“You okay over there?” Jack asked as he put the car into Park behind a black Suburban in the driveway.

  “Yeah. Just….thinking.”

  “About?”

  She chuckled and shook her head. "Oh, it's a little too deep to go into right now. Maybe some other time."

  "You know, that's the second time you've brushed a conversation off today. Eventually, we're going to have a big dinner, and you're going to go through all of this stuff with me."

  “Fair enough. It’s a date.”

  They got out of the car and walked up onto the wrap-around porch. Rachel was fairly dumb when it came to identifying house styles, but she was pretty sure this one was a riff on a traditional farmhouse. There was a traditional screen door, revealing an open front door and a large, open hallway beyond. Jack knocked on the door and was immediately met with the resounding barks of a small dog.

  A dachshund came rushing to the door, little claws clicking against the hardwood floor. A middle-aged woman, maybe pushing forty, came chasing after it as she looked through the screen door at the visitors on her porch. She smiled apologetically at them as she scooped the dog up.

  “I’m so very sorry,” the woman said, cradling the dog. Without bothering to open the door (maybe on purpose, Rachel assumed), the woman asked: “And who are you?”

  “Agents Rivers and Gift, FBI,” Jack said, once again flashing his badge and ID.

  “FBI?” The woman looked just as confused as Scarlett Givens.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rachel said. “Would you mind if we came in?”

  “That’s… that’s fine,” she said, freeing one hand from her dog and pushing the screen door open from the inside. “What’s this about, exactly?”

  “Are you Caroline Adams?” Jack asked.

  “No. Caroline is my mother. Why? Why do you need my mother?”

  “Is she here?” Rachel asked.

  The woman set the dog down and eyed them both skeptically. “Why are you interested in my mother?” she asked again, this time putting bass in her voice. Rachel was also quite sure she saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

  “We need to speak with her about a series of murders that have occurred in the past week,” Jack said.

  As the woman, allegedly Caroline’s daughter, let this sink in, the dachshund began to sniff at Rachel’s feet. And oddly enough, the woman’s first response was a slow and boisterous laugh.

  “Ma’am?” Rachel asked.

  “Murders? My mother?”

  “Yes,” Jack said rather sternly. “Three doctors have been murdered, and they are all connected to Caroline Adams. And because of that, I’d greatly appreciate it if you could stop laughing and take this seriously.

  The woman nodded, and as she did, a few tears did indeed track down the side of her face. The three of them stood awkwardly in the entry hallway as the woman got control of herself. “I am very sorry,” she said, wiping the tears away as the laughter tapered off. “But… if you knew what I’ve been through over the course of the past three days, you’d understand how ridiculous your statement is.”

  Rachel was starting to feel a bit uneasy. She found herself looking down the hallway, trying to get a better feel for the layout of the house. She didn’t like the fact that they still had no idea if Caroline Adam was here or not.

  “I moved in here about six months ago when things got really bad with mom’s health. She has breast cancer. We thought she had it bear two years ago, but it came back within a few months. And when it came back, it came back hard.”

  “So… is she here?” Rachel asked. “Are you taking care of her?”

  “I was. Until two days ago. It just… it got too hard on me and mom. She has some friends around here that pitched in, too, but ultimately… we both knew it was time for her to go somewhere else…somewhere she could get the proper attention and care that she needs as she’s on… well, as she’s on her way out. The last check-up she had was just four days before we moved her into assisted living. Her specialist said she may have another month. Anything beyond that, he’d be shocked.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Rachel said.

  "I know she wanted to pass away here at home, but even she thought it was time. She had some coherent spells here and there, so that's good. I just… yeah. She's been bedridden for the last month or so. I had to help her go to the bathroom most of the time. So… yeah… the idea of her walking around and murdering people is both funny and sort of sad."

  Rachel felt the sudden need to get outside. She was starting to feel slightly claustrophobic. She didn’t think it had anything to do with the tumor; it wasn’t a symptom she’d experienced before, and she’d not read anything to indicate it as such, either. If anything, she thought it might just be the strain of what she was trying to do—attempting to help Jack, hoping that the experience of her own condition might somehow help them find the killer.

  “Excuse me for just a second, please,” she said to both Jack and Caroline’s daughter.

  When she turned and headed for the door, she caught a glimpse of Jack's expression. He was instantly worried about her, made clear by the uncomfortable look on his face. She gave him a quick nod and a smile; then she walked back outside onto the porch. Walking down the stairs, she took a deep breath of the crisp air. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the open space around her. If she was being completely honest with herself, she was simply tired. Her body was getting slightly weaker with every week that passed, and it hadn't helped that she'd done nothing more than sit around the house for the last several weeks.

  Two months ago, she would have kept this from Jack. She wouldn't want him worrying about her over something as simple as exhaustion. But things are different now, and she knew she had to respect him as well as take care of herself.

  She was still standing out in the yard, halfway between the porch steps and their car, when Jack came back out. He met her in the yard and looked at her with the sort of care and caution she was beginning to grow accustomed to.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it’s just weariness. I’m getting tired.”

  “Okay… so I’ll take you home.”

  “Ah, don’t do that to me! We’ve only got one more on the list. And if my hunch is right, he’s the guy—he’s the one.”

  "Yeah, unless he's been shipped off somewhere else," Jack said, frustrated.

  “Well, let’s go see.”

  “But you’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes. Keep in mind, I’ve done nothing but sit on my ass for the past four or five weeks. All of this excitement is a little too much for me, apparently.”

  “And you’ll tell me if something changes?” he asked as they got into the car.

  “You have my word.”

  She meant it. And something about that made her feel just as free as stepping out of the Adams residence and into the yard. More than that, it made her even more excited about getting back into the car to go after the killer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  He was coming to the end of it. Not just his life but this particular set of tasks he'd set out for himself. He'd killed three already, and it had been easier than he'd ever imagined. He'd had reservations about the third woman—a nurse named Donna Newsom that had brought him back from a suicide attempt where he’d nearly stopped his heart with prescribed medicines he’d stolen from his ex-wife several months ago. His reservations had not come from the fact that she had only been barely linked to his situation. No, he'd had second thoughts about killing her because of where she lived. But on the two different occasions he had staked out her home, he'd been shocked to find that the house had not possessed one of those newfangled camera-equipped doorbells.

  After that, his decision was easy. He'd gotten the idea of posing as a UPS driver from an old move he’d seen somewhere. The empty Amazon box had been the icing on the cake. It was such a familiar logo, and people ordered from them all the time that he assumed it would be just enough for her to answer the door without any hesitation. And he'd been right.

  Part of him was starting to insist that Donna Newsom might very well be the last target. But the anger he was feeling and had been feeling for nearly four months now—came from a source beyond his doctors. Maybe… honestly, he wasn’t sure. But after killing three people, he was beginning to understand how natural it felt. More than that, the anger and the act of murder made him feel more alive than he had in years.

  It made the headaches go away. It made the last several years of his life fade away into an obscure blur in the back of his mind. He was even starting to think that the anger and the murder might be serving as a cure. It was easy to assume this when sitting in the clutches of one of his God-awful headaches.

  He was experiencing one right now, once again sitting on the floor in the dark. Amazingly, it didn't hurt as bad as his body seemed to think it should. He was all but certain that this was because he knew he had one more person to kill. And the knowledge that it was on the horizon, probably before the day was over, in fact, seemed to create a strange sort of comfort within him. Having once struggled with alcoholism, he could easily compare it to needing that first drink of the afternoon desperately and the craving being somewhat curbed because he’d known it was waiting in the fridge at home.

  One more person, and then he'd be done. There was a sense of satisfaction to this but also a subtle sort of defeat. Would he be able to stop killing after this one? He knew he didn't have much time left to live, and if this was the only thing that gave him any form of comfort, what sense did it make to stop?

  These were all very good questions. But they were questions that he could handle once headache to compete with it. He smiled in the darkness, waiting. Just like the other three victims, he had scouted her out as well. To attack her now while she was at work would make no sense. There were far too many people around, and there was no way he would get away with it. All he had to do was wait. He didn't have many more days left, so any wasted moment was a precious one. But for what he had in store for her, he thought it would be absolutely worth sacrificing a few hours of his final days.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Rachel was sitting forward in her seat, her adrenaline starting to truly kick in now. As she watched the interstate ramp come into view, she also listened to the phone call Jack had placed to the local police department. Because he was driving and Rachel was only part of the case in an unofficial capacity, he had the call on speaker so as not to distract from his driving.

  Jack had been patched through to a deputy and was doing his best to convey his message without being too dramatic. While both Rachel and Jack did feel that there was a strong possibility that the last name on their list was the killer, there was no solid proof yet. And do tell the police that he was certain they were currently en route to a serial killer’s house without any hard, tangible proof would be a mistake.

  “The subject’s name is James Dickerson, and he lives at 147 River’s Gate Street,” Jack was saying. “For right now, I don’t need feet on the ground, but I’d like to know that I can have backup within minutes if necessary.”

  “River's Gate Street," the deputy said. "Yeah, we've got at least two units over in that vicinity right now. When do you expect to be there?"

  “I’m about ten minutes out.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll make sure we’ve got at least one car within a minute or so of that address.”

  Jack ended the call and turned his full attention back to the exit ramp. Once they were on the interstate, Dickerson’s address was just a few ramps further ahead. Rachel started to feel a familiar sense of finality, a stirring she often felt in her guts whenever they were closing in on the final act of a case. Of course, it would be their luck that the killer would turn out to be the last name on the list. But with nothing but a scant medical history and a string of doctors to go on, there was no way they could have definitively selected one. They could have run background checks, but that would have added a few hours to the process. And because all of the suspects were in the city of Richmond, they’d be done with looking into each suspect in the time it took to get those reports.

  In other words, they were saving time by remaining active. And tired or not, Rachel fully intended to see the case through.

  They got off the interstate, taking the ramp into a part of the city Rachel wasn’t very familiar with. Had they remained on the interstate for another few miles, they would have passed by the city limits. The neighborhood they found themselves in was bland and featureless, the sort of place that hadn’t quite felt the effects of the nearby businesses going down over the years. It was the kind of neighborhood no one ever expected to be of great importance, the sort of place you would find a route around on your way to get somewhere more important.

  As Jack closed in on River’s Gate Street, Rachel noted the two police cars they passed. One was parked along the side of a gas station, and the second was parked at the curb at the end of the opposite block. The deputy had acted fast, and the sight of the waiting cars kicked Rachel’s anticipation into an even higher gear.

  When they pulled up in front of James Dickerson’s address, Rachel noted at once that there was no vehicle on the premises. There was no driveway or garage, so the absence of a car parked anywhere near the house was a clear indication of that.

  “Looks like he’s not home,” Rachel said.

  “Well, let’s have a look around.”

  “You think you’re going to get lucky enough to come across two unlocked doors into suspects’ homes on a single case?”

  He shrugged and reached across to the passenger side, unclasping the glovebox cover. When it fell open, he fidgeted around inside and grabbed the small lock-pick set.

  “Are you sure about this, Jack?” She knew—as she was sure Jack did, as well—that without strict probable cause, it would be considered illegal to just pick Dickerson’s lock and head inside. While they both felt there was more than enough reason to force their way inside, a court and jury (and likely Anderson) may not be so agreeable.

  "I am," he said. "We need answers quickly because, quite frankly, I can't keep you out much longer. And I know you're going to whine and complain if I suggest I take you home before we know we have our killer.”

  “Well, you’re right about that,” she said with a grin.

  They walked to the front door of the single-story house. The vinyl siding was white but dingy and more of a beige color in some areas. Just for the sake of follow-through and protocol, Jack knocked on the door. When there was no answer after ten seconds, he did it again. Still, there was no answer.

  “Well, we tried,” he said as he started taking the tools out of the lock-picking kit.

  As Jack worked at the lock, Rachel turned her back to the door and looked around at the neighboring yards and houses. There weren't many cars along the sides of the streets and no activity at all in any of the yards. It was a quiet neighborhood, and she felt safe in assuming that even if a nosy neighbor did happen to see what they were doing, no one was going to kick up much of a fuss about it.

  It took less than twenty seconds for Jack to unlock the door. He opened it up, and without a word exchanged between them, they stepped inside.

  The house felt stale and would be considered by some to be a bit of a mess. The front door opened up onto a living room that held a couch, one armchair, and a small flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. A pair of well-worn boots sat beside the armchair, and the coffee table in front of the couch was littered with an empty pizza box, a baseball cap, and random little pieces of trash.

  From the living room, they stepped into the kitchen. It was at this point that Jack called out to see if anyone was home. “Mr. Dickerson? Are you home? Anyone here?”

  Rachel could tell right away that they were the only ones in the house. It was the way that Jack's words fell flat as he walked into the kitchen. A slight stink reached her nostrils as she closed in on the sink and counter. She saw several dirty dishes, some smeared with what looked like ketchup or spaghetti sauce. A few gnats drifted above it all, and a fly buzzed in annoyance as the humans passed by. She wrinkled up her nose as she studied the plates. Whatever the sauce on the plates was, it had congealed to the point of drying.

  Working a hunch, she walked to the refrigerator and opened it up. She found the crisper drawer pretty much empty, aside from a small crate of cherry tomatoes. Most of them had gone soft and to the point of wrinkling. She then looked at the milk carton and saw that the expiration date had passed three days ago.

  “I think he’s been gone for a while,” she said as she closed the fridge.

  Jack had walked into the bathroom that sat just to the right of the kitchen’s entrance. He poked his head out of the doorway and waved Rachel over. “Hey… check this out.”

  She joined him in the restroom and saw the hole in the wall right away. In fact, she was pretty sure there were two of them. While it was pure speculation, she guessed they were just about the right size to have been created by a fist. When she turned to comment on this, she saw that Jack was looking at something else.

  She followed his eyes to the floor and saw a small pile of dirty clothes lying in the space between the edge of the sink and the toilet. There was a single pair of jeans and two shirts. Both shirts were black, but one of them was clearly covered in something. Rachel extended her foot out to uncrumple the shirt, and the stains on it became more apparent.

  “Blood… and lots of it.”

  “Look here,” Jack said, hunkering down by the tub. “Everything else in the house suggests he hasn’t been here in a while. But that—”

  He was pointing to the two bars of soap sitting on the edge of the tub. They were worn down slightly and recently used. One was white—Ivory soap, Rachel assumed—and stained pink with blood. A fine, barely noticeable residue in the bottom of the tub suggested that another, stronger cleaning agent had been used at some point.

 

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