Edge of Midnight

4



Eric had accepted Cameron and Lanie’s offer to stay at a vacation rental property they owned a few blocks from Jacksonville Beach. The last unit at the end of a dead-end street, the bungalow was quaint and sun-weathered, and provided a roomier alternative to the sterile hotel rooms that were a regular part of his job with the VCU. Having unpacked and changed into a T-shirt, running shorts and tennis shoes, he stood on its concrete front stoop, for a time watching black skimmers and terns that flew overhead toward the ocean. The late day was rapidly fading into a warm, breezy twilight, causing the wind chimes hanging near the door to dance. Eric listened to their music as well as to his own spiraling thoughts.

It seemed strange to him that The Collector—if he really were here—could be looking at the same setting sun, feeling the same balmy zephyr as he did right now. That a sadistic killer could be out enjoying a seafood dinner at one of the beachside, family restaurants.

Even more absurd was the notion that he had somehow let an intended victim escape.

Mia Hale had been smaller than Eric expected—finely boned and slender, only a few inches over five feet. Seeing her injuries, he’d felt an instant protectiveness. Not to mention, the harshly lit photos from the E.R. hadn’t come close to doing her justice. His physical attraction to her plagued him, creating a hard twinge of guilt.

Nearly three years had elapsed since Rebecca’s death, allowing him to outdistance his grief, he believed. But it hadn’t eased the agonizing sense of culpability he felt.

In a way, part of him had died with her.

Eric thought of the experimental therapy he’d told Mia about earlier. It was a long shot, maybe even a crazy one, but if she’d consent to it—if she could somehow recapture even a fraction of her lost memories—it could be the break he desperately needed. But it was also a lot to ask of someone who’d already been through unfathomable horror.

Days before her death, Rebecca had accused him of being a selfish bastard. Maybe he was.

Two joggers passed nearby on the intersecting side street. They reminded him of what he had come outside to do. He needed the exercise, needed to clear his mind. As he locked the door to leave for his run, he heard the insistent shrill of his cell phone coming from inside. Glad he hadn’t set the bungalow’s security system, he quickly let himself back in and checked the phone’s screen, which read Washington, D.C. He knew the caller’s identity from the number displayed. It was already after 7:00 p.m., but Special Agent in Charge Johnston was apparently still behind his desk at the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit. Eric answered. He’d been both dreading and expecting the call.

The SAC wasn’t one to mince words. “Your presence in Jacksonville is against established FBI protocol, Agent Macfarlane.”

He rubbed his forehead. There was little point in dancing around it. “Yes, sir. I know.”

“And your reason for bypassing the proper chain of command?”

Eric envisioned Johnston’s smoothly shaved head, his muscular shoulders hunched tensely under his starched dress shirt as he pressed the phone to his ear. With forced patience, he said, “Because I knew you wouldn’t allow it. I need to be down here. I know you can understand that—”

“What I understand is that you’re far too close to this, Eric.” Johnston’s harsh tone receded somewhat, and his switch to a first-name basis and the familiarity it bestowed caused Eric’s chest to tighten. “That’s a recipe for mistakes to be made, son. Not to mention, you were on assignment here.”

“Which is why I didn’t bring Agent Crowchild with me—he agreed to step in as team lead,” he explained, referring to his partner at the VCU. “I have the appropriate resources down here with the Florida Bureau.”

Silence as heavy as a cinder block carried through the airwaves before Johnston spoke again. “Let me make myself clear. I do not approve of your participation in this investigation. In fact, I see it as downright dangerous, as well as an arrogant and self-destructive move on your part. But due to your connections within the DOJ, I’ve been overruled.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.”

“I’ve known Richard Macfarlane for a long time—hell, I’ve known you since you were a boy. And I do sympathize with your situation. But I’m speaking with your best interests in mind. We have other, very capable agents who could have handled this. If this is the same unsub, you don’t need to put yourself through—”

“With all due respect, sir, I do.” Eric swallowed down his emotion and anger, the words thickening in his throat. “She was my wife.”

After a while, Johnston gave a deep sigh of resignation. “It’s out of my hands now. What have you learned so far?”

Eric filled him in on the facts of the case, although he left out the information about the experimental memory retrieval therapy being conducted at the nearby Naval Air Station. That confidential information had come from Eric’s father, as well, and he saw no reason to raise the SAC’s hackles any more than they already were.

“We’re going to have a long discussion when you return,” Johnston advised. “You’ve become one of my best senior agents, and you’ve never used who you are to your advantage. At least not until now. I don’t like members of my team going over my head…even in tragic circumstances such as this. Good luck, Agent Macfarlane.”

He heard the click as the SAC disconnected the phone.

Eric stood in place for several moments, letting the conversation sink in. He’d had the reprimand coming. Eric’s father had warned him of as much but he’d still made the necessary phone calls for him within the U.S. Department of Justice.

His father had understood.

Eric held a master’s degree in Criminology from the University of Pennsylvania. He’d graduated top of his class at the FBI training academy in Quantico and worked hard to join the ranks of the elite Violent Crimes Unit, where he’d been for the past five years. Despite his lineage, he had never once expected or asked for favors. Still, he believed he was doing the right thing this time. He owed as much to Rebecca, to see this through. He’d disappointed her as a husband but at least he could try to make things up to her in death.

The Collector had taken Rebecca as a way to get to him, to inflict hurt and prove his superiority. He’d been especially brutal with her, as her mutilated corpse had evidenced. At the memory, a lump formed inside his throat. Eric burned with the need to find him, to put him down like the rabid animal he was. This time, he took his cell phone with him as he locked and left the beach bungalow, needing the run more than ever.

“I’d like you to see a counselor,” Grayson said, serious, as he leaned against the granite counter in Mia’s kitchen. In his late forties, he was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-framed bifocals that made some of the newspaper staff think he looked a little like Richard Gere. “After what happened, it can’t hurt to talk to someone. Your insurance would cover it. When someone experiences something like this, there can be residual effects.”

Mia gave him a look as she placed leftover cartons of pad woon sen, shrimp curry and basil chicken in the refrigerator. She thought of the military psychiatrist Agent Macfarlane had told her about—in fact, she’d been thinking about it for hours—but she was pretty sure it wasn’t the type of therapy Grayson had in mind. “I don’t need to see anyone. I’m fine.”

“What if I make it a condition of your coming back to work?”

Mia walked to where he stood. She took his wineglass from him and had a sip of the rich merlot before handing it back. “Grayson. I’m not traumatized because I don’t remember anything.”

“How long have I known you, Mia?”

She sighed, knowing he expected her to recount the story. “Six years. I was a kid fresh out of journalism school and you gave me my first job.”

“That’s right.”

“If I recall, I got your coffee and picked up your dry cleaning for the first nine months.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, chuckling. “You worked your way up. I had to see if you had the drive to back up that raw talent. I didn’t plan on training you as a real journalist to have you run off to write for some gardening magazine.”

“That wouldn’t happen. I’ve never met a plant I couldn’t kill within a week.” She opened the refrigerator door again, frowning as she studied its contents. “Are you sure you don’t want to take some of this food with you? Honestly, you brought enough to feed a small village—”

“Mia.”

She turned around. He’d moved closer, and the levity that had been in his eyes earlier was gone.

“My point is that I know you, kiddo. I know how you grew up, how tough you had to be. It’s okay if you want to be scared for a little while.”

Mia considered his words. It would be so easy to cave in to all of this. Despite her earlier assurances, the real truth was that she felt like a spastic ball of nerves on the inside. But Grayson had a point; he knew her history, he was one of the few who did outside of Will and Justin. Where she’d come from, her difficult past—it had embodied her with a fighting instinct. From ages six to fifteen Mia had been bounced around the foster care system, and yet she’d remained strong. Giving in to her fears now wasn’t something she wanted to do.

“I want to come back to work soon, Grayson. And I want to cover the missing-person cases. I want them back from Walt.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. On a whole lot of levels.”

“Just think about it, all right?” Deciding she needed more than a sip of his merlot, she poured her own glass and took it into the living room. Outside the balcony’s French doors it was completely dark. Grayson had been late arriving due to a breaking news story, and they hadn’t sat down to eat until nearly 8:00 p.m.

“An agent from the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit came to see me this afternoon,” she mentioned as he entered the room behind her, glass in hand.

He gave her a look of interest. “Did you find out anything?”

Mia thought of what she and Agent Macfarlane had discussed—namely, the possibility of a serial killer from Maryland resurfacing in Jacksonville. She pressed her lips together, reminding herself that what she’d been told was off the record, a condition she herself had imposed. The juxtaposition of being a victim and a reporter was difficult, and she felt guilty for not sharing the information. But doing so would raise the likelihood of seeing it in tomorrow’s paper. Mia understood the FBI’s need to keep the speculation down.

She shrugged. “He mostly asked me the same questions as everyone else.”

“What’s the agent’s name?”

“Eric Macfarlane.”

Grayson raised his eyebrows. “No kidding? If I was a betting man, I’d lay a grand on that being Richard Macfarlane’s son.”

The name didn’t register with Mia.

“Macfarlane’s an associate attorney general for the Department of Justice—he’s way up in the ranks. I read a profile piece on him in Newsweek last month related to the Ambruzzi hearings,” he said, referring to a recent, widely covered political scandal involving the governor of New Jersey. “The guy’s a real bulldog. The article mentioned he had a son serving in one of the Bureau’s specialized units. Either way, I’ll pass the name along to Walt, make sure he gets in touch with him.”

He settled onto the couch for a time, catching Mia up on the daily travails at the newspaper before announcing he should get going. Twice divorced, Grayson lived alone and had a widely known practice of going to bed with the proverbial chickens in order to make it into the paper by his customary 6:00 a.m.

“Thanks for coming by,” she said, walking him to the door. “But you really didn’t have to.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mia. I did.” Grayson closed the scant distance between them, his expression solemn as he gazed at her. He swallowed nervously.

“I had to, for me,” he said softly. Reaching out, he tucked a few strands of her newly shortened hair behind one ear.

Feeling her stomach give an awkward little flip, Mia whispered his name, uncertain as to what he was about to do. But he pressed a chaste, almost fatherly kiss against her forehead.

“I just feel fortunate to have you back, that’s all. Almost losing you…it’s given me a lot to think about.”

She recalled what Will had said earlier that day. Eighteen years her senior, Grayson was her mentor, as well as her boss. He had given her the break she’d needed to advance from the lifestyles pages to crimes. Mia was one of only a handful of female reporters covering hard news at the Courier, not to mention the youngest by nearly a decade. Grayson’s guidance, as well as his fondness for her, had played a big role. She cared about him, truly, but as a good friend.

He placed a finger under her chin. “Just think about the therapy thing, all right?”

She smiled weakly. “Think about giving me my assignment back.”

After he was gone, Mia sighed and looked around her living room. Their two wineglasses sat side by side on the cocktail table. She left Grayson’s where it was but picked up her own, taking it into the kitchen and refilling it. Liquid courage. She needed it for what she’d been planning to do.

Carrying the goblet, Mia went into the guest bedroom she had converted into a home office. Her desk was positioned near a large window, its lamp casting a soft glow. The police scanner on the columned bookshelf provided the background noise she needed to focus.

Sitting in front of the computer, she conducted an internet search on serial murders taking place in Maryland three years earlier, hitting the keys as best she could with her bandaged fingers. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. Within a short time, she’d pulled up a number of archived articles from newspapers in Maryland and D.C. Mia began viewing the stories in chronological order. Eric Macfarlane was mentioned in all of them and quoted in several as the investigation’s lead. His grainy image appeared alongside one particularly substantial piece from the Washington Post, the photo taken at a news conference, according to the accompanying caption. In it, he looked serious and handsome—crisp, short brown hair and squared jaw—the perfect poster boy for the FBI.

None of the articles provided the detail he had shared with Mia, however. There was nothing about fingernails or hair being taken or numerals carved into the victims’ flesh. The Bureau had done a good job keeping such pivotal facts confidential, and she realized again how far out on a limb he had gone in giving her such information.

Mia continued reading for the better part of an hour. Upon seeing the link to one of the last remaining pieces, she felt a shock run through her. The headline leaped out from the screen, something she hadn’t expected.

FBI Agent’s Wife May Be Serial Killer’s Latest Conquest.

She clicked onto the link.

In a stunning twist in the serial murder investigation plaguing FBI and local law enforcement, Rebecca Macfarlane, age thirty-three, wife of FBI agent Eric Macfarlane, disappeared from the couple’s Bethesda home on Wednesday evening. A Bureau representative who spoke on the condition of anonymity confirmed foul play is suspected based on evidence at the scene. Agent Macfarlane, part of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit, is team leader on the case that so far involves the abduction and murders of four other women in the metro area. He is also the son of U.S. associate attorney general Richard Macfarlane. Agent Macfarlane has stepped down from the investigation pending the outcome of a three-state search…

She read the rest of the article. A follow-up story with a dateline of a few days later recounted the heartbreaking discovery of Rebecca Macfarlane’s body.

Mia sat at her desk for several moments, coming to terms with the realization that Eric Macfarlane was even more invested than she’d realized. She wondered if his connections had allowed him to be reassigned to a case in which he had become very deeply, personally involved.

A burst of activity on the police scanner broke through her thoughts, the voice of a female dispatcher directing units to a waterside area at Yellow Bluff Fort Historic State Park. Mia knew the shorthand codes—the ten-fifty-five indicated a dead body. The location was the park’s northeast boat ramp.

“Patrol units in the vicinity are requested for crime scene containment. Responding officers should be aware the site has been given federal jurisdiction…”

The state park was a half-hour away.

She wasn’t supposed to be on the job. Not to mention, the abductions were no longer her assignment. Mia paced her office before heading back into the living room, driven by the need to know if one of the missing women had been found. The body could be anyone—an unrelated murder or even a fisherman who had fallen into the water and drowned. But the fact that the FBI was there increased the likelihood it was Pauline Berger or Cissy Cox. Locating her purse, car keys and JSO-issued press card, Mia set her security system and left the apartment.

She wasn’t certain if her press credentials would have any credence with the Bureau, but she had to try.

Pulling her Volvo onto the darkened street, Eric Macfarlane’s words echoed inside her head. You got away. Those women didn’t.