Chapter 11
Eleven
University of Alabama Birmingham (UAB) Hospital
“I’m sorry.” Katherine Jones’s voice was a raw, raspy croak. “I just don’t know.”
“You focus on recovering, Mrs. Jones. We’ll find the person responsible for this,” SAC Worth promised.
Worth, with Grace alongside him, paused at the foot of the patient’s bed to speak with the doctor.
Ryan watched from the position he had taken next to the door.
He wasn’t wasting his time, or the victim’s, with questions.
The unsub they were dealing with was far too smart to have allowed her to see his face.
Considering what she had been through, Mrs. Jones had been in damned good shape when they pulled her out of that freezer.
Other than scared half to death and dehydrated, despite sitting shoulder deep in water, her stay in the hospital was for observation only.
Feeling the water rise and knowing you couldn’t get away would shake anyone to the core, sedated or not.
Poor woman. When she’d first heard Grace and Ryan talking, she had thought she was dreaming.
The best part of the whole ugly episode was that she had lived to tell about it.
Worth cut Ryan one of those this-is-your-fault looks as he exited the room.
Grace hesitated at the door, didn’t follow her boss. “You coming or did you have additional questions?” She craned her neck to see if Worth was out of hearing range.
Ryan shook his head and pushed away from the wall. “Let’s go.”
In the sterile, endless corridor outside the room, he had to remind himself which way to go for the elevators. He was beat. He’d survived solely on coffee for the past twenty or so hours. Caffeine could only go so far.
Worth hadn’t waited, which suited Ryan just fine.
The SAC had already given his thoughts on the latest search-and-rescue endeavor.
This whole charade was out of control, in his opinion.
To his way of thinking, no former agent should have thousands of fan letters and some stalker fan kidnapping and terrorizing innocent people.
Someone was going to end up dead, and the Bureau would be blamed.
Bottom line: Ryan McBride was an albatross. This whole mess was his fault.
What’s new? He hadn’t expected Worth to feel any other way. Frankly, Ryan didn’t give one shit how Worth felt. But he wholeheartedly agreed with the theory that if this nutcase Devoted Fan kept at it—two down, how many to go?—someone was going to die.
And that would be Ryan’s fault.
Grace pushed the call button for the elevators. “You okay?”
Hell no, he wasn’t okay.
He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, attempted to block out the spots floating in front of his retinas. Bad sign. He knew the symptoms. Lack of sleep, alcohol, and nicotine. And a kind of fear he hadn’t felt in a long-ass time bullying its way into the mix.
His hand shook as he lowered it back to his side.
He needed downtime.
No . . . What he needed was to get out of here before someone died on his watch.
The elevator doors slid open and he couldn’t move. Couldn’t walk into that cramped space.
Grace stepped into the waiting car and prepared to make the necessary floor selection. “You coming?”
“I’ll . . . ah . . . take the stairs.”
He didn’t explain, just headed for the end of the corridor with her shouting to him to watch out for the paparazzi in the lobby. The stairwell was empty, so he took a moment to try and derail what he knew was coming. Deep breaths. Let them out slow. He wasn’t going down this road. No way. Couldn’t.
He shouldn’t have come here at all. Rescuing that kid had been so simple . . . but this last time hadn’t been quite so easy. If Grace hadn’t been there to back him up, he might have failed. What the hell would he do next time?
And there would be a next time.
What if he couldn’t fix it? Those old instincts might fail him entirely . . . and because of him someone would die.
Taking the stairs quickly, he kept one hand on the railing since the world seemed determined to tilt on him. Get outside. Get some air. Don’t slow down.
Sweat popped out on his skin. His gut clenched.
Ryan descended to the first floor in a near run and emerged into the lobby.
Crews from dozens of news channels were hanging around, hoping to catch a break on whatever the hell was going on.
He moved wide around where they had gathered near the elevators.
The visiting hours crowd had filtered in, making forward movement a challenge.
Ignoring the glares and remarks of the people he bumped into in his haste, he plowed through.
Had to get outside. A half-ton weight had settled on his chest. He couldn’t breathe .
. . couldn’t think. Damned sure couldn’t risk running into a reporter.
He hit the sidewalk. Air flooded his lungs.
Breathe.
Deep.
That was it. More deep gulps. Hold it. Release. The weight on his chest lessened. Finally, the knot in his gut relaxed.
He was not going to let anyone die—not this time.
He could still do this . . . he hoped.
“McBride?”
He closed his eyes, chased away the demons, and grabbed that fuck-you attitude that worked so well for him . . . most of the time. “What?”
Grace flinched at his growl. “You okay?”
He ignored her question, dredged up the control he’d allowed to slip.
“How’d you avoid the reporters?” She had taken the elevator, and the hordes of reporters had been waiting there like buzzards after roadkill.
That was the thing about ambulances. Anytime one was called to a scene, the media was bound to show up.
“Worth has them distracted with a statement he decided to issue.”
Ryan didn’t bother asking what Worth planned to say in his statement. He didn’t give a damn.
“Let’s get out of here.” Grace started walking toward the parking garage where she had left her SUV. “You want Waffle House or IHOP?” she asked as he fell into step next to her.
“You’re kidding, right?” The last thing he wanted to do was eat. He paused, fished a Marlboro from the pack, and lit up, the rush of nicotine instantly calming.
“You need to eat, McBride.”
This conversation sounded familiar. “Look.” He glanced at her breasts, then at her lips; she tensed and outrage immediately flashed in her eyes.
“You’re not my mother or my nurse. I’ll eat when I eat.
” He inhaled another lungful of smoke. “Let’s see how Davis is doing on that list. We need to see if Schaffer can connect these two victims in any way. ”
Glaring at him for a ball-busting moment or two, Grace didn’t say a word. Eventually, she pivoted on her heel and continued toward the garage. She gave him the silent treatment from that point forward, but that was fine by him.
If they talked, she would only bring up his little episode back there and then ask questions he would refuse to answer. Talking about his past was something he didn’t do.
Ever.
1000 Eighteenth Street, 2:30 p.m.
Davis had the list narrowed down to just under one thousand.
More than half of those hailed from the tristate area, which resulted in around six hundred names.
Ryan had joined him at the conference table where two laptops had been set up for their use.
Schaffer was looking for any connection between Alyssa Byrne and Katherine Jones.
Across the room, the timeline had been updated.
The photo of Alyssa Byrne remained along with comments regarding the resolution of her abduction.
Next to that was a photo of Katherine Jones with the same information.
A separate section had been created for known facts about the unsub.
There were only two: He, assuming he was male, was a fan of Ryan’s and lived somewhere within a hundred-mile radius of Birmingham.
The MO was curiously different in each incident, and the victims were totally unalike. Not one damned thing usable for putting together a decent profile. Which, Ryan surmised, was the point.
Grace arrived, a folder in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. She placed the cup in front of him, then sat down at the table.
Never one to turn down a fresh cup of coffee, even when it came from a potential enemy, he took a welcome swig. “Thanks.”
“Are you ready for an update?”
This was the first time she had spoken to him since they left the hospital. She had taken the initiative and followed up on the evidence found at the various crime scenes, which, he imagined, would net them nothing useful.
He lowered the laptop screen and turned his full attention on her. “Shoot.”
Her speculative glance told him he shouldn’t tempt her; after all, she did carry a weapon.
“The same sedative was used on Alyssa Byrne and Katherine Jones, but it was a dead end. Nothing reported missing; at least, nothing in the system. It’s possible the unsub ordered something on the internet.
For the most part, those sales are untraceable—particularly when you have no starting place.
So we can’t get a lead on him via that route. ”
Ryan downed another slug of coffee and waited for the rest. There would be more.
The lady was thorough. She wouldn’t come to him with nothing.
Grace was a good agent—as agents went. He wasn’t shaving any points for her freezing up at the cemetery.
Newbies often balked at the sight of death or suspected death the first few times.
Still, instinct told him that hers was a deeper reaction, to something beyond this case.
Not his problem. He had to remember that.
He wasn’t here to play amateur psychologist or to give career advice. Anyone who sought career advice from him was not operating on all cylinders.
“Forensics found nothing in the way of evidence in either mausoleum,” she went on. “The floors were swept with a broom the caretakers use on the property. No hair, no trace evidence whatsoever.”