Gayle Wilson - The Inquisitor

The line of traffic ahead began to move. Forced to focus on the normal rush hour stop-and-go of the busy thoroughfare, a major artery on this side of town, Jenna was unable to check behind her very frequently. In none of those quick surveys was she able to identify a black SUV.

She took a breath, again trying to put things into perspective. Although she was sure Sean Murphy had been sitting in that SUV, she couldn’t prove he’d been waiting for her. And she couldn’t be sure he’d followed her away from the office park.

All she was sure of right now was that she was becoming paranoid. She’d let some stranger rattle her so badly that she was looking over her shoulder, imagining that someone was stalking her.

She’d bought into the hysteria that had been growing in this town since the suggestion was first made that the three local murders might be connected. Now that they had been officially, the nutcases were starting to surface.

Including the one who’d shown up at your door today.

She often told patients that their fears had only the power they gave them. Right now she was giving far too much credence to one man’s opinion. Even if the killer had heard what she’d said, the idea that it would cause him to target her was so far-fetched she should refuse to spend another second worrying about it.

She was approaching the intersection where she would exit onto the road that would eventually take her up the crest of the mountain to her apartment. She concentrated on the promise of a long, hot bath, followed by a stiff drink and some mindless television.

She wouldn’t watch the news. She would put this negative merry-go-round out of her mind and get on with her life. She was no more likely to be a target than any other dark-haired woman in Birmingham. And she couldn’t even venture a guess how many of those there might be.

Jenna slowed for the red light, glancing to her left to check for oncoming traffic before she made her turn. As she waited for a couple of cars to clear the intersection, she unthinkingly allowed her gaze to drift to a car pulling up beside hers.

Her recognition of its driver was instantaneous. Although she couldn’t see their color, she could feel the intensity of those blue eyes. Fear jolted through her chest, as powerful as if Sean Murphy had pointed a gun at her.

He nodded before he turned to look out his windshield. Apparently the light had changed in the seconds he’d held her gaze because he put the SUV into motion immediately, moving past her car and on through the intersection. Paralyzed by a combination of disbelief and dismay, she watched until his taillights became indistinguishable in the string of red that stretched out in front of her.

At some point she became aware of the blare of horns behind her, their cacophony not nearly so patient as Paul’s quick honk had been. Hurriedly she made the turn, hands trembling on the wheel.

Only when she had reached the peace of the narrow street that led to the apartment complex overlooking the city did she begin to calm down. As the noise of traffic faded behind her, so did the burst of terror she’d felt when the SUV had eased up beside her.

Coincidence, she told herself. Even if it weren’t, it would have been easy enough for him to find out her home address. She was listed in the phone book as J. Kincaid, not exactly a reach for anyone of normal intelligence. And obviously not the smartest decision she’d ever made.

That listing had been done before she’d finished her Ph.D. and gone into practice. Although it could be rectified—and it would—it was too late to do anything about it in this case.

Too late. The words had a finality to them she didn’t like. Or want to accept. She would call in the morning and get her number unlisted in the next book. Right now…

Right now she was home. And there had been no headlights coming up the street behind her.

She pulled into one of the vacant parking places in front of her unit and turned off the engine. Music drifted out into the night from inside one of the apartments. Mannheim Steamroller. One of their Christmas albums.

Peace on Earth.

Except not tonight. Despite the Jack Daniel’s and the long, hot bath she’d promised herself, Jenna knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Everything would run through her head like a videotape on high speed. All she’d read or heard about the murders. The descriptions of the victims. What Sean Murphy had said.

Those were the things that would reverberate over and over again. The accusation that she’d fed the killer’s fantasy of his own importance. That she’d been sympathetic. The troubling claim that she fit the victim profile.

She took a breath, knowing none of this was getting her anywhere. She needed to get inside, lock the door and try to forget it all. There was nothing else she could do tonight.

As with most of the other things she’d worried about during her life, this would all look better in the morning. She’d have that talk with Paul and get his advice, which she’d always found to be both reasoned and knowledgeable. Until then…

Until then she would do her best to put Sean Murphy’s words out of her head, refusing to give them—or him—any more control over her life.

“We’ve seen the tip of this iceberg in the questions that were thrown at Jenna. We should all be prepared to be asked about that same kind of information concerning serial killers, particularly this one. Background, psychological profile, predictions. We’ll be questioned by the media and by whomever we’re standing beside at the next Christmas party. And we damn well better be prepared to answer them.”

Although Paul hadn’t looked in her direction, the fact that he’d prefaced his admonition with a mention of her interview made Jenna feel that his comments had been directed at her. Responding that way was just what she’d thought yesterday—paranoid. She was simply the first to be ambushed. It could have happened to any one of them.

And would any of the others have come across as being sympathetic to a serial killer?

The fact that she’d gotten so little sleep last night wasn’t helping her put this into perspective. She shouldn’t be so worried about the opinion of one man. And as far as she knew, that was all Sean Murphy’s warning amounted to.

“Unless someone has something else…?” Paul waited, allowing the silence to build. “Okay, then, I guess it’s back to the salt mines. Have a good day. Or at least try to.”

People began to rise from the table, the casters on the heavy leather chairs moving silently over the thick carpet of the conference room. Several people began conversations with those seated around them. Not one of them met her eyes or tried to include her.

Although that isolation could certainly be attributed to a normal give-and-take among colleagues or even to her proximity to the head of the table where Paul was still standing, it felt to Jenna as if something else were going on. Some kind of censure, perhaps, for the way she’d handled herself?

She pretended to be occupied with gathering up her notes and putting them into her briefcase. When she finished, she bent to pick up her purse. She straightened to find Paul watching her.

“Sheila said you had a visitor yesterday.”

She shouldn’t be surprised that her secretary had told someone what had happened. And gossip traveled as quickly in this office as in any other. She should have anticipated that and talked to Paul about it herself. Since she hadn’t…

“Some kook with an ax to grind,” she said, trying to remember how much of the conversation Sheila might have heard.

Nothing more than Murphy’s opening salvo, she decided. That in itself had been revealing enough.