed against her hand. No scent of alcohol. She scrubbed the glasses clean, dried and put them away in the cupboard, the busy work settling her mind. She felt foolish for getting jumpy after watching a horror movie as if she were in middle school again.
Back in the living room she p
acked her windbreaker and wrapped it around the bottle. Evidence concealed. Now she only had to wait for the Walshes to come home, fingers crossed that the neighbors didn’t hear Braden leave.
Thump.
Louder this time, too heavy for a child’s footsteps.
Suddenly she was terrified of the Dutch Colonial’s hidden corridors, of the night scraping at the windows and how every shadow looked deformed and monstrous.
She padded to the staircase and peered up. Darkness swallowed the second-floor landing.
“Chase? You didn’t fall, did you? Chase?”
Little more than a whisper emanated from her dry throat.
Kacy grabbed her phone. Fingers squeezed the case as she held the banister and placed one foot on the bottom stair. Braden would be home in a few minutes. She contemplated calling him, then decided she couldn’t deal with him making fun of her for being afraid.
She flicked the wall switch. Now she viewed the top of the stairway. A fire lily accented the landing, its red petals open like gaping mouths.
Halfway up the stairs she stopped and listened. Perhaps the sound had been the bathroom door slamming.
But the bathroom and bedroom doors were open when Kacy reached the landing, all rooms spilling black shadows into the hallway like blood in the moonlight. She didn’t like the twin quarter-moon windows. Like Halloween pumpkin eyes.
Her heart was a trip hammer. It climbed into her throat and constricted her lungs. Kacy knew she was being foolish. Her mind refused to stop racing.
Houses made strange sounds sometimes, but never this loud.
She swiped at the phone and pulled up her contacts. Wanted to phone her mother. And say what? That a bump in the night turned her into a frightened toddler?
Kacy took another measured step down the hall. The floor was chilly on her feet. From this angle, the boy’s bed was impossible to see. She carefully edged toward his room, frightened when the floorboards squeaked.
Chase’s bedroom was only steps away, yet it seemed so far. Miles away. If only she could break the ice off her legs and move faster. The plan was already firm in her mind—she would go inside, close and lock the door, curl up beside the boy and wait until the Walshes came home. Which should be any minute now.
The floorboards groaned while she was still. Wasn’t her. Who—
The light switch flicked off a split second before the landing went black.
A gloved hand covered Kacy’s mouth. Suffocated her scream and dragged it under. A slice of moonlight flared across the knife’s surface before the intruder raked the blade across her throat.
A terrible burning. Tearing. Choking.
Then she was one with the darkness. Tumbling into the depthless black.
CHAPTER TWO
The shrill of the phone ringing pulled Scarlett Bell out of a deep sleep. The nightmare was back, worse than it had been in years.
Reaching for the phone, she knocked the sleeping pills off the table and spilled her water. It poured onto the carpet as she cursed and righted the glass.
“Bell,” she said, turning on the lamp.
“You awake yet?”
She wasn’t sure who it was until Neil Gardy’s trademark snicker tickled her ear. The laugh was something close to Muttley, a cartoon dog from her childhood, and always managed to lighten her mood. The clock read four, the first grays of predawn bubbling out of the Atlantic and touching the windows.
“I am now.”
Grabbing the first thing she saw which passed for a rag, she dropped her t-shirt on the spill and stomped down. The cotton wicked the water and touched the sole of her foot.
“How soon can you be at Dulles?”
Her adrenaline ratcheted up.
“Uh…I don’t know.” Scarlett fumbled through the fallen items on the floor and retrieved her wallet and FBI badge. At thirty-two, she was the Behavior Analysis Unit’s youngest agent. “Six-thirty if I hurry.”
“Make it six.”
Opening the sliding glass door, she let the thick humidity caress her skin. The Potomac sparkled below her walk-out deck, the salty taste of the Atlantic on the wind. Inside, she hurriedly stuffed three days worth of shirts and pants into an overnight bag, still no idea how long she’d be away or why she needed to leave.
“What’s the rush?”
“Someone murdered a teenage girl in the Finger Lakes.”
“New York.”
“Right. Tiny village called Coral Lake. Ever hear of it?”
With a huff, Bell realized she’d need socks and underwear and started unloading her dresser drawer.
“Can’t say that I have. I don’t get it, though. One murdered girl shouldn’t require BAU assistance.”
“Normally it wouldn’t,” he said. She heard a zipper, probably Gardy sealing his suitcase, ready to bolt and waiting for her to get moving. “It’s not pretty. The girl was babysitting. Our unknown subject slit the girl’s throat and chopped her into pieces.”
“Jesus.” Jillian popped back into her head. The memories always did when a young person was murdered. “Tell me the kids weren’t…”
“Only one kid in the house. And, no. He didn’t touch the boy. Only the babysitter. Maybe he didn’t know the boy was there. Somehow the kid slept through the whole ordeal.”
Bell released her breath. Being a sound sleeper might have kept the child alive.
“One more thing.” A pause, as if he didn’t want to tell her something. It wasn’t like Gardy to pull punches. “He scalped her.”
“He what?”
“Scalped the skin and hair off her head and took it with him, along with her clothes.” She let the bag drop and fell down on the bed. Her head spinned. “You still with me?”
“I’m here,” she said, forcing herself into a sitting position as she switched the phone to her other ear. “That’s unique to say the least. What does CODIS say? Any similar murders in New York over the last few years?”
“Nothing like that, no. Which tells me one thing. He’s new to this.”
“And just getting started.”
“Exactly. If he’s this violent on the first kill, imagine when he escalates.” Bell didn’t want to imagine. “But we’ve got to hit the ground running. The murder occurred Friday night so we’re already a day-and-a-half behind.”
“Why the delay?”
“I don’t think the local sheriff knew what he had on his hands. He didn’t consider the serial killer possibility. Good thing he realizes he’s in over his head. The crime scene techs have been over everything, but the house is undisturbed. Minus the body parts, of course. But the scene gets a little more stale with each lost second, which is why we need to be on that flight.”
She did the math in her head. If she settled for a granola bar for breakfast, she could shower and be out the door in forty-five minutes. Then there was the traffic around D.C. to deal with, always a potential fly in the ointment. At least it was a Sunday morning and not a workday.
“Okay, I’ll be there by six.”
“Before six.”
“But you said—”
“Up and at ‘em, sunshine. See you in a few.”
Typical Gardy. He always wanted things done five minutes ago. Gardy was one of the BAU’s most respected agents, a prime candidate for Deputy Director of CIRG, the Critical Incident Response Group. It couldn’t happen soon enough as far as Bell was concerned. Anyone was a fitting replacement for Don Weber and his religious devotion to statistics. Bell appreciated someone needed to fight the higher-ups, and statistical proof validating BAU’s crime-solving methodology was critical for funding, but did he need to treat everyone like a number?
After showering she raked the brush through her straight, blonde hair. It touched the tops of her shoulders, the longest her hair had been since senior year at George Mason. In the mirror, her emerald eyes appeared to glow under the LED lighting, almost cat-like.
In the quiet of the bathroom the memory of her dream returned. She was nine-years-old agai
n, as was the case each time the dream returned. Fate lent her another opportunity to warn her friend. Don’t let Jillian walk home alone. Stay away from the creek. The water was dangerous, and someone had seen a stranger along the banks.
During sleepovers Jillian was always afraid of the dark. When the lights went out Bell would croon like a ghost until Jillian yelped and turned the lights back on. Then the door would open and Mrs. Rossi would be angry, warning Jillian she would wake the neighbors. Then one day someone stole Jillian away and turned the lights off forever.
The abduction and murder remained an open sore for Bell, a wound that would never heal.
Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Bell hurried to the bedroom and dressed, snatched the granola bar out of the cupboard when she finished.
She was packed and running for the door, the .40 caliber Glock-22 holstered, when she remembered the sleeping pills. They rattled in the bottle as she unzipped the overnight bag and stuffed them inside with her clothes, a subtle reminder to make an appointment with her therapist, Dr. Morford, when she returned. Whenever that might be.
The viciousness of the murderer simultaneously terrified and invigorated her, as did the prospect of getting inside his head. Somewhere to the north, the killer walked among his unknowing neighbors, breathing the same air, waiting for an internal alarm to sound and propel him to kill again. Bell’s stomach tingled with the excitement of the hunt.
One final glance around the apartment to ensure the oven burners were off and the windows locked, and she shut the door.
She could already see the sun growing out of the horizon when she reached the highway, the distant ocean bloody and frothing.
CHAPTER THREE
The flight into Syracuse was turbulent, the plane dropping and tilting in roller coaster undulations. Gardy looked a little green beside Bell. He kept eyeing the vomit bag.
“So tell me more about the sheriff,” Bell said.
She wanted to keep him talking and take his mind off the bumpy ride. The window light brought out flecks of gray in Gardy’s eyebrows and short, brown hair.
“Sheriff Lerner. Less than a year on the job and it shows. He’s part of a disturbing trend—politicians without law enforcement backgrounds who know a thing or two about winning elections, but not so much about law enforcement.”
“You think that’s why he didn’t call for help sooner?”