Waking Nightmare (39 page)
He shared her disappointment. It would have been a helluva lot easier all around if he were. They’d have nailed it by now. The victim grid Abbie had put together was comprehensive, with only the most superfluous intersections.
“Some of the information he could have gathered through the media or Internet, and I think it’s probable that he did so, at least in the case of Richards and Hornby. But for the others . . . somehow, some way, they gave up the information about their fears freely, in a completely nonthreatening environment.”
Abbie’s face went pensive as she continued, “He’s in a position to win women’s trust, or in a crowd, like a party where you mingle and have innocuous conversations with lots of people over the course of the evening. Maybe he even overhears the information, and then follows up on it.”
“Someone who wins their trust.” Ryne mulled the statement over. “Who is a woman going to talk to so freely?”
“Girlfriends. Their mothers. Pastors. Therapists. Gyne cologists.”
He was following Abbie’s rapid litany until the last. He raised his brows. “Gynecologist?”
“Or doctor.” Abbie shrugged. “Think about it. You already have very few secrets from the person doing your annual Pap smear.”
Ryne felt what he considered a very natural squeamishness at examining the idea too closely. Some of women’s mysteries should remain just that. Mysteries.
“And so far we’ve gotten nowhere looking for connections in where they doctor or worship. Maybe we should look harder at the friends and acquaintances angle.”
She nodded unenthusiastically and he suspected Abbie understood what he did himself. They’d covered that angle pretty thoroughly already. It was going to be nearly impossible to predict the actions of an offender who was using random methods of selection.
“I didn’t get through all the ViCAP hits, but I did highlight the cases in which electrical cord was used to bind victims, regardless of whether it was arms, legs, or both.” She half turned to reach for the binder, which she’d placed on his desk, and opened it to indicate pages bearing yellow highlighter. The sight brought a smile to his lips, in light of their earlier conversation that day, but he knew better than to let her see it.
“I had a forensic knot analyst look at what pictures we could get of the cord,” he reminded her. In most cases, whoever had found the victim had released her before the police were there to salvage the knots. But the security guard who had rescued Amanda Richards had had the foresight to cut the bonds carefully enough so that they could be reconstructed, as had Marine Patrol when they’d pulled Billings out of the sound. The analyst could only tell them the knots hadn’t been military, nautical, or connected with any occupation requirement.
“Yeah, and I’m still not sure whether the use of the electrical cord means only that the wire is accessible to him or part of his ritual. But if it is part of his signature, it might pay off to look further at the cases I highlighted. There was a string of sexual homicides in New Jersey three years ago that were particularly violent, in which electrical cord was used.”
Ryne frowned. “I think I remember those. I was still in Boston at the time. Followed the case in the newspapers.”
“It rang a bell with me, too, because Callie was going to nursing school in Connecticut at the time. At any rate, there are several others, most sexual homicides, involving some sort of cable or wire. I’ll continue looking at them tomorrow.”
Pushing away from the desk, she rounded his chair to pluck a file folder out of the drawer of her desk, and handed it to him. “Maybe this will cheer you up. I contacted Ketrum’s PR department under the pretext of being an enterprising young reporter, and got you a list of their labs and locations, including the lab that’s working on the trials with TTX.”
Pleased, Ryne opened the folder, scanned the sheet inside. “Good work.”
“The PR rep I was talking to got real guarded when I wanted to discuss their trial tests, but after some more digging online, I discovered that the clinical tests they’re doing involving TTX are being done at Ketrum’s newest lab facility, in Shelton, Montana. And . . .” She paused dramatically. “You’re going to love this—I cross-checked Ketrum with Reston’s client list.”
“They’re on it?”
Abbie nodded. “Double-checked with their headquarters and was told they’ve used Reston syringes exclusively for the last five years.”
There was a racing in his chest that he recognized as adrenaline. They were on to something here, finally. He could feel it. “You had a lot more productive day than I did.” He needed the identities of the team members working on that clinical trial for Ketrum and to check each of them out. But how . . .
“A-a-a-and . . . I’ve lost you again.” Abbie’s smile was indulgent. “There’s a lot of new developments. Want to discuss the next course of action over dinner?”
He was tempted. The strength of that temptation was nearly overwhelming. He’d like nothing more than to go home with Abbie, bouncing ideas off her while they ate, before eventually giving in to another sort of appetite that was never far away when they were together.
Regretfully, he shook his head. “I’m up to my ass in paperwork, and I have to think this through, be ready with new assignments for tomorrow morning’s meeting. I’ll probably be late.”
“Sure.” She agreed a little too readily, turning away to reach for the ViCAP binder. “I’ll take this with me and continue working on it after I add Larsen’s information to the victimology grid. We can compare notes tomorrow.”
He watched her closely, but she avoided his gaze. He wasn’t willing to admit that he didn’t think he’d get a damn thing accomplished with her seated at the desk next to him. His concentration was already too fractured by the events of the day as it was.
“Abbie.” He waited until she finally looked at him, her smile a little too fixed. “I’ll be late. But I’d like to come over after. If that’s okay.”
Her smile amped up, infused with genuine pleasure. She said only, “That’d be fine.” But that, coupled with her expression, was more than enough.
Abbie’s cell rang as she was crossing the police parking lot to her car, and one glance at the caller ID had her stomach sinking. Because the disloyalty made her feel guilty, she answered with more cheer than she was feeling. “Callie. I’m glad you called. You’re hard to get a hold of.”
She hadn’t spoken to her sister since the night they’d had dinner together, but she’d called her several times, to no avail.
“I’m bored,” Callie announced. “How about I pick up Chinese and head over to your place.”
Reaching her car, Abbie unlocked the driver’s door and slid inside, setting the files she’d hoped to work on beside her on the passenger seat. “Sounds good,” she said with false enthusiasm. “Or I could pick you up if you like.” More than simple curiosity was behind the offer. Seeing where Callie was currently staying might help her glean valuable insight into her sister’s emotional state. Callie’s manic cycles were marked with expensive extravagances and buying sprees, while her depressive states would have her staying in a fleabag hotel with questionable occupants.
But the opportunity didn’t present itself. Callie said merely, “See you in twenty minutes.”
As she drove off the lot, Abbie was grateful for the work that would keep Ryne at his desk for hours yet. She wasn’t especially anxious to have him and Callie in one place again.
The table was littered with half-empty cartons when Callie pushed her chair back and rose to prowl the small home. “How can you stand being cooped up in here?” She went through the doorway into the small living room, and rounded the couch. “I’d go crazy in such a small space.”
Abbie left the mess to trail after her sister as far as the living room doorway. Callie seemed especially brittle this evening. On edge. “I don’t mind. I’m not here that much. Mostly just to sleep.”
“And are you sleeping alone these days, or have you had that hot detective keeping you company in bed?” Callie sent her an arch look as she continued pacing the room, trailing a hand over the mantel, skirting the pictures there.
That was a question she had no intention of answering. Her sister had been just as unforthcoming about some questions Abbie had put to her earlier, uppermost being where she was staying.
That in itself wasn’t cause for alarm. Callie had always been secretive about things that barely mattered, and overly open about things Abbie would rather not hear about.
But pressing her on the subject would divert Callie from the topic of Ryne, one Abbie was eager to steer clear of. “I’d really like to know where you’re staying while in Savannah. In case I have to get in touch with you and can’t reach you by phone.”
“I move around,” Callie said vaguely. “Oh, I have a brilliant idea! We should go out.” She whirled to face her sister, her face bright. “When’s the last time we did the town together?” She gave an impatient wave of her hand as Abbie opened her mouth. “No, I don’t mean for dinner, like the other night. I mean get dressed up and rock this town back on its heels.” Her tone turned wheedling. “C’mon, it’d be fun. I have some people I want you to meet.”
She felt guilty about dampening her sister’s enthusiasm by demurring, even though Abbie would rather chew glass than spend the next several hours in smoky bars watching her sister spin further out of control. “I have to work tomorrow.” She injected a note of regret into the words, could see that her sister didn’t buy it. “I’m well past the age when I can carouse all night and not suffer the effects the next day.”
“That’s because you never got enough practice.” Petulantly, Callie slapped her hand on the mantel, knocking the picture of the two of them to the floor. “Always sensible, capable Abbie. Doing the right thing. Making the right choices. Perfect, perfect Abbie.”
Her chest went tight. “I’m far from perfect.”
“Why, because you’re still afraid of the dark? You can just turn on a light and the darkness is gone, isn’t it? I’ll bet you wish it was as easy to be rid of me.”
“You know better than that,” Abbie said quietly.
“Do I?” There was something wistful about the smile Callie gave her. “I don’t know you at all anymore. Not really. When’s the last time we were close, Abbie? I mean really really close?”
Now wasn’t the time for honesty, that true closeness was never something they’d shared. So Abbie gave her as much sincerity as she could muster, and hoped it’d be enough. “You know I love you. I always will. We’re sisters.”
“We could be close again.” Callie’s eyes were bright, her expression avid. “You know when we were always the closest?” She whirled away from the mantel and approached Abbie rapidly. “When I gave you this. Remember?”
Abbie’s gaze dropped to the object Callie had taken out of her pocket, and felt the breath rush out of her. A razor blade. Still inside its protective paper shield. And the past flooded in with a frigid force that was impossible to avoid.
Here, Abbie. You can throw that piece of glass away. Use this tonight. I’ll know you’re there for me. I’ll know.
“Put that away.” Her throat had closed. The words sounded strangled. And she couldn’t look away from the blade. Couldn’t push aside the memories it elicited.
“I never felt closer to you than when I knew you were bleeding down the hall from me. You felt it, too, didn’t you?” Callie took the blade from its wrapper, held it out. “I know you felt it, too. Don’t you ever miss that pain, Abbie? Aren’t you ever tempted to pick up a blade again, just to see the blood?”
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