Midnight Fear (4 page)

C
aitlyn rinsed her dinner plate under the stream of water in the kitchen sink as she talked to Sophie Treadwell on the phone. Sophie and her husband, Rob, were the nearest neighbors to the Rambling Rose stables, which in the Northern Virginia countryside was still a good three miles away. Apparently, word of the horse killing on her farm had spread quickly through the rural township.

“Who would do such a horrible thing, and all the way out here?” Sophie fretted. “The poor thing’s head was nearly severed. Honestly, we left D.C. to get away from all the crime.” She paused, then added awkwardly, “Sorry, Caitlyn. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Caitlyn assured her. Since her arrival some eighteen months earlier, Sophie was the closest thing she had to a friend. Nearly a decade older than Caitlyn, she and her husband were childless and closely integrated into the local horse community. Rob was a successful architect who worked mostly from their
large, country estate home, and Sophie wrote children’s books. The couple knew about Joshua, of course, and had asked questions, but it hadn’t kept them from welcoming her into their home and wide circle of acquaintances. Caitlyn was grateful for their acceptance.

“Are you sure you want to be all alone out there tonight? Ed Malcolm thinks it was some kind of cult—”

“A cult comprised of
teenagers,
” Caitlyn pointed out, not wanting the rumors that were flying around to get any worse. Still, the fact remained that someone had committed the brutal act.

“Teenagers or not, the very idea of something like this is frightening. Rob wants to come get you. He
insists,
actually. You can stay in one of the guest rooms.”

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Caitlyn politely refused the offer, but not before agreeing to meet the couple the following evening in Middleburg for dinner. After saying goodbye, she replaced the receiver on the console and rubbed her hands over her upper arms to ward off the night chill. Although the radiators were on, the farmhouse was old and not blessed with the thick insulation installed in newer homes. A fire in the stacked-stone fireplace would be nice but Caitlyn didn’t have the energy or interest in bringing in kindling from the back porch. Instead, she poured a glass of merlot, went into the large living room and turned on the television.

But her thoughts remained on seeing Reid Novak again.

Two years ago, when he had first come to her asking for her assistance in proving her brother’s involvement in the murders, Caitlyn had been angry. But a part of her had also worried his suspicions were correct.

“Joshua’s behind this, Caitlyn,”
Reid had warned, the intensity of his conviction unnerving.
“We’ve been able to link him to two of the five victims. That’s no coincidence, no matter how much your family would like it to be.”

Caitlyn picked at the tassel of the throw pillow she held in her lap, the recollection enveloping her like a cold fog. Joshua’s connection to the two women was loose—one had taken a college course with him, and another had belonged to his gym, a large facility with hundreds of members. Still, considering his mental history, the revelation had been troubling. The FBI had interviewed him, the discussion setting off something that had put Joshua in their sights. But they had little else to go on, and not enough for a warrant.

Help me look into him, Caitlyn. Before anyone else dies.

In the end, Reid had gotten through to her. She’d used the key Joshua had given her to slip inside his Logan Circle loft apartment at a time she knew he wouldn’t be home. Her all-out search had ended when she came upon the spiral-bound composition book under a pile of clothes in the bedroom closet.

What she read inside the notebook repulsed and terrified her. She’d been physically ill—vomiting in the bathroom sink, her stomach convulsing and her bones
numbed by the handwritten journal detailing Joshua’s dark secrets, including some of the names of the dead women. The crude drawings accompanying the passages were worse, with nude female figures bound and gagged as they were degraded and tortured. Mutilated. Distraught, Caitlyn had removed the evidence. After an hour driving aimlessly around the city, she had met Reid at FBI headquarters and turned over the notebook.

It was the right thing to do, Reid had assured her. He’d taken her into a private conference room and allowed her to cry against his shoulder. They had barely known one another and yet the bond between them seemed instant. Later that evening, under Reid’s guidance, Caitlyn made a televised appeal to Joshua when another woman went missing, urging him to turn himself in.

In the end, however, Joshua claimed one last victim before the FBI could stop him.

Caitlyn had always known about Joshua’s sickness—the schizophrenia and borderline personality disorder he had been diagnosed with, the antipsychotic medications he took—but never had she imagined him a killer. At twenty-eight, still dabbling in graduate school but in and out of psychiatric treatment centers, Joshua would seem normal for weeks at a stretch, then suddenly turn secretive and morose. Often during those times, Caitlyn, his older sibling by three years, was the only person he would talk to.

Joshua’s psychiatry records were confidential and her parents rarely spoke of his condition, instead shielding
him from the public eye as much as possible. When the FBI had first taken interest in Joshua due to his connection to the murdered women, Senator Cahill had done everything he could—calling in favors all over the District to get the investigation directed elsewhere. And Caitlyn had been instructed to speak to no one.

What her father had done was wrong, she conceded. But it was out of love and a staunch denial that Joshua could be capable of something so heinous. Even though they weren’t his biological children, Braden had been devoted to his adopted son and daughter. Defending them to a fault. In the end, Caitlyn had managed what he could not—she’d turned Joshua in to the FBI. But she had been too late to halt the death of another woman and equally powerless to stop her family’s very public unraveling.

Her father had died, disgraced by Joshua’s crimes and hating her for what she had done.

Stop this,
she thought, sitting with her feet tucked under her on the camelback sofa.
Stop dwelling on the past and things out of your control.
Caitlyn continued to stare at the television screen, the sound turned too low to hear. She tried to take the worrisome feelings off her chest—and her mind off Reid Novak—but without much success.

Reid had been professional, aloof at Joshua’s trial—a change from the man who had come to her and appealed for her help in capturing a killer. From the man who had comforted her. Then he had simply disappeared,
all connection broken between them. What had she expected?

And now there was the possibility of a copycat killer on the loose. Outside, Caitlyn heard a dog barking somewhere in the distance. The room’s picture window was a large black square, the rural darkness outside opaque and all consuming. Maybe she should have taken Sophie and Rob up on their offer. Finishing the wine, she sat the balloon goblet on the end table and stood, letting the soft cashmere throw she had wrapped around her shoulders slip to the couch. Caitlyn closed the curtains, then went to the front door to double-check the lock and make sure the security system was activated. But as she stood in the foyer, her eyes fell on the small, white rectangle that lay on the hardwood floor. Had she walked over it earlier without noticing? She bent and picked up the business card.

Harold Feingold, True-Crime Author
.

The card included his contact information. A handwritten note on its back said simply,
we need to talk
. She felt a spiraling sense of anxiety. He had been here today at some point, still trying to get an interview for his tell-all book despite her adamant refusal. Apparently, he’d shoved his card under the front door when no one answered his knock. Caitlyn had the distinct impression he wouldn’t give up.

Especially not if Reid was on target and there was someone out there looking to repeat her brother’s crimes.

“So let me get this straight. You went all the way out to see Cahill’s sister, just because of the damn charm?” Mitch drained his whiskey and signaled the bartender to pour him another.

“I had a hunch.”

Mitch let out a sardonic laugh. “Makes sense. Cahill likes horses. The vic likes horses. They have to know each other, right?”

Reid took a sip from his beer bottle. He’d met Mitch at the Lucky Irishman, a pub near the VCU offices in Judiciary Square that was a popular hangout for law enforcement. The place was dark, noisy and tonight filled to overflowing.

“What if I told you a horse on her property was mutilated?”

The information gave Mitch pause. He took a sip from his newly filled glass, then shrugged. “I doubt it’s related. There are freaks running around everywhere these days. The District doesn’t have a monopoly on them. Did she call the local police?”

“They think it was a bunch of teenagers turned Satan worshippers.”

“They might be right.”

“Still, I’d like to run a criminal history check on her employees, both for the farm and stables. I can get the names and socials from her.”

Mitch shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got three weeks left on your leave, remember? Why don’t you
take a vacation? If I were you, I’d be soaking up the sun on a beach somewhere, preferably one of those nude ones in Miami.”

“Just run the CHC for me.”

“Whatever you want, partner.” Mitch gave the once-over to an attractive redhead who had seated herself at the opposite end of the bar. Then he offered, “But if you ask me, I think you’re just looking for an excuse to sniff around Caitlyn Cahill.”

Reid didn’t respond, instead nursed his beer. He
had
taken the opportunity to drive all the way out to the Rambling Rose stables, instead of just contacting her by phone. He’d wanted to see her, he admitted to himself.

“I’m assuming as long as you went out there, you showed her the vic’s photo?”

Reid nodded. “She didn’t recognize her.”

“I’m shocked.”

“Any word from Tiffany’s?”

“The charm was discontinued two years ago. We should have a registry list, including purchases made in the D.C. area, by tomorrow,” Mitch said. “The horseshoe is platinum and the diamond is a quarter-carat, VS1 quality, which, judging by the way the guy said it, is a big freaking deal.”

Reid considered that the pricey jewelry also made it likely the victim was in a similar socioeconomic status as Joshua Cahill’s preferred targets. “Do we know how many were sold?”

“Less than a thousand nationally—no idea how many
locally at this point. Hey, another round,” Mitch called to the bartender as he passed by. “And white wine for the redhead at the end of the bar.” He glanced at Reid. “You want another brewski?”

“No, thanks.” He held up his bottle, indicating it was still half-full.

“Lightweight.”

Reid had never been much of a drinker—and certainly not able to keep up with Mitch, who still went at it like a frat boy. They’d been partnered since shortly after Reid joined the FBI following graduate school at the age of twenty-five. Nine years later, he acknowledged that Mitch hadn’t changed much…except for the fact that he’d packed on twenty pounds, gotten more cynical and gone through a recent, ugly divorce—his second. The woman accepted the wine the bartender took over to her. Flipping her hair over one shoulder, she smiled coolly at Mitch, who gave her a little salute with his whiskey glass.

“Probably a real ice queen, but worth a shot, right?” His mouth quirked up. “Speaking of ice queen, how
is
Ms. Cahill?”

“She’s fine…considering,” Reid answered, ignoring his barb. “She’s running an equine therapy program for disabled and disadvantaged kids.”

“Big farm?”

“About ninety acres, I think. It looks like an English countryside out there.”

Mitch grunted. “Money will buy that.”

Reid knew Mitch had his own share of money trou
bles related to his latest divorce. “How are things going with the house? Are you going to be able to keep it?”

“Probably, if I can refinance.” Mitch scowled in thought. “Eileen would like to see me lose it. It’s about the only thing she didn’t get handed to her in the settlement.”

After another twenty minutes, Reid left Mitch to pursue the redhead, who had accepted a second drink and gotten a little friendlier. Shouldering his way toward the front of the bar through the packed crowd, he tried to disregard the faint throb that had started in his temples a few minutes earlier.
It’s only a headache.
Anyone could get one in a packed bar buzzing with loud music and too much conversation.

It was nothing to worry about.

Reaching the exit, he welcomed the rush of cool night air onto his face and headed left toward the side street where he had parked his SUV. But as he clicked the key fob to open the door, the pain inside his skull suddenly became sharper and more insistent. Reid closed his eyes and raised the fingers of his right hand to his forehead, leaning against the vehicle to steady himself.

A minute later, the dizzying pain subsided. He felt a momentary anxiety that the tumor was back—that it had somehow regrown or the surgery had failed to remove all of it.

He shrugged off the irrational thoughts. His last MRI was one hundred percent clean.

Reid opened the door to the SUV and slid onto its leather seat. He felt fine now. The headache had come
and gone like a summer storm. Still, he sat inside the vehicle for several more moments, staring out through the windshield and contemplating his lengthy recuperation. Although the tumor hadn’t been malignant, its location had been in a vital region, making its removal necessary. The surgery had been complex and invasive, and it had taken months to get his life back. He’d been weak, fragile, two things he had no intention of ever being again.

The crime scene photo—the one he’d shown to Caitlyn—lay on the passenger seat. Seeking a new direction for his thoughts, Reid allowed his gaze to settle on it. The victim in the row-house basement eerily mirrored the dead women Cahill had left behind. Frowning, he picked up the photo and studied it more closely. For him, the chess pawn removed any possibility of coincidence.