woman, who’d been found a few weeks back. The case had seemed particularly sad to her. Police had discovered a young blonde woman between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. She’d stood about five-seven and, while alive, had weighed approximately a hundred and twenty pounds. She had yet to be identified. There were no suspects in the case, and police had begged the public for any help they could give.
The newscast that came on made her sit straight up and spill her coffee.
The second murder victim had also been about five-six or five-seven. And she’d also been blonde. Because of the condition of the body, forensic scientists were seeking her identity through dental records. Fingerprint identification was being attempted but, once again, the police were seeking help.
Meg’s heart began to flutter with fear.
The body had been discovered that morning.
She stood, stumbled around the lounge until she could grab the remote control and turned up the volume.
She listened to a lieutenant from the DC police issue warnings and inform the public that extra police officers would be on the streets. An officer from Maryland spoke next.
And an officer from Virginia.
And then, a rep from the FBI took the microphone.
He was tall, a striking man with sandy, close-cropped hair, the shoulders of a linebacker and a ruggedly chiseled face. His voice was rich and deep; she assumed he was a regular spokesman for the agency.
But as he finished his speech, hotline numbers were flashed on the screen. She heard the assurance in his voice when he added, “We at the FBI will not stop our intense hunt until this killer is apprehended. Until he is, however, responsibility lies with every man and woman out there. If possible, don’t go anywhere alone. As of now, he has selected two blondes. He has seen to it that identification is a difficult process. Keep in mind that his choice of victim could easily change. When Ted Bundy was stalking women, most that we know about had long, straight brown hair. Because of that, many thought they were safe by dying their hair. We have very little information on this killer as yet, and that means everyone could be in danger, blonde or not. Although the killer, whom we’re assuming to be male, has targeted only young women so far, it’s quite possible that women of all ages and descriptions—and conceivably men—could also be at risk. While you shouldn’t panic, you must be vigilant. You’ve been given the call number—any and all suspicious behavior needs to be reported. We are relying on the public for assistance. We need to combine public awareness and the dedication of every law enforcement officer out there. We vow not to hold back any pertinent information—and we’d appreciate it if the media refrained from affording this man a nickname, as a label or a title. He’s a vicious killer and deserves no recognition.”
He went on to thank his audience, which included reporters from various news organizations, and stepped away from the podium. The DC mayor came forward again and began to speak.
But Meg didn’t hear him. Her heart seemed to slam against her chest. She saw that the agent who’d just finished was standing in the background, talking to an elderly white-haired man in a pristine suit.
Adam Harrison.
Meg got up. She had to speak with Adam; she didn’t want to simply call a hotline.
She’d intended to go to him eventually for another reason altogether. She’d always wanted to be part of the Krewe of Hunters—and she felt she belonged there. She’d wanted to graduate and enter the criminal division first, a matter of pride, perhaps. As in, I’ve taken all the right steps. I’ve worked my hardest. I believe I’ve excelled and I believe I have the skills you need...
There was no waiting now.
She had to go to him; she knew he’d help her.
And she desperately needed help. She had to find out about the victim.
Because Lara was a blonde, five-seven, lovely and fit and about a hundred and twenty pounds.
* * *
“Margaret!”
Meg wasn’t sure why Adam Harrison even remembered her. He must have met hundreds of people through the years and she hadn’t seen him in more than a decade.
He was a very dear man. Ramrod-straight, dignified in manner and appearance, he had to be in his late seventies or early eighties. She’d been surprised that the phone number he’d given her all those years ago still worked. Her call to him via that number had gone right through, almost as if he’d been expecting to hear from her. How that could be, she didn’t know.
Years ago, Adam had arrived at her home, although the police and even Meg’s own parents had been skeptical. He’d come with the FBI agents who’d been called in because her cousin’s case had begun as a kidnapping.
While the family worked to put together a ransom, Meg knew that Mary Elizabeth was already dead. She’d known because she’d awakened to find Mary Elizabeth sitting at the foot of her bed. At first, she’d been joyous, certain that her older cousin had been released and come home while she was sleeping. But Mary Elizabeth had drawn a finger to her lips, shaking her head. She’d tried to speak, and Meg had heard a rustling sound. And then she thought she heard her cousin speaking, telling her that she had to let them know the truth—that the family couldn’t go on believing when there was no hope. Her body was in the cemetery, hidden behind a mausoleum. Meg crawled out of bed. The grown-ups were all awake; officers crowded the house, and everyone waited by the phone.
Crying, Meg went to her mother and whispered what she knew. Her mother was horrified, not wanting her dad’s sister and husband to hear. She’d pulled Meg away and chastised her in the kitchen. But the older man who’d come with the FBI people had followed. He’d listened to her story and, back in the parlor, told someone to check the cemetery.
Where they’d found Mary Elizabeth’s body.
At first, Meg’s own mother had treated her as if she’d been possessed by Satan. She’d quickly gotten over that, but Meg would never forget the way her own family had looked at her. Thanks to her, they’d caught the killer almost immediately. Forensic evidence left at the scene made short work of identifying him, since he was a repeat offender and therefore already in law enforcement databases, and of proving his guilt.
She saw her cousin one more time. At the funeral, by the graveside. She’d been beautiful, dressed in the white confirmation gown in which she was buried, shrouded in brilliant gold light. Somehow it had been comforting. And she’d actually comforted her aunt and uncle; her conviction was so strong that Mary Elizabeth was in heaven.
Adam Harrison had been at the funeral. He’d been so kind to her, and Meg had never forgotten.
Standing outside alone, she’d watched while he paid his condolences to her family. When he saw her, she thought she’d start crying all over again. But he came to her and said, “You’re a very brave and special girl, you know.”
“I’m a freak,” she told him.
He shook his head. “No, Margaret, you’re not a freak at all. You’re special,” he repeated.
That made her roll her eyes. Her older cousins liked to tease her and call her “special” when they were making fun of her.
He’d smiled.
