The Inquisitor

Not like the others, of course. She was above all that. Just as he would be when he was with her.

She, unlike the rest, understood what drove him. Interacting with someone who could comprehend that on an intellectual level was a luxury he hadn’t allowed himself in a very long time.

Simply another kind of indulgence, perhaps, but one whose time had definitely come.

Two

The sound of her door being flung open brought Jenna’s eyes up. The secretary she shared with three other therapists was aware that she used the last ten minutes of the hour to make notes on the session that had just ended. Why she would interrupt—

Except it wasn’t Sheila. Not just Sheila, she amended. Her secretary was looking at her over the broad shoulders of the man who seemed to fill the opening.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Kincaid,” she said. “I tried to tell him—”

“We need to talk.”

The intruder offered no apology for the interruption. The curt sentence had been more of a command than a request. Whatever his problem—and Jenna wasn’t using that terminology in the sense of something that needed treatment—she didn’t have the time or the inclination to deal with it today.

“I’m sorry. You’ll need to make an appointment—”

“How much?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“How much is it going to cost to talk to you? What I have to say won’t take an hour, but I’m willing to pay for one if that’s what it will take to get you to listen.”

As if to prove his point, he took his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. Behind him, Sheila pantomimed dialing and then bringing a phone to her ear, brows raised in inquiry.

Jenna shook her head, the movement slight enough that she hoped it wouldn’t be noticed by the man now in the process of opening his billfold. She was unwilling to call the police until she knew more about what was going on.

The guy didn’t look deranged. Actually…

Actually he looked pretty normal, if you thought normal was six-foot-something of solid muscle enclosed in black chamois and denim. He was carrying nothing in his hands, and the worn jeans hugged his narrow hips too tightly to conceal a weapon. He was also clean-shaven, although there was a hint of a five o’clock shadow on the lean cheeks.

The black hair was so closely cropped it couldn’t possibly become disarranged, which might have given her some indication of his mental state. The fact that it had so recently been trimmed seemed a point in his favor. People who had really “lost it” weren’t usually concerned with personal grooming.

His eyes, however, were the most compelling argument that there was nothing seriously out of whack in his psyche. They were a clear, piercing blue, the color startling against his tanned skin and ebony hair.

And right now they were focused on her face as he calmly waited for her answer, wallet open, long, dark fingers poised to pluck from it whatever amount she named. Still evaluating him, as she would any patient, Jenna noticed that his nails were neatly trimmed, the hands themselves completely masculine, fingers square despite their length.

“Hundred and fifty?” he asked. “That do it?”

She blinked, breaking the spell he had cast. “I’m sorry. I’m completely booked this afternoon, as I’m sure my secretary told you. If this is an emergency, I can try to work you in early tomorrow—”

“Lady, I’m here in an attempt to save your life. And I’m even willing to pay for the opportunity. All you have to do is tell me how much.”

He strode across the room, stopping when he reached her desk. Her gaze had followed him, her chin automatically lifting as he approached, until she was looking up into those ice-blue eyes.

Above the right, a dark brow arched. “One seventy-five? Two hundred? Obviously I’m not up on the going rate for…therapy.”

Jenna’s lips were still parted from her uncompleted sentence. Despite the obvious sarcasm, she closed them, glancing back at Sheila with a slight shake of her head to indicate she was willing to see him.

The secretary’s mouth opened, probably to protest the decision, but then she snapped it shut. She reached for the knob of the door, pulling it closed behind her as she returned to her office.

Jenna wasn’t sure Sheila still wouldn’t place that call to the police, despite the fact it had been vetoed. She also wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be relieved if she did.

She looked back at the man who had invaded her office and now seemed to fill it. He, too, had watched the secretary’s departure. He turned back as Jenna refocused on his face. There was something in his gaze that looked like approval.

Because she’d been crazy enough to let him stay?

Or maybe he was pleased at the ease with which he’d gotten his way. Something he seemed far too accustomed to doing.

“You can put your money away, Mr….?”

“Murphy. Sean Murphy.”

Although she waited, he didn’t offer to elaborate on the information, so she went back to the salient part of what he’d told her. “You said you’re here in an attempt to ‘save my life.’ I’m not sure what that means, but given how serious it sounds, I’m willing to listen. You have…” She glanced at her watch to make her point. “Exactly ten minutes before my next appointment.”

He held her eyes, maybe assessing how serious she was about the timeframe she’d just given him. After a few seconds, he closed his wallet. He struggled to push it back into his pocket, verifying her initial assessment about the tightness of his jeans.

Now, if only she’d been equally correct in gauging his mental state…

“I saw your interview yesterday.”

Something shifted in the bottom of Jenna’s stomach, cold and hard and a little frightening. She swallowed, determined not to display any outward sign of that sudden anxiety.

“The one on holiday stress?”

“Must have missed that part. What I saw was you giving your professional opinion about the man who killed three women here.”

“I tried to make it clear to the reporter that serial killers don’t fall within my area of expertise—” she began, choosing her words with care.

“What you made clear, Dr. Kincaid, was that you thought the poor, mistreated son of a bitch just couldn’t help himself.”

The apprehension Jenna had felt was suddenly replaced by anger, most of it self-directed. She had known she should have cut the reporter off when he’d started that line of questioning. Instead, she’d been too conscious of the public-relations aspect of the interview. If she’d seemed uncooperative, that might well have been the only part of the segment to be aired.

And what if it were?

Of course, it was easy to sit here now, without the red light of the camera focused on her face, and know what she should have done. She’d made a mistake, but she didn’t deserve to be chastised for it by someone who obviously had his own agenda.

“I never said that. I never said anything like that.”

“Close enough. And as a psychologist, you had to know he’d feed off your remarks.”

She had thought something similar yesterday. Not that the killer would “feed off” her comment about sociopaths being the products of abuse, but that he would delight in hearing anyone talk about the murders. Just as he would relish the increased terror that kind of interview would bring within the community.

“He’s already feeding off the media frenzy,” she said, refusing to allow this jackass to intimidate her. “I doubt anything I said yesterday is going to add to his enjoyment.”

Since the police had announced the connection between the homicides, not only had the local media been all over the story, the twenty-four-hour cable news stations were carrying it as well. It seemed that the killer had now been linked to several murders in other parts of the country.

Jenna hadn’t had time to do more than glance at the lead story in the morning paper. That had been enough to let her know this was going to remain at the top of the front page until this killer was caught. Or until things got so hot for him here that he moved on to another location.

Which was essentially all she’d said yesterday, she reiterated mentally. Actually, there was nothing she’d said that wasn’t completely accurate.

She had talked about the interview to Paul Carlisle, the founder of the practice, as soon as she’d gotten to work. That’s when she’d discovered that the station had replayed the part about the murderer on both the late-night news and again this morning, although they hadn’t bothered to repeat the rest of the interview.

Maybe Sean Murphy had seen one of those broadcasts. In any case, there was nothing she needed to apologize for, she decided. No matter what he thought.

“You really don’t have a clue, do you?”

“I’m sorry?” Her voice rose on the last word.

“You tell someone who likes torturing women that he’s just some poor abused kid who isn’t responsible for what he’s done—”

“I never said that. I never said anything like that.”

“Yeah? Well, you can bet that’s what he heard.”

“And who made you the expert on what he heard?”

“A long and intimate acquaintance.”

Her analytical mind took over, replaying his words. “Are you saying…you know him? You know who he is?”

“I know what he is. And I know what he does. Apparently a lot better method of ‘knowing’ him than whatever crap you were spouting.”

Jenna stood so abruptly that her desk chair rolled back and hit the wall behind her. “We’re through here.”

She reached across the desk to punch the button on the intercom. If he didn’t leave, she’d tell her secretary to do what she had wanted to when he’d first barged in.

“You’re exactly his type, you know.”

Startled by the change in tone, Jenna looked up, her finger stopped in midair. There was no longer any trace of approval in his eyes. They were cold. And very angry.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You can look it up when the locals finally get their act together. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tall. Slender. And not a prostitute or a waitress among them.”

The trepidation she’d felt when he said he’d come to save her life stirred in her stomach again. Today’s front page had featured pictures of the local victims. And the description he’d just given fit them all.

“I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist,” Sean Murphy went on, seeming to relish the impact his words were having, “but I’ve got a feeling he’d be interested.”

“In me? Are you suggesting that the killer would be interested in me?”

“Since you’re out there telling the world what a poor, misunderstood bastard he is.”

She didn’t bother to refute the accusation again. He had decided that’s what she’d said. There was probably nothing she could do to dissuade him from his perception.

And what if he’s right? What if that’s what the killer heard, too?

Which would be a hell of an assumption. First, that the murderer had even heard the interview. And second, that he’d misinterpreted her words exactly as this arrogant SOB had.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, working to keep any emotion out of the conventional words. It was obvious Sean Murphy had come here to frighten her. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded.

As soon as he was out of here, she would call the police and tell them what he’d said. That business about having a long and intimate acquaintance with the killer would probably be of interest to them.

“Believe me, Dr. Kincaid, concern for you isn’t what brought me. Since you didn’t seem to have any idea what you’d done, however, I did feel a certain moral obligation to warn you.”

“Then consider that your ‘moral obligation’ has been fulfilled. I assure you I feel duly warned.”

As she said the last, she again reached for the intercom button, hoping he’d take that as a hint that they were done. Instead of turning toward the door as she’d hoped, he stood there, directly across from her desk, his eyes once more assessing.

“He’s smart,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “And he’ll be in no hurry. He never is. A couple of months. Maybe more. Actually, it could be any time. Any time he chooses.”

“Thank you.” She held his eyes without letting her own reveal any reaction to the threat. And she now had no doubt that’s what it was. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

For the first time a tilt at the corners disturbed the thin line of his lips. The smile seemed to soften the spare planes of his face, although it held not one iota of amusement.

“There is one thing he doesn’t know,” he added. “Something that may work to your advantage.”

Maybe he was disturbed. Maybe those signs of normality she’d noted didn’t mean jack shit.

“And what is that, Mr. Murphy?”

“That I’m every bit as patient as he is. When you see him, you might want to tell him that.”

The bite of the cold outside air was welcome after the overheated interior of the office building. Sean stood a moment in front of its double glass doors, staring unseeingly across at the lot where he’d parked the rented SUV.

Guilt had reared its ugly head even before he’d turned on his heel and walked out of Jenna Kincaid’s office. It hadn’t abated during the short ride down on the elevator.

He’d done what he’d come here to do. He’d frightened her so that the next time some reporter stuck a mike under her nose, she’d think twice before she made excuses for a murderer. And he couldn’t quite figure out why he felt like such an asshole.

Maybe because of what was in her eyes when you told her some sadistic bastard was going to torture and kill her? How the hell did you think she’d react?

Actually, he’d been surprised at how well she’d dealt with everything he’d thrown at her. He’d been so furious about the garbage she’d spewed during that interview, he hadn’t really stopped to think about her reaction.

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 laughed. “Will do. Have a good night.”

Yeah, right. “Thanks, Sheila.”

She hung up and then looked at the folders stacked on the left-hand side of her desk. With the meeting in the morning, it was unlikely she’d have time to look over the files of the patients she’d be seeing during the day. Still, she wasn’t willing to stay late to review them. If she tried, she’d probably be unable to keep her mind on what she was reading.

She was going home instead and breaking open the bottle of Jack Daniel’s she’d bought to make sauce for the bread pudding she was to take to her mother’s on Christmas Day. Maybe that would help her sleep. If not, it would certainly be good company while she didn’t.

The staff parking deck was relatively full for this late in the afternoon, which was also a reflection of the season. Jenna had ridden down in the elevator with a couple of other staff members. Their cars had been closer to the building, so that she was now making her way to the outer perimeter of the deck alone.

The sound of her footsteps echoed off the concrete roof, seeming louder than they should. She realized as she approached the place where she’d parked this morning that the security light for this section was out, leaving the area in shadows.

She actually hesitated before she managed to control her uneasiness and continue toward her Accord. She punched the remote, the resulting beep and blinking lights reassuring in their normalcy.

Everything here was as it should be, she told herself. This was the building where she worked. The deck where she parked her car every single day. She mentally reiterated each phrase, a deliberate litany of the ordinary.

She didn’t relax, however, until she’d opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. As soon as she hit the autolock, the tension that had built as she’d crossed the deck released, leaving her drained.

Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror and then she turned and looked into her backseat. Something she’d never done before in her life. It was empty, of course.

And just what in hell were you expecting to be there?

Disgusted that she’d given in to her paranoia, she jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The dependable engine roared to life, its sound magnified by the low ceiling of the garage.

Looking over her right shoulder, she eased past Paul Carlisle’s Porsche, which had been pulled in beside her car at a slight angle. She cleared its back fender, but just barely, congratulating herself as she completed the maneuver, and aligned her car so that it pointed toward the exit.

She glanced down to shift into Drive when a tap on her window brought her head around so quickly she felt the strain in her neck. Her heart began to pound before she recognized the founder of the practice standing beside her car. She pushed the button that would lower the window, determined to keep any trace of that reaction out of her voice and expression.

“What is it?”

“Just wanted to check on you,” Paul said. “I meant to get down to your office this afternoon, but you know what they say about good intentions.”