The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (94 page)

He dunked a couple more. “Somebody else isn’t here.”

“That’s very true, and maybe there’s something perverse in me that prefers your method.” He might’ve been dunking colorful rounds of cereal into his coffee like tiny doughnuts, but he looked scruffy and irritable. God, why did she love that? “What are we going to do about this, Simon?”

“I’m going to drink my coffee.”

“And, using the coffee as a metaphor, are you going to keep drinking it until they catch the person who’s killing those women, and may want to add me to his scorecard?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, ate more cereal. “Then stop hauling that stupid duffel over here every night. I’ll give you room in the closet, clean out a drawer. If you’re sleeping here, it’s ridiculous not to leave some of your things here. You deal with it.”

“I’m not living here.”

“Understood.” He’d inconvenience himself for her, but he’d be careful not to step over the next line. “You’re just hanging out here, and drinking coffee with coffee-soaked Froot Loops—”

“It’s pretty good.”

“I’ll put it on the menu. And sleeping here after making crazed love with me in the shower.”

“That was your idea.”

She laughed. “And a damn good one. Restrictions that apply are acknowledged. Leave your damn toothbrush in the bathroom, Simon, you idiot. Put your underwear in a drawer and hang up a couple of shirts in the closet.”

“I’ve already got a shirt in the closet. You washed it because I left it on the floor.”

“That’s right. And if you leave clothes on the floor, they’re going to get washed and put away whether you like it or not. If I can agree to you drinking coffee, you can agree not to haul that duffel back and forth like a security blanket.”

When his eyes narrowed, she narrowed hers back at him. And smiled. “What? Did that hit the mark?”

“Are you looking for a fight?”

“Let’s say I’m looking for your famous balance. I give, you give.” She tapped her chest, pointed at him, then wiggled a hand between them. “And it levels out in the middle. Think about it. I’ve got to get ready for class,” she added, and strolled away.

Twenty minutes later as her first class of the day started their socialization exercises, she watched Simon walk to his truck. He called his dog—and shot Fiona a look from behind his sunglasses.

He drove away—without the duffel.

She considered it a small, personal victory.

 

 

MIDWAY THROUGH THE DAY, she’d logged “visits” from Meg and Chuck, Sylvia and Lori, topped off by her daily check from Davey.

Apparently no one was going to leave her alone. As much as she appreciated the concern, it occurred to her just why she’d chosen a place several miles outside the village. As much as she loved company, she needed those small pockets of solitude.

“Davey, I’ve got a call in to Agent Tawney—who’s probably going to make yet another trip out here. I’ve got my phone in my pocket, as promised, and barely thirty minutes between classes. Less when one of the clients is an islander because they stall until whoever’s next on the Watch Out for Fee list shows up. I’m not getting any of my office work done.”

“So go do it.”

“Do you really think this guy’s going to drive up here in the middle of the day to attempt an abduction between my Basic Obedience class and my Advanced Skill Set?”

“Probably not.” He took a swig from the Coke she’d provided. “But if he does, he’s not going to find you alone.”

She cast her eyes up to the puffy clouds dotting the sky. “Maybe I should start serving refreshments.”

“Cookies would be good. You can’t go wrong with cookies.”

She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Look, here comes one of the next class. Go protect and serve someone else.”

He waited until the car came close enough for him to see the driver was female. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget the cookies.”

Davey gave a nod to the other driver as he got into his cruiser and she parked.

She climbed out, a tall, pretty brunette with a swingy wedge of chin-length hair and what Fiona thought of as city boots. Stylish and thin-heeled under trim gray pants.

“Fiona Bristow?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, what great dogs! Can I pet them?”

“Sure.” Fiona signaled, so her dogs stepped up to the woman and sat politely.

“They’re so sweet.” She shoved her enormous shoulder bag behind her back and crouched down. “The pictures on your website are good, but they’re even better in person.”

And where’s your dog? Fiona wondered. But it wouldn’t be the first time a potential client came out to scope her and her setup before signing up.

“Did you come to monitor a class? I have one starting in about ten minutes.”

“I’d love to.” She angled her face up, all fresh style and perky smile. “I was hoping I’d hit between classes so I’d have a few minutes to talk to you. I checked the schedule on your website and tried to time it. But you know how the ferries are.”

“Yes, I do. You’re interested in enrolling your dog?”

“I would be, but I don’t have one yet. I’d love a big dog, like one of yours, or maybe a golden retriever, but I’m in an apartment. It doesn’t seem fair to coop one up that way. But once I get a place with a yard . . .”

She rose, offered a smile and her hand. “I’m Kati Starr. I work for—”

“U.S. Report,”
Fiona finished, in a tone that went cool. “You’re wasting your time here.”

“I just need a few minutes. I’m doing a follow-up, actually a series of stories on RSK Two, and—”

“Is that what you’re calling him?” It revolted her on every level. “Red Scarf Killer Two—like a movie sequel?”

Starr traded in her smile for a tough-eyed stare. “We’re taking it very seriously. This man has already killed four women in two states. Brutally, Ms. Bristow, and with his latest victim, Annette Kellworth, that brutality escalated. I hope
you’re
taking it seriously.”

“Your hopes aren’t my problem. My feelings aren’t your business.”

“You have to understand your feelings are relevant,” Starr insisted. “He’s reprising the Perry murders, and as the only woman known to have escaped Perry, you must have some thoughts and feelings on what’s happening now. Insight into the victims, into Perry and RSK Two. Will you confirm the FBI has interviewed you regarding these latest homicides?”

“I’m not going to comment. I already made that clear to you.”

“I understand you may have felt reluctant initially, Fiona, but surely now that the death total is up to four, and these abductions and murders are heading north, from California to Oregon, you must want to be heard. You must have something to say—to the families of the victims, to the public, even to the killer. I only want to give you a platform.”

“What you want are headlines.”

“Headlines draw attention. Attention needs to be paid. The facts need to get out. The victims need to be heard, and you’re the only one who can speak.”

She might have believed that, Fiona considered, or at least part of it. But reality dictated that the attention focused on the killer with the catchy nickname.

“I have nothing to say to you, except you’re trespassing on private property.”

“Fiona.” All calm and reason, Starr pushed on. “We’re women. This man is targeting women. Young, attractive women with their lives ahead of them. You know what it is to be that target, what it’s like to be a victim of that kind of random violence. All I’m trying to do is get the story out, get the information out so maybe his next target is more aware, and maybe she’ll keep having her life ahead of her instead of ending up in a shallow grave. Something you know, can say, may be what helps her live.”

“Maybe you mean that. You’re only trying to help. Or maybe what you want is another front-page story with your byline. Maybe it’s a little of both.”

She didn’t know; she couldn’t allow herself to care.

“But here’s what I do know. You’re giving him what he wants. Attention. You published my name, where I live, what I do. And that helps no one except the man who’s emulating Perry. I want you off my property, and I want you to stay off my property. I don’t want to call the deputy who was just here to escort you off, but I will.”

“Why was the deputy just here? Are you under police protection? Do the investigators have any reason to believe you may be a target?”

So much for facts and the public right to know, Fiona thought. What this one wanted, at the base of it, was dish.

“Ms. Starr, I’m telling you to get off my property, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

“I’m going to write the story with or without your cooperation. There’s interest in a book deal. I’m willing to compensate you for interviews. Exclusive interviews.”

“That makes it easier,” Fiona said, and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “You’ve got ten seconds to get in your car and get off my property. I will press charges. Believe it.”

“Your choice.” Starr opened her car door. All pretense of the perky dog lover was stripped away. “The pattern says he’s chosen his next victim, or he’s preparing to. Scoping out the area for the right target. Ask yourself how you’re going to feel when he racks up number five. You can reach me through the paper when you change your mind.”

Hold your breath, Fiona thought. Please.

 

 

SHE PUT IT out of her mind. Her work, her life were more important than a persistent reporter hoping, Fiona imagined, to springboard a book deal off tragedy.

She had her dogs to care for, her little garden to tend to and a relationship to explore.

Simon’s toothbrush took up residence in her bathroom. His socks scattered messily in one of her drawers.

They weren’t living together, she reminded herself, but he was the first man since Greg who slept consistently in her bed, whose things mixed with hers under the same roof.

He was the first man she wanted with her in the night when ghosts haunted her sleep.

 

 

HE WAS THERE, and she was grateful for it, when Tawney and his partner returned.

“You should go on to work,” she told Simon when she recognized the car. “I think I’ll be safe in the hands of the feds.”

“I’ll stick around.”

“All right. Why don’t you let them in? I’ll make some more coffee.”

“You let them in. I’ll make the coffee.”

She opened the door, holding it open to the morning air. It looked like rain heading in, she noted. That would save her from watering her pots and garden beds—and add a realistic element to the training classes she had on tap for the afternoon.

Dogs and handlers couldn’t pick just sunny days for a search.

“Good morning,” she called out. “You’re getting an early start. Simon’s making some fresh coffee.”

“I could use some,” Tawney told her. “Why don’t we go back, sit in the kitchen?”

“Sure.” Remembering Mantz’s aversion, she gestured the dogs out. “Go play,” she told them. “I’m sorry I missed you the other day,” she added, leading the way back. “We’d planned to be back earlier, but we dragged our feet. If you want a place to go and unwind, it’s the spot for it. Simon, you’ve met Agents Tawney and Mantz.”

“Yeah.”

“Have a seat. I’ll get the coffee.”

Simon left her to the pouring and doctoring. “Anything new?”

“We’re pursuing the avenues,” Mantz told him. “All of them.”

“You didn’t have to make another trip out here to tell her that.”

“Simon.”

“How are you, Fee?” Tawney asked her.

“I’m all right. I’m reminded daily how many people I know on the island, as somebody drops by to see me—read: check in on me—several times a day. It reassures, even as it makes me itchy.”

“We can still offer you a safe house. Or we can work putting an agent here, with you.”

“Would it be you?”

He smiled a little. “Not this time.”

She took a moment just to look out the window. Her pretty yard, she thought, with its tender spring gardens just starting to pop with color and shape. And all that bumping up against the tower of trees that climbed up the slopes and walked down again, offering countless paths to stroll, lovely surprises of wild lupine and dreamy blue cannas.

Always so quiet and restful to her, so
hers
season by season.

The island, she thought, was her safe house. Emotionally, yes, but she absolutely believed in every practical sense as well.

“I think, realistically, I’m covered. The island itself makes me less accessible, and I’m—literally—never alone.”

Even as she spoke, she watched her dogs wander by. On patrol, she mused.

“He broke pattern with Annette Kellworth. It’s possible he’s not interested in me anymore, not interested in mirroring Perry.”

“His violence is increasing,” Mantz stated. “Perry duplicated himself, obsessively repeating the same details with each murder. The UNSUB isn’t as controlled or disciplined. He wants to flaunt his power. Sending you the scarf, increasing the time he holds his victims, and now the added physical violence. But he continues to use Perry’s methods, to select the same type of victim, to abduct and to kill and dispose in the same way.”

“He’s adapting his work, finding his own style. Sorry,” Simon added when he realized he’d spoken out loud.

“No, you’re not wrong. Kellworth may have been an aberration,” Tawney continued. “Something she said or did, something that happened that pushed him to the increased violence. Or he may be looking to come into his own.”

“I’m not his.”

“You’re still the one who got away,” Mantz pointed out. “And if you’re going to talk to the press, it keeps you front and center, and makes you more of a challenge.”

Annoyed, Fiona turned from the window. “I’m not talking to the press.”