Gayle Wilson - The Inquisitor

It would probably be completely dark before Jenna Kincaid came out of her office. Certainly before she got back to her apartment.

Even if the killer had become interested because of what she’d said, it was probably too early to worry about her being followed. The Inquisitor would undoubtedly do his stalking electronically first. Maybe visit the library and check out microfiche from the local papers.

It might be weeks before he started tracking her physically. Or anyone else, Sean amended, attempting to reassure himself. At this late date, the killer wouldn’t break his normal pattern. Not unless something happened to interrupt the cycle.

Like finding a woman who expressed sympathy for him? One who also satisfied every other criteria of his sick hunt?

Sean realized he was standing beside the SUV, the remote in his hand still pointed at the lock. He opened the door, sliding into the cold leather seat. He inserted the key into the ignition, but for some reason his fingers hesitated before they completed the act of turning it.

His eyes lifted to the rearview mirror. Reflected there were the double doors through which he’d just exited.

He had no idea if Jenna Kincaid normally came out that way. No idea if there was a separate parking lot for the staff. Those were things he hadn’t thought he had any need to know.

Now he knew he was wrong.

He didn’t like dealing with feelings. He was far more comfortable with facts. Things he could see and hear. Prove or disprove. What he felt now fell into none of those categories.

The hair on the back of his neck had begun to rise, a phenomenon he’d experienced more than once in his career. On a street in Somalia. Before an ambush in Afghanistan. While his unit had been searching an underground bunker in Iraq, which they knew was very probably booby-trapped.

Every time, the premonition that something dangerous was at hand had proved to be accurate. And he’d never told anyone about any of them.

What he felt now was that same gut-level surety. Inexplicable. And yet undeniable.

The bastard was here. Close enough that if he had known where to look, he could have seen him. Close enough that Sean could feel the strength of his evil deep in the most primitive part of his brain.

The realization that he’d been right about the danger Jenna Kincaid was in was no comfort for the guilt he’d been feeling. He closed his eyes, seeing Makaela’s face as it had looked when they’d pulled out that stainless-steel drawer in the morgue in Detroit. After a fraction of a second he destroyed that nightmare image to replace it with the face of the woman he’d left inside the building behind him.

A woman he now knew with absolute gut-certainty he could use to finally get the man who’d flayed his sister alive.

Jenna saw her four o’clock, operating on autopilot. She was unable to concentrate on what her patient said because the words of the man who had supposedly come to warn her echoed and reechoed in her head.

I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist, but I have a feeling he’d be interested.

That had so obviously been an attempt to frighten her that she was furious with herself for allowing him to succeed. She’d said nothing that was sympathetic to the killer in that interview. No one could have sympathy for someone who did what he did. Whatever her visitor’s agenda—

A long and intimate acquaintance…

Despite the man’s boast, she hadn’t placed a call to the police after he’d left. She couldn’t formulate a logical reason why she hadn’t. There had just been something about him that had made her believe he wasn’t involved in the murders.

Just like every woman who opened the door to Albert Di-Salvo believed he couldn’t be the Strangler.

She closed the folder in which she’d been attempting to add notations. That was as pointless as trying to get what had happened an hour ago out of her head, but surely she could put it into perspective. Hundreds of people had talked publicly about those three murders, both on the air and in the newspaper. Was the killer going to come after each of them?

Or maybe only the ones who fit the victim profile.

She realized that her hands were trembling. Just as they had been when Murphy walked out of her office.

That had been mostly the result of anger. If there was any consolation to be taken in how she’d conducted herself, it would be that she hadn’t given in to the tears she’d been on the edge of. Growing up, she’d always had a tendency to cry when she got really mad, a trait she thought she’d conquered long ago.

If she wanted to indulge that childish propensity, it would have to wait until she reached the privacy of her own home. Which couldn’t be soon enough, she decided.

She picked up the phone and punched in Sheila’s extension. “I’m leaving for the day. Any change in tomorrow’s schedule I should know about?”

“Nothing really. Staff meeting at nine. After that you’ve got a full slate of appointments. It is that time of the year,” the secretary said, her tone sympathetic.

That was something they would talk about in tomorrow morning’s meeting. Everyone was feeling the double stress of the holidays and the murders. She had overheard a couple of the other therapists talking about an increase in requests for appointments, even from their regulars.

“Try to fight off the least desperate,” she said aloud.

Sheila laughed. “Will do. Have a good night.”

Yeah, right. “Thanks, Sheila.”

She hung up and then looked at the folders stacked on the left-hand side of her desk. With the meeting in the morning, it was unlikely she’d have time to look over the files of the patients she’d be seeing during the day. Still, she wasn’t willing to stay late to review them. If she tried, she’d probably be unable to keep her mind on what she was reading.

She was going home instead and breaking open the bottle of Jack Daniel’s she’d bought to make sauce for the bread pudding she was to take to her mother’s on Christmas Day. Maybe that would help her sleep. If not, it would certainly be good company while she didn’t.

The staff parking deck was relatively full for this late in the afternoon, which was also a reflection of the season. Jenna had ridden down in the elevator with a couple of other staff members. Their cars had been closer to the building, so that she was now making her way to the outer perimeter of the deck alone.

The sound of her footsteps echoed off the concrete roof, seeming louder than they should. She realized as she approached the place where she’d parked this morning that the security light for this section was out, leaving the area in shadows.

She actually hesitated before she managed to control her uneasiness and continue toward her Accord. She punched the remote, the resulting beep and blinking lights reassuring in their normalcy.

Everything here was as it should be, she told herself. This was the building where she worked. The deck where she parked her car every single day. She mentally reiterated each phrase, a deliberate litany of the ordinary.

She didn’t relax, however, until she’d opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. As soon as she hit the autolock, the tension that had built as she’d crossed the deck released, leaving her drained.

Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror and then she turned and looked into her backseat. Something she’d never done before in her life. It was empty, of course.

And just what in hell were you expecting to be there?

Disgusted that she’d given in to her paranoia, she jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The dependable engine roared to life, its sound magnified by the low ceiling of the garage.