Pitch Black (15 page)

A simple phone call, nothing more, and it had earned him one more layer of gratitude from someone who might be of use someday. “It’s nothing.”

“Well, it’s something to me. The extra money’s great with the baby coming. So thanks again.”

Offering a slight smile, he murmured, “You are quite deserving. It’s nice to have people we can count on around here.”

“You can count on me!” Vehemence laced his voice, and an almost slavish devotion was visible in the younger man’s eyes. “And on everyone who works here.”

They might not be quite as supportive if they realized how thoroughly he disliked most of them. But he kept his opinions well hidden. He was as good an actor as he was a . . .

“Killer morning, huh?”

Appropriate terminology. Though considering he had never really killed anyone, merely set their inevitable deaths in motion, he wouldn’t bestow such a stark title upon himself. Nor was he an executioner, for the same reason. Or even a punisher—he didn’t choose to punish his victims, or to change them.

He simply wanted them gone.

“Did your meeting go okay?” Steve asked.

Knowing the man referred to the fictional meeting he had used to explain his sudden departure this morning, Darwin nodded. “Yes, indeed. Things are looking much better now.”

Much better
.

“Glad to hear it. Well, guess I’ll get back to work.”

“Fine, fine.” Wanting to free up his schedule, to prepare for the evening he had planned, he added, “I do have another appointment this afternoon. It will require me to leave a few hours early today. Far too much running around, I’m afraid.”

“That’s why they pay you the big bucks!” Steve-the-sycophant said with a grin. “Have a good one, and stay warm. It’s cold out there.”

Master of the obvious.

Nodding pleasantly, he watched the subordinate leave, shutting the door firmly behind him, then brought up the Web site again. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, my dear,” he whispered. “Though you gave me a fright thinking you were ignoring me.”

Her lack of response to his comments had bothered him less during the night than it had this morning. But still, it had bothered him, because he knew her to be a night owl.

He’d been concerned enough that, after he had posted his first two comments and seen no reply, he’d driven to her home. Seeing her car parked in one of the spots in front of her building and noting the absence of any sign of life behind the pitch-black windows of her apartment, he’d assumed she was asleep, making an early—for her—night of it.

She had not been ignoring him at all. Samantha had simply not been awake to read his messages and realize he’d opened the most important line of communication of her entire life.

Sitting outside in the night, studying her window, was one of his favorite past-times. Sometimes, he watched her move around in her bedroom as she prepared to go to bed. He always held his breath as her silhouette was spotlighted by the bedroom lamp before she’d flicked it off.

Lucky for him, he was able to visualize her every movement. Closing his eyes, he could see the pretty jewelry box on her dresser and the framed sunflower print on the wall. He remembered the softness of her bed, the shape of each pillow. His familiarity with everything in her apartment added depth and texture to his nighttime visions as he sat outside and pictured what she was doing.

How lucky it was that Samantha had spent Christmas Eve at her mother’s house, leaving Darwin free to explore her apartment.

He had often pictured her in bed, her golden hair stark against the cream-colored linens, her face softly lit by the glow from a night-light in the bathroom. Imagining climbing inside, surprising her awake, he hadn’t known which he would want to do first: converse with her about philosophy or fuck her until she sobbed.

His body had stirred at the possibility. He had never been a man overpowered by physical needs or messy lusts. But with her, it was different. He wanted her mind, wanted to bend it, even to the point of breaking, if he had to, until her thoughts matched his own.

He also, however, wanted her body. Wanted to bend it to the point of breaking as well, if only he could satisfy the unrelenting craving he’d felt for her for so long.

“Soon,” he whispered. “Now that we’ve begun I will definitely be ‘sticking around.’”

In fact, he’d stick closer than she’d ever imagined. He’d already begun inserting himself in her life in ways she could not comprehend. He’d begun preparing for the inevitable, when he’d have to strip away the dregs who kept her down: her friends, her family, all who prevented her from reaching her fullest potential.

“Not much longer,” he reminded himself, frustrated that he could not reply to her, not yet, anyway. Certainly not from here.

But perhaps it was fortunate after all. She’d kept him waiting, now he’d give her a taste of the same frustration. Let her think about Darwin, grow more interested in him. Until she was almost aching with curiosity by the time he came back around.

“Perfect,” he mused, liking the visual.

It wasn’t as if he had nothing else to do today. Already nearly two—he had preparations to make. Though he had originally intended to dangle his little telephone operator friend for another week or so, he had decided to free himself of that encumbrance. Wendy Cramer was a distraction. Furthermore, she was a loose end.

Not for much longer. The plan for her test was in place. While off-site this morning, he had contacted her and set it in motion. Once that was done, he could clear his mind and give all of himself to Samantha. He would be free to reach out to her, to put her out of the torment she would be feeling after a full day of his silence. And he would be so close when he did it.

How fortuitous for him that both women lived in the same city. He could kill two birds with one stone.

Well, literally speaking, only one bird would die tonight.

A bird
. He chuckled under his breath at his own wit. Because how his little Wendy was going to fly. She just didn’t know it yet.

Anticipation lifting his spirits, he quickly tidied his desk, removing every item, every bit of paper, until it was entirely bare, as he liked it. His step held a jaunty bounce as he walked to the closet to retrieve his coat, and he couldn’t recall a time when he’d felt more certain about what he was doing.

It was all coming together. Things were truly starting to happen. Tonight, he would reach out to Samantha Dalton again, and continue with his two-part plan.

Teach her. Then take her.

Nothing.

An entire day in a cramped, musty conference room with visible dust motes filling every breath of air and they had heard absolutely nothing from the unsub they were trying to engage.

What a complete waste of time.

Alec did his best to hide his frustration and his impatience. Samantha had done everything she’d been asked to do and had cooperated fully. The last thing he wanted was for her to think the failure of their plan was in any way her fault. This had been his idea, and the responsibility belonged squarely on his shoulders.

“He posted late last night,” she said, hiding a yawn that punctuated her weariness. “Maybe he’s a shift worker; he might not even be home from work yet.”

That was a possible explanation, and one he’d already thought of. But it didn’t offer much solace. “Trust me, from what we know about him, he doesn’t sound like a blue-collar shift worker pulling the noon-to-eight. I believe he’s a professional, an executive even. Someone used to power and being in charge. Someone who enjoys controlling other people and has gone from managing their jobs to managing their deaths.”

She blinked, thinking about it, then said, “Don’t give up, it’s still possible. Okay, so he’s a nine-to-fiver, a professional. But if he’s an executive, he works late. And if he’s a commuter and there’s an accident he could still be sitting on a highway with all the other poor slobs running the rat race.” A slight hint of irony in her voice, she added, “Or maybe he’s home playing perfect husband to an unsuspecting wife, waiting for her to get busy doing something else so he can sneak out and do his nasty laptop business.”

The comment interested him, given everything else he knew about her, especially the golf club–versus-laptop incident she’d mentioned earlier. In other circumstances, he might have asked her about it.

Besides which, she was right. Something like that could have prevented the Professor from returning. Maybe his damn laptop was broken, too.

There were, however, a few other, less comforting possibilities. For instance, maybe Darwin wasn’t the Professor after all.

He is
. Alec truly believed it.

Still, maybe their unsub wasn’t interested enough to come back and hadn’t even realized she’d responded. His posting could have been a onetime thing, a break from the boredom of not killing anyone last night.

At least, they hoped he hadn’t killed anyone last night.

There was also a chance he was suspicious about something in Sam’s responses. So far, she had addressed him twice. They had come up with a reason for her to bring him into the conversation again at around five o’clock, after several hours had gone by without any acknowledgment about the first posting. It hadn’t been hard. Her regular visitors had had a lot to say about Darwin’s comments. Not to mention the lack of heat in Sam’s response.

Hell.
Maybe they’d misfired. They’d wanted him to engage in a debate with someone who disagreed with him, without enraging him toward Sam. Who, as she’d admitted, wouldn’t be too hard to find if he got angry enough to look.

Maybe they’d used the wrong tactic. Perhaps she should have come out guns and sarcasm blazing. The unsub might have been angry, but he also might have been less suspicious.

And if he had, indeed, blown up, they could have arranged for her protection.

If only he’d had more time to think it all through this morning.
Damn it
.

Six months ago, he wouldn’t be questioning his decision. He’d trusted his instincts, had never taken a step he hadn’t deep-down thought was the right one. Never looking back, always confident enough to go with his gut.

No more. It seemed as though a lot of that confidence had been blown away along with chunks of his skin and chips of his bones last August.

“You know, I’d like to think everybody in the world reads my blog the minute they get up in the morning,” she said. “But maybe he just isn’t a fan.”

“Whether he’s a fan or not, he started something last night. Narcissists like this one don’t like being ignored; they like to hear themselves talk. They also like to spread their message. For him to engage you like he did, to address you personally, to try to interest you in his cause . . . it meant something.” He stared into his nearly empty coffee cup. “I had honestly pictured him sitting up all night, writing again and again out of frustration that you hadn’t responded. I never expected him to start this and then walk away.”

The Professor always finished what he started. He never walked away without leaving a dead body behind him. “I felt sure we would hear from him.”

“I know. So did I.” As if she’d realized he was beating himself up, she added, “So did everyone, your boss included.”

He thought about going down the hall to talk to Wyatt about it. The supervisory special agent was in his office, working late doing the BS paperwork people in his position always seemed to have to do. But he didn’t want to leave Sam, in case they got lucky.

He trusted her, knew she was smart and incredibly quick to learn. She was also exhausted, and so tense he could see the clench of the muscles in her neck. If she got a sudden, unexpected message from the Professor, pure impulse and excitement could lead her to whip off a reply before she thought better of it. Not likely, but it was possible.

No, he couldn’t leave her, not for a long, private discussion with Wyatt about what he might have done wrong.

Trust your instincts; this will work. Give it time.

Time. More time. It was down to just the two of them, and time was all they had left in the quiet offices of the nearly empty building.

Stokes had headed home to see her kids, though she remained on call. Lily had departed at the same time, mumbling something about an evening appointment. Taggert and Mulrooney had gone to canvass the residential neighborhood the unsub had posted from last night, trying to find anyone who had seen a stranger, or his vehicle. They’d both since headed home, also keeping their cell phones by their sides at all times. Brandon was around, but in the lab, working on Sam’s hard drive.

He was once again alone with the woman who’d seriously messed with his head since the minute he’d met her. Lucky him.

“Are you one of those profiler guys like in the movies or on TV?”

“No.”

“You sounded like one when you described this suspect.”

Not wanting to go there, but figuring he owed her some kind of explanation, he admitted, “There’s no such thing as a ‘profiler’ in the bureau. Some agents profile, but it’s not a job title. And yes, to answer your question, I have experience with it. Now I’m with the Cyber Division.”

Sam absently reached for the keyboard, refreshed the page, looked for any new postings, then breathed a disappointed sigh. “Agent Stokes said you were new; that’s why you didn’t have the right business card or know the office number.”

He managed a weak smile. “Monday was my first day.”

“Wow, talk about walking into the fire.”

“No kidding. Though I’ve already walked in the fire with this guy. We’ve been after him for a while.”

“I hope it will be all over soon.”

“So do I, Sam.”

Rising from her chair, as if she couldn’t stand being in it any longer, she began to pace the room, visibly impatient and probably bored. “Were you with the Behavioral Analysis Unit?”

Wishing he’d never answered her original question about profiling, he nodded once, hoping his expression would forestall any further inquiries.

He should have known better.

“Why’d you leave?”

Because I was practically invited to get the hell out.