Nameless (22 page)

Worth shook his head slowly in unconcealed pity. “Let me see if I can get this right. The wording was”—he gestured vaguely—“a perfect definition of your character. ‘Agent McBride repeatedly and brazenly spread himself too thin. He showed no regard for authority or procedure. Crash and burn was inevitable.’”

There it was. The whole Ryan McBride story in a nutshell.
Crash and burn.
Ten years of service and that was the summation. Yeah, he had spread himself too thin. Hell yeah, he’d ignored the rules and done things his way. But, by God, he’d gotten the job done.

McBride held that condescending gaze. “And yet, here we are. In the same place.”

“Trust me,” Worth guaranteed him, “if there was any other way to do this, you would be out of my town so fast that enormous ego of yours would have to be FedExed to the Keys to catch up.”

All that charm and a sense of humor too. “Is all this foreplay leading someplace, Worth? Because, to tell you the truth, I’m not feeling it.”

A quiet fury, hampered by a distinct resignation, settled over the SAC’s face. “We don’t know where this is going.” He shrugged. “Devoted Fan has abducted and drugged two innocent victims. He’s facing several felony counts already. And from the looks of things, he isn’t finished yet. That doesn’t even take into account that the fallout has indirectly cost two lives. We need to find this son of a bitch before this thing takes any more unexpected turns.”

Worth let go a mighty breath. “That said, we received another e-mail.”

What the hell? The guy goes through all that bullshit before getting to this? “You couldn’t have mentioned that first?”

Worth held up both hands in a hold-on gesture. “No victim, just an e-mail.”

Relief deflated some of McBride’s surliness. “Let’s see it.”

Worth reached into the file and removed a sheet of paper and passed it to McBride.

The e-mail got straight to the point.

Dear Foolish FBI,

If McBride gets on that plane there will be no clues for the next victim. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that, Agent Worth?

The mistake is yours to make. As it is, you have made far too many.

Devoted Fan

“I don’t know how,” Worth said, the fury kindling once more, “but this guy is watching us. Watching you. We can’t afford to trivialize his threat.”

McBride tossed the e-mail on the table. “We need to focus on finding a connection between the two victims. Devoted Fan talked about Katherine Jones and atonement, ‘oblivious’ was written on her forehead. He mentioned Byrne’s mistake and a stiff price to pay. His daughter was marked with the word ‘innocent.’ There has to be a link here that we’re missing.”

“Agent Schaffer was working on that,” he said, reminding McBride that Schaffer was headed to Florida. “I’ll put Talley on it in her stead.”

McBride shook his head. “We need Aldridge.” He pushed on when Worth would have tried to argue. “He made a mistake, you can deal with that later. Right now I need experience on this, and from what I’ve seen, he’s the most experienced agent you’ve got. This isn’t about leadership skills; this is about instinct. We need him.”

With some reluctance, Worth said, “All right.” He reached back into his file folder for another document, then slid the page down the table to McBride. “Also, the director has authorized me to temporarily reinstate you for the purpose of sorting out this case. If all goes well, you may be looking at
permanent
reinstatement. Second chances don’t come along every day, McBride. Don’t blow it off.”

McBride stared at the directive that transformed him from a civilian to a federal employee again—with one stroke of the director’s pen. For a year after the termination McBride had waited for exactly this. For the Bureau to recognize the mistake they had made. For the opportunity to have his old life back.

Now he had it.

The expected euphoria didn’t materialize.

Because it was too late.

He wasn’t that man anymore. There was no going back.

That he had succeeded in finding the first two victims in this case was only because the time allotted had been inordinately generous and the clues provided practically a dead giveaway. And because he’d had Grace backing him up. If this got more complicated, he would be useless. Setting himself up for that kind of fall would truly be a major step toward going stupid. Something he had promised himself before walking in here that he wouldn’t allow to happen. Bottom line: he was a coward. The idea of putting himself on the line like this scared the hell out of him.

Yet, refusing would make him far worse than a coward.

If he tried and failed, that was bad. If he refused to try at all and someone died, that was unpardonable no matter how low he had fallen or how stupid it appeared to make him.

As much as he wanted to walk out of here and pretend this had nothing to do with him … he couldn’t. Some honorable gene he hadn’t succeeded in completely corrupting with alcohol evidently still functioned.

And all this time he had been certain he had succeeded in eliminating all traits belonging to the man he used to be.

“Can we count on you, Agent McBride, to see this through?”

Agent McBride.

“I need a smoke.”

McBride left the directive he would have given most anything to have been offered two years ago lying on the conference table and walked out. He passed the others waiting in the corridor. Grace started to speak to him but he just kept moving. She didn’t attempt to follow him as he headed for the stairwell. He needed a few minutes alone outside the confining walls of this place.

By the time he hit the lobby he had the Marlboro between his lips and was ready to push out the front entrance and fire it up.

“I don’t think you want to go out there, sir,” the guard called after him.

And he was right.

The media clowns were still out there. McBride had forgotten about the dozens of reporters, the news vans with their satellites … the cameras. All poised to get a shot or a sound bite for their networks.

Nope, he definitely couldn’t go out there.

He turned back to the guard. “Is there a men’s room on this floor?”

The guard nodded, pointed to a side corridor near the stairwell door. “But you can’t light up in there either.” He made a face as if he didn’t like the rule himself. “Smoke detectors are too sensitive.”

McBride muttered a thanks and stalked off to find the men’s room. He pushed through the door, let it close and slumped against it. His fingers traced the outline of the Zippo in his pocket as every cell in his body screamed for nicotine.

What the hell was he doing?

Sweat dampened his skin and in the blink of an eye, a tenth of a second, his body reacted to the chemical triggers that seriously fucked with his head. Heart pounded. Chest constricted. He straightened away from the door, flung the useless cigarette into the trash bin, and started to pace.

How the hell could he believe for one damned minute that he could play this game? His hands shook, answering the question.

He hadn’t fired a weapon in three years. No one’s life had depended upon him in the same. Counting Alyssa Byrnes and Katherine Jones would be a joke. Finding Jones had been slightly more difficult, but Grace and the others hadn’t actually needed him for the job. Other than trading e-mails with this psycho fan, McBride understood that he was just a fifth wheel in the whole effort.

Hell, he had spent most of the time playing head games and doctor with Grace.

The next victim could present a real challenge. Like the ones he used to face on a daily basis.

McBride paused to stare at his reflection in the mirror.

Who was he kidding?

He was a drunk. A nobody. A has-been.

His initial reaction to this when Grace first showed up at his door had been right. He had known then that there was no going back. Two
Sesame Street–
level rescues did not a hero make.

The hero was gone. How many times had he told himself that in the past three years?

Flattening his palms on the counter, he leaned nearer the mirror, looked closely into the face staring back at him.

“You can’t do this.”

But he wanted to.

God damn it.

He wanted to.

That was the truly fucked-up part. He wanted to be that hero again … just for a little while. Just for Grace.

He didn’t want to disappoint her.

“Stupid, McBride. First-class stupid.”

After splashing some cold water on his face, he grabbed a paper towel and scrubbed it away. He took a minute to focus on his breathing. Slow, deep breaths, pushing out the center of his chest and then tightening his belly as he released in a destressing technique that occasionally worked.

It was true. He was a drunk now. Smoked a pack a day. Used sex for a distraction rather than for true physical intimacy. His life was a train wreck with carnage lying all over the place.

But he still wasn’t going to walk away and let some scumbag wreak havoc in his name. Hell no. He would get this piece of shit. And then he could go back to being the coward who didn’t give a damn if he lived or died.

Sounded fair enough.

If he screwed up and somebody died maybe Worth would just shoot him and put him out of his misery.

McBride hesitated once more before going back to the conference room, took one last look at the fear in his eyes.

Someone
could
die.

Even with Grace’s help, he might not be able to save the next victim. But in this screwed-up scenario, if he didn’t try, the victim didn’t have a chance.

“Fuck it.”

He walked away from the fear in the mirror and took the stairs to the third floor. When he reached the conference room he still felt breathless. He didn’t let that stop him, he barged in and assessed his audience. Worth had taken a seat and all, including the SAC, looked at McBride expectantly.

“Grace”—he allowed his gaze to linger on hers a moment before he went on—“touch base with Schaffer and tell her to look for any files marked ‘random.’ That’s where I stored my personal notes on various cases. Also …”—he crossed the room to study the timeline board—“ask her to look for any fan mail I received. There’s something familiar to me about the way this guy words these e-mails. I noticed it in that first e-mail.” He shrugged. “The sentence structure or phrasing. Something.”

Grace reached for her cell phone. “I’ll text her now. I should also remind her of the search parameters we’re using on the fan mail list, yes?”

“Yeah, that’ll help her narrow things down.” Next McBride turned his attention first to the photo of Alyssa Byrne, then the one of Katherine Jones. Totally different, not a single thing about their lives corresponded. “Pratt, find me a place where the lives of these two”—he pointed to Alyssa then Katherine—“intersect. There has to be something. This guy is too intelligent and meticulous to simply be choosing random victims. There will be a connection. Find it.”

“Yes, sir,” Pratt said as he made notes in his PDA.

“Davis.” McBride turned to face the table once more. “Stay on the fan mail list.” He shifted his attention to Worth. “When Aldridge gets in, have him start looking at the crime scenes again. From the point of abduction to the point of rescue and everything in between. Is there any relevancy between, say, the cemetery and Wal-Mart or Sloss Furnaces? Have we considered every possibility on the evidence collected?” That was a dead end, he was certain, but it needed to be looked at again.

“ASAC Talley and I are at your disposal as well,” Worth reminded him with a sincerity that couldn’t be faked even if the man wanted to bother.

“Talley,” McBride said, addressing the assistant special agent-in-charge, “visit that neighbor’s boyfriend, Horace Jackson, again.” McBride pointed to the notation on the timeline regarding Jackson’s statement. “Press him. Maybe he’ll remember something else.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Talley guaranteed.

Lastly his full attention settled on Worth. “Put together a major press conference. Use our buddy Goodman.” McBride saw the skepticism in Worth’s eyes but, to the man’s credit, he didn’t argue. “Let’s send Devoted Fan a big, public message about how the director himself has reinstated me.”

Worth pushed out of his chair. “Sounds like a good move. I’ll run your suggestion by the director. If he’s agreeable, I’ll set it up.”

McBride gave him some ammunition. “Devoted Fan’s goal appears to be making sure the Bureau knows what a mistake was made three years ago, to see that I’m reinstated, yada-yada-yada. Let’s see if he’s being honest with us … or even with himself,” McBride added as an afterthought.

Grace was the first to pick up on where he was going with that theory. “You think he’s using you as a ruse? That there’s a bigger plan in motion?”

Now he would have to explain the impression and it had only just occurred to him. “Either that or we’re looking for an unsub with a previous medical condition or, hell, an incarceration that slowed him down. I was canned three years ago. Why wait so long to show his support?”

McBride looked directly at Grace as he spoke, couldn’t help thinking about the way she’d come three times for him. Maybe they shared more than one wave length. “Why Birmingham? Why these particular victims? Why Oak Hill Cemetery or Sloss Furnaces? What is Devoted Fan trying to tell us? Maybe he really believes this is about me when, in reality, it’s about him.”

McBride’s instincts sharpened; that old familiar release of galvanizing adrenaline took hold. “Whatever he’s up to, it isn’t just about me. This guy has a story to tell. We just have to be able to see the words.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

12:45 P.M.
The Valley Golf Course

Renowned heart surgeon Dr. Kurt Trenton savored his Sunday afternoon tee times. No appointments, no surgery schedule—selecting patients and dates for surgery was among the perks of having reached prominence in one’s chosen field. Sunday mornings were spent in church with the wife and children, but Sunday afternoons were his alone.