The Kill (11 page)

He put the gun in his mouth, the metallic taste making him cringe. Tears streamed down his face. His entire body shook as his right hand curved around the gun in order for his index finger to reach the trigger. It felt awkward. Wrong.

But slowly he depressed the trigger. He felt the hammer pull back as the trigger reached the halfway point. It resisted, as if the gun itself told him wait, don’t do it, and then . . .

Click.

The gun was empty; he hadn’t loaded it. Sinking to the floor, he sobbed.

His mother was scared of him, but he blamed that on his cousin Toby. He had no home, no friends. Nothing was as it had been when he went to prison.

Angry, he wiped the tears from his face. Look what that bitch had turned him into! A whiny, sniveling old man.

“
Stupid cunt, I’ll kill you
!” Another piece of furniture hit the wall next door as the bitches continued to rant.

Pathetic. He was
pathetic
, sitting on the threadbare carpet that might have been beige years before, but was now brown from years of
pathetic
losers like him living in this
pathetic
flat.

Retribution. He had to do something to the people who’d destroyed his life. But what? What could he do to pay them back for the life they’d stolen from him?

He slowly stood and shuffled over to the lopsided Formica-topped table in the corner that passed for a kitchen with a pitiful refrigerator that didn’t keep beer cold and a two-burner stove top. A journal rested on the table, a ninety-nine-cent spiral-bound pad he’d picked up at the supermarket. Ninety-nine cents for this little piece-of-crap notebook with forty pages in it.

He sat at the solitary chair and placed the gun carefully in front of him. Turning the page, he stared at the names of the people who had framed him.

Hamilton Craig
. Damn attorney. Not only did he convict him, he argued six times against paroling him. Brian couldn’t find his home address, but he learned the asshole was
the
district attorney for the county. Brian knew exactly where he worked, and he’d never forget what the bastard looked like.

Gary Porter
. The cop was retired, and Brian couldn’t find his address either, but he had an idea: First, take care of Hamilton Craig. Then follow the cop home from the funeral. If he was lucky, that bitch would be there too.

The bitch who started it all:
Olivia St. Martin
.

If it weren’t for her, he’d never have gone to prison in the first place. She lied to the cops, said she’d seen him take her sister, which was bullshit because he hadn’t. He didn’t give a rat’s ass that she was a little kid at the time; she had still lied, and that’s that. She would have to pay big time, the icy bitch. For the accusations every time she came to oppose his parole—like it was his fault her stupid mother had killed herself. She even said once that he should have been dead.

“Had justice truly been served, this man wouldn’t be sitting here today; he would be buried in the cold ground after receiving a lethal injection.”

Oh, yes, he had plans for Ms. St. Martin.

First he’d take care of the damn attorney, then the cop.

He would save the best for last. Olivia St. Martin would be sorry she’d ever lied about him.

She would pay for her crimes.

Olivia hated autopsies, but she’d always held her own in the few she had observed. Sheer will to control her emotions enabled her to maintain a calm demeanor while watching the coroner take apart and put back together a dead human body.

She’d never witnessed the autopsy of a child, but she would remain a professional. A scientist. She could do this for Jillian Reynolds and Missy and all the victims of whom the press now called
The Seattle Slayer
.

She took a deep breath and glanced at Zack. He stared straight ahead at the door through which the coroner would emerge. His face was all hard angles and rigid, as if he, too, were waging an internal battle.

If a man as strong and experienced as Zack Travis was having a difficult time in this room, how could she hope to observe, to be impartial?

The doors opened and a small, elderly Asian man wheeled in a stainless steel gurney. He was followed by an attractive woman, tall, with dark hair pulled back in a band. The woman nodded at Zack and gave him a half-smile. It was easier for Olivia to watch that exchange and wonder how they knew each other than it was for her to look at the white sheet draped over the small body.

The woman started laying out instruments while the man wrote in a log. The doors opened again, and a rotund, white-haired man who reminded Olivia of a short Santa Claus burst in, nodding to his staff as he crossed over to where she and Zack stood.

“Detective Travis.” They shook hands. Even without smiling, the coroner looked jovial.

“Dr. Sparks, this is Agent St. Martin with the FBI.”

Dr. Sparks took her small hand in both of his. “We’ll get started here in a moment.” He looked from her to Zack. “This isn’t a pretty sight. We cleaned up the body the best we could—I sent what we’ve already collected to Doug at the lab—but the victim is in an advanced stage of decomposition.”

“Let’s get it over with,” Zack said.

Olivia wanted to stay. She wanted to see what the bastard had done to Jillian Reynolds. But as soon as Dr. Sparks removed the sheet, she had to leave.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled to Zack and ran out the door.

She was almost outside the building when Zack caught up with her. “Olivia.”

She couldn’t look at him. What must he think of her? Wholly unprofessional. But if she had stayed, she wouldn’t have been able to control her reaction, and that was simply unacceptable.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

He clasped her shoulder, forcing her to face him. She thought she’d see frustration or anger or something in his eyes that showed he knew she was a fraud.

Instead, she saw deep compassion.

“Liv,” he said softly, using her nickname. “It’s okay. I understand. Take a walk. I’ll meet you right here in an hour.”

She nodded, afraid that if she spoke her voice would crack.

She left the building and walked briskly along the street busy with noontime traffic. All she wanted was to get away from the building, get away from death.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what Jillian now looks like.

For a brief moment she wondered if the body would haunt her for the rest of her life. How could she be a scientist—a witness to many autopsies, dead bodies, and horrid crime-scene photos—yet be derailed by one victim?

Who am I? Who have I become?

Minutes later, she slowed her pace, not knowing how far she’d walked. She stood near a fountain outside a building she suspected was City Hall. Lunchtime walkers in skirts and tennis shoes strolled briskly around her in pairs or threesomes, chatting while burning calories. It was a lovely autumn day. Perfect, warm with a light breeze and clear blue skies.

A perfect day? Hardly. A nine-year-old girl lay in a cold autopsy room down the block. A child who would never again enjoy an autumn day.

She sat on a bench in front of the fountain and stared at the dancing water.

She’d been five when Missy had been killed, and she remembered her feelings of fear and helplessness more than any details of the actual abduction.

The tattoo
. She’d never forget the tattoo. The blue eagle still gave her nightmares, the way it rippled under Hall’s muscles, the way it bulged as if about to take flight . . .

Not Hall
. Someone else. Another killer. Had Hall known him? It seemed far too much of a coincidence that Hall’s truck had been used and that he had the same tattoo as Missy’s killer. A blue eagle wasn’t uncommon, but still—two young men in the same town connected through Hall’s truck? She wasn’t convinced that Hall hadn’t been involved—it was his truck, that evidence was certain. She’d reread the police report on Missy’s murder several times since Hall was released. Missy’s blood was definitely found in his truck. Carpet fibers from his floor mats were on her clothing.

Missy had been there. But had Hall been involved in her kidnapping? Or was he the victim of circumstance?

Her cell phone melody startled her and she groped in her purse for the phone. Greg.

“Hi. Everything okay?” she asked.

“I got the DNA sample. Thanks for putting it on a plane; it gave us another day. I’ll start the tests tonight. It’ll take a couple of days, but I’ll get you the results as soon as possible.”

Most people who watched television thought they understood DNA profiling, but in truth it was a complicated and time-consuming process. Large portions of a single person’s DNA are actually the same as every other person’s DNA simply because they are human beings. But certain fragments of DNA are unique to each individual, and those are what scientists needed to build a unique genetic profile.

But the genetic profile was only one small, though important, step. They still needed a suspect with whom to compare the profile.

“Run them against any DNA profiles from those old cases,” she said. They had run the DNA profile from Missy’s case against known offenders in CODIS as soon as they got it two weeks ago, but there were no matches. The guy had never been put into the system. But while Olivia was out in Seattle, Greg was working his own contacts to see if there were any other profiles created at the local level that hadn’t, for one reason or another, been input into CODIS.

“I’d planned to.”

“It’ll just be one more confirmation when we finally find him. I don’t want him getting off.”

“I know my job, Olivia.”

Greg sounded irritated. “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling guilty all over again that she’d put him in this position.

He sighed. “Be careful, Liv, okay? I’m worried about you.”

“I know you are, but so far it’s going okay. Chief Pierson didn’t bat an eye when I walked in yesterday. And I’m working directly with the detective in charge. Another body has been found, three months old.” She gave Greg the brief summary of Jillian Reynolds’s disappearance and discovery. “It’s probably the same guy. Detective Travis is in the autopsy right now.”

“How’s the lab there? Competent?”

“Very. There’s a state crime lab, but Seattle has its own lab as well and they’ve prioritized this case. I checked it out yesterday and they haven’t neglected anything that I could see.” Her phone beeped and she glanced at the caller-ID window, not recognizing the number but noting a Seattle area code. Was Zack already done with the autopsy? “I have to go, Greg. I’ll check in when I have news.”

“Be careful,” he repeated, then hung up.

“Olivia St. Martin,” she answered.

“Liv! It’s Miranda.”

Her heart quickened. Why would Miranda be calling her? Did she know she was in Seattle?

“Miranda—this is a surprise.”

“Quinn and I just got back from our belated honeymoon and heard about Hall being released. I’m so sorry.”

Olivia’s mind processed the information. That’s right. Their honeymoon had been cut short last June when Quinn had been called out on a critical investigation. She’d worked some of the blood evidence in the lab for him in a multistate shooting spree. Olivia vaguely remembered reading Miranda’s e-mail about them heading to the Caribbean a couple of weeks ago.

She tensed. Quinn Peterson was assigned to the FBI’s Seattle office. But he couldn’t possibly know she was here. Could he? Would Chief Pierson have called to verify her credentials with the local field office, instead of relying on Greg’s phone call and contact information? She didn’t think so; he’d appeared cordial and seemed to believe every word she said.

“Liv? You there?”

She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Yes, sorry, I was in the middle of something.” Lying. To her best friend. Her empty stomach felt queasy. It was one thing to ask Greg to break the rules for her; it was another to put Quinn Peterson in the position of having to lie to his boss.

“Sorry to bother you, I’m sure you’re busy, but I had to call and make sure you were okay. Quinn said Hall’s attorney challenged the DNA and proved Hall hadn’t, um . . .” Miranda’s voice trailed off.

“No, he didn’t rape Missy.”

Olivia had a strong urge to tell Miranda where she was and what she was doing. She was in over her head. Intensely loyal, Miranda would keep her secret.

“I’m so sorry,” Miranda repeated. “Do the police have any leads? What’s the FBI doing?”

Her questions were to be expected, but Olivia didn’t know how to answer. “Um, I don’t know.”

“Is the FBI doing what?” Olivia heard Quinn say in the background.

He was there. There was no way Olivia could talk about her activities now. And it wasn’t fair to ask Miranda to keep such a secret from her husband, an FBI agent. No, that would be putting her in a compromising position, and the last thing Olivia wanted was to come between Quinn and Miranda. Miranda had been through so much adversity in her life, she deserved happiness with a man who so obviously loved her.

“Thanks for calling,” Olivia said. “I appreciate your concern. But I’m okay. Really.”

“Have you spoken with the police in California? Do they have any other leads?”

“I spoke with Hamilton Craig, the attorney who prosecuted Hall. He’s of course reopening the case. But it’s cold. I don’t think they have the resources to pursue it.” She shifted on her feet, relieved Miranda couldn’t see her. She’d know she wasn’t telling the whole truth.

“Ask about . . .” Quinn’s voice cut out in the background.

“Quinn wants to know if the DNA from Missy’s case was put into CODIS now that it’s an active case and if he can do anything—hell, let me put him on and you two can talk shop.”

“No, really,” Olivia said quickly, “I have to get back to work. I trust the people working the case, but it’s cold and I’ve accepted that.”

“But—”

“I’ll call you later, when things are less hectic.”

“O-kay,” Miranda said slowly. “Take care of yourself. And Liv—”

“What?”

“I love you.”