Authors: Renee Andrews
Tucker shook his head. “The thing is, she wasn’t far enough along to tell, and the waitress who found her said she hadn’t said word one about being pregnant.”
“Who found her? What waitress?”
“Sylvia Rawlins. She’s out back talking to Dan Faust, the first responder. According to Ms. Rawlins, Vickie Jones divorced a few months back then moved here from Florida to get away from the ex.”
“Why was the Rawlins lady here? Does she live here too?” Angel scanned the Spartan room. A bed, dresser and nightstand composed the entire furnishings. No pictures, no knickknacks. Vickie Jones hadn’t even settled in.
“No. She’d invited Ms. Jones to church and Easter lunch and was worried about her when she didn’t answer her phone. Since Vickie didn’t have any family, the other waitress decided to come check on her and see if she wasn’t feeling well.” He pointed to the cell phone on the nightstand.
“We’ll want to check those phone records.” Angel stepped forward and viewed Vickie Jones, the bedding beneath her as wrinkle-free as if it were on display in a mattress store. Other than the marks on her neck and the defecation beneath her pelvis, Vickie Jones could have been sleeping.
No doubt about it, their killer was John Gacy neat.
Angel’s glance darted to Ryan Sims, talking to one of the crime scene investigators in Vickie’s bathroom. Etta had described the lieutenant as overly neat. Was he neat enough to
strangle a woman to death and leave a crime scene this clean?
“What’s your take on this, Agent Jackson?” Ed Pierce stepped into the bedroom from the hall.
Angel turned toward the captain and saw Zed Naylor and Lou Marker through the bedroom window. Zed pointed to the ground outside, while Lou annotated his observations.
“She left her window open. And he saw it as an invitation. Plus she fit all of his criteria.” Angel looked back toward Vickie Jones. “He may have known she was single. News like that travels quick in a town this size, but how did he know she was pregnant? If she had no family, and if she hadn’t yet told her friends, how did our killer find out?”
“There was a doctor’s receipt on the nightstand,” Tucker said, pointing toward a bagged yellow paper. “Dr. Weatherly, OB-GYN.”
“What’s the date on the receipt?” Angel asked.
“March twenty-ninth, two days ago, on Friday. And the receipt said initial visit.”
Pierce lifted the bagged receipt, scanned the doctor’s writing. “She found out two days ago?”
Sims left the CSI guy and returned to the group. “What’s your take, Agent Jackson? Same guy?”
She decided not to judge Ryan Sims. True, he was a potential suspect, but several people were, for now. Stan Carlton had made the mistake of speaking too soon with this case; she wouldn’t do the same. However, she also planned to keep her eyes and ears open regarding Lieutenant Ryan Sims. And Elijah Lewis. That photographer got here too fast.
“Yeah, it’s our guy, but he wasn’t nervous, wasn’t rushed. He had plenty of time, and he took advantage of it. He had to remove the screen and climb in, but he didn’t leave any evidence of entry. And he removed the mesh obstruction, rather than slashing it.”
“There were shoe marks outside the window,” Marker said, “Size ten, but no tread.”
“It was muddy out, but there’s no mud inside,” Angel noted. “So he either took the shoes off before coming in, which is doubtful, or he took the time to clean up his mess on the floor before leaving. I’m thinking it’s the latter. Our guy took his time entering, took his time killing the victim and took his time leaving. He wasn’t the least bit scared by our broadcasted warnings. He’s still conducting his plan as scheduled, without any regard to the cops—or the FBI—on his tail.” She surveyed the room, the ordered and clean room. “We haven’t shaken him. Yet. He’ll strike again in forty days unless we do something to throw him off, to make him think we’re onto him, or catch him before he commits the crime.”
“Well, did you learn anything else about him from this scene?” Lou entered the bedroom with his notepad in one hand and a pen in the other.
“Yeah, we can add agile to our profile. That window may be on the first floor, but it isn’t close to the ground. Our killer was able to enter without waking the victim, judging by the lack of signs of struggle. I’m betting she didn’t even hear him until he had a hand on her throat.”
“But how did he know she fit his specs?” Lou asked. “How did he know she was pregnant if she’d just gone to the doctor and hadn’t told anyone?”
“I don’t know. Let’s check for a Facebook page, Twitter, and any other types of social media. If she announced it somewhere online, maybe that’s how he found out.”
“I’m going to pay a visit to Dr. Weatherly,” Tucker said. “Our guy may be privy to doctor records.”
“That wouldn’t fit the profile,” Angel started then stopped when John Tucker snarled, “but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”
“Thanks.”
She couldn’t stop staring at the woman on the bed. “She looks perfect, doesn’t she?” Other than the bruises on her neck, Vickie Jones seemed almost peaceful.
“So what does that tell you?” Captain Pierce asked.
Angel’s head throbbed from lack of sleep, eyes stung from reading all those books on Biblical numerology.
Biblical.
Why hadn’t she thought of it before? “Oh my.”
“What?” Zed asked.
“He did see her as perfect. A perfect sacrifice, provided by God, like the lamb mentioned in some of those books I read this morning. Perfect and unblemished. Except, in her case, maybe it was the child inside of her that was still untainted. He saw the child as pure. Perfect.”
“If that’s the case,” Tucker followed her line of reasoning, “Wouldn’t he have wanted to save the child?”
“You would think.” Angel mulled over the possibilities, which were endless, if they were dealing with a fanatic with his religious perspective way off the mark. “But look at the bed, her clothes, her position. She’s on an altar, and she’s being offered.”
“Along with her child?” Ryan asked.
“Seems that way.” Angel took a step closer to the bed. This woman should have a full life, and a beautiful child, ahead of her. She’d been robbed of what she deserved, the same way Lexie and Angel had been robbed in the past. And by the same man.
“A perfect body. A perfect bed. A perfect sacrifice.” The banana bread churned in her belly. Then, unable to control the physical response to the reality, Special Agent Angel Jackson darted out the back door.
He watched the pretty profiler throw her guts up on the back lawn. She held her long hair away from her face while her lunch hit the grass and big, bulbous tears fell to join it.
Bless. Her. Heart.
He found it hard not to smile at his success, at their failure. Didn’t FBI Profiler Jackson know she couldn’t stop the inevitable? The last FBI guy had failed. She would too.
The pattern, the process, had started years ago. Twenty-eight years ago, when Hannah had chosen the way of the sinner. Like Eve, she led the way for the women who came later, the women who would pay for her transgression, sacrifice for her fall.
They had no idea they’d followed in the steps of their predecessor, a woman who mirrored their own image and also carried a child. A child who had done nothing wrong, who carried power that should be bestowed on those deemed worthy, not granted to a woman who couldn’t even keep a vow. Women who, like Hannah, hadn’t followed the divine law. And women who, like Hannah, paid the price.
He watched Lexie McCain, the savvy news reporter, leave her cameraman and maneuver her way down the crowd of media personnel held back by a thin plastic strip of yellow crime scene tape. Concern evident on her face, she reached her point of destination, the profiler, doubled over at the edge of the lawn.
McCain shifted her gaze to the cops at the door then frowned at her inability to cross the flimsy barrier. Determined, she dug in her purse and withdrew a couple of white tissues. Then she extended her arm over the yellow tape and handed them to Angel Jackson.
The profiler looked up, accepted the offering and gave her a weak smile.
Funny, the way women ran to help each other, tried to assist one another in bearing the burdens of life. And death. It didn’t matter whether they knew each other or whether they’d just met. Women were strange that way. They had a camaraderie he didn’t understand, didn’t want to. Because, whatever they had, it wasn’t enough. No female had shown up to save Vickie Jones
last night. Her tears had fallen, streamed down her exquisite face, without anyone offering a single tissue. And no female had ever shown up to help any of her fellow partners in crime. Partners in sin.
He watched the two women, Lexie McCain and Angel Jackson, exchange a few words, then McCain returned to her place amid the other TV people. Such a pretty woman, with her short blonde curls framing a petite face and turned up nose, big green eyes amid an abundance of thick lashes, she radiated with curiosity. Yeah, Lexie McCain looked like she wanted answers, to tons of questions, and the determined set of her jaw said she expected to get them.
Curiosity killed the cat.
Again, he refrained from smiling. There wasn’t anything funny about this situation, after all. He’d done what he had to do, and he’d do it again, in forty days.
Angel Jackson finished with an ending punctuation of dry heaves adding to her noticeable display. He’d swear she staged the whole thing, to get the cops and the public feeling sorry enough for her to come forth with the proverbial witness who’d been holding out all these years.
Give up, pretty profiler.
There were no witnesses. Well, there were. But now they’re dead. Guess those don’t count.
However, as he watched the profiler head back toward the house, he saw her wipe her eyes and sniff, then inhale, a lone crusader ready to tackle the world. She wasn’t fishing for sympathy, he realized. She was sorry the girl had to die. Well, he was too. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed what he had to do, but he had to do it. Period. Maybe Angel Jackson would figure that out.
He watched her move. In spite of her trademark outfit of t-shirt, leather jacket, jeans and boots, she had a graceful gait and a definite air of femininity. Near perfect. Then again, he thought, turning his attention back to the pretty news reporter, so was Lexie McCain. A shame neither of them had a baby on the way. Every other aspect hit the mark. But he’d find the chosen woman in time for the next kill. The one who had the power growing within her, but who wasn’t worthy of the child. He always found the perfect sacrifice. And he always killed her...perfectly.
Chapter Seven
John Tucker exited the police station at five minutes past midnight. The day had ended, and the clock ticked once more. Forty days until the Sunrise Killer murdered again. He knew no more about him now than he did during his prior sprees.
No, that wasn’t true. Thanks to Angel Jackson’s assessment of the “sacrificial lamb,” John had a good idea
what
they were dealing with. But he still didn’t know
who
. And now that he understood more about what the killer did, the possibilities were endless. It’d been over twenty-five years since the Fellowship had ended, or so John had thought, but one of its members still practiced. Not only that, but the person still believed the outlandish assessments posed by Brother Moses.
Had Macon’s notorious cult from way back when resurfaced? And if someone had begun practicing again, then who? And when should he bring up his theory to the remainder of the task force? If he did, then what? They’d want to know why he put two and two together when they hadn’t. Why hadn’t they? Three of them were affiliated with the congregation. Surely Lou and Ryan had thought the same thing today, when Angel saw everything. Or even Zed. He’d been a deacon, along with Tucker’s father.
But ol’ Zed hadn’t said a single word. Neither had Lou or Ryan.
Because no one wanted to talk about it anymore. No one wanted the reminder of how they’d lived back then, looking for demons, searching for power. Power that, according to the deranged Brother Moses, could only be obtained...from a child.
“God help us.” Tucker dropped into the seat of his truck and shook his head. It’d been fourteen years since he’d prayed, and he wasn’t sure the three words counted as a prayer, but he knew one thing; if they were dealing with someone still warped by the Fellowship, then they needed all the help they could get.
It’d been so long, so many years, since the assemblage had met. They’d dismantled, after learning that their leader abandoned his congregation, with everyone agreeing they’d been wrong in their views. Everyone
had
agreed. Hadn’t they?
Someone didn’t.
His cell phone rang. He knew he’d see Paul Kingsley’s name before checking the caller identification to verify the fact. “Tucker.”
“How’s it going?”
“All right. How’s she doing?” Thankful for an inside track on Lexie McCain’s work environment, Tucker appreciated Paul watching out for Lexie. He couldn’t deny that he felt something growing between them, but he also couldn’t deny her skittishness. He needed to take things slow, but he also needed to watch after her. True, she didn’t fit all the killer’s criteria, but there
was
a killer roaming Macon, and he didn’t want Lexie anywhere near the man’s line of fire. Of course, it’d be easier to protect her if he knew who he was looking for.
If the killer was one of the former members of the Fellowship, it could be anyone. Half the city, not to mention more than half the task force, had belonged to the congregation.
“She’s hanging in there, been mulling over every word of her broadcast, but I’m about to kick her out.”
“I’ll wait at her house to see her in.”
“Quite a tag team we’ve got going. Almost reminds me of how we used to gang up against Kathleen and Abby at Canasta.”
John smiled, remembering. “Yeah, it does.”
During his marriage to Abby, they never passed a Saturday night without getting together with Paul and Kathleen for hot pizza, cold drinks and cards. It’d been good, clean fun. They laughed, cut up and enjoyed each other’s company, as though both marriages would last forever. Neither marriage did, with Paul’s ending in divorce a few years back and John’s ending with Abby’s murder. Through it all, the two men grew even closer, sharing a bond they could neither discuss nor describe. And right now, that bond fused once again in a joint effort to keep the valiant news lady safe.
After an awkward pause on the line, Paul broke the silence. “You did the right thing today, you know.”
“How’s that?”
“Keeping Lexie away from the primary crime scene. You knew she wanted to go inside.” Paul arrived on the scene after Lexie then waited outdoors with all of the remaining media circus, which meant he knew firsthand how frustrated she had been with having to stay away from the remainder of the task force.
Did Paul also know John could’ve let her in if he’d wanted? “Lexie didn’t need to see that, even if it was a clean kill. She’s too close to the investigation. I can see it in her eyes when she examines the prior cases. I assume it’s because she’s female and fits two out of three of his criteria.”
“Yeah, but you’ve gotta admit her empathy toward the victim helps her portray this guy the way he needs to be defined, as a ruthless killer. You can’t see her segments and not feel as though those victims were someone you knew. When I watched tonight’s footage about Vickie Jones, I could’ve been hearing about my sister, or even my wife—” He cut off the word, but not fast enough.
John’s chest tightened. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I wasn’t thinking. It’s late, and it’s been a long day, but that’s no reason for me to forget about Abby.”
“You didn’t forget about her. You just said what was on your mind. None of us will ever forget her.”
“That’s true.” Paul changed the subject. “Anyway, when you told the other media folks you’d deal exclusively with Lexie, that was a stroke of genius. It kept her busy relaying the information to the various news crews, and I think it helped her cope with the reality that last night’s attempt to save that woman failed.”
John leaned his head back and let his neck brace against the headrest. “Why was that woman, Vickie Jones, so alone in the world? Who knows how long she’d have been there if that waitress hadn’t come over to check on her? Even her Facebook page had remained stagnant since she moved here from Florida, as though she had no friends, no life.”
“Cami Talton was a loner too,” Paul reminded. “No one even checked on her when she missed five weeks of work at the paper mill. They assumed she’d quit. She might not have been found at all if her landlord hadn’t started smelling something.”
“Maybe the killer is targeting women without ties now, but that wasn’t a factor in the past. Abby had ties.”
“Could be he thinks the cops are getting close, so he’s trying to pick victims who won’t be missed.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Tucker’s thoughts were muddled from two nights without sleep. “But I still can’t figure out how he knew Vickie Jones was pregnant.”
“You checked with the doctor to see who knew she was there?”
“I’ll see her first thing in the morning. She was out of town today for Easter. All I got was the answering service.”
“Figures. Well, it was a smart move to have Lexie over media coverage. It’s also a good way to get the information you want out there, instead of some lowlife reporter’s interpretation.”
John had to smile at that. According to Paul, all reporters who didn’t work for WGXA were lowlife. But he’d done the right thing selecting Lexie as their media rep instead of someone more set on portraying the facts than the emotion. Lexie delivered both. Plus, the public loved her.
He couldn’t blame them.
“So, you got any ideas on suspects?” Paul asked. “Off the record, of course.”
John watched a swarm of gnats circle around a lamppost in the police department’s parking area. Flitting and floating close to the light, but never landing. Never getting burned.
How close to the light was the killer? Or was he trying to land, trying to find a way to that proverbial light, the one they heard about so many times at kids, listening to fire and brimstone from the pulpit. He and Ryan and Lou and...Paul.
“Did you look at Jackson’s update to the profile?” John asked. “Lexie included it in her broadcast, I’m sure.”
Paul exhaled through the receiver. “Yeah, I did.”
“Well then, you tell me. Any ideas?”
Paul waited two telling beats before answering. “You know folks around here don’t believe that mess anymore.” He confirmed that he’d thought the same thing as Tucker, that the killer’s plan could be linked to the Fellowship.
“I know that’s what we were told, but she pegged it, didn’t she? It was a sacrifice. Vickie Jones, and all the others before. Every one of them pregnant. Children growing inside of them, Paul. Children, the symbol of power.”
“I think you better make certain you know what you’re doing before you go stirring up that kind of trouble.”
“I’m not stirring anything yet. We still haven’t got the missing persons information from back then, but when we do, if there’s some tie to the Fellowship, we won’t be able to deny the truth.”
“And what do you think that truth is?” Paul’s voice lowered to a hush, even though John knew he was locked tight in his office.
“Same thing you do. Someone in the Fellowship has developed another set of rules, inspired by Brother Moses, another creed that wields power. And that someone has been fulfilling his personal requirements for that power every seven years.” Relief spread through him as he said it out loud. “Go ahead. Admit it. You thought it too.”
“Yeah, I thought it. But we can’t jump to any conclusions. Besides, you realize if it’s true, almost every man our age living in Macon is a potential suspect.
Everyone
was part of the Fellowship back then. You and I would be suspects, Tucker. Is that what you want?”
“What I want is to catch the killer and stop him before he kills again.”
“I want that too, but I thought we’d put all of that behind us.” He cleared his throat. “Did you say anything about this to the profiler? Or to Lexie?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t. Not until you’re sure. One thing you have to remember about pointing a finger, John. When you point one straight out, you’ve got three pointing right back at you.”
Tucker grimaced. That’d been one of his father’s favorite sayings when he led his chapter of the Fellowship. “I remember.”
“Twelve-thirty. Time to hit the hay before tomorrow’s run. I’m gonna send Lexie home.” Paul paused, then added, “Tell me something, John.”
“What?”
“You’ve got your eye on her. I’m assuming the feeling’s mutual?”
John sat straighter in his seat. “I think it may be.”
When Paul didn’t respond, John leaned his head back again, stared at the flitting bugs once more. “You interested in Lexie too, Paul?”
“We always went after the same girls, even back in high school. But I saw the way she acted every time you stepped out of that house today.”
Tucker could’ve pointed out that every reporter perked up when he exited the crime scene today, given he led the homicide investigation and therefore became their primary source of information. But he didn’t point out the obvious. Besides, he liked thinking Lexie wanted to see him for more than information about the case.
“She’ll be home soon. I’m assuming you’re gonna be there before her?”
“Yeah. I’ll make sure she gets in okay.”
“You do that.” Paul’s voice sounded more crisp than usual, but Tucker’s exhaustion rendered him too tired to care.
They disconnected, and John started his truck. Then he drove away from the swarming bugs, away from the station, and toward the woman who had become his primary source of light.
Lexie pressed the accelerator a little harder than necessary, and the Lexus surged forward at her command. Finally, something in this day that she could control. She reached toward the passenger seat, slid her hand inside her purse and fingered the contents until she found her industrial-sized bottle of Ibuprofen. At the next stoplight, she opened it and popped two pills dry.
Darkness covered the town, again. And the city housed a killer, again.
Again? No. Chances were he always lived here, even during the years between killing sprees. He drove the same streets Lexie drove, went shopping in the same stores where Lexie shopped and communicated with some of the same people Lexie communicated with on a daily basis. Then again, he could
be
one of the people she communicated with on a daily basis.
The pills hit her empty stomach, and she cringed. Or did she cringe because of the reality? The killer had been here for twenty-eight years. Closing her eyes, she tried to make her brain focus. Why couldn’t she remember? If she had interacted with him, if she had seen him, wouldn’t she remember?
Lexie wasn’t sure. But that wasn’t the question that bothered her most.
Would
he
remember
her
? Did he ever see her on the evening news and think her face looked a little too familiar? Did he ever wonder why?
A car horn sounded, and she jerked her eyes open. How long had she been sitting at this light? How long had it been green? Thank goodness the horn pulled her out of her daze, the same killer-induced daze that had crept upon her throughout the past twenty-eight years.
Within minutes, she approached the “cozy cottage” she purchased eight months ago. Built in the 1920’s, the house wasn’t large, but it had tall ceilings, stained windows and two bedrooms, so Phillip, Jr. had his own room for visits. Plus, the neighborhood had been dubbed one of the safest, according to the realtor and the police reports. Lexie had checked the latter before moving in. She always checked police reports. Some habits never die.