conditions in the basement were even worse than those above stairs. Along with stacks of junk, there were more piles of newspapers and cardboard boxes and bags of trash. Why in the hell would Thesing hoard garbage? What kind of nut case were they dealing with here?
Larson had made it to the bottom of the steps and spread out slightly to Mark’s left as both men moved forward cautiously.
A workbench stretched along the closest wall and was the only relatively neat area. A washer and dryer occupied the opposite wall. In between was a gauntlet of every type of imaginable junk—a tricycle, a dollhouse, an old sewing machine. A rolling cabinet for tools. More sealed plastic bags.
It wasn’t until Mark got past them that he saw the bed tucked back in the far corner. And Harvey Thesing’s body on the floor next to it. Even from his current position, Mark was fairly certain the chemist was dead, but kept his weapon leveled on him as he closed the distance.
It looked as if a shotgun had been used, the blast to Thesing’s midsection nearly cutting him in two, while the one to his head had taken off half his skull.
Knowing it was a waste of time, he checked for a pulse and found none. But as he started to pull his hand away, he realized that, given the cool conditions of the basement the body was warmer than he would have anticipated. He checked the facial muscles—the first place that any signs of rigor mortis would appear—but found no rigidity.
“How long?” Larson asked.
“If I had to make a guess?” Using the method to determine time of death was risky at best. “I’d say only a short time—possibly less than an hour.”
Mark desperately wanted to plow his fist into something—into anything. If the damn lab hadn’t been trying to cover their asses…If they’d made the call an hour earlier…
Talk about being screwed. Even the relatively short lead time wasn’t going to help them. For the moment at least, they were chasing a ghost.
A ghost armed with the most lethal chemical weapon ever developed.
Four Months Later
Leaving her dark, wool coat and white scarf draped across the chair, FBI Special Agent Beth Benedict paced to the bookcase and scanned the titles. Experimental Psychology, Evaluation of Sexual Disorders, The Problem of Maladaptive Behavior—a bevy of volumes detailing human psychoses. Exactly what she would expect to find on a psychologist’s shelf.
As with her previous two sessions, she was the last patient of the day. The receptionist had shown her into Dr. Carmichael’s office, indicating that she should take a seat in one of the high-backed contemporary chairs. Dr. Carmichael would be with her shortly.
But since Beth had been released from the hospital, she’d found it very difficult to sit still for any length of time. Another reason that she needed to be out in the field and not trapped behind a desk.
She took a deep breath in preparation for the coming confrontation. The FBI had trained her how to deceive criminals, how to gain their trust, so scamming one psychologist shouldn’t be all that hard. She just needed to stick with the plan, with her “blueprint of progress.”
This week she’d remain calm and in control, no tears, no outbursts. And no more stony silences that suggested she was bucking authority. By her next appointment, the claustrophobia issue would be nearly resolved.
As with any type of deception, the key was to keep it believable.
When she heard the office door open behind her, her shoulder muscles tightened, and the headache that she’d been coping with exploded at the base of her skull.
Dr. Samuel Carmichael paused momentarily in the opening. He was somewhere in his late forties, with thick, prematurely gray hair and a quick smile. Because any good con required that you know your mark, she’d done her homework. He liked to sail and was on his second marriage, this one to a law student half his age.
“Sorry about running late,” the psychologist offered as he pushed the door closed.
“No problem.” Beth took a seat and settled back, giving the illusion that she was comfortable.
“Can I get you some water before we get started?”
“No. Thanks.”
Taking the chair opposite hers, Carmichael propped his right ankle atop his left knee before resting the legal pad in his lap. “So how do you think you’re doing?”
“Actually, a little better.”
“What about the nightmares? Are you still experiencing them?”
“Occasionally.” She kept the confident and somewhat bland smile on her face. Though this was only her third session, she knew the routine, so she waited for the psychologist to pursue the current subject.
“Are you saying there’s been a decrease in their frequency?”
“Yes. Some.” In reality, the opposite was true. Every time she was lucky enough to fall asleep, it was only a matter of time before she sat straight up, her heart pounding, the scent of spilled gasoline so real that it usually took her several seconds to realize that the smell was a remembered one, a cruel joke played by her own mind.
Dr. Carmichael scribbled a note. “And when they do occur, would you characterize them as any less vivid than when we started meeting?”
“Definitely.” She knew she needed to start offering more than short responses, but despite her earlier resolve, she was finding it surprisingly difficult, her emotions already bubbling to the surface. Her palms were now damp and as she met Carmichael’s gaze, her respiration quickened, almost as if he had leveled a gun at her chest.
But in some ways, the situation she found herself in now was just as much a life-or-death struggle as the event that had landed her here. Dr. Samuel Carmichael held her career in his hands. And since her career was her life…
Carmichael leaned back in his chair. “What about the claustrophobia?”
“It’s better.” Another short response. “I’m back to riding elevators. Wouldn’t you say that’s a pretty major step?”
She managed a slight smile, but when she tried to force it a bit wider, she felt her facial muscles freeze. And knew that she’d made a mistake. She could see it in his washed-out blue eyes and in the way his mouth tightened.
“Beth.” Carmichael uncrossed his legs. “I’ve been in practice for a lot of years. I know when I’m being manipulated. I can’t help you unless you’re open with me.”
She kept her gaze level. How should she respond? Pretend confusion? Try a small amount of honesty?
Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, having decided the latter was going to be the best course of action.
“You’re right. But you have to understand what I need to get better. I need work. Real work. I’ve been pulled out of the field and assigned to administrative
