I Can See You

Chapter Thirteen

Wednesday, February 24, 12:50 a.m.

Rachel Ward noted with bleary-eyed annoyance that her glass had become empty. “Another, please. Vodka, straight up.”

The bartender shook his head. “Last call was five minutes ago. I’ll call you a cab.”

She glared at the man, then dropped her eyes to glare at her empty glass. She’d lost count of how many she’d had while waiting for that sonofabitch John. He’d stood her up. Got her worked up into a froth, then had stood her up.

“No, I have a ride.” She pushed away from the bar, teetering in her high heels. It had been a long time since she’d worn heels. Five years. The same amount of time since she’d been to a bar. Or had sex. That hadn’t ended so well, either.

She thought of Bernie, rotting in his cell, and felt a pang of regret mixed with anger. If he hadn’t gone and fucked everything up… He’d had affairs on the road, she knew he did. She’d found countless matchbooks from truck stops and condom wrappers in his pockets. He’d never even denied it. Patted me on the head and said men had needs.

It still made her blood boil. And he’d expected her to be some little nun, just waiting for her man to roll out of his rig into her bed every two weeks? That hadn’t been what she’d signed up for when she’d married him. He wasn’t the man she’d thought he was.

That he’d been so stunned at her affairs had been a shock to her. That he’d been so angry made her furious. That he’d been capable of such brutality still horrified her, down to her bones. And that people had died in the fire Bernie set was something she still hadn’t been able to forget. She could still hear their screams in her nightmares.

She’d been good for five years. Done penance. Gone to church. Tonight was supposed to be a little… reward. Time off for good behavior. But once again, she’d picked wrong. John seemed so nice online. So honest. And as horny as she was.

But he’d stood her up. Maybe he came in, but didn’t like what he saw and left. She knew the years had not been good to her. In the last five years she’d aged twenty. John had seemed straight. A businessman who was in town for one night and only wanted sex. No ties, no relationship for Bernie to find out about.

Because Bernie would find out if she got a boyfriend. He had ways. She knew he kept tabs on her, even from the state pen. His letters contained sly references to her routine, to any promotions at work. To the flu she’d just gotten over. Anything to let her know he watched her, that he hadn’t forgiven her.

Discovering Shadowland had been the best damn thing that ever happened to her. She could be herself, not worry about what anybody told Bernie. She could fuck twenty guys in a night online and nobody would ever know. Sometimes you wanna go where no one knows your name. Ain’t that the truth. Looked like that was where she’d end up tonight. I should stop for batteries on my way home, she thought glumly.

She searched for her keys, then looked up to find the bartender giving her a pitying look. Smug bastard. “First sobriety test, ma’am. You gave me your keys when you sat down. That you forgot is a good sign that you shouldn’t be driving. I’ll call you a cab.”

She knew better than to argue. She also knew she needed her car to get to work in the morning. She had a key hidden under her car. “Fine. But I’ll need my house keys.”

“All right.” He fished her keys from a bowl, then dropped her key ring on the floor. When he bent to retrieve it, she saw opportunity and deftly grabbed one of the bottles he’d clustered on the bar as he did inventory and put it under her coat.

Second sobriety test, she thought smugly. If the customer can steal from you, they’re not that drunk. Besides, the extra booze would help her sleep. She’d planned to have a man in her bed for the first time in five years. Sleeping alone wouldn’t be fun.

The bartender wrestled with her key ring. “Here’s your house keys.”

She took them with a level nod. “Thanks. I’ll wait outside for my cab.”

“It’s five degrees outside, ma’am.”

“I know. I need the air. Have a good night.”

Wednesday, February 24, 1:02 a.m.

Rachel hadn’t wanted to meet in a coffee shop. She hadn’t been out on a date in five years, she’d said when they’d made the arrangements online. She’d suggested this bar and it was fine by him. The cameras in their parking lot hadn’t worked in years and it was a house of rather ill repute where patrons liked their privacy, so anybody coming here was unlikely to talk about anyone they’d seen waiting here.

He’d gotten a good bit of work done, as he’d been waiting for quite a while. Rachel Ward had outlasted all of his previous victims at nearly two hours and holding. But it was last call, so she’d be stumbling out soon.

And there she was. He frowned. She appeared to be drunk. He hoped she made it home. Having her pulled over for a DUI would be enormously inconvenient, especially as he’d gone to the trouble of readying her house for the evening.

Rachel stumbled across the parking lot in a pair of very high heels. He loved to see women in heels, the higher the better. It kept them hobbled and, he hoped, in pain. She stooped to fish a spare key from beneath her car, got in, and pulled onto the highway.

A minute later, he followed.

Wednesday, February 24, 1:40 a.m.

“Is Rachel there yet?” Noah asked and Eve looked up from the files she’d been reviewing to check her laptop screen.

“No.” Rachel’s avatar was still AWOL from the stage and Natalie was winning again now that Dasich had quit for the evening. “And she should be.”

“I’ll send a cruiser to her house,” he said. “Give me her address.”

Eve found it on the participant list. “And if she’s not home?”

His eyes sharpened. “Then we assume he’ll be following her home. I’ll assemble a team and we’ll be waiting to take him down.” He made the call to Dispatch, then returned to the stack of graphs he’d been plodding through a page at a time. “Are you finding anything here? Because I’m not, except that grad students generate a lot of data.”

After devouring a sandwich, he’d asked to see the logs Eve kept of her subjects’ Shadowland play time. They’d been sitting on her sofa, poring over data for an hour. Eve stifled a yawn. “You can take this with you. You don’t have to read them here. Just call me when you get word on Rachel.”

He frowned, surprised. “You don’t have to stay up. Go to bed if you’re tired.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re sitting on my bed.”

He looked incredulous. “You were planning to sleep on this torture device?”

“I have one bed and David’s in it. Which you knew because you were awake.”

“This is a two-bedroom apartment. What’s in the other bedroom?”

“Boxes full of more data. I’m sorry, Noah, but you can’t stay here tonight.”

“Where were you going to sleep when you thought I was sleeping?”

“In my chair. Look, you were supposed to change my deadbolt, then leave. No offense intended and I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I’m in no danger. David put in a new security system this afternoon and he’s here with me. And I have my gun. Besides, you promised you’d check on Kathy, the lady in the wheelchair, and Rachel.”

“A cruiser went by Kathy’s house and could see her through her front window. She was on her computer, totally alive and safe.”

“How do you know? Nobody called you.”

“Abbott texted me. But I did promise, so I will check on her and Rachel on my way home, even if the cruisers say everything is normal.” He lifted a brow. “I also don’t make promises I don’t keep.”

“Point taken. But you never said you would leave.”

“I’ll move to the chair so you can stretch out.” He moved himself and the files to her chair and sat with a satisfied sigh. “Much more comfortable. Give me your gun.”

“Why?”

“So I can check it out. When did you last fire it?”

“Three weeks ago when I went to target practice with Sal. If you’re satisfied with my gun, will you leave?”

He just held out his hand. Rolling her eyes, she dug in her computer bag, finding the gun where it always was. Except it wasn’t as she’d left it. As soon as her hand closed over it, she knew something was wrong. She drew it out, her heart pounding yet again.

Noah took it from her hand, then met her eyes. “You’d have a hell of a time hitting a target with this thing, considering it’s not loaded. I’m guessing this surprises you.”

Dread tightened her gut. “It had a full clip when I left the house tonight. I was so rattled by Buckland and Jeremy Lyons following me to the Deli that I double-checked.”

“Someone had access to your bag. Where do you keep it when you’re working?”

“In Sal’s desk drawer in the back office. To answer your next questions, the only people working tonight were me and Sal, but there is a door to the alley, for the trash.”

“Give me your bag.” He put on a pair of gloves and pulled out a manila envelope with her name written in block letters with a thick marker. “Feels like photos.”

Her blood went colder. “That’s the envelope Buckland tried to make me take.”

“Then let’s find out what he wants you to see so badly.” He slit the envelope open with his penknife, then uttered a hoarse curse. “Sonofabitch. Sonofafuckingbitch.”

Eve looked over his shoulder. And went still. In Noah’s hands were photos of himself and a petite redhead, locked in an embrace as they stood on a front porch. The number on the house matched the address on the piece of paper still in Eve’s pocket.

“Trina,” she murmured. Trina’s arms were around Noah’s neck, his around her back. Her face was pressed against his neck and he looked like he was holding on for dear life. Not good. Not good at all.

“Sonofabitch,” he repeated viciously. “She hugged me. That’s all.” He looked at Eve with a glare. “You can’t believe this? She’s my family, goddammit.”

He’d misinterpreted the concern on her face. “No,” she said and briefly touched her hand to his. He was shaking with fury. “I’ve seen her at the bar, seen her with you. I don’t believe she’d do it. And I don’t believe you would. So calm down.”

He did, shifting back to cop. “This means Buckland was at Brock’s Sunday night.”

“Sunday night?”

“Well, Monday morning, actually. Must have been two, three in the morning.”

“Why were you at Brock’s at two in the morning?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “Why am I here with you at two in the morning?”

“That’s not an answer, Noah.”

“Yeah, it actually is. I went to Brock’s because I needed a drink, so Brock and I boxed some, punched out my craving. Always happens when I’ve been to Sal’s.”

He said it without accusation, but she felt guilty just the same. “Because of me.”

He looked her square in the eye. “Yes.”

Eve set this most recent declaration aside for later consideration, focusing instead on the timing. “Monday, at two in the morning? You’d just found Martha, Christy was still alive, and nobody knew about Samantha yet.”

“Except my team.” He looked puzzled, then his eyes widened. “He was following me even before the serial killer story broke.”

“In a very personal way. I told you he didn’t look quite sane. He said I wouldn’t think you were a ‘good guy’ after I saw these. I think he’s after you and I just got in the way.”

Noah massaged the back of his neck. “Why would he be after me?”

“I don’t know. Do you know him?”

“Not before this. I’ll report it to Abbott. Fine timing, just as we get a serial killer running around. And yes, I’m thinking what you’re thinking.”

“That it’s no coincidence.”

“Our reporter just got a whole lot less sane. He threatened you and he’s hanging around my family. I need to call Brock, make sure Trina and the boys are okay.”

He rose, piled the files on the floor, then paced as he dialed. He cursed and dialed another number, then a third. “Nobody’s answering at home or either of their cells.”

“Then go, make sure they’re all right. Call me when you know.”

He shrugged into his coat. “Brock and Trina are both cops. I’m sure they’re fine.”

“I’m sure they are, too. I’ll lock the door and call you if I hear so much as a rustle.”

He paused at the front door, his expression intense. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Believing I wasn’t the kind of man to cheat with my cousin’s wife.”

“You’re welcome. Noah, call me about Rachel Ward?”

“As soon as I hear from the cruiser. I promise.”

“Thank you. Be careful.” She locked the door behind him, more hollow than relieved as she sat in her chair to wait for his call. She’d told him to go, but she missed him already. I could get used to having a man in my house. In my life.

She thought about his admission, that he craved a drink after going to Sal’s to see her. He’d risked a great deal to watch her all those months. He was stubborn. He’d probably call it determined. Either way, he wasn’t going to give up.

“I’ll just tell him the truth,” she said quietly. “Then he’ll leave on his own. It’ll be for the best.” And when he was gone, she’d have her work. “If I’m not expelled.” She still had Dr. Pierce’s card. Perhaps it was time to start damage control on her career.

Wednesday, February 24, 1:45 a.m.

It was anticlimactic, actually. He stood staring down at Rachel Ward with a frown. She was sitting rather docilely on the counter stool he’d dragged to the middle of her basement floor. He hadn’t needed to sedate her to strap her in the straitjacket and tie her to the stool. She’d had so much to drink it was a wonder she’d made it home.

She’d been a road menace, weaving lane to lane. Thankfully they had encountered no police and Rachel had managed to stagger into her house. Pushing her through her front door had been child’s play. It was a disgrace. No more bars. Insist on coffee.

She was staring up at him, her eyes glazed. She should be coherent, conscious, ready to be scared to death. But she was nearly asleep, goddammit.

He could just strangle her, set the scene and get out, or he could wait for her to sober up. He might have something in his kit to speed her up. So to speak. Half the fun was in seeing their fear and he didn’t want to give up his fun without a fight.

Wednesday, February 24, 2:10 a.m.

Eve put her cell phone on one arm of her chair and settled in, her computer on her lap and her hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee. Buckland had unloaded her gun. Why? Had he planned to attack her and wanted her helpless? Or had he just wanted her to know he was there? That he could get close to her wherever she was?

“Just to fuck with my mind,” she murmured. Who was this guy? And what self-respecting newspaper would hire him? Buckland was a stalker. He needed to be stopped before he hurt someone. Too late. She rotated her wrist. He hurt you.

He had. And if she hadn’t worked in a cop bar and if Jeff Betz hadn’t been right there, eavesdropping, he could have hurt her much worse.

Setting her mug aside she googled Kurt Buckland. And frowned. He was legit, with bylines on the Mirror going back years. Local stuff, neighborhood news. Of course the inside scoop on a serial killer could catapult him from Metro to the front page-and had. His “Red Dress Killer” article had been at the bottom of page one of Tuesday’s paper.

With a start she realized he’d written the article on Martha’s suicide she’d shown to Donner. She’d been so shocked she hadn’t noticed the reporter’s name. Tomorrow she’d report his assault to the police. And to his boss. He had to be stopped.

A flashing tab at the bottom of her screen caught her eye. It was the open Shadowland window. Someone was talking to Greer. Poor Greer. Eve had left her sitting at the bar in the cabaret, waiting for Rachel’s avatar to show up. Eve toggled back and saw the bartender was scolding Greer for loitering.

Buy another drink or leave.

I’m sorry, Eve typed. I’m waiting for someone. Maybe you know her. Delilah?

That trash? She’s not here tonight.

He said no more and Eve had Greer transfer a few Shadowbucks to the bartender’s tip jar. Money talked in any world. I need to talk to her. Who might have seen her?

The bartender avatar hesitated, then shrugged. That one over there, with the purple hair. The dancer’s nude body was painted with tiger stripes that clashed with her purple ’do. They sometimes sit together at the bar while they’re waiting to hook up for the night.

You mean, like meeting guys? To take home? Does Delilah do that often?

Do you consider ten or twelve times a night often?

Ew. She’d never understood the lure of virtual sex. Thanks, she typed and added a few more Shadowbucks to the tip jar, then sent Greer to the stage. Excuse me. Miss?

The dancer was wrapped around a pole, hips gyrating in an intriguing move Eve was sure took at least as many keystrokes as salsa dancing. I don’t do girls. Go away.

I don’t want to hook up with you, Eve typed. I’m looking for Delilah.

She ain’t here. She don’t do girls neither. That one over there does.

Eve shuddered. Ew. I don’t want to hook up. l need to talk to Delilah. Where is she?

She had a date. The gyrating hips bucked lewdly to the beat of cymbals. IRL.

Eve’s heart beat faster. IRL? Did she say who with? Somebody she met here?

The dancer frowned. I’m a businesswoman here.

Grinding her teeth, Eve transferred Shadowbucks to the dancer’s garter belt. Well?

Don’t know his real name. Here, he goes by John. Gonna be a one-night stand.

You ever hook up with John, here in the World?

Nah, not my type. Too bookish. Get enough of that on my day job. Now go away. I can’t type and dance at the same time and my set’s almost over.

Thanks, Eve typed, then backed Greer out of the casino and dialed Noah’s cell.

Wednesday, February 24, 2:15 a.m.

Noah parked his car in Brock’s driveway, reining in his panic. They still weren’t answering his calls. They’d better have a damn good explanation for this.

He knocked on their front door, scanning the road for any car that didn’t belong. He was here often enough that he knew the neighborhood vehicles. But nothing seemed out of place, except that nobody was answering his knock.

He found their key on his ring and let himself in. He drew his weapon and held it to his side, creeping through the darkened house, breathing a sigh of relief when he found the boys snug in their beds and sleeping soundly. He knocked lightly on Brock and Trina’s bedroom door, nudging it open when no one answered. Empty.

It was then he heard the shower. More correctly, he heard the shower stop. The master bath door opened, revealing a scowling Brock. He wore a robe that was soaked through and his wet hair stood up in spikes.

“This had better be good,” Brock said deliberately, through clenched teeth.

Noah looked him up and down. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

Brock drew an uneven breath. “So you rushed over here in the middle of the night?”

“Brock?” Trina came through the door and Noah looked away, but not in time to miss getting a glimpse of her in a very, very small towel.

Noah winced, staring at his shoe. “I can see my concern was misplaced.”

“Y’think?” Brock asked acidly. “You’re not the only one who ever has a goddamn bad day.” With that he stalked out of his bedroom, grabbing clothes on his way.

“For God’s sake, Noah,” Trina snapped. “What’s this all about?”

Noah kept his eyes averted. “We need to talk.”

“Right now is not a good time.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He thought of the photos in his pocket, of Buckland out there somewhere with a telephoto lens. “But it’s important.”

She huffed impatiently. “Fine. Whatever. You can look now.”

Noah saw with relief that she’d wrapped her body in a robe. “I’m sorry,” he said. “When you didn’t answer your phones, I panicked. What happened to Brock?”

“Snowmobile accident,” she said briefly. “Teenager went through some pond ice. He was dead by the time Brock got to the scene. Kid was only fifteen.”

Noah closed his eyes briefly. “I’m sorry, Tree. Is Brock okay?”

“He would have been better if you’d let us finish,” she said dryly. “I’d say he’s a little on the frustrated side right now.”

“Therapeutic sex,” Noah said, pursing his lips, and she nodded.

“In the shower. Kids can’t hear the moans that way.”

“Trina.” His protest bordered on a whine and her lips twitched.

“Told you, you need to get some. At the moment, so do Brock and I.”

“O-kay. I’ll make this quick. A reporter got wind of this case I’m working.” He lifted a brow. “The one Eve referred to tonight in the bar during your little visit.”

Trina didn’t flinch. “I’m not apologizing for that.”

“Somehow I didn’t think you would. Anyway, this reporter has been trying to get Eve to give him inside information and she refused. Tonight he got rough.”

Trina’s attitude disappeared. “Is she okay?”

“Other than a bruise, she’s fine. He was trying to force her to look at some pictures. These.” He gave the envelope to Trina and watched her face grow hot and angry.

“Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Brock returned, swiping a towel over his wet head. The soaked robe was gone, changed for dry sweats. “What happened?”

Trina gave him the pictures. “Sunday. I gave Noah a hug after your boxing match.”

Brock’s eyes flashed. “What is this?” he snarled softly.

“Attempted extortion by a reporter who wants a story way too badly. He left those pictures in Eve’s computer bag and unloaded the gun she keeps there. I saw them, knew he’d been here, and I panicked.” He gestured weakly to the bathroom. “I’m sorry.”

Brock sat on the edge of his bed. “I guess I can understand the urgency.”

Trina put her arm around Brock’s shoulders. “Those photos might have caused a major family breach, Noah. I’m glad Brock is a smart man.”

“And that he trusts you,” Noah said. Unlike Eve, who thought he had an agenda. Which I guess I do. “Keep an eye on the boys, okay?”

“You bet.” Brock gave him the pictures. “You’re going to report this guy, right?”

“First thing in the morning. I-” His cell vibrated in his pocket. “It’s Eve. She told me to call when I made sure you were all right.” He angled his body away from Brock and Trina, more to avoid the knowing smirk they shared than to hide his conversation. “They’re okay,” he said. “Just a… misunderstanding.”

“That’s good,” she said. “Because I’m thinking Rachel’s not.” He listened as she explained, his jaw going taut. “You weren’t supposed to approach anyone.”

“Well, I did. Sue me. Noah, she’s in trouble. What did the cruisers say?”

He checked his watch and frowned. “Nothing yet and I should have heard. I’ll call you back.” He dialed Dispatch and was displeased with what he heard. “Then tell the second cruiser to proceed at fastest possible speed. Lights, no siren. I’m on my way.” He turned back to Trina and Brock, who no longer smirked. “The first cruiser came up on an accident, car slipped on the ice and hit a pole. They’re with the accident victims.”

“They were first responders,” Trina said evenly. “You know we have to stay. It’s regs.”

“I know,” Noah said grimly. “I just hope we’re not too late. Watch the boys. I’ll call you tomorrow. I have to go.”

Wednesday, February 24, 2:20 a.m.

Oh God. Rachel tried to breathe, but couldn’t draw a deep enough breath. He’d wrapped her arms around her. She couldn’t move. Vaguely she remembered her arms being shoved into sleeves, crossed over her body. Viciously yanked as he’d rolled her to her stomach, his knee sharp in her back. He’d tied her… tied the sleeves.

Her chin dropped to her chest as awareness returned in jolts. White. She blinked hard. White fabric covered her to her hips. Beyond that… she saw her own bare legs, felt the cold air between her thighs and knew she was naked. Help me.

Her heart raced but her mind was still… slow. Scream. But all that came out was a muted mewling. Her mouth was taped closed. Where am I? Her eyes darted, frantically. Basement. I’m in my own basement. Sitting on a stool from her kitchen counter.

She couldn’t see him, didn’t know him. She flinched. He was behind her. She could hear him breathing. Then she could smell it. Gasoline. It burned her nose, her eyes, and she remembered that night. The gas, the smoke, the heat. The stench of burning flesh. And the screams. She heard the screams of agony of the ones that hadn’t gotten out.

No. Get out. Get away. She wrenched her body, but went nowhere. I’m tied. I can’t get away. Her heart was beating so fast. Too fast. Her head swam, dizzy. Bernie. It had to be Bernie. Somehow he got out. He’d planned this. His revenge.

He’s going to kill me. She wrenched again, violently, felt the stool give, but it was brought swiftly back, all four legs on the floor with a thud that shuddered through her.

“Better,” he murmured in her ear. Her head jerked to the sound, but he was still behind her. Then he walked around the stool, stopped in front of her, and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. Not Bernie. “Not fully cogent, but more aware.”

Her breath hitched. A lighter. He held it in front of her eyes and flicked it to life. She reared back, unable to take her eyes from the flame. He smiled. Smugly.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Rachel. You thought after your public display of good behavior that you could slip into the shadows, and live the life you craved in a fantasy world. You thought Delilah was invisible, but no one is truly invisible.”

Delilah. Shadowland. John. It had been a setup. A trap.

He stepped back and her eyes followed. He wore boots and… fireman pants over his trousers. The pants were too big, gaping at his waist. He might have looked like a clown except for the gun in his waistband. Behind him she saw a fire extinguisher. And next to that, a backpack. And on top of the backpack… my shoes. Neatly together.

“Fear is an interesting thing,” he said, and her gaze ripped back to his face. He was smiling, his eyes cold and cruel. I’m going to die. “Many fears, like the fear of snakes, are somewhat instinctive. They represent a heightened awareness of danger. It’s when those fears take control of our actions that they become phobia. You, Rachel, have an extreme phobia. Given your personal history, an understandable one.”

She could feel his breath on her face. “I think your incarcerated ex-husband will get quite a chuckle out of hearing that you were incinerated. Poetic justice, wouldn’t you say?”

He produced an extra-long match from his pocket, waved it like a wand. No. New terror shivered down her spine and she clenched her eyes shut.

“I am remiss,” he said. His fingers forced her eye open and she felt wetness over her eye a split second before he pressed her eyelid back. Glued. She struggled when he tried to glue her other eye and he slapped her face with a snarl. “Don’t move.”

He stepped back, flicked the lighter, touched it to the long match. “And without further ado.” A line of fire spread in a ring. Around me. Anywhere she looked. Coming closer. It hurt. Burned. Stop. Make it stop. Make the pain stop. The howl in her throat was muffled by the tape, her ears filled with the crackling, hissing of the flames.

And then the man was there, winding twine around her throat and all she could see was his eyes, alive and laughing. He was laughing.

She could hear him laughing, far away. Then he was groaning. So far away…

He let out a long, ragged breath, torn between elation and fury. He hadn’t held it in, hadn’t been able to control it. He’d let go. And it had been… incredible. He shuddered, his muscles twitching in the aftermath. Incredible.

His eyes were inches from hers. Empty now, they’d been wide, terrified, staring up at him because he demanded it. The whores always stared up. Never down. Never again. He relaxed his grip and the twine around Rachel’s throat went limp in his hands. His mind was clearing, logic returning. Incredible, but insane. He stepped from the carefully constructed fire zone and grabbed the extinguisher, putting out the flames, which in another few moments would have leapt free of the ring of flame suppressant he’d placed around the accelerant. The fire was out. In more ways than one.

He glanced down at his trousers, annoyed. His clothing probably had contained his ejaculate, but he had to be sure. He could leave no DNA behind. He had bleach in the back of his car. That and the fire would suffice to hide the evidence of his loss of control. Nothing of his would remain.

Wednesday, February 24, 2:30 a.m.

Harvey woke abruptly when the phone rang. He fumbled for it blindly. “What?”

“Wake up, Pop,” Dell said. “Our boys are on the move.”

“Where are you?”

“Following Phelps, like you told me to. Just use the GPS unit like I showed you to find Webster.”

Something was wrong. There was a satisfied note in his son’s tone that he just didn’t trust. He swung his legs over the bed and grabbed his pants. After tonight, they’d switch. I’ll follow Phelps. Before Dell did something foolish that they’d both regret.

Wednesday, February 24, 2:45 a.m.

“This is it? You’re sure?” Noah stood on the sidewalk next to two uniformed officers.

The uniforms nodded. “Yes, Detective. The address Dispatch gave us for Rachel Ward is this mailbox store.”

Noah looked around, wearily. Jack was nowhere to be seen. He’d called him three times each on his cell and his home line, getting Jack’s voicemail each time. He thought of Jack’s state of mind when they’d parted at the coffee shop hours ago. He could see Jack going home and getting totally drunk.

Which is his business on his own time. But this wasn’t Jack’s time. And Rachel’s time could be running out. “Thanks.” He dialed Eve. “Say the address again.”

“Why? Is Rachel all right?”

“I don’t know. This is a mailbox store. Check again.” She read the address again. “It’s a match. She didn’t give her home address when she registered for your study.”

“What are we going to do?”

“What I should have done already-run her through the system. I’ll call you.” He got in his car and radioed in his request for addresses for Rachel Ward.

Unable to sit still, he called Jack again. Still no answer. Dispatch came back with four possible addresses for Rachel Ward, one of which was only a mile from Jack’s house. Dammit. Jack, where the fuck are you?

Noah needed backup. His finger was a hairsbreadth away from calling Abbott, but something held him back. Face it. You don’t want to turn in your own partner. Not yet. His mind ran through the possibilities, settling on Olivia. She was already up to speed, no onboarding required. They could split the addresses and find Rachel faster.

Olivia answered on the first ring of her cell. “Sutherland.”

“It’s Noah Webster. Where are you?”

“Cruising downtown, looking for a witness for a trial next week. Why?”

“I need your help.”

“Where’s Jack?”

“I… don’t know.”

“Oh.” The single syllable said it all. “Okay, tell me where. I’ll meet you.”

“No, we need to split up. I’ve got four addresses to check for a potential victim.” He gave her one of the addresses, then told her to be on the watch for an open bedroom window. If they found one, they’d be too late. If they found one, he’d need a partner.

“What about the others?” she asked.

“I’ll take one and have cruisers go to the other two. Thanks, Liv.”

Wednesday, February 24, 3:05 a.m.

He stepped back, surveying his handiwork. Five of six. Rachel Ward hanging by the neck had never looked better. Her feet were a little blistered, but the police would know a fire had occurred as soon as they entered her house. He wondered how quickly she’d be discovered. She’d be late to work tomorrow, obviously.

Sitting at her laptop, he went into her open Shadowland account and hung the wreath on her virtual door. He already knew he couldn’t paint her avatar’s face. Rachel hadn’t bought her Delilah from Pandora, so he’d have to be content with hanging the dancer from a virtual rope and setting the virtual scene. He could do it in a couple of clicks, as he’d done it so many times already. Then he took her computer, let himself out of Rachel’s house, locking her deadbolt behind him, and pocketed her key.

He’d driven to the edge of Rachel’s neighborhood when his heart nearly stopped. Pulling into the subdevelopment was a cop. Not just any cop. A homicide detective.

Olivia Sutherland. His heart started to pound in his ears. How had she known? Who told her to come here? Her car slowed as she passed and he held his breath. She had no legal reason to stop him. After the police had seen the car he’d used in Christy’s murder on the diner’s security video, he’d changed cars and plates. All part of the plan.

Sutherland resumed driving, and letting out the breath he’d held, he carefully pulled onto the nearly deserted two-lane highway, going east when he really needed to go west. West was toward the highway and home. But if any other cops were joining her, they’d come the same way she did and he didn’t want them finding him.

Who called Sutherland? he fumed. Who the hell had known about Rachel Ward? Now that he was breathing again, he had a pretty good idea.

Noah Webster had the study participant list, he knew. But there were five hundred names on that list. How had they guessed that Rachel Ward was next? He’d left no pattern, left no clues that would alert them to his next victim. Webster was smarter than the average cop, he allowed, but that still didn’t make him very smart. And Webster was no clairvoyant, that was for damn sure.

It had to have been Eve. He wasn’t sure how she’d known, but instinct had told him the girl would be dangerous. Now he realized he’d underestimated her. He would not make that same mistake again.

He forced himself to calm and rationally think things through. Eve had known about Martha and Christy and now Rachel. I knew they were prime targets because they were always in Shadowland. Because I’m in the game with them. And so, he realized, was Eve. She had to be. Clever girl. Too clever for her own good.

He’d thought that even if she told Webster about Shadowland, there’d be nothing to fear, but he’d been wrong. He’d come too close to getting caught tonight. Eve had come too close. She needed to be eliminated. Unfortunately, she was never alone.

Lure her out, kill her. It could still work, but not as long as she was on guard, careful. He had to throw her off-balance. Scare her to death. Then he’d lure her out and kill her.

Wednesday, February 24, 3:10 a.m.

Eve was cursing herself for leading Noah to the wrong address. But how could you have known? She couldn’t have, she knew, but what if Rachel was next? What if they didn’t find her in time? Rachel Ward would be one more death on her head.

She was staring at the list, wondering how many more addresses were mailbox stores, wondering if there was a fast way to weed them out. Just in case this happened again. It can’t happen again. We have to stop this guy.

She zoomed in on the address column on her participant list. And then cursed herself again, peering at the column next to the addresses. Social Security numbers. Dammit, she had Socials on every participant. She already knew Noah had four Rachel Wards to check out. She’d run an address check of her own as soon as they’d hung up. Socials would tell her which Rachel Ward was theirs.

She logged into the website Ethan used for background checks with the user name and password he’d set up for her when they’d talked that morning, blessing him for his foresight. She plugged in the information she knew and set the search in motion.

Rachel, where are you? Please be all right.

Feeling helpless, Eve toggled back to Shadowland and retrieved Greer. Maybe they were worried for nothing. Maybe the purple-haired dancer was wrong. Maybe Rachel’s Delilah had taken a goddamn virtual football team to her virtual condo for a virtual orgy.

She thought of Sal. How right he’d been. Aviators and orgies, indeed.

Eve guided Greer to Delilah’s condo, trepidation tightening her throat. And then she saw what she’d known deep down would be true. Too late. We’re too late.

Slowly, she backed Greer away from the black wreath on Rachel’s door, not wanting to see what was inside. Eve could still see Christy Lewis’s empty eyes staring at her in real life. She didn’t need to see the virtual equivalent one more time.

Four. Samantha, Martha, Christy, and now Rachel. He’d killed four women.

At the bottom of her screen the tab for the background check web-site was flashing. Her search was complete. Too late.

Blindly Eve reached for her cell and dialed Noah.

Wednesday, February 24, 3:15 a.m.

Olivia parked her car in front of the address Noah had given her and walked up to the house. It was dark. As quiet as the rest of the street. Carefully she picked her way around the back, through the snow, and looked up.

Her heart sank. “Dammit,” she whispered.

The upstairs bedroom window was wide open.