There was a pause, as if Gillian were weighing her next words. "You sound tired."
Her concern took Mary by surprise. "I am," she admitted.
"Try to get some sleep."
"As soon as I wrap this up." Her voice was once again distantly polite.
"I'll let you get back to work," Gillian said, sounding rebuffed.
"Gillian?" Mary paused. "If Tate comes around, call the cops."
"I
am
a cop."
"You know what I mean. Don't try to deal with him by yourself. He could be dangerous." Mary disconnected.
The ice in the plastic bag had turned to tepid water; Mary dropped it and the towel on the floor. Would Gillian follow her advice about Tate? Probably not. Mary shouldn't have said anything about her being careful around the guy. Gillian had a history of doing the opposite of whatever her sister suggested.
For the next two hours Mary fine-tuned the killer and victim profile, adding the finishing touches before shutting off the computer and lying back in bed.
She was almost asleep when the doorbell rang.
She kept her eyes closed, trying to pretend she hadn't heard anything. The doorbell rang again. It was probably some sweet-faced kid selling something she didn't want to buy but would anyway. Dressed in navy-blue cotton pajamas, she made her way downstairs, leaning forward to peer through the peephole.
Anthony Spence stood on her mother's front porch.
She blinked. He was still there.
She opened the door, the chain lock catching. She slammed the door, undid the chain, and opened it again.
Instead of a greeting, he got directly to the point: "You look like hell."
On the other hand, he looked great. But when didn't Anthony look great? He was dressed in the FBI black he was so fond of, complete with trench coat.
"Nice to see you too."
The pain was making her dizzy. She turned around and plopped down on the steps, wincing as she jarred her arm. "What are you doing here?"
"Are you sick?" He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
"A headache." It was the first thing that popped into her mind. It seemed childish and immature—always evading everyone—but she hated to be fussed over.
Anthony put a hand to her forehead. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the coolness.
"You feel warm."
"Think so?"
"How's the shoulder?"
"A little sore," she admitted reluctantly.
"A little?" From his expression of disbelief, it was apparent she hadn't fooled him for a second. "I know your definition of 'a little.' Like the time you had a little pain in your side and ended up having an emergency appendectomy."
She gave him a weak smile, then tried to steer the attention away from her. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought you might need some help."
"You should have told me you were coming. I'd have met you at the airport."
"Let me see your shoulder."
"No."
"Come on."
"For some reason, you seem to think you own me now. That you own my shoulder." She was uncomfortably aware that she was in pajamas while he was fully dressed.
"Is that so unreasonable? I'm partially responsible for that shoulder."
Without asking permission, he unbuttoned the top button of her shirt. He slipped his hand inside, under the fabric. His touch felt wonderfully cool.
He frowned. "Hot."
Her heart sank, and then began to beat rapidly. What did that mean?
"Do you have your doctor's phone number?"
"Upstairs. In my data book." She started to get up.
"Stay there." His voice held urgency. "I'll get it."
"Take a right at the top of the stairs."
He disappeared, then quickly returned with a small leather booklet. Anthony flipped through the pages and located the number. He sat down near her on the stairs, pulled out his mobile phone, and dialed.
Dr. Farina was in surgery, but the problem was relayed to him and he insisted that Mary get to a Minneapolis physician immediately. "It could be one of three things," his nurse explained. "Inflammation due to overexertion, infection that has been incubating since the surgery, or staph." The nurse gave them the name of a reputable physician and added that Dr. Farina would call Mary that night.
Staph.
Mary and Anthony looked at each other, and she saw her own fear reflected back at her. The best possible staph scenario might mean weeks in an isolation room while they pumped antibiotics into her veins in an attempt to kill the resistant bacteria. A bad scenario could mean a lost limb. It could mean death.
It took thirty minutes to get to the Edina office where Mary's doctor suggested they go.
Once there, she was put through a series of tests. She had blood drawn, cultures taken, and was sent to an adjoining hospital for an MRI. When that was completed, she met with Dr. Tabora. Anthony insisted on being in the room when the verdict was announced.
"You have quite a bit of inflammation," he said, "but the preliminary quick test didn't show any evidence of staph."
No staph. Mary wilted in relief and looked at Anthony. He was leaning against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, sending up his own thank-you.
"I'm going to put you on an anti-inflammatory drug. That should take care of the problem. Come back and see me in two weeks unless you're in Virginia. In that case, see Dr. Farina. I'll be sending him a copy of my report."
He handed Mary the prescription order. "Rest and take it easy. Try not to use your arm for the next few days; then begin exercises gradually, much the way you did after surgery. There are some excellent physical therapists in the building. I'll have the receptionist set up an initial visit."
At the front desk, Mary was handed a card that gave the date and time of her therapist appointment.
She would cancel it later.
At the pharmacy Mary turned in the script, then moved away from the counter to wait. She was sensing a strong, negative energy coming from Anthony, and it put her on the defensive.
"I can tell you're thinking about having me pulled from the case," she said as soon as they were in his rental car. "Well, I'm not leaving." Which seemed weird when she thought about it, since she hadn't wanted to come in the first place. But it was like that first plunge into cold water. Once you were wet, you might as well stay in and swim.
"The doctor told you to take it easy."
"Anthony, I want to remain on the case. If you have me pulled off, I'll continue to investigate on my own."
"Why are you being so hardheaded about this?"
Anthony didn't know about Fiona. Once, he'd asked her why she'd wanted to become an FBI agent, and she'd mumbled something vague about the challenge and the desire to help people.
Pain stabbed through her shoulder, redirecting her thoughts. "You need to get in the right lane so you can get on 494 East. Oh, and Anthony? My mother doesn't know about my being shot, so don't mention it to her."
He pulled away from a green light and then cut to the right lane. "You're a little old to be hiding things from your mother, aren't you?" He sounded puzzled and slightly annoyed.
"She worries about me enough as it is," Mary explained. "So please don't say anything."
He shrugged, but didn't press the issue.
It was late afternoon, and traffic was heavy, adding fifteen minutes to their return trip. Once home, Mary took her pills, retrieved her laptop from her room, and handed it to Anthony, determined to get back to business as usual. "The profiles are finished. Would you mind going over my notes before I present them to Detective Wakefield and Quantico?" Every breath made her shoulder hurt. "I'm going upstairs to lie down for a while. The kitchen is that way, the bathroom over there." She pointed. "My mom should be home in a couple of hours."
After she left, Anthony wandered around the living room. Over the years he'd conjured up a mental image of Mary at her childhood home in Minneapolis. The place he'd put her was nothing like this living room with its red walls, framed artwork, exotic rugs, wild plants, and strange sculptures. This wasn't at all the landscape he'd expected the rigid, unbending Mary Cantrell to come from.
Her shooting had scared the hell out of him.
She almost died.
Up until then he'd thought of them both as invincible, with Mary seeming even more of a superhero for some reason. Although she didn't know it, the trauma he'd experienced over her being shot had been crippling. So much so that he was seeing an FBI therapist, who'd suggested he and Mary quit working together for a while. The only problem was, he worried about her twice as much when she was out of his sight.
He settled into a soft ottoman, opened Mary's laptop, and turned it on. While waiting for it to boot up, his mind drifted to thoughts of his ex-wife. Ex. Such a negative word. As if she'd been crossed out of his life. Divorce papers didn't suddenly mean they no longer cared about each other, because they did. Things were just different now.
With hindsight, he could see that their marriage had been a recipe for disaster. She was so sensitive that TV ads for horror movies gave her nightmares. There was no way he could talk to her about his work, no way he could tell her what was bothering him. She'd begged him to quit, but he couldn't. She said he didn't love her enough, and he thought she might be right.
In the end, she was even jealous of Mary. "You spend more time with her than you do with me," she'd shouted at him one particularly ugly night. It was true, he'd realized. Then he'd had an ever more alarming thought: This is never going to work.
On Mary's laptop, the FBI screen saver was humming at him. He opened the writing program and quickly found the most recent file.
He read her notes, then looked at the background information on the murders and personal observations. That was followed by the profile.
The crime scenes reflect characteristics of the organized offender. Most likely a chameleon personality. Cunning. Cruises for victims.
Crime Scene: Kills at undetermined location, then disposes of body at abduction site. Very likely tortures victims, either psychologically or physically or both. Leaves little or no physical evidence.
Development: Has been hurt in some way, and is angry, yet feeling fear or loss. Thinks himself superior to others. Selects victims he can manipulate, dominate, and control. He constantly feels the need for approval and feminine admiration. He is self-confident and arrogant, but may have doubts about his own sexuality. Could be attracted to men, and his denial of that attraction is taken out on innocent women.
Method: He usually preselects his victims, but if a victim doesn't work out, he may take one by opportunity. He uses the surprise approach, attacking between midnight and 5:00 A.M. The victim will always be alone.
Sex of Offender: Male
Race: White
Age: 24 to 35
Physical Description: 5'11" or above, muscular
Scholastic Achievement: High school, possibly some college.
Lifestyle: Single, but may have friends or relatives who only see one side of him.
Social Adjustment: Did well in grade school, but when he reached adolescence, began to cause trouble. Has leadership qualities.
Demeanor: Confident, possibly quite charming.
Mental Problems: Phobias. Some type of stressor most likely occurred to bring about the first kidnapping and murder.
Grafted Rose Branches: Symbolic of his need to seek perfection in a mate along with his need to manipulate his victims in impossible ways.
The next file contained the victimology, which was every bit as important as the offender profile.
Sex: Female
Race: White
Age: 15 to 25
Height: 5'4" to 5'8"
Weight: 110 to 135
Hair color: Blond
Victim will most likely be someone who is young and healthy, dresses stylishly, yet can be manipulated. Offender is an opportunist, and if the right victim can't be found, he makes do.
A note at the bottom proposed sending the profiles to the media as soon as the FBI signed off on them.
As Anthony shut down the computer and put it aside, he heard a key turn in the front lock. He was getting to his feet when the door swung open and an attractive woman walked in. Mary's sister? Mother?
He didn't want to frighten her, so he quickly pulled out his ID, flipped open the leather case, and introduced himself. Did she know who he was? he wondered. Had Mary ever mentioned him? "I'm Mary's partner," he explained in case she hadn't.
"Anthony! How wonderful!" the woman said, extending a hand. "I'm Blythe. I'm so glad to finally meet you." She was looking at him with curiosity.
"Excuse my hands," she said, smiling warmly. "I've been mixing clay all afternoon, and you know how hard clay is on your skin."
He hadn't known, but now he did.
She glanced around. "Where's Mary?"