Michael Prescott - Next Victim

But he was full of surprises. And the psych experts had warned her that he might try to make physical contact.

She reached inside the special compartment of her handbag and withdrew her Sig Sauer 9mm, then slowly opened the door and looked inside.

She and Paul lived in a modest split-level in Englewood, a suburb of Denver. The house was a rental. It was her place, but Paul-unknown to their colleagues-spent most of his nights here and had his own key.

The front door opened on a small living room, minimally furnished, with a cramped kitchen adjoining it. Track lighting threw a wash of yellow light on the bare white walls. Tess had been meaning to buy some paintings for those walls, but she’d never seemed to get around to it.

Now she wished she’d had the foresight to buy a mirror. Leaning in the doorway, she could see only half the room. A mirror would have shown her the other half.

She listened. No sound. That troubled her. When Paul was around, there was always some electronic background noise. He was addicted to talk radio and cable news.

She knew he was here. His car, a Hoover-blue bureau Crown Victoria like hers, was parked in the carport.

She almost called out his name. Although it would be stupid to announce her presence if an intruder was here, she couldn’t stand the ambiguity of the situation, couldn’t stand not knowing if she ought to be terrified or merely annoyed at him for frightening her like this. And she wanted to hear his voice.

But she stayed silent. She was a professional, and in moments of danger she reverted almost instinctively to her training.

Since she couldn’t scope out the entire living room, she made a quick entrance, ducking through the doorway and instantly pivoting toward the unseen side of the room as she dropped into a half crouch to make a smaller target.

That part of the room was empty also.

She crossed the living room fast, the 9mm held close to her body, not extended in two straight arms as it often was in movies and TV dramas. The greatest risk in drawing a firearm was that it could be taken away and used against you by your assailant. Holding the gun close made it easier to maintain control.

There was no one in the kitchen, either. But from the tap dribbled a thin stream of water. There were dishes in the sink, the remains of a microwaved dinner floating in a film of detergent bubbles.

Paul had eaten alone. Not an unusual circumstance when Tess was held up at the office, as she frequently was on the Mobius case. He had been washing the dishes. He always cleaned up after himself-one of the small considerate acts that meant so much to her-and in the middle of the chore, he had simply stopped. Stopped and left the room, with the water running.

She reached out to turn off the faucet, then decided not to. Someone else in the house might notice if the hiss of water in the pipes suddenly stopped.

Of course that other person might have heard her pull up in her sedan. Might have heard the slam of her car door. Might be waiting for her right now.

No ordinary burglar would wait for the homeowner to find him. But if it was Mobius…

If it was Mobius, she knew where he would be.

The bedroom. That was always his killing ground.

She stepped out of the kitchen and took a long look at the stairs.

Stairs were dangerous. She would be exposed, without cover or concealment.

The smart thing to do was call for help, get some backup in here, but she knew she wouldn’t do the smart thing.

She took the steps fast but quietly, grateful for her soft-soled shoes that made no noise and the firm treads that did not squeak. Then she was on the second floor, in the hallway near the laundry nook, smelling the aroma of fabric softener as she tried to look in both directions at once.

To her left was the guest bedroom, made up as a den. Lamplight glimmered from inside, but it signified nothing. The lights in there were on a timer. Next to the den was the bathroom, dark. To her right, the master bedroom. Light spilled through a crack in the door, left a few inches ajar.

She moved toward the bedroom, taking long, sliding steps, the way they’d taught her in Hogan’s Alley.

She reached the door and stood back, peering through the narrow opening. She saw the dresser and the mirror over it, reflecting only the bare white wall across the room.

Not quite bare. She saw smudges on the wall. Red smudges.

Blood.

She forgot caution, forgot her training and everything else in a spurt of fear that sent her rushing headlong into the bedroom where Paul lay in bed, fully clothed, his wrists taped to the nightstands flanking the bed, his throat opened by a knife and coated in blood.

Mobius.

His MO.

He’d learned her address, picked the lock She spun in a full circle, looking for Mobius, wanting him to be there, willing to let him shoot her if she could get a shot at him first.

He wasn’t there. She checked the closet. Nothing.

She turned to Paul again, feeling the wound in his neck to see if the blood still flowed. A flow of blood meant a pulse, and a pulse meant life.

There was no pulse.

He was dead. She had seen death at other times in her life, and she knew the feel and smell of it.

"Why did you do this?" she whispered in a stranger’s voice, a voice hoarse and raw as if from prolonged weeping. "Why did you take him? He wasn’t the one you wanted. I am. I am."

Slowly she raised her head, understanding that this was true.

He had come for her. He had seen the bureau car in the carport and the lights inside the house. He might even have heard the sound of dishes being washed as he opened the front door. So he’d entered the kitchen, ready to seize her from behind-only to find a man there. A man he’d never seen.

Paul might have heard him, sensed him, or perhaps he’d never heard anything at all. Either way, he had been overpowered, knocked unconscious. He must have been, or there would have been signs of a struggle in the kitchen. And he had remained unconscious until the end. Tess was sure he had because his mouth had not been taped. There had been no need to gag him when he was out cold.

Probably he hadn’t suffered much. Probably it had been quick, a blow to the head, a moment of surprise, then oblivion. Probably it hadn’t been too bad, not too bad.

"Not too bad," she whispered, and then she realized how insane it was to think that anything about this was not too bad.

She touched the wound again, still hoping vaguely to find the warmth of life, but the blood on his neck was dry and tacky, as were the few blood spots spattered on the wall.

The killing had been done some time ago. An hour at least. And Mobius was gone.

But he couldn’t be.

"You can’t be gone!" she shouted at the stillness of the house. "Come out and face me, come on, come on! "

She left the bedroom at a run and bolted into the bathroom, pulling aside the shower curtain, half ripping it from its hooks. He wasn’t there. She stumbled down the hall and entered the den, pushing the TV off its stand to look behind it, scattering the pillows on the sofa. Finally she fell on her knees with her hair tangled over her face and her thin arms shaking. She had lost the gun, dropped it someplace, and even if he had been here, she couldn’t have shot him.

"You son of a bitch," she moaned, her face in her hands. "Piece of shit, motherfucker…"

But she couldn’t hurt him with words. Couldn’t hurt him at all.

She knelt for a long time, aware of nothing but pain, pain that was her world now, pain that was everything.

Her face in the mirror.

It startled her as she came back to herself. She was in the rest room of the LA field office, two years and six weeks had passed since that night, and she was about to introduce herself to a man who might have robbed her of everything that mattered.