information Bishop had provided earlier.
'And yet you know he headed south. That he's somewhere near Atlanta.'
'And you know how I can be certain of that-without any real evidence-when the federal and police task force is still combing Boston for any sign of him.'
'You
'In my own mind, yes. He's not in Boston anymore. He's somewhere near Atlanta. Probably not the city itself, though it's certainly large enough to get lost in.'
'You have someone there?'
'Senator, I've spent years building a network, and it's still growing. We have people just about everywhere.'
'Human people. Fallible people.'
Bishop heard the bitterness. 'Yes, I'm afraid so. We believe he's in the area. We suspect he may have killed again. But we have no hard evidence of either belief-and the visible trail ends in Boston.'
'How can you know so much-and yet so little of value?'
Bishop was silent.
LeMott shook his head, his mouth twisting. Blinking for the first time in too long, even looking away, however briefly. 'Sorry. God knows and I know you've poured more than your energy and time into trying to find this bastard and stop him. Just… help me to understand how it's possible for us to do nothing except sit and wait for him to kill again.'
Once more, Bishop chose his words with care. 'Officially, there isn't much else I can do. All the hard evidence we've been able to find on this killer has been in Boston; all the victims we can be certain died by his hand lived and worked in Boston; all the tips and leads generated have been in Boston, and the task force is still following up on those, probably will be for months.
'My team has been ordered to remain in Boston and continue working with the task force for the duration. Unless and until we have strong evidence, solid evidence, that he's surfaced elsewhere, Boston is where we stay.'
'I'd call that a waste of Bureau resources.'
'Officially, it's being called the opposite. The city is still on edge, the national media is still there in force, and all the media-from TV and newspaper editorials to internet blogs-call daily for more to be done to catch this killer before he targets another young woman. And the fact that his most recent victim was the daughter of a U.S. senator is virtually guaranteed to keep that spotlight very bright and that fire burning hot. For a very long time.'
'Jobs are at stake.'
'Yes.'
'There's a new Director,' LeMott said.
'Yes.' Bishop's wide shoulders rose and fell in a faint shrug. 'Politics. He's been brought in to fix what's wrong with the Bureau, to improve the very negative image a string of disastrous cases has left in the public's mind. Removing top agents from an investigation the entire country is watching wouldn't, from his point of view, be the best of moves.'
'I could-'
'I'd rather you didn't. We may well need your influence at some point, but using it now isn't likely to help us-or the investigation.'
LeMott nodded slowly. 'I have to defer to your judgment on that.'
'But why would the Director object to exchanging some of your people for more-conventional agents?'
'He doesn't really see the difference.'
'Ah. The crux of the matter. He doesn't believe in psychic abilities.'
'No. He doesn't.' With another faint shrug, Bishop added, 'We've weathered a changing of the guard before. We will again; our success record is too good to easily dismiss, no matter what the Director may or may not think about our methods. But in the interim…'
'You have to follow orders.'
'If I want the SCU to continue, yes, I do. For now. At least officially.'
'And unofficially?'
Reluctant for too many reasons to list, Bishop said, 'Unofficially there's Haven.'
Chapter Two
THE BOX CUTTER'S blade was new and sharp, so he used it with care as he cut around the part of the photo's image containing the girl.
She was pretty.
She was always pretty.
He enjoyed her curves. It was one reason he took such care in cutting the images out of the photographs and newspapers, because his knife could slowly-so slowly-caress the curves.
He was careful even with her face, though the curves of nose and chin and jaw barely caused a ripple inside him.
But her throat. The very slight, gentle curves of her breasts, just that faint hint of womanliness. The delicate flare of hips. Those his knife lingered on.
Sometimes he scanned the pictures into his computer and manipulated the images to suit a variety of fantasies. He could replace clothed flesh with naked, change all the different hairstyles to the short, dark, nearly boyish look she almost always wore. He could pose her any way he liked, do wild things with color and texture. He had even found autopsy photos and superimposed her head onto those bodies that were laid out, their exposed organs gleaming in the cold, clinical light.
But that sort of thing, he had discovered, gave him little satisfaction. It was too… remote.
Maybe that was it. Or maybe it was something else.
All he knew was that the computer, while useful as a research tool, had proved worse than useless in satisfying his urges.
But the photos…
He finished the last cut on this particular photo and carefully lifted her out. A candid shot, it showed her coming out of a pharmacy, juggling bags, her face preoccupied.
Though it was October, the day was warm enough that she was wearing short sleeves and a light summer skirt, with sandals.
He thought her toenails were painted. Deep red, or perhaps bright pink. He was almost sure of it, though the picture didn't confirm that pleasant suspicion.
He held the cutout in his cupped hands for a moment, just enjoying it. His thumb rubbed the glossy paper gently, tracing the flare of her skirt, the bare thighs below.
He studied every detail, memorizing.
He closed his eyes.
And in his mind he touched her.
Soft skin. Warm. Almost humming with life.
The blade cold in his other hand.
His lips parted, breath coming faster.
Soft skin. Warm. A jerk now. The hum becoming a primal sound of terror and pain that sent fire licking through his body.
Soft skin. Wet. Slick.
Red.
He smeared the red over her jerking breast. Watched it glisten in the light as she moved. Listened to the
