Winter Kill - lanyon Josh. Страница 43

“He must be good at hiding his feelings then. And it wasn’t on my own. I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without Haskell.”

“Yes, Deputy Haskell,” murmured Jonnie. She smiled at him, and Adam gave in and smiled back, though reluctantly. “I had a feeling there was more going on there than wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.”

“Is that what you and Chris call it?”

She laughed. “For the record, I love being married. I think everybody should get married.”

“As many times as possible.”

She laughed again. “Do you think—?”

“No,” Adam said. “Long distance relationships don’t work. And neither of us are in position to move.”

“Have you talked about it?”

“Of course not.”

She raised her delicately arched brows. “You don’t think maybe it’s worth discussing?”

“We’ve only known each other a couple of days.”

“Chris knew the day we met. I knew…well, it took me a bit longer.” She checked her phone. “I have to go. We’re having dinner with McLellan. But…are we good?”

Adam nodded.

She walked over to him and kissed his cheek. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

“Of course.”

She hesitated on the threshold. “Night, Adam.”

“Goodnight.”

As the door closed behind her, he had an unpleasant thought. He went to the window and stood watching her tall, pale figure walking back through the trees. He waited until he saw her go into her cabin and close the door.

He relaxed and returned to the bathroom where he splashed on the aftershave that Rob seemed to like so much.

It was nice of Jonnie to try and soften the disappointment of being sent home in the middle of a case he had worked from scratch.

He was quite sure she was wrong about Kennedy being impressed though. At least in any favorable way.

“Let me see if I understand the situation correctly,” Kennedy had said once Adam had finished explaining his reasons for believing not just one but two possible serial killers were at work in a small, remote resort community. “You were originally brought in to investigate the possibility that a John Doe belonged to the Roadside Ripper. You were attempting to verify or rule out the inclusion of this victim in the case the Ripper Taskforce is trying to build?”

“Correct.”

“And you ruled John Doe out?”

Adam had hesitated. Kennedy did not like hesitation.

“Yes or no?”

“We ruled him out,” Adam said.

Kennedy eyed him for a long moment. Unexpectedly, he smiled. Well, no. That grim twitch of his mouth could not actually be called a smile. He continued to watch Adam as though he were a specimen on a microscope slide. “But?”

“I thought it was highly unlikely,” Adam said. “The physical evidence did not support any other conclusion. And a thirty-year gap between killings…” He shook his head.

“You thought there was a slim possibility that this was an origin kill,” Kennedy spoke with a weird and unsettling satisfaction.

“I…” Adam really had no idea how to answer that. It had certainly crossed his mind, but he had believed—and continued to believe—that the theory was too far-fetched.

That said, every serial killer had to start somewhere. And the first victim was special for a number of reasons. Either because the predator knew him personally or because the predator had watched and stalked him for a period of time. The first victim was very often the most meaningful and important to the killer. Subsequent killings were frequently an attempt to reenact the first.

You never forgot your first.

“There’s not enough evidence to support that theory,” Adam said.

“But that’s what you privately believe.”

“Suspect,” Adam said. “There’s not enough evidence to support belief.”

Kennedy nodded thoughtfully. He’d said at last, as though delivering some final, grudging judgment. “You’re cautious, but you do have excellent instincts.”

Maybe it was a compliment of sorts, and Adam appreciated Jonnie saying that he probably would have been kept on if not for Russell. It didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t being kept on.

One thing Jonnie was wrong about: he’d never wanted to investigate serial killers. He’d have taken the BAU job if it had been offered to him, but he’d have taken any job to get off morgue patrol and back to real investigation. It was ironic that he’d landed in the middle of two serial killing inquiries, and he’d have liked to see these twin cases through to the end. But he’d also be happy never to hear the words “serial killer” again.

He put his razor and the bottle of aftershave in his kitbag, tucked the kitbag in his carryall. Rob ought to be showing up any minute.

Just as the thought formed, there was a brisk, friendly knock on the cabin door. He went to answer it.

His cell phone rang. Loud. Imperative. Duty calls.

He opened the door, and the sky fell in.

* * * * *

Pain jerked him back to consciousness.

Not the pounding of a head that felt ready to split in two, though there was that too, making it harder to think, to understand.

This was much worse. A bright and shining slice across his shoulders and up the length of his arms. So much pain it confused him, panicked him. Fighting made it much, much worse, and he had to stop, calm himself, try and sort out what had happened, what was still happening.

He was naked. Humiliating. Enclosed in darkness. Terrifying.

He was cold. Freezing. Not a close and stifling absence of light. A frigid, airy blankness that smelled of… Sawdust. Chemicals. Animals. Animals old and new. Dogs.

Yes, he could hear dogs barking nearby.

Kennels. Berkle.

He was in the barn at Berkle’s place. Panic flooded him. Adam began to struggle again, and the pain burning through his arms and shoulders expanded horrifically. He cried out.

No. Stop. Think. Breathe.

As long as you’re breathing, you’re still okay.

Or maybe not. But he was still alive. Adam stopped struggling, forced himself to take deep breaths, to take stock. His wrists were tightly bound, arms hauled high above his head. His hands felt numb. That was lack of circulation, and it was bad news. His arms felt heavy. His shoulders ached. The pain eased when he stood on the balls of his feet—and grew agonizing when he lowered his heels. Which he had to do, because no one could stand poised on tiptoe forever.

Tears stung his eyes, and he blinked ferociously. He would drown himself if he wasn’t careful. Just keep breathing. Thinking.

Berkle had to know he couldn’t get away with this. He did know that, right? He couldn’t be arrogant enough to think he could snatch an FBI agent, with impunity.

The darkness was not absolute. It grayed at the edges, and there were faint lines of yellow as though lights shone outside the barn. That would be the main entrance.

He made a careful, pivoting turn. There was another faint outline of light on the other side of the barn. Another possible point of egress, if he got the chance.

He had to lower his heels again, drawing in a sobbing breath as the muscles in his shoulders and arms were yanked tight.

Where was Berkle? How much time did he have before Berkle came back? That was as far as he let his thoughts run. If he could get his hands free…

His fingers felt like sausages. He tried to wiggle them, to feel along the…nylon?... plastic?...ties cutting into his wrists. Slick. Slippery. Hard edges. Cable ties? Zip ties? He couldn’t picture them, let alone work out how to undo them.

There had to be some way though…

Breathe.

Think.

The dogs barked louder. A deep voice spoke to them. Footsteps ground on gravel or grit. He heard the metallic slide of a bolt, the rattle of metal frame, and the boom-clang of the barn door being shoved open.

He raised up on the balls of his feet again, giving his arms that tiny bit of relief. Through the blur of tears he could see part of the moon, the gleaming corners and fences of the dog cages, and a black silhouette that seemed to fill the square of doorway.