Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(115)

Some.

Women alone?

One.

Then a few seconds later:

He’s going for her.

She feels dread tinged with a disappointment that feels noxiously selfish.

They knew this might happen. They’ve discussed what to do. No way can they stand back and let him abduct another woman. Luke will have to intervene; he’s got his service revolver just in case. He’ll wait till the woman’s in the trunk, draw the gun. Then they’ll have Pemberton on something real; something other than a creepy snatch and grab or attempted assault. It’s not the way they want him, and it’s probably not the show Graydon wants to see. But they’ll stop another murder, and another mask, and maybe that will make this all worth it.

Until it’s time to look for another bad man.

He walked right past her.

Details? she types.

Didn’t come up behind her. Walked toward her. Watching her. She said hi. Very cheerful. He said hi back. That was it. Now he’s headed back to the Camry.

Size?

Tiny. And her car’s in the middle of the lot. Close to his. Sara Pratt, 5’ 6”. Kelley Sumter, 5’ 2”. Why not take her?

Her shuttle lurches toward the second and final terminal stop.

Nobody else gets on.

In terms of arrivals, this is in the in-between zone.

Right now most of the airport’s traffic is international checkins. In another hour, baggage claim in all the terminals will get swamped with people arriving from points east, folks who took advantage of the time change to enjoy another full day at their destinations before catching the last flight west.

If he’s as smart as she thinks he is, if he’s researched the arrivals schedule like she has, he’ll know this is his golden hour. Another hour and too many passengers will start pouring off the shuttles at once for him to make a quick, clean grab. An hour after that and arrivals traffic goes down to a trickle. Hunting will be poor, and any wrong move could draw the attention of the bored graveyard shift. And this guy doesn’t call attention to himself—not until it’s time to leave one of his creations in public. So far he’s been about balance, precision, a true surgeon in all his affairs.

Why reject her? Luke writes. Is he just scoping?

Thinking . . . she writes.

She’s imagining the steps Luke described.

Woman emerges from bus.

He starts for her.

Approaches her from the front, not the back.

And then she says hi, and he says hi, and he keeps walking.

Another one, Luke types.

Her shuttle’s left the terminal. They’re cresting Aviation Boulevard, angling for the canyon of airport hotels—bus bouncing, passengers chatting excitedly now that they’re picking up speed.

Another shuttle? she asks.

No. Another woman. She just parked. Alone. Heading for the shuttle stop. He’s seen her.

A few seats away, the pug yips, obviously regaining strength after its drug-induced nap.

Same deal, he writes. Coming up on her from the front.

The shuttle turns a corner; she figures they’ve got about another ten minutes until she reaches the lot.

Luke. What’s happening?

They’re talking.

What???

She’s asking him where the shuttle goes, and he’s answering.

Watch them. And draw your weapon.

Can’t text with a gun in my hand : )

This isn’t fucking funny, she wants to say, but she also needs to trust him. If he’s joking, it’s because he doesn’t see or sense danger.

She’s headed off now. He’s not following. WTF? Two easy targets. Doesn’t go for either. I don’t get it.

Charlotte takes a deep breath. Tries to clear her head. Runs through his script again in his head.

Approaches from the front, not the back.

First one smiles, says hi. He says hi back; lets her go.

Another one approaches him, asking questions.

Letting him know she doesn’t know where she’s going. Letting him know she’s vulnerable. A target of opportunity if there ever was one.

And he doesn’t take her.

Why?

Is he hunting for a physical attribute?

She and Luke have spent days now studying everything they could find about the victims, including Elle Schaeffer, even though her connection isn’t definitive yet.

Sarah Pratt, Kelley Sumter, Elle Schaeffer. All three midtwenties and white.

At five six, Sarah Pratt was the tallest of the bunch, with Kelley and Elle coming in right behind her, at five two and five four, respectively. The physical similarities end there. Hair color, eye color, facial features—they’re all wildly different. Kelley Sumter was a stick figure with a great mane of bottle-blonde hair and a love of cheap, flashy jewelry; Sarah Pratt, a svelte fitness nut and redhead who kept her hair military-grade short and wore halter tops that proudly flashed a tattoo on her shoulder inspired by a series of vampire romance novels she loved. As for Elle, she was a full-figured tomboy who eschewed dresses and had trouble smiling in pictures; the jog that might have ended her life was, according to her work friends, one of her first.

It’s not about them, she realizes. It’s about him. He approaches them from the front so they can see him.

The bus makes a dramatic left turn.

It’s time to text Luke.

Coming into the lot, she writes.