The Obsession (29 page)

“Not so far,” Sam agreed, “but it adds weight. There are rental houses and cabins around town and more within that distance. We’ve checked with the closer ones, talked to the people in them, to the owner or manager.”

“You might want to expand your area, ask the rangers to canvass cabins and houses inside the national park. It’s not far, and a good area
for what he does, a private, quiet place. He’s white, between twenty-five and forty—probably closer to the younger end.”

“Why the younger?”

“More mature would probably be more patient, take more time to stalk the prey. This one jumps on it. And it is likely he wanted the young girl instead of Donna, but he took her because she was there. More mature would be more likely to wait until he gets another chance with his target. Once he has her, it doesn’t matter. She’s whoever he wants her to be.”

“Is she a surrogate? I’ve done some reading,” Sam added. “Does she represent someone?”

“Possibly. It’s too soon for me to commit to that, but I can tell you he’s a sexual sadist, so he enjoys what he does. He’s not impotent, but may only be able to climax through rape, through giving the victim pain, through feeding on that pain and the fear. He kept Roth for two full days, and as you haven’t found a second body, he still has Donna Lanier. While the kill is the ultimate release, he knows when he takes it, it’s over. So he prolongs it as long as he can.”

Mason paused, half wished he had that coffee, and went on.

“Taking two in such a short amount of time indicates he’s found what he believes is a prime location. It’s a small town, but in a very open area. The people in the town and area have routines he can study quickly. In small towns with a low violent-crime rate people feel secure, don’t worry about walking home alone, crossing into a dark area of a parking lot after closing. I suspect many here don’t routinely lock doors and windows, lock their cars. I could walk around town, check visors, and probably find any number of keys.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“He knows places like this and has certainly spent time studying them. He’s killed before.”

Once again Sam angled forward. “Yes. Yeah, that’s what my gut told me. Not his first kill.”

“His method was too efficient for it to have been his first. He dumped
the body in the manner he did because he wanted her found. He enjoys the fear, the upheaval. He left her bound and gagged as it maintains his dominance. You found no prints on the tape or body. He’s experienced enough to use gloves—and a condom. There’s control, there’s intelligence.

“He blends in,” Mason continued. “If he isn’t a local, he presents himself as a visitor, friendly but not too much.”

Sam nodded, nodded. “Nobody that causes a ruckus, argues with a shopkeeper, has too much to drink at a bar.”

“Exactly. Nothing about him sticks in anyone’s mind. He most certainly ate in that pizzeria. It’s likely his father was dominant, physically and emotionally, and his mother submissive. She took what was dished out. She did as she was told. This man has no respect for women, but can only dominate by force.

“The unfortunate reality is I will be able to tell you more if and when he dumps the next body.”

Sam blew out a breath. “So unless we get lucky and find him in a rental, nothing you have helps Donna.”

“If he sticks to the same schedule, he could kill her tonight, and leave her body somewhere in the open. I’m sorry.”

“How confident are you in this? Your boss says you’re good—good enough to be on the fast track for the BAU. I know what that is, I know what profiling is.”

Mason considered. “You’ve been married more than twenty years, and you still love your wife. You’ve got two kids who center your world. You played football in high school, and you enjoy the memory of those glory days. But they’re memories, and the now matters more. Your wife’s trying to get you on a healthier diet, and you’re going along with it. For now, anyway. You’ve got an organized and open mind, and this isn’t just your job. This is your town, your people, and protecting and serving aren’t just words. Your men like you. You run a tight ship, but not a constricting one.”

Mildly embarrassed, more than mildly impressed, Sam went back to his mug. “That’s accurate on short acquaintance. How do you get it?”

“You’re wearing a wedding ring, and there are pictures of your wife,
your wife and kids, on the windowsill. Your kids are teenagers now, but you’ve got some of them still up from when they were younger. You’ve got a football trophy—MVP—but it’s not front and center. The softball and volleyball trophies—your kids’—are more prominently displayed. You’re drinking green tea, and you want coffee. There’s a yogurt bar in your inbox, and you don’t strike me as the health-bar type.”

“Who wouldn’t rather have a donut?”

“That goes without saying. Your deputy’s annoyed you’re meeting with me, but when you gave him the brushback, he didn’t sulk. He grinned. You agreed to meet with me because you’ll use any source that may help. You ran me and my sister, but you don’t consider us guilty by blood or association. Believe me, some would, some do.”

“Some are fuckheads.”

“Some are. You know the area, you know the people, and you don’t believe anyone from here killed Marla Roth or abducted Donna Lanier. I’m willing to weigh that opinion if you’re willing to weigh mine.”

“And I am. Why don’t you give me a few minutes? I’m going to work on getting those rentals checked outside the town limits, into the park. I’m going to make it twenty-five miles. Then I’ll take you to Donna’s, and the parking lot. We can walk around some. You get a better sense of a place walking it.”

“Good enough.” Mason rose. “Is that coffee still available?”

“Plenty of it in the break room.” Sam smiled. “Green tea, too.”

“I think I’ll hit you up for coffee.”

—

B
ack home, Naomi read Mason’s text.

“He says he’ll be a couple more hours. Are you sure you want me to go with you? I don’t want Loo to feel uncomfortable.”

“If it seems like she is, I’ll kick you out.”

“Tough, but fair.” She stepped back, looked at the scatter of pieces they’d carted up from the basement storage area. She hadn’t collected a great deal yet, and none of what she had belonged in this guest room.

But, for now, they made the space feel less empty.

“I can’t come up with a bed before tonight, but at least he’s got a chair—that needs to be reupholstered—a table, a lamp. And the walls look good. Bare, but clean and freshly painted.”

She turned to him, held out a hand. “Dog or no dog to Loo’s? Your call.”

“She’ll like the dog. She was nuts for Milo.”

“Good, because he has a comforting way. Just let me change and fix up a little, and we can go.”

“What for?” Since he had her hand he pulled her out of the room, headed for the steps. “We’re not going to a party.”

“I don’t have any makeup on.”

“You’re beautiful.”

He caught the wide-eyed, surprised blink, aimed her down the stairs. “What? You’ve got a mirror. You don’t need me telling you.”

“It’s nice to hear.”

“You don’t wear makeup most of the time anyway.”

“When I go out I try to make some minimal effort.”

Since the dog meant taking her car rather than his bike, he headed for that with Tag racing ahead of them in anticipation.

“I don’t even have my wallet.”

“I do. I’ll drive.” He opened the door for the dog, then got behind the wheel. “Huh, first time I remember getting in a seat after a woman and not having my knees hit my ears. You got legs, baby.” Still, he adjusted the seat back a couple of inches before he glanced over, saw her frowning at him. “What?”

“Have you ever in your life waited five minutes for a woman with shorter legs to get ready, grab her purse?”

“You hardly ever have a purse. I admire that.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve waited. Mostly I think women just like having guys wait. And the fact is, most of them could work a couple hours at it and not look like you. So why wait?”

She huffed, pulled on her seat belt. “That’s one hell of a compliment mixed in with amazing arrogance. I can’t decide whether to be seriously flattered or seriously annoyed on behalf of women everywhere.”

“Slim, you’re not like women everywhere.”

“I’m not sure what that means, but I think you consider it another compliment. In any case, give me a clear signal if I should leave you and Loo alone. Where does she live?”

“Over the bar. She has an apartment up there. Owns the building.”

“She owns the building?” Because she understood more pieces of him now, she took the leap. “The two of you own the building,” Naomi deduced.

“It’s an investment, and since she lives up there she doesn’t have a tenant—or we don’t—bitching about the noise from the bar. I don’t know what the hell to say to her.”

“You’ll know. You’ve got a way, too.”

“Yeah. Me and the dog.”

He parked, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he studied the building. “She’s in the bar. Lights are on down there, and we don’t open until four on Sundays.”

When he got out, she took the spare leash she stowed in the center box. But Xander came around, let the dog out before she could use it. She started to object, but Tag stood beside Xander, wagging and waiting.

“Isn’t there a leash law?”

“I think we’re safe for the next ten steps.” Digging in his pocket, Xander pulled out keys, unlocked the door.

Music blared out of the sound system, hard-driving rock with screaming guitars Naomi couldn’t identify. She’d never been in the bar in daylight or with the houselights on full. It looked bigger, she realized, especially with the chairs upended on the tables, the booths empty of patrons.

In snug cropped jeans and a black tank that showed off sculpted arms and shoulders, Loo attacked the floor with some sort of mop.

Because he was directly beside her, Naomi heard Xander mutter, “Shit,” before he strode to the bar, behind it, and turned down the music.

Loo snapped straight, hefting the mop like a bat—and lowered it again when she saw Xander.

“You’ll blow out your eardrums.”

“Rock’s meant to be loud.”

“Why are you down here doing Justin’s job?”

“Because I want it done right for a change. And why aren’t you up on the bluff trying to get into the blonde’s pants?”

“Because I brought her with me.”

Loo turned, caught sight of Naomi, and hissed out a tired breath. Before she could say anything else, Tag decided it was time for introductions and trotted over to her.

“Is this that half-dead dog you found?”

“Yeah.” Xander came from in back of the bar.

“Looks pretty healthy now. You’ve got some blue eyes, don’t you?” She gave him a rub. “Okay, nice of you to drop by, but I’ve got work to finish. I oughta close down for a week, get out the whips and chains, slap some ass, and get the crew to clean top to bottom. If you’re not on them every second, they’ll give these floors a swipe and consider it done.”

By the time she’d finished, her words tumbled together, rushed and breathless, with her arms pumping pistons on the mop.

Xander just stood for a moment, then dragged his hand through his hair. He walked to her, wrestled the mop away from her. Then just wrapped his arms around her.

“I need to finish! Damn it, I need to finish.”

“Come on, Loo.”

She struggled and shoved against him another moment, then gripped the back of his shirt in her fists. “Xander. I’m so scared. Donna. Where is she? What’s happening to her? How can this be happening?”

When she began to weep, he just held on.

N
ot sure of her role, Naomi decided to make herself useful. Quietly, she went behind the bar, studied the hot beverage machine. She checked its supplies, opted for coffee because Loo didn’t strike her as the tea sort.

She found mugs, kept herself busy as Loo composed herself.

“I don’t know what to do,” Loo said. “I need something to do.”

“Right now, we’re going to sit down.”

As Xander steered Loo to a booth, Naomi called out, “I’m making coffee.”

Swiping at tears, Loo spun around. “That machine’s complicated,” she began.

“She practically grew up in a restaurant, Loo. Sit down.”

“She breaks it, you bought it,” Loo muttered. “And I’d rather have a whiskey.”

“Irish coffee, then,” Naomi said easily. “Xander?”

“Just a Coke.”

As she sat, Loo snatched napkins from the holder, blew her nose. “They don’t know
dick
. Sam came around here last night on the off chance she’d
decided to stay home, was with me. Nobody knows squat about it, nobody’s seen her, heard from her.”

“I know, Loo.”

The dog worked his way under the table, laid his head in Loo’s lap.

He did have a way.

“She’d been talking about this trip for weeks—until you wanted to stuff a sock in her mouth. She tried to get me to go, nagged me brainless. I’ve got nothing against a couple days at a spa, but her sister’s a pain in the ass. If I’d said I’d go with her, if I’d been with her . . .”

“That’s bullshit, Loo.”

“It’s not.” Her eyes filled to brimming again. “It’s
not
! I’d’ve gone over there, picked her up.”

“And maybe you’d be the one no one’s seen or heard from.”

“That’s the bullshit.” After she swiped at the tears, she balled up the napkins. “I can handle myself. Donna . . . She’s just soft. She’s soft.”

Naomi came to the table with a glass mug of Irish coffee, expertly topped with whipped cream, and a glass of Coke.

“I’ll take the dog for a walk, give the two of you some privacy.”

“The dog’s fine right here.” Loo stroked Tag’s ears as she studied Naomi. “And so are you. Sorry about the in-your-pants remark. It was rude.”

“Well, he’s been in them a few times, so not entirely.”

Loo let out a bark of laughter, then went watery at the edges. “You’re fine here, too. Get a drink, sit down.”

“All right. I’m going to say something first. The only blame is on the person who took her. We can always say
if I’d done this, or hadn’t done that
, but it doesn’t change what is. The only person who could change what is, is the one who took her.”

While Loo stared into her coffee, Naomi went to get herself a Coke.

“She’s my closest friend,” Loo said quietly. “Since high school. We didn’t have a thing in common, but we just got to be friends anyway. I stood up for her when she married that asshole, just like she stood up for me when I married Johnny. And when he died, I don’t know how I’d have gotten through it without her.”

She sighed, sniffled. “And she told me not to marry Dikes. But when I did, she stood up for me again.”

She sampled the coffee, arched eyebrows at Naomi. “This is damn good Irish coffee.”

“I learned from the master.” She slid into the booth beside Xander. “I don’t know if it helps, but my brother’s here, and meeting with Chief Winston right now. He’s with the FBI.”

“Sam called the FBI?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know who called who—it got lost in translation—but we’ve got an FBI agent helping look for her.”

“He’s had her—whoever the bastard is—since Friday night. Word’s gotten out on what was done to Marla. Donna . . .”

Reaching over, Xander closed a hand over hers. “Don’t do that, Loo. We’ll go crazy if we do that.”

“I drove all over hell and back last night. Just driving the road, looking for her, for . . . something. With my baseball bat and my .32.”

“Jesus, Loo. You should’ve called me.”

“I nearly did.” She turned her hand over, linked her fingers with his. “Who else do I call when I hit a wall? Not that I often hit one I can’t bust through on my own. You’ll find that out if you stick with this one,” she said to Naomi. “If you hit that wall or your back’s to one, you want this one with you.”

“Come on, Loo.”

“She should know you’re not just a pretty face.”

“I’ve seen prettier. I’ve had prettier,” Naomi added, and earned that bark of laughter as she’d hoped. “You need some art on the walls in here, Loo.”

“It’s a bar.”

“It’s a good bar. I’m not talking frilly, fussy, fern-bar art. There’s one coming in of the Wreckers—they have to buy that from me. But I’ve got one of Xander and Tag, a sunrise silhouette that I punched up so their blue eyes stand out. It’d work in here, and I’ll give it to you if you like it. It’d be exposure for me.”

“You’re not going to put me up on the wall.”

Loo arched those eyebrows again. “I will if I like it. It’s my bar.”

“It’s half mine.”

“So I’ll hang it in my half.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then a light slap, then went back to her coffee. “You’ve settled my nerves, both of you, and I’m grateful.”

“You should get out of here. We’ll go have lunch or something.”

Smiling a little, Loo shook her head at Xander. “When I’m this worked up I clean, but I’ll finish up here calmer than I was. If you hear anything from your brother, anything about where she is, you need to let me know.”

“I will.”

“All right. Go on now, and take this dog before I end up keeping him for myself. I’m all right now.”

“If you need me for anything, you call me.”

“I will. I’m going to hope I hear they found her, and she’s okay. I’m going to hold on to that.”

When they left her, she’d gone back to her mopping.

—

S
ince she’d decided to believe Mason would stay at least overnight, Naomi had Xander take her by the market—grateful they had limited Sunday hours. She picked up what she needed for one of his favorite meals.

Every local in the market had something to say about Donna, or would stop Xander to ask what he knew. She didn’t take a clear, easy breath until they were outside again.

“I should’ve known that, and made do with what I had at home.” She sat back in the seat, stomach knotted, headache brewing. “And it had to be harder on you than me. All the talk,” she added. “The questions, the speculation.”

“Everyone who lives here knows her, so they’re worried.”

“Maybe Mason will have something, anything, to add. I know he’s my brother, Xander, but he really is ridiculously smart. He notices everything, forgets nothing, and he’s studied for what he’s doing since he was
a kid. I caught him once—he wasn’t quite fast enough to block my view of what he was looking at on his computer. Serial killers. I was so mad, so
outraged
that he’d do that, read about them. He just said he needed to know; the more he knew, the better he could deal with it.”

“It sounds right to me.”

“It didn’t to me. Why couldn’t we just be
normal
, live like everybody else? I was doing everything I could to be like everybody else, going to football games, working on the yearbook committee and the school newspaper, meeting friends for pizza, and he’s studying the pathology of serial killers, thrill killers, spree killers. Victimology and forensic countermeasures.”

“It sounds like you’ve read some yourself.”

“Some because he was determined to make it his life’s work, but . . . He’s gone back to West Virginia. He’s gone to see our father in prison. More than once.”

“That bothers you.”

“It did. Maybe it still does, a little, but I had to accept he wasn’t going to put it behind him.”

Better than therapy, she realized. Better this talking to a . . .
friend
wasn’t quite right, and yet he was. He was her friend. It soothed rather than stirred to say what was in her mind and heart to someone who stood as her friend.

“Mason? He confronts it, and tries to understand it, so he can stop the next. I know that, and can still wish he’d found another way to save lives. Become a doctor—another kind of doctor.”

“Has he saved lives?”

“He has. Did you hear about that man who was taking young boys—in Virginia? He’d taken five over a three-year period, killed two of them and dumped their bodies in a wooded area along a hiking trail.”

“They called him the Appalachian Killer.”

“Mason hates it when the press gives them names. But yes. He was part of the team that identified him, tracked him, stopped him, and saved the lives of the three boys he had locked in his basement. He saves lives, and to do it, he needs to understand the kind of mind that would take young boys, torture them, keep them caged up like animals, then kill them.”

When Xander pulled up at the house, she got out. “I’m proud of him, so I have to accept that he lives a lot of his life in a dark place.”

“Or he lives a lot of his life tearing down those dark places.”

She’d reached for a market bag, stopped. “He does, doesn’t he? And I should learn to turn it that way.”

When they carried the groceries inside and to the kitchen, she got out a bottle of wine.

“I’m about to start some major cooking. Cleaning can work, but I lean toward cooking when I’m upset or stressed.”

“Lucky me. I was going to head out when your brother got here, give you guys some catch-up time. But you bought pork chops.”

“You bought them,” she corrected. “And everything else in these bags.”

“You have to contribute. I like pork chops.”

“Do you like stuffed pork chops, Mediterranean-style?”

“Probably.”

“Good, because that’s what we’re having, along with roasted herbed potatoes, sautéed asparagus, pretzel bread, and vanilla bean crème brûlée.”

He wasn’t sure he realized crème brûlée existed outside restaurants. “I’m definitely staying for dinner.”

“Then I suggest you clear out.”

“Give me a job.”

“A kitchen job?”

“Definitely not a kitchen job.”

He needed to work off the worry, too, she thought.

“Cecil’s holding a table and four chairs—so far—for me. I was going to have Kevin pick them up, take them to Jenny, but if you brought them here, just cleaned them up, we’d have an actual table to eat this magnificent meal on. And don’t say you don’t want to leave me here alone,” she added before he could. “I have the dog, I have an alarm system, and an excellent set of Japanese kitchen knives.”

“You’ll keep the doors locked until I get back—or Mason does.”

“It pains me as it’s a gorgeous day and I’d like the doors open, but for a dining room table, I’ll keep them locked.”

“Keep your phone on you.”

“I’ll keep my phone on me. Do you know how to lower the backseats in my car for the cargo area?”

“I’m a mechanic, Naomi. I think I can handle it. Let Cecil know I’m coming. It’ll save time.”

He hauled her in for a kiss, then pointed a finger at the dog. “You’re on duty.”

Naomi made the call, shoved the phone in her back pocket, then rubbed her hands together.

“Let’s get cooking.”

With the dog occupied with a rawhide bone, she focused in. It cleared her mind, pushed the terrible thoughts and worries away. The process, the textures, the scents and colors.

She had dough rising, potatoes in the oven, and the crème brûlée nearly ready to go into oven two when the dog scrambled up.

Maybe her heart tripped at first, maybe she glanced at the chef’s knife on her cutting board, but she ordered herself to keep to the task at hand.

And was rewarded when she saw Xander haul chairs onto the back deck.

Swiping her hands on the dish towel tucked into her waistband, she walked over to at least open the doors.

“He swore—I almost made him take a blood oath—these were the chairs you wanted.”

“That’s right.”

Xander looked at them—scowled at them. The faded, ripped, ugly patterned seats, the scuffed wood. “Why?”

“They’re going to be adorable.”

“How?”

“Reupholstered with this fabric I’ve picked out, painted. The ladderbacks a slatey blue, the armchairs a sagey green.”

“You’re going to paint them?”

“Jenny is. I’ve retired. They can be ugly until she takes them. I’ve got rags and wood cleaner. We can make them presentable for one meal.”

“They look like presentable kindling to me, but it’s your deal.”

“What about the table?”

“I get the table—needs a little work, but it’s a good piece.”

“I meant do you need help getting it out of the car?”

“Eventually.” Clearly unconvinced, he gave the chairs a final frown. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“I’ll get what you need.”

She got the supplies out of the laundry room, filled a bucket with water, carted it out in time to see him coming back up the steps behind a forest of lilacs in a tall cobalt blue pitcher.

“There.” He set them on the table on the deck. “I brought you flowers and something to put them in.”

Staggered, she stared at them, at him. “I . . .”

“I stole the flowers, but I bought the pitcher.”

“It’s—they’re . . . They’re perfect. Thank you.”

He stood there, scruffy, scowling at the chairs he obviously considered a waste of time and money—and she had to swallow, twice.

“This better be some dinner.” After taking one of the rags from her, he dropped it in the bucket. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I’ve just got things going inside.”

“Go on, deal with that. I’ll clean up these butt-ugly chairs.”

She went inside, grabbed the wine on the way and took it with her straight to the powder room—the one that still needed lights, new fixtures, and a towel bar.

Her heart was tripping again. In fact it was tripping, stumbling, staggering all at the same time. Not a sensation she’d ever experienced before. Not a panic attack—not exactly, though she definitely felt considerable panic.

He’d walked up the steps with lilacs in a blue pitcher, set them down unceremoniously. Stolen flowers in an old pitcher, carried in big, callused hands.

And she’d fallen in love.