It was a hot, muggy night when I stumbled up to the front door of the Riverside Drive house. I was fairly new to the area and still easily turned around. It was nearly midnight, and the residents of this affluent neighborhood weren’t accustomed to drunken late-night visitors. I’d lost track of time and to this day don’t know how I made it up the hill from the river to the Hudson residence.
Dispatcher: “911. What’s your emergency?”
Caller: “My name is Jack Hudson. I live on Riverside Drive. There’s a young woman on my front porch. She’s banging on the door and begging for help.”
Dispatcher: “Have you spoken to her?”
Caller: “Just for a second. She appears drunk. She’s incoherent. Hysterical . . . Oh, shit! She just threw up in the flower bed.”
Dispatcher: “Do you know why she’s upset?”
Caller: “She claims she and her friend were attacked on Riverside Drive. Her friend was then kidnapped.”
Dispatcher: “Did you ask the woman her name?”
Caller: “Her name is Kaitlin. I didn’t catch her last name. She lives down the street with the Mason family. They have a daughter, Gina.”
Dispatcher: “I’ve dispatched officers. What is the woman doing?”
Caller: “She’s pacing in my driveway.”
Dispatcher: “Is she bleeding or hurt in any way?”
Caller: “I can’t tell. Let me flip on the porch lights.” Feet shuffle. A switch clicks. “She has blood on her arms. Jesus, she looks insane.
Guilt, sorrow, and remorse were dull, consistent pains she endured, but the physical agony now jerking her toward consciousness was something she’d never felt before. Liquid fire scorched every cell and sinew, trapping her breath as she expanded her ribs and attempted to draw in air. Her heart raced, and she swallowed as she waited for the vise grip on her midsection to ease before she tried to breathe again.
When the pain dulled to a throb, she lay still until the screaming in her body stopped. Had the monster from fourteen years ago returned? Panic made her heart beat faster. A deep-seated urge to survive goaded her to open her eyes so she could get her bearings.
Instantly the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights smacked her square in the face. Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and regrouped before she slowly reopened them. Her head still throbbed, but she adjusted to the pain.
The beep, beep of a monitor had her slowly turning her head left toward the machine’s green and red lights. An IV ran from a half-full bag to the thick blue vein in her arm.
Hospital. She was in a hospital? What had happened?
Her vision focused on the monitor, while she searched through the mental haze for her last concrete memory. She blinked while trying to scrape together the last images.
She had been at Erika’s house. She’d stepped inside . . . and then whatever happened next danced out of reach. She had no idea what happened to her.
“Welcome back.”
She turned her head toward the deep-baritone voice heavy with fatigue. Detective Adler sat in the chair by her bed. Dark stubble covered his chin, and his starched white dress shirt was wrinkled. Sleeves were rolled up, revealing hair covering muscled arms. His gun, as always, was holstered at his side along with cuffs and a phone.
He rose and leaned over the bed, staring at her with piercing gray eyes. Detective Adler. City of Richmond Homicide. But she wasn’t dead.
It was a hot, muggy night when I stumbled up to the front door of the Riverside Drive house. I was fairly new to the area and still easily turned around. It was nearly midnight, and the residents of this affluent neighborhood weren’t accustomed to drunken late-night visitors. I’d lost track of time and to this day don’t know how I made it up the hill from the river to the Hudson residence.
Dispatcher: “911. What’s your emergency?”
Caller: “My name is Jack Hudson. I live on Riverside Drive. There’s a young woman on my front porch. She’s banging on the door and begging for help.”
Dispatcher: “Have you spoken to her?”
Caller: “Just for a second. She appears drunk. She’s incoherent. Hysterical . . . Oh, shit! She just threw up in the flower bed.”
Dispatcher: “Do you know why she’s upset?”
Caller: “She claims she and her friend were attacked on Riverside Drive. Her friend was then kidnapped.”
Dispatcher: “Did you ask the woman her name?”
Caller: “Her name is Kaitlin. I didn’t catch her last name. She lives down the street with the Mason family. They have a daughter, Gina.”
Dispatcher: “I’ve dispatched officers. What is the woman doing?”
Caller: “She’s pacing in my driveway.”
Dispatcher: “Is she bleeding or hurt in any way?”
Caller: “I can’t tell. Let me flip on the porch lights.” Feet shuffle. A switch clicks. “She has blood on her arms. Jesus, she looks insane.”
The evening anchors covered a robbery, a mall fashion show, and a dammed high school football game. Finally the anchor cut to a reporter on the side of the interstate. The neatly coiffed woman was on the other side of the highway, standing on the northbound access road, a good distance from the car.
He leaned forward and in the background saw police milling around the site as the reporter talked about an unexplained death.
“Unexplained, my ass. She was shot in the chest.”
On another television, Channel Two projected Gloria’s face. As the newscaster listed off her accomplishments, images appeared of her with politicians, school children, and in front of her car dealership.
Why hadn’t the cops told the media more?
Gloria wasn’t some low-class hooker or a junkie. She was the kind of woman people missed. All he could surmise was that the cops were scrambling as they tried to figure out if they’d arrested the wrong man or if there was another Samaritan. He didn’t care if they were confused or bumbling around as long as they’d spoken to Kate. The point of the text was to alert Kate. She was the one who needed to be on the scene. It wasn’t right if she wasn’t in the mix.
Frustrated, he rose and paced around the basement room. He flexed his fingers as he tried to expel the nervous energy cutting through his body. Times like this, it was all he could do to contain the feelings and racing thoughts. He paced. Clenched and unclenched his fingers.
It would be so easy to upload the video he’d taken and show the world what he’d done. His footage would send a ripple effect through the city, the state, and even the country. The Samaritan would again be feared and respected. Think of the panic!
But as tempting as it was, he paused.
He didn’t care about publicity or public fear. The goal was to control one particular person. He had to believe his text had reached Dr. Kate Hayden and she’d soon return to San Antonio.
This game, like chess, had to be played patiently and carefully. He didn’t need to rush. All the pieces were in position, ready to play. Though the media wasn’t covering him yet, they soon would.
He picked up the worn notebook, flipped to one of the last clean pages, and scribbled down the day’s date.
You have no idea how long I have planned our meeting, Kate. It has been a long journey, and now the final match is upon us.
He studied the note and circled the word final several times with a steady hand.
It was a matter of time before Kate’s return home.
Eighteen-year-old Sara Fletcher lay in her bed, a television remote gripped in her hands as she stared at the muted television screen.
“Sara.”
The girl gripped the remote. Sharp blue eyes locked onto Kate with the leeriness of an animal caught in a trap. Even if the girl could run, her muscles still wouldn’t support her weight.
Sara Fletcher had long blond hair that framed a thin pale face with angled cheekbones and a pointed chin. She’d lost twenty-six pounds of fat and muscle during her ordeal, and it would take weeks, perhaps months, before her body recovered.
Kate stood still, giving Sara a moment to study her in the dimly lit room. Seconds ticked by, and though her suspicion didn’t abate, some of her tension eased.
Kate closed the door behind her. “You recognize me, don’t you? I’m Dr. Kate Hayden. I’m a profiler with the FBI. I found you.”
Tears glistened and her chin trembled.
Kate held up her badge as she moved slowly toward the bed. “I know I don’t look the part.” The white coat billowed around her small frame but covered jeans still coated in mud from the crime-scene search.
The girl studied the badge. She’d trusted a stranger once, and it had cost her dearly. Good. She was wary. That meant she was smart, and her chances of surviving this mentally were better.
“I recognize the look on your face.” Kate wasn’t adept at levity but understood it had its place. “It’s a ‘you don’t look like an agent’ glare. I get it a lot.” She was 101 pounds soaking wet, as her mother used to say. Her light-brown hair was curly and stayed scraped back in a ponytail most of the time. “Operation code names for me have run the gamut in the eight years I’ve been at this. Smurf, Munchkin, and my favorite, the Lollipop Kid.”
Beyond the odd monikers, she had a few lame jokes but right now couldn’t recall a single one as the guilt of not finding this kid faster pressed against her chest. The girl stared at her, silent, but suddenly observant.
“People think when you’re small you aren’t smart or aggressive. But we can be the toughest of the tough, right?”
Sara nibbled her chapped lip and stared back at the television.
“We acted on an anonymous tip that led us to the abandoned Anderson farm.” The Anderson name carried weight in this county, and when the tip first came in, it had been discounted. Another two days passed before the local authorities had called the FBI.
Kate traveled to the farmhouse within hours of being contacted. She’d quickly found Sara’s box, and as she pried out the nails hammered into the lid, she’d heard the girl’s faint cry for help. She’d felt exhilaration, anger, and sadness as she opened the lid and discovered the painfully thin, pale, and frightened girl. Sara hadn’t been able to give Kate the name of her abductor before paramedics had taken the girl away in the ambulance. Kate was left to study the surrounding property and the abandoned wooden outbuildings, now graying and tumbling under decades of abuse from the harsh Utah winters. With the use of ground-penetrating radar, they’d found the location of other graves.
Today, she didn’t have all the answers. But she had a name and a picture that she hoped Sara would identify as her abductor.
When Kate sank into the hotel bed, her entire body ached from fatigue. She’d been going nonstop for eleven days with little sleep. And yet, as exhausted as her body was, her mind buzzed with the details of the day. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about this case. She could feel it, sense it, but fatigue had hazed over her thoughts. One way or another, she would have to sleep so that she could remain effective.
She checked her phone, hoping to see a picture of Drexler in cuffs from Nevada. There wasn’t. Part of her was disappointed, and another part was hopeful she could still personally see this monster caged.
She fell back against the pillows. If the ballistics varied in the Sanchez case, then that would be enough for her to pull out and return to Utah. One more day in San Antonio to go. She’d not called her mother yet but could reasonably argue she’d been too busy. Still, to be this close, and not call, suggested personal issues bigger than a lack of time.
The shadows played on the wall, swaying and moving back and forth as if they’d come to life. For centuries, the civilized were taught to not believe in monsters, but she knew damn well they existed. The horror they wrought upon the innocent was unspeakable in sane company. Images of them always came home to roost at night when she was alone.
Her chest tightened, and she looked toward the prescription bottle she always set out on her nightstand. The sleeping pills had been a big help when she couldn’t shut her brain off after a case, but until last week, she’d been trying to wean off them. But as the muscles in her body begged for sleep, her mind still ran wild. Her skin tingled as if the shadows watched.
Clicking on the light, she reached for the bottle and took out one pill. Taking it felt like failure, but she knew she’d be good to no one if she were exhausted.
Kate swallowed the pill whole and with a deep sense of resignation lay back on the pillows. It took another thirty minutes for her mind to slow and her eyes to close, and when sleep reached out a welcoming hand, she accepted it even as she promised herself that next time she would not need the pills.
It was a hot, muggy night when I stumbled up to the front door of the Riverside Drive house. I was fairly new to the area and still easily turned around. It was nearly midnight, and the residents of this affluent neighborhood weren’t accustomed to drunken late-night visitors. I’d lost track of time and to this day don’t know how I made it up the hill from the river to the Hudson residence.
