Ashes to Ashes

“You can't unring a bell,” he said quietly. “Put too much information out there now, there's no taking it back. You can call another press conference tomorrow if you need to. Just give the task force this chance to muster their resources and get a running start.”

Edwyn Noble returned from his phone call, his face sober. “Mr. Bondurant says he'll do whatever Agent Quinn suggests. We'll set the reward at fifty thousand.”

THE MEETING ADJOURNED at four forty-eight. The politicos moved into the mayor's office for last-minute preparations before facing the press. The cops gathered in a cluster at the far end of the conference room to talk about setting up the task force.

“Sabin isn't happy with you, Kate,” Rob said in a tone of confidentiality, as if anyone else in the room would be interested.

“I'd say Ted Sabin can kiss my ass, but he'd be on his knees in a heartbeat.”

Rob blushed and frowned. “Kate—”

“He dragged me into this, he can live with the consequences,” she said, moving toward the door. “I'm going to go check on Angie. See if she's come up with any-thing from the mug books yet. You're going to the press conference?”

“Yes.”

Good. She had a witness to spring while everyone else was looking the other way. Where to take the girl was the next problem. She belonged in a juvenile facility, but they had as yet been unable to prove she was a juvenile.

“So you worked with Quinn?” Rob said, still with the voice of secrecy, following her toward the door. “I heard him speak at a conference once. He's very impressive. I think his focus on victimology is dead on.”

“That's John, all right. Impressive is his middle name.”

Across the room, Quinn turned away from his conversation with the homicide lieutenant and locked on her, as if he'd picked up her comment on his radar. At the same instant, Rob Marshall's pager beeped and he excused himself to use the phone, looking disappointed at the lost opportunity to speak with Quinn again.

Kate wanted no such opportunity. She turned away and started again for the door as Quinn came toward her.

“Kate.”

She glared at him and jerked her arm away as he moved to take hold of her.

“Thanks for your help,” he said softly, ducking his head in that way he had that made him seem boyish and contrite when he was neither.

“Yeah, right. Can I have the cervical collar concession tomorrow when you march in here and tell them to challenge this son of a bitch in order to trap him?”

He blinked innocently. “I don't know what you mean, Kate. You know as well as I do how important it is to be proactive in a situation like this—when the time is right.”

She wanted to ask him if he was talking about the killer or the politicians, but she stopped herself. Quinn's proactive theories extended to all aspects of his life.

“Don't play your little mind games with me, John,” she whispered bitterly. “I didn't mean to help you. I didn't offer you anything. You took, and I don't appreciate it. You think you can just manipulate people like pawns on a chessboard.”

“The end justified the means.”

“It always does, doesn't it?”

“You know I was right.”

“Funny, but that doesn't make you seem any less of a jerk to me.” She took a step back toward the door. “Excuse me. I've got a job to do. You want to make power plays, you leave me out of the game plan, thank you very much.”

“Good to see you too, Kate,” he murmured as she walked away, thick red-gold hair swinging softly across her back.

It struck Quinn only belatedly that she had a nasty bruise on her cheek and a split lip. He'd seen her as he remembered her: as an ex-friend's wife . . . as the only woman he'd ever truly loved.

6

CHAPTER

THE CROWD IS large. The Twin Cities are overrun with reporters. Two major daily newspapers, half a dozen television stations, radio stations too numerous to keep track of. And the story has brought in still more reporters from other places.

He has captured their attention. He relishes the sense of power that brings. The sounds in particular excite him—the urgent voices, the angry voices, the scuffle of feet, the whirl of camera motor drives.

He wishes he hadn't waited so long to go public. His first murders were private, hidden, far between in both time and space, the bodies left buried in shallow graves. This is so much better.

The reporters jockey for position. Videographers and photographers set the perimeter of the gathering. Blinding artificial lights give the setting an other-worldly white glow. He stands just outside the media pack with the other spectators, caught on the fringe of a headline.

The mayor takes the podium. The spokeswoman for the community expressing the collective moral outrage against senseless acts of violence. The county attorney parrots the mayor's remarks and promises punishment. The chief of police makes a statement regarding the formation of a task force.

They take no questions, even though the reporters are clamoring for confirmation of the victim's identity and for the gruesome details of the crime, like scavengers drooling for the chance to pick the carcass after the predator's feast. They bark out questions, shout the word decapitation. There are rumors of a witness.

The idea of someone watching the intimacy of his acts excites him. He believes any witness to his acts would be aroused by those acts, as he was. Aroused in a way just beyond understanding, as he had been as a child locked in the closet, listening to his mother having sex with men he didn't know. Arousal instinctively known as forbidden, irrepressible just the same.

Questions and more questions from the media.

No answers. No comment.

He sees John Quinn standing off to one side among a group of cops, and feels a rush of pride. He is familiar with Quinn's reputation, his theories. He has seen him on television, read articles about him. The FBI has sent their best for the Cremator.

He wants the agent to take the podium, wants to hear his voice and his thoughts, but Quinn doesn't move. The reporters seem not to recognize him standing out of reach of the spotlight. Then the principals walk away from the podium, surrounded by uniformed police officers. The press conference is over.

Disappointment weighs down on him. He had expected more, wanted more. Needs more. He had predicted they would need more.

With a jolt he realizes he has been waiting to react, that for a moment he allowed his feelings to hinge on the decisions of others. Unacceptable behavior. He is proactive, not reactive.

The reporters give up and hurry for the doors. Stories to write, sources to pump. The small crowd in which he stands begins to break up and move. He moves with them, just another face.

“LET'S GO, KIDDO. We're out of here.”

Angie looked up from the mug books on the table, wary, her stringy hair hiding half her face. Her gaze darted from Kate to Liska as she rose from her chair, as if she were expecting the detective to pull a gun and prevent her escape. Liska's attention was on Kate.

“You got the okay to go? Where's Kovac?”

Kate looked her in the eye. “Yeah . . . uh, Kovac's tied up with the lieutenant at the press conference. They're talking task force.”