"Pitch Black" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parrish Leslie)2“So tell me again everything you know about this Professor guy. All the stuff you told us yesterday in the briefing and anything else you Alec glanced over at Jackie Stokes, his new partner. For the past thirty minutes, since they’d left the office, he’d tried to keep his eyes down, focusing on the case file in his lap. Studying ugly crime scene photos was somehow easier than watching her weave the dark sedan through the afternoon D.C. traffic, narrowly missing other cars. And pedestrians. And a poodle whose owner had snatched it from certain death-by-government-vehicle. Alec hoped she hadn’t seen him surreptitiously double-check his seat belt. He’d recently finished re habbing his arm and shoulder after the shooting, and he didn’t particularly care to break any limbs, or his neck, in a car crash. “You planning to drive for NASCAR or something?” he muttered under his breath. She pretended not to hear. “Why have I never heard of him?” “He’s kept a pretty low profile.” “A low-profile serial killer, huh?” If there was such a thing. “He’s been picky and methodical. Six kills in three years.” “Including these latest two, plus the woman from the help-wanted ad?” “Make that nine. He’s obviously accelerating.” Maybe because he’d realized how easy it was to lure his victims via the Internet. “Nine,” Jackie murmured, shaking her head. Those nine lives had certainly meant a lot to the victims and their loved ones. But when compared to a Dahmer, a Bundy, or a Gacy, the number wasn’t too shocking. The crimes, however, had been. The Professor was one sick, malicious fuck. “Nine murders but he’s the invisible man?” “He’s never gone to the press, never tried for infamy. He simply does his thing, taunts the bureau occasionally, always in his condescending, arrogant way, and moves on. Sometimes he goes more than a year between victims, sometimes a few weeks.” “Any particular location?” “All in the mid-Atlantic region.” “Sex of the victims?” “Varies.” Before she could ask, he added, “And yes, that is unusual. We’ve got a lot on him, but we haven’t been able to determine a specific victim profile because the guy’s pretty indiscriminate in who he kills. Varying ages, races, sexes, economic backgrounds. He’s an equal opportunity bastard.” “Why do they call him the Professor?” Sensing Stokes wasn’t going to ease up on the questions until she’d gotten all the answers she wanted, Alec closed the file. Just his luck to draw the inquisitive talker for a partner. Alec didn’t want conversation. He wanted to think, to go deep into unexplored fields of possibility in his mind, where every bit of information he had ever learned about the Professor had been taking root and sprouting. To get back inside the unsub’s head again, as he’d been trying so hard to do before getting sidelined by that damned woman and those twice-damned bullets. “Lambert?” Stokes prodded. “The nickname?” He sighed. “One of the first investigators started calling him that after a character on that old show “Like the boys.” “Exactly. He didn’t hold them underwater to drown them; he put them on the ice and let it happen. One victim was decapitated in his own garage. The one Wyatt told us about, with the woman responding to the online job listing. You heard what he did to her.” “Yeah. Sick. And he’d never used the Internet to lure his victims before?” Alec shook his head. “Never. It is impressive if your boss really did figure out who he was dealing with last month. I was…” He had been about to say he was on medical leave, but didn’t want to open that issue up for questioning yet. “I wasn’t in the office at the time, but if the BAU had known there was another Professor case, I would have heard about it.” Oh, would he ever. “ “I’m sure it means something,” he admitted. “Any change in the pattern can leave him vulnerable to mistakes he’d been careful not to make in the past.” The timing of that change had been fortuitous. The killer had begun using the Web to lure his victims around the same time Alec had been on the verge of disciplinary action, possibly even of losing his job. Considering Alec knew more about the Professor than anyone else in the bureau, landing on Blackstone’s team had seemed a stroke of luck. Bullet holes in his body notwithstanding. But he already knew it was not luck at all. Wyatt Blackstone had known whom he was up against before anyone else had figured it out and had moved Alec into place like a chess master positioning his knight. That fascinated him, and Alec took no offense at the manipulation. He wanted to stay in the FBI. He wanted to nail the Professor. So, if anything, his respect for his new boss had gone up a notch once he’d figured everything out. “Think he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty? Or doesn’t think he’s really a killer if he doesn’t pull a trigger or plunge a knife?” Alec considered it. He had been considering it for a long time. He slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. Deep down, my gut tells me he’s trying to prove how much smarter he is than anyone else. That it’s easy for him to kill because he’s so brilliant, and each kill is an in-your-face taunt to prove it.” “Yeah, real smart to commit murder.” Stokes frowned. “I don’t remember the Professor in “I didn’t call him anything,” Alec pointed out. “Besides, there was another reason for the name. He typically writes to the family after the crime. The messages are condescending and arrogant. Very literate. All on the same stationery, which was expensive but not easy to trace.” Until he’d suddenly switched to e-mails. “What else do you know about him?” Having memorized the profile, since he’d contributed to it when he’d first been brought in after the Richmond killing, Alec quickly rattled off the details. “He’s highly organized. Above-average intelligence. Probably not involved in a relationship right now, but he might have been in the past. Likely a professional, an engineer, maybe a lawyer or a doctor.” Stokes snorted. “Right. White male, in his thirties, and his mama didn’t love him? I asked what you He glanced at her through half-lowered lashes. “I take it you don’t think highly of profiling?” Stokes shrugged. “I think profilers are a lot like those crime-solving psychics. They always look back and focus on the stuff they got right, like, ‘The missing person will be found near water,’ and they claim victory when the vic shows up a block from a fire hydrant.” Alec chuckled despite himself. Stokes obviously had attitude. Her own personality, rather than any rumors she might have heard about him, had likely been behind her posturing when they’d first met at yesterday’s meeting. He relaxed in his seat, beginning to suspect he could actually like her, if only she’d stop talking so much. And perhaps not kill him in a car crash. “Give me numbers and calculations over guesses and hypotheses any day.” Her opinion wasn’t unique. Lots of people both in the bureau and out of it cast a skeptical eye at some of the work done by the BAU. Usually it was because they got caught up in the thriller novels and the serial-killer movies that romanticized the job of profiler until it became unrealistic. As if they were the crime-solving psychics she spoke of so disdainfully. “Human beings often behave in patterns, like computer programs,” he replied. “Profilers keep track of the patterns and use them to their advantage. No magic. No psychic powers. It’s almost mathematical, really. Statistics and probability.” “And a bunch of psychobabble. But math and computers I get.” The other agent’s frown eased. “Meaning I should be the one to talk to this Dalton woman. Her being into computers, too.” They’d just exited the city and were on the beltway heading toward Baltimore to interview one Samantha Dalton. During yesterday’s examination of a computer belonging to one of the victims, the IT specialists had found communication between Ms. Dalton and Ryan Smith. They’d e-mailed within hours of the boy’s death, and he and Stokes had been assigned to go interview the woman, some computer expert. Stokes’s presence made sense, with her cyber crimes background. Alec’s? Not so much. He’d have been of more use going up to Wilmington and walking the crime scene. But toeing the line was what he was all about these days. Even though his tongue had nearly bled when he’d bitten on it to keep from arguing the issue with his new boss. He didn’t figure it would be a good thing to get fired his second day on the job. “Why don’t we play it by ear?” The frown snapped back into place. “I mean,” he calmly explained as he reopened the file and glanced at it, “let’s meet her before deciding how to proceed.” “I bet with your looks you like playing good cop for the ladies.” If words could actually sneer, those would have. Alec didn’t look up. His hand remained flat on the autopsy report in his lap. The only sign that her jab had hit home was a slight tightening in his fingers, the tips of which turned white. “Do you have a problem working with me?” “Let’s say pretty boys in expensive suits make me itchy.” Pretty boy. He’d been called worse. Rich dude. Hotshot. Maverick. Whatever. As long as Stokes wasn’t talking about Atlanta, and he suspected she was not, his new partner could think whatever the hell she wanted. “Well, drivers who can’t keep all four tires on the road make me itchy, too.” He grabbed the dashboard as Stokes zipped around a tractor trailer doing seventy on the bumper-to-bumper beltway. “How about whoever lives for the rest of this ride gets to decide how to conduct the interview?” For the first time since he’d set eyes on her, Stokes cracked a real smile. “Snarky, huh? Maybe you’re not just a pretty boy after all.” She put the pedal down, sending them hurtling off the 295 exit ramp at near warp speed. “I guess I’ll give you more than the week I predicted you’d last.” “You keep driving like this,” Alec mumbled, taking no offense, “and I’ll be lucky to make it through the day.” With a pencil stuck behind her ear, reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and her fingers flying across her keyboard so fast they barely connected with the letters, the last thing Samantha Dalton wanted to do was answer her front door, on which someone had just knocked. She’d finally hit her stride. The flicker of an idea had met the tinder of her own creativity and burst into an inferno of words that had to erupt out of her or be lost forever. Overblown imagery, but, as usual when she was on a deadline, she’d take whatever she could get if it kept her glued to her chair. She continued to ignore the interruption, riding the wave of energy she always relied upon when working on the columns and articles she wrote for her site, samthe spaminator.com. Especially ones like this, her weekly Sam’s Rant, which would go live on her blog late tomorrow night. The Wednesday-night rant, her most popular feature, was also the toughest for her to write. Getting things off her chest while maintaining her professional credibility had become a weekly balancing act. She chose every word carefully, despite the title of the column, never truly ranting. Though, right now, she wanted to because of the annoying knocking. Having become a hermit since her divorce-at least, so her mother called her-she’d become adept at ignoring the odd salesman or nosy neighbor who dared to disregard the warning on her front door. But as the knocking continued, her eye started to twitch. Her voice low, she mumbled, “Can’t you read?” She’d put the Do Not Disturb sign outside at noon, feeling optimistic that she’d spend the whole afternoon actually writing. Maybe even do something as adventurous as get dressed in real clothes. It hadn’t happened. Instead, she’d surfed the day away, still wearing the sweats she’d donned after her shower. The Web had sucked up hours of her life, as it so often did lately. Somehow, since the moment a judge with emotionless eyes had signed the piece of paper ending the four-year roller-coaster ride of her marriage, she hadn’t felt like Miss Get Up and Go. These days, Miss Got Up, Went, and Got Her Ass Handed Back to Her was content to stay right where she was. Fortunately, the day hadn’t been totally wasted. She had found inspiration for tomorrow night’s column. But while researching, she’d also cruised blogs, played a few-okay, ten-hands of Spider Solitaire, and stumbled across stories here and tidbits there that grabbed her attention. Still, she’d finally gotten down to business and the piece was coming along nicely. At least, it had been until the arrival of the person at the door, whose voice brought her irritation level up a notch. “Ma’am, please answer the door.” Yet she’d surfed away many of her working hours. “Loser,” she muttered. “Miss Dalton? We need to talk to you,” the voice said. If she had a real office, rather than working out of the living room of her Baltimore apartment, she might have been able to continue ignoring the intrusion. But as it was, she had no escape. So Sam saved her file, then trudged to the door. Glancing through a part in the drapes and seeing a man wearing a suit, she figured she was in for some soul saving or a high-end sales pitch. Or both. “What is it?” she snapped, yanking the door open. The man had his hand raised, ready to knock again, and her first impression was that he had big hands. Big fists. Strong-looking fingers. Her second was that if door-to-door salesmen now looked like this, lots more women would be lining up to buy vacuum cleaners and magazine subscriptions. Female shoppers all over the world were probably clamoring for deliveries. Not her, though. She wasn’t buying. Especially not from men who looked like him. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” the man said. “It really is important.” The face was handsome-square jawed, strong featured, with heavily lashed eyes and sculpted cheekbones. Handsome enough to put Sam’s guard up. She didn’t trust handsome men, not after Samuel Dalton Jr. Her ex had been movie-star gorgeous. Sam and Sam. God, why hadn’t someone slapped her when she’d accepted his proposal? As he stepped closer, Sam had to tilt her head back. He was tall, easily topping her five-eight by several inches. Broad shoulders seemed to fill all the empty space between one side of the doorframe and the other. His light brown hair was slightly windblown and his pale green eyes held a friendly gleam. The friendliness didn’t extend to his nicely shaped lips, however. No smile widened them. His expression remained polite but entirely neutral. Absolutely the only thing that said he wasn’t one hundred percent professional was the way his stare lingered for half a beat too long on her mouth. Which instantly made her want to lick her lips, even while she mentally cursed herself for the reaction. “You are Miss Dalton? Samantha Dalton?” “Mrs. Dalton,” she clarified, strictly from habit. Technically, she was no longer a Mrs. Dalton, not since her Mr. Dalton had found a Miss Slut-face to shack up with instead. “You are the Sam Dalton from the Sam the Spaminator Web site?” Still feeling awkward about answering the door in sweats and slippers, she nodded hard. Her glasses slipped past the tip of her nose as she did so. Sam caught them as they bounced off, smudging the lenses with her tight fingers. Reminding herself that she didn’t care what the hot guy with the sexy jaw and rock-hard body thought of her looks, she asked, “Do you need me to sign for something?” He waved the leather wallet he’d been holding, which she hadn’t even noticed. It contained a badge. Sam immediately tensed. “I’m Special Agent Lambert of the FBI. This is Special Agent Stokes. May we come in?” She hadn’t even seen the woman. Sam nodded at her, saw the same emotionless expression, then let herself process the situation. It didn’t take long. “Did you say FBI?” she snapped. “Yes. We’d like to talk to you.” She’d heard it all since she’d started her blog, and since she’d published her book, The man’s shoulders unstiffened a fraction, but his partner didn’t look at all amused. “You’re not in any trouble, ma’am,” he said. “We’re actually here to ask for your assistance. We’re researching a crime, and have reason to think you were in contact with one of the people involved. We’re hoping you can help us figure out what happened.” She hesitated. Sam didn’t like people invading her space, especially people who called her Especially from men. And there had been a few-including some from her own divorce attorney, who had made it clear that whenever she was ready to get back into the dating game, he wanted to be first in line. Sure. Like any woman wanted to go out with the man who’d seen her at the lowest point in her life. Who’d heard every ugly, vicious word her ex-husband had said about her. She had to hand it to him, though: Rick Young, the attorney in question, hadn’t given up, even though she’d kept saying no. “Ma’am?” Sam sighed, already knowing this agent would not take no for an answer. Stepping back, she gestured the pair in. “Fine.” She’d give them five minutes; then it was back to her column. And maybe an ice cream dinner break courtesy of Ben amp; Jerry-who had, until this very minute, been the only males inside her apartment in months. But before they’d taken a half dozen steps inside, the female agent glanced out Sam’s living room window, peering at the street one story below. “Oh, no, he is Realizing what was happening, Sam suppressed a smile. Seemed the local police hadn’t gotten the memo that they should ignore illegally parked, unmarked cars driven by FBI agents. “Go,” the male agent said. He spoke to his partner’s retreating back. She had already stalked out the door, obviously planning to talk her way out of a ticket. “Yeah, good luck with that one,” Sam muttered, having had more than a few herself. She didn’t think God himself could talk his way out of a parking ticket once Baltimore ’s finest had him in his sights. Cal Ripken, maybe. But nobody else. “I take it you’ve got some firsthand experience?” the agent said. “You have no idea. I’m on a first-name basis with the local beat cop. He waves at me and smiles as he tickets me when I forget to move my car on trash days.” A twinkle of amusement flashed in his green eyes. The stranger suddenly looked less intimidating and more appealing than before. Younger than she’d first thought, too-he was probably only around thirty, close to her age. Well, the age she would be for another few days. Then she moved beyond the actual three-zero and proceeded directly into her thirties. “Almost makes me wish I could watch. I don’t think she’ll like being told no.” His mouth relaxed into a slow smile, a friendly one that invited her to reciprocate. Though her heart skipped a single beat in her chest and her pulse did a little flip, Sam’s lips remained tight by sheer force of will. The way she had been feeling about men these days, she wished he’d paste a frown on his mouth. She couldn’t handle an attraction to anyone right now. She’d been burned so badly her hair probably still smelled smoky. “What is it I can do for you, Agent Lambert?” she asked, her tone curt. He took her cue, his form stiffening again under his perfectly tailored suit, which looked more appropriate for a Wall Street executive than an FBI agent. “I’d like to show you some correspondence.” He glanced around the room, seeking a place to sit. Her sofa, a flowery monstrosity her mother had insisted on giving her when Sam had moved out of her ex’s house, was covered with files and industry magazines. Well, mostly industry magazines. There were a few issues of Two empty Diet Coke cans stood in the middle of their own permanent rings on the coffee table. A crumpled Snickers wrapper protruded from the opening of one can, looking like a castaway’s note stuck into a poor man’s substitute for a bottle, and on the TV, DVD sleeves for Her picture should be on Wikipedia as an illustration of a pathetic thirtysomething divorcée. If not for her desk, she’d probably look like a slovenly hausfrau. Oh, the desk was a wreck, too, but at least it looked as though it was used. Very used. On it were three mountains of paper, in varying heights-one critical, one urgent, and one just important. The just-important one was about one-quarter the size of the others. There was no pile called Take Your Time. Clearing her throat, she headed toward the kitchen. “Let’s talk in here. I could do with some coffee. You?” “Sure, thanks.” He followed her, remaining silent while she put the pot on. Joining him at her small table, Sam tried to force herself to relax. After all, she used to like law enforcement types. Her late father had been a state trooper, and the closest thing she had to a father these days was her dad’s old partner, who was now a judge. It was only recently, since her work had been targeted by some supposed experts who wanted to kick the amateur off their playing field, that she’d begun to question the intelligence of those in any legal profession. The parking tickets didn’t help, either. “What’s this all about?” He opened a folder, spreading what looked like e-mail printouts on her kitchen table. “Did you write these?” Sam glanced at the pages, seeing her e-mail address on the top of them. “I exchange e-mails with people all the time,” she murmured doubtfully. “This looks like a typical response to someone asking for Web advice.” Lifting one of the pages, Sam quickly read the original message, and her own response. A smile suddenly widened her lips. “Oh, yeah, I know this kid-what a sweetheart. He’s written to me several times. He even got his parents to bring him to a signing I did last summer.” “A signing for your Internet scam book?” She leveled a steady gaze at the man. “My book on how to avoid Internet scams.” “That’s what I meant.” “How long have you been corresponding with him?” “Probably about a year.” Suddenly remembering what Special Agent Lambert had said when he’d first arrived, Sam met his stare directly. “Wait, you said crime. Is he all right? Nothing’s happened to him, has it?” Alec noticed right away that Samantha Dalton’s immediate response was to assume young Ryan Smith was a victim, and she sounded worried. Considering she’d met him only once and had a strictly e-mail relationship with the boy, he filed the detail away, because it said a lot about her. So did her clothes. Her apartment. Her job. Her lifestyle. But, Jesus, none of that meshed with the visual picture of the woman who’d opened the door to him ten minutes ago. He’d been prepared for a vigilante computer nerd. Not the brown-eyed, golden-haired beauty with lush lips and a fragile throat. He’d seen fewer curves on a figure eight, despite the shapeless, washed-out sweats she had on. Though she wore no makeup and her hair was a mess, she’d been striking enough to suck every thought out of his head for a long, breathless moment. Yet she lived as if she’d never had a date and didn’t much care. Which didn’t jibe with that Mrs. Dalton thing she’d carefully pointed out. Or the bare ring finger on her left hand. Yeah, he’d looked. All in all, the woman presented an interesting puzzle, one his brain was already trying to take apart and fit back together. “Agent Lambert?” “When is the last time you heard from him?” She met his stare, and he could see the silent debate going on behind those dark eyes. He’d seen it before. Everyone in law enforcement had. Sometimes wanting to know the truth was outweighed by the desire to put off unhappy news for a while. When she shifted her gaze, choosing to delay the inevitable, Alec added another piece to the puzzle: She’d known loss. She tapped the tip of her index finger on the top page. “This message. About a week and a half ago.” Alec had memorized the victim’s final e-mail to Sam the Spaminator. “He asked about an e-mail offer a friend of his received?” “Typical Nigerian four-one-nine scam. I wrote back and sent him links to tons of articles about it, including recent ones I’d written.” The thing had landed in his own in-box dozens of times, so he knew exactly what she meant, but he let her expound. “It’s amazing how many people still fall for this scheme. Losses in the hundreds of millions, all because Joe Naive thinks he’s going to get rich if he just puts out a little more money for bribes or taxes or legal fees or security. Until the money’s all gone and the ‘finance minister’ or ‘bank manager’ or ‘estate executor’ is gone with it.” Her tone had gone from conversational to hard, verging on bitter. The tautness in her form told him even more about her-like exposing fraud online might be a personal crusade, rather than a professional one. She was emotionally affected by the issue, not a bit detached. He had a feeling she was going to take Ryan Smith’s murder very hard. “Did he forward you the actual e-mail?” She shook her head, pushing back a few long strands of silky hair, which had escaped the ponytail. “No. He told me about it and I responded.” A tiny furrow appeared on her brow, and she added, “Oh, I just remembered: He also asked about certified checks. Whether the scheme ever included them.” Alec leaned forward, leafing quickly through the copies of the e-mails. “Where?” Frowning in concentration, she said, “It was… Wait, actually I think it was in an instant message.” That surprised him. “Strangers can IM you?” “He was a bright kid with a lot of potential, so when he figured out my ID, I was impressed enough to chat with him on occasion.” The investigative team already had Ryan Smith’s computer and would find the history, but going to the source was quicker. “Can you tell me what you remember?” As she closed her eyes to concentrate, Alec couldn’t help noticing the long sweep of the woman’s lashes brushing against her high cheekbones. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortably aware of his attraction to her. To a potential witness. Which was not only a no-no, but in his case, possibly a career killer. Not that attraction had been the problem in Atlanta. Sympathy and misplaced trust had been his downfall there. But the lesson was the same: No mixing it up with witnesses. Emotionally or physically. “I’d responded to his e-mail”-she glanced at the printed version, checking the time-“at around five. I told him it was a scam and I was shocked he didn’t know about it.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “I told him he wasn’t much of a fan if he hadn’t noticed I’d written a whole chapter about it in my book. Then I suggested he print out the articles I linked to, roll them up, and smack his buddy in the head with them for even considering going along.” She managed a weak smile. Alec couldn’t bring himself to return it. Judging by what he knew of the boys, he suspected there was nothing Ryan wouldn’t have done to try to stop his friend. Yet, in the end, he’d gone with him to his death. Tragic. So damned tragic. “And the instant messages?” “I had run down to the corner market, and didn’t log off. When I came back, I saw he had IM’d me a couple of times.” “What did he say?” “He was asking if any of these scams ever included getting a certified check, and if those checks could bounce. Which, of course, they can, if they’re faked. It’s happening all the time, especially to people who sell stuff on Craigslist and Internet auction sites. Or those who respond to ads for ‘mystery shoppers’ or work-at-home opportunities.” Alec made a note to look into the certified-check angle. There’d been no mention of it in the crime scene report, or in any of the interviews with Jason’s or Ry an’s parents. He also wanted to know more about those work-at-home ads she’d mentioned, given the other murder five weeks ago. “I tried to respond, but he was offline by then. It was the night of the big snowstorm, and my Internet connection went out, and I forgot about it.” The night of the snowstorm. The night the boys had disappeared. Would they have gone through with the meeting, driven to their deaths, if the scam expert Ryan so trusted had personally warned him of the danger? From what the computer guys could tell, Ryan had not opened Samantha’s return e-mail. It had been hung up in one of those cyberspace black holes and hadn’t shown up in his e-mail account until the next morning. But the IMs… If Samantha Dalton had been sitting at her desk to receive them and respond right away, how different might things be today? She was definitely going to take the news of Ryan Smith’s murder very hard. And though she was a perfect stranger, Alec already dreaded having to tell her. They’d discovered the bodies right on schedule. He’d been watching for the story on the news, knowing that as the weather warmed back up to above-normal temperatures, the chances of the car being spotted in the thawing pond would improve. And that once the car was found, the water would be searched for its occupants. He laughed softly, wondering how the state police divers had enjoyed dipping beneath the frigid surface. How had the boys looked after their winter dip? Had their toes snapped off like the tips of delicate icicles? Had their eyes become glittering glass marbles? Was the skin as fine as porcelain or veined like marble? Did their hair float about their heads before freezing, forming beautiful, crystallized halos of white? He would have enjoyed seeing them. Two fools frozen in a pose of eternal stupidity. “Not two fools,” he reminded himself. “Not the second boy.” No, Jason’s unfortunate friend had exhibited a modicum of intelligence. But not enough to keep him from riding along to a cold and dark final destination. “Ahh, well.” He shrugged off the unease. Because misplaced loyalty was nearly as damning as outright stupidity. The world had no place for it. He studied the article on his computer screen for a moment longer, looking for nuances in the tone or quotes from the investigators that might hint at whether they had determined his involvement. The moment the FBI became part of the investigation, he’d know for sure, but there was no mention of that particular entity. Not yet, anyway. But there would be. His last taunting message to the boys’ parents, sent after he’d seen the story on the Wilmington news station’s Web site, had ensured it. Having studied every word of the article, and being unable to contact his latest project, the dull and unimaginative Wndygrl1, from here at work, he skipped over to another familiar site. The newest weekly “rant” column wouldn’t go up until late tomorrow night, and he would be alert and awake, hungering for her words, her thoughts, the entrée into her beautiful mind. Until then, he couldn’t resist reading over the entry from last Wednesday night. And the one from the week before. And the week before that. All the way back to the article warning about so-called finance ministers offering to make people rich. He He’d certainly paid close attention. Close enough to know how to word his lure and cast his reel. He’d hooked quite a few prospects, but only one, young Mr. Todd, had followed the bait all the way into the net. “Youngsters. Can’t teach them anything.” Those too gullible to spend two minutes searching for the information that could save their lives didn’t deserve to live. As he gathered his things to leave for the day, he smiled in anticipation of tomorrow night’s column. The “deposed royalty” dating scheme was progressing nicely, but should be coming to its inevitable conclusion soon. After that it was anyone’s guess. He mightn’t find anything to amuse him for weeks, perhaps months. Or he could receive inspiration for his next project tomorrow at midnight. Not knowing simply heightened the excitement. Carefully choosing his destination to ensure safe distance from his real life, so he could cast his lures and toy with his online friend, Wendy, he drove into the cold winter evening. Though the car radio remained off, his fingers tapped on the steering wheel in time to an internal melody. It was classical and refined, nothing like the filth the people around him every day chose to listen to. The kind of music a woman with a brain would appreciate. Too bad he knew so few. She was a kindred spirit, an inquisitive mind in a lovely physical package. He found himself thinking about her often. Dwelling in the memory of the softness of her skin when they touched. The slenderness of her hand in his own. The sheen of her hair. The lyrical sound of her voice. He knew everything about her-where she lived, whom she socialized with. Knew she was often alone, intelligent enough to know she needed no company. Oh, yes, he knew it all. He would, in fact, call himself her number-one fan. A devotee. She had but one fault: her girlish desire to do good. But she could be cured of that, reformed. He knew a bit about curing the soul without crushing the spirit. He didn’t want to crush her; he wanted to free her. Release her from all the societal constraints that said she had to be nice, had to be good, had to help those who were too stupid to help themselves. He would mold her until they became a perfect pair, an ideal couple. It would happen. Someday he’d teach her. With his help, she would escape from her bonds and she would realize, as he already had, that she was his. The one woman he had ever really wanted. Samantha Dalton belonged to him. |
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