alone.”
Even as she spoke, she watched her dogs wander by. On patrol, she mused.
“He broke pattern with Annette Kellworth. It’s possible he’s not interested in me anymore, not interested in mirroring Perry.”
“His violence is increasing,” Mantz stated. “Perry duplicated himself, obsessively repeating the same details with each murder. The UNSUB isn’t as controlled or disciplined. He wants to flaunt his power. Sending you the scarf, increasing the time he holds his victims, and now the added physical violence. But he continues to use Perry’s methods, to select the same type of victim, to abduct and to kill and dispose in the same way.”
“He’s adapting his work, finding his own style. Sorry,” Simon added when he realized he’d spoken out loud.
“No, you’re not wrong. Kellworth may have been an aberration,” Tawney continued. “Something she said or did, something that happened that pushed him to the increased violence. Or he may be looking to come into his own.”
“I’m not his.”
“You’re still the one who got away,” Mantz pointed out. “And if you’re going to talk to the press, it keeps you front and center, and makes you more of a challenge.”
Annoyed, Fiona turned from the window. “I’m not talking to the press.”
Mantz reached into her briefcase. “This morning’s edition.” She laid the paper on the table. “And the article’s been picked up by a number of online venues and cable news crawls.”
TRAIL OF THE RED SCARF
“I can’t stop this. All I can do is not give interviews, refuse to cooperate.”
“You’re quoted. And your picture runs inside.”
“But—”
“ ‘Surrounded by her three dogs,’ ” Mantz read, “ ‘outside her tiny woodland home on scenic and remote Orcas Island where purple pansies tumble out of white pots and bright blue chairs sit on the front porch, Fiona Bristow presents a cool and competent demeanor. A tall, attractive redhead, slender in jeans and a stone-gray jacket, she seems to approach the subject of murder with the same practical, down-to-earth manner that has made her and her canine training school fixtures on the island.
“ ‘ She was twenty, the same age as Annette Kellworth, when she was abducted by Perry. Like Perry’s other twelve female victims, Bristow was incapacitated by a stun gun, drugged, bound, gagged and locked in the trunk of his car. There, she was held for more than eighteen hours. But unlike the others, Bristow managed to escape. In the dark, while Perry drove the night roads, Bristow sawed through the rope binding her with a penknife given to her by her fiancé, Officer Gregory Norwood. Bristow fought off Perry, disabling him, and used his own car to reach safety and alert authorities.
“ ‘ Nearly a year later, still at large, Perry shot and killed Norwood and his K-9 partner, Kong, who lived long enough to attack and wound Perry. Perry was subsequently arrested when he lost control of his car in his attempt to escape. Despite her ordeal, and her loss, Bristow testified against Perry, and that testimony played a major role in his conviction.
“ ‘ Now, at twenty-nine, Bristow shows no visible scars from that experience. She remains single, living alone in her secluded home where she owns and operates her training school for dogs, and devotes much of her time to the Canine Search and Rescue unit she formed on Orcas.
“ ‘ The day is sunny and warm. The dogwood trees flanking the narrow bridge over the creek that bubbles across the property are in bloom, and the native red currant flames in the quiet morning. In the deep green woods where shafts of light shimmer through the towering firs, birds twitter. But a uniformed deputy drives his cruiser down her narrow drive. There can be little doubt Fiona Bristow remembers the dark, and the fear.
“ ‘ She would have been XIII.
“‘She speaks of the “movie sequel” title this mimic of George Allen Perry has been given, and the headlines his brutality has generated. It’s attention this man known as RSKII seeks, she believes. While she, the lone survivor of the one who came before him, wants only the peace and the privacy of the life she has now. A life forever changed.’ ”
“I didn’t give her an interview.” Fiona shoved the paper aside. “I didn’t talk to her about all of this.”
“But you did talk to her,” Mantz persisted.
“She showed up.” Struggling with rage, Fiona barely resisted ripping the paper to shreds. “I assumed she was here to ask about a class—and she let me assume that. She talked about the dogs, then she introduced herself. The minute she did I told her to go. No comment, go away. She persisted. I did say he wanted attention. I was angry. Look what they’re calling him, RSK Two, so it gives him flash and mystery and importance. I said he wanted attention, and she was giving it to him. I shouldn’t have said it.” She looked at Tawney now. “I know better.”
“She pushed. You pushed back.”
“And got just enough to run with it. I ordered her off the property. I even threatened to call Davey—Deputy Englewood—back. He’d just left because we both thought she’d come for class. She was here five minutes. Five goddamn minutes.”
“When?” Simon demanded, and a quick chill skipped up her spine at the tone.
“A couple of days ago. I put it away. I made her go, and I thought, I honestly thought I hadn’t given her anything—so I put it aside.”
She let out a breath. “She’s made him see me here, with my dogs and my trees. The quiet life of a survivor. And she’s made him see me there, in the trunk of that car, tied up in the dark—another victim, who just got lucky. The one line, the one about attention. The way she’s written it, that’s me speaking to him, dismissing him. It’s the sort of thing he might fixate on. I understand that.”
She glanced at the paper again, at the photo of her standing in front of her house, her hand on Newman’s head, Peck and Bogart beside her. “She must have taken this from her car. You’d think I posed for it.”
“You shouldn’t have any trouble getting a restraining order,” Tawney told her.
Discouraged, Fiona pressed her fingers to her eyes. “She’ll eat that up. I wouldn’t bet against her adding column inches on me to that article, my pansies, my chairs—painting a damn picture—
“You don’t get it.” Simon shook his head. He had his hands in his pockets, but Fiona knew there was nothing casual about it. “Talk to her, don’t, it doesn’t matter. You’re alive. You’re always going to be part of it. You survived, but it’s more than that. You weren’t rescued, the cavalry didn’t come charging up. You fought and escaped from a man who’d killed twelve other women, and who had eluded authorities for more than two years. As long as this bastard’s strangling women with red scarves, you’re news.”
He looked back at Mantz. “So don’t look down your dismissive FBI nose at her over this. Until you catch the fucker, they’ll use her for print, for ratings, to keep it churned up between murders. And you fucking well know it.”
“Maybe you think we’re just sitting on our hands,” Mantz began.
“Erin.” Tawney waved his partner off. “You’re right,” he told Simon. “About the media. Still, Fee, it’s better for you to stick with the straight ‘No comment.’ And you’re right,” he said to Fiona, “that this kind of press will very likely pump up his interest in you. You need to continue all the precautions you’re taking. And I’m going to ask you not to take on any new clients.”
“God. Look, I’m not trying to be difficult or stupid, but I have to make a living. I have—”
“What else?” Simon interrupted.
Fiona rounded on him. “Listen—”
“Shut up. What else?” he repeated.
“Okay. I want you to contact me every day,” Tawney went on. “I want you to keep a record of anything unusual. A wrong number, a hang-up, any questionable e-mails or correspondence. I want the name and contact for anyone who inquires about your classes, your schedule.”
“Meanwhile, what are you doing?”
Tawney glanced at Fiona’s flushed and furious face before answering Simon. “All we can. We’re interviewing
