Long Road to Mercy (Atlee Pine, #1)(4)

However, Pine knew that narcissism was probably one of the most dangerous traits someone could possess for one critical reason: The narcissist could not feel empathy toward others. Which meant that the lives of others held no value to a narcissist. Killing could even be like a hit of fentanyl: instant euphoria from the domination and destruction of another.

That was why virtually every serial murderer was also a narcissist.

She said, “But Andersonville was not part of that pattern. Was it a one-off? Were you freelancing? What made you come to my house?”

“It was a rhombus, not a diamond,” replied Tor.

Pine didn’t respond to this.

He continued, as though lecturing to a class. “My pattern was a rhombus, a lozenge, if you prefer, a quadrilateral, a four-sided figure with four equal-length sides, and unequal-length diagonals. For example, a kite is a parallelogram only when it’s a rhombus.” He gave a patronizing glance at what she had drawn. “A diamond is not a true or precise mathematical term. So don’t make that mistake again. It’s embarrassing. And unprofessional. Did you even prepare for this meeting?” With his manacled hands, he gave a dismissive wave and disgusted look to the figure she’d drawn on the glass, as though she had imprinted something foul there.

“Thank you, that makes it perfectly clear,” said Pine, who couldn’t give a shit about parallelograms specifically, or math in general. “So why the one-off? You’d never broken a pattern before.”

“You presume my pattern was broken. You presume I was in Andersonville on the night of June 7, 1989.”

“I never said it was at night.”

The smile flickered back. “Doesn’t the boogeyman only come out at night?”

Pine reflected for a moment on her earlier thought about monsters only striking at midnight. To catch these killers, she had to think like them. It was and always had been a profoundly disturbing thought to her.

Before she could respond, he said, “Six years old? A twin? Where exactly did it take place?”

“In our bedroom. You came in through the window. You taped our mouths shut so we couldn’t call out. You held us down with your hands.”

She took out a piece of paper from her pocket and held it up to the glass, so he could see the writing on that side.

His gaze drifted down the page, his features unreadable, even to an experienced agent like Pine.

“A four-line nursery rhyme?” he said, tacking on a yawn. “What next? Will you break into song?”

“You thumped our foreheads as you recited it,” noted Pine, who leaned forward a notch. “Each word, a different forehead. You started with me and ended on Mercy. Then you took her, and you did this to me.”

She swept back her hair to reveal a scar behind her left temple. “Not sure what you used. It was a blur. Maybe just your fist. You cracked my skull.” She added, “But you’re a big man and I was just a little kid.” She paused. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”

“No, you’re not. What, about five eleven?”

“My sister was tall, too, at age six, but skinny. Big guy like you, you could have carried her easily. Where did you take her?”

“Presumption again. As you said, I’d never broken a pattern before. Why would you think that I had then?”

Pine leaned even closer to the glass. “Thing is, I remember seeing you.” She looked him over. “You’re pretty unforgettable.”

The lip curled again, like the string on a bow being pulled back. About to let loose a fatal arrow. “You remember seeing me? And you only show up now? Twenty-nine years later?”

“I knew you weren’t going anywhere.”

“A weak quip, and hardly an answer.” He glanced at her badge again. “FBI. Where are you assigned? Somewhere near here?” he added a bit eagerly.

“Where did you take her? How did my sister die? Where are her remains?”

These queries were rapidly fired off, because Pine had practiced them on the long drive here.

Tor simply continued his line of thought. “I assume not a field office. You don’t strike me as a main-office type. Your dress is casual and you’re here outside visiting hours, hardly by the Bureau book. And there’s only one of you. Your kind likes to travel in pairs if it’s official business. Add to that the personal equation.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, meeting his gaze.

“You lose a twin, you become a loner, like you lost half of yourself. You can’t rely on or trust anyone else once that emotional cord is broken. You’re not married,” he added, glancing at her bare ring finger. “So you have no one to interrupt your lifelong sense of loss until one day you kick off, alone, frustrated, unhappy.” He paused, looking mildly interested. “Yet something happened to lead you here after nearly three decades. Did it take you that long to work up the courage to face me? An FBI agent? It does give one pause.”

“You have no reason not to tell me. They can take off another life sentence, it won’t matter. Florence is it for you.”

His next response was surprising, but perhaps it shouldn’t have been.

“You’ve tracked down and arrested at least a half-dozen people like me. The least talented among them had killed four, the most talented had disposed of ten.”