Edge of Midnight

17



The morning mist had turned into a steady downpour. Eric stood beneath a covered picnic pavilion about twenty feet from Karen Diambro’s Chevy Impala. Rain pounded on its roof, and he watched as a wrecking service prepared to tow it to the Bureau’s lab for processing. The Impala had a dented rear bumper, raising suspicion that a fender bender had been the ploy that got the woman to pull into the isolated area.

“Ms. Diambro’s a nurse—she didn’t show up for her shift at Children’s Hospital this morning,” Cameron said as he ducked under the eaves, stamping water from his shoes. “We got hold of the ex-husband, too. He’s with his new wife and Ms. Diambro’s son—they’re in New York at a business conference.”

With the ex-husband out of town, it eliminated a possible suspect in the woman’s disappearance and increased the probability The Collector had taken another victim. If that were the case, it also meant Anna Lynn Gomez had run out of time. Thinking of Victor Gomez, Eric felt guilt pool inside him.

“There’s a receipt for a laptop inside the vehicle,” Cameron noted. “It was time-stamped at 8:16 last night.”

He hadn’t seen a box in the car. “Where’s the computer?”

“Good question. Either her abductor took it as a bonus, or someone else happened along and helped themselves.”

Several news vans were parked on the road adjacent to the recreation area, although deputies in rain slickers were keeping the media from getting any closer. Additional officers were conducting a checkpoint at the nearby intersection, asking drivers if they had witnessed anything unusual, including a minor traffic accident, in the area the previous night.

“You want to fill me in on these retrieved memories of Ms. Hale’s?”

Eric had started to update Cameron earlier, but with this latest missing person, it had taken a backseat to canvassing the waterside park. “Like I said, she’s been having nightmares, something the naval psychiatrist said to expect. But there’s been a recurring dream about her watching a little girl being kidnapped. Until now, the psychiatrist thought it was purely symbolic of her own recent abduction trauma.”

“But it’s not?”

He told him about the archived news article from 1987, confirming a child named Joy Rourke actually had disappeared from the same foster care home where Mia herself had been living. “It was no nightmare, apparently. It looks like the therapy brought out a repressed memory from her childhood, as well.”

Eric paused, knowing that what he was about to say, if it were true, was a game-changer. “Mia believes the male she witnessed abducting Joy Rourke twenty-five years ago was a younger version of the man she saw through the car window the night she escaped.”

“The same suspect who’s in our sketch?” Cameron appeared skeptical. “That’s some pretty out-there stuff. And even if the child abduction was real, isn’t there a chance Ms. Hale’s subconscious got confused and inserted her present-day abductor into the scene?”

There was always that possibility, and it was one Eric had already considered.

“The perp tried to abduct both girls,” he said. “Mia got away.”

The significance wasn’t lost on Cameron. “Attempting to have two females under his control at once does sound like our guy’s M.O.”

The only difference was that he’d graduated to taking women at some point.

I hope you’re taking the opportunity to enjoy our beaches and local attractions. It was something The Collector had said on the Pauline Berger recording…the way he said it made Eric suspect he was a Florida native, a prospect made even likelier if he was indeed the child abductor in Mia’s memory. It was possible he had relocated to Maryland for a time but for whatever reason had now returned home. The tow truck started up with a roar, the yellow light bar on its cab flashing and its oversize wheels rolling forward through a large rain puddle as it pulled the Impala from the lot. Regardless, if Mia had actually witnessed him taking the child all those years ago, then Eric feared she was no passing fancy.

“So we have one abduction in Jacksonville twenty-five years ago. A child,” Cameron recounted, his thoughts apparently on the same wavelength as Eric’s. “Then the unsub goes dormant for over two decades before starting up again in Maryland?”

“He could’ve lived a normal life for a long time, until some stressor kicked off his killing drive again.” Eric also recounted his theory from the recent task force meeting. “Or, he could have stayed under the radar for years by taking victims infrequently or choosing women who weren’t likely to be missed, like prostitutes or runaways. He’s only gotten the FBI’s attention because of his recent spree behavior and the similarities of the victims’ wounds.”

“The numbers carved into their skin and the missing fingernails and hair—”

“Indicative of an increasing compulsion.” He paused before adding, “I think we should consider protective measures for Mia Hale.”

“You think she needs it?”

“I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Cameron shrugged. “You can ask for it. But the reality is this guy hasn’t made another move on her. And a dream she’s been having isn’t much justification for soaking up police resources.”

“Agents?” A forensic technician approached, holding a clear evidence baggie that contained a syringe. “It was in the trash receptacle near the restrooms.”

“Well, at least he picks up after himself,” Cameron grumbled. He turned to the tech. “See if we can get any prints off of it—make it a rush job, okay?”

Eric released a breath. He’d left the syringe behind this time. Its presence all but confirmed that Karen Diambro was The Collector’s newest victim.

“What does Ms. Diambro look like?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Her hospital ID badge was in the glove box,” Cameron said. “Mid-thirties. Dark hair and eyes.”

The unsub had changed his preference for variety. His last two abductions were both brown-eyed brunettes. Substitutes for the one who got away? Tense, Eric peered out through the heavy curtain of rain.

Cameron’s cell phone rang and he answered, placing his hand over his free ear to better hear the caller. A few seconds later he disconnected the phone, his features somber.

“That was the office. Another package arrived for you in this morning’s mail.”

Eric closed his eyes as he listened to Cissy Cox’s muffled screams.

He sensed Cameron pacing behind him as they waited for the inevitable to play out on the recording. This time the audio included no personal message or taunt. The Collector had forced the woman to state her name, and then he’d gone directly to the business of torturing her. An eternity seemed to pass before the knife slitting her throat—based on Mia’s regained memory—had cut off her agonized shrieks. The only remaining sounds on the recording were the unsub’s heavy panting and a very faint, terrified mewling.

It was Mia in the background.

She had been there—tied up and gagged, helpless, witnessing everything. As he listened, Eric realized his own breathing had grown strained. He hoped like hell the memory of what she’d seen would never resurface.

“Sick bastard,” Cameron muttered. He came around to the desk where Eric was sitting, his face as gray as the afternoon sky outside the office window. “Even without a body we need to notify the family.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Agent Macfarlane?” Jeremy Hatcher, a tall, dark-complexioned rookie agent assigned to the task force, stood in the threshold. His eyes flicked to the digital recorder. He cleared his throat. “Forensics couldn’t find any prints on the syringe. But I did the cross match you wanted. There’s something you should see.”

He stepped inside and handed over the computer printout. Before returning to the office, Eric and Cameron had visited the consumer electronics store where Karen Diambro had shopped the night before. While there were no security cameras in place, the manager had agreed to provide a listing of in-store transactions occurring in the same time frame as Ms. Diambro’s—customer names only, excluding credit card numbers. Eric had assigned Agent Hatcher the task of running any male customer names on the list through an offender database. Flipping through the printout with Cameron looking over his shoulder, he stopped at a name circled in red pen. “What was he in for?”

“Battery and false imprisonment. That was ten years ago, but—”

“Good job, Hatch,” Cameron said.

“There’s more. The guy lives in Callahan.”

Eric glanced at Cameron, who filled him in. “It’s a fairly rural area northwest of Jacksonville. It could be a match for Ms. Hale’s description of the wooded area where she was held captive.”

The man’s record, combined with his presence at the consumer electronics store the same night as Karen Diambro, made him worth talking to. Eric rose from the desk. “Let’s go.”

The split-level house sat on a secluded cul-de-sac. It appeared in dire need of maintenance, with a crumbling stucco facade and missing window shutters. The front yard was more dirt than grass and a rotting, split-rail fence ran partially around its perimeter. An old dog, asleep in the day’s heat, was chained to a cinder block at the edge of the property. Going up to the stoop, Eric rapped on the door as Cameron, Hatcher and another agent stood alert nearby.

He called the man’s name. “FBI! Open up!”

The door creaked slowly inward and an older woman with graying hair in a long braid peeped out. “What do you want?”

“We’re with the FBI, ma’am. We want a word with—”

“He ain’t here,” she snapped in a phlegmy voice. A second later the sound of a slamming door came from the back of the house.

“He went out through the back!” Eric drew his gun. The team dispersed, with he and Cameron heading left around the house and the other agents traveling at a rapid pace in the opposite direction. At the edge of the woods behind the house, a black-haired male wearing jeans and an undershirt ran into a dense coverage of trees.

“FBI! Stop!”

The fleeing man discharged his gun, the shot cracking in the air and echoing.

“Son of a bitch!” Cameron intoned through gritted teeth, ducking instinctively as they kept going.

The rain had stopped, but the overcast day was muggy and hot. Eric gave a signal to the other agents, instructing them to travel around behind a detached garage to the right. Cameron went left again as Eric continued on the direct path behind the shooter. Running, he could see the occasional white flash of the man’s shirt ahead of him as he darted through the semitropical undergrowth and trees. Steam rose from the wet ground, attesting to the humidity. A branch hit him in the face, stinging his cheek.

The man fired again and he heard the whiz of a bullet as it passed close by. With a curse, he continued in hot pursuit, his lungs burning and heart pounding. He was gaining on the man, could hear his labored breathing and grunts of exertion. Up ahead, a plane of water was visible through the trees, as well as a dock. Eric entered the clearing seconds behind the suspect, who was headed toward a moored fishing boat in hopes of escaping.

“FBI! Drop the gun!”

The man spun, weapon poised.

Eric didn’t halt. He moved steadily closer, remaining in shooting stance. The man’s finger twitched on the trigger, its barrel aimed directly at him. The other agents had caught up, advancing on both sides.

“Put the gun down or they’ll put you down,” Eric warned.

“F*ck!” the man finally yelled in frustration, realizing he was cornered. He lowered the gun and let it fall to the ground with a thud, then raised his hands in surrender.

“On your knees! Now!” Cameron stepped forward and shoved the man to the dirt face-first. He kicked the weapon away. “Hands behind your head! Gordon Clark, you’re under arrest!”

Eric bent slightly forward to catch his breath. Holstering his gun, he ran a hand down his face, his palm coming away with sweat and blood, probably from the branch.

“You all right?” Cameron asked, studying him. Eric simply nodded in response.

A short time later, he stood in the house’s unkempt yard as the handcuffed arrestee was put in the backseat of one of the Bureau cars. The man’s muscular shoulders were slumped, his scraggly hair concealing his face. Meanwhile, the woman—apparently his mother—stood in her housecoat on the patio, railing at the agents.

“It’s not him,” Eric said quietly, as much to himself as anyone. The area behind the house was wooded, but there were no stripped cars along a winding gravel road. No cinder-block building with a low-slung metal roof like the one Mia had described. Instead, the house’s cheap, detached garage was painted brown and had a rusted metal pull-up door.

“You’re basing that judgment solely on Ms. Hale’s recollection?” Cameron asked. “She was stoned out of her mind—”

“I’m basing it on my gut.”

One of the other agents emerged from the house. They had no warrant but had gone in anyway under exigent circumstances, in case Karen Diambro was stashed somewhere inside. The agent shook his head. A cursory search of the garage had revealed the same discouraging results.

Cameron looked at the car that contained the suspect, his eyes narrowing. “Either way, this dickhead must be up to something or he wouldn’t be running from us.”

They were just spinning tires here. Clark wasn’t The Collector. One look at the untidy surroundings and the man’s slovenly appearance—uncombed hair, grease-stained wifebeater—and it had been clear to Eric he wasn’t the man they were looking for. Which meant both he and the unsub could have been shopping at the same, soon-to-be-defunct electronics store on the same night. It sent a chill through him thinking how much evil there really was in the world. He made a mental note to call his sister in Maryland and tell her to be safe.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed back there, you know that?”

Eric released a breath. He’d been expecting it, had seen the reprimand in Cameron’s eyes earlier. At least he had waited until they were out of earshot of the other agents. He avoided his gaze. “I was doing my job.”

“You should’ve waited for the rest of us before stepping into that clearing and advancing. The guy had a direct shot at you—”

“Which he didn’t take.”

“Jesus Christ, Eric,” Cameron whispered roughly, shaking his head.

Hatcher approached. Judging by the look on his face, he was clearly still enthralled with his first foot chase.

“Did you at least see anything in the house?” Eric asked.

“We know why he was bargain hunting for computer equipment now,” the rookie agent revealed. “He forgot to shut down his screen before hightailing it into the woods.”