The Killer Collective (John Rain, #10; Ben Treven #4; Livia Lone #3)(7)

But she was in luck, and ViCAP offered a solid lead: an attack in Bridgeport, Connecticut, eight months earlier. The same victim profile: a morning jogger. The same MO: the blitzkrieg attack from behind, the knife, the zip tie, the practiced efficiency. No mention of the likely implement used to cut away the clothes, but it had been raining, confirming for Livia that the weather the man was operating in was choice, not coincidence. And the setting was similar, too—a place called Seaside Park, another spot popular with joggers and situated on the water, this time Long Island Sound. There had been other attacks in the past, she was certain of it—as certain as she was that there would be more in the future, unless this man was stopped.

She put Child’s Play out of her mind, knowing that for the moment, at least, Trahan was on it, and that whatever arrests she might make in connection with the site were months away regardless. She stayed at her desk, working every local database she could access, calling police departments up and down the Connecticut coast. But she turned up nothing.

Two attacks already. She was guessing one more—probably the next time it rained, which in Seattle would almost certainly be soon—before this rapist moved on to new hunting grounds, where she might lose track of him forever.

She wasn’t going to let that happen. One way or the other, she was going to stop him here.





chapter

five





RAIN


I called the number Horton gave me. The voice that answered was male and spoke in undifferentiated American-accented English. It said, “That took a while. We now have one day fewer than we otherwise would have.”

The grammatically correct fewer, I noted, not the more common less. And the delivery was crisp, the tone a mild rebuke. An officer, maybe, accustomed to addressing subordinates. When I was younger and something of a hothead, that kind of peremptory treatment would have gotten my back up. But if you live long enough, you gain perspective, and maybe some self-control. So instead of getting irritated, I responded as though bored.

“Is that the royal ‘we’? Because your time constraints have nothing to do with me.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

Maybe because Horton had challenged me with something similar, and maybe because the question wasn’t completely without merit, I felt myself getting annoyed.

“To hear you out,” I said. “And for someone purporting to be concerned about time, you sure take a lot of it getting to the point.”

I congratulated myself on demonstrating wisdom and tactical restraint by not finishing the sentence with asshole.

There was a pause, probably while he recalibrated his approach. Then he said, “Three jobs, all requiring immediate attention, all needing to look natural. If my information is correct, the kind of work at which you excel.”

First was the fewer, not less. Now it was the care in avoiding a preposition at the end of a sentence. An educated man, presumably. Precise. Apparently fussy about small-minded rules, perhaps to compensate for a willingness to ignore large ones.

I placed the observation in the mental file I was building and considered. He would tell me who. Probably where. Certainly how much.

All critical topics, obviously. But after a long string of manipulations and betrayals, I’d learned that nothing was more important to my own protection than why. And maybe the question had become important for other reasons, reasons of conscience or clarity or other areas I tried to obscure with a more practical focus on my own survival.

Of course, why was the one question the people handing out the jobs least wanted to answer. Which meant it had to be approached obliquely, the truth discerned like a shadow cast by the lies surrounding it.

So I started with the easy part—the part he’d be expecting, and that would most suggest I was interested. “Who are we talking about?”

“Are you in?”

“Are you high?”

“What?”

“You expect me to say yes to a job—no, three jobs—I don’t know anything about? What kind of amateur outfit am I dealing with?”

The insult was calculated. Whether this guy was an amateur or a professional, he would perceive himself as the latter, and would now be invested in proving it to me. Interrogators call the technique ego down.

“I assure you,” the guy said, a touch of indignation creeping into his tone, “you’ve heard of me.”

“Government?”

“I was government. I left because the amateurs were impeding my efforts. Now I get things done.”

“Then who are the three jobs?”

There was a pause. Then, “Three people in law enforcement—a Fed, a local, a consultant. Is that a problem?”

I didn’t need the money. I didn’t like the guy. And anyway, I was retired.

But it couldn’t hurt to learn a little more.

“Not so far.”

“Let’s start with the local. A Seattle cop. A woman. You okay with that?”

“If you know the guy who brokered this introduction, you know I’m not. No women. No children. No acts against non-principals. And no B-teams.”

I didn’t like the way it came out. Like a parameter instead of a protest.

“Yes, he mentioned you’re squeamish that way, but I didn’t believe it. Aren’t we all special snowflakes? You’ll melt some snowflakes, but not others?”