He had been brutally—unforgivably—direct about the possibility that if the killer had heard her sympathetic explanation for his behavior, she would have attracted the attention of the last man on earth whose attention she would want. Despite his threat, Jenna Kincaid had kept her poise.
Only in her eyes had he seen any evidence of the fear he’d deliberately tried to create. And remembering what had been in them, he felt even more like a bastard.
He jammed his fists into the pockets of his leather jacket and started down the steps. After years of operating in hostile environments, he automatically scanned the parking lot, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Like someone staking out the place where she worked?
He’d meant the question to be mocking. As the thought formed, however, Sean acknowledged that if the Inquisitor had seen that interview, he’d know exactly where she worked by now.
That clip had been replayed at least three times. And after the official announcement from the cops yesterday, the bastard would have been glued to every newscast, hoping to catch any publicity his actions had generated.
He would have seen Dr. Kincaid’s pity party for him, all right. And by now, almost twenty-four hours later, he would undoubtedly know all about her.
Telling himself that wasn’t his problem, Sean punched the key lock remote as he approached the SUV. Although it was only a little after four, the halogen lights in the lot had already come on, glinting off the vehicle’s black surface.
It would probably be completely dark before Jenna Kincaid came out of her office. Certainly before she got back to her apartment.
Even if the killer had become interested because of what she’d said, it was probably too early to worry about her being followed. The Inquisitor would undoubtedly do his stalking electronically first. Maybe visit the library and check out microfiche from the local papers.
It might be weeks before he started tracking her physically. Or anyone else, Sean amended, attempting to reassure himself. At this late date, the killer wouldn’t break his normal pattern. Not unless something happened to interrupt the cycle.
Like finding a woman who expressed sympathy for him? One who also satisfied every other criteria of his sick hunt?
Sean realized he was standing beside the SUV, the remote in his hand still pointed at the lock. He opened the door, sliding into the cold leather seat. He inserted the key into the ignition, but for some reason his fingers hesitated before they completed the act of turning it.
His eyes lifted to the rearview mirror. Reflected there were the double doors through which he’d just exited.
He had no idea if Jenna Kincaid normally came out that way. No idea if there was a separate parking lot for the staff. Those were things he hadn’t thought he had any need to know.
Now he knew he was wrong.
He didn’t like dealing with feelings. He was far more comfortable with facts. Things he could see and hear. Prove or disprove. What he felt now fell into none of those categories.
The hair on the back of his neck had begun to rise, a phenomenon he’d experienced more than once in his career. On a street in Somalia. Before an ambush in Afghanistan. While his unit had been searching an underground bunker in Iraq, which they knew was very probably booby-trapped.
Every time, the premonition that something dangerous was at hand had proved to be accurate. And he’d never told anyone about any of them.
What he felt now was that same gut-level surety. Inexplicable. And yet undeniable.
The bastard was here. Close enough that if he had known where to look, he could have seen him. Close enough that Sean could feel the strength of his evil deep in the most primitive part of his brain.
The realization that he’d been right about the danger Jenna Kincaid was in was no comfort for the guilt he’d been feeling. He closed his eyes, seeing Makaela’s face as it had looked when they’d pulled out that stainless-steel drawer in the morgue in Detroit. After a fraction of a second he destroyed that nightmare image to replace it with the face of the woman he’d left inside the building behind him.
A woman he now knew with absolute gut-certainty he could use to finally get the man who’d flayed his sister alive.
Three
Jenna saw her four o’clock, operating on autopilot. She was unable to concentrate on what her patient said because the words of the man who had supposedly come to warn her echoed and reechoed in her head.
I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist, but I have a feeling he’d be interested.
That had so obviously been an attempt to frighten her that she was furious with herself for allowing him to succeed. She’d said nothing that was sympathetic to the killer in that interview. No one could have sympathy for someone who did what he did. Whatever her visitor’s agenda—
A long and intimate acquaintance…
Despite the man’s boast, she hadn’t placed a call to the police after he’d left. She couldn’t formulate a logical reason why she hadn’t. There had just been something about him that had made her believe he wasn’t involved in the murders.
Just like every woman who opened the door to Albert Di-Salvo believed he couldn’t be the Strangler.
She closed the folder in which she’d been attempting to add notations. That was as pointless as trying to get what had happened an hour ago out of her head, but surely she could put it into perspective. Hundreds of people had talked publicly about those three murders, both on the air and in the newspaper. Was the killer going to come after each of them?
Or maybe only the ones who fit the victim profile.
She realized that her hands were trembling. Just as they had been when Murphy walked out of her office.
That had been mostly the result of anger. If there was any consolation to be taken in how she’d conducted herself, it would be that she hadn’t given in to the tears she’d been on the edge of. Growing up, she’d always had a tendency to cry when she got really mad, a trait she thought she’d conquered long ago.
If she wanted to indulge that childish propensity, it would have to wait until she reached the privacy of her own home. Which couldn’t be soon enough, she decided.
She picked up the phone and punched in Sheila’s extension. “I’m leaving for the day. Any change in tomorrow’s schedule I should know about?”
“Nothing really. Staff meeting at nine. After that you’ve got a full slate of appointments. It is that time of the year,” the secretary said, her tone sympathetic.
That was something they would talk about in tomorrow morning’s meeting. Everyone was feeling the double stress of the holidays and the murders. She had overheard a couple of the other therapists talking about an increase in requests for appointments, even from their regulars.
“Try to fight off the least desperate,” she said aloud.
Sheila
