Cold Fear (3 page)

“What? Why?” The grogginess was replaced with wariness.

Izzy couldn’t face an argument. “Just do it. I love you.” She hung up. She was going to ground her sister until she was eighteen, and possibly for the rest of her life just to keep her safe. Duncan came back over the ridge and began slipping down the banks of his beloved dunes. She shielded her eyes against the spraying sand as he raced toward her. Together they very gently moved Helena onto the stretcher but Izzy didn’t hold out much hope for the girl. Her heart wanted to break but she compartmentalized the feeling so she could do her job. They worked their way slowly around the biggest hill. Even though Helena was tiny, Izzy struggled to hold up her end of the stretcher.

“We need to call the cops,” she shouted over the blustery wind. Her stomach churned at the thought of what they might find, but Helena’s death needed to be investigated. Her attacker had to be found.

“I already called them,” said Cromwell.

She nodded, and wished she didn’t want to run and hide. She was a coward. She’d always been a damn coward. The coat covering Helena slipped and Izzy saw the girl’s naked body. There was blood on her thighs and any thoughts Izzy had about her own problems were obliterated. Then her eyes latched onto a piece of jewelry on Helena’s slender wrist. The fine hairs on her arms rose as gooseflesh prickled her skin. “I didn’t know Helena wore a medical alert bracelet.”

“It isn’t hers.” Duncan’s voice was low and guttural. “She was wearing it when I found her.”

Dazed, Izzy marched onward as fast as she could. It couldn’t be the same bracelet. It couldn’t. But deep inside, Izzy knew it was. Even though it was impossible, someone knew her secret. A killer knew her secret.

*     *     *

L
INCOLN
F
RAZER SAT
at his desk reading yet another request for assistance, this one regarding a series of rapes occurring in Portland, Oregon. He scanned the details and emailed Darsh Singh to take a look at the case file in time for next Monday’s team meeting. It was January 1, but as head of BAU-4, which investigated crimes against adults, there was no time to take a break. A week ago, he’d helped exonerate an innocent man convicted of treason, but between high-level vigilante groups, presidential requests, international terrorism, assassins, agency spies, and miscarriages of justice, he was behind on the day job.

Christmas had been a blur. He hadn’t seen his condo in days. He showered and ate at the academy, grateful for the peace and quiet of an almost empty building. With the turn of the New Year he hoped life would return to normal, and he could go back to his nice orderly world tracking down serial offenders.

His landline rang. “Frazer.”

“How’d I know you’d be in the office?” Agent Mallory Rooney’s voice held a touch of sarcasm.

“It’s that razor-sharp intelligence of yours.” That and the fact Alex Parker had probably tracked his cell phone. “No wonder I plucked you from obscurity to work for me.”

“Sure, boss,
you
plucked me from obscurity.” The eye roll that accompanied her droll statement came through loud and clear. He grinned because she couldn’t see him.

“Did Parker finish running those background checks on Madeleine Florentine?” Frazer asked before she could speak. The Governor of California was President Hague’s first choice as replacement VP, and the man was growing impatient for answers.

“Yep, he finished last night. Florentine checks out”—
Thank, God
—“But that’s not why I’m calling. Look,” she continued, cutting him off as he opened his mouth to ask why it had taken them this long to contact him. “I got a phone call from an old friend of mine, Agent Lucas Randall out of Charlotte. He was in charge of the Meacher case?” Frazer checked personnel files online as she spoke. He remembered the guy. “He’s been called in on a case along the Outer Banks. Wanted me to go down there to help him out.”

Frazer searched the Internet for news stories coming out of that region. “A single victim homicide?” He had a stack of unsolved cases on his desk more than a foot high, not to mention trying to help a certain spook surreptitiously track down the assassin who’d murdered the Vice President last month. All of which required a few more skills than investigating a small-town homicide. “The locals can handle it.” He winced at the callousness of his tone. That’s what happened when reports of unbelievable depravity crossed your desk every single day.

Rooney ignored him. “Two teens making out on the beach last night were subject to a vicious assault. Both were left for dead, but one miraculously survived. But that’s
not
why Randall called me.”

Frazer’s spine tingled, and he knew he wasn’t going to like whatever she said next.

“The female victim was wearing a medical alert bracelet.”

“And?” Tension coiled inside him.

“It wasn’t hers.” He heard the murmur of voices, probably Alex Parker telling Mallory to get off the phone and take a break on a federal holiday. “It belonged to a woman called Beverley Sandal.”

“Why do I recognize that name?” He typed it into the Internet. “Damn.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

His brain catalogued some of the factors in play. “Ferris Denker is due to be executed this month.”

“I know.”

“It could be a copycat trying to get him a last minute reprieve.”

“I know.”

“This was Hanrahan’s first big case—did you know that?” He squeezed his eyes shut. Of course she did. Rooney was as big a workaholic as he was. Goddammit. The conviction was solid. Denker had been transporting the body of a young woman he’d killed when the cops pulled him over on a traffic violation. He’d confessed to a series of murders, though some of the bodies had never been recovered. The conviction was good, but the last thing he or Rooney or Parker needed was investigators digging into his former boss’s cases. “I need you to get down there ASAP—”

“I can’t.”

His spine stiffened. Something was wrong.

Another voice came on the line. “What she failed to mention was she’s in the hospital.” Alex Parker had taken the phone from Rooney. “She, hmm…” He cleared his throat. “Mal had some minor bleeding last night, and the docs want to keep her in and run more tests. Maybe put her on bed rest for a couple of weeks. You’re going to have to do this without us.”

Fear jackknifed through Frazer. Rooney was in the first trimester of her pregnancy with the couple’s baby. Frazer was usually more cautious with his affection, but his friendship with the rookie agent and damaged assassin had begun under extraordinary circumstances. The connection was strong as tungsten steel, the only thing that would break it was death—a real possibility if anyone discovered their secrets. “Is she all right?” he asked carefully.

“She will be.”

Mallory Rooney was the best of them. If anyone could keep her safe it would be Alex Parker, but not even Parker could control a medical emergency. Frazer knew the thoughts going through the man’s head. Guilt. Fear, that this was somehow
his
fault. Desperation and panic that he couldn’t fix it no matter how badly he wanted to.

Frazer understood because he was feeling them, too. He let out a long breath. “Tell her to take all the time she needs.”

“I already did,” Parker said tightly.

“Yeah, but tell her
I
said so. She listens to me.” He shut down his desktop computer. “I want her fit and healthy for work, even if she has to spend the next nine months in bed. I have some personal leave she can use.” And there’d be other agents who’d do the same for a colleague going through a tough time. The FBI was a family. They took care of their own.

Frazer put his arm through his jacket sleeve, closed his laptop, and put it in its case. The thought of Rooney and Parker losing the baby put a rock in his throat and reminded him why it was always best to keep his distance. Too late now. “You should name him after me, you know, considering the circumstances.” Circumstances that traced back to a remote woods in the heart of West Virginia and facing down another serial killer.

“Mal wants to name him after my grandfather if he’s a boy and after my mother if she’s a girl.” The controlled tension in Parker’s voice told him the guy was terrified.

Frazer felt that lump in his throat grow bigger. Shit. “Keep her safe, Alex. I’ll take care of the situation in North Carolina.”

“Call me if you need anything. I can work the case from here.” Amongst other things, Parker was an expert in cyber security and could run traces in his sleep.

“I intend to.”

“Happy New Year, Linc.”

“Not yet it isn’t.”

“No shit.” Parker sounded pissed off.

“This is my fault, you know. For wishing things would get back to normal.”

“You were hankering after serial killers?”

“Yeah. I must be as aberrant as they are.”

“Nah,” Parker drawled. “You’re way crazier than those fuckers.”

A reluctant smile tugged Frazer’s lips. “Take care of her for us, Alex.” Then he hung up and strode out of his office.

Happy New Year.

*     *     *

F
ERRIS
D
ENKER WATCHED
the cockroach idle its way across the floor. He planted one of his feet and the bug switched direction. He did it again and the roach tried to burrow under the rubber heel of his canvas shoe. Poor misunderstood creature. He picked it up and let it run over his hands. The creature’s legs felt sturdy but brittle, its feet grasping the whorls and ridges of his palm.

He turned his hand over and the bug fell to the floor, its thin carapace making a dull clicking noise as it hit. The bug popped back up, and they started their game over. Handel’s
Concerti Grossi Op. 6
played on his sound system—a pleasant change from the constant din of Christmas carols that had bounced around the Death Row facility over the last few weeks. He tried not to complain. The guys needed a little enjoyment in this sinkhole of despair.

“Hey, Ferris.” A familiar voice hissed from the next cell. Billy Painter. The guy had raped and murdered a young woman and then done the same to her eighty-year-old grandmother.

How the jury had wept.

The kid had been here for the last five years and was on his second appeal.

Ferris walked over to the door. The top half was made of steel bars. “What is it, Billy?”

“You heard from your lawyer yet?”

Billy would have seen if Ferris had received any news, but the fact he asked the question was grounds for his new appeal. Billy’s IQ and shoe size were almost exactly the same. The guy might have big feet, but he was still dumb as a rock.

“Nothing yet, Billy.” The warrant for his execution sat on his poor excuse for a desk. The warden had served it on Christmas Eve, which he’d thought was a nice touch for a closet sadist. Despite having had years to prepare, knowing he was scheduled to die on January 25 made his knees shake—not that he’d ever admit it. They’d transfer him to Columbia for the execution itself, but the last thing he wanted was to make that final hundred mile journey.

“I’m sorry, man.” Billy slouched, leaning on the bars. His expression was pained. “I thought you’d-a heard something by now.”

“Thanks, man.” Ferris twisted his lips. He had brought this day on himself. He’d confessed too much before his lawyer had turned up. Bragging like a child before he’d gotten a signed deal. The woman in the trunk wasn’t even cold when he’d been pulled over for a lousy broken taillight, which he could have talked his way out of if he hadn’t been high as a kite. No, the cops had caught him fair and square, and he’d sung like a fucking canary.

But he wasn’t planning on dying yet.

Living on Death Row was a miserable existence. Even those who deserved to die didn’t deserve to be tortured this way. He’d treated his victims better than the state treated inmates. Sure they begged and screamed for a few hours, but after that he’d put his victims out of their misery fast. He might have delivered cruel and unusual punishment, but it had been swift, unlike the justice system.

Justice?

This was
justice
?

He looked around the unit. Vets suffering PTSD. Men who’d been little more than children when committing crimes. Goaded into it by bad influences and life circumstances. All of them victims in their own right. Men like Billy who barely knew right from wrong and didn’t stand a chance if you added drugs or alcohol into the mix.

Death penalty laws were flawed in every which way—the cost, the fact it wasn’t a deterrent, the fact innocent men were still being exonerated from Death Rows across the country as old evidence was reexamined.

No.

It was a stupid system. And Ferris detested stupid.

He’d never claimed he was innocent, and he had no chance of pleading a low IQ because last time he’d tested he’d measured one-forty. But he didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in this miserable hellhole. “Pray for me, Billy.”

The younger man nodded furiously. “We had one miracle this year. I can pray for another.”

Ferris grinned. He’d always been faintly amused by the camaraderie of the men inside this unit and yet he felt it too. Ferris felt like he was accepted for who he truly was, not for whom people expected him to be.

That was a gift. He’d had it once before, and he was hoping the power of that relationship held true now.

One of the guards entered the cellblock, probably to take someone out for their hour of fresh air and exercise. Ferris sneered. From one cage to another, and yet every one of them looked forward to getting out of their damned cells. He took a step back and heard a crunch, looked down at the black and green smear of dead cockroach on the concrete floor. Dammit.

He bent over and used a tissue to wipe up the mess. Then he tipped the jar and pulled out another roach. The game was just starting.

Chapter Three

A
LIGHTHOUSE PERCHED
on the headland, sea oats whipping the air at its base. White sand met the gunmetal sea with a serrated edge of angry surf. A wooden fence ran parallel to the road, theoretically keeping people out but doing a piss-poor job of it. Frazer easily climbed over the obstacle. This area was cordoned off because National Parks Service, in conjunction with Department of Natural Resources, were trying to stabilize the area with mitigation strategies, but considering they were up against the Atlantic Ocean, they had their work cut out for them.