Touching Evil (15 page)

"He certainly has that," Andy said heavily. "And it does sound more and more like he studied at least some of these earlier crimes. For inspiration, goddamn his soul."

"He doesn't have one," Jenn declared.

Andy grunted an agreement. "What about the earlier date, 1894?"

"Nothing so far, at least in that book. And we haven't found any files from that year—not here and not at any other station. It was a long time ago, Andy."

"Tell me about it." He sighed. "All we can do is keep looking. What else have we got?"

Jennifer sighed and got to her feet. "Yeah, you're right. By the way—I know we're keeping this to ourselves for the time being, but are you going to tell Maggie?"

"I haven't decided yet. What do you think?"

"I say tell her."

Andy leaned back and looked at her curiously. "Why?"

"Because Maggie works best when she has all the information we can give her. And because . . . she's very good with intangibles, Andy. Victims give her subjective impressions and feelings and pain—and in all that confusion, Maggie finds a face we can search for. As far as I can tell, with her it's all instinct and emotion. She comes at this differently than we do. Maybe she'd have an idea or observation we'd never have."

"Yeah." He nodded slowly. "Yeah, maybe."

"You going to tell Garrett?"

"I don't know that yet either."

"It might give him a focus other than his sister's death."

"It might. And we might need the resources he can tap. I don't know. We'll see how it goes."

"I'm glad it's your decision and not mine," Jennifer told him with a casual salute, then returned to her own desk.

Andy wished it was somebody else's decision. He was a good cop, and maybe it was that inborn instinct that warned him uneasily that this particular case was somehow beyond his experience. Not just because this bastard was torturing his victims the way he was and
going to such elaborate extremes to hide his own identity, but because of the chillingly methodical way he went about satisfying his twisted needs.

Andy would have loved to hand the whole mess over to somebody else. But he couldn't do that. It was his mess, and he had to find his way through it. Which meant Jenn was right and he'd have to tell Maggie about these latest puzzle pieces.

Even more, he might just have to break the rules and ignore Drummond's orders and bring John Garrett fully into the investigation. He needed all the resources he could get his hands on, and with Drummond's stubborn refusal to call in the FBI, John could provide a wide and willing conduit to virtually every database and source of information available.

Maybe even some sources that could take them all the way back to 1894.

Maggie wondered if he had any idea at all what he asked of her and thought that he had at least an inkling. But not belief. Because if he believed, he could never have asked her to go to the apartment where a despondent, tormented woman had died and allow those emotions to seep into her. At least. . . she hoped he couldn't ask that of her.

"Even if I did, it wouldn't be proof," she said flatly. "Because Christina isn't here to verify whatever I'd say."

"I'll know if it's the truth."

"Will you? And how will you know that? Because you were her brother? You've lived in L.A. for the last ten years, and she moved back to Seattle more than five years ago; did you know so much about
her life? I'd bet not. I'd bet you didn't know much at all."

"Maggie—"

"She volunteered at a day-care center in her neighborhood, did you know that? And at the local animal shelter. She still woke up in the night and reached for her husband, even though it had been nearly two years since he'd died. She talked to her plants, even sang to them sometimes. She was learning to use a computer for the first time; with Simon gone, she no longer felt she'd have to compete with his genius in that area. She watched old movies in bed at night, and just before the attack she'd been in the middle of a wonderful series of mystery novels."

Maggie drew a breath. "Did you know that? Did you know any of that?"

John stared out through the windshield, a muscle moving in his tight jaw. "No," he said finally. "I didn't know any of that."

Looking down at the sketch pad in her lap, Maggie consciously loosened her grip on it. She really needed to stop clinging, she thought vaguely. It was a very bad sign. "John, if I believed, really believed, that I could help you by going up to Christina's apartment, then I would. But nothing I could find out by doing that would help you in any way."
Assuming I survived to tell you.
But she didn't add that, of course.

Quietly, she said, "We should try to get to the Mitchell house while the cops are still there."

Without a word, John put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

Maggie didn't sense any hostility coming from him, so she didn't worry about his silence. Instead, she used the time granted to her to do her best to shore up
what few defenses she had. Not that she ever had many, except for a fair ability to master her expression and what Beau referred to as her prickly touch-me-not posture.

So she worked on those, at least for the ten minutes or so until they reached the Mitchell house. The police had tried to keep this disappearance as quiet as possible until they knew whether Samantha Mitchell had been abducted by the serial rapist, but the press had found out at least part of it and were milling about just beyond the long drive, where several uniformed officers were holding them at bay.

Andy had sent word of their clearance, so they were waved through and pulled into the driveway with barely a pause. But with enough of a pause, unfortunately, for one photographer to get a picture.

"Shit," John muttered.

Maggie, who had done her best to make certain her face wouldn't be visible, said, "You'll make the papers tomorrow. I wonder if Andy realized that seeing you here would pretty much confirm the reporters' suspicions about this woman being the latest victim."

"It won't be an official confirmation, so all they can do is speculate. That isn't what's bothering me."

"Then what?"

"Drummond." John sent her a wry look. "He wasn't happy I was granted access to the investigation, and I more or less promised to keep my involvement low-key."

"Ouch."

"Yeah." Without saying anything else about that, John parked the car and they got out.

It was a big Spanish-style house in an upper-middle-class neighborhood where virtually every house had its
own unique style. Manicured lawn, exquisite landscaping. Maggie glanced around as they made their way through the tangle of police vehicles clogging the upper part of the driveway and murmured, "Wouldn't you think a stranger would be noticed in this neighborhood?"

"I'd think so, yeah. Unless he was dressed as some kind of maintenance or service person. Hiding in plain sight."

Maggie knew the cops had undoubtedly made a note of that possibility; neither Andy nor any of his people was stupid. But it nevertheless struck her as distinctly odd that a rapist who went to such lengths to hide his identity from his victims could allow himself to move openly in neighborhoods and shopping malls where he was almost certain to be noticed— even hiding in plain sight.

The cop at the door said they'd been okayed to go through the house, and since the forensics team was packing up now, they could come in whenever they wanted.

"Where's Mr. Mitchell?" Maggie asked.

"He's in the kitchen with a couple of detectives."

Maggie nodded and stepped past him into the foyer. Several equipment boxes standing open and closed on the polished wood floor of the area attested to the presence of the forensics team, and an occasional voice could be heard from upstairs. It appeared they had finished their work downstairs.

She was momentarily highly conscious of John standing just behind her but forced herself to concentrate on what she was here to do. It was difficult to prepare herself for the painful and disturbing invasion even after all these years, especially when she could
hear the forensics team. One of the reasons she always tried to delay a walk-through of the scene until after everyone else had finished their work and gone was because the emotions of other people could affect what she was trying to do.

One of the reasons.

"There's no blood trail here." John's voice was matter-of-fact. "So where do you start?"

She glanced at him, wishing she didn't have to prove herself to him this way. But if he couldn't accept and believe this, how would he ever be able to accept and believe the rest? And no matter which way it went, he'd have to believe the rest.

Wouldn't he?

Making up her mind abruptly, Maggie abandoned the I'm-just-an-overly-sensitive-person mantra. "I'm a human divining rod for violence," she said, matching his tone. "If there was any here, I'll find where it happened."

He was completely expressionless. "I see."

"I doubt it." Maggie hugged her sketch pad like the security blanket it virtually was and walked into the living room on her left. She didn't look at the comfortable and expensive furnishings or pay any attention to the decorating scheme but just stood in the center of the room, closed her eyes for a moment, and reluctantly opened the inner door to that unnerving sixth sense.

As always, it was a peculiar feeling, at first a distant murmur accompanied by flashes of scenes, like a strobe projector flickering images in her mind's eye. Then she caught the whiff of wine, the acrid smell of wood smoke, cologne or aftershave. Heard voices raised suddenly in an argument, felt her hand sting as
if she'd slapped someone. Then hands gripping her wrists and a mouth coming down hard on hers . . .

Maggie took a jerky step backward to physically break the connection and under her breath muttered, "Shit."

"What?" John was watching her intently, a tiny frown between his brows.

She glanced at the fireplace, where no fire burned today, then looked at the apparently very comfortable couch and sighed. "There's violence—and then there's violence. Dammit. I hate being a voyeur."

"Maggie, what are you talking about?"

"Nothing was done in this room against anyone's will, John. I just picked up on ... Well, let's just say the Mitchells have an active and . . . energetic sex life." He glanced at the couch as she had done, then looked quickly back at her face. "Oh."

Maggie didn't try to read his face or his emotions or waste time wondering if he believed her; she was reasonably sure he didn't. Instead, she moved into the next room. She didn't stop now but walked slowly, looking around her but allowing that inner sense to be the one seeing. And hearing. And feeling.

She caught the flicker of another marital argument in the den that seemed to be about, of all things, a parrot, another scene of rather violent lovemaking in the sunroom, and knew someone had been cut—oddly enough by a broken mirror—in the breakfast room. In Thomas Mitchell's study, many business arguments had taken place, the most recent of which had been between Mitchell and his father-in-law.

Maggie reported each event calmly and without looking at John, speaking aloud as much to keep
herself grounded as to supply him with information. She was holding on to her control with all her will, determined not to allow herself to be lost within the emotional turmoil of these people's lives.

It was getting more and more difficult to keep herself separate and apart from what she sensed, and that frightened her more than a little.
Could
she actually get lost in the violence of past events? And if she did . . . would she ever be able to find her way out again?

They bypassed the kitchen, where they could hear the murmur of voices, and moved on to the other ground-floor rooms. There was nothing of interest to report in a powder room or exercise room, a butler's pantry or laundry room.

Maggie was beginning to wonder if everybody had got it wrong and Samantha Mitchell had walked out of this house of her own free will, when they reached the game room. Maggie walked into the fairly dark room and was staggered by an overwhelming wave of absolute terror.

It was as brief as it was fierce, just cold terror and iron arms around her and the bitter bite of chloroform—and then darkness so intense it was as if she had fallen into an abyss.

"Maggie."

She came out of it abruptly, shaken. It was John's arms she felt around her then, holding her upright, and the terrifying darkness receded, leaving only the bone-deep cold behind. And the terrible certainty.

"He's got her," she whispered.

CHAPTER
 
EIGHT

In what had once been an ordinary conference room
of a New Orleans police station, now transformed by bulletin boards and computers and stacks of files into the base of operations for a very unique task force, Special Agent Tony Harte refilled his coffee cup and then returned to brooding over the photographs pinned to the center bulletin board.