Silenced

scream? Why didn’t anyone stop this insanity?

She should never have brought Jocelyn into this mess.

You’re next. He’s going to find you and kill you.

Who, dammit? Who was killing everyone who helped her?

Ivy rose to her feet and realized that she was standing in blood. Her plastic flip-flops made the damp blood pool around the edges. Her hand went to her stomach and she turned and ran to the bathroom, but didn’t make it. She threw up in the garbage can next to the desk and realized at the same time that she didn’t see Maddie.

Ivy spun around the room, didn’t see Maddie.

The bathroom door was closed.

Ivy pulled her gun from her backpack. With shaking hands, she reached for the doorknob. Slowly turned the knob and pushed the door in with one movement. She jumped back, both hands on her gun, ready to fire at the first threat.

No one hid in the bathroom. But it wasn’t empty.

Maddie lay in the tub, filled close to the top with water so red it looked fake. But it wasn’t fake, it was Maddie’s blood, leached from her arms that floated just beneath the surface. Her eyes were closed, thank God her eyes were closed. Ivy didn’t know if she could handle the accusation had Maddie stared at her. Her head was slumped to the side, as if she’d fallen asleep.

Ivy turned around and saw the mirror.

In blood, someone had painstakingly written

Run, run, as fast as you can

Ivy ran.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Thursday

What disturbed Lucy the most about the ornate suite in the historic Hotel Potomac wasn’t the blood soaking into the plush gold carpet; it wasn’t the familiar, coppery scent of blood, decomposing flesh, and fresh latex; it wasn’t even the bodies that had yet to be removed.

What caught Lucy’s eye and would continue to haunt her was the blood spatter arcing over the avocado green walls, dried drops sprinkled over a painting of a famous American Revolutionary battle, giving a vivid depth to the tragic scene. The spatter covered the heavy, patterned damask drapery, and sliced across the window. Except for one overturned chair and a two-liter bottle of soda spilled on the carpet-adding a stale, sweet scent to the closed room-nothing else appeared disturbed, at least on the surface. Odd and disconcerting, considering the violence that had been done inside.

Two bodies lay dead in the main hotel room and one in the bathroom. The suite was an oversized hotel room, with the “living” area consisting of a couch, chairs, desk, and meeting table for six. The sleeping area was up a step and included a dresser and king-sized bed. Jane Doe had bled out in the adjoining bathroom. The difference between yesterday’s crime scene and this was stark: the cheapest hotel in DC versus one of the most expensive.

Lucy stood aside while Detective Genie Reid issued orders laced with profanity. Mentally, Lucy added up how much Genie owed her grandson. She was at two-fifty now and no sign of slowing down. The task soothed Lucy’s frayed nerves.

Though the crime scene was disturbing, it wasn’t the source of her angst. What bothered her was that this was the work of the same killer.

Genie hadn’t spoken of the connection, but when Lucy walked into the hotel room she saw a similar blood pattern as had been in the Red Light Motel. How many left-handed throat-slashers were there in one city?

“Well fuck me from here to Jersey,” Genie said from the bathroom.

Two dollars, seventy-five cents.

Lucy had already put on gloves and booties. She carefully walked through the room and looked over Genie’s shoulder.

The floor was covered with pink water from the naked female victim who had bled out in the tub. One stab wound to her chest, plus her left wrist cut so deeply her hand had nearly separated from her arm.

The victim’s body disappeared into water darkened by her blood.

Lucy had to close her eyes, just for a moment. The violence in the main hotel room was disturbing, but Lucy had seen crime scenes like that before.

The body in the bathroom was a whole new level of gruesome.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Genie demanded, her voice cracking.

Lucy opened her eyes and looked at the mirror. The killer had written another message on the mirror.

Run, run as fast as you can

“You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man,” Lucy whispered.

“What?” Genie spun around, pushing Lucy away from the door.

“I was finishing the rhyme.”

“He’s taunting us. He thinks I won’t catch him? Watch me. I’m going to nail the bastard.”

“It could be a taunt, or it could be a message to the others.”

“What others?”

“One of the six,” Lucy said.

“You’re talking Greek. Six?”

“From his message yesterday.”

“So we have three more victims today, he’s going to kill two more?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you just said-fuck it. I don’t want to know. Taback! Where’s the security? The manager? Has someone gotten me the damn ID on our vics? Anything?”

Three dollars.

Genie stormed out of the room. Lucy stayed while DC forensics photographed the scene. The coroner hadn’t arrived, so no one had touched the bodies.

Lucy walked the scene, starting at the door.

Without more information, she couldn’t figure out what exactly had happened-if the male victim had been followed into the room, or if someone was waiting inside. Or if he had known his attacker and let him in.

The male victim had his back to the door. He was of average size and build, approximately five foot ten, lean, dressed in beige slacks and a button-down shirt that had once been white. His shoes were leather loafers, the soles worn but the tops polished. A man who walked outdoors frequently as part of his job, common in the Beltway.

A hotel card key was next to his body, a small overnight suitcase next to the door. She closed her eyes, pictured what she would do if she had an overnight bag. Unlock the door-push the key in, wait for the beep, open. Put the bag down, particularly if it was heavy. Close the door. Bolt it.

The door hadn’t been bolted. The maid had come in and found the bodies.

The male vic had been killed quickly-his throat deeply slashed just like Nicole Bellows’s. Grab, slash, drop. The blood spatter indicated the attacker grabbed him from behind, used his left hand, slit his throat hard and fast, showing the killer was not only as tall or taller than the victim, but also physically strong.

It took both strength and a good knife to slice the neck so deeply.

No sign of hesitation, no sign of struggle.

Why hadn’t anyone screamed?

The woman was fully clothed and near the bed, her body huddled in a protective fetal position. Castoff left the ceiling dotted with arcs of blood. Lucy couldn’t even count the multitude of wounds on the victim, and she was only looking at her back. Her head was buried in her arms and Lucy was relieved she couldn’t see her face.

Man-quick death. Woman-brutally murdered. Young woman in the bathroom-possibly quick. Lucy hadn’t been able to tell what came first, the chest wound or the wrist.

Except …