Edge of Midnight - Leslie Tentler

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experimental, highly classified work being done that I’ve recently been made aware of.” His words were speculative and careful. “It’s a combination of drug therapy and hypnosis, but it’s shown some usefulness in retrieving lost memories.”

       A small stone lodged inside Mia’s chest. “How experimental, exactly?”

       “The military has been using it with severely injured prisoners of war to help them recall certain key facts about their captivity, even when they were barely conscious for most of their ordeal. The theory is that the mind can register events—faces, voices, surroundings—even in an unconscious or altered state.”

       “Does it work?”

       “The results so far have been mixed,” he admitted. “And to my knowledge it hasn’t been applied to drug-induced amnesia. But one of the pioneers is a practicing psychiatrist at the Jacksonville Naval Air Station. I have access to him.”

       She tried to process what she was being told. It sounded like something out of a sci-fi movie. “Are there risks?”

       “If Dr. Wilhelm believes you’re a candidate, he can discuss the risks with you. With both of us.” He took a step closer. Although they were alone inside the apartment, his voice lowered. “If you decided to do it, I would be there with you, Mia. I’d want to hear any details you might be able to recall firsthand. My understanding is that when the therapy works, the memories can be vivid.”

       She felt the stone inside her chest grow a little larger.

       “I—I’d like to think about it.”

       He nodded. “Of course.”

       Reaching into his shirt pocket, he handed her his business card. “Thank you for your time.”

       Mia accompanied him to the door. One hand on its knob, he turned again to face her. “You asked me earlier why you were here talking with me, while the other two women were still missing.” He raised his shoulders in a faint shrug. “The reality is, I don’t know. Maybe you were smarter or braver, or maybe he just got careless with you. But you got away. Those women didn’t.”

       His eyes held a depth of emotion that surprised her. It was a step outside the cool, professional demeanor he’d exhibited so far. Once he had left and closed the door behind him, Mia continued standing in the foyer. She crossed her arms over her chest, the air-conditioning suddenly putting too much of a chill upon her skin. Mia still felt Eric Macfarlane’s presence. What he had suggested was nothing she would have thought possible.

      The memories can be vivid.

      4

      Eric had accepted Cameron and Lanie’s offer to stay at a vacation rental property they owned a few blocks from Jacksonville Beach. The last unit at the end of a dead-end street, the bungalow was quaint and sun-weathered, and provided a roomier alternative to the sterile hotel rooms that were a regular part of his job with the VCU. Having unpacked and changed into a T-shirt, running shorts and tennis shoes, he stood on its concrete front stoop, for a time watching black skimmers and terns that flew overhead toward the ocean. The late day was rapidly fading into a warm, breezy twilight, causing the wind chimes hanging near the door to dance. Eric listened to their music as well as to his own spiraling thoughts.

       It seemed strange to him that The Collector—if he really were here—could be looking at the same setting sun, feeling the same balmy zephyr as he did right now. That a sadistic killer could be out enjoying a seafood dinner at one of the beachside, family restaurants.

       Even more absurd was the notion that he had somehow let an intended victim escape.

       Mia Hale had been smaller than Eric expected—finely boned and slender, only a few inches over five feet. Seeing her injuries, he’d felt an instant protectiveness. Not to mention, the harshly lit photos from the E.R. hadn’t come close to doing her justice. His physical attraction to her plagued him, creating a hard twinge of guilt.

       Nearly three years had elapsed since Rebecca’s death, allowing him to outdistance his grief, he believed. But it hadn’t eased the agonizing sense of culpability he felt.

       In a way, part of him had died with her.

       Eric thought of the experimental therapy he’d told Mia about earlier. It was a long shot, maybe even a crazy one, but if she’d consent to it—if she could somehow recapture even a fraction of her lost memories—it could be the break he desperately needed. But it was also a lot to ask of someone who’d already been through unfathomable horror.

       Days before her death, Rebecca had accused him of being a selfish bastard. Maybe he was.

       Two joggers passed nearby on the intersecting side street. They reminded him of what he had come outside to do. He needed the exercise, needed to clear his mind. As he locked the door to leave for his run, he heard the insistent shrill of his cell phone coming from inside. Glad he hadn’t set the bungalow’s security system, he quickly let himself back in and checked the phone’s screen, which read Washington, D.C. He knew the caller’s identity from the number displayed. It was already after 7:00 p.m., but Special Agent in Charge Johnston was apparently still behind his desk at the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit. Eric answered. He’d been both dreading and expecting the call.

       The SAC wasn’t one to mince words. “Your presence in Jacksonville is against established FBI protocol, Agent Macfarlane.”

       He rubbed his forehead. There was little point in dancing around it. “Yes, sir. I know.”

       “And your reason for bypassing the proper chain of command?”

       Eric envisioned Johnston’s smoothly shaved head, his muscular shoulders hunched tensely under his starched dress shirt as he pressed the phone to his ear. With forced patience, he said, “Because I knew you wouldn’t allow it. I need to be down here. I know you can understand that—”

       “What I understand is that you’re far too close to this, Eric.” Johnston’s harsh tone receded somewhat, and his switch to a first-name basis and the familiarity it bestowed caused Eric’s chest to tighten. “That’s a recipe for mistakes to be made, son. Not to mention, you were on assignment here.”

       “Which is why I didn’t bring Agent Crowchild with me—he agreed to step in as team lead,” he explained, referring to his partner at the VCU. “I have the appropriate resources down here with the Florida Bureau.”

       Silence as heavy as a cinder block carried through the airwaves before Johnston spoke again. “Let me make myself clear. I do not approve of your participation in this investigation. In fact, I see it as downright dangerous, as well as an arrogant and self-destructive move on your part. But due to your connections within the DOJ, I’ve been overruled.”

       “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.”

       “I’ve known Richard Macfarlane for a long time—hell, I’ve known you since you were a boy. And I do sympathize with your situation. But I’m speaking with your best interests in mind. We have other, very capable agents who could have handled this. If this is the same unsub, you don’t need to put yourself through—”

       “With all due respect, sir, I do.” Eric swallowed down his emotion and anger, the words thickening in his throat. “She was my wife.”

       After a while, Johnston gave a deep sigh of resignation. “It’s out of my hands now. What have you learned so far?”

       Eric filled him in on the facts of the case, although he left out the information about the experimental memory retrieval therapy being conducted at the nearby Naval Air Station. That confidential information had come from Eric’s father, as well, and he saw no reason to raise the SAC’s hackles any more than they already were.

       “We’re going to have a long discussion when you return,” Johnston advised. “You’ve become one of my best senior agents, and you’ve never used who you are to your advantage. At least not until now. I don’t like members of my team going over

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