murder had similarities to Gillian’s.”
“Similarities?” Will made a sharp sound. “More than that. It was damn near a carbon copy. Too close for coincidence.”
“Why didn’t you call me? This must have stirred up some hellish memories.”
Will deliberately took a swallow, feeling the cold, bitter beer slide down his throat. The pause enabled him to say almost steadily, “You could say that.”
“Do you need to talk about it?”
Will looked at his hand gripping the bottle and realized it was shaking. The tremor was fine enough he hoped his friend hadn’t noticed.
“That’s all I’ve been doing! Even Jimmy McCartin called to talk about it!”
“My fault. I ran into him when I stopped for an espresso on the way up to the hill. I tried to back out the door, but he spotted me before I could make a getaway.” His gaze rested on Will’s hand. So much for not noticing. “Come on, buddy. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Will turned his back, staring out the small window above the sink. “What is there to say? Some sick son of a bitch thought it would be fun to copy another murder. Maybe it was chance he chose another woman I know. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he picked her because that’s another parallel. Either way… Do you know what he did to her?” Will asked in anguish.
Travis clasped his upper arm, just briefly, a gesture of support not so different from the reassuring slap on the back when one of them struck out on the ballfield, from the squeeze Will had given his arm when he visited him in the hospital after his career-ending pinwheel down the mountain at Kitzbühel. It meant something.
“Yeah,” Travis said. “I know what he did to her.”
Will felt his friend’s scrutiny. He lifted his beer and swallowed.
“Your mother asked me if I could think of anyone who hated you.”
Beer went down the wrong way. Still choking, he gasped, “What?”
“She looked scared, Will.”
Voice thick with fear of a different kind, fear that she was right and he was wrong, Will said, “She’s jumping to conclusions.”
“She’s looking at all the options. She was up at the Butte talking to Doug.”
“And?”
“He worked Wednesday night. He told me after he talked to her that he had been with other people until two in the morning or so. And his roommate swears he never left the condo.”
Will set down the bottle on the counter so hard it clunked. “This has to do with Mendoza.”
“But what?”
“Somebody is trying to get him off. To make everyone think Gilly’s killer is still out there.”
Travis would have made a hell of a lawyer. Mild enough to catch you off guard, he could still corner you. “Not many people are sick enough to kill like that. A man would have to enjoy it. You and I are good friends. I’d do a hell of a lot for you. But rape and murder? Nah.”
Savagely, not wanting to hear the logic, Will said, “You’ve been talking to my father.”
“You know better than that.”
Will closed his eyes. Travis had stuck with him through the worst. And now he was being a jackass.
“Yeah. I know better. I’m sorry.”
Travis just shook his head. “No need. Are you going to be able to start work with this hanging over you?”
“Yeah.” Tension arced through him as if live wires were sparking. “I need to be busy. What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch soap operas while I wonder if some other woman is being stalked?”
Relentless in his own way, Travis said, “If this guy stalked Amy, then that means he chose her. It had to be her. Why?”
“I don’t know!” Will all but shouted. He paced a couple of steps, turned back, bounced his fist on the counter. “I don’t know. I was using a figure of speech. Probably nobody is being stalked. Chances are the killer just grabbed Amy because she was available…”
“Has your mom figured out where she was snatched from?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Then maybe she wasn’t all that available.” Travis still leaned against the edge of the counter, seemingly relaxed, but his eyes were both watchful and compassionate. “You know, maybe the guy picked her. Maybe he had to plan how to lure her to him.”
“Which brings us back to me.” Will swore under his breath. “What did you tell her?”
“Her?”
“My mother.”
“That I couldn’t think of anyone who hates your guts.”
“That’s the kind of thing I’d know.”
Travis gestured with the beer bottle. “I’m not so sure. If somebody is targeting women because you loved them, he hates you bad. It’s not like this guy is telling the world what an asshole Will Patton is. This is something that eats at him. Takes the stomach lining, then his soul.”
“I’ve put people away…”
“But you hadn’t, back when Gilly was killed.”
“Mendoza…”
“We’re just supposing.”
“That he didn’t kill her.”
“Or that somebody, somehow, put him up to it. Maybe it took that somebody six years to work up the nerve to do the dirty work himself.”
Will wanted to reject a suggestion so unlikely, but he’d spent enough years in the D.A.’s office to know anything was possible.
“Do you remember that guy who set the fires because he blamed my grandfather for his mom’s death?”
Travis accepted the seeming non sequitor. “I remember.”
The first fire had been set inside a pickup truck chosen because it looked exactly like Police Chief Ed Patton’s. The worst was Aunt Abby’s townhouse. She’d barely escaped with her life. Even Will, just sixteen, had been targeted. His bike, parked outside the grocery store, had been squirted with gasoline and set afire.
He remembered how he’d felt, knowing someone had been watching him, following him, hating him. For a while, until they caught the guy, Will had lived with the heightened perceptions of a soldier in a war zone. He’d searched the faces of people in line at the store or sitting in the bleachers at basketball games, been painfully conscious of anyone walking behind him, of every driver behind the wheel of an approaching car. It was like looking through a magnifying glass, so that his vision was both abnormally sharp and a little skewed.
