The Watcher

Before it was too late.

There would be no way to get Griff out of her life now. If the killer continued to phone them both with clues, they would have to compare notes on a regular basis. And, as Griff had told her, he would stay either one step ahead of or one step behind the authorities on every case.

She had talked to Doug again. “I think the killer wants me heading up this case. Why else would he choose a victim from Alexandria, in my territory? I think he picked me just like he picked his victims.”

“Isn’t that reason enough not to play along?” Doug had asked her.

“I have to do this. He knows that. Talk to Ace Warren. Persuade him to use his influence to see that I’m put in charge. Make us the office of origin on this case and the others the Auxiliary offices. After all, our killer is talking personally to me and not to any other agent.”

“He’s also talking to Griffin Powell,” Doug had reminded her. “Want me to put him in charge, too?”

“Very funny.”

“I’ll talk to Ace.”

“Thanks.”

Nic had spent more than four years of her career tracking down the BQ Killer and when Cary Maygarden had been unveiled as the murderer, that should have put an end to it. Unfortunately, one small but significant clue had kept her from writing “The End” to the story that everyone else had said was concluded. Two bullets had been found in Maygarden’s body. One bullet had come from Powell’s sharpshooter Holt Keinan’s rifle and the other from an unknown source. Although the bureau and the local authorities in Knoxville had looked into the matter, nothing had ever come of it. Dead end. Only she and Griff had been convinced that there had been a second BQ Killer, one who had ended the deadly game—the dying game—by shooting his partner.

The second killer had laid low for a whole year, killing again almost a year from the day that Cary Maygarden had died. Coincidence? No way.

As Nic power-walked block after block, her mind moving as quickly as her feet, her brain jumped from thought to thought. But she finally realized that it all came back down to that final, perplexing clue—rubies and lemon drops.

By the time she had come full circle and returned to her block, dawn light was spreading across the eastern horizon in vibrant splashes of color. A pink glow so dark it was almost red, fringed in pale gold. Something she’d heard her grandmother say when she was a child came to mind. “Red sky in the morning is a sailor’s warning.” A red morning sky forecast rain.

Nic slowed when she reached her driveway, tossed her head back, and sucked in huge gulps of fresh air. Her gaze lingered on the sky, alight with color, red and gold, pink and yellow.

Red and yellow.

Rubies and lemon drops.

Damn! Could it be that simple?

Had the final clue been the colors red and yellow? If so, what could it possibly mean? The color of her hair? Blonde. The color of her car? Red? That couldn’t be it.

Colors. Think colors. Paints, crayons, eye color, hair color, skin color.

Wiping the perspiration from her cheeks with the back of her hand, Nic paused at her kitchen door. She removed the mint green plastic spiral wristband with her key attached and unlocked the door.

Think sports. Colors. School colors?

Was there any college with red and yellow as school colors?

Nic closed the door behind her, walked into her kitchen, and saw that the coffeemaker she had set the night before had brewed eight cups of heavenly smelling black coffee.

Shower first. Coffee later.

School colors. Red and yellow.

If you mix red with yellow you get—orange.

Orange was the dominant color for how many colleges?

Nic yanked her cell phone from the clip on her walking shorts, hit the programmed number, and held her breath until she heard his voice.

“Rubies and lemon drops,” she said. “Red and yellow. Mix those colors and you get orange.”

“So you do.” Griffin Powell sounded wide-awake and not the least surprised to hear from her.

“Think school colors—what comes to mind when you say orange?”

“My first thought is UT, of course.” He cursed softly under his breath. “That’s too simple, but—”

“What if the woman he intends to abduct this morning is a basketball player from UT? I know it’s a long shot, but—”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“I can contact the campus police,” Nic said. “They may think I’m crazy and I can’t say I’d blame them, but—”

“Let me handle this,” Griff told her. “I’ve got an in at UT. I know the head of campus security and if I ask him to check on all the blonde players on the UT women’s basketball team, he’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Griff.” She hesitated, hating that, in this case, he could do more than she could and do it quicker. “Call me as soon as you find out anything.”

“You realize this could turn out to be nothing. Yes, red and yellow make orange and orange is a UT color. But you’ve already admitted that it really is a long shot. We’ve probably got it all wrong.”

“You mean I’ve got it all wrong.”

“If we’re partners, then we’re both wrong or we’re both right.”

“We are not partners.”

“Whatever you say, Nicki.”

Before she could come up with an adequate snappy comeback, he hung up. Smart-ass.

Nic eyed the coffee. She could almost taste it. Resisting temptation, she hurried to the bathroom, placed her cell phone on the vanity, and stripped. Once under the shower-head, she closed her eyes and let the warm water pepper down over her head and body.

The odds were her guess about the color orange was wrong, which would make their second guess that the potential victim was a UT basketball player also wrong.

Oh, God, please, please let me be right. And if I am, don’t let it be too late to save her.

Amber Kirby went for her morning run. During the week, she got up earlier than on weekends and usually had the trail to herself for at least part of her run. When the fall semester started and there were more students on campus, the trail wouldn’t be as solitary as it was today. She didn’t mind the solitude because she often used earphones to listen to her favorite tunes on her iPod.

Just as she made it to the halfway point and was heading back, she met a man walking the trail instead of running or jogging as most people did. Because he was only the second person she’d seen in her three-mile jog this morning, she glanced at him, her gaze connecting with his for half a second. He looked like someone who needed exercise. Although he wasn’t fat, his body looked soft and pudgy and his face was round and full.

He smiled as she whizzed past him. She returned his smile.

An odd shiver rippled along her nerve endings.