“What?” she demanded.
He shook his head, then pointed a finger at her. “Sherri Mason, the woman who was killed, was five feet eight inches tall, about one hundred and thirty pounds. She had blue eyes—and long red hair.”
They all stood in silence for a long moment.
“Wow. Thanks a lot for that,” Christina said at last.
Ana slipped a supportive arm around her friend’s waist. “We can handle ourselves. It’s the unwary who usually wind up in trouble.”
“That’s not the point,” Michael said, and took a deep breath. “Christie, you have to be careful. The last victims, twelve years ago…they were all tall. And all had light eyes and—”
“And long red hair,” Dan breathed softly.
“Just like Sherri Mason,” Mike said. “Who was killed just the same way. As if she’d been killed by…a ghost.”
2
J ed should have headed straight over to Christina’s house, and in fact he had meant to.
But he didn’t.
For some reason he found himself traveling down the road that led to one of the largest local cemeteries.
Beau Kidd had been laid to rest there. His parents and his sister, furious that Beau had been labeled a killer without a trial, grieving his death, had ordered a fine tombstone for him. A glorious angel in marble rested atop it, kneeling down in prayer.
It was dusk when he arrived, and the gates were closed, but the cemetery was one of the oldest in the area. Broken tombstones belonging to those who had served in the United States military as far back as the Seminole Wars could be found there. No one had ever spent the money for a high fence, so he was easily able to hop the low wall and enter. He knew this cemetery well. Too well, he thought.
Margaritte was buried here.
But he hadn’t come to mourn at her grave or feel sorry for himself. Not tonight.
He was losing it, he thought. Visiting a cemetery, as if Beau Kidd could talk to him from the grave and offer him help.
No, he told himself. He had simply decided to check on the monument, that was all. In the years after the killings and Kidd’s own death, the tombstone had been vandalized several times. Then Beau Kidd’s mother had appeared on television and made such a tearful plea to be let alone that the vandalism had stopped. No requests by law enforcement or even arrests could have put an end to the graffiti and damage the way her softly sobbed plea had done.
He could see the angel as he headed down the path. What surprised him was that he wasn’t the only one who had come to check on Beau Kidd’s grave tonight.
There was a young woman standing there. He frowned, for a moment thinking it might be Christina Hardy. This woman, too, had long red hair, and she was tall, slim and shapely, with elegantly straight posture.
But when she turned as Jed approached, he saw that though she was attractive, her features were quite different from Christina’s. For one thing, her eyes were a pale yellow-green color, not a brilliant blue.
He didn’t recognize her, but she obviously recognized him.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
“Do I know you?” he asked bluntly.
“Katherine Kidd, Beau’s sister,” she said.
“We’ve never met.”
“No? Sorry, but I know who you are. You’re an opportunist. You wrote a book about my brother. As if the events weren’t painful enough.”
“I wrote a work of fiction,” he said. Why defend himself? He should just let her lambaste him. That might work out better for both of them.
“Why are you here? Do you want to hammer a stake into my brother’s heart? Do you think he’s alive and killing again?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”
He turned to go.
“If you’re lost, your wife’s grave is nowhere near here,” she called after him.
He squared his shoulders and kept walking.
“Wait!”
He was startled when she ran after him. Her eyes were troubled when she awkwardly touched his arm to get him to turn around. “Why are you here?” she demanded.
He hesitated. “I don’t know, exactly. I guess…I wanted to think. Honestly, I don’t know.”
“Beau was never the killer,” she said.
“How can you be so certain?” he asked.
“He was my brother.”
He let out a soft sigh. “You do know that every homicidal maniac is some mother’s son?”
“I know you investigated when you wrote your book. I know you were a cop. And I know you have a license now as a private investigator. You came here because you’re feeling guilty for what you did to my brother’s reputation. You want absolution? Fine. Prove that’s not just a copycat out there. Prove Beau was innocent.”
He stared at her, unable to think of anything to say.
“I’ll pay you,” she offered suddenly.He shook his head. “No. No, you won’t pay me.”
“You don’t really believe in Beau’s innocence, do you? Not even now, with the evidence lying in the morgue,” she said.
“I don’t know what I believe right now,” he told her honestly.
She shook her head. “I’ve read every word let out by the police, the newspapers, every single source. No copycat could be so exact.”
“I don’t know yet just how exact he was,” he said.
“I do. And I know that Beau wasn’t a killer, no matter how guilty he looked. And you…you used him.”
“I used a story, a real-life story,” he said quietly. “And I’m going to investigate, but no one owes me anything. I guess that’s why I was here tonight. This one is between the two of us, Beau and me,” he told her.
He nodded and walked away again. When he looked back, she was standing where he had left her, looking bereft and alone.
“I’ll keep you informed—when I can prove something,” he told her.
He thought that she smiled as she lifted a hand to wave goodbye.
There was a low ground fog beginning to rise. Looking up, he saw that the moon was full. Odd night. Most of the time around here, the fog came in the early morning. Between the moon and the fog, the cemetery seemed to be bathed in some kind of eerie glow.
As he headed to his car, he thought about Sherri Mason, lying on the autopsy table. Sherri…tall, slim, with long red hair.
Before he knew it, he was heading back into the cemetery. “Katherine!” he shouted, running.
She was standing by her brother’s monument again. She looked up, startled.
“You need to get out of here,” he told her. She stared at him blankly. “It’s dark, and there’s a killer loose. Where’s your car?”
“Along the street, just past the gate.”
“I’ll see you to it.”
“All right.” She sounded unconvinced, but she didn’t argue.
He walked her to the Honda parked by the curb. She must have arrived after the cemetery had officially closed, as well. She slid behind the driver’s seat and lowered the window. He ducked down to talk to her, but before he could speak, she said, “I know, long red hair. I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m twenty-four, but I still live with my folks. I’ll be okay.”
He nodded as she turned her key in the ignition, and he watched the Honda’s lights disappear into the fog.
He stood there for a long moment, feeling a strange sensation of dread grip his spine like an iron claw. Beautiful women with long red hair.
Christina Hardy fell into that category, as well.
He had lost her tonight, thanks to the cop-turned-writer.
But he would prevail. He would behave normally. He was a special person, unique; amazing things went on in his mind. He could walk, talk, smile and act completely normal, and all the while he would be planning his next kill.
But there had been an almost frightening moment when he had felt as if he might combust, the opportunity had been so good.
She had been there, so appetizing.
He made himself breathe, told himself to function. There was his world, his inner world, and then there was the world beyond. Sometimes he could combine them, but it was over now.
Still, there had been those moments when he had almost been able to taste and feel the results of his brilliance. He had come here tonight by happenstance, unable to resist a visit to the grave of the man who had taken the blame for everything he himself had done all those years ago. And then…to see Kidd’s sister…
It was too good.
She was such a pretty thing. All that lovely hair…
Then he’d shown up.
Jed Braden was big and broad-shouldered, clearly capable of holding his own in a fight.
But that didn’t matter. The point lay in his own brilliance, not in something as crass as a physical fight. He loved watching the dumb fucks chase their tails while he went gleefully about his business.
God, he loved the press. The newscasters were so grave when they talked about the latest killing. Then, with the switch of a camera angle, a smile instead of a somber look. Suddenly it was “Lots of fun on tap for Halloween this year.”
But at home, watching their plasma TVs, the viewers would be reeling. No change in camera angle for them. A killer was on the loose….
The experts were all baffled. It would never be like the crime shows. He was far too intelligent. There would be no solving his murders in a one-hour show.
How he loved the attention. His double life. Defying profilers and “behavioralists,” knowing they were more confused than ever now.
And all thanks to his own brilliance.
Breathe. Be ready. Walk, talk, smile, and all while the other world lived on in his mind. The time would come again—and soon—when it would become real once again.
“Quit staring at me. You’re giving me chills,” Christina said to her cousins.
Mike shook his head, looking away. “I just want you to be careful.”
“I am careful. I’ve always been careful. I never go anywhere with strangers. I’m street smart, honest. You guys know that,” she said.