The Inquisitor

“I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist,” Sean Murphy went on, seeming to relish the impact his words were having, “but I’ve got a feeling he’d be interested.”

“In me? Are you suggesting that the killer would be interested in me?”

“Since you’re out there telling the world what a poor, misunderstood bastard he is.”

She didn’t bother to refute the accusation again. He had decided that’s what she’d said. There was probably nothing she could do to dissuade him from his perception.

And what if he’s right? What if that’s what the killer heard, too?

Which would be a hell of an assumption. First, that the murderer had even heard the interview. And second, that he’d misinterpreted her words exactly as this arrogant SOB had.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, working to keep any emotion out of the conventional words. It was obvious Sean Murphy had come here to frighten her. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded.

As soon as he was out of here, she would call the police and tell them what he’d said. That business about having a long and intimate acquaintance with the killer would probably be of interest to them.

“Believe me, Dr. Kincaid, concern for you isn’t what brought me. Since you didn’t seem to have any idea what you’d done, however, I did feel a certain moral obligation to warn you.”

“Then consider that your ‘moral obligation’ has been fulfilled. I assure you I feel duly warned.”

As she said the last, she again reached for the intercom button, hoping he’d take that as a hint that they were done. Instead of turning toward the door as she’d hoped, he stood there, directly across from her desk, his eyes once more assessing.

“He’s smart,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “And he’ll be in no hurry. He never is. A couple of months. Maybe more. Actually, it could be any time. Any time he chooses.”

“Thank you.” She held his eyes without letting her own reveal any reaction to the threat. And she now had no doubt that’s what it was. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

For the first time a tilt at the corners disturbed the thin line of his lips. The smile seemed to soften the spare planes of his face, although it held not one iota of amusement.

“There is one thing he doesn’t know,” he added. “Something that may work to your advantage.”

Maybe he was disturbed. Maybe those signs of normality she’d noted didn’t mean jack shit.

“And what is that, Mr. Murphy?”

“That I’m every bit as patient as he is. When you see him, you might want to tell him that.”

The bite of the cold outside air was welcome after the overheated interior of the office building. Sean stood a moment in front of its double glass doors, staring unseeingly across at the lot where he’d parked the rented SUV.

Guilt had reared its ugly head even before he’d turned on his heel and walked out of Jenna Kincaid’s office. It hadn’t abated during the short ride down on the elevator.

He’d done what he’d come here to do. He’d frightened her so that the next time some reporter stuck a mike under her nose, she’d think twice before she made excuses for a murderer. And he couldn’t quite figure out why he felt like such an asshole.

Maybe because of what was in her eyes when you told her some sadistic bastard was going to torture and kill her? How the hell did you think she’d react?

Actually, he’d been surprised at how well she’d dealt with everything he’d thrown at her. He’d been so furious about the garbage she’d spewed during that interview, he hadn’t really stopped to think about her reaction.

He had been brutally—unforgivably—direct about the possibility that if the killer had heard her sympathetic explanation for his behavior, she would have attracted the attention of the last man on earth whose attention she would want. Despite his threat, Jenna Kincaid had kept her poise.

Only in her eyes had he seen any evidence of the fear he’d deliberately tried to create. And remembering what had been in them, he felt even more like a bastard.

He jammed his fists into the pockets of his leather jacket and started down the steps. After years of operating in hostile environments, he automatically scanned the parking lot, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Like someone staking out the place where she worked?

He’d meant the question to be mocking. As the thought formed, however, Sean acknowledged that if the Inquisitor had seen that interview, he’d know exactly where she worked by now.

That clip had been replayed at least three times. And after the official announcement from the cops yesterday, the bastard would have been glued to every newscast, hoping to catch any publicity his actions had generated.

He would have seen Dr. Kincaid’s pity party for him, all right. And by now, almost twenty-four hours later, he would undoubtedly know all about her.

Telling himself that wasn’t his problem, Sean punched the key lock remote as he approached the SUV. Although it was only a little after four, the halogen lights in the lot had already come on, glinting off the vehicle’s black surface.

It would probably be completely dark before Jenna Kincaid came out of her office. Certainly before she got back to her apartment.

Even if the killer had become interested because of what she’d said, it was probably too early to worry about her being followed. The Inquisitor would undoubtedly do his stalking electronically first. Maybe visit the library and check out microfiche from the local papers.

It might be weeks before he started tracking her physically. Or anyone else, Sean amended, attempting to reassure himself. At this late date, the killer wouldn’t break his normal pattern. Not unless something happened to interrupt the cycle.

Like finding a woman who expressed sympathy for him? One who also satisfied every other criteria of his sick hunt?

Sean realized he was standing beside the SUV, the remote in his hand still pointed at the lock. He opened the door, sliding into the cold leather seat. He inserted the key into the ignition, but for some reason his fingers hesitated before they completed the act of turning it.

His eyes lifted to the rearview mirror. Reflected there were the double doors through which he’d just exited.

He had no idea if Jenna Kincaid normally came out that way. No idea if there was a separate parking lot for the staff. Those were things he hadn’t thought he had any need to know.

Now he knew he was wrong.

He didn’t like dealing with feelings. He was far more comfortable with facts. Things he could see and hear. Prove or disprove. What he felt now fell into none of those categories.

The hair on the back of his neck had begun to rise, a phenomenon he’d experienced more than once in his career. On a street in Somalia. Before an ambush in Afghanistan. While his unit had been searching an underground bunker in Iraq, which they knew was very probably booby-trapped.

Every time, the premonition that something dangerous was at hand had proved to be accurate. And he’d never told anyone about any of them.

What he felt now was that same gut-level surety. Inexplicable. And yet undeniable.

The bastard was here. Close enough that if he had known where to look, he could have seen him. Close enough that Sean could feel the strength of his evil deep in the most primitive part of his brain.

The realization that he’d been right about the danger Jenna Kincaid was in was no comfort for the guilt he’d been feeling. He closed his eyes, seeing Makaela’s face as it had looked when they’d pulled out that stainless-steel drawer in the morgue in Detroit. After a fraction of a second he destroyed that nightmare image to replace it with the face of the woman he’d left inside the building behind him.

A woman he now knew with absolute gut-certainty he could use to finally get the man who’d flayed his sister alive.

Three

Jenna saw her four o’clock, operating on autopilot. She was unable to concentrate on what her patient said because the words of the man who had supposedly come to warn her echoed and reechoed in her head.

I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist, but I have a feeling he’d be interested.

That had so obviously been an attempt to frighten her that she was furious with herself for allowing him to succeed. She’d said nothing that was sympathetic to the killer in that interview. No one could have sympathy for someone who did what he did. Whatever her visitor’s agenda—