The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (95 page)

Mantz reached into her briefcase. “This morning’s edition.” She laid the paper on the table. “And the article’s been picked up by a number of online venues and cable news crawls.”

 

 

 

“I can’t stop this. All I can do is not give interviews, refuse to cooperate.”

“You’re quoted. And your picture runs inside.”

“But—”

“ ‘Surrounded by her three dogs,’ ” Mantz read, “ ‘outside her tiny woodland home on scenic and remote Orcas Island where purple pansies tumble out of white pots and bright blue chairs sit on the front porch, Fiona Bristow presents a cool and competent demeanor. A tall, attractive redhead, slender in jeans and a stone-gray jacket, she seems to approach the subject of murder with the same practical, down-to-earth manner that has made her and her canine training school fixtures on the island.

“ ‘ She was twenty, the same age as Annette Kellworth, when she was abducted by Perry. Like Perry’s other twelve female victims, Bristow was incapacitated by a stun gun, drugged, bound, gagged and locked in the trunk of his car. There, she was held for more than eighteen hours. But unlike the others, Bristow managed to escape. In the dark, while Perry drove the night roads, Bristow sawed through the rope binding her with a penknife given to her by her fiancé, Officer Gregory Norwood. Bristow fought off Perry, disabling him, and used his own car to reach safety and alert authorities.

“ ‘ Nearly a year later, still at large, Perry shot and killed Norwood and his K-9 partner, Kong, who lived long enough to attack and wound Perry. Perry was subsequently arrested when he lost control of his car in his attempt to escape. Despite her ordeal, and her loss, Bristow testified against Perry, and that testimony played a major role in his conviction.

“ ‘ Now, at twenty-nine, Bristow shows no visible scars from that experience. She remains single, living alone in her secluded home where she owns and operates her training school for dogs, and devotes much of her time to the Canine Search and Rescue unit she formed on Orcas.

“ ‘ The day is sunny and warm. The dogwood trees flanking the narrow bridge over the creek that bubbles across the property are in bloom, and the native red currant flames in the quiet morning. In the deep green woods where shafts of light shimmer through the towering firs, birds twitter. But a uniformed deputy drives his cruiser down her narrow drive. There can be little doubt Fiona Bristow remembers the dark, and the fear.

“‘ She would have been XIII.

“‘She speaks of the “movie sequel” title this mimic of George Allen Perry has been given, and the headlines his brutality has generated. It’s attention this man known as RSKII seeks, she believes. While she, the lone survivor of the one who came before him, wants only the peace and the privacy of the life she has now. A life forever changed.’ ”

“I didn’t give her an interview.” Fiona shoved the paper aside. “I didn’t talk to her about all of this.”

“But you did talk to her,” Mantz persisted.

“She showed up.” Struggling with rage, Fiona barely resisted ripping the paper to shreds. “I assumed she was here to ask about a class—and she let me assume that. She talked about the dogs, then she introduced herself. The minute she did I told her to go. No comment, go away. She persisted. I did say he wanted attention. I was angry. Look what they’re calling him, RSK Two, so it gives him flash and mystery and importance. I said he wanted attention, and she was giving it to him. I shouldn’t have said it.” She looked at Tawney now. “I know better.”

“She pushed. You pushed back.”

“And got just enough to run with it. I ordered her off the property. I even threatened to call Davey—Deputy Englewood—back. He’d just left because we both thought she’d come for class. She was here five minutes. Five goddamn minutes.”

“When?” Simon demanded, and a quick chill skipped up her spine at the tone.

“A couple of days ago. I put it away. I made her go, and I thought, I honestly thought I hadn’t given her anything—so I put it aside.”

She let out a breath. “She’s made him see me here, with my dogs and my trees. The quiet life of a survivor. And she’s made him see me there, in the trunk of that car, tied up in the dark—another victim, who just got lucky. The one line, the one about attention. The way she’s written it, that’s me speaking to him, dismissing him. It’s the sort of thing he might fixate on. I understand that.”

She glanced at the paper again, at the photo of her standing in front of her house, her hand on Newman’s head, Peck and Bogart beside her. “She must have taken this from her car. You’d think I posed for it.”

“You shouldn’t have any trouble getting a restraining order,” Tawney told her.

Discouraged, Fiona pressed her fingers to her eyes. “She’ll eat that up. I wouldn’t bet against her adding column inches on me to that article, my pansies, my chairs—painting a damn picture—
because
I wouldn’t play ball. She’ll only be more determined to write about me if I make her an issue. Maybe I played it wrong. Maybe I should’ve given her the interview the first time around. Something dull and restrained, then she’d have lost interest in me.”

“You don’t get it.” Simon shook his head. He had his hands in his pockets, but Fiona knew there was nothing casual about it. “Talk to her, don’t, it doesn’t matter. You’re alive. You’re always going to be part of it. You survived, but it’s more than that. You weren’t rescued, the cavalry didn’t come charging up. You fought and escaped from a man who’d killed twelve other women, and who had eluded authorities for more than two years. As long as this bastard’s strangling women with red scarves, you’re news.”

He looked back at Mantz. “So don’t look down your dismissive FBI nose at her over this. Until you catch the fucker, they’ll use her for print, for ratings, to keep it churned up between murders. And you fucking well know it.”

“Maybe you think we’re just sitting on our hands,” Mantz began.

“Erin.” Tawney waved his partner off. “You’re right,” he told Simon. “About the media. Still, Fee, it’s better for you to stick with the straight ‘No comment.’ And you’re right,” he said to Fiona, “that this kind of press will very likely pump up his interest in you. You need to continue all the precautions you’re taking. And I’m going to ask you not to take on any new clients.”

“God. Look, I’m not trying to be difficult or stupid, but I have to make a living. I have—”

“What else?” Simon interrupted.

Fiona rounded on him. “Listen—”

“Shut up. What else?” he repeated.

“Okay. I want you to contact me every day,” Tawney went on. “I want you to keep a record of anything unusual. A wrong number, a hang-up, any questionable e-mails or correspondence. I want the name and contact for anyone who inquires about your classes, your schedule.”

“Meanwhile, what are you doing?”

Tawney glanced at Fiona’s flushed and furious face before answering Simon. “All we can. We’re interviewing and reinterviewing friends, family, coworkers, neighbors, instructors, classmates of all the victims. He spent time observing them, he has to have transportation. He’s not invisible. Someone saw him, and we’ll find them. We’re doing background checks and interviewing anyone associated with the prison who had, or may have had, contact with Perry over the last eighteen months. We have a team working the tip line twenty-four hours a day. Forensic experts are sifting through the dirt from every gravesite, looking for any trace evidence—a hair, a fiber.”

He paused. “We’ve interviewed Perry, and will do so again. Because he knows. I know him, Fee, and I know he wasn’t pleased when I told him about the scarf that was sent to you. Not in his plans, not his style. Even less pleased when I let it slip, we’ll say, that Annette Kellworth had been beaten and her face, in particular, severely damaged. He’ll turn on this guy, he’ll turn because I’ll make him feel betrayed and disrespected. And that—you know—he won’t tolerate.”

“I appreciate you keeping me informed, coming here and making sure I understand the status and the situation.” She held temper under clipped words and a brisk tone. “I have a class starting very soon. I have to get ready.”

“All right.” Tawney laid a hand over hers in a gesture as fatherly as it was official. “I want that call, Fee, every day.”

“Yes. Could you leave that?” she asked Mantz when the agent started to refold the paper. “It’ll help remind me not to give even an inch.”

“No problem.” Mantz rose. “There’ll be others now that this story hit. I’d start screening all my calls, and you’d be smart to post some ‘No Trespassing’ signs around your property. You can tell your clients you’ve had some trouble with hikers cutting through, and you’re concerned for your dogs,” she added before Fiona could speak.

“Yes. Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll take care of it.”

She walked them out, then waited for Simon to join her on the porch. “You want to give me grief for not mentioning the reporter. That’s fine, but you have to get in line. I’m first.”

“You already gave yourself grief on that.”

“No. I mean I have a few things to say to you, and I’m in a bind. You’re pissed at me, and pretty seriously, but you still stood up for me with Agent Mantz. I’d say the standing up wasn’t necessary, but that’s ungracious. Besides, standing up for someone isn’t ever necessary—it’s just what you do for someone you care about, or when somebody needs it. So I’m grateful for that, and I appreciate that. And at the same time I’m so angry with you for just taking over the way you did. For pushing my opinion and wants aside, and making it clear you’d see to it I’d do what I was told.”

“I’m clear on it, so I figured you and the feds should be.”

She swung around. “Don’t think for one minute you can—”

“You’d better shut it down, Fiona.” His eyes flared hot, singed gold. “You’d better shut it down fast.” He took a step toward her. Nearby, Peck let out a quiet warning. Simon responded by jerking his head, aiming a hard look, pointing a finger for silence.

The dog sat instantly but kept watchful.

“You want to go off on me, then
you
get in line. You can go on your I-can-take-care-of-myself routine all you want. I don’t give a rat’s rabid ass because you’re not doing it yourself this time, so just swallow that one down. You can tell me I’m stupid for not leaving my damn toothbrush in the bathroom, and I’ve got to give that to you. I’m telling you, you’re brain-dead if you think you can decide all the rest on your own. That’s not how it works.”

“I never said—”

“Shut up. This bullshit about not telling me some reporter came by to hassle you because you put it aside? Don’t pull that on me again. You don’t put things aside, not like this.”

“I didn’t—”

“I’m not fucking done. You don’t run this show. I don’t know how you worked it before with your cop, but this is now. You’re dealing with me now. You’d better think about that, and if you can’t deal with it, you let me know. We’ll leave it that we just fuck when we’re both in the mood, and move on.”

She felt her face go cold and stiff as the blood drained. “That’s harsh, Simon.”

“Damn right it is. You’ve got clients coming, and I’ve got work to do.” He strode away as a couple of cars drove across her bridge.

Jaws, obviously tuned in to his master’s mood, leaped quickly into the truck.

“I didn’t get my turn,” Fiona muttered, then tried some deep breathing to center herself before greeting her clients.

F
iona deliberately scheduled a solo behavioral correction as her last client of the day. She often thought of those sessions as attitude adjustments—and not just for the dog.

The fluffy orange Pom, Chloe—all four pounds of her—ruled over her owners, reportedly wreaked havoc in her neighborhood, yipping, snarling and lunging hysterically at other dogs, cats, birds, kids, and occasionally tried to take a Pom-sized chunk out of whatever crossed her path when she wasn’t in the mood for it.

Struggling to crochet—her newest hobby—Sylvia sat on the porch with a pitcher of fresh lemonade and butter cookies while Fiona listened to the client repeat the gist of their phone consult.

“My husband and I had to cancel our vacation this winter.” Lissy Childs stroked the ball of fur in her arms while that ball eyed Fiona suspiciously. “We couldn’t get anyone to take her for the week—or house-sit, if she was in it. She’s so sweet, really, and so adorable, but, well, she is incorrigible.”

Lissy made kissy noises, and Chloe responded by shivering all over and lapping at Lissy’s face.

Chloe, Fiona noted, wore a silver collar studded with multicolored rhinestones—at least she hoped they were just rhinestones—and pink booties, open at the toe to show off matching pink toenails.

Both she and her human smelled of Vera Wang’s Princess.

“She’s a year?”

“Yes, she just had her very first birthday, didn’t you, baby doll?”

“Do you remember when she started showing unsociable behavior?”

“Well.” Lissy cuddled Chloe. The eye-popping square-cut diamond on her hand flared like fired ice, and Chloe made a point of showing Fiona her sharp, scissorlike teeth. “She’s really never liked other dogs, or cats. She thinks she’s a person, ’cause she’s my baby.”

“She sleeps in your bed, doesn’t she?”

“Well . . . yes. She has a sweet bed of her own, but she likes to use it as a toy box. She just loves squeaky toys.”

“How many does she have?”

“Oh . . . well.” Lissy had the grace to look sheepish as she flipped back her long blond mane. “I buy them for her all the time. I just can’t resist. And little outfits. She loves to dress up. I know I spoil her. Harry does, too. We just can’t resist. And really, she is a sweetheart. She’s just a little jealous and excitable.”

“Why don’t you put her down?”

“She doesn’t like me to put her down outside. Especially when . . .” She glanced over her shoulder where Oreo and Fiona’s dogs sprawled. “When other d-o-g-s are around.”