The Silenced

He’d invented an alter ego for himself, a man he called Slash McNeil. Slash McNeil was now fully part of his personality. Slash? Well, it made sense. McNeil? Why not? It seemed to go well with Slash. Not that he needed a name to sign to confessions or letters to the editors or police. He just liked it.

McNeil had been born off, as anyone who knew this manufactured alter ego would say. Even when he was a toddler, he’d enjoyed smashing bugs. As he’d aged, the bugs became small reptiles; McNeil liked to set snakes on fire. Once he grew older, the animals he tortured became kittens and puppies and then cats and dogs.

When he was sixteen, he committed his first murder. It hadn’t been particularly good, well planned or satisfying. He’d teased ugly Sarah Rockway, letting her think he wanted a make-out session with her, and lured her to a bridge. He’d kissed Sarah—and then tossed her over the bridge. In McNeil’s mind, at least, the girl had died happy.

But he hadn’t wanted Sarah Rockway—nor had he wanted the murder to be so swift. He’d wanted to slash her, cut her, as he had the kittens and puppies.

And he’d really wanted Celia Hampton. Celia, the cheerleader, the leggy beauty who would barely give him the time of day. He wanted her naked, doing anything he asked, begging him for her life.

But murder was an art to be properly learned, and practice improved any art.

It took him another two years to lure Celia Hampton away with him. He’d waited for a frat party. Waited until she was drunk and vomiting and offered her a wet towel—doused with a drug, of course. Then he’d slipped her into his old van and out to the woods in Virginia, far from the city. He hadn’t had to strip her; he’d shown her his knife and she’d done everything he wanted. After that, he’d cut her. First her throat. Slowly. He’d let her bleed out...while he sliced open her gut.

He’d thrown her in a river—weighing her down by stuffing her with stones. By the time she was found...the river had washed away all evidence.

In the beginning he’d been able to live on the memory for years. Then, more recently, he’d felt the need to kill again. But now things were different. The need came faster. He got work that allowed him to travel, and it had afforded him opportunities for murder. He was controlled, always controlled and always careful. He studied his victims. They were never ugly again. They were the pretty ones. But he made sure that when they were found, he couldn’t be. They might know about him—since communications among law enforcement officers were pretty good these days—but they didn’t know who he was.

He always took a souvenir.

The tongue.

Serial killers often took souvenirs. He’d determined that would be his souvenir of choice.

They would recognize his work.

Then again, maybe not; he left his victims in water, weighed down with whatever he could find. And the water concealed any evidence there might be.

Yes, he had an alter ego. And he’d paved the way. Two dead already, just in the past month. Now...this one. And there’d have to be more.

He’d watched the first girl, Sarah, not with malice, but with purpose. He hadn’t done anything out of hatred or viciousness. He’d been inexperienced then, still learning. With Celia, the second girl, it had been easy. It wasn’t that he liked what he’d done. He’d seen the need early on and he did his job as he understood it.

It was just necessary. Like dressing every morning, driving, breathing, eating—making a living.

He wished he could be sorry. He wasn’t.

He did what he needed to do, and that was all.

He’d become Slash McNeil.

For a moment, he paused. It was messing with him this time. He had it figured out—and damned well, too. The girls, the type, the psychology.

But this one...

This one was different. The way he handled her had to be different. And he sure as hell didn’t like it, not one bit.

Still...

He was prepared. He’d prepared for this possibility months ago, and in actuality, there were things about it that were even more appealing than usual. This involved wits and careful machinations and a certain danger that made it all the more exhilarating; it gave him a high that was greater than the rest.

He smiled and thought about the woman—her flair, her grace, her confidence.

And he thought about what she’d be...

When it was all over.

1 (#ulink_e03414db-d32c-5c26-8669-4738ee367d5d)

Meg Murray’s alarm went off with a strident ring that made her nearly jump out of her skin as well as the bed.

She groaned and rubbed her temples. Keeping up with the guys wasn’t easy—not as easy as she’d hoped, anyway.

But she, and Sandra Martinez and Carrie Huang— the two other young women in her academy class—were holding up nicely. And they’d made it. Meg was proud—and relieved. She knew that only one out of every hundred applicants got into the academy.

And not all made it through.

She’d been determined. Just as some kids knew they wanted to grow up to be actors, artists, veterinarians or zookeepers, she’d known she wanted the FBI.

She and her class had learned legal and investigative processes and passed every physical test of strength and coordination. The men and the women in her class had all done well. Meg hadn’t beaten Ricky Grant—considered by most of them, including Ricky, to be the toughest cadet in their class—but she’d kept up with him. In fact, her class had excelled.

They’d graduated; they’d had their ceremony. They were officially agents now, and they’d celebrated.

She wasn’t sure why she’d felt compelled to keep up with Ricky in all things.

She hadn’t gotten wasted last night; she’d been extremely temperate while pretending to imbibe far more than she had. And she wasn’t hungover; she was tired!

The trials, the strain, the classes, the yearning—they were over. It was exhilarating, and it gave them all a flutter of fear. Time to go into the world as rookies. Time to prove themselves.

And, of course, it was time to move out of cadet housing and into places of their own.

That wasn’t a worry for Meg. She’d always believed she’d graduate, so she’d already made arrangements to rent a small town house just down the road from headquarters at Quantico. She was going to be assigned to the criminal division there. They had a few days to clear out and she simply had to switch from housing to her new home.

Awake, she lay in bed, a little dazed. This was really it. She had two weeks before heading in to her first assignment.

Her television, on a timer, sprang to life with the news. Meg paused, watching it, before she went in to shower. Police were still seeking clues in the brutal murder of a Jane Doe discovered by the Potomac a couple of weeks ago. More troops had been killed overseas. A truck had stalled on the beltway, causing a ten-car pileup. Investigations were still under way regarding the death of Garth Hubbard, the indie presidential hopeful beloved by so many that he might’ve been the first man to take the White House on such a ticket. The cause of his death had been deemed natural. He’d been at home with his wife, alone in their bedroom. Paramedics had been called; his family doctor had come, too, and signed the death certificate. But this was Washington, DC, so, of course, there was talk of conspiracy.

“Ah, yes, good morning!” she muttered to herself.

The news anchor—after waiting an appropriate beat or two—offered her viewing public a wide, toothy smile and went on to recount some of the good news of the day. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad morning. An attractive reporter related a story about the heroics of a young man as he dived after a woman, a stranger, who had nearly drowned while tubing in West Virginia. She then had another story about a young girl saved from an abusive teen by the intervention of a stray dog—the dog now, happily, had a home.

Meg realized she was just staring, somewhat hypnotized, at the television.

She had to get going. There was an orientation class she was required to attend and she wanted to get through it quickly so she could concentrate on moving into her little town house before her life began anew.

As she relished the hot water pouring over her in the shower, Meg considered the life she was about to start.

As a child, she’d dreamed of changing the world. That had meant to her that she had to be a policewoman or run for president. Maybe a policewoman—and then the president.

And when she was ten years old, her family had fallen victim to a horrible crime.