Amanda's Story (33 page)

Less than five minutes later, Rucker turned the last page of the file and returned it to his desk. Lister took his cue and retrieved it. “Impressions?”

“Yes, I have impressions.” Rucker said without expression.

“Can you share them?” Lister followed up.

“Yes, I can.” Rucker answered.

“Can …please tell me your impressions,” Lister corrected himself.

“Incomplete work, but that is not unusual. Drawing inferences from the data in this file, one can see similarities,” Rucker said to a spot on the wall behind Lister.

“Can you elaborate?” It was a little fun talking to Rucker. He had asked the man if there were similarities and Rucker had answered.

“Yes,” he said, without the slightest inflection. “Would you like me to list them?” he said after Lister waited for him to continue.

“If you don't mind.”

Rucker gave the agent a brief strange look, as if his answer to a simple question made no sense. “There are seven areas in which these findings could overlap at least one of the four other cases.” Rucker spoke rapidly for almost fifteen minutes. Less than halfway through, Lister stopped taking notes. “I do have to caution you that my conclusions are predicated on information collected by another, and that the information given to me is in my opinion incomplete.”

Lister had to contain a smile; he was certain that he had found the author of every legal disclaimer ever written. “I'm sorry, Doctor, but you lost me about ten minutes ago. Can you, in simple English—English that I can understand—tell me if in your opinion either the same person or the same process was responsible for the events both here and in Washington?”

“Yes,” he said precisely.

“Yes, you can tell me, or yes it was the same individual or the same process?”

“Yes, I can tell you in simple English that in my opinion either the same individual, and or the same process, was involved both here in Colorado Springs and in Washington, DC.”

Lister was about to ask Rucker if he was sure, but that would have been a foolish question. “Just to be clear, I'm a little slow”—everyone was a little slow around Rucker, he thought—“these local cases have not been labeled as homicides. I don't think they are even being investigated. But now you are saying that an unknown individual or process is involved. Are you changing your mind?”

Rucker gave Lister that same strange look again that made the agent feel like a six-year-old who couldn't tie his own shoes. “You are not correct. I have labeled the deaths as ‘apparently natural.'”

A distinction that only Phillip Rucker could appreciate. Lister stood and offered his hand but then snatched it back. “Thank you for your time, Doctor.” For a brief moment they made eye contact, and Lister stared into the empty eyes of the pathologist. They reminded him more of his autistic nephew than a serial killer.

“Well, this is an unexpected visit,” Amanda said after Greg Flynn showed up at her new apartment.

“I wanted to see what the place looked like once it was all spruced up.” He walked through the small living room to the floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a cloudy day. “I think I can see our house from here.”

“Use the telescope,” Amanda said from behind him. Greg slid over to the telescope.

“NO! Lisa's putting onions in the salad again.” He pulled away with a smile that didn't have the wattage to disguise his true intent.

“What's wrong, Greg?” Amanda retreated to her couch; Greg followed.

He studied her carefully. “Are you okay here, alone?”

“The isolation is good for me. Comforting. Sort of helps me with my perspective. How are you doing?”

“Worried, but that will never change.”

“I need the space,” she said, taking up an old argument. It had been several weeks since their tense confrontation, and neither Greg nor Lisa felt it was an appropriate time for Amanda to be alone. “I've made you a promise and I will live by it. No more letting Mittens off the leash.”

Greg nodded. “I wish you had a better name, though.”

“You're not here to discuss the name of my psychotic alter ego,” she gently prodded.

“The FBI is in town. They have a task force looking into Ted's death, and now they're looking into the … other cases.”

“Well, that doesn't sound good.” Her tone was light and she sat crossed-legged on the couch.

“Honey, this is serious. They will put this together.”

“To what end? They have no evidence that it was me.”

“This is hard for me, Amanda. I'm breaking an oath I swore to uphold before you were even born, along with half a dozen laws, and to be honest your lack of remorse makes it all the more difficult,” he chastised.

“The only remorse I have is that it has affected you. I'm not sorry those people are dead …” She cut herself off before they strolled further into the minefield.

“If they find you they will arrest you, evidence or not. One of their own is dead.”

“How are they going to find me?” It was more of a question than a boast. Greg hesitated and the answer hit Amanda with the force of a hammer. “They think you're involved.”

“I am involved,” Greg snapped. “Sorry, that didn't come out right. I was interviewed for an hour this morning about my role in the Suzie Watts case, and of course what I knew about Ted. It won't take long before they have your name.”

Amanda got off the couch and began to slowly pace in front of Greg. She wasn't concerned about her safety—a part of her thrilled at the possibility of confrontation—but Greg and Lisa were another matter. “How ironic—the one time I was actually defending myself.” She stopped in front of Greg. “I'll go to them and turn myself in. I can't have you protecting me.”

“No. That is the one thing you can't do. If it was just the FBI I would say yes. Hell, I'd even drive you. But it won't be just the FBI; you'll be putting yourself back into the hands of those bastards who were experimenting on you, and if that happens …”

“All right, then what do I do if they come a-callin'?”

“First thing is to not overreact. Don't make the situation worse.” His meaning was clear. “And try not to let them know what you can do.”

Amanda nodded. “Maybe I should just disappear.”

Greg was quiet for a very long minute. “Lisa would have my head on a plate if I agreed with you, but it may come to that.” His voice had dropped as if Lisa were in the other room. “At least for a while.”

“She's the right size, shape, age, hair color, and her college roommate's first name was Dalice. On top of all of that, she was in Dallas at the time. How can you say it's only suspicious?” Paul Lister asked his boss over the phone.

“The only real evidence is the roommate's name—everything else is suspicious but still easily explained away. Give me something that puts her on a plane to Washington and then we've got something,” Tim Kerr answered.

“But she knew Alam.” Lister knew that everything he'd uncovered amounted to little more than a big pile of circumstantial evidence, but thirty years in law enforcement had given him the nose of a bloodhound, and he had caught a scent. “At least ask for a search warrant.”

“Is the father-in-law involved?” Kerr ignored Lister's request.

“I don't know. My gut says no, but if she's involved he has to be.”

“He is the chief of detectives in Colorado Springs. If we go after her, he gets caught up in it; even if he's not involved, it will ruin him. And if later we find that we were wrong, the possibility of us getting any local assistance on anything will be exactly zero for a very long time. And it won't be just Colorado Springs. You worked in Kansas City for ten years; how would you react if the FBI raked a fellow detective over the coals and then asked you for cooperation?”

“Okay, I'll keep digging. I guess I'm off to Dallas,” Lister said with resignation. He wasn't surprised, just disappointed and tired of being on the road.

Amanda had always loved the solitude of running, now more than ever. It was one of the few times when she was alone in her mind. The world was remote and for the most part asleep as she wound her way through a canyon trail. Dawn was at least a half hour away, but the nocturnal world was already closing up shop. A solitary coyote watched her from the edge of the woods, the rest of his pack already beginning to bed down. Wild animals had strange, indecipherable mental signatures, and his floated to her on the morning air. She tasted traces of curiosity, fear, and possibility, but his thoughts—if he had any—were remote. Dogs had great mental signatures, but most humans didn't need telepathic abilities to read them. Their simple thoughts, needs, and desires were a welcome respite from the complexities of their masters.

The road began to slope upward after a long downhill and Amanda caught the residual trace of a pair of humans. They had been running in the opposite direction sometime last evening and had stopped at this point to rest. Isolation and time had helped Amanda refine her senses; invariably, humans left a lingering presence wherever they went. It clung to inanimate objects, and she could feel the two girls' scent covering the ground like fog. In time it would slowly dissipate, but for now it offered her an opportunity to reach out and touch them. A small part of her mind pulled at her, but she continued up the hill; she wanted to run now and wasn't interested in the mundane thoughts and lives of a couple of coeds. Even the ever-present desire for mischief was taking a break.

Life had become serious and complicated. Somewhere in the miasma, individuals with authority and power had turned their attention towards her. She was no longer moving through the world anonymously, and she imagined eyes on her wherever she went. Intellectually, she knew this wasn't possible; the FBI, no matter how many resources they had at their disposal, couldn't track her secretly. No one could. But they were investigating her, of that she was certain, and at some point they would know enough to try and collect her. Then everything would change.

Angry with herself, she ran harder. She had not been nearly as clever as she thought. The psychosis that drove her to kill blinded her to the subtle footprints that led back to Greg and, through him, to her. Instead of providing her with cover, her unique mode of execution was proving to be her undoing; it had become the unifying characteristic of all five bodies.

“Experience is a hard teacher; she gives the test first, and the lesson afterwards,” she panted while cresting the hill.

“I remember her. Oh, boy, do I remember her.” Lionel Black handed the photograph back to Paul Lister.

He couldn't have asked for a better witness than Lionel. Mr. Black was indeed black, as black as coal on a moonless night. He wasn't a big man; he was huge. Six feet eight inches tall, weighing in north of three hundred pounds. Lister couldn't picture him fitting inside the airport shuttle bus, much less driving it. A certified Baptist minister, Black ran a mission for the Dallas homeless in his off hours. He also wrote poetry.

“It's been weeks; how can you be so sure?” Lionel Black was literally Lister's last option. A few people in the hotel remembered Amanda, but nothing beyond vague recollections. The Red Cross personnel recalled her well and insisted that she had been in Dallas the entire ten days, but when pressed for details their certainty began to crumble.

“Have you seen her picture?” Black's laughter was as loud as a cannon going off. “But that was only part of it. She got on the bus at the Hilton. That's where I start my run, so the bus was pretty much empty. She didn't say much, maybe just hello. Sits down like an angel.” His broad smile displayed brilliant white teeth. “Then these two gentlemen get on at the Hyatt and make a big fuss over her. Except she doesn't want to be bothered. They sit across from her and keep tryin' to talk to her. They were gettin' pretty loud and inappropriate and just before I said something they both start to cough and choke. They're grabbing their necks and knocking things over …” Black began reeling and waving his arms in a pantomime of suffocation. “Everybody jumps out of their way; only she stays. I pulled the bus over to help and I saw her watchin' 'em with this little tiny smile. She kinda leaned forward”—Lionel inclined his bulk towards Lister and dropped the volume on his deep baritone—“and just stared with those eyes. Made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Really, they were standing on end.” Lionel returned to his former altitude and began to nod. “Won't be forgetting those eyes anytime soon.”

“Where did you drop her?”

“The American counter. The seven-ten flight to Washington.”

Lister was amazed. You remember that?”

Now Lionel was puzzled. “Odd,” he said with a perplexed look. “Don't know why, but I do. Maybe she said it,” he said unconvincingly.

“Thanks for your time. I'll let you get back to your lunch.” They shook hands, and Lister weaved his way through the airport traffic back to his car. Lionel Black had put Amanda Flynn on a plane to Washington, DC. It took him three minutes to track down his boss by phone.

“She was on the seven-ten flight to Washington,” he said as a greeting. “And there is no Amanda Flynn on the manifest.” He quickly relayed the meeting with Lionel.

“So Amanda Flynn is Dalice Watkins,” Kerr said cautiously. It was still possible that Amanda was traveling under an assumed name because of her family's tragic history with airlines, but she had flown from Colorado Springs as Amanda Flynn. It still didn't mean that Dalice Watkins was involved with Alam's or Chang's death, but she knew Ted and was a perfect fit for the woman on the video. “Pick her up.”

“Arrest her, or invite her in for questioning?” Lister was excited.

“Arrest her. Let's go full bore and see if we can scare her into a confession.”

“I want to use an HRT.” Lister braced himself the moment he said it.

“A hostage rescue team? Don't you think that's a little over the top for one woman?”

“We have no idea how she killed Chang, or the others.” He repeated Lionel Black's story of Amanda's encounter on the bus. “This whole situation is strange. I'm talking Mulder and Scully strange.” The X-files reference had special meaning to Kerr; as a younger agent he had appeared in an episode. “Then there's the whole international aspect; she survives this epidemic down in Central America and then kills a former Korean intelligence officer for no clear reason. I would rather be accused of overreacting than underreacting.”

“All right,” Kerr agreed. “We certainly can't use the local SWAT team.” It was likely Amanda had met at least some of the members of Colorado Springs small special tactical unit, and using them would create a true conflict of interest. “I'll make some phone calls. I think there might be a team in Denver already. Get back there and get this done as quickly and as quietly as possible.”

“I'm already at the airport, and I've got on my quietest running shoes.”