Scofield blinked. “You’ve spoken to him?”
“He sent digital recordings to the VCU during the previous investigation, although it was likely his voice was altered.” Eric recalled the audios that had been delivered one by one after each woman had gone missing. Even though he didn’t look at Cameron, he felt the weight of his gaze. “The recordings were of his victims being tortured and killed.”
“The VCU deals with some pretty sick shit.” Boyet picked up another of the photos. “What’s the story with the carving?”
“He numbered his victims. There were five women abducted and killed in Maryland before he vanished three years ago. If this is the same guy, your two missing women could be numbers six and seven—”
“Making Mia Hale victim number eight,” Scofield uttered in realization. “Or that was the plan before she got away.”
“Technically, this is still a missing-persons case until a body turns up.” Boyet’s expression was grim. “But if you’re right about the abductor’s identity, Agent Macfarlane, it’s not good. We’re heading into the beach tourist season—Jacksonville doesn’t need a serial killer on the loose.”
“What were you getting at with the second blood type in the car being a transfer?” Cameron asked as he and Eric traveled through the busy JSO lobby a short time later. Although it was still April, heat hit them in a muggy wave as they pushed through glass doors that led to the building’s plaza, then headed west toward the multilevel garage where they had both parked.
“During the Maryland investigation we were able to pick up sounds of two women at once on the recordings.” Eric loosened his tie as he walked. “The first woman—the one being intentionally recorded—was in the foreground. But the AV techs also isolated the sound of a second female in the background on each audio, although the voice was muffled, probably due to a gag.”
Cameron stopped, halting Eric, as well. “Meaning what, exactly?”
He looked out across the water. Jacksonville was known as The River City, and an expanse of the St. Johns that ran through the heart of the downtown was visible from where they stood. He worked to lay out the theory as impassively as possible. “It’s believed the unsub kept two women captive at once. He’d make the newer abductee watch as he killed the woman he’d taken earlier, as a show of power. Then when he brought another woman in, it would be that abductee’s turn to die.”
“Like a revolving door,” Cameron said bleakly. “So you think both women are already dead—that Cissy Cox watched Pauline Berger die, and in turn Mia Hale witnessed Cissy Cox’s execution before she escaped? That’s why she had Ms. Cox’s blood on her?”
Eric thought of the families still holding out hope their loved ones might return home. “Yeah, that’s what I think.”
Cameron’s eyes darkened. He started to say something, but the electronic buzz of his cell phone interrupted him. He looked at the device. “It’s Lanie. I need to take this.”
He stepped a few feet away, talking to his wife about an obstetric appointment. When he closed the phone a minute later, he said, “Lanie says to tell you hello. And that she’s expecting you for dinner tomorrow night. We’d do it tonight but it’s her dad’s sixtieth birthday.”
Eric nodded his understanding. “You’ve got a doctor’s appointment?”
“It’s a routine sonogram. The office called and asked if we could come in early. At four.”
“Go,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. It was nearly three already. “Lanie needs you. I can handle some things on my own. For starters, I’m going to San Marco to see if I can speak with Ms. Hale today.”
“We can schedule a formal meeting with her tomorrow, after we meet with the rest of the team. Why don’t you get settled in at the rental?”
“I don’t want to wait.”
Cameron took out one of his business cards from the Florida Bureau, upon which Mia Hale’s address and phone number were written. He handed it to Eric.
“The recordings…” He sounded uncertain, as if he wasn’t really sure he wanted to know the answer. “Did you receive one of Rebecca?”
Eric fished in his pocket for his car keys. He thought of the days and weeks he’d waited, both dreading and needing to hear her voice a final time. He didn’t look at Cameron as he answered.
“It was the only one that never came.”
Allan Levi entered the fastidiously neat ranch house.
“Mother? I’m home,” he called, closing the front door behind him. He noticed the interior was too warm, which wasn’t surprising since Gladys was always claiming to be cold and tampering with the thermostat. At least her frugality kept the air-conditioning bills low. Carrying the white paper bag with Walker’s Pharmacy printed on its side, he followed the television noise until he found her sitting at the kitchen table. Her gaunt frame wrapped in a floral housecoat, she was watching the small set on the counter, which she seemed to favor over the larger one in the living room.
“There you are.” Allan bent to kiss the top of her gray head, catching a whiff of baby powder and White Shoulders cologne. He ignored the low warning growl of Puddles, her arthritic Chihuahua, who was curled into a dog bed on the floor nearby.
“I thought you weren’t coming back,” she accused. Her eyes remained glued to a religious talk show. “You’ve left me alone all day.”
“You’ve been on your own for three hours,” he corrected. “I had some errands to run. I told you that, remember?”
“Did you get my medicine?”
He gave the bag a shake so the plastic pill vials rattled inside it.
“Humph. Took you long enough.”
“I went into the city to get a television for repair. They’re paying fifty extra for pickup and delivery.”
Allan moved to the sink and washed his hands, taking care to scrub under his fingernails with a small, stiff-bristled brush before drying off with a paper towel. Then he sat in the chair across from Gladys. Depositing the bag’s contents onto the table, he began the process of placing pills and capsules into the lidded, plastic case that helped him keep up with which medications she had to take and when. There were morning, noon and evening compartments for every day of the week. It was tedious, but he didn’t mind the task so much. In fact, he rather enjoyed the order of it.
One red, one blue, one pink.
As he worked, he noticed Gladys had rolled her mobile oxygen canister into the kitchen. The tubing and cannula hung around her flaccid throat like a necklace, however, unused. His eyes slid to the counter. An ashtray sat next to the sink. “Have you been smoking again, Mother?”
“Shush,” she said irritably, waving him off. “I can’t hear my program.”
“I didn’t move all the way back down here to watch you blow yourself up.” Allan frowned. He would have to talk to the cleaning woman—he knew it was that dirty Mexican whore sneaking cigarettes to her and at probably quite a profit. Normally, it would be enough to send him into a rage, but he reminded himself he had a lot for which to be thankful.
For starters, there could be law enforcement crawling all over the place right now.
He placed the last capsule into its proper slot.
“I’m going to my workshop,” he announced, referring to the cinder-block building in back of the property, nestled among the tall pines.
“You spend too much time out there,” Gladys criticized as he rose from the table. She finally looked at him, her watery blue eyes narrowing suspiciously in her lined