Blown Away (15 page)

Wednesday, 4
A.M
.
Twenty-six hours till Emily's birthday

Emily threw her blanket over her head, groaning at the knock. She was in the main bedroom of a private sportsman's club southwest of Naperville, surrounded by 1,700 acres of woods, lakes, marshes, fields, and heavy-duty electric fence. They'd arrived at midnight after fifty miles of fast driving, and she'd crashed. Her brain begged for more sleep….

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Annie sang through the wood door. “You've got company!”

Her eyes popped open. Marty and Chief Cross were the only ones who knew the safe house location. The club manager, a retired Secret Service agent, had left last night on a department-paid fishing trip to Canada. Branch was in a coma, induced by the doctors to let nature make repairs. And Annie was so paranoid, she wouldn't let Emily near the team's cell phones or cellular laptop, lest the Unsub somehow trace the signal.
So who was this?

She slipped the replacement Glock from her thigh holster—she wore a gun even while sleeping now—and eased herself to the floor. “What's it like outside?” she asked. “Do I need a coat?”

“No, it's warm enough for you.”

Emily nodded, satisfied with the exchange. Any other meant Annie was under duress and Emily should lock herself in the bathroom. The small room was stocked with energy bars and water, was reinforced with steel panels over windows and doors, and contained full body armor, gas grenades and mask, two AR-15 combat rifles, a backpack of bullets, and a satellite phone. But since paranoia doesn't mean they
aren't
out to get you, Emily duckwalked to the bedroom door, Glock straight out, finger off the trigger in deference to the library floor. She took a deep breath and angled up to the peephole.

Looking back was a man her age. He was handsome, even with the distortion of the fish-eye lens. He wore a calm, closed-lips smile. His walnut hair was thick with no gray, combed straight back. He had a wide, square jaw with deep cleft. Narrow-set green eyes and a nose borrowed from some Roman god. No birthmarks, scars, blemishes, or ear hair. He was six feet something, broad-shouldered, and the skin around his eyes crinkled with laugh marks.

“You're the angel,” Emily breathed. “From the hospital!” She pinched herself to ensure she wasn't dreaming.

His cheeks and chin were shaved blue. Sideburns ended mid-ear. Separate wide eyebrows. Tiny square ears tucked close to his overly large head, an imperfection that enhanced the package—a beauty mark on a supermodel's cheek. She couldn't see his teeth through the closed lips. His tan was light, his posture relaxed, and he looked athletic, which was easy to tell since he was dressed in…

Running clothes?

“Detective Thompson?” the man said. “I'm Dr. Marwood. Hope I'm not too early.”

“For what?” she asked.

“Our running date.”

That annoyed her. Dr. Marwood was the criminal profiler Cross had mentioned. But how could they have made a running date? This was a head game to see how she'd react.
Well, two can play at that.
She hid the Glock behind her back, pasted on her brightest smile. “Oh, right, I must have forgotten. Come on in.” She unbolted the door, and Annie waved.

“Nice to meet you, Doctor,” Emily said. “You coming in, too, Sergeant?” she asked, opting for Annie's formal rank in front of strangers.

“No. Chief Cross authorized one-on-one,” Annie said, clearly unhappy. “I'm heading back to the kitchen.” She handed Emily a carafe of French roast. “Need anything else, holler.”

“Will do. Thanks.” She swung the door wide, set the carafe next to the faux leather La-Z-Boy.

Marwood stepped over the threshold. His smile faded when the gun appeared from behind her back. “Taking no chances, I see,” he murmured.

“Would you?”

“Hell, I'd carry a bazooka given what's happened. Want to see my ID?”

Emily nodded, and Marwood eased his wallet from his fanny pack. The half-moons of his fingernails were clear and bright, she noted. The man paid attention to his grooming. But he wasn't vain enough to clearcoat the nails, either. He underhanded the black calfskin onto the double bed, and she rifled the contents.

New York State driver's license. Homeland Security photo ID. British Airways frequent-flier card. A dozen others, dog-eared from use. Ditto the wallet, which was flannelled from folding and carrying. Another point for authenticity—most criminals forgot to “age” their documents with the lint and grime of life in a pocket. That he was here at all meant Marwood had run the Cross-Bates-Benedetti gauntlet, plus a federal background check. She holstered the Glock. “I'm Emily,” she said, sticking out her hand.

“Ellis.” They shook, and she picked up a faint scent of bay rum aftershave. She swallowed. That had been Jack's favorite. “Coffee?” she responded, pointing to the carafe.

“Only if it's leaded,” Marwood said, stuffing the wallet in the pack. “Decaf's a joke this time of morning.” He pointed to the running clothes draped over the stuffed moose guarding the bathroom door. “After that, I'd like to join you in a six-miler. Or as far as you can go.”

“So you know I run. I thought you only profiled the bad guy.”

Marwood shook his head. “Can't do a jigsaw puzzle without sorting the pieces first. So I check out everyone and everything connected to the case. Separating the edge pieces from the centers early on makes the game go a lot faster when it counts.” He grinned. “Sorry for the tortured analogy, but most of my clients are CEOs. They understand game references best because they all think they're players.”

“It's OK. My life's a game right now, so you fit right in,” Emily summarized, then waggled a finger at the moose. “How did you know I wouldn't be dressed and running already?”

“Ken said you go out at sunup. Our interview ended a little after two. He and I grabbed a bite. Then one of the SWAT guys drove me down. I wanted to get here before you left.”

Explains his bloodshot eyes.
“You really should have gotten a few hours' sleep,” she chided, remembering Branch's admonitions. “This could have waited till noon.”

A look of something, she didn't know what, crossed Marwood's face. “No rest for the wicked,” he said. “So if you don't mind…”

“Sure, let's run,” Emily agreed. “There's a path around the lake. Help yourself to coffee while I change.” She shot her chin at the carafe, then trotted into the bathroom. The armored door closed glacially, allowing her to see that rather than pouring, Marwood was quietly pulling her dresser drawers. “Hey!” she snapped. “Cream's in the fridge, not under my panties.”

“Sorry,” Marwood said, his chirpy tone indicating he didn't mean it. “But you might as well get used to it. I'll be in your face all the time. No avoiding it if you want to stay alive.”

That jarred her, and she backed off. “Rummage away.”

“Ten-Four, Ossifer.”

Thoughts of Marty's affectionate twist on “Officer” hit hard, and she wished she could call him. But Annie made that impossible. “Be out in a few minutes,” she said. She shut the door, turned on the sink faucets, tiptoed back to the peephole to see if he was behaving.

Marwood was in the recliner, sticking out his tongue and wiggling his fingers, with thumbs in his ears. Knowing she would look.

She couldn't help laughing. Ten minutes later she was back in the bedroom, pouring her own cup. “Hope you like to sweat, Doc,” she announced. “The lake's got hills.”

“Actually,” Marwood said. “We're going back to Naperville.”

“For what?”

“We're doing your fun run. Annie's warming up the cars.”

Emily stopped mid-gulp as her good feelings vanished. Mining her head for clues was one thing. Trespassing in Jack's was another. “Run to the cemetery?” she repeated. “From my house?”

Marwood nodded.

“No.”

He tapped his knee with the cup. “I need to participate in your rituals, Emily. It's important.”

“No,” she repeated. “Some things are just too private.”

“Nothing's private in a serial murder,” Marwood said. “It's a fact that—”

“I don't care about your facts,” she snapped. “Or what you think you know about me. I have no intention of taking you to see my husband.”

“Why? What are you afraid of?” He waved dismissively. “Ah, right, it's obvious. You'd rather cower in a safe house than face the Unsub.”

Emily steamed. “The only reason I'm here is direct orders from Chief Cross. You don't believe me, confirm it with Sergeant Bates.”

“My orders supercede yours,” Marwood said, stepping closer. “We're doing the fun run.”

Emily delivered a stare to boil wet cement. “Shove your orders, pal.”

“Wrong answer, Detective,” Marwood shot back. “When I say jump, you ask how high. I say run, you ask how far. Because when I understand what makes you tick, I understand the Unsub.” He folded his arms. “We've got twenty-four hours to stop this man. So we're going to your house, and we're going to run. Cross and Benedetti have already signed off, so quit stalling.”

Emily stared, not answering. Marwood gazed back with the faint, closed-lips smile she'd seen in the peephole.

“This is some kind of reverse psychology, isn't it?” Emily said. “You jab and punch till I'm so angry at you, I won't have time to be afraid.”

Marwood's toothy grin said she'd hit Bozo Bucket No. Six.

“Well, guess what? It worked,” she continued, snatching her bloodstained Nikes from the antlers. “I'll tell you what you want, and I'll do what you say.” She knelt and laced, swallowing hard. “Just get him.”

Wednesday, 6
A.M
.
Twenty-four hours till Emily's birthday

“If I'm answering all these questions for you,” Emily grunted after several miles of chilly silence, “how's about we split your fee?”

“Sure,” Marwood agreed, following as she swung onto Washington Street for the straightaway to Naperville Cemetery. “Half of nothing is still nothing.”

“You're not charging for this?”

“Only expenses.”

The answer surprised her. Private consultants generally mooched off taxpayers like Bluto worked a cafeteria line. “How do you pay the rent?”

“I'm an industrial psychologist,” Marwood said, hopping a winter-fractured sidewalk. “CEOs pay me obscene amounts of money to ensure their hires aren't thieves, perverts, embezzlers, con men, or other such negative revenue enhancers.”

Emily winced. “I thought cop language was stilted.”

“It is. But CEOs talk worse, believe me.” He huffed as the elevation sharpened away from the Riverwalk. “I interview executive candidates in office and social settings. Conduct FBI-grade background checks. Analyze finances, credit, lifestyle-income ratios, personal and professional relationships, dozens of other matrices. I run the results past my lie detectors—a detective sergeant in the NYPD fraud unit, a U.S. Treasury agent, and an Oxford University psychology professor—then tell the CEO who's the best bet for the job. And who the cops should visit.” He scratched his neck. “Kinda dull, but it pays the bills.”

It actually sounded interesting to her. “What's your track record?”

“I turn down several hundred corporate assignments for every one I accept,” Marwood said. “I'll never bat a thousand—nobody does, a determined enough sociopath can sneak past the most sophisticated firewalls—but I do very well.” He coughed. “But that's only money. Police cases I take pro bono.”

“Why?”

“They're fun.”

Emily touched her rib cage. She'd tried to sprint out her back door as usual, but the bruises demanded a slower approach. They walked the first mile, jogged the second. Once she was thoroughly warmed up, the pain became tolerable. “I'd hardly call it that.”

“Satisfying, then. I love getting killers out of circulation. Same reason you do your job—some things are more important than money.”

“I hear you.” Personal satisfaction was the single most important attraction of being a cop. The pay and working conditions mostly sucked. “Did Cross call you?”

“Other way around. I'd done what I could in Massachusetts—”

“That's right!” Emily interrupted, recalling where she'd first heard his name—on Newsradio while showering Lucy Crawford out of her hair. “You were their profiler.”

“One of several on the task force, right,” Marwood confirmed. “But all our leads fizzled, so I headed back to Manhattan to catch up on laundry.”

Emily snorted at the just-folks touch but didn't call him on it. “You live in Manhattan?” she said. “I thought everyone moved out after…you know…”

“I have to admit I was tempted to leave,” Marwood said. “But I was born and reared in Manhattan. Running away lets the terrorists win. So I stayed.”

She looked at him, nodding.

“Your case made the crime boards on the Internet,” he continued. “My chief of staff e-mailed me in Boston, thought I'd be interested.”

“Guess you were.”

“I met Ken a few times on the rubber-chicken circuit. I called to say I was free. He said come on out.” Sweat dripped from his nose. “Nothing's harder than digging into a killer's head, Emily. Nothing's more satisfying, either. And, Lord, it generates good PR for my business.” He winked. “The bonus is my FBI pals have to buy drinks whenever I catch one before they do.”

“Win-win,” Emily said. She spied her husband's grave on the distant hilltop and hummed a little. While part of her still resented Marwood's presence, another part wasn't all that unhappy about it. First, he was her get-out-of-jail card. The safe house wasn't Stateville Prison, but she wasn't free to leave, either. Second, Marwood took her seriously enough to blow his stack when she balked, instead of going to a boss. Third, while the task force had done an eye-popping amount of work in its few hours of existence—alibiing every one of her arrestees, stalkers, neighbors, and friends, tracing the Unsub's ammo to a Las Vegas gun shop that burned to the ground years ago in a still-unsolved arson, exhaustively computer modeling every crime scene and victim—there still wasn't a live suspect. That's where Marwood and his profile came in.

“What?” she asked, noticing his stare.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

Marwood's head ticked back and forth. “How much I invade people's privacy. I know this stuff gets personal, Emily. I won't pry more than I have to.”

“Baloney,” she countered. “You're going to turn me inside out. And you're not one bit sorry.”

 

“Annabelle Patricia Sampson Bates!” Cross sang as Annie walked into roll call. He limped over to refill her empty coffee cup. “Lovely to see you!” he enthused. “Your husband's well? The children? Your little white horse named Spitzer?”

“Aw, man.” Annie plopped herself on a table. “Whenever you make nice, I know I'm going to hate myself for saying yes.”

“Sergeant! Have I ever buttered you up for a favor?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Cross patted her knee. “You still know how to reach your friend in Iraq?”

“Which one? I've got lots of friends over there,” Annie parried.

“You know who I mean.”

“Why?”

“At the hospital, Emily asked if the Unsub was a soldier.”

“Because of the military surplus ammo he used, right,” Annie said.

“Marty said no, surplus is far too common. I agreed. Now I think she's onto something.”

She sipped her coffee, pulled at her narrow chin. “You think the guy's a soldier?”

“A commando.”

Annie stared. “Shit,” she groaned, slapping her head. “I should have known that right away. This guy's done too many things too well to be a civilian.”

“Or even a regular soldier,” Cross said.

“Uh-huh. The precision of his attack on Neuqua proves it.”

“Exactly what I thought. Our FBI and Homeland Security liaisons agree and asked the Pentagon for a list of Special Forces personnel so we can cross-match with the computer models and Dr. Marwood's personality profile. No luck. Pentagon refuses to release.”

“They won't without a gun to their heads.”

“I woke up our congressional delegation for just that. But it'll take time we don't have.”

Annie waved her hands in protest. “C'mon, Chief. I'd do anything for Em, and you know it. But not this. It isn't fair to Cap.” She stared at him. “Or me.”

Cross nodded, filled his cup, sat next to her. “You're right. It isn't fair. I certainly wouldn't blame you for saying no.”

Annie pursed her lips. During her last Reserve call-up to Iraq, she'd been downing beaucoup Heineken with the Baghdad-based Navy SEAL captain who coordinated her sniper-school assignments. Halfway through bottle eight, he'd professed deeper-than-the-ocean love for her. “Aw, Cap, that's sweet,” she'd replied, meaning it. She liked the quiet commando a great deal. “But I'm happily married.” The captain smiled at what he presumed was pro forma protest, and she shook her head. “I'm serious. My husband is the prince all those fairy tales promise us frogs.” She smiled at his expression, which clearly said, “You ain't no frog.” “If he wasn't the best man for me, I'd be all over your gnarly ass. I would. But.” The captain nodded, held up his green bottle in salute. “If you love him that much, Annabelle, I won't pursue this. But you're the finest woman I know.” She was touched and said so. “E-mail me if you ever change your mind,” the captain sighed, handing her a card. “I'll probably be stuck in this stinkin' desert till retirement.” She'd never written after returning to Naperville, not even a casual hello, meaning what she'd said about her husband. She had, however, confided the tale to Cross last summer after one too many beers at a departmental bash.

“It's a lot to ask, goddammit,” she growled.

“Too much,” he agreed.

They held up their cups, drank, and Cross left her to her laptop.

 

Marwood shook his head. “Nobody will know what you tell me unless it bears directly on finding the Unsub,” he declared. “My goal is not to strip you naked before your friends. It's to figure out how you think. What you do or don't care about, where your feelings are strongest, how you react in any given situation.”

“Put your head inside mine,” she ventured.

“Exactly. And when I do, his ass is mine.” Grin. “Well, ours. I'm just creating the profile. You've still got to find him.”

“No kidding,” she said. “What have you figured out so far? Besides most serial killers are male?”

Marwood kicked at a goose in their path. It hissed, then stomped away. “The naked kid at the library described a ‘good-looking dude with a movie-star smile,'” he began. “You reported a nondescript pudge with gapped hillbilly teeth. The kid swore the Unsub's strawberry birthmark was on his neck. You said cheek. So our man's an expert in disguises.” He hurdled an upthrusted piece of cemetery service road. “He's white. Born and raised in the United States. Six feet, 170 to 200 pounds. Unusually strong, but not freaky-muscled like a bodybuilder. He's handsome, with straight white teeth and immaculate grooming. No potbelly or bad breath. Clean-shaven except maybe a moustache.”

“Mr. July on a firefighter calendar,” she suggested.

“You've got it.”

Emily listened to the rest, hoping her damaged brain would absorb the flow.

“Full head of hair. Traditional men's cut, nothing feminine. He's between thirty and fifty, most likely thirty-five to forty.” He mopped sweat off his neck. “He's intelligent, with an animal cunning off the scale. Enjoys risky sports—scuba, skydiving, big-game hunting. A charmer, can talk his way through any situation. Confident as hell, lots of admirers.” He trotted sideways to look at Emily. “And he's pure evil, Detective. An absolute psychopath. Killing people means no more to him than swatting a fly, and he's set on your complete and utter destruction.” Long pause. “Because he loves you.”

 

“Cap, it's great to hear your voice!” Annie gushed, feeling like a worm.

 

Emily felt like she'd hit a tree. “Love me? He can't love me! He's trying to kill me!”

“Hate is love in disguise,” Marwood explained. “And he's got it for you bad. You don't expend this kind of emotion on someone you don't care about.”

“That just isn't possible! I don't even know who he is!”

“Probably not. But he certainly knows you.” Her pained expression made him hold up his hands. “I'm sorry, this is upsetting you.”

“Very much,” she agreed. “But keep going. I need to know everything.” She told Marwood about the alarming gaps in her memory. “Maybe this'll fill some of the blanks in my head.”

They headed cross-country through the tombstones. “Our Unsub is financially secure. Possibly wealthy,” he continued. “Long-term research is expensive, and so are his hobbies.”

“Where'd he get his money? Rich family?”

Marwood shook his head. “He's too independent to take orders from a rich daddy, so he's self-made. The only time he obeyed anyone but himself was in the armed forces.”

She blinked rapidly. “I mentioned the military angle to Marty,” she said. “He wasn't interested.”

Marwood frowned. “I wonder why not? It's one of the first alleys I'd explore.” He let the question hang, then added, “Of course, Marty's ex-military himself.”

“He is?” Emily said. “I didn't know.”

“Air Force pararescue. That's what Ken told me,” Marwood said. “Maybe Marty refuses to believe a comrade-in-arms is going after you. Or maybe he…never mind.”

“What?”

“It's nothing. Stupid thought.”

“Come on, Doc,” Emily pressed. “Share and share alike.” She caught her breath as his point became clear. “No way!”

“I'm sure you're right,” Marwood backpedaled. “There's millions of veterans and only one Unsub. Why assume he's from your particular family?”

“Exactly!” she emphasized. “I'd trust Marty Benedetti with my life. I'd trust any of them.” Still, her brain churned. Annie was a decorated Army Reserve master sergeant, a sniper instructor blooded in Iraq and Afghanistan. As a SWAT, she routinely carried one of those MP-5 submachine guns. Branch pulled two hitches in the marines, Cross likewise in the navy. Branch and his wife Lydia knew everything worth knowing about her and Jack. Cross was a cop in Las Vegas, where that gun store burned. Maybe he torched it to destroy records of a particular military surplus ammo purchase. Maybe his Captain Queeg routine went deeper than keeping a fresh-baked rookie out of trouble. Her hands turned clammy. What about Annie's “car trouble” on the way to the forest preserve? Engine problem? Or establishing an alibi? She despised the traitorous thoughts but was unable to stop them.
Cross runs the entire show. He could easily manipulate events! And what about Marty? I know nothing about him, really. Marwood said the Unsub is charming. So is Marty, in spades. And he's the one that called me to the cemetery the morning I found the birds….

“It's not possible,” she insisted.

“I'm sure you're right,” Marwood repeated. “Not worth thinking about.”

She shot him a look that said, “Don't patronize me.”

“All right, it's possible,” he said. “I don't know anyone here except by reputation. I have no idea what motivates your colleagues or how they feel about you.”