The Search

“Yes, I do. You’re interested in enrolling your dog?”

“I would be, but I don’t have one yet. I’d love a big dog, like one of yours, or maybe a golden retriever, but I’m in an apartment. It doesn’t seem fair to coop one up that way. But once I get a place with a yard...”

She rose, offered a smile and her hand. “I’m Kati Starr. I work for—”

“U.S. Report,” Fiona finished, in a tone that went cool. “You’re wasting your time here.”

“I just need a few minutes. I’m doing a follow-up, actually a series of stories on RSK Two, and—”

“Is that what you’re calling him?” It revolted her on every level. “Red Scarf Killer Two—like a movie sequel?”

Starr traded in her smile for a tough-eyed stare. “We’re taking it very seriously. This man has already killed four women in two states. Brutally, Ms. Bristow, and with his latest victim, Annette Kellworth, that brutality escalated. I hope you’re taking it seriously.”

“Your hopes aren’t my problem. My feelings aren’t your business.”

“You have to understand your feelings are relevant,” Starr insisted. “He’s reprising the Perry murders, and as the only woman known to have escaped Perry, you must have some thoughts and feelings on what’s happening now. Insight into the victims, into Perry and RSK Two. Will you confirm the FBI has interviewed you regarding these latest homicides?”

“I’m not going to comment. I already made that clear to you.”

“I understand you may have felt reluctant initially, Fiona, but surely now that the death total is up to four, and these abductions and murders are heading north, from California to Oregon, you must want to be heard. You must have something to say—to the families of the victims, to the public, even to the killer. I only want to give you a platform.”

“What you want are headlines.”

“Headlines draw attention. Attention needs to be paid. The facts need to get out. The victims need to be heard, and you’re the only one who can speak.”

She might have believed that, Fiona considered, or at least part of it. But reality dictated that the attention focused on the killer with the catchy nickname.

“I have nothing to say to you, except you’re trespassing on private property.”

“Fiona.” All calm and reason, Starr pushed on. “We’re women. This man is targeting women. Young, attractive women with their lives ahead of them. You know what it is to be that target, what it’s like to be a victim of that kind of random violence. All I’m trying to do is get the story out, get the information out so maybe his next target is more aware, and maybe she’ll keep having her life ahead of her instead of ending up in a shallow grave. Something you know, can say, may be what helps her live.”

“Maybe you mean that. You’re only trying to help. Or maybe what you want is another front-page story with your byline. Maybe it’s a little of both.”

She didn’t know; she couldn’t allow herself to care.

“But here’s what I do know. You’re giving him what he wants. Attention. You published my name, where I live, what I do. And that helps no one except the man who’s emulating Perry. I want you off my property, and I want you to stay off my property. I don’t want to call the deputy who was just here to escort you off, but I will.”

“Why was the deputy just here? Are you under police protection? Do the investigators have any reason to believe you may be a target?”

So much for facts and the public right to know, Fiona thought. What this one wanted, at the base of it, was dish.

“Ms. Starr, I’m telling you to get off my property, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

“I’m going to write the story with or without your cooperation. There’s interest in a book deal. I’m willing to compensate you for interviews. Exclusive interviews.”

“That makes it easier,” Fiona said, and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “You’ve got ten seconds to get in your car and get off my property. I will press charges. Believe it.”

“Your choice.” Starr opened her car door. All pretense of the perky dog lover was stripped away. “The pattern says he’s chosen his next victim, or he’s preparing to. Scoping out the area for the right target. Ask yourself how you’re going to feel when he racks up number five. You can reach me through the paper when you change your mind.”

Hold your breath, Fiona thought. Please.

She put it out of her mind. Her work, her life were more important than a persistent reporter hoping, Fiona imagined, to springboard a book deal off tragedy.

She had her dogs to care for, her little garden to tend to and a relationship to explore.

Simon’s toothbrush took up residence in her bathroom. His socks scattered messily in one of her drawers.

They weren’t living together, she reminded herself, but he was the first man since Greg who slept consistently in her bed, whose things mixed with hers under the same roof.

He was the first man she wanted with her in the night when ghosts haunted her sleep.

He was there, and she was grateful for it, when Tawney and his partner returned.

“You should go on to work,” she told Simon when she recognized the car. “I think I’ll be safe in the hands of the feds.”

“I’ll stick around.”

“All right. Why don’t you let them in? I’ll make some more coffee.”

“You let them in. I’ll make the coffee.”

She opened the door, holding it open to the morning air. It looked like rain heading in, she noted. That would save her from watering her pots and garden beds—and add a realistic element to the training classes she had on tap for the afternoon.

Dogs and handlers couldn’t pick just sunny days for a search.

“Good morning,” she called out. “You’re getting an early start. Simon’s making some fresh coffee.”

“I could use some,” Tawney told her. “Why don’t we go back, sit in the kitchen?”

“Sure.” Remembering Mantz’s aversion, she gestured the dogs out. “Go play,” she told them. “I’m sorry I missed you the other day,” she added, leading the way back. “We’d planned to be back earlier, but we dragged our feet. If you want a place to go and unwind, it’s the spot for it. Simon, you’ve met Agents Tawney and Mantz.”

“Yeah.”

“Have a seat. I’ll get the coffee.”

Simon left her to the pouring and doctoring. “Anything new?”

“We’re pursuing the avenues,” Mantz told him. “All of them.”

“You didn’t have to make another trip out here to tell her that.”

“Simon.”

“How are you, Fee?” Tawney asked her.

“I’m all right. I’m reminded daily how many people I know on the island, as somebody drops by to see me— read: check in on me—several times a day. It reassures, even as it makes me itchy.”

“We can still offer you a safe house. Or we can work putting an agent here, with you.”

“Would it be you?”

He smiled a little. “Not this time.”

She took a moment just to look out the window. Her pretty yard, she thought, with its tender spring gardens just starting to pop with color and shape. And all that bumping up against the tower of trees that climbed up the slopes and walked down again, offering countless paths to stroll, lovely surprises of wild lupine and dreamy blue cannas.

Always so quiet and restful to her, so hers season by season.

The island, she thought, was her safe house. Emotionally, yes, but she absolutely believed in every practical sense as well.

“I think, realistically, I’m covered. The island itself makes me less accessible, and I’m—literally—never