A Necessary Evil (10 page)

CHAPTER 22

Washington, D. C.

S
omeone was following her. Gwen glanced in her rearview mirror as she pulled into the tiny four-slot parking lot behind Mr. Lee's Market World. She had circled the block three times and so did the black SUV. Only now she didn't see it Was it possible she was being paranoid?

The SUV's tinted windshield had been too dark to see the driver, although during the left turn at the last intersection she had gotten enough of a glimpse to know it was a man's silhouette. Traffic was crazy on a Saturday evening and it was a holiday weekend at that. Finding a parking spot in this neighborhood of small shops with a few clapboard houses lucked in between sometimes took three and four times around the block. That's probably all it was __ someone trying to find a parking space. And yet, she stayed in her car, waiting, checking the mirrors and watching along the street, giving him plenty of time to catch up with her.

The killer had no reason to be following her. He had to know by now that his threat __ albeit subtle __ had kept her in line. She had done everything he had demanded, played along with his evil game of scavenger hunt. Why would he think she'd suddenly run to the police with his latest puzzle piece? Although this one was different from the rest. In the past he had sent her instructions, maps, information __ even a cell phone __ all for the purpose of directing her, leading her to find his victims. She believed it was to show her what he had done, what he was capable of doing. But why send a single earring? She couldn't help wondering if this latest victim was still alive. If that was true, was this a cruel taunt? Or was he giving her a chance to stop him?

Gwen twisted around, searching up and down the side streets in both directions. No black SUV with dark tinted windows. This was ridiculous. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She was allowing him to screw with her mind and he wasn't even here.

She glanced down at the manila envelope sitting on the passenger seat, now encased in plastic. Next to it was the water glass she had offered Rubin Nash, also in plastic. Before she left her office she had phoned Benny Hassert at Hassert Independent Labs. She had decided to drop off the items on her way home. Benny had agreed to put them on his priority list, no questions asked. After all, she was a longtime client. He was used to her bringing him anything, from human saliva for DNA testing to soil samples. He had no idea if this was for an FBI case she had been independently contracted to help on. He hadn't asked. He didn't care. He would simply have the results for her on Monday. And then she would know whether or not the fingerprints on the envelope with the earring matched those on the water glass and whether or not Rubin Nash was the killer.

And if it was Nash, she'd have something solid, something substantial. There would be enough of a reason to believe he* posed a serious threat to do harm. And she would have just cause to give everything to Maggie, to disregard any and all patient/doctor confidentiality. The police would have enough to make an arrest. He couldn't possibly hurt her father or any other woman ever again once he had been arrested and became their prime suspect.

Maybe it sounded a bit arrogant to think she could catch Rubin Nash so easily. Had she suspected him sooner, she could have already put an end to his killing spree. And maybe, just maybe, if the earring's owner was still alive, she could save her.

Gwen checked both sides of the street again and finally decided the SUV must have found a parking space somewhere else. She must have been wrong about it. She convinced herself that she needed some rest. A good night's sleep would be a nice change, and once inside Mr. Lee's World Market she started to browse the wine aisle, looking for a choice chardonnay.

The scents of ginger, garlic and fresh-baked bread worked its magic, soothing her frayed nerves. Each aisle was a sort of aromatherapy. She didn't need a degree in psychology to know that she sought comfort in food, not just eating it, but preparing and sharing a meal. She had her mom to thank for that. Her Italian mother had always insisted mealtimes were to be joyful and enjoyable. Arguments were never allowed around the dinner table and everyone, including guests, participated in the preparations. Almost every important conversation she had ever had with her parents happened during this time. It was while stuffing a batch of cannoli that she convinced her father she should leave New York City to go to college. Her mother had been her silent advocate, not realizing at the time that Gwen would never return home to live and work alongside her father.

It wasn't until Gwen had her doctorate that she realized what an education in mediation and negotiation her mother's mealtimes were. Once in a while she'd recommend to her own patients __ especially those who respected rituals __ to share a meal as an excuse to reach out to someone they otherwise had difficulty talking to.

"Hey, Doc, how you today?" Mr. Lee nodded and waved at her from behind the meat-and-cheese counter as he sliced what looked like a chunk of corned beef.

"I'm in dire need of some buffalo mozzarella," she told him.

"Yes, yes, I have plenty. And I give you some garlic butter, too. I just made. Fresh. Lots of garlic, the way you like it."

"Sounds wonderful." Gwen smiled at him, thinking how wonderful, indeed, it was to have a man know exactly what she liked and needed. Never mind that he was eighty-one, five inches shorter than her and had a jealous wife who accused him of flirting with all his redheaded female customers.

He shuffled to the back room as he always did, as if getting her mozzarella and garlic butter came from his private stash instead of from what he kept out front. What he kept out front looked equally delicious and fresh, but what came from the back he put in special containers made of hard plastic. It was almost like taking food home from a relative or friend and feeling the need to return the container.

She glanced around the store again as she waited, looking for anything else that might help make her feel better, that might ease the tension. That's when she saw a woman turn and duck into the next aisle.

"Dena?" she called, but stayed put, not wanting to embarrass the young woman or herself if it wasn't her assistant.

It took longer than it should have for Dena to come back around the corner and when she did, her pale cheeks were flushed as though she had been caught somewhere she shouldn't be.

"Hi, Dr. Patterson. I thought that was you." She flipped her unruly dark hair out of eyes as if it may have been the reason she hadn't been able to recognize her boss.

"I didn't know you shopped here," Gwen said, noticing that Dena's handbasket was filled with a variety of cheeses, a bottle of wine and some Bavarian chocolates, an assortment one might choose for a romantic evening. But as far as Gwen could tell, it looked as though Dena was alone. Or perhaps not? There was a slight glance over her shoulder.

"I remember you raving about it," Dena said. Then as if she felt the need to explain, she added in almost a whisper, "I just started dating someone new."

"You've come to the right place." Gwen found herself glancing around, hoping for a glimpse, which only seemed to make Dena flinch.

"Yeah, I know. It's great. I'm sort of in a hurry though." And she started to back away. "I'll see you on Monday."

"Have a great weekend," she said, but Dena had already escaped around the same corner.

Was she that uncomfortable sharing a piece of her private life with her boss? But then, Gwen knew she had contributed to the discomfort. She had purposely not encouraged any kind of personal relationship with her assistant, never so much as confiding any special hangouts, habits or even where she lived.

Dena was free to shop wherever she wanted. So why would she bother to lie about Gwen telling her about Mr. Lee's World?

CHAPTER 23

Saturday evening
Columbia, Missouri

F
ather Gerald Kincaid excused himself from the group of chattering women. If they gave their husbands or children half the attention they gave him, they'd have less to complain to him about. A vicious circle, no doubt.

However, he enjoyed the attention. It felt good to be needed again. He knew he could take their vulnerabilities, their weaknesses, their sins, and gain energy and power from them. Perhaps he needed them as much as they needed him.

This party, though it officially celebrated All Saints Catholic Church's silver jubilee and an early Fourth of July, was also a special occasion for him, too. Today was six months since he'd arrived, having finished his required leave of absence. The time away had been good for him.

Though the New Mexico air had dried out his skin, the Servants of the Paraclete had been kind and generous. Now he was ready __ more than ready __ to get back to work.

He walked through the crowded parking lot, greeting everyone by name. The surprise on each face at his ability to remember was worth the memorization drills he had put himself through.

The entire congregation had worked for two days to transform the parking lot and children's playground into a carnival. There were pushcarts with anything from funnel cakes and pink cotton candy to corn dogs and Sno-Kones. Game booths lined the back lot and the local hardware store had even constructed a fun house. Streamers and balloons snapped and waved in the breeze, a few of the balloons breaking free and sailing off into the cloudless sky. A barbershop quartet, made up of two church council members, a deacon and his son, found themselves with a constant audience, though Father Gerald couldn't help thinking that positioning themselves next to the altar society ladies' baked-goods stand added to their popularity.

Families had begun to lay out blankets on the grass, setting out their picnic dinners and settling into their spots for the fireworks show that would come later, just after dark. The small children already had their glow tubes ready, swirling them around, preparing for their preshow. Some of the teenagers made themselves comfortable on the hoods of the family cars that lined the far end of the parking lot.

Some of the younger boys had gathered in the back field for a game of touch football. There were a dozen things Father Gerald needed to check on, and yet that's where he found himself headed __ to the field of boys. That's where he felt most at home. He still believed it was because his own childhood had been cut short. If only his mother had let him finish high school with his classmates instead of insisting he enter the seminary two years early. If only...

Being with the boys made him feel young. It seemed to make up for what he had missed as a boy. Just being around them rejuvenated him in a way the New Mexico treatment center could never accomplish. He had tried to explain it to Dr. Marik, but the old doctor didn't quite understand. Nor did he want to understand. Instead, he seemed more concerned with writing glowing reports that would please Cardinal Rose.

Two of the boys waved at Father Gerald, and he jogged the rest of the way to the field. Someone tossed him the ball, and after several runs and handoffs he found himself at the bottom of a pile of giggling and yelling boys. Sean Harris lay stretched across him with his butt up against Father Gerald's groin, and despite having an elbow in his side and Jacob Raine's foot in his face, he found himself getting excited, excited enough that he could feel an erection starting. Excited enough that he asked Sean Harris to help him clean up after the fireworks show.

He knew the boy's father had recently lost his job. The family was strapped for cash and the twenty dollars he offered Sean for an hour's work would be considered very generous. In fact, the boy's mother would probably even agree to Father Gerald's suggestion of driving Sean home.

Yes, this was turning out to be a wonderful occasion for him. He tried to make his way through the crowd, now bumping into people as they oohed and aahed, their faces turned up to watch the spectacular light show that was just getting started. The only light came from the fireworks since even the parking lot had gone dark to accommodate the show. Music blasted on four large speakers, synchronized to the flashes and pops.

He stepped over several blanket corners, trying to avoid stepping on any occupants. The flashes of light gave an odd sense of motion almost setting him off balance as he tried to adjust his eyes. He stumbled over a cooler, waving off a muffled apology from its owner and bumping into several boys who pushed to get a better view.

"Sorry, Father," one of them sang out.

The blasts were louder now, and Father Gerald could even feel the vibrations of sound. Finally he was almost through the crowd when someone ran into him again, only this time without stopping and without an apology. It knocked the air out of him. He couldn't breathe. He grabbed his chest and gulped for air. His fingers, his hand, became wet and sticky. Only in the dark he couldn't see.

The sky lit up again, and he saw the stain blooming on the front of his shirt. The pain, the sting, seemed to suddenly race through his insides. When had he fallen to his knees? He could still hear the bangs and pops, but even they became faint, fading out somewhere in the background.

The fireworks show wasn't finished, and yet, everything went black.

CHAPTER 24

Sunday, July 4
Interstate 95

T
hey had been on the road for almost two hours when Maggie realized she and Racine were discussing the case without disagreement, with no cheap shots or competing theories. Racine had even allowed Harvey to come along, giving him the entire back seat of her Infiniti G35 without cringing or fussing about his huge paws on her immaculate leather.

At first Maggie thought it was all for show, a way to impress her, win her over. But Maggie wasn't that easily impressed, and Racine wasn't exactly patient or polite enough to ignore something that rubbed her the wrong way. And a Labrador retriever __ even a sleeping one __ in your forty-thousand-dollar car would be difficult to ignore.

"On your weirdo-meter, where would you say this guy falls?" Racine's voice broke into Maggie's thoughts.

"My weirdo-meter?"

"Hey, I know you've tracked down some major motherfuckers __ excuse my French. I've been trying to tone down what my dad refers to as my potty-mouth when I visit him." Racine took a gulp of Diet Pepsi as if to wash it away. "You know what I mean. What category does this guy fall into? Is he a Simon Shelby or an Albert Stucky?"

Racine was referring to two very different serial killers Maggie had encountered in the last several years. Simon Shelby killed his victims to possess their imperfections, bottling brain tumors and sticking diseased hearts in jars to compensate for his own childhood illness. Shelby was sick, mentally, not physically. Albert Stucky, however, was simply evil, or at least that was Maggie's explanation for why any madman would steal his victims' organs, drop them into a take-out container and then leave them for someone to discover.

Despite what most people thought, profiling serial killers wasn't as simple as putting each one into some category and predicting the next move, like some twisted or elaborate chess game. Instead, it required crawling inside the killer's mind and looking into the dark corners without being sucked in.

"It's not as simple as figuring out a category," she finally told Racine.

"Oh, I know that. But try to give me an idea of what kind of brain drain strangles a woman and then chops off her head. Are we talking major loose screws or what? This goes beyond the search for the ultimate boner, doesn't it?"

"I think this guy is more about rage than sexual gratification."

"Rage, huh? So you don't think he's hanging on to the torsos for convenient boinking?"

"Boinking?"

"Yeah, you know sort of his own preserved blowup doll but without the hot air."

Maggie smiled at Racine's lingo and simplistic profile. She glanced at the detective with her hip Ray-Bans, spiky blond hair, pink Key West tank top and Ralph Lauren khakis. She couldn't remember ever looking or feeling that chic, young and carefree. Only recently had Maggie started to splurge on designer things for herself, like a pair of expensive Cole Hahn leather flats that she let Gwen talk her into buying. Even her two-story Tudor in upscale New-burgh Heights just outside of the District __ which had been bought with funds from a trust her father had left her __ was decorated in what might be politely called traditional and practical.

She was logical and disciplined, stubborn and determined. She attributed it to the necessity of having to grow up too soon and too fast, of losing her father and becoming a caretaker of her alcoholic suicidal mother all at the young age of twelve. Whatever carefree spirit she may have possessed had easily been squelched sometime during those dark days of fighting off her mother's drunken suitors or while trying to make sure the electric bill was paid or finding something to eat before getting herself off to school in the morning. She worked her way through college and even her ex-husband, Greg, had once been attracted to her mature and responsible sense of duty. Never mind that those were the same traits that ended up driving him away when she transferred them to her job as an FBI agent.

Racine had lost a parent as a child, too. One more thing they had in common. So it wasn't as if she had had a fairytale or even a carefree life. The difference, however, was Luc Racine, a loving, doting father who made sure his little girl got to be a little girl. Ironic because here Julia Racine had been trying so hard to impress and emulate Maggie and as it turned out, Maggie actually envied Racine. Funny, Maggie thought, how life threw you curve-balls just when you thought you had everything figured out. Just when you thought you could trust your judgment of people.

"Hey, earth to O'Dell. Are you still with me? Do you need to get out and stretch?"

Maggie realized she had tuned out Racine for too long.

"No, I'm fine," she said, twisting around to check on Harvey. The dog was sprawled out and fast asleep.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Just a little tired, I guess."

"Another big night, huh?"

Racine gave her a look over her sunglasses and only then did Maggie remember Harvey's slobberfest that Racine had overheard on Friday evening. She started laughing.

"Hey, it's none of my business," Racine said, waving a hand at her as if to say it was no big deal. "You don't have to tell me anything."

Maggie couldn't help it. She kept laughing, harder now, and somehow she managed to say, "It was Harvey."

"What?"

"It was Harvey you heard the other night."

It took Racine a second to register. Maggie thought she saw a bit of a blush. It was difficult to tell with the sunglasses. Maggie started laughing again, and soon Racine was joining her.