Midnight Fear (20 page)

T
he medication wasn’t helping this time.

Reid slid down his bathroom wall, feeling the cold chill of the ceramic tile against his bare back. Reaching the floor, he rested his head in his hands. The throb was insistent—a deep, repeated knife-jab inside his skull, like some kind of animal trying to claw its way out.

Only a few hours had passed since he had left Mitch at the bar. He’d woken in bed, aware of the faint auras around the furniture and door frame as he stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before vomiting. Dizzy, he decided to stay put until the pain subsided.
If it did this time
. The pain was worse, its duration longer than two nights ago when Caitlyn had discovered him.

Another pulsating stab blurred his vision, squeezing his lungs and stealing his breath. He scrubbed angrily at the tear that slipped down his face.

If the tumor had returned…

Megan and Cooper, his father, Isabelle and Maddie—
if he were ill again, all their lives would be turned upside down, put on hold as they cared for him just as they had six months ago. He would have to take another medical leave of absence and he wasn’t sure his career would survive it a second time. But even more important, the unsub would still be out there, inflicting violence and death. And Caitlyn would still be in his sights. The killer had already gotten to her once—he couldn’t let it happen again.

Keeping his eyes closed, he battled the pain.

At the same time, Reid knew he was playing a dangerous game. He understood that with a growing certainty. He had been in denial, continuing to ignore the repeated messages from the neurologist’s office. Leaning his head back against the tiles, he bargained with God for just a little more time.

But he would have to make a decision soon.

The Wednesday afternoon was rainy and gray, befitting the somber occasion. Caitlyn stood at the edge of mourners with Reid beside her. Rain dripped from the rim of the umbrella he held over their heads, and their combined breath fogged in the biting cold.

Wet-eyed, Caitlyn listened as the minister spoke from behind the carved-wood, pewter-trimmed coffin, a massive spray of red roses on its top. He talked of Bliss, her zest for life and the people she loved, as well as the tragic circumstances of her death. Caitlyn felt the gazes of the other mourners shift to her from time to time, and she heard their faint whispers that drifted in
the chilled air around her. She clung to Reid’s forearm, absorbing his strength. At times she thought he was the only thing keeping her upright.

Elaborate mausoleums and gravestones dotted the hillside in Saint John Cemetery, some of them more than two hundred years old. Stone angels, cherubs and Madonnas commingled among whitewashed, Gothic crosses. The freshly dug hole where Bliss would be laid to rest seemed in stark contrast to their ancient beauty.

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the minister intoned. “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection into eternal life…”

Caitlyn’s heart tore as a sob came from the front row where the family sat in folding chairs, protected from the rain by a funeral home tarp. Bliss’s mother, Meredith, was crying, her head bowed. Judge Harper was beside her, his arm encircling her shoulders.

The minister gave a signal and the casket slowly lowered into the ground. Then one by one, each family member rose and threw a symbolic handful of dirt over the coffin while a woman sang “The Lord’s Prayer” in a soaring a cappella soprano. As Felicity, the youngest of the Harper siblings, reclaimed her seat, her eyes met Caitlyn’s through the crowd. A mix of grief and hatred shone on her face. Caitlyn felt new tears threaten, and then Reid’s hand against the small of her back. She wanted to press her face against the lapels of his dark trench coat, gather it in her hands to anchor herself to him. But instead, she squared her shoulders and looked straight ahead.

The crowd began to disperse. Still holding the umbrella over her head, Reid turned Caitlyn in the direction of his SUV, which was parked under the orange burst of an oak along the road leading into the cemetery. The rain had increased, the late afternoon fog growing thicker, and the mourners began moving like a swelling tide toward their cars. Caitlyn glanced around, seeing Agents Tierney and Morehouse as they surveyed the masses. Reid had told her the FBI would have a presence at the service, since oftentimes the perpetrator would attend such an event in order to witness the suffering of those impacted by his crime. It was yet another way for him to enjoy the pain of others.

She felt a shiver rise inside her that had nothing to do with the cold.

As they neared the vehicle, Caitlyn heard a male voice call her name. Judge William Harper approached. He was an imposing man, tall, with silver hair and shoulders as broad as a linebacker. His black suit was streaked with rain.

“Judge Harper—”

“How dare you come here,” he spat.

Caitlyn felt as if the ground were crumbling beneath her. “Bliss was my friend. I—I just wanted to—”

“You got her killed!” He shoved a finger under her nose, his wild, grief-stricken eyes narrowing under bushy eyebrows. “It should have been you! The newspaper said the killer was looking for
you
in that house.”

“That’s enough. Walk away,” Reid warned, his voice
low and controlled. He subtly indicated the Department of Justice shield he wore on his belt.

The judge sneered. “You think I give a damn about that, son? Do you know who I am?”

“You’re grieving, Judge Harper. I’m sorry for your loss. But the last thing you want to do is make a scene here.”

He glared at Reid, then cut his gaze back to Caitlyn. The words were thick in his throat. “I told my Bliss not to take the listing—that place, your family—they’re cursed. It should have been
you,
Caitlyn. I hope you live with that knowledge every day.”

As he pivoted on his heel and strode back toward his family, Caitlyn remained frozen. Her lungs felt like stone. She couldn’t breathe. The faces that passed her held looks of curiosity, accusation, or both. From under the funeral tarp she could hear Meredith Harper’s high-pitched wail of grief.

“We’re going,” Reid murmured. His face was flushed. Caitlyn realized his hands were on her, coaxing her to move forward. She was only now aware of the tears flowing from her eyes.

As he helped her into the SUV, a starburst of light exploded in front of her face.

“Get out of here,” Reid snapped at the photographer. The media had been instructed not to go beyond the cemetery gates, to give the family and mourners some respect. But at least one of them had dared to venture inside.

“Does it feel like déjà vu, Ms. Cahill?” the man
called, his camera concealing the upper portion of his face. “The first Capital Killer was your brother—do you know this one personally, too?”

Caitlyn stood openmouthed as Agent Morehouse appeared, grabbing the photographer by the arm and ushering him away. Once she was situated inside the vehicle, Reid closed the passenger door, then jogged around to the other side. But he stopped as Agent Tierney approached. She waited, rain streaking the SUV’s windshield and beating on its roof as Reid and his partner spoke. She couldn’t hear their words through the onslaught.

Her recuperating hand ached in the damp cold.

“What’s going on?” Caitlyn asked when Reid finally entered the vehicle.

“Agent Tierney received a tip on David Hunter’s whereabouts.” Reid started the engine, but he was unable to pull from the curb due to the mourners still leaving the graveside. The SUV’s heater blew out lukewarm air. He looked at her, sympathy reflected on his even features. Even with the protection of the umbrella, his dark hair had gotten damp, and his pale blue dress shirt and silk tie under his trench coat were splotched with water. His intense gray eyes were the same color as the darkening late afternoon.

“You’re shaking.” He turned the heater up a notch.

“What are you going to do?”

“We’re going to check it out.” He gazed into his rearview mirror, and Caitlyn knew he was looking at Agent
Tierney’s dark sedan, which was parked behind them with its lights on.

“My father lives a few miles from here,” Reid told her. “I’m going to drop you off at his place for a while. You can’t be safer than with a retired cop.”

Caitlyn wanted to protest, but she knew Reid wouldn’t leave her alone. At his instruction, Manny had driven her to the District earlier that day, handing her over to Reid so he could get back to the stables and farm. After escorting her to the funeral, the plan was that Reid would drive her back home. She was being treated like a captive, and it was a feeling she didn’t like.

“I don’t want to intrude on your father,” she said quietly.

“Don’t worry about it. He’ll probably make you have a beer with him and play cards.”

As the flow of mourners passing in front of the SUV finally subsided, Reid pulled onto the road. Caitlyn dropped the sun visor and used its lighted mirror to examine herself. Her hair hung in limp strands around her face, framing her teary eyes. The bruise on her temple had faded somewhat, but it was still an ugly patch of pale yellow and green.

“Do you really think David Hunter is the copycat?”

Reid didn’t look at her. He was concentrating on avoiding the cameramen and reporters who were outside Saint John Cemetery. They stood in the pouring rain, wearing slickers and setting up their equipment in preparation for the five o’clock news.

“My gut says no,” he said. “But we’d be remiss not to bring him in if we can.”

They passed through the heavy ironwork gates, just one among a long line of cars leaving the cemetery. He added, “Regardless of his guilt or innocence in the murders, Hunter’s still an established threat—to himself and to others, Caitlyn. Especially to you.”

“D
avid Hunter!” Mitch rapped on the motel room door, then stepped to the left so that an exterior concrete wall protected his body. He held his gun in his right hand, its barrel pointing down. “FBI. Open up!”

Reid and Morehouse stood on the opposite side of the entrance, guns drawn, as well. When they received no response from inside the room, Reid nodded to the Indian motel manager who stood farther down the second-floor breezeway. He came nervously forward and unlocked the door.

“Go,” Reid told him. Once the manager hurried away, Mitch swung open the door, moved back and Reid rushed inside, scanning the space with his gun poised in front of him. Mitch and Morehouse followed closely behind. The room was as rundown as the motel’s exterior, with a frayed bedspread and cheap art prints in plastic frames. The few pieces of furniture were scarred and littered with liquor bottles.

But there was no sign of Hunter.

Reid proceeded to the bathroom, reaching around the door frame to turn on the light. He peered carefully inside.

“Clear,” he called in a hollow voice, holstering his weapon. Incredulous, he looked around the cramped, closetlike room. Photos of Julianne Hunter covered nearly every inch of space—the walls, vanity mirror, even the mildewed shower stall. They were ordinary photos from a life lived, snapshots of birthday parties, beach trips, baby showers. Reid swallowed hard, his mouth dry.

This time Julianne was no hallucination, but something achingly real.

Driven from his home, David Hunter had built a shrine to his wife here, a place where he could be alone with her memory. An eight-by-ten-inch photo had been positioned in the center of the mirror. It was a family portrait of the couple with their two small daughters. The fact that Julianne’s life had been reduced to a series of photos, now taped to a bathroom wall in a seedy motel room, was unspeakably tragic. Reid felt guilt wrap around him, his mind returning to the dilapidated factory building where his momentary hesitation had cost the young mother her life. He saw her, crumpling to the battered floor as crimson spurted from the deep gash in her throat.

“Christ, look at this,” Mitch uttered, joining Reid in staring into the small space.

“Is that his wife?” Morehouse asked from behind
them. He hadn’t been assigned a new partner yet, and for now was still tagging along.

Mitch holstered his gun. “It’s not Britney Spears.”

They all turned, hearing a noise. The motel manager stood near the bed. Apparently sensing nothing big was going down, he’d gotten braver.

“When’s the last time you saw Hunter?” Mitch asked him, reentering the room.

“Maybe last night,” he replied in a heavy accent. “He hasn’t paid in two days.”

“I wouldn’t pay for this roach trap, either,” Mitch grumbled once Morehouse had taken the manager down to his office to get a statement.

Reid went back into the makeshift shrine. He continued studying the photos, attempting to get inside Hunter’s mind. Where was he now? Aimlessly roaming the dangerous streets of southeast D.C.? Or in Middleburg near Caitlyn’s home, plotting another confrontation? The manager had claimed he’d seen Hunter only on foot—no car and no white van.

He checked the vanity drawers. They were empty. Reid lifted the lid off the toilet tank. A knife was submerged in the water.

“Mitch,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re going to want to see this.”

The knife was something he hadn’t expected, and he wondered if the M.E. would be able to match it to cuts on the victims’ bodies. He’d accused Mitch of having tunnel vision—of being interested in only one possible
suspect—but for the first time Reid grappled with the idea that maybe it was he who’d been wrong.

“Me first, Novak. Get out here.”

Mitch stood next to the bed. He held a necklace, which he’d picked up, using the tip of a ballpoint pen. A white topaz stone swung from a thin, gold chain.

“It was in the drawer of the nightstand. Want to wager whether this belongs to Bliss Harper?”

“It could have been his wife’s,” Reid said.

“One way to find out. We see if the Harper family can identify it. If not them, then one of the other victims’ families.”

Ugly, vinyl-lined curtains had concealed the room’s picture window, but someone—probably Morehouse—had pushed them back to gain an unobstructed view of the breezeway. It was still difficult to see outside, since the rainy night and the room’s air conditioner had joined forces to create condensation on the glass. Reid walked closer, using his palm to wipe through the fog enough to see. Outside, the motel’s red neon sign blinked, the last two letters in its name burned out. His heart skipped a small beat.

David Hunter stood at the edge of the parking lot, his haggard features lit by the sign’s intermittent glow. He stared up at his occupied room.

“He’s outside!” Reid sprinted down the breezeway and took the concrete steps two at a time to the ground level. He ran across the rain-slick parking lot, looking for Hunter. But there was no sign of him, no echo of his footsteps running away—only the slap of raindrops
on asphalt. Reid turned, searching for the most likely route. Above him, Mitch barreled down the stairs.

The hotel and the building next to it created a darkened alleyway.

“You sure you saw him?” Mitch was breathing heavily as he crossed the parking lot.

“Yeah. I’ll take the alley.” Reid pointed to the street. “You go that way.”

As he reached the narrow strip between the two buildings, he heard Mitch in the parking lot, calling on his cell phone to alert patrol units in the area. Reid moved cautiously forward. At the far end of the alley, he could see an opening, most likely onto Georgia Avenue. The alley was filled with garbage bins, stacks of cardboard boxes—lots of places for someone being hunted to hide. Keeping his gun in front of him with both hands, Reid kept going, his eyes searching the darkened crevices. When he reached the end, he met up with Mitch, who had come down the busy street running parallel to the motel.

“Nothing, goddamn it,” Mitch muttered. He wiped water from his face. Police sirens wailed in the urban area around them, broadening the search.

Reid shoved his rain-soaked hair from his forehead. His breath fogged in the chilly air. He’d seen David Hunter—it wasn’t another hallucination. It had been
him,
staring up at the hotel room.

Unless he made it to the Metrorail station, he had to be somewhere nearby.

Caitlyn sat up in the comfortable easy chair at the sound of the doorbell. Covered by a knitted afghan, she’d been watching late-night television with Reid’s father.

“Stay here, Caitlyn.” Ben Novak rose, picking up the pistol that had been placed on the bookshelf next to family photos. He stepped into the condo’s foyer. A few seconds later, she heard Reid’s voice as the two men conversed in low tones.

When he entered the living room, Reid appeared tired and wet, his trench coat and the suit underneath it sodden. Caitlyn was aware it was well after 11:00 p.m.

“Want me to get you some dry clothes, son?” Ben asked. He was a kind man, silver-haired, with the same gray eyes as Reid. Despite her last name being Cahill, he had made Caitlyn feel welcome, feeding her dinner and keeping up small talk for most of the evening.

“No, thanks, Dad. We’re going to go ahead and leave. We’ll let you get to bed.”

“You want a bite to eat first? There’s leftovers. Caitlyn and I had pork chops and potatoes.”

Reid forced a weak smile. “I’m not very hungry.”

“Did you find him?” Caitlyn asked. She stood from the chair, smoothing the black dress she’d had on since the funeral, and slipped back into her shoes.

“No.” Reid sounded beaten down. “We were close, but he got away.”

Ben had gone to retrieve Caitlyn’s coat from the closet, and he helped her into it.

“Thank you for everything, Ben,” Caitlyn said, meaning it.

“Take care, Caitlyn. You’ve been good company for an old man.”

“You’re far from old.” She touched his arm.

“Your father’s charming,” she said to Reid once they’d left the condo.

“I’m not sure the criminals he put away as a vice detective would think so.”

Caitlyn placed her hands inside her coat pockets to keep them warm. “I expected him to be…gruffer. I guess I was worried he’d have some preconceived notions about me.”

“Like Megan?”

She didn’t respond. Reid guided her around a rain puddle on the sidewalk. “Do you recall Bliss ever wearing a white topaz necklace?”

“No. But I didn’t see her that often. Why?”

“We found one in Hunter’s hotel room.”

“Oh,” she said softly, understanding the implication. She knew of Joshua’s penchant for taking souvenirs—personal items from his victims that he had kept as mementos. It was likely the copycat did the same thing.

“We found a knife, too.” He rubbed his forehead. “As well as a shrine to his dead wife.”

He opened the passenger door to the vehicle for her. The rain had faded into a gentle mist, and it clung to his dark hair. A streetlight was nearby, making the tension in his features visible to her. She noticed again the
small lines of fatigue around his eyes and realized how long the day had been for him.

Caitlyn’s lips parted slightly as he slowly lifted his hand to her cheek. His fingers were cool, and she nearly shivered at his touch. She stopped breathing altogether as he lowered his head and kissed her, sending a slow heat spreading through her body. He pressed his forehead against hers.

“I need you,” he whispered.