"Pitch Black" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parrish Leslie)5Ever since he’d spoken with Sam Dalton on the phone yesterday morning, Alec had struggled to keep the woman off his mind. Not too hard during the day, when the investigation had been first and foremost. Nighttime was a different story. Sleep had proved difficult, and he’d found himself replaying their conversation, wishing he’d been less belligerent. It bothered him that she’d formed an opinion of him as some kind of overbearing he-man because he’d instinctively rebelled against the idea of her being ogled by a sleaze like Flynt. Bothered him so much he barely slept, shutting his eyes only at around four a.m., which caused him to oversleep Thursday. Fortunately, he lived in a condo in northern Virginia and had commuted down to Quantico when he was with the BAU, so he had been well positioned for the transfer into the city. The drive was shorter in mileage now. Still, the traffic lengthened it to twice what it should be, and there was no way he was going to be on time. It was a typical morning, roads choked with cars whose bumpers all but kissed. The bridges groaned under the weight of stopped vehicles. Idle drivers familiar with the city’s history had uncomfortable flashbacks of the Air Florida plane hitting the one at Fourteenth Street on a cold day like this. Thick clouds of steam rose from the grates above the Metro, and every few minutes a stream of humanity emerged from the top of the stairs at each station, surging out into the workday. Quite a change from the warm, Southern city where he’d grown up and had been expected to stay. Frankly, even with the scars from the bullets, he wouldn’t change a thing. The idea of showing up every morning for the past ten years at the firm his grandfather had started and his father now ran made him queasy. Handling divorces for socialites who lunched with his mother wasn’t his idea of a good job. Another reason to be grateful to Wyatt Blackstone. Arriving at the Black CATs’ suite, he entered his own dingy office and flipped on the light. It flickered overhead, providing just enough weak illumination to showcase the cracks in the floor, the flecks of mildew on the walls, and the water stain on the ceiling. And yet Alec found himself smiling. It wasn’t the slick, glossy office he’d had at the BAU. But it also came without the formality, weight, and competitiveness of that division. He’d been with Blackstone’s CAT for only a few days, yet he’d already noted the intense loyalty of the people who worked for the man and the cohesive-ness of the unit. As soon as he set his leather briefcase on the battered desk he’d been assigned, his new partner entered the office. “You’re late. I was beginning to wonder if you were coming back.” “Was there any doubt?” “There was some question about whether you’d show up at all on Tuesday, after you got a taste of what you were in for on your first day. It’s lightened up every day since.” She glanced at the clock. “But when we hit eight ten without seeing your pretty face, I had to wonder.” Jackie’s curiosity had been restrained for most of the week. Obviously her restraint had run out. “Why wouldn’t I come back?” “Kind of slumming, aren’t you? I mean, you being a BAU hotshot and all.” “If you know anything about me, you know I wore out my welcome with the BAU.” “Yeah, got your ass shot last summer, right when we needed your help nailing that psycho Reaper.” Alec frowned, not liking the reminder. Not merely about the shooting-hell, the scars and occasional twinge of pain wouldn’t let him forget it. But he didn’t like to think he might have been in any way responsible for delaying the capture of the murderer, Seth Covey, who’d killed several innocent victims for the viewing pleasure of a bunch of sickos on an Internet site called Satan’s Playground. As if seeing the self-recrimination he couldn’t hide, Jackie grudgingly admitted, “Worked out okay, though. Taggert and the local sheriff were able to save the last victim; no others were killed between when you got shot and Covey offed himself.” Funny, being consoled by the hard-ass FBI agent, who wore her attitude on her face. Then again, she’d mentioned having a couple of kids. Apparently that maternal instinct extended to her colleagues. If it existed. Which, considering his own mother, who put the frigid in the term “I was poking around online as soon as I got in, checking into some stuff. I found something you ought to see.” “Oh?” Jackie handed him a sheet of paper, a screen shot from an Internet page. Glancing at it, he recognized the name of the site immediately. He flinched, wondering if she somehow knew he’d spent the past two nights thinking about Samantha Dalton. “I wanted to go back and read the post she mentioned to us the other day, about responding to online classified listings. But this new one popped up right away. It’s her latest piece, went live last night. I think we touched a nerve with our online vigilante.” Alec scanned the headline and the opening of what looked like a blog post. “Oh, no.” “Yeah.” “Tell me she didn’t reveal anything important.” “Nothing about the case, or us going to see her. It’s a generic rant expounding on the physical dangers of using the Internet, that you risk not only your identity but actually your life. A plea to people to wise up and see the craziness of interacting with someone they met online.” He nodded, glad he hadn’t misread Mrs. Dalton completely. She hadn’t looked like the type who would go back on her word, but she’d flat out stated she was a journalist at heart. “Go ahead and read it for yourself,” Jackie said. Leaning on the edge of his desk, he did. As his new partner claimed, it was pretty general. But there was an unmistakable undertone, a righteous anger underscoring her words. Maybe because he’d read her book, and had met her, he was able to filter what she said through an internal voice that sounded a lot like Sam Dalton’s. And what he heard told a story. He’d known she was wounded by the news of Ryan Smith’s death. This, however, went deeper. She was angry. Personally angry. Her emotion shone through every line, and he suddenly wondered whether there was more to that anger than her tenuous connection to a murder victim. What had happened in her life to make her choose to do what she did? Her book had come out almost a year ago, but, according to her bio, she had been running her site for three. Without compensation, he suspected, since she described herself as a former journalist who had decided to begin her own grassroots campaign. The journalism part he’d confirmed. Last night’s quick Google search had turned up her byline, under a hyphenated name, on some articles four or five years back. It had also turned up in a few society articles, but he hadn’t read them. That felt too personal for professional research. But no Internet search was going to tell him why she’d quit her job. Why she’d started writing a free blog when she could never have anticipated it going viral and landing her a book deal and a spot on the best-seller list. So what had set her off? Call it curiosity, or the profiler’s need to understand what made people tick, but he found himself wanting to know why she stayed in her tiny apartment living on Diet Coke and candy bars. Why she hid behind that Mrs. when she’d later mentioned having an ex. Why she worked in her pajamas, refused to answer her door, and interacted with the living mainly via cyber communication. Why she’d made it her mission to save people from their own mistakes. “Now,” Jackie said, seeing he had finished reading, “take a look at this.” He hadn’t even realized she’d been holding another sheet of paper. “These are comments posted last night after her blog went up.” There were a lot, and they’d begun shortly after midnight. Apparently avid fans waited for her weekly article and pounced right on it as soon as it went live. The first several were “attagirl” posts from people who were probably her regulars. Then he got to the sixth one, posted at twelve forty a.m. He read it, and then read it again, this time aloud. “ ‘ My dear Samantha, you must know some people simply deserve what they get. What folly it would be to try to save everyone. Why do you even want to try?’ ” The post was signed His senses started to tingle, the way they had when he’d read the e-mails Monday in the conference room. The wording was formal, ostentatious. The message cold and reprehensible. “Condescending,” he murmured. “Arrogant and literate,” Jackie said. “Like someone out to prove how much smarter he is than everyone else.” It took a second; then he remembered what he’d said about the Professor in the car the other day, using exactly those words. “You really think he’s posting on a public message board?” he asked, trying to wrap his mind around the possibility. “You’re the expert. Would the Professor do it?” Alec considered it. Just because the killer had never reached out to the press didn’t mean he lacked the narcissistic need to be recognized. Many serial killers had done the same, wanting to evade capture, yet also, somehow, wanting their work to be acknowledged. Admired, even. And interacting with someone who worked to educate people about the very scams he was using to lure his victims-well, it made sense, in a twisted way. “Yes,” he finally replied, frowning as the implications washed over him. “I think he might. We’ve already noticed other graphic changes in the past few months. He’s accelerating, less downtime between kills. He’s changed his MO in how he lures his victims. Why not reach out and try to engage someone in cyberspace? Someone who’s familiar with the kinds of things he’s doing, perhaps even someone he wants to educate?” Not just someone, though. Samantha Dalton. They were talking about the woman he’d been thinking about nonstop since he’d met her. “It’s thin,” he said, shaking his head, torn between the thrill of a lead and his concern over a woman he barely knew. “Supermodel thin. But keep reading. He posted two more times before six a.m. Got wordier each time, pompous blowhard,” Jackie said, pointing to comments farther down the page. “I didn’t even begin to suspect until I read his third message. I guess you saw it quicker because you know him better.” Alec read the second comment, left about an hour after the first. A little stronger in the wording, every bit as blasé about his fellow man as the first. Then he read the third. In an instant, he zoned in on exactly what Jackie was talking about. “Damn.” “Yeah.” They were definitely onto something. It seemed crazy that this guy could end up in their lap within a couple of days of their meeting with Sam. Then again, their visit to the woman had provided the catalyst for her blog post-which had apparently stirred the Professor enough to draw him out of hiding. Circular motion. Alec quickly zoomed through the rest of the pages, looking for any response from Samantha, but saw none. It was perhaps because of her lack of response that this Darwin kept coming back. He seemed to want to know she’d read his words. Validation, almost, of his ideas. But she hadn’t given it to him. Most likely, she’d been in bed asleep. This morning, though, she would sign on and almost certainly give him what he was asking for. Acknowledgment. Considering how upset she’d been by Ryan’s murder, especially judging by the rant she’d written, that acknowledgment would probably be very strongly worded. And could really tick off the man she was addressing. If this Darwin was the Professor, he’d be the last person anybody should ever tick off. “We need to talk to her before she posts anything back to him.” He heard the urgency in his own voice and wondered whether Jackie did, too. Jackie nodded. “No kidding. I’ve already tried calling but got no answer, e-mailed but got no response. So I guess we’re taking another road trip.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out her car keys, and gave him an evil smile. “I’ll drive.” “I’m glad I didn’t have breakfast,” he muttered as he followed her out into the corridor. But instead of heading for the exit, he glanced toward a partially open door. “Fletcher and Cole’s office, right? And they’re the computer geniuses on the team?” She realized where he was headed. “I wonder if they can track him from these posts.” “I’m not the cyber crimes nerd,” he said, hiding a slight smile as he remembered Sam Dalton’s words. “Can they?” She nodded once. “It’s possible.” “So let’s bring in the rest of the team and go at this together,” he said, the entire concept tasting strange, since he was used to a more cutthroat environment. Strange, but good. Cole and Fletcher, however, weren’t in their office. A quick visit to Blackstone’s told them why. “They left a few minutes ago, going to see what kind of computer forensics they can get from the local PD investigating the help-wanted murder.” Wyatt handed back the screen-shot printouts. “But you can start working on the IP, can’t you, Jackie?” “Yeah. But we still need to get to Mrs. Dalton and make sure she doesn’t respond to him.” “At least, not until we decide how we want her to respond,” Alec interjected. Wyatt stared at him, nodding once to indicate his thoughts had gone in the same direction. “Very well, then. Jackie stays here and works on identifying where those posts came from. Alec, you’ll have to go up to Baltimore and convince Mrs. Dalton to remain silent for the time being. We’ll keep trying to reach her on the phone to make sure she stays offline.” Ordinarily, it would have been a simple task. Alec, though, found his stomach rolling at the thought of it. Not that he couldn’t control his libido, or keep himself from revealing the attraction he’d felt for her from the minute she’d opened the door Tuesday afternoon. He just wondered whether he’d be able to resist trying to get into her head a little. Searching to find the caustic woman whose words he’d read, figuring out more about what made her tick and why she’d chosen the path she was on. Filling in the profile. And, yeah, concealing that attraction. Throughout her marriage, Sam had become accustomed to getting up early. Not by choice-she wasn’t what anybody would call a morning person. She had always done her best thinking and her best work in the silence of the night, preferring the thick, heavy darkness of a sleeping world to the bright, loud one awash with daylight. She’d made friends with the shadows and the soothing voices of the smooth-toned, late-night radio deejays, had become accustomed to eating cereal at one a.m. Her ex, however, had liked to get up with the dawn. When she’d moved into his house, she’d been expected to conform to his routine. Alarm at six a.m. Then a work-out, which he’d harass her into doing with him, even though she’d rather go through an IRS audit than exercise. But she’d been eager to please, still shocked such a rich, handsome man had wanted her. Had pursued her. Had married her. Then he would dress in a beautifully tailored suit and set off for another beautiful day of screwing people over in the beautiful land of get-rich-quick corporate America. Since the divorce, she hadn’t set her alarm. Not once. She could therefore muster no surprise when she opened one bleary eye and saw the numbers nine-five-zero shining in neon green from her bedside clock. Late for most people, especially on a weekday. Not for her. The only question was, why had she awakened at all? She’d shut down her computer right after putting the final touches on her Sam’s Rant column at midnight. Not tired enough for bed, she had turned off all the lights and curled up on her couch in the living room, wishing she could turn her brain off, too. Impossible. Instead, she spent a few hours mentally rewriting history, imagining she’d been home to receive Ryan Smith’s IMs that snowy night. It had been after three before she’d finally moved into her bedroom and fallen into her bed. Yet sleep had still proved elusive after those wide-awake dreams, and she’d last looked at the clock at four thirty. Then she heard the knocking and realized what had awakened her. “Wonderful,” she muttered. Visitors Tuesday. A tense early-morning call from Alec Wednesday, followed by a visit from her lawyer. Now this. It couldn’t be her mother. She never came over without calling first, ever hopeful that one day Sam would find somebody and there might be an embarrassing situation to walk in on. Tricia would be at the realty office where she worked. Sam had a smile-and-nod relationship with most of her neighbors, which was how she liked it. Rick Young had to have gotten the message that she wouldn’t go out with him. And the rest of her more casual friends had given up trying to draw her out, figuring she’d leave her postdivorce hibernation when she was ready. The knocking continued. Her teeth grinding together so hard her jaw hurt, she got up and stalked out of the bedroom, not even stopping for a robe, a hair check, or a swish of mouthwash. All of which she regretted when she flung the door open and saw Special Agent Alec Lambert standing on the other side of it. “Shit,” she snapped, unable to help it. His lips quirked. Sam almost slammed the door again. As if realizing it, Lambert moved closer, blocking the jamb with his body like some determined kid peddling magazine subscriptions. “I need to talk to you.” “Ever heard of making an appointment?” She squirmed, bunching the front of her nightshirt in her fists, knowing there was no chance he hadn’t read the man-bashing sentiment this time. “Ever heard of answering your phone?” he countered. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped around her into the living room. “We’ve been calling all morning.” Sam cast a quick, guilty look toward the telephone. Last night, after Tricia’s third or fourth call demanding info on who had been in her apartment Tuesday, she had turned the ringer off. “Sorry.” She didn’t mention she’d just gotten up and might not have answered anyway. The bare feet and nightshirt, not to mention the rat’s nest disguised as her hair, made that eminently clear. “What do you want? What’s so important to have you at my door at this ungodly hour?” He managed to avoid rolling his eyes. “I know you’re a night owl and this is the crack of dawn for you. But it is important. Why don’t you get cleaned up and dressed? I can wait a few minutes.” His mouth tightened. “As long as you still haven’t gone online this morning.” Her curiosity rising, she shook her head. “I haven’t.” “Good. Now go; I’ll be right here.” Sam sidestepped toward her bedroom, not turning her back on him. Letting the FBI agent fully appreciate the angry-divorcée message on her nightie seemed preferable to flashing her underwear as she departed. Hopefully he had been focused on the saucy words, not on the fact that she was nearly naked beneath the shirt. She’d opened the door to a bitterly cold morning and had almost certainly greeted him with high beams fully lit. Once in the privacy of her bathroom, Sam multitasked, raking a comb through her hair with one hand while she brutally brushed her teeth with the other. Afterward, she quickly rummaged through her drawers and pulled out a pair of old, premarried khakis that still fit. Considering she’d gained back the fifteen pounds she’d lost on the good-wife-diet-and-exercise program, she didn’t have many other options, unless she wanted to again entertain an FBI agent in her sweats. When she returned to her living room, she found he’d made himself at home on the couch, which no longer held the mountain of laundry. She hadn’t exactly gone on a cleaning binge, but she’d picked up at least a little. “What’s this about?” Sitting down at her desk, she flipped the power button on the surge protector behind her CPU. “You mentioned my being online?” “You haven’t been since last night?” he confirmed again. She shook her head. “I read your weekly rant.” She stiffened, though she had done nothing wrong. She hadn’t hinted about knowing a murder victim, or about being contacted by the FBI. She’d merely called the criminals who preyed on people online the scum-bags they were. “And?” “It was good.” Though she hadn’t been looking for his approval, only his acknowledgment that she had kept her word to stay quiet about the FBI’s visit, she still liked the compliment. “It was also pretty passionate,” he added. “Who wouldn’t be passionate after hearing about the murders of two teenage boys?” “You might be surprised.” That said a lot about the human race that she didn’t want to contemplate. “So what’s the problem? I kept my word; there’s nothing in it about Ryan or the investigation. Or you.” Actually, maybe he’d done her a favor with the disapproving reaction. It had made it easier to pretend she hadn’t felt a spark of interest in the man. To suppose she’d simply imagined how his hand had felt on her shoulder. Instead of answering, he reached into his leather at taché and pulled out a few sheets of paper. When he handed them to her, she realized what they were and frowned in bewilderment. “I know what I wrote.” “Look at the second page. The comments.” She did, quickly scanning them from the top down. “Regulars?” he asked. “Most.” “What about number six?” She read it. “ Darwin? Doesn’t ring any bells, beyond the obvious reference.” “So he’s not a frequent visitor?” “Not under this name.” Frowning, she read the words again. “And I don’t usually have visitors who are quite so…” “Condescending?” “I was going to say hateful. I guess you were right about being surprised by people’s reactions.” She shook her head in disgust. “This guy doesn’t sound at all bothered by the idea of victims walking right into the hands of psychopaths who want to do them harm.” “We don’t think he is.” The words were low, measured, his tone even. Sam’s gaze flew up as she realized he was telling her something big. Very big. She forced herself to remain calm, despite a sudden rising dismay. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” He didn’t reply, waiting for her to lay it out there. “Do you think this Darwin could be the person who killed the boys?” He leaned forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees. “Read his other comments.” She immediately obeyed, noting they were again signed Darwin, though he’d apparently been so riled up he’d mistyped his own name once. “Darwen?” Alec pointed to the paragraph below. Sam studied the words, gasping as their implication sank in. Then, needing to be sure, she read them again, out loud this time. “ ‘What would you have us do, Samantha? Should we who have a brain cell in our heads lie in front of the cars of those so foolish they willingly drive into peril? Do we save the reckless ones from the mishaps that so rightfully remove them from our world? Stop the imbe cilic female from falling into the machine, or the greedy youth from drowning or freezing to death?’ ” Her voice trailed off in shock as the reality of it hit her. Swallowing hard, she let the pages flutter from her hand to the floor, as if she’d been touched by something toxic. Maybe she had. “Coincidence?” she asked, trying to convince herself more than him. “He could have chosen those words because he saw the story about the boys on the news.” “The woman killed after answering the online help-wanted ad five weeks ago was tricked into falling into an industrial hopper.” The details in the case file had been horrific, and he did not elaborate. She couldn’t manage more than a whisper. “That case was also in the news. I saw it.” “The specific details weren’t.” Some things were too gruesome even for the evening news. He fell silent, waiting for her to accept it. Something she truly didn’t want to do. But finally, seeing the certainty in his stare, she knew she had to believe it, to swallow down the truth like bitter medicine and move on. “A psychotic killer is trying to contact me.” Lambert nodded. “I think so.” Her head spinning, she sagged back in her chair. God, no wonder he had been so anxious to reach her. What if she’d gotten back online this morning-or if she’d checked the site one more time before going to sleep last night? In the state she’d been in, she would have given Darwin a piece of her mind. Which could have angered him so much he might have wanted to rip the rest of her to pieces, too. She shuddered. “Thank God I didn’t respond.” For the first time since he’d arrived, the agent’s stare didn’t quite meet her own. He glanced down at his hands, folded together and dangling between his knees. “Yes. Thank God.” She hesitated; then understanding washed over her. She finally got the whole picture. What he’d come for, what he wanted from her, why he looked both excited and disturbed. Why he couldn’t meet her eye right now. Excited because he had a lead in his case. Disturbed and unable to look her in the eye because… “Wait. You He nodded. Speaking in a voice that had suddenly lost most of its volume, she continued. “You want to use my Web site to strike up a conversation with a murderer?” “No, Mrs. Dalton.” He didn’t offend her intelligence by even trying to soften it. “I want InXile: R u still there? InXile: My friend? Wndygrl1: Im here. This is so sudden. Tonight? InXile: Must be tonight. Sorry. Has to be nine o’clock. Wndygrl1: That’s very late. InXile: You get in trouble to stay out late? Wndygrl1: lol! Just wondering if I dare. InXile: Dare to come to me? Wndygrl1: Dare to start this new life. InXile: U know how I feel. Wndygrl1: I didn’t expect it to happen so soon. Tho I have been thinking about it. I was just about to go shop for something pretty to wear. InXile: I am sure you make anything pretty. Wndygrl1: You say such nice things, Rafe. But this is so sudden. You made no mention of having to go away when we talked last night. InXile: I know. Things go so quickly. I would love 2 give u all the time in the world to get ready. But my time runs out. If not tonight I don’t know when. Could be months. Wndygrl1: Oh, dear… you will be gone that long? InXile: Yes. My life is so different from yours. So much difficulties. I wish only to see you, to romance you, one time before I go, so you might wait for me to come back. Wndygrl1: I’ll wait!!!!!! InXile: My sweet. Can I convince you? A public meeting…? Wndygrl1: We would meet in a public place? InXile: I promise, I will take you somewhere with no walls, no doors, where you can be seen at any time. Wndygrl1: That sounds safe. InXile: And maybe tempting? Wndygrl1: Yes. InXile: Yes, I have tempted you? Wndygrl1: I meant |
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