'Well, I don't respect too many people in this world, Smoky, but I do respect you. And I figure if you need to fall apart, then you deserve some privacy while you do it, you know?'
She says all of this with that same careless, happy-go-lucky tone she uses to talk about the weather or the dead.
I rinse out my mouth enough to clear the taste of puke away and spend a moment taking stock of myself in the mirror. I look tired but I don't look crazy. That's something, at least.
'Thanks,' I manage.
'You're welcome.'
I stare at myself one final time.
Secrets.
You can even keep them from yourself. Just not forever.
BACK AT DEATH CENTRAL I find a woman waiting for me. She's very tall, about six foot, and, unbelievably, could give Callie a run for her money in the beauty department. She's probably close to thirty- two, with long, straight, blonde hair and one of those fresh-scrubbed apples and oatmeal complexions. She has clear, intelligent blue eyes and a slim, athletic body. I want to hate her on sight, but then she smiles. It's not the perfect white teeth that disarm me, but the genuine openness of the grin. She holds out a hand.
'Jezebel Smith,' she says.
I shake her hand and ignore Kirby's chortling behind me. Jezebel nods to Kirby, unfazed. 'Yeah, I know, it's some namesake. Mom was kind of an anti-fundamentalist, so . . .'
'Hey, my dad named me Kirby, so I know how
'Amen.' Jezebel smiles.
'Kirby--' I say, turning toward her.
The assassin holds up her hands. 'Say no more, boss woman. I'll let you get back to what you're doing. I just need to see Callie-babe about some wedding stuff.'
She saunters off after giving Jezebel a final wink and wave.
'Interesting woman,' Jezebel muses.
'You don't know the half of it, and don't want to know the rest. So did AD Jones fill you in?'
She nods, grave.
'Can I see one of the clips?' she asks. 'I like to know what I'm a part of.'
I don't ask her if she's sure or if she's seen this kind of thing before. If she has, the question will insult her. If she hasn't, she won't be prepared anyway. I take her to my office and I bring up a random clip. I look away as it plays. Jezebel bends over to watch. She's silent throughout.
'Monster' is all she says when it's done.
'Yes.'
'I deal with the victims regularly, doing what I do. I see them, talk with them--I've sat with them in their homes. This, what he's doing, is going to hurt a lot of families.'
'He knows that.'
She straightens up. 'Okay. So, I will set up a phone bank in the conference room on the floor just below this. I'll man it with six agents--I'd like more, but that's all that AD Jones can spare for now. We have a set of phone numbers reserved for tip-line situations like this one. I'll choose a number and let you know what it will be. I know the woman at HQ who is going to be the contact for media inquiry on this, so I'll arrange with her how we go about getting that number out.'
'We should take a proactive approach on this,' I say. 'Get ahead of the media.'
Her smile is gentle. 'Trust me. They're already way ahead of us on this one. I can guarantee you that media outlets all over the country have already been contacted. Think of it like a tsunami: it's coming, it's inevitable, and resistance is most definitely futile.'
'Swell.'
'The good news is, I'm really, really good at what I do. And so are the people that will be working on this at headquarters. You shouldn't have to deal with the media at all except to refer them to me. My team will filter all the calls that come through the tip line. You'll only get real leads.'
Her confidence is inspiring. I scribble my cell number on a Post-it and hand it to her.
'Call me with updates, please. I'll be asked for regular reports--I'm sure you know the game.'
'I'm familiar with shit and the way it rolls,' she says with a grin. The smile fades. 'Let's get this guy.'
It would be more melodramatic if it weren't exactly the right sentiment.
25
JEZEBEL'S METAPHOR ABOUT THE TSUNAMI HAD BEEN ACCUrate. The tidal wave hits at around two o'clock in the afternoon. I've been continuing to watch my assigned helping of video clips. We all are. It's quiet in the offices, but the air is thick with anxiety and the need to find him before he carries out his promise. I'm noting the name of a particularly terrified brunette woman when my phone rings.
'The story is hitting the five o'clock news everywhere,' Jezebel says without preamble. 'And it's already five on the East Coast.'
'What are they saying?'
'That a guy calling himself the Preacher has posted video clips on the Internet of purported murder victims. That they've been able to confirm the identities of two of the victims already.'
'Great.'
'We knew it was going to happen, and we're ready. I've been in contact with the media relations director at Quantico and she'll be doing a press conference within the next half hour. That will be picked up nationwide and she'll announce the tip-line number then.'
'Can you get me the names of the two confirmed victims soonest?'
'Within the next half hour. Do you want to see the press conference?'
'Nope.'
'Really?'
'It's not that it's not important, it's just not my part of this. My team and I need to stay on identifying the victims. It's the best thing we can do right now.'
'I understand. I'll get you those names and will keep you updated. I expect the tip line to go crazy in the next few hours.'
'I'll be here.'
I put down the phone, pick my pen back up, and click to continue the clip I was watching.
'Please,' she begs.
Please, please, it's always please. The one-word lyric of the victim's song.
ALAN IS AT THE DRY-ERASE board, writing down names and, where known, locations. I hand my list to him and take a moment to examine the data we've collected so far.
'All women,' I say.
'A sexual link after all,' Callie notes.
She's right. If this was all just about truth and his opus on the subject, we'd see some men in there. He probably has no awareness of this, and would be surprised if it was pointed out to him. Murder is murder and it's always an act of anger. The anger could be direct--he hates women--or it could be misplaced--he hates himself because of something that involves women. It's intriguing.
'Common age?' I ask.
'We don't know for sure without actual confirmation of their identities, but based on physical observation, I don't see anyone older than the age of thirty-five. Most are younger than that.'
'How much younger?'
'All adults. Twenty or older. If he does kill a child, it looks like it would be a first for him.'
'Were all the victims attractive? No, scratch that. Not all the women I saw were classically beautiful. Some were pretty plain.'
