When the storm had passed, relief quickly gave way to a fresh hunger. And soon he had sailed toward fresh hunting grounds.
For fifteen years, he had been very careful. He had moved from town to town, state to state, jurisdiction to jurisdiction. He had selected his subjects with the utmost scrutiny, attacked on nearly moonless nights, and never carried his phone with him or used his own car. No digital trails. He had kept moving. Kept quenching his thirst for death.
And now he had a new subject. She’d been on his radar for weeks. He had learned everything about her.
Tonight she would be home alone. After finishing up a double shift, she would slip out of her work clothes, shower, and change into an oversize T-shirt with no panties. He could already taste her.
He approached the side window of her empty house and wedged a screwdriver between the window and casing. He wiggled it back and forth until the cheap vinyl sprang open. He pushed open the window, then hoisted himself up on the sill. His feet still dangling over the garden, he toed off his shoes.
He swung his legs around and lowered himself into the dining room. He moved through the house, double-checking each room. Fifteen years had taught him to never assume anything.
In the kitchen, he spotted a cereal bowl and spoon in the sink. A blue dish towel was crumpled into a heap, so he took a moment to straighten and drape it over the faucet. Porcelain salt and pepper shakers representing Snow White and Prince Charming stood side by side on the windowsill. He plucked up Snow White and slid her into his backpack.
In her room, he walked to the dresser and studied the collection of earrings.
He pocketed a single hoop earring and a diamond stud and then carefully arranged all the jewelry into a neat row.
He removed a skein of red rope from his bag and placed it directly under the bed. Climbing on the bed, he pretended she was under him and struggling and he reached under the bed, making sure he could lay his hands on the rope quickly. He did this several times until he was confident it was perfectly accessible.
He slipped under the covers, drawing the unmade sheets to his nose. He inhaled her scent. His erection pounded.
When he heard a car pull in to the driveway, he hopped off the bed, carefully smoothed the top comforter, and hid in a closet in her roommate’s room.
He listened as she turned on music, sang off-key, and puttered around the kitchen. Within twenty minutes, she was in bed, and the blue glow of the television shimmered from atop the dresser.
He imagined her eyes slowly drifting shut as she nestled under the covers. She felt safe. Warm and cozy.
When the television light clicked off, he still lingered inside the closet. He was in no rush.
Another hour passed before he eased open the closet door. Cautiously, he peered into her bedroom and saw her supple form as she lay on her side in the bed. She faced toward the window.
He moved closer. She wasn’t wearing her favorite oversize T-shirt, making him wonder if she was still wearing her panties.
She shifted slightly under the covers, and he hesitated before a deep sigh seeped over her lips.
He came up to the bed and stood over her for several seconds. He removed a small flashlight from his pocket, clicked it on, and shined it in her face, knowing it wouldn’t take long before the glaring light reached her unconscious mind.
Slowly she stirred, raising her hand to her eyes, and realized the light was real and not going away.
She blinked. “What’s going on?”
He didn’t speak as he shoved a rag into her mouth. Her body tensed immediately and she struggled, but he was quick with the rope. Her hands and feet were bound before she knew what was happening.
A moaned plea coupled with the panic in her gaze thrilled him. As tempted as he was to take her now, he was disciplined enough to wait. They had time. No need to rush.
He wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed. She struggled under him, but he kept the pressure steady until she passed out.
When her body went limp, he carried her and her purse out the side door toward her car. He sat her on the ground and then dug her keys out of her purse and opened the trunk. Carefully he dumped her and her purse in the small space and closed the lid with a soft click.
Later he would double back and get his car, which he’d left down the road about a mile, hidden under brush.
In the front seat, he started the car. He turned on the radio, selecting one of her favorite songs.
Humming, he backed out of the small driveway.
Would she beg before it was all over?
Hard to predict how she would react in her moment of truth. But he hoped she would beg.
CHAPTER FOUR
Monday, November 18, 8:00 a.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
It was the sound of fingers clawing against the dirt, and it had echoed through Special Agent Macy Crow’s dreams last night. She was accustomed to nightmares, which had plagued her since she was a small child. But this one had been agonizingly real.
Still unsettled, Macy opened the driver’s side door of her four-door Toyota. She tossed a worn black backpack into the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, and shifted the pressure off her right side and away from the annoying pain. The discomfort had been a daily part of her life since a hit-and-run five months ago in Texas.
The attack had broken her right leg, cracked her skull, and flatlined her heart for nearly a minute. By rights, she should be dead. She shouldn’t have walked again. She shouldn’t have returned to work.
But here she was, ignoring not only the lingering discomfort but also the crazy dreams that had followed her back from the other side of the rainbow.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
She started her engine, slid on her sunglasses, and drove out of the apartment building lot onto Seminary Road. She followed side streets to the I-95 south entrance. The morning traffic was already heavy and, like always, pissed her off.
Following a familiar route to the FBI complex, she was more anxious than most days. She juggled jolts of worry and excitement as she visualized her upcoming interview with Special Agent Jerrod Ramsey.
Ramsey headed up a small team that tackled violent crimes. His group had cracked several high-profile cases in the last year. Details about their deeds were scant, but their results made them legendary.
After cutting through the traffic sludge, she took her exit and slowed as she approached the guard station at Quantico. She reached for her badge, flipped the leather case open, and handed it to the marine on duty. “Morning, Corporal.”
The marine looked at her picture and then at her, frowning
as he’d done almost every day since her return three weeks ago. He handed back her identification and waved her through. She drove to the main FBI building, parked, and presented her badge to the familiar FBI security guard while her backpack was x-rayed.
“Crow, what do you call a pen with no hair?” he asked with a straight face.
Every day it was a new joke about her short hair.
“Shoot me now, Ralph, and just get it over with.”
A neurosurgeon had shaved her head minutes before he had cracked open her skull and relieved pressure on her brain. Yes, she currently looked like a cross between Twiggy and a bristle brush. Desperate hunts for hair ties were gone for the near future, but she was aboveground.
“Come on, Special Agent, I bet you know,” he gently coaxed with a shit-eating grin.
“What?” She carefully tucked her badge in her jacket breast pocket.
“A bald point.”
Despite herself, she laughed. “Jesus, Ralph, you need help.”
“Who loves ya?”
Ignoring the Kojak reference, she took the elevator up to the third floor, where Special Agent Jerrod Ramsey worked. She made her way to his corner office and knocked.
“Enter.”
She pushed open the door as a leather chair swiveled toward her, offering her her first up close look at Jerrod Ramsey.
Thick brown hair was cut short and swept off a striking face that conjured images of East Coast prep schools, old money, and the Hamptons. He wasn’t classically handsome, but the sharp green eyes and olive skin coupled with tailored suits had to be kryptonite to the ladies.
Ramsey rose and adjusted his blue tie before he crossed the room to her.
“Special Agent Macy Crow,” she said.
A faint smile hinted of a welcome. “Good to meet you, Agent Crow,” he said, extending his hand.
She accepted his strong grip, clasping his hand firmly. “And you as well, sir.”
When Macy had declared her intentions to return to the bureau, she had been temporarily assigned to the ViCAP computer section because her former position had been filled. If she wanted back in the field, she would have to apply for another position.