She tried to think, to give him anything that would delay the butchery.

“He shaves with an electric shaver. One with three round heads, which means it’s probably Norelco or Braun.”

“You could tell that?”

“Yes. His stubble is slightly uneven. I can also tell he shaves in a circular motion.”

“What else?”

“I think he’s from the South. He deliberately suppresses his accent. To do that, he unnaturally shortens his vowels and emphasizes the second consonants of his words…” She went still as it all came together. An icy ripple shot through her body. “… just like you.”

He was silent for a long moment. “What are you saying, Kendra?”

She didn’t answer, struggling to fight the wave of panic engulfing her.

He finally dropped that whisper. “You know, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “He’s you. You killed that officer before I even got here.”

“Bravo, Kendra.”

“You somehow knew I was coming here. Dear God, I was close enough to touch you and I didn’t even realize—”

“I did touch you, Kendra. And I’ll do it again.”

The threat was clear. He was going to be on the move.

She ran to the bedroom windows. It was a long way to the concrete path below.

She heard a footstep on the stairs.

Then another.

And another after that.

He was coming after her. She’d seen him, and he couldn’t let her live.

She tugged on the windows. They didn’t budge.

More footsteps on the stairs …

She had a minute, maybe less.

Kendra grabbed a vanity stool and threw it through the window. It shattered, and the glass was still falling as she hurled herself through the opening.

For an instant there was silence, as all sounds—the breaking glass, the pounding footsteps—vanished, as if part of a long-ago nightmare.

Then she struck the cold cement patio.

Pain.

Searing, stabbing pain in her legs and left wrist.

She rolled as she landed, bleeding in a dozen places from the shards of glass.

She looked up. The man was at the window, staring down at her. He abruptly turned and bolted out of view.

Shit. She had to get out of here.

She pulled herself to her feet, hoping that her legs would support her weight.

They did. For the moment.

She staggered toward the block wall that separated the yard from the next-door neighbors. She lifted herself up and over, fighting through the horrible pain in her left wrist. She hit the wet grass on the other side, then ran for the side yard. She crouched beside a tall bush.

Weapon. Find a weapon.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she spotted a shovel leaning against the house. She gripped it with the blade extended before her.

Come and get me, asshole …

She held her breath. She expected to hear the sound of the sliding back door, but there was nothing.

A car started on the street.

Was that him?

It idled for a few seconds, then roared away.

She slowly stood up, still gripping the shovel.

There was only silence from Corrine Harvey’s house.

He was gone.

CHAPTER

4

“THE PARAMEDICS SAID YOU were being a real pain in the ass to them,” Griffin said as he walked up Corrine Harvey’s driveway toward Kendra. “I told them welcome to the club.”

“Thanks for your support.” Kendra drew the paramedic blanket tighter around her. She couldn’t seem to shake the chill. Slightly over an hour had passed since her escape from the house, and the place was now surrounded by squad cars, work lights, and evidence-collecting police officers. Kendra carefully stood up from the driveway, where she’d been sitting since dismissing the paramedics. Every muscle was stiffening more by the minute. “They wanted to take me to the hospital. I told them I didn’t have the time.” She raised her left arm, which was covered by a wrist wrap. “It’s not broken, only a sprain. They gave me this and bandaged my cuts and treated my bruises. What more do I need?”

“An X-ray or two? Those bruises on your cheek and arm look pretty nasty. You tumbled out of a second-floor window. I sure as hell wouldn’t let one of my agents back on duty until they’d been checked out by a doctor.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not one of your agents. And I didn’t tumble, I dove out.”

“Those paramedics have you pegged. A complete pain in the ass.”

And she couldn’t deal with any more well-intentioned people trying to stop her from doing what needed doing. She didn’t have the strength right now. “Any news on the police officer?”

“No. Still no sign of him.” Griffin jerked his thumb toward a squad car parked on the street. “That’s definitely his car, but there’s no sign of a struggle there or in and around the house. The officer may still be alive.”

She hoped that was true, but she had a feeling that the officer hadn’t been that lucky. She had examined his car herself five minutes before the paramedics arrived on the scene and been relieved that there was no body in the vehicle. “I was led to believe he was already dead. Not that the sick bastard’s word means anything.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Kendra was fighting off a wave of nausea that she tried to believe was caused by the pain and shock of her fall. It didn’t work, those vivid memories of that killer were shaking her to her core. “Unbelievable … That psychopath was standing right in front of me, and I had no idea.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Griffin said harshly.

“He knew I was coming. He arrived here before I did. We need to figure out how he knew.”

“Metcalf is already working on it. This guy was actually wearing the cop’s uniform?”

“At least his badge and name tag. The uniform looked like the genuine article, and it was a good fit. It could have belonged to the officer, or this guy might have brought his own.”

“Dr. Michaels…” Griffin hesitated for a long moment. “Kendra. This guy, this killer, knows you. He knows how you work. He knew you would be visiting this house at some point.”

“What if I hadn’t come alone?”

“He would have waited for you to go alone to another scene. Which you would have done. You know it, I know it, and he knows it. Your presence on this case may actually be feeding his appetites, goading him on.”

“He was doing a pretty good job of it already. But if you’re saying you’d rather I bow out—”

“I didn’t say that,” he said sourly. “I might have been thinking it, but I didn’t say it. I know you’re too valuable right now for me to indulge my personal feeling. I’m just pointing out that it’s something of which you should be aware.”

“I’m not likely to forget it. Believe me. I’m aware.” She pulled the paramedic blanket closer around her. “I need to sit down with a sketch artist. Someone who really knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s already been set up. I figured you have a pretty clear picture in your head of this guy.”

“I do. Like a photograph.”

“The police have an amazing old guy they use sometimes. He’s retired, but he occasionally still—”

“Bill Dillingham.”

“You know him?”

“Yes. He’s very good. One of the best anywhere. The sooner we can get that sketch in circulation, the better.”

“You’re damn right.” Griffin rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re the only person alive who has actually seen him. That puts an awfully big target on your back.”

“He was more interested in watching me work. He clearly got some perverse thrill from being so close to me without my knowing it.”

“Well, that’s in keeping with our profiler’s workup on him. He’s obviously fascinated by you. But now he has to know that tomorrow a sketch of him will be in every newspaper and TV news broadcast in the state.”

A young crime-scene investigator approached them with a clear plastic evidence bag. “Excuse me, Ms. Michaels, we found this hanging in the porch.” He raised the bag to show that it contained a Blackberry mobile phone.