01 Only Fear (6 page)

The young woman kept up a steady stream of conversation as she drove, which was fine with Maggie. The light chatter was like a soothing background hum while other parts of her brain were preoccupied with thoughts of Owen. Would he call two nights in a row? She was almost certain of it. He’d want to taunt her further, especially after last night.

At the station, Becca entered the production booth behind Maggie and surveyed the small room beyond the glass, where Maggie sat during her show.

David’s forehead creased as he studied Becca. Leaning into Maggie, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “
She’s
your bodyguard? She’s smaller than you.”

“And I’m sure she packs a wallop. And if she doesn’t, her gun does.” She eyed the small bump under Becca’s suit jacket where her gun was nestled in a shoulder holster.

Instead of smiling as she’d intended him to, he frowned at her. “Are you really okay? Maybe you should take a night off. Sharon and I can field calls and replay an old show.”

“And miss a chance to talk to Owen again?” She shook her head. “Not a chance.” She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but David actually turned a lighter shade of pale.

“I’m so sorry I got excited about him calling the show and that I suggested he should call more often. I never wanted…” He stopped and gulped. “I just don’t like this.”

Me, either.
“We’ll get it all squared away soon enough. We’ve got people helping us this time.” She smiled at Becca before turning back to David. “It’s almost time. Everything up and ready?”

“All set, boss.”

Becca followed Maggie to her seat. “You sure you want to do this? David’s right. Nobody would be too upset if you took the night off.”

“Except Owen. I think he’s out there somewhere, just waiting to call in.”

“But you’d be so much safer at home.”

Maggie arched a brow. “Where, despite my alarm system, Owen broke in?” She shook her head. “I’m not going to hide at home. Besides, you’ll be right there by the door, right?”

“Yes, of course.” Becca stiffened her spine, straightening to what had to be no more than five feet four inches.

Maggie smiled, putting her headphones on. “Then I’m not worried.” A jolt of adrenaline shot through her as she thought of the night’s program. If Owen thought she would just roll over and take another hit, he’d be sorely mistaken. She spoke to David through her microphone. “If Owen calls, give me some kind of signal, okay?”

He raised a finger to the side of his head and twirled it in the international sign for crazy. “How ’bout this?”

“That’ll work. Then we’ll make him wait.”

“What?” David sputtered. Becca’s face mirrored his concern.

“I want to see what kind of patience he has,” Maggie explained.

“You want to intentionally provoke him?” David clearly thought that would be a bad move.

She shrugged, but she had plans for Owen. Let him be angry for a while. No, let him grow furious, as she was. “I need to test his limits. And if he’s angry, maybe he’ll drop his pompous attitude and all this nonsense about teaching me a lesson and we’ll get to the heart of the matter. What this is really about. Or, better yet, maybe I’ll get a clue to who he is.”

David shook his head. “You’re the doctor.”

“Am I late?” Breathless, her long brown hair flowing around her as she rushed in, Sharon Moss entered the production booth like a whirlwind. And David’s scowl evaporated.

Sharon stuck her head through the doorway that joined Maggie’s area to the production booth. Her flawless face was flushed. Despite the darkness that had fallen on the city at this late hour, it was still hot as Hades as the acres of pavement released their grip on the day’s heat.

“I thought you might need me. David told me that Owen called last night.” Sharon’s eyes softened in sympathy. “And that he trashed your place, Dr. Levine. I’m so sorry.” Trashed her place? Apparently, David hadn’t told the girl everything, for which Maggie was grateful. “Are you okay?”

Maggie nodded. “I’m fine.” And that would piss Owen off all the more.

“And Sigmund?” the girl asked with genuine concern. She had served as pet-sitter for the cat when Maggie attended a professional conference in Seattle several months ago. Sharon and Sigmund had formed a fast friendship.

“He’s fine,” Maggie said with a reassuring smile. In reality, the image of what she’d thought when she’d first seen the blood on her walls—that it had been Sigmund’s—set her teeth on edge. She turned to Becca, who was observing Sharon with interest. “And this is Becca Haney, who’s also here to help.”

Sharon extended a hand to meet the SSAM agent’s. “Cool. You’ll like working with Dr. Levine.”

David cleared his throat from the doorway. “People, it’s almost eleven o’clock. Let’s get moving.”

Maggie found Becca’s worried gaze on her and gave a nod of encouragement. Becca took up a post by the door like a sentry. She would be watching. And listening.

David gave her the usual cue through the glass. “Good evening, Chicago,” Maggie began as she took her seat. “Welcome to
Live with Levine
. Tonight, our focus is depression.” She intentionally left out any comments about yesterday’s brief discussion of fear. Sensing Owen would like credit for his stunt—to put it mildly—she refused to acknowledge it at all, hoping it would push him to call in. Now the waiting game began.

Several minutes later, when David gave the signal that Owen had called, then held up two fingers to indicate which line he was on, Maggie ignored the hitch in her breathing.
Showtime.

The pungent scent of candles burning in the small alcove off the main church filled Damian Manchester’s nostrils. His knees ached, but he forced his brain to ignore the pain. He still had a lot of praying to make up for, but he and God had come to an understanding several years ago.

Damian didn’t blame God anymore for the horrors of the world, and God helped him destroy monsters.

And there was no doubt about it, monsters walked the earth. Twenty years ago, one had stolen his thirteen-year-old daughter away.

Shifting his weight from one knee to the other, he mentally recited the Lord’s Prayer, letting the pain remind him that he was still alive. His daughter was not. And someone had yet to pay for his trespasses.

Deliver us from evil, amen.

When, years after his daughter’s abduction, Damian had finally emerged from a haze of hate and despair, he had set about using his money and his mind toward something worthwhile, creating an organization populated by the best of the best. The Society for the Study of the Aberrant Mind had been founded in his daughter’s memory. Its mission was to catch the worst, most violent offenders of society by working with law enforcement and various other special groups. In the twelve years it had been running, the SSAM team had managed to put numerous killers behind bars. In the meantime, the organization had started programs to educate the public and law enforcement officials in an effort to protect more innocents.

Innocents like Samantha.

The thought of his daughter brought the familiar itchiness to his throat and tightness to his chest. Damian focused on the throbbing in his knees instead, offering up the pain for his daughter.

The gentle sound of high heels clicking against marble resounded in the empty church, but he didn’t turn. He knew that sound, and knew to whom those footsteps belonged. After all, she was the only one who would dare to approach him when he got like this.

“You know this isn’t our guy.” Lorena Castro’s slim form took another step into the alcove and came to stand beside his small pew. “Fearmonger isn’t Sam’s killer.”

The sound of his daughter’s nickname spoken aloud was a painful echo in his heart, but it was no longer the agonizing black void that had once pressed on his chest day and night. It had only taken a couple decades to numb himself to that.

Ignoring the creaking of stiff joints as he shifted to a sitting position on the bench, a rush of tiny pinpricks traveled down his legs as the blood flow resumed. He sat back, sliding over to make room for Lorena.

“You’re sure he’s not the same guy.” He’d already come to the same conclusion. The killer’s signature, the way he performed a crime to meet his deviant needs, didn’t match that of Sam’s killer. But hearing the confirmation from his senior mindhunter didn’t make the knowledge any easier to take.

Lorena’s slender fingers wrapped around the fist he’d unconsciously formed on his thigh. “About as sure as I can be in this business. The crime scenes just don’t match up.” She shrugged. “Killers can change their MOs, but they don’t usually differ that much.”

Damian nodded. “But this guy—this Fearmonger—did kill people.” Innocent people like Sam.

She squeezed his hand and his gaze was drawn there. Her caramel skin was smooth and warm against his. “Yes. And finding him, bringing him to justice, will bring peace to others.” Her voice softened. “But not to you.”

No. Not to him. Not entirely, anyway. But each monster they put away brought that peace just a little bit closer.

They sat in silence for several moments, and his eyes were locked on the crucifix that hung on the wall between two stained glass windows. Her fingers were still draped across his fist, and he resisted the temptation to turn his palm to hers. He wasn’t ready for that level of comfort from another person. He hadn’t forgiven himself enough yet.

“You think it helps?” He couldn’t keep the edge from his voice.

“Prayer? Couldn’t hurt.” There was a trace of amusement in her reply.

“No. I suppose not.” And it did give him a brief measure of solace.

She tilted her head, her blue-black hair shifting over one shoulder as her expression softened. Her midnight eyes considered him. “Is this about Dr. Levine?”

“I’m worried about her.”

“She’s got you, and the Society, in her corner now. And Ethan’s good at his job. I know I had my doubts at first…”

Damian chuckled, and it echoed in the silent church. “You gave him the cold shoulder for weeks.”

She scowled. “That was before I knew more about what happened. The press made it sound like he’d made a horrendous mistake that had cost a girl her life.” She shook her head. “But I’ve reviewed the information a friend at the FBI got for me. Ethan had to make a choice, and even if he doesn’t believe it, he did the only thing he could at the time. The press may have crucified him, but he’s proven himself at SSAM.”

“Maybe he’s proven himself to you, but he still hasn’t been cleared by the most important person.”

Her eyebrows knit in confusion. “You?”

“No. Himself. He needs to forgive himself.” He sighed. “Maybe I’m wrong to push him now, though. He’s still rough around the edges. Maggie needs someone she can depend on.”

“Because of what she’s already been through?”

“Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking. This isn’t just about her previous stalker. There’s more to her past than you all know. And it’ll make her all the more vulnerable to Fearmonger.”

Owen was still waiting on line two. And he’d been waiting for twenty minutes now. Was it enough?

Maggie pressed the button. “Owen.” She forced her voice to be calm as, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Becca straighten from her position against the wall. “How nice of you to join us again. Two nights in a row. An honor, indeed.” It was her turn to act pompous, and she laced her voice with sarcasm, hoping to goad the man into revealing something about himself that would help them track him.

“Once again, you disappoint me, Maggie.” At the sound of his voice in her headphones, tingles began at her nape and trickled outward, up to her scalp and down her spine. “You knew I’d be calling tonight.” The chuckle again. How had she ever thought it sounded warm? It was like someone dropping an ice cube down the back of her shirt.

“
Hoped
is, perhaps, a better word.”

“Hope is pointless. Did you learn nothing?” He made a tsk-tsk sound of disappointment. “I thought you’d be smarter than that. But then, the pupil pushes the teacher to adapt, to come up with more innovative ways of teaching. I can appreciate that.”

More innovative than smearing blood on her walls?
Dear Lord.
She resisted the urge to cross herself as her mother always did in the presence of something evil. “Do you have anything of value to contribute to our discussion today, Owen?”

“Depression is for people too spineless to face their fears. They mope about instead of taking control. Instead, they’d rather other people take control for them, and then they complain when they do.” Maggie opened her mouth to object, but Owen continued. “But that’s not why I called. And I don’t think it’s what you want to talk to me about. You would much rather know about last night, and why I had to teach you a lesson, wouldn’t you?” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Yes, Maggie, there is much to learn. I think, since we’ll be spending so much time together, you’d better start calling me by my real name.”

Her heart beat faster, knocking against her chest. “And what would that be?”

“Fearmonger.”

“Fearmonger?” Becca signaled with her hands to keep him talking, even as she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and began dialing. Maggie snapped her attention back to the microphone.

“I know that’s what the police must be thinking after they saw your house. If they have half a brain among them, that is.” There was a pause as Maggie tried to digest this. “Oh dear, maybe I gave them too much credit. Or maybe they just didn’t fill you in.”

Maggie ignored the anger that was rising within. Had the police known who this man was? Had Ethan, who she was just starting to trust? Either way, she wouldn’t let Owen take control. “What kind of name is Fearmonger?”

“Fearmonger is just what he sounds like. He lives for other people’s fears. He exploits them. He uses their fears to bring their lives new meaning. He’s also suspected of murder.”

Maggie pushed aside her breathlessness. There was no time for panic now. Had everyone been keeping this from her? Something this huge about the man who had broken into her home? “And did you? Kill someone?”

“Now that would be absurd of me to confess, wouldn’t it? Especially on the radio, for all to hear. But I believe it was more like three someones—according to the Chicago PD, that is. As for me, I’m happy being Owen. Let’s just say Fearmonger and I both know a lot about fear.”

“So you said yesterday.”

The voice hardened. “And you still doubt me?” There was a significant pause. “Even after last night?”

Ignore the pain. Focus on breathing in and out. In and out. She pictured her heart beating wildly, then gradually changed the mental picture until her heartbeat slowed to a normal pace. “No. I don’t doubt you believe you’re an expert on fear.” And he seemed fear
less
. He was basically confessing to breaking and entering—and hinting at a whole heck of a lot more—on public radio. But everyone feared something. She’d just have to figure out what made Fearmonger afraid.

Stay calm. Make him the angry one. Maybe he’ll reveal something more.

“Is that why you identify with this Fearmaker person?”

“Fear
monger
,” he snapped. “An apropos euphemism, I suppose. I do seek fear. I study it. I create it. So trust me, Maggie, when I say I
know
fear. The look in a human’s eyes just before their life is snuffed out like a candle is proof enough that fear is the basic component of life. Without it, we cease to exist.”

The pressure in her chest threatened to crush her lungs, but Maggie was too stunned to give in to the panic. Owen spoke as if he indeed
knew
what those last moments were like. But then, he tended to be melodramatic. Perhaps he was yanking her chain. She cleared her throat, determined not to let the man have control. She began to ask him more, but David signaled to her that Owen, or Fearmonger, had hung up. Damn.

“I think it’s time for a short break,” Maggie said into the microphone.

As the beginning jingle of a commercial sounded, she whipped off her headphones and rocked back in her chair, looking toward the production booth.

Her heart stopped. Standing in the doorway, scowling through the glass window so hard she thought his jaw would break, was Ethan Townsend. David and Sharon both leaped to attention as Ethan barked something to them, then waited as they left the room quickly. The entire time, his eyes were on Maggie.

He turned the knob and entered her domain. Becca followed him in, her nervous glance meeting Maggie’s as she peered around Ethan’s towering form. Anger seemed to simmer in the air around him as he took a few steps farther into the small room, bringing him within two feet of her. It was then that she noticed his clothing wasn’t dark, as she’d originally thought, but wet. His hands were on his hips, causing his shirt to cling to his shoulders and biceps. His hair gleamed like polished mahogany as water dripped down the sides of his face. The storm had finally broken free of the heat’s powerful grip.

Ethan continued to scowl at her, but spoke over his shoulder. “What were you thinking,” he asked Becca, “letting her poke this guy with a stick?”

“Well, I—” Becca began, only to be cut off again with a raised hand.

“Save it. It’s my fault. I knew you were a rookie. You can go.”

Behind Ethan, Becca flushed red to the roots of her platinum hair, turned on her heel and left.

“Are you insane?” Ethan asked once they were alone. Water drops at his hairline collided together and formed a rivulet that traveled down his chiseled jaw before making the six-foot drop to the floor.

“You’re wet.” Maggie almost winced. What an inane thing to say. Still, her blood pumped harder at the thought he had hurried through the rain to her side. She licked her suddenly dry lips and the heat in his eyes seemed to flare in response. But then, it could have been her imagination. The man was, after all, furious with her.

“Yeah,
wet
tends to happen when it’s raining outside and someone has to haul ass
through the rain
to stop someone else from doing something stupid.” He waved a hand around in the air as he spoke. “Excuse me. I mean to keep someone from
continuing
to do something stupid. Something that could get her killed. So, I repeat. Are. You. Insane.”

“Not clinically, no.” She crossed her arms to stifle the urge to reach out and shove him. Or maybe she was trying to resist the urge to brush off the drops of water that still clung to his eyebrows.

“If you’re not insane, then you must be—”

She raised a hand to stop him, gritting her teeth together. “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“Stupid. I’m not stupid.”

“Reckless, then. The very thing we discussed earlier today. How to protect yourself from a stalker.”

“Yes, exactly. A stalker. Not a serial killer.”

“They’re both dangerous.” He dragged long fingers over his face, dislodging the water droplets she’d been eyeing. “Damn it, Maggie, if this wasn’t stupid, it definitely wasn’t smart.”

She matched his angry glare as she stood toe-to-toe with him. “Yes, we discussed personal security earlier, but there are some things you left out of our little chat, aren’t there? Some things that might have been helpful to know.”

Something flashed in his green eyes, all the more vibrant and dangerous in the low light of her sound booth. “I told you what you needed to know.”

“According to
you
. Perhaps you didn’t think it important for me to know that
my
stalker—the guy who broke into
my
house, bypassing
my
alarm code—is a
serial killer?
” Her voice raised to a fever pitch as David shuffled back into the production booth, looking warily through the glass from one to the other of them.