Читать книгу The Watcher - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 15

Nic and Greg had bought a home in Woodbridge, Virginia, shortly after they married. It had made sense for them to live within easy driving distance of their jobs. She had worked in D.C. and he’d worked in Alexandria. When Greg died, she had taken a month off, then went to her boss and asked for a transfer to another field office. Anywhere in the U.S., just as long as it was away from D.C., away from all the memories, both good and bad. She’d worked in two states during that time and wound up heading a task force on the Beauty Queen Killer case when the Special Agent in Charge, Curtis Jackson, had retired. But when that case, for all intents and purposes, had been solved, she’d decided it was time to go home. Back to the D.C. field office, with a territory that covered not only D.C. but also cities surrounding the capital. Arlington. Alexandria. Quantico.

Although she’d thought about selling the house in Woodbridge, she had, after letting it remain empty for over a year, put her furniture in storage and turned it over to a realtor to lease.

If she’d thought time and distance would erase the memories, would heal her broken heart, and appease her guilty conscience, she’d been wrong. Moving back into the home she and Greg had purchased, decorated together, and lived in for the three years of their marriage hadn’t been easy. But she liked her house, liked the neighborhood, and felt comfortable here. So what if from time to time, she felt Greg’s presence? If his spirit lingered here, perhaps simply in her memories, then it was a kind, gentle spirit.

Gregory Baxter had been a kind, gentle man.

Nic turned over in bed—a king-size bed that she had bought new when she moved back into the Woodbridge house last summer—and glanced at the alarm clock. Five ten. The alarm was set for five thirty. She tossed back the light covers, slid to the edge of the bed, and sat up. After shutting off the alarm, she stood, stretched, and headed for the closet. When she was at home, she walked every morning in her neighborhood and the one adjoining it. Two miles. And she worked out at the gym three days a week.

Once dressed and fully awake, she headed out the back door. It was barely daylight and already humid. She could feel the heavy moisture in the air. Early morning was the best time to walk, run, or jog in the summertime. In her twenties, she had jogged, but a knee injury had forced her to take her doctor’s advice and change to brisk walking. Better on the knee joints.

As she set her pace and headed up the street, her body went on automatic pilot. Her route never varied. Although she might speak to a fellow walker or jogger, she never lingered to talk to anyone and really didn’t know her neighbors beyond her own block.

For the past thirty-six hours, her thoughts had centered on one thing: somewhere out there a woman was going to be abducted this morning and there was nothing she could do to stop it from happening. It didn’t help that she and Griff had figured out three of the four clues. They knew that a blonde would be kidnapped this morning and in all likelihood she was either a basketball player or a golfer. How many women fit that description? Too many.

Nic rounded the corner of the second block, picking up speed, pushing herself, as her mind replayed the final clue. Rubies and lemon drops. She had driven herself crazy trying to figure out what the hell that meant. Griff had half his staff at Powell’s trying to come up with something.

Griff. She’d spoken to him once since they’d parted company early yesterday morning. He had called her shortly after eight last night. He was back at Griffin’s Rest and doing what she was doing—waiting for the inevitable. And hoping beyond hope that they could figure out who the next victim might be.

Before it was too late.

There would be no way to get Griff out of her life now. If the killer continued to phone them both with clues, they would have to compare notes on a regular basis. And, as Griff had told her, he would stay either one step ahead of or one step behind the authorities on every case.

She had talked to Doug again. “I think the killer wants me heading up this case. Why else would he choose a victim from Alexandria, in my territory? I think he picked me just like he picked his victims.”

“Isn’t that reason enough not to play along?” Doug had asked her.

“I have to do this. He knows that. Talk to Ace Warren. Persuade him to use his influence to see that I’m put in charge. Make us the office of origin on this case and the others the Auxiliary offices. After all, our killer is talking personally to me and not to any other agent.”

“He’s also talking to Griffin Powell,” Doug had reminded her. “Want me to put him in charge, too?”

“Very funny.”

“I’ll talk to Ace.”

“Thanks.”

Nic had spent more than four years of her career tracking down the BQ Killer and when Cary Maygarden had been unveiled as the murderer, that should have put an end to it. Unfortunately, one small but significant clue had kept her from writing “The End” to the story that everyone else had said was concluded. Two bullets had been found in Maygarden’s body. One bullet had come from Powell’s sharpshooter Holt Keinan’s rifle and the other from an unknown source. Although the bureau and the local authorities in Knoxville had looked into the matter, nothing had ever come of it. Dead end. Only she and Griff had been convinced that there had been a second BQ Killer, one who had ended the deadly game—the dying game—by shooting his partner.

The second killer had laid low for a whole year, killing again almost a year from the day that Cary Maygarden had died. Coincidence? No way.

As Nic power-walked block after block, her mind moving as quickly as her feet, her brain jumped from thought to thought. But she finally realized that it all came back down to that final, perplexing clue—rubies and lemon drops.

By the time she had come full circle and returned to her block, dawn light was spreading across the eastern horizon in vibrant splashes of color. A pink glow so dark it was almost red, fringed in pale gold. Something she’d heard her grandmother say when she was a child came to mind. “Red sky in the morning is a sailor’s warning.” A red morning sky forecast rain.

Nic slowed when she reached her driveway, tossed her head back, and sucked in huge gulps of fresh air. Her gaze lingered on the sky, alight with color, red and gold, pink and yellow.

Red and yellow.

Rubies and lemon drops.

Damn! Could it be that simple?

Had the final clue been the colors red and yellow? If so, what could it possibly mean? The color of her hair? Blonde. The color of her car? Red? That couldn’t be it.

Colors. Think colors. Paints, crayons, eye color, hair color, skin color.

Wiping the perspiration from her cheeks with the back of her hand, Nic paused at her kitchen door. She removed the mint green plastic spiral wristband with her key attached and unlocked the door.

Think sports. Colors. School colors?

Was there any college with red and yellow as school colors?

Nic closed the door behind her, walked into her kitchen, and saw that the coffeemaker she had set the night before had brewed eight cups of heavenly smelling black coffee.

Shower first. Coffee later.

School colors. Red and yellow.

If you mix red with yellow you get—orange.

Orange was the dominant color for how many colleges?

Nic yanked her cell phone from the clip on her walking shorts, hit the programmed number, and held her breath until she heard his voice.

“Rubies and lemon drops,” she said. “Red and yellow. Mix those colors and you get orange.”

“So you do.” Griffin Powell sounded wide-awake and not the least surprised to hear from her.

“Think school colors—what comes to mind when you say orange?”

“My first thought is UT, of course.” He cursed softly under his breath. “That’s too simple, but—”

“What if the woman he intends to abduct this morning is a basketball player from UT? I know it’s a long shot, but—”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“I can contact the campus police,” Nic said. “They may think I’m crazy and I can’t say I’d blame them, but—”

“Let me handle this,” Griff told her. “I’ve got an in at UT. I know the head of campus security and if I ask him to check on all the blonde players on the UT women’s basketball team, he’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Griff.” She hesitated, hating that, in this case, he could do more than she could and do it quicker. “Call me as soon as you find out anything.”

“You realize this could turn out to be nothing. Yes, red and yellow make orange and orange is a UT color. But you’ve already admitted that it really is a long shot. We’ve probably got it all wrong.”

“You mean I’ve got it all wrong.”

“If we’re partners, then we’re both wrong or we’re both right.”

“We are not partners.”

“Whatever you say, Nicki.”

Before she could come up with an adequate snappy comeback, he hung up. Smart-ass.

Nic eyed the coffee. She could almost taste it. Resisting temptation, she hurried to the bathroom, placed her cell phone on the vanity, and stripped. Once under the shower-head, she closed her eyes and let the warm water pepper down over her head and body.

The odds were her guess about the color orange was wrong, which would make their second guess that the potential victim was a UT basketball player also wrong.

Oh, God, please, please let me be right. And if I am, don’t let it be too late to save her.

Amber Kirby went for her morning run. During the week, she got up earlier than on weekends and usually had the trail to herself for at least part of her run. When the fall semester started and there were more students on campus, the trail wouldn’t be as solitary as it was today. She didn’t mind the solitude because she often used earphones to listen to her favorite tunes on her iPod.

Just as she made it to the halfway point and was heading back, she met a man walking the trail instead of running or jogging as most people did. Because he was only the second person she’d seen in her three-mile jog this morning, she glanced at him, her gaze connecting with his for half a second. He looked like someone who needed exercise. Although he wasn’t fat, his body looked soft and pudgy and his face was round and full.

He smiled as she whizzed past him. She returned his smile.

An odd shiver rippled along her nerve endings.

Okay, so there had been something strange about the guy. That didn’t mean she should be afraid. After all, it was obvious that she could easily outrun him. And even though he was a man, she’d bet she was as strong as he was. Maybe stronger.

Ignore your gut feeling that something’s wrong. Just keep running.

Amber glanced over her shoulder.

Walking in the opposite direction at a plodding speed, the man was almost out of sight. He hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t turned and followed her.

How silly of me to think that that pudgy-looking guy was dangerous.

Although Nic was still officially on vacation, she’d driven into D.C. to Justice Square and met Doug just as he arrived at the office. If she had stayed at home, the waiting would have driven her stark, raving mad. It had been over three and a half hours since she’d spoken to Griff and he hadn’t called back. She figured he didn’t have anything to report, that she hadn’t solved the rubies and lemon drops word puzzle. After all, what were the odds that they’d actually been able to put all the pieces together using those last two asinine clues?

Nic had wanted to see ADIC Ace Warren, but Doug hadn’t been able to arrange a meeting.

“Ace can’t fit you in,” Doug had told her. “I’ll see if I can get you a few minutes of his time tomorrow. In the meantime, go home, take it easy. You’re supposed to be on vacation, you know. A much-needed vacation.”

There was no point in her hanging around here, accomplishing nothing except irritating Doug. She knew the wheels were turning, if somewhat slower than she would like. But the field offices in each state where a woman had been murdered—shot in the head, scalped, and hung by her feet—had been notified, and agents were checking into the matter and comparing notes. If she made a pest of herself, she wasn’t likely to endear herself to either Doug or Ace Warren. And the last thing she wanted was to piss off either of them. What she wanted was for Ace to put her in charge of the bureau’s investigation into this serial killer case when the bureau actually became officially involved.

Just as Nic slid behind the wheel of her Chevy Trail-Blazer, her cell phone rang. With shaky hands, she jerked the phone from her pocket, noted the caller ID, and flipped open the phone.

“Yeah, what?” she asked.

“You were right,” Griff said, but he didn’t sound pleased.

“Right about?”

“She’s a basketball player for UT. Her name is Amber Kirby. She’s twenty, blonde, and runs early every morning as part of her daily fitness routine.”

Nic swallowed hard, her gut warning her that something was wrong. Bad wrong. “Just tell me.”

“Amber Kirby went for her morning run three hours ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

“Son of a bitch!” Emotion tightened Nic’s throat. “He’s got her.”

“Yeah, more than likely.”

“If only we’d figured out that final clue sooner.”

“Don’t go there,” Griff told her. “This is not our fault.”

“If we just had some idea where he’s taken her and what he’s going to do to her. Assuming he stays true to form, we have twenty-one days to find her before he kills her.”

“Twenty-one days or twenty-one years, it doesn’t matter. We don’t have the slightest idea where he’s taken her.”

“He’ll call us,” Nic said. “He’ll give us more clues.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m right. You wait and see. He enjoys tormenting us far too much not to continue forcing us to play his game. He may not call today or tomorrow, but he’ll call.”

“Nic?”

“Huh?”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“Yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Right.” He paused for a couple of seconds, then asked, “Are you still on vacation or have you—?”

“Officially, I haven’t gone back to work yet. I was supposed to take two weeks, but I can’t. Not now. I’ll save a week for later on.”

“I have a suggestion.”

“What?”

“You could come here to Griffin’s Rest for a few days.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You could meet some of my team, work with us, and we’d be together when the Scalper calls again,” Griff said.

“The Scalper, huh?”

“You and I both know that it’ll take some time for the bureau to coordinate things with local and state authorities. It could be another week or two before they form a task force, if then. Work with me and we could be ahead of the game.”

He made it sound so tempting. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”

“Okay. Have it your way.”

“Griff?”

“Yeah?”

“If he calls you—”

“I’ll let you know immediately.”

“Same here.”

“Take it easy, honey. And stop beating yourself up for not being Wonder Woman.”

Griff had taken his small, single-engine fishing boat out onto the lake earlier today and had spent a couple of hours in the fresh air and sunshine. He owned several seacraft, everything from the fishing boat to a yacht he kept docked in Charleston, where he owned a beach house. As much as he enjoyed deep sea fishing, there was something to be said for hours of lazy, relaxed fishing on a tranquil lake. As a boy he’d gone fishing in any branch or stream he could find, and his mama had always fried up his catch for supper. Those had been lean days when a fat catfish on their dinner table had meant the difference between eating and going hungry.