Were they playing some kind of game?

She shook her head. That was crazy talk.

No matter. She’d get to the bottom of it soon enough.

She pulled on a thin cotton sweater and glanced ruefully at her unwashed hair in the bathroom mirror. A baseball cap was just the ticket. She ran back to the office and dug out her favorite battered FBI cap, the deep royal blue faded to denim after repeated cycles through the washer, and the gold FBI letters frayed around the edges. It fit her head perfectly, and she pulled her hair through the back. She’d scored the cap after a tour of Quantico years back, and Tommy had teased her unmercifully about it. “Cheating on Metro, are you darlin’?” he’d say.

Go away, Tommy, she thought sternly, hoping his ghost would listen, for once. She needed to stay focused. Get Flynn, make him a snack, get him to take a nap. Then back to work.

She fumbled with her keys, still jacked up with excitement and dread, finally inserted them in the ignition. She needed one of those cars with the push button to start the engine. Hmm. How much would that set her back?

The Civic’s engine obligingly turned over on the first try, and she put it in Reverse. She realized she was smiling. Good. She didn’t do that nearly enough. Flynn would enjoy seeing her in a good mood. Maybe she should take those pills more often?

She didn’t feel the eyes on her as she pulled out of the garage.

Twelve

From: bostonboy@ncr.bb.com

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com

Subject: Pittsburgh

Dear Troy,

Everything is right on schedule. Worry not.

BB

He sent the email, then wondered how long it would take for the delivery truck to be reported stolen. An hour? Fifteen minutes? Despite his research, he didn’t know how the specific delivery times were recorded. Were they followed in real time electronically? Or did the drivers upload their information at the end of their runs? The package’s tracking number had led him to the correct truck to hijack; he should have asked the driver about the system before he killed him. Hmm. Next time.

Should he deliver a few packages on his way to the kill site? No, he didn’t want any chance of his face being seen. If there were regulars on the route, they might ask questions, or recall him when their memories were jogged. And killing strangers wasn’t on his agenda today.

No, today he had the pleasure of visiting Miss Frances Schwartz. Frances was a worker bee in a downtown accounting firm, a fancy woman prone to shopping when she felt down. She was horrifically in debt, though her fellow worker bees didn’t have any idea. They thought Frances was wonderful—stylish, put together. Just what every woman in her office wanted to emulate.

She’d be arriving home shortly, he needed to get into place. Around the corner from her house was an old parking lot. Empty, with cracked asphalt and no visible video cameras anywhere near. It was the perfect spot to wait.

He was surprised at his energy level. He figured the nine-hour overnight drive would wear him out. When he’d done the dry run, he’d barely been able to keep his eyes open. Must still be riding the adrenaline high from Boston. He had to admit, this was fun. The rush when he killed. The idea that there were others out there that he was competing against. He’d had his doubts about entering the contest, had thought about pulling out several times while the field had been whittled down from fourteen to three. But since he’d made the cut, he figured what the hell. He’d play along.

It gave him something to do, especially since the targets had been chosen for him. His responsibility was to kill them in the manner of the killer he’d drawn, the Boston Strangler, who was a sick fuck, no question about it. He’d researched and planned, run through the scenarios several times. The goal was to make the kills on the schedule provided and not get caught. Getting seen was an automatic disqualification—if a description went out on the airways, he was out. Getting caught, well, that went without saying.

Stealing UPS delivery trucks was no small feat, but he’d handled it effortlessly both times. He was truly fond of this MO. No one looked twice at a delivery truck. He’d posted the packages himself before leaving Boston, to Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Indianapolis. He’d mapped the delivery system through the tracking IDs, saw exactly when each package was due to arrive. It was simple as pie—package goes on the truck, truck heads out on regular route, truck is intercepted, driver taken out, then the package was delivered. Tied with a big, beautiful bow.

He laughed at his joke. He knew how serious this game was, but truly, it was just a game. If he didn’t win, life would go on. He had plenty of money, that wasn’t his purpose in participating. He’d spent too many years alone, not knowing how many people out there were just like him. Thank God for the internet. He was able to find all types, all shapes and sizes and predilections. When he saw the ad, he deleted it, then thought twice. Once the idea got into his head, he couldn’t help himself. He was bored, and looking for a challenge. And it gave him a chance to meet some people. He’d become too isolated.

He checked his watch. Frances should be home any minute. She always got home precisely at 5:35 p.m. She’d change into lovely, tight-fitting Lycra, drink a protein shake, eat a banana, then head out for either a run or a bike ride. Frances was in training. Biathlon. She was strong. Capable. Not his usual type. Maybe she’d fight back. The thought excited him.

He pulled the electronic pad out from its resting spot, grabbed the bulky box. It was time. Time for Frances to say goodbye.

Thirteen

Nashville, Tennessee

Taylor and Baldwin arrived in Nashville with enough time to get to Vanderbilt before Fitz awoke from surgery. Taylor was exhausted—her day had started at 5:30 a.m., with no appreciable sleep in the past forty-eight hours. The adrenaline from the morning’s adventures had drained away, and she sagged a bit against Baldwin’s arm as they walked across the tarmac to the parking lot.

“You need a coffee or coke to get your head back in the game? We can stop at Starbucks,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’m starting to drag.”

“Why don’t you let me drive, then? Give you a chance to shut your eyes for a few minutes.”

She smiled at him gratefully. “That would be great. Just give me a second.”

She opened the back door of the 4Runner and took a gym bag off the seat. She unzipped it and rummaged around, then pulled out a fresh pair of jeans. Baldwin stood in front of her as a shield to prying eyes. She yanked off her boots, shimmied off her jeans and pulled on the new, bloodless pair. That was better. She couldn’t have faced another moment wearing Nadis’s blood.

She stowed the bag and the dirty jeans, then tossed the keys over. They climbed into the truck and headed toward downtown.

There was no snow in Nashville, just the lingering bitter chill that ate into her bones despite her shearling jacket. She turned the heat up and sat on her hands. They’d been cold all day.