The support groups had helped for a while. It had been refreshing to know that there were other people that had felt anger before anything else... and that they still felt it on a daily basis. During the first few meetings, he had done his best to express just how angry he felt most of the time. There were some days when he thought calling it anger was doing it a disservice. What he was feeling was more like rage. He felt it in the pit of his stomach and in the muscles of his arms and hands as he was constantly wanting to strike out at things. He felt it in his head, two, sometimes so badly that it made him dizzy. Sometimes you would see double, the world becoming a blur that he wanted to attack... to burn down to its very foundation.

  He'd woken up one morning with the rage filling his head like angry Hornets. He couldn't form a thought without the anger knitting itself into it. Even when he had placed his feet on the floor that morning, he had done so by stomping his feet down. The buzzing in his head created one of the worst headaches yet, and he knew something needed to be done to release that anger. With tears in his eyes and double vision causing him to walk in a strange way, he'd taken the bus to the downtown YMCA in paid a guest fee for the day. He had found a dusty little room where punching bags had been set up and punched and punched and punched until his knuckles were bleeding inside of the boxing gloves.

  It had helped, but not much. He'd woken up the next day with the anger slightly muted and his arms and hands sore from the workout. He'd spent that day as he was spending this current one—sitting in the dark in his apartment. He listened to some music at low volume and tidied up a bit as well as he could.

  The following day, he killed Dr. Leery.

  He hadn't meant to. He had intended to simply go to Leery's office and have a word with him to maybe push a little harder on solutions to his health. Surely there was something that could be done. Something experimental or a little unconventional. He was willing to try anything. But then Leary had insisted there was nothing they could do. The treatments that were available to him would not cure him but only add a few months.

  Then his head started hurting, and the rage came back. The hornets buzzed in his skull, and he felt hot anger in the pit of his stomach. He left Leery's office and waited for his shift to end; he then followed Leery discreetly to the parking garage, and that's where the anger took over. He didn't remember much of what happened. He remembered the cracking noise of the driver's side window of Leery's car and the surprising amounts of blood that had been on his hands when he quickly ran away.

  After that, the anger completely disappeared for two entire days. Things had felt so great that he dared to think something had changed… that he may have miraculously been healed. But the pain came back quickly. The speed at which it returned robbed him of sleep and kept him in the bathroom, throwing up. The anger of the situation also returned. It wasn't fair. Why was this happening to him? Why weren't these doctors that were getting paid so much money unable to help him?

  He’d seen four doctors in all, and none had been able to help. They'd all told him the same thing. One of them had even recommended he stay in some sort of assisted living facility because none of his family lived locally. That it angered him more than anything else at that time, and that doctor—Dr. Matthews—had been the second he’d killed.

  After Dr. Matthews, the pain had disappeared for about half a day, but the anger remained. He could sense it in the same way he could sense the air in his lungs and the tongue in his mouth. It was a part of him now, just as vicious and toxic for him as the diagnosis he’d received seven months ago.

  But last night, the pain had come back. And it came back with a vengeance. It started in his head like it usually did and jerked him straight out of sleep. It wasn't the worst he'd ever felt, but damned close to it. As he stumbled to the bathroom to throw up, it felt as if someone had shoved a hot spike directly through the back of his head. The house spun. His vision doubled. Nothing in his body felt like it belonged to him... as if every single organ inside of him was trembling to be somewhere else.

  And now he was here, sitting on the rug of his living room floor. He supposed an easy answer would be to take the doctors up on their suggestions of an assisted living facility. There would be easier access to pain medication there. There would be routine visits by medical professionals.

  But he didn't want to give up the little bit of control he had left. Right now, his life felt like it was his own, and he didn't think he'd feel that way in a home. So, for now, he only knew of one other thing that seemed to tip the scales toward something resembling normalcy, even if for only a few days at a time.

  There were two more doctors he had blamed this entire time, two more doctors that had given him such a miserable prognosis. He knew which one must come next… it was the doctor that sometimes popped up in his dreams, dragging the pain inside of his head along with them. But first, he needed to let his body rest. He needed to get through this pain to make sure he wouldn't be moments away from his next killing only to throw up or pass out.

  So, for now, it was the darkness and the pain. And as soon as he could stand without tottering and his vision was going fuzzy, it would be time to release some more of his anger.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rachel went to the grocery store first because she knew if she needed any extra time for her little mission, she could easily blame the length of her trip on getting sidetracked in the library. She ran into the grocery store and grabbed a few things that wouldn’t go bad in the car for an extended period of time and then returned to the car. The entire supermarket expedition took less than ten minutes, and when she got back into the car, she texted Jack.

  Where are you?

  She didn't bother waiting for a response. She was suddenly very excited—like a kid that had snuck out after curfew. It was childish, sure, but it was also the most excitement and joy she'd felt since getting her bad news several weeks prior. She headed for the field office, assuming that was where he would be unless he was off trailing a suspect. And based on the state of things when he'd left her house, she found that hard to believe.

  Traveling the route to the field office made her feel even more rebellious, though she was starting to feel bad for so blatantly lying to Grandma Tate. She didn’t deserve the dishonesty; she’d done nothing but help and show genuine love and concern for Rachel and Paige every step of the way. Rachel decided then and there, now just five minutes from the field office, that she would tell her the truth when she got back home. Considering the minuscule amount of information she’d been able to get from the hospital, she doubted her ill-advised mission would net any helpful results, anyway.

  Jack finally texted her back when she was three blocks away from the office. I just got back to the field office. Suspect in custody but nothing solid.

  So at least, she knew he was there. She drove by the front entrance, making a U-turn in the morning downtown traffic, and drove over to the parking garage. She drove up to the second level and parked. After killing the engine, she texted Jack back. Can you come to the parking garage? 2nd level. I might have something for you.

  She then pulled up her text thread with Grandma Tate and sent another lie: I just got to the library. I will text again when I leave. As usual, Grandma Tate’s little thumbs-up came through ten seconds later.

  While she waited for Jack to text her back, Rachel pulled up the photographs she’d taken in Clements’ office. She was shocked to see that she had more than she realized. She knew she’d worked quickly, but not quite this fast. She’d managed to snag sixteen different pictures, all showing the name and above-the-weeds details of each patient from Dr. Matthews’ schedule over the past three weeks.

  She flipped through the photographs, checking to see if anything truly stood out to her. There were scant details here and there, little more than bullet points pertaining to the nature of the appointment. Of the sixteen pictures she’d snapped, she saw two that could possibly support her hunch that the killer was terminal.

  One of the previous appointments—this one from six days ago—was for a second opinion regarding a prostate cancer diagnosis. Another was a follow-up for a man with throat cancer.

  Chills raced through Rachel as she read this information; it was a little too close to home. She wasn’t sure about how fast and fatal throat cancer was, but she knew prostate cancer was considered to be among the harshest. As she eyed this picture, one other little detail jumped out at her: the patient with prostate cancer had never shown up. The appointment was listed as still open.

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, scrolling through the pictures and trying to find more links and clues. All she knew for sure was then when someone knocked on the side of her passenger side door, she nearly shouted.

  She turned and saw that it was Jack. He was grinning at how frightened she was. Rachel unlocked the doors, and Jack stepped in at once. Before she could say anything, he leaned in and kissed her. It was quick and to the point and just enough to make Rachel feel just slightly light-headed.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” he said.

  “Like I said in the text… I have something for you.”

  “And why am I a little terrified to find out what it might be?”

  Rather than give him a verbal answer, she showed him her recent galleries on her phone. He took it from her and looked at a few of the most recent pictures. “Rachel, what am I loo—”

  But then he seemed to understand what the pictures were. His eyes grew wide as he looked from the phone and back to her. “How the hell did you get these?”

  “That’s a secret.”

  “No, I can’t accept that. I’m assuming it was something illegal. And if you’re bringing this to me to help with a case, this could cause a lot of trouble… and not just for you.”

  She was slightly disappointed in his reaction. He did seem thankful but also a little irritated. Rachel sighed and told him how she’d spent the last forty-five minutes or so. The deeper into the story she got, the wider Jack’s eyes seemed to get.

  “That was way too risky,” he said, handing the phone back to her. “If you’d have been caught, what then?”

  “I’m not sure. So I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t get caught, huh?”

  She wasn’t able to read the expression on his face; it was somewhere between anger and awe. Rubbing at his temples as if to save off a headache, he looked at her as his face seemed to soften a bit.

  “Did you even get anything worthwhile out of it?” he asked.

  "Maybe. Look at the sixth picture from the last one… a man named Seth Redman. Is he, by any chance, a match for Dr. Leery's list? Is he one of the names you matched up with the two doctors?"

  “It is, actually. Why?”

  “Prostate cancer. And the appointment that he had set six days ago is still registered as open. I’m pretty sure it means he never showed up for it.”

  “Okay…”

  "Look, I really have a strong feeling that this killer is terminal. He knows he's going to die, and he's acting out angrily about it."

  “What are you basing that on?”

  She shrugged and said, "Experience. Sort of." She decided to be as honest as possible if it meant really pushing her hunch. "There are these little bursts of anger I feel sometimes. I try to ignore them because, deep down, it makes me feel almost childish. But there's anger there for sure… about how unfair it is and how I have absolutely no control over it. And I think… I think if a man that is already a bit on the angry side of most of the time has to also deal with that, it could lead to homicidal rage."

  Jack thought this over for a bit. He stared through the windshield, unblinking. After a few moments, he said: “You know, if I go to speak with him and ask him about this anger you’re talking about, I can’t mention that I know he has prostate cancer.”

  “I know. But he may volunteer the information. Especially if he is continually angry about it.”

  He nodded, looking back at her phone. With a frustrated grin, he said: “I still can’t believe you did that.”

  “What can I say? Living on death’s door has made me reckless.”

  He cringed. “Is this morbid sense of humor something I’m going to have to get used to?”

  “Maybe. I haven’t decided if it suits me yet."

  “Well, thanks for the tip,” he said, reaching for the handle to open the passenger side door. I’ll text or call after I’ve spoken with him.”

  “Or…” Rachel said, giving him her best, convincing smile. “I could come with you.”

  Jack sighed, reaching out and taking her hand. "I care a great deal about you, so please don't take what I'm about to say to heart. But… are you crazy?"

  "No. But I'm out of the house for the first time in almost three weeks, and I really do think this hunch has something to it. And if you really want to be able to get into a mind like this one, what better way than with someone that's been there? That is actively there?”

  “Rachel…”

  “Just to visit and see if it’s the guy. I don’t have a gun. And I won’t get physical at all.”

  When she saw the conflicted look come across his face, Rachel was almost sorry she asked. She could see that he wanted her to come—that yes was on the top of his tongue and begging to be spoken. But she also saw the hesitation as well. If he agreed to this and Anderson was to somehow find out, Jack would be in a tremendous deal of trouble.

  Still holding her hand, Jack gave it a squeeze and asked: “Do I have your word on that? If I allow you to come along, you’ll only be there as part of the questioning. I don’t want you chasing or running or even standing up out of a chair fast.”

  “That’s fair. And as soon as it’s all said and done, I’ll head back home. Grandma Tate will be expecting me back soon, anyway.”

  “I assume she has no idea what you’re doing?”

  Rachel shook her head. She was both amazed and surprised at just how guilty she was starting to feel.

  “Well, let’s take a bureau car. The last thing we need is for your own personal car to be used in a case you’re not even supposed to be on.”

  They stepped out of the car together, and as they met at the back, Rachel grabbed him by the arm. “Thanks for this, Jack. It means a lot.”

  "Sure. And it's not just for you, by the way. Trying to work a case like this without having you with me… it’s been rough. Still… after the questioning, you’re done.”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  They left her car and headed down to the basement level, where the bureau sedans were stored. Rachel wasn’t naïve or sentimental enough to fool herself into thinking it felt normal or natural. In fact, she was burdened with the fact that what they were doing was breaking several regulations and, at the end of the day, might end up making things worse for her on more than one level.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Seth Redman’s address was listed in the scant information in the photograph Rachel had taken at the doctor’s office. Redmond lived in a middle-class apartment complex just a few blocks away from downtown. It was a four-story brick tower that blended in with just about every other building on the block. Rows of struggling hedges bordered the front door, and the glass of the door was in need of a good cleaning.

  As they walked inside, Jack held the door open for Rachel and gave her a cautious look. She appreciated the concern but also didn't like feeling that he viewed her as a toddler taking her first steps.

  “Jack, I’m fine. I’m serious. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

  He smiled and said, “You know, I’m not too sure I believe that.”

  They took the stairs to the second floor, where Redman’s apartment was located. Being that it was nearly noon, the building was fairly quiet. There was a bit of murmuring from behind some of the doors as people watched daytime game shows and news reports. Other than that, though, there was no activity at all on the second floor.

  They came to Redman’s apartment, and Jack made a specific point to stand directly in front of the door and knock. He was trying to crowd the scene, making sure Rachel was out of the line of any potential danger. Again, it was both polite and chivalrous but, in Rachel’s estimation, a bit unnecessary. Of course, given the fact that she wasn’t even supposed to be here, she supposed she had no room to complain.

  There was no answer at the door, so Jack knocked again, harder this time. “Mr. Redman?" he called. "If you're in there, answer the door, please."

  Jack stepped back, but again there was no response. Ten seconds passed, then fifteen. Jack reached down to the knob and turned it. To both their surprise, it turned, and the door opened. A very faint aroma of marijuana greeted them—nothing fresh but the ghost of smoke from about a day or so ago.

  “I don’t know about this,” he said, looking in. “I mean, it’s the middle of the day. For all we know, he could just be at work.”

  “Maybe,” Rachel said. But she also wondered… if he had prostate cancer near the later stages, would Seth Redman even be capable of working? Well, if he’s been killing people with such brutality and strength, it might be possible, she thought.

  Jack had not yet stepped in, weighing his options. There were certain legalities to consider here. Specifically, if they found anything that pointed to Rodman being the killer, they’d not be able to use it against him because they would have searched his apartment without Redman being present; and without strong probable cause, that was a big no-no.

  "Well, he's not here," she said. "I say we go in and be quick about it. If we find evidence against him, at least, then we'll know. We can leave and stake out the building until he returns. We could get in without any argument on a technicality. You smell the pot, right?"

 

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