Aim to Kill (9 page)

He had to find another paper to work for. Nothing was keeping him in Seattle now that Amy was dead.

Except a promise.

He prided himself on his discipline.

He planned each operation precisely, from the vehicle he stole to the neighborhood he targeted to the girl he chose. Patience. Planning. Discipline.

Two or three times he’d acted on impulse. The first time, of course, but that worked out amazingly well. After all, stealing Hall’s truck turned attention to someone else. It was after that he decided he would steal trucks for every operation. That took finding the least likely vehicle to be reported stolen, which was surprisingly easy. He generally picked people going on vacation. More often than not, they took a taxi or shuttle to the airport. Picking locks was child’s play; virtually everyone had an extra set of car keys in the house. He had use of their truck for days and no one reported it stolen.

He preferred either American trucks or SUVs because they were big, he understood the mechanics, and they were common. If he selected a pickup, it had to have a shell over the bed for privacy; an SUV needed darkened windows and collapsible rear seats. Cars were too small and their trunks usually stuffed with the owner’s junk, and cargo vans were out of the question; they immediately appeared suspicious sitting in a residential neighborhood.

Sometimes he made mistakes. Like the time in
Texas
when the daughter came home from college to house-sit. Close call, but he’d talked his way out of that one.

If only that bitch had known she was minutes away from dying. He’d wanted to reach out, wrap his hands around her neck, and squeeze. Squeeze until her neck snapped.

But rash actions like that could have drawn attention to him, and he had more important operations to plan.

His sweet angels waited for him to free their souls.

But three months ago he’d again acted on impulse. He’d seen his little angel running along the edge of the water, glowing.
Radiating
just for him. And he knew beyond a doubt she’d been sent to him.

He’d been on the island for a year, blending in, planning. He’d already selected a neighborhood off the island, and was looking for the right truck when the angel ran along the beach and her soul sang to him.

He brought her to his cottage. Another mistake.

There was nowhere else to take her—he couldn’t remove her from the island because of surveillance cameras on the docks. And the authorities had started the search immediately, even before he’d secured her inside his house.

He kept her safe, hidden, until the search was called off well after sundown.

Everyone thought she’d drowned.

Then he freed her, and his sweet little angel became a spirit, pure and brilliant.

But it had been a mistake, an impulsive decision that he now regretted. The police were swarming the island. Would they talk to him? Perhaps. They had nothing on him, couldn’t come into the cottage, had no reason to suspect him. He’d been on the island long enough to divert suspicion, and the fact that he was still here helped his case.

No one had seen him with her; otherwise they’d never have assumed she drowned when they couldn’t find her. Days later, he’d put her empty shell in the middle of the island, where the woods were dense and people would be less likely to find it. He quickly dismissed the idea of burying it. That wouldn’t do. Her shell was nothing; her spirit was free. To bury it would imply there was some value in emptiness, something to preserve.

He’d planned to be gone by now, but one of his little angels eluded him. It didn’t happen often. He watched, waited, planned. He followed the patterns. There were always patterns. But sometimes it happens that a schedule suddenly changed, and last month he’d been waiting and she never came. So he was behind.

Not for long.

Even mishaps like changing schedules were planned for. He had more than one contingency plan.

With the angel’s shell discovered and the police on the island, he’d considered leaving. But disappearing now might cast suspicion on him. A waiter not showing up at the restaurant right after the police find a dead body on the island? No, that wouldn’t do. He needed to report to work. Answer questions if they were asked. Express a moderate amount of surprise. Expected sadness. Go about his business.

He would leave after freeing the next spirit. Then he would be at peace for a time. He didn’t quite understand why the peace ended and he needed to find more angels, but he always knew when to act and when to hold back. His internal clock protected him.

He believed it always would.

Walking into the small cottage bedroom, he closed the door. Locked it. Crossed to the closet and retrieved his special case. It had a combination lock on it. He spun the numbers and took a deep breath.

Open.

His hands shook as he reached for a lock of hair. Long, beautiful golden curls. Reverently, he brought it to his lips. “Be free, angel. Be free.”

He touched each of the thirty-two locks in turn. He saved the oldest for last. The curls had lost their luster, turned frizzy and dry. He didn’t notice.

“Angel, until we meet again.”

Tenderly, he put all the hair back into the case, but he didn’t close it. No, he relived each death and rebirth. Remembered every one of his angels.

Especially the first.

The memories made him ache, his rigid penis straining against his shorts. He reached down, grasped himself. He stared at his collection until relief finally came.

Calmer, he locked his special case and returned it to the shelf in the closet. Unlocked his door, and stared out the kitchen window into the blackness of the island.

He had never failed in an operation.

He wouldn’t fail freeing his last Seattle angel.

Then he would leave.

CHAPTER

8

Wednesday night, the ferry to Vashon Island was less than half full. Zack flashed his badge and backed his car onto the ferry only minutes before its scheduled departure. Last on, first off. He shut off the engine.

“Let’s get out and stretch,” Zack said. The police-issue sedan felt tight, confining. He much preferred his Harley, but he couldn’t very well bring Agent St. Martin to a crime scene on his bike.

They walked up the stairs to the observation deck. Olivia tilted her face to the sky. He joined her. The stars multiplied over the water, brighter and closer, the distant and low-lying Vashon Island skyline reminding him why he loved the Sound. A clear night; the fog had yet to roll in.

Olivia rubbed her arms through the thin material of her suit. Zack took off his leather bomber jacket and attempted to put it over her shoulders.

She jumped a good two feet from him.

“Hell,
Superagent
, you’re freezing your butt off. I thought you might want a jacket. We can go up to the cabin if you want. I think it’s heated.” He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember ever going into the enclosed area above.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you, but I’m fine.”

Prickly, but there was something—different. Not fear, but something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She was obviously distracted by something. He wondered if it was personal—she’d called her ex-husband about the DNA tests while they drove—or professional.

“So,
Superagent
, any theories?”

She didn’t say anything for several minutes. The hum of the ferry, car doors opening and shutting on the deck below, passengers boarding, the call of crew members . . . the sounds lulled him, familiar. The cold salt air mixed with the ferry’s diesel fumes grounded him.

He glanced at Olivia. The breeze tossed her golden, chin-length hair around her elegant face. She impatiently tucked it behind her ear, but the gesture did little to stop the errant strands from dancing.

He watched her closely. Big mistake.

Olivia St. Martin was all feminine softness under a spine of steel. And there was a working brain under that shiny hair. A sharp mind and hot body. But every fiber of her being screamed
don’t touch
.

If there was one thing Zack Travis knew, it was women. When to touch. Where to touch. How to touch. Whether they liked soft kisses on their neck or a thorough devouring of their lips. Gentle caresses or urgent strokes. With one probing touch he discovered exactly where their erogenous zone was—not the obvious one, but their hidden sensitivities. A whisper in the ear. A kiss on the neck. A trail of warmth from under their knee down to their pinky toe.

He saw Olivia as one big erogenous zone. Her entire body begged to be held, but at the same time demanded that everyone stay away, don’t get too close. It was the way she hugged herself. The delicate tilt of her head. The darkening of her eyes when someone stood too close.

There was a fiery woman under that icy exterior. Suddenly, unbidden, Zack wanted to crack her shell and watch her melt.

Why did she not like being touched? Had something happened to her? On the job . . . or before it? Why did she keep herself so contained and controlled?

He saw in Olivia something unusual. Special. He wanted to learn more about her.

He shifted his stance, uncomfortable with where his thoughts led him, and turned once again back to the water. A whistle sounded, letting passengers know they’d be leaving in two minutes. The idling ferry rumbled as the captain prepared to depart.

Olivia spoke, as if the change in the ferry beneath them prompted her to speak. “In the ten cities where we know the killer has been, he’s taken up to six months between his first and last kill.”

While her words were matter-of-fact and her tone calm, Olivia’s entire body was on edge.

Any other woman, and Zack would have rubbed the tension from her shoulders. But he didn’t dare reach out for Olivia.

Instead, he said, “If Jillian Reynolds is in fact his first victim in Seattle, why would he have laid low for three months?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her skin pale under the artificial light.

“Give me the facts. We didn’t get a chance to run down each case before we left.” He already knew he’d be spending all night going over her files just to get up to speed.

“Okay, let’s say for the sake of argument he attacked here first,” Olivia said. “Three months ago. What day did Jillian Reynolds go missing?”

“June thirtieth.”

“June . . . then he kidnaps Jennifer Benedict the first week of September. That’s about nine, ten weeks. Michelle Davidson three weeks later.

“We’ll need to plot out each of the other cases,” Olivia continued, “but if I remember my notes correctly, he speeds up his attacks until he hits number four, then he disappears.” She frowned. “But not always. He doesn’t have a clear timeline. In
Colorado
he killed four girls in a six-week period. First one, he waited nearly five weeks, then killed three more in ten days. It’s almost like he has a sixth sense about when to kill, when to hold back, when to leave.”

“Serial killers have a strong sense of self-preservation,” Zack commented.

Olivia glanced at him. “You’re right. Maybe I should be asking you the profiling questions.”

“I learned a lot about serial killers when the Green River Killer was on the loose.”

“I remember that case. I worked on—” she stopped.

“You were here? Part of the task force?” Zack asked.

She shook her head. “I just consulted. It was a long time ago, and my role was small. I never came out here.”

Zack frowned. There was something odd in her voice.

The loud whistle startled Olivia and she jumped, then felt foolish when Zack said, “The ferry’s heading out. It’s a twenty-minute ride.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Olivia gathered her wits about her. She’d almost blown it, and she’d only been working with Detective Travis for a few hours. She’d almost told him she’d processed trace evidence for the Green River investigation. If she wanted to stay on this case, she had to be more careful.

She stared out at the water, hugging herself. She wished she hadn’t said no to Zack’s offer of his jacket, but it wouldn’t have been wise to accept. She would have felt even smaller than she was. Detective Travis had an imposing frame—he was a good foot taller than her, and wide. Not fat by any means, just
big
. Like a lumberjack, all chest and hard muscles. And the way he looked at her, as if he could see under her clothes as well as under her skin, disturbed her to no end. No one had ever studied her so closely. So obviously. As if he were trying to figure out exactly what she was thinking, what she’d done in the past, what she was likely to do in the future. Assessing her.

His scrutiny unnerved her.

All she wanted was to stop the killer she had inadvertently let go free when she fingered Brian Harrison Hall for Missy’s murder. She wasn’t so naïve as to believe she was solely responsible for Hall’s conviction—there was enough circumstantial evidence to warrant it—but she’d read the reports and knew her identification was part of the decision. And because of that, a brutal murderer was roaming the country freely.

He crossed state lines at will, under the radar of the authorities. Four men had been suspected in some of the investigations, and three had been convicted. The last one was released for lack of evidence, but after looking at each case, Olivia knew they were all innocent. It was
him,
Missy’s killer, playing the system. Missy’s killer was smart. He knew what he was doing. Planned it. Reveled in it. He wouldn’t stop until he was in prison. Or dead.