A couple of months before, after depositing his mother’s check, Satterfield had hung out at Blockbuster until the bank closed, watching and waiting for Sheila to emerge. He’d trailed her, watching her drive, her right hand draped loosely on the wheel, her left arm—tanned and toned—resting on the windowsill, a cigarette slanting suggestively between the flashing rings and crimson nails of her long fingers. She lived in a condo complex, one populated mostly by single twenty-somethings looking for hookups around the pool. He’d gone back a few times on weekends; had seen her sunbathing, nursing a beer in a foam sleeve, lighting a series of cigarettes that she mostly just let dangle, sending up smoke signals of languor and availability. Usually she only hit the pool when her daughter was staying at the ex-husband’s, though once he saw them both out there, both in bikinis. The daughter was hot, too. Satterfield had sensed friction between them. Not surprising, he guessed—the girl just starting to claim her sexual power, the mom clinging desperately to hers as it began to wane. Once Satterfield saw Sheila make a play for one of the young studs sunning his abs, asking him to rub suntan oil on her back, going mmm as he worked his way down to her hips, then up the backs of her legs. That night, after dark, the guy had shown up at her condo, a bottle of something in one hand, and she’d met him at the door wearing a short silk robe. The guy had stayed until midnight, and Satterfield had listened to their sounds through his parabolic microphone, which he aimed at the bedroom window like a weapon. A weapon of listening.
Satterfield had already checked the calendar, and he’d seen that October’s Social Security check would likely arrive on Thursday or Friday. Maybe Sheila would get off work Friday afternoon and discover that she had a flat tire. Wouldn’t she be grateful if Satterfield just happened to be coming out of Blockbuster with a few videos at that very moment; if he happened to see her distress and offer to help—change the tire and then follow her home, because those little donut spares are notoriously unreliable? Surely she’d invite him in for a drink.
If she invited him in, she was opening the door to what would come next. If she didn’t invite him in, she was an ungrateful bitch, and she would deserve whatever she got.
SATTERFIELD’S LEFT ARM ANGLED across the corner of the metal table, his open palm turned upward, fingers spread wide, as the man with the shaved head clasped Satterfield’s hand in both of his and bent forward. The movement exposed the back of the man’s head and neck, and Satterfield studied the tattooed tongues of red and yellow flame that licked the man’s broad neck and the base of his skull.
The man straightened, eyeing Satterfield’s face now. “You sure that’s what you want?”
“Sure I’m sure,” said Satterfield. “Why? Lots of people get stuff like this.”
“I don’t mean the design,” the guy said. “I mean, you sure you want me to put the head in your palm? All those nerve endings, that’s gonna hurt like hell.”
Satterfield held the guy’s gaze before answering. “Some guys get their dicks tattooed,” he said. “Gotta be a lot more nerve endings down there. Besides, I’m pretty tough.”
“Yeah,” mused the guy, peering now at the constellation of small circles of pale scar tissue dotting Satterfield’s forearm. “Yeah, I guess you are.” His gaze shifted to the ink on Satterfield’s right arm. “You a SEAL?”
“Was,” Satterfield said tersely. “Not now. Not anymore.”
The guy nodded; took the hint and didn’t ask more questions. Then he looked again at the photograph Satterfield had laid on the table—the thick-bodied serpent, its tapered neck flaring to a broad, triangular head—and picked up the electric needle. As the hollow steel fang bit the flesh of his palm, striking again and again to inject the image, Satterfield’s nostrils flared, and his eyes glittered with a cold, reptilian light.
CHAPTER 11
Brockton
I WAS FIVE MINUTES late getting to TBI headquarters in Nashville, but luckily I wasn’t the only late arrival: I stepped into an elevator just as the door was closing, and found myself riding up with Special Agent Meffert. “Bubba,” I said, shaking his hand, “how are you? Any leads yet?”
He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Some progress,” he said. “We’ve ID’d her, but no real leads yet. I’ll tell you more inside.”
“Okay,” I said. “Anything on the strip-mine girl, up in Morgan County?” He shook his head morosely.
The elevator stopped and we got out, heading down the hall to the TBI’s main conference room.
A men’s-room door in the hall opened and Carson Wallace, the TBI’s deputy director, emerged. “Hey, Bubba. Dr. Brockton, thanks for coming.” His handshake was wet, and it took some effort not to grimace in distaste. “I don’t suppose y’all brought the feds with you?”
“Not unless they were hiding in the back of my truck,” I joked.
“You never know, with them,” Wallace said. “Those guys can be pretty stealthy.” He opened the door of the conference room, then added, “See what I mean?” Already seated at one end of the table were two men wearing the dark suits and confident expressions of FBI agents. At the other end were two lesser lights—local police, I guessed, from the lack of razor-sharp creases in their sleeves and the fact that they each had a hair or two out of place.
I knew one of the FBI agents—Jim Brodsky, assigned to the Nashville field office—and greeted him with a handshake. My hand was still damp from Wallace’s grip, and I saw Brodsky glance down in surprise, a look of faint distaste on his face. Then he and I both wiped our hands on our pants in unison. “Dr. Bill Brockton,” he said, “meet Supervisory Special Agent Pete Brubaker.” Brubaker held out a hand and gave mine a competitive squeeze. “Doc, Pete runs our Behavioral Sciences Unit up at Quantico. The profilers. You’re familiar with them?”