LITMIR.BIZ

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own coworkers would have ribbed him mercilessly if he’d said that a corpse had looked at him. But somehow, he’d gotten that information through to the right people.

      “When is the press conference?” Matt asked Jackson.

      “As soon as we can organize it,” Jackson told him. “We’ll call an emergency task force meeting, bringing reps from the area. Meeting won’t take long. We don’t have anything to say yet. Then we’ll get on the air. You’ll speak, along with representatives from the DC police, Virginia and Maryland. You won’t be on the hot seat alone.”

      Matt didn’t care about being on the hot seat; he was used to it. There was the truth—and there was the matter of telling the truth so that it afforded the greatest protection to the public while suppressing enough details to make sure law enforcement knew more than any kooks or would-be psychics out there.

      They’d keep a lot quiet, he was assuming. Grotesque details did nothing but stir up sensationalism—and sometimes provide a killer with the notoriety he sought.

      Jackson and Matt reached the big black sedan set for their use. Jackson let Matt do the driving. He was one of the best things about the unit, in Matt’s opinion. He was half–Native American and well aware of the diversity of people and beliefs around the country. He also had an aura of calm about him and an ability to listen to those who worked with him. He wasn’t a micromanager, and yet he expected the best from those around him. If he trusted you, it was with complete confidence.

      Matt liked to believe he’d earned the man’s trust.

      He also liked to believe that he was worthy of it. He thought he was; while their backgrounds were dissimilar, they were also much alike.

      He wondered if Jackson’s thoughts were similar to his. Jackson grinned over at him and said, “You still don’t look much like a Native American.” Matt grinned in return. He was, like many, many people in the United States, someone who could actually trace his ancestry back to Pocahontas.

      “A heritage sadly diluted by time.”

      “Let’s just hope we both have some of that mystic wisdom we’re supposed to have,” Jackson said wryly. “We’re going to need it.”

      * * *

      The day felt long to Meg as she attended her sessions. At every opportunity, she tried calling Lara’s number.

      Her calls continued to go straight to voice mail.

      She tried calling Nancy Cooper, Lara’s aunt in Richmond, but Nancy hadn’t heard from Lara, either. Meg ended the call quickly, not wanting to worry her.

      She tried a few of the mutual friends they had in the area. She even tried Lara’s ex-boyfriend, Clark Walden, despite the fact that the two had split up at least six months earlier. Clark was in the military; she discovered he’d been deployed overseas a month ago.

      She called Congressman Walker’s office and was informed that Lara no longer worked there. No, she’d left no other information.

      Despite failing with her calls, it wasn’t until she’d finished for the day and was sitting in the cadets’ lounge that she really began to feel a sense of panic.

      And that was when the TV news came on.

      A second body had been discovered. She remembered hearing about the first woman, who’d been found a few weeks back. The case had seemed particularly sad to her. Police had discovered a young blonde woman between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. She’d stood about five-seven and, while alive, had weighed approximately a hundred and twenty pounds. She had yet to be identified. There were no suspects in the case, and police had begged the public for any help they could give.

      The newscast that came on made her sit straight up and spill her coffee.

      The second murder victim had also been about five-six or five-seven. And she’d also been blonde. Because of the condition of the body, forensic scientists were seeking her identity through dental records. Fingerprint identification was being attempted but, once again, the police were seeking help.

      Meg’s heart began to flutter with fear.

      The body had been discovered that morning.

      She stood, stumbled around the lounge until she could grab the remote control and turned up the volume.

      She listened to a lieutenant from the DC police issue warnings and inform the public that extra police officers would be on the streets. An officer from Maryland spoke next.

      And an officer from Virginia.

      And then, a rep from the FBI took the microphone.

      He was tall, a striking man with sandy, close-cropped hair, the shoulders of a linebacker and a ruggedly chiseled face. His voice was rich and deep; she assumed he was a regular spokesman for the agency.

      But as he finished his speech, hotline numbers were flashed on the screen. She heard the assurance in his voice when he added, “We at the FBI will not stop our intense hunt until this killer is apprehended. Until he is, however, responsibility lies with every man and woman out there. If possible, don’t go anywhere alone. As of now, he has selected two blondes. He has seen to it that identification is a difficult process. Keep in mind that his choice of victim could easily change. When Ted Bundy was stalking women, most that we know about had long, straight brown hair. Because of that, many thought they were safe by dying their hair. We have very little information on this killer as yet, and that means everyone could be in danger, blonde or not. Although the killer, whom we’re assuming to be male, has targeted only young women so far, it’s quite possible that women of all ages and descriptions—and conceivably men—could also be at risk. While you shouldn’t panic, you must be vigilant. You’ve been given the call number—any and all suspicious behavior needs to be reported. We are relying on the public for assistance. We need to combine public awareness and the dedication of every law enforcement officer out there. We vow not to hold back any pertinent information—and we’d appreciate it if the media refrained from affording this man a nickname, as a label or a title. He’s a vicious killer and deserves no recognition.”

      He went on to thank his audience, which included reporters from various news organizations, and stepped away from the podium. The DC mayor came forward again and began to speak.

      But Meg didn’t hear him. Her heart seemed to slam against her chest. She saw that the agent who’d just finished was standing in the background, talking to an elderly white-haired man in a pristine suit.

      Adam Harrison.

      Meg got up. She had to speak with Adam; she didn’t want to simply call a hotline.

      She’d intended to go to him eventually for another reason altogether. She’d always wanted to be part of the Krewe of Hunters—and she felt she belonged there. She’d wanted to graduate and enter the criminal division first, a matter of pride, perhaps. As in, I’ve taken all the right steps. I’ve worked my hardest. I believe I’ve excelled and I believe I have the skills you need...

      There was no waiting now.

      She had to go to him; she knew he’d help her.

      And she desperately needed help. She had to find out about the victim.

      Because Lara was a blonde, five-seven, lovely and fit and about a hundred and twenty pounds.

      * * *

      “Margaret!”

      Meg wasn’t sure why Adam Harrison even remembered her. He must have met hundreds of people through the years and she hadn’t seen him in more than a decade.

      He was a very dear man. Ramrod-straight, dignified in manner and appearance, he had to be in his late seventies or early eighties. She’d been surprised that the phone number he’d given her all those years ago still worked. Her call to him via that number had gone right through, almost as if he’d been expecting to hear from her. How that could be, she didn’t know.

      Years

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