Michael Prescott - Next Victim

People could tell her that they knew what she’d lost, but they didn’t know that Paul Voorhees had been much more than her partner.

In dreams Tess sometimes found herself with him again, hiking an alpine trail in the Rockies. They would pause in their ascent, looking down at the path they had taken, and all the world below would be screened in white mist.

Then she would think that she and Paul had risen above the clouds, to the top of the sky.

It’s not like they told us in church, she would say. No harps. No wings.

And Paul would laugh, and she would turn to look at him, but she couldn’t see his face-it was hidden in the sudden overpowering brightness of the sun.

She always awoke then. And she could never get back to sleep.

At times Tess believed that the trail was real, and she and Paul would climb it someday. At other times she believed in nothing but darkness and the damp earth enclosing an urn of ashes.

Bereavement leave and therapy had not healed the hurt. Nothing could heal it.

She checked her watch. Five minutes had gone by. Time to go.

Leaving the bathroom, she walked down the hall to the door with the DO NOT DISTURB sign. The door was unlocked, a violation of normal procedure, but necessary if she was to enter unannounced.

So this was it. Open the door, enter, and meet William Hayde.

It seemed like such a simple thing, yet for a moment she wasn’t sure she could do it. She remembered a parachute jump years ago, the final seconds of standing in the airplane’s open hatchway, waiting to leap into space.

Then, at least, she’d had a parachute.

She opened the door, entered the room.

Everything slowed down. The world grew big around her, its small details looming large in her perception. The glare on the steel tabletop, the creak of the straight-backed chairs, the handcuffs securing Hayde’s right hand to the table, his head lifting, his eyes-brown eyes, ordinary eyes-locking on hers.

She met that gaze and held it, and held her breath also.

And saw…nothing.

A flicker of curiosity, perhaps. No surprise, no hostility, no recognition.

He did not know her. He had never seen her before.

"Agent Starling’s older sister," Hayde said. "Pull up a chair, join the party."

"I’m Tess McCallum," she said.

"Bill Hayde."

Her name had drawn no reaction. He looked bemused at her arrival, her rigid stance and staring eyes.

She tried one more time, though she knew the effort was wasted. "You sent me postcards in Denver."

"I don’t think so. I’m not much of a correspondent."

"Novelty postcards."

He shook his head. "Must’ve been some other perp."

She said nothing. She turned and left the room, shutting the door.

Larkin was in the hall. "Nothing on voice-stress," he said.

"Right."

"He didn’t seem to know you."

"He doesn’t know me."

"So you think…?"

"He’s just a jerk who likes to tie women up. That’s all he is. He’s not Mobius. He’s not anybody."

A moment later Michaelson joined them. He looked at Larkin, ignoring Tess altogether. "I’m kicking him loose," he said.

Larkin nodded.

"There’s nothing for us to hold him on. The circumstances of his sexual play with Agent Tyler are too ambiguous to permit prosecution. Mr. Hayde himself seems to have understood as much from the start."

"He’s a cool customer," Larkin said.

"I’m not ruling him out yet. Not totally. I want you and DiFranco to look into his background, see if his story checks out. If it doesn’t, we can set up surveillance or bring him in for more questions."

"Will do."

"If we talk to him again, we need some facts to trip him up. Another staring contest"-he still didn’t look at Tess-"isn’t going to get it done."

Michaelson disappeared inside. Tess leaned against a wall, worn out.

When the door opened and William Hayde emerged, she straightened up. The FBI had an image to maintain, and so did she.

"Pleasure doing business with you guys," Hayde was saying. He turned to Tess. "You seemed pretty anxious to see me-and even more anxious to get away."

"I thought you were someone else," she said, her voice flat.

He surprised her with a sympathetic look. "The Pickup Artist?"

She said nothing.

"You’ve been after him awhile," Hayde said.

"What makes you say so?"

"The way you stared at me when you walked into the room. Like you’d been waiting for that moment a long time."

"You’re very perceptive, Mr. Hayde."

He shrugged off the comment. "You’ll get him eventually."

"I’m sure we will."

"In the meantime…hang in there, okay?"

She actually smiled. "Considering what we put you through tonight, you seem awfully solicitous toward me."

"I have a weakness for pretty women."

Her smile vanished. "Oh."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I don’t suppose-"

"I’m not into tie-up games, Mr. Hayde."

"Your loss, baby."

He walked away, whistling. Michaelson and Gaines escorted him out. Tess stared after him, wishing he’d been the one.

She felt someone watching her. Turning, she saw Larkin in the doorway of the observation room.

"Anything from the other undercover ops?"

"Nothing so far."

She glanced at her wristwatch. It was one A.M. "We’ve missed him."

"He could be getting a late start. Or maybe he’s not out there tonight."

Tess didn’t answer. But she knew Larkin was wrong.

Mobius was out there.

He was always out there.

The agent’s name was Dante, he was a young hotshot from the Portland office, and he was excited.

"Got it," Dante told Tennant as he slammed down the phone. "Driver for America’s Best Cab remembers picking up Pierce at LAX. He delivered her to the Century Plaza Hotel."

"When did she get there?" Tennant snapped.

"Twelve-fifteen."

The clock on the wall read 1:05. She’d had fifty minutes to meet her contact. Too much time.

"Let’s move," Tennant said, hoping for the best.

The two unmarked bureau cars were parked in a passenger loading zone outside the terminal. Tennant and J amp;B took the first car, accompanied by Dante and another Portland man named Wilkins. The others followed in the second sedan.

Jarvis drove, Tennant riding shotgun.

"I’m betting she’s still there," Dante said from the backseat. "Probably checked in for the night, stupid bitch."

"If she’s so stupid," Bickerstaff pointed out, "how come she gave us the slip?"

Tennant cut off this conversation before it could become even more of a waste of time than it already was. "We go into the lobby and fan out, then proceed to the coffee shop, the pool area, and any other public spaces. Remember, she may still be waiting to meet someone, in which case, wherever she is, she’ll be watching the door. We know she’s already made some of us, so when she sees us coming, there’s a good chance she’ll run for it."

"Any dark-haired lady breaks into a sprint, we’ll tackle her," Dante said, trying to be funny.

"I don’t care if it’s a dark-haired lady or a blonde or a little kid with a lollipop. Anybody does anything suspicious, we hold them for questioning. If we’re lucky, we’ll get her and her contact."

"And the suitcase," Jarvis said under his breath, his voice low enough that only Tennant could hear.

Tennant nodded. Amanda Pierce wasn’t important. Even her contact would be a lower-echelon operative. The suitcase was what really mattered.

"Let’s say she starts shooting," Bickerstaff said as the car sped north on Sepulveda Boulevard.

"She used a knife on Kidder." This was Wilkins. He reminded Tennant of what used to be called a preppie, complete with an Ivy League law degree. "There’s no reason to think she’s packing a firearm."