breathtaking: hanging gardens, verandas, walkways, fountains. And winding around everything was an indoor whitewater river with a pool at the base of an eight-foot waterfall. Even though the temperature outside was dropping, in here it was still over 60°F. Right now the hotel staff was busy setting up fifty round tables on the east side of the courtyard for the luncheon.
And in less than two hours the tables would be full.
Yes, his family had been infected and would be breathing the airborne bacteria on the guests as they served them, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.
He went back into the kitchen where his family was preparing the meat. As Marcie walked past, he nodded to her. She lowered her gaze and nodded back deferentially.
Humans typically contract both tularemia and Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever through ticks, but either can also be contracted through direct contact with the blood of infected livestock. He’d opted for the cattle rather than the ticks. In fact, he’d infected his whole herd. Even now the roasts that the conference attendees would be eating were soaking in the infected blood he’d shipped on Friday.
Governor Taylor arrived at the Stratford Hotel and went up to his suite of rooms. The presidential suite. Aptly named, he thought as he slid his key into the lock.
Anita Banner followed the governor closely, wearing her favorite skirt, enjoying the turned heads of all the young men she passed. Soon she’d be able to afford an even better skirt. In fact, a whole new wardrobe. A whole new life.
A life finally free from the groping hands of Sebastian Taylor.
Tessa watched to see if I’d answer the phone.
It rang again. I reached for it.
She ventured a bite of cereal.
I flipped the phone open and then snapped it shut, turning off the ringer when I did.
She’d been following my movements out of the corner of her eye. “Why didn’t you answer that?”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Noticing you.”
Suddenly I remembered the words from Christie’s note: Don’t run from the risk of loving her… “We need to be here for each other,” I said. I wondered if Christie had left a similar note for Tessa. I’d never asked her. Make it right, Pat. C’mon.
Tessa was toying with her spoon. “I found it in the dresser.”
“Found what?”
“Mom’s perfume. It’s OK, isn’t it? That I’m wearing it, I mean?” For a moment she almost looked shy. A shy raven.
“Yeah. Of course. I’m glad you’re wearing it. Really.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s cool.”
“Cool?” she said with a slight grimace. “Did you just say cool?” “Is that OK? Is it still cool to say cool?”
“I guess,” she said. “It just sorta surprised me…”
I picked up the jug of milk and a jet of pain shot through my shoulder. I flinched and set the jug down again.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying. Don’t lie to me.”
“You’re right.” My back was throbbing. “OK, honestly, I hurt my shoulder pretty bad yesterday.”
“Doing what?”
“Someone tried to blow me up.”
“Really?” She sipped her coffee.
“Yeah.”
“Who?”
I stirred some honey into my tea. “I’m not certain, but I’m reasonably sure it was the serial killer.”
“Oh,” she said, and then, “How many people has he killed so far?”
“At least six. Maybe more. Probably more.”
“So, not up to the average of eight victims yet? I mean, for North American serial killers?”
I hesitated. “You know, in some families this kind of conversation would seem a little odd.”
“Not in this one,” she said.
I blew on my tea. “Not quite up to eight yet. As far as we know.”
We ate our cereal.
“So, why do they do it?” she asked after a few minutes.
I gave her my stock answer. “Well, I try not to ask why. You get sidetracked doing that.”
She scoffed. “Yeah, right. That’s a cop-out if I ever heard one. I know you wonder. You have to. You’re too curious about stuff not to.”
My cup of tea trembled in my fingers. Her words struck home. “Well, I guess maybe I have, but in the end I think the why is easy: killers want the same things out of life everyone wants-fulfillment, accomplishment, a sense of worth, acceptance, power-”
“Love.”
I fumbled for what to say. “Yeah. That too. But they don’t know the right way to get it.”
Neither do you.
“No one does,” she said. “Not all the time, at least.”
I couldn’t tell if she was saying that as a simple observation, or as something more personal. After a moment she added, “So then what makes us different from them?”
I was about to say something trite, cliched, stupid. But the truth is, there’s only a fine line that separates us from them, and sometimes it wavers back and forth like a snake in the sand. Sometimes we step over it, all of us do. Curiosity, maybe. Desire. Anger. Who knows. But the ones who step over with both feet are still just as human as we are. All of them are: those people in Jonestown, the killers I track. They’re searching for hope, looking for love, trying to figure things out. Just like us. In so many ways they’re just like us. That’s the scariest truth of all.
“Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference,” I said. “I guess a lot of it boils down to the choices we make.” Then I remembered a quote I heard once. “I think it was Goethe who said that all of us have within us the potential to commit any crime.”
“Something like that.” She sipped at her coffee.
“What do you mean?”
“Goethe wrote, ‘There is no crime of which I do not deem myself capable.’ At least that’s the most popular translation.”
I took a long look at her. “How do you know that? How do you know all this stuff?”
“The Internet,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I’ve heard of that.” I waited to see her reaction.
“And I like to read too. I read a lot.” She took a bite of her cereal. “I read your books.”
“You did? What did you think?”
She shrugged. “They’re OK, I guess. Kinda boring.”
Well, then.
I reached into my pocket. I wasn’t sure if now was a good time, but I couldn’t think of a better one. “Hey. I got you a birthday present. Sorry it’s late.”
She eyed me. “What is it?”
“I’m not telling. It’d take away the surprise.” I set the small rectangular box on the table. She looked at the present but didn’t reach for it. I slid it to her. “You’ll have to open it.”
She picked it up abruptly, tore the gold foil wrapping paper away, flipped open the fuzzy gray box, and then stopped. She didn’t even remove the necklace.
“It’s got your birthstone,” I said.
