Not a big believer in sugarcoating, Hollis said, “Yeah, if Samuel is who and what we believe he is, there’s a pretty good chance a few more of us won’t be left standing when it’s all done. Even assuming we win.”
“Do you doubt we will?”
“Honestly? Having some idea of what he can do, I have more than a few doubts.”
Tessa frowned. “Because you’ve already faced him, fought him?”
“Not exactly. Not even by proxy, really. He just wanted me out of the way. Bishop believes he’s afraid of mediums and that’s why he sicced his pet killer on me in Georgia.”
“Why would Samuel be afraid of mediums?”
“Well, think about it. If you were responsible for dozens of brutal deaths, would you be all that anxious to have someone around who could open up a door and allow your victims to pay you an extremely unsettling visit?”
“Probably not.”
“No. In Samuel’s shoes, neither would I. We figure that’s the reason, though more because it makes sense than because we have any kind of solid proof.”
“But that’s the one ability we’re pretty sure he doesn’t want. If he is who and what we believe he is.”
“Safe bet. In fact, my semieducated guess as a profiler-in-training is that the reverend’s terrified of finding out for certain that with the reality of spirits come all the other traditional trappings of an afterlife many of us are raised to believe in. Accountability. Judgment. Punishment.”
“Is there?” Tessa asked, figuring a medium would know if anyone would.
“Yes,” Hollis answered simply.
“Hell?”
“Some version of it. At least for monsters like him. And isn’t it ironic? The only thing Reverend Samuel could preach with complete conviction and total honesty from his pulpit is the truth of Judgment Day. And that’s the one thing he’s spent twenty years making very, very sure his church denies.”
Washington, D.C.
“So that’s his Achilles’ heel?” Senator Abe LeMott sat utterly still at his desk, hands clasped atop his neat blotter, and studied the man in one of his visitor’s chairs. “The one thing he fears?”
“We believe so.” Special Agent Noah Bishop matched the older man in stillness, though his steady gaze was, if anything, more watchful. “He had every chance to take the abilities of one of our strongest mediums. Instead, he tried to have her killed.”
“She was also bait for a trap, was she not? Bait for you?”
“Bait. We’re not entirely sure what his ultimate aim was. We can’t be. All we can know is what happened. Dani was the one he attacked, the one whose abilities he tried to take, most likely because he knew those abilities could be used as offensive weapons. Maybe he didn’t go after the rest of us because he believed we weren’t so vulnerable. Maybe he can only take one ability at a time—or that was his limitation then. Maybe it was all a test of our strengths. And weaknesses. Maybe our abilities weren’t important to him because he already has his own version of them.”
“That’s a lot of maybes.”
“Yes, I know. I did warn you, Senator, that there’d be no quick or easy answers, not if we want the whole truth. But we did get the man who murdered your daughter with his own hands.”
“And do you believe, Agent Bishop, that the man who commands or wills another to act for him is any less guilty of the act committed?”
“You know I don’t.” If anything, more guilty.
“Then you know why I can’t be satisfied by the capture of that evil creature clawing the walls of his cell as we speak.”
Bishop nodded. “Believe it or not, Senator, I want the man behind that killer as badly as you do.”
“Oh, I do believe that.” LeMott’s smile was hardly worth the effort. “He’s the first real threat you’ve faced, isn’t he?”
“The Special Crimes Unit—”
“Has withstood many threats over the past few years, yes. I don’t mean to detract from that in any way or demean your considerable accomplishments. The SCU has faced evil in most of its incarnations, including many killers, and usually defeated them. We both know that. But this is a different kind of threat. A far, far more dangerous threat to you and your people. From all the evidence available, this killer means to use your own tools, your own weapons, your own advantage against you. And though you certainly have him outnumbered, his advantage is that it hardly matters how many agents you send after him.”
“It’s not the number, Senator, it’s their training and skills versus his.”
“And their abilities versus his? Abilities he wants? Abilities he can apparently take from them by force without even laying a finger on them—and then use those abilities against them?”
“We don’t know what he’s capable of. But what happened in Georgia may have taught him at the very least that he lacks the ability, the strength, to take anything he wants. He has limits just like the rest of us. Weaknesses. Vulnerabilities. He’s certainly not all-powerful. Not invincible.”
“We can both certainly hope not. But it does seem clear, Agent Bishop, that your enemy knows you at least as well as you know him and quite probably better, especially if he tracked and watched Agent Templeton as long as the photographic evidence you discovered in Venture suggests.”
“We don’t know that he tracked any other member of the unit.”
“You don’t know that he didn’t.”
“No. If it comes right down to it, there’s no way for us to be absolutely certain that he was the one doing the surveillance. Those photographs could have been taken by a private investigator hired for the purpose.”
“A private investigator too dim to realize his target or targets were FBI agents?”
“Maybe that’s why we only found shots of Hollis. Maybe whoever it was decided that it was just too risky to follow and photograph agents of the federal government.”
“More maybes.”
Bishop was keenly aware that he was, as he had been for many months now, dealing with a powerful man who had nothing left in his life except a raging grief and an obsession for revenge.
Not justice for his murdered daughter, not anymore. Abe LeMott wanted revenge. For the loss of his daughter. The loss of his wife. For the destruction of his life.
Which made him hardly less dangerous than the man they both wanted.
So Bishop chose his next words carefully. “Whatever he may or may not know about members of the SCU, what we know is that he does have at least one weakness, one vulnerability. Where there’s one, there’s more. That’s been true of every criminal, every evil, we’ve ever fought. It’s true of Samuel as well. We’ll find those weaknesses. And we’ll find a way to exploit them.”
“Before you lose any more of your people?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
LeMott’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t seen the end of this, have you? No vision of how it all turns out? You and your wife?”
“No. We haven’t.”
“But you won’t let that stop you.”
“No.”
The senator conjured another smile, just as faint as before, and this time there was a hard, flat shine to his eyes. “I could hardly ask for more than that, could I?”
Bishop was silent.
“I trust you’ll keep me advised, Agent Bishop. I do appreciate that courtesy.” LeMott didn’t rise or offer his hand, but it was clear nevertheless that the meeting was over.
“Of course, Senator.”
Bishop didn’t wait to be shown out; after so many months, he knew his way and as always took the less-public exit that bypassed both the senator’s secretary and his assistant. The door led to a short, infrequently traveled hallway, which in turn led to a wider, brighter, much busier space. People passed in both directions, some carrying briefcases or folders, many talking on cell phones, and all wearing preoccupied expressions.
A tall, gorgeous brunette with electric-blue eyes stood half screened from many of those passing her
by a big plant on a pedestal, and as Bishop emerged into the busy hallway he saw her open the I.D. folder she was holding in one hand and flash her badge in the face of an obviously crestfallen young man. The admirer took two steps back, saw Bishop approaching, and managed a weak smile before continuing hastily on his way.
“I never know if it’s the badge or the wedding ring,” Miranda said thoughtfully as Bishop joined her.
“Combo,” Bishop told her. “You always hold the badge in your left hand, so they see both.”
“Ah. Well, as long as it discourages them. Do you have any idea just how many married men in this building are looking for a little action?”
“I think I’d rather not know.” Bishop took her hand, and they joined the flow of traffic moving toward one of the main exits. “I take comfort in the sure knowledge that my very hot wife is not only disinterested and able to read minds but is also a black belt and a sharpshooter.”
“That would probably give them pause.”
“If they’re thinking with any body part north of their belts, yes.”
“One can only hope. This is a government building.”
Both their voices had been a little amused and wholly casual, and anyone not also telepathic couldn’t have imagined that a much more important and far more grim conversation had also just taken place.
How far do you think he’s gone?
God knows.
You couldn’t read him?
I couldn’t read him quite well enough to get details—and it’s getting more difficult to read him at all. He avoids even shaking hands with me now, and I don’t think it’s because he’s pissed at the lack of progress. But given his history, his background, and the emotions driving him right now, my guess is that the senator’s gone as far as money and connections could take him. It’s a sure bet he has someone inside law enforcement in North Carolina.
What about the church?
He’s known about Samuel since October. Goddammit, I should never have given him a name.
You had to. No choice.
Maybe. Not that it matters now. LeMott’s had almost as much time as we have to get someone inside. If he’s succeeded . . .If he had, wouldn’t Samuel be dead?
Not necessarily. Whoever it is could be under orders to gather information before anything more permanent is done. LeMott wants revenge, and he wants it to hurt. Know your enemy if you want to inflict the maximum possible amount of pain.
Does he even give a shit that we have people on the inside? People risking their lives to get the man responsible for his daughter’s murder?
I think he’s beyond caring.
Then we don’t have the luxury of time, not any longer.
No.We don’t.
Bishop’s fingers tightened on his wife’s hand, and the two of them hurried from the building.
Three
Grace, North Carolina
THE BODY HAD SNAGGED on a half-submerged tree blasted by lightning back in the summer. It bobbed a little as the current continued to snatch at it, rolling sluggishly back and forth a few inches. Long brown hair flowed out around the partially submerged face, obscenely graceful in the water, a solitary sign of what might once have been beauty.
There was nothing beautiful about her now.
It was fortunate, given the fast-moving river, that there had been something to catch the body before it wound up miles downstream where the water was more shallow and campers were wont to vacation on the picturesque banks.
Not that many did in January, Sawyer Cavenaugh acknowledged absently to himself as he studied the dead woman. Still, there were usually a hardy few, seeking nature when it was a bit less crowded, and most towed their kids along.
Thankfully, a child had not found this body.
Bloated and showing gashes and other postmortem injuries from the rough downstream journey of at least a couple of miles, she was a sight horrifying enough to give even a veteran cop and chief of police the promise of nightmares to come.
As if he didn’t already have more than his share.
Sawyer rose from his crouch and walked a few feet to where one of his officers stood with the unhappy citizen who had made the grisly find.
“This is the second one for you, isn’t it, Pel?”
“I swear to God, I’m never walking Jake along here again,” Pel Brackin said with considerable feeling, one hand on the head of the calm chocolate Lab sitting at his side. “Much more of this and he could be one of them cadaver dogs. Jesus, Sawyer—what the hell is going on up there?” He jerked his head in the general direction of upstream.
“Up there?”
“Up at the Compound. Don’t treat me like an idiot—I chased you out of my apple orchard when you were just a snot-nosed kid.”
Sawyer sighed, not bothering to ask for an explanation of the parallel. “Is there anything you can tell me that might help me to find out what happened to this woman?”
“All I know is what I found, and we can all see that.”
“You didn’t see or hear anything else out of the ordinary?”
“Nah, nothing I don’t usually see around here. Though . . .”
Sawyer waited a moment, then prompted, “Though what?”
With his free hand, Brackin rubbed the nape of his neck. “I don’t know what it’d have to do with her. Or with that other poor woman last week.”
“Let me be the judge of that. What is it, Pel?”
“It’s . . . the wildlife.”
Sawyer felt his brows rising. “The wildlife?”
“The lack of it, really. Jake and me, we usually see a lot of critters on our morning rambles. These last weeks, since back before the holidays, really not so many.”
Thinking out loud, Sawyer said, “A mild winter, so far. Not very cold, almost no snow.”
Brackin nodded. “This sort of winter, there’s usually plenty of wildlife visible. Deer, foxes, rabbits, squirrels. Plenty of raccoon and possum. Even some wild boar coming down out of the mountains. And lots of birds. But . . . now that I think about it, my wife’s bird feeders haven’t been very popular. Not even doves or cardinals, and we generally have dozens of them about the place all winter.” He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “Like I said, probably nothing to do with these killings. Just something weird, is all.”
“Okay. Anything else you can think of?”
“Nah. I’ll call if I think of anything, but I told Robin here—”
“Officer Keever, Pel. Come on,” she protested.
“Well, then, Officer Keever, I’ll be Mister Brackin to you.”
She rolled her eyes but then caught Sawyer’s and subsided. “Right. Sorry, Mr. Brackin.”
Satisfied, he finished: “I told her everything I remembered from the time Jake started barking and I saw the body.”
“Not an easy question, but I suppose you don’t recognize her?” Sawyer asked.
“Shit, Sawyer, her own mother wouldn’t recognize her.”
“I had to ask.”
“Yeah, yeah. If I’ve ever seen her before, I can’t tell by looking at her now. Look, can I go? It’s not like you don’t know where I’ve lived for the last sixty years of my life, and I’m not going anywhere except home. My feet are freezing, I want my coffee, and Jake wants his breakfast.”
Sawyer nodded. “Yeah, go ahead. Sorry to keep you.”
With a grunt that might have been meant as thanks, Brackin headed downstream toward his place, avoiding so much as a glance at the corpse in the river.
“Wildlife,” Sawyer murmured, more to himself than anything else.
“Chief?”
“Nothing.” Mildly, he added, “Robin, when you’re fighting an uphill battle to be taken seriously, it helps to act like a professional.”
“I know. Sorry, Chief.”
“Just don’t make me sorry I cleared you for fieldwork, that’s all I’m saying.”
She nodded, now wearing a slightly anxious expression.
Her face was an open book, S
awyer reflected, betraying her thoughts and her emotions equally. Which certainly gave the lie to the whole inscrutable Asian stereotype, since Robin had been born in China. But, adopted by the Keevers at the age of three, she had been brought up in traditions a long way from Asian. That Southern rural background had left her, twenty years later, with an accent that was pure Carolina Mountain, an occasional turn of phrase that would have astonished and possibly horrified her ancestors, and a slight chip on her shoulder that came from being different from most everyone around her.
Sawyer could relate.
But all he said was “I gather Pel didn’t see anything helpful.”
“He claims he never went within twelve feet of the body, and the lack of footprints on the bank there bears him out,” the young deputy reported crisply. “Ely had a look around while I waited with Mr. Brackin, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
Sawyer glanced past her, up the shallow bank to where their cars were parked just off the road, and noted that Robin’s sometimes partner, Officer Ely Avery, was leaning a hip against their cruiser, obviously trying not to look bored.
There was a second cruiser parked up there, possibly intended to fend off curious onlookers who had not appeared, and the two officers in it, Dale Brown and Donald Brown (no relation, they always explained), appeared just as bored and/or equally detached from the situation.
No taste for or even interest in homicide investigation there. Sawyer made the mental note, then returned his gaze to Robin Keever’s earnest young face. She was smart, more than capable, and she was ambitious; he’d known that for a while now.
But more important at the moment, she’s fully engaged and intensely curious. Good.
Because he damn sure needed all the help he could get. Nothing in his years as a small-town cop had prepared him for anything even remotely like this.
“I checked with the station soon as I got here,” Robin went on, “and we have no reports of missing persons fitting—well, no women reported missing from anywhere in the county.”
“Yeah, I checked too.” But the last female missing person had turned up in this same stretch of river barely a week before, looking an awful lot the way this one looked, so Sawyer was inclined to start searching for a connection between them.