Текст книги "Sight Unseen "

Автор книги: Iris Johansen

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Arrogant bastard, Colby thought with annoyance. “Yes, you’re clever. I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t believe you could do what I wished. But I told you to concentrate on Michaels.”

“And I will. I just had to prove to her who was running this show.”

“Concentrate on doing what I told you to do,” he said through set teeth.

“I didn’t mean to make you angry. You know I only want to please you.”

Keep it cool and calm. “You always please me.” He paused. “I just have to be sure everything is clear. I don’t have much time.” He added sardonically, “In a few minutes, they’re going to take me back to my cell and perform the usual rituals for my meeting with the executioner.”

Myatt was silent for a long moment. “Are you frightened, Colby?”

“You insult me,” he said sharply. “Fear is for lesser men. Not for me. Not for you, Myatt.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I’ll forgive you if you do your duty to me. I have to go now. Good-bye, Myatt.”

“I won’t disappoint you.”

“I know.” Colby broke the connection and pushed the phone once more beneath the pew in front of him. He remained kneeling there for another few minutes, his lips moving as if in prayer.

Then he lowered his head on his arms on the pew in front of him as if in despair. Two more minutes, and he lifted his head. He gave a deep sigh and rose to his feet.

The next moment, he was moving down the aisle toward the back of the chapel, where Salazar waited.

The guards in the aisle parted for him like the Red Sea did for Moses. A very apt comparison, he thought bitterly. His power and intelligence against their stupidity and brawn.

Salazar straightened as he saw Colby coming toward him. “Did it help? Did you make your peace?”

“You could say that.” Colby didn’t look at him as he headed for the door of the chapel. “At least I made sure that I wouldn’t be forgotten.”

CHAPTER

13

San Quentin Penitentiary

East Gate

MORE THAN TWO THOUSAND PROTESTORS lined the roadway outside the prison gate, almost matched in numbers by the TV news crews, print journalists, and online bloggers with video cameras.

Lily Holt had just finished an interview with the particularly bloodthirsty female president of a victims’ rights group when Bobby Chatsworth walked up and joined her behind the barricade.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“No. I wasted an entire day trying to buy our way into that witness room. A reporter from the Los Angeles Times almost sold me his for five thousand dollars, but he got cold feet. He was afraid of losing his job.”

“They don’t allow cameras in there anyway.”

Chatsworth smiled as he fluffed his full red beard. “Cameras they can detect, you mean.”

Her gaze narrowed on his face. “What are you saying?”

“My day wasn’t entirely wasted. I found out there’s going to be a very special auction tomorrow morning. One of the ‘reputable citizen’ witnesses is smuggling in a miniature HD video camera, possibly in a pen or a brooch. Video of the entire execution will be sold to the highest bidder.”

“That’s grotesque, even for you.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“The network will never air it.”

“Certainly they will. I’ll promote the hell out of it, and it will be the ratings event of the season. And when we put it online, millions more all over the world will watch for years to come.”

“My friends and family are already asking me how I can work with you. What will I say then?”

Chatsworth laughed. “I’m leaving immediately after the execution. The auction will take place in San Francisco tomorrow morning.”

“Please understand if I don’t wish you good luck.”

“Understood. Any progress on the Kendra Michaels interview?”

“None yet.”

He shrugged. “No worries. If this execution footage comes through, we’ll have everything we need.”

*   *   *

THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN when Kendra drove the Ferrari back to FBI headquarters.

Lynch was standing on the street, waiting.

She got out of the car and went to meet him. She gave him the keys. “You didn’t call me. The governor hasn’t made a decision?”

“We just heard five minutes ago. Griffin just got off the phone with the governor. They didn’t believe our grounds were strong enough to delay the execution.”

“What about your Washington friends? No influence?”

“It didn’t come into question. I didn’t call them.” He looked her in the eye. “But it had nothing to do with you. If the death penalty hadn’t been in jeopardy, I would have done it. I would have pulled every string I could. I just couldn’t stand the thought of Colby’s not getting his full punishment.”

“So I guess Griffin doesn’t owe you after all.”

“What a disappointment.”

“Is he angry?”

“I don’t give a damn.” He looked at his Ferrari. “It’s in pretty good shape. You must have resisted temptation.”

“I didn’t drive it very much,” she said. “I just went to the park and sat and tried to make sense of everything.”

“And did you do it?”

“Not very well. But it’s looking better right now.” She moved toward the door. “And now that the governor did the right thing, we can get back to the business of finding Myatt. Where’s Griffin?”

“In the war room. Breathing fire.”

She could see what he meant when the elevator doors opened, and she saw Griffin.

“I guess you’re happy,” he spat out bitterly when he saw her.

“Not happy. But a little more … satisfied.”

Griffin cursed and walked over to the uncovered windows where there had once been a row of offices. The sun had just set, and the lights of the city twinkled in the distance. He called over his shoulder to Metcalf. “Anything in those prison files?”

Metcalf stepped forward. “A few things to follow up on. We won’t know until we—”

A high-pitched beep sounded from the phone-company technician’s laptop.

Kendra’s eyes flew up to the large projected map, which had remained unchanged all day long. But as the beeping continued, she noticed that a pulsing red dot now appeared on the map.

“What does that mean?” she yelled over the noise.

“I’ll check.” The technician, who had passed much of the day hovering near the desk of Griffin’s attractive assistant, snapped to attention and ran back to his laptop. “This is it.” His voice was filled with wonder. “One of the phones has made contact with the network.”

Griffin ran back from the windows. “Where?”

“Northeast of the city.” He picked up his phone. “I’ll see how far we can narrow the location.”

San Quentin State Penitentiary

Death-Watch Cell

COLBY STARED AT THE NEW JEANS and denim work shirt that one of his death-watch guards, Tom Lester, handed him. “What’s this?”

“Put them on, please.”

Colby raised his eyebrows. “Please? That’s the first time I’ve heard that word in all the years I’ve been here. Dead Man Walking evidently has its privileges.”

The guard pointed to the crisp new clothing. “It’s routine. It’s almost time. Do it.”

“Funny. A costume for an execution. May I have some privacy while I change?”

“Not a chance.”

Colby nodded to Lester and his fellow guard, Patrick Nevis. “Of course. The death watch. Can’t have me killing myself before the big show.” He pointed to his left. “The execution chamber is just on the other side of this wall, isn’t it?”

“Just put on the clothes.”

Colby turned his back on the guards, stripped out of his prison uniform, and pulled on the jeans and shirt. He turned back around and adjusted the collar. “Blue really isn’t my color, you know.”

“Sit down, Colby.”

He smiled and sat on the edge of the bunk. “Be nice. You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

FBI Field Office

San Diego

“GROUP LEADERS, PREPARE TO MOBILIZE your response teams. We have an active target.” Griffin whirled away from the gathered agents and leaned toward the telephone-company technician, who was still on the phone and scribbling furiously on a Post-it note. “Got it?”

The technician tore off the note and handed it to Griffin. “That phone is most likely within thirty yards of this address. They just confirmed it at the office.”

“It’s 26613 Breaker Drive,” Griffin said. “Get the response teams rolling. I want the names of every resident on the street. Reade, let’s see if there’s a match with anyone on the suspect database you’ve been compiling.”

Reade was already pounding her keyboard. “I have the resident list up. Cross-referencing now.”

Kendra stepped closer and looked over Reade’s shoulder at the dozens of names displayed on the laptop screen.

She went rigid with shock. “No,” she whispered.

Lynch quickly moved closer to her. “What is it?”

She shook her head dazedly. “It’s crazy.” She moistened her lips. “It has to be a coincidence. The third name on the list. Dean Halley. A history professor. He works with my mother. He was with me on the bridge that night. But I can’t believe that he’s the…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to comprehend and connect the dots. “But he does have a prison record, and it might not be for the reason he told me. But he was so damn … plausible.”

Lynch snapped at Griffin. “It’s 26613 Breaker. That’s the target.” He turned toward Reade. “Pull up a photo of Dean Halley and make sure all teams have it. If you can’t immediately pull up a driver’s license or passport photo for him, check the UC San Diego Web site.”

Kendra barely heard him, her eyes were still locked on that screen.

Dean Halley.

San Quentin Penitentiary

“COZY.” COLBY SMILED AS HE STEPPED through an oval door and was escorted by his three guards into the octagonal execution chamber. It was approximately seven-and-a-half feet in diameter and centered around a single table. Five large windows separated the chamber from the witness area, which was populated by forty-five journalists, politicians, and so-called reputable citizens, some of whom included victims’ family members.

Colby didn’t attempt to make eye contact with any of the witnesses as he was led to the table and strapped down with nylon restraints.

He looked up at the execution leader, Ron Hoyle, a stocky man with a thick moustache. “I have a final statement to make.”

“You waived that right, Mr. Colby.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Hoyle glanced at the warden, who was standing next to the state attorney general in the back of the witness room. Salazar slowly nodded.

“Okay,” Hoyle said. “Go ahead. Make your statement from there. The witnesses can hear you.”

“I really don’t care whether they can hear me or not. It’s on my chest.”

“What?”

“My final statement is on my chest. Please unbutton my shirt.”

Hoyle hesitated.

“Or tear it open. Makes no difference to me. I won’t be using this shirt much longer.”

Clearly thrown by this break with protocol, Hoyle froze for a few seconds. He then leaned over and unbuttoned the top two buttons of Colby’s denim shirt. He pulled apart the fabric, glanced at Colby’s chest, then quickly let go of him in disgust.

Colby laughed.

Hoyle angrily turned toward the physician, who was standing with the cardiac sensors. “Proceed.”

Breaker Drive

San Diego

THE FBI AND THE SAN DIEGO PD had already barricaded off the 26600 block of Breaker Drive by the time Kendra and Lynch arrived. Agents had quietly surrounded Dean’s house, while uniformed officers escorted perplexed neighbors from their homes to barricades at the end of the block.

Kendra and Lynch got out of his car and ran for the other side of an FBI armored van parked in the cul-de-sac four houses away from Dean’s.

Griffin’s gaze was trained on the one-story, Spanish-style house through his binoculars. “That’s Dean Halley’s car in the driveway, but there are no other signs that he’s home.”

“He also has a motorcycle,” Kendra said. “He keeps it in the garage. You can see the skid marks he leaves at the top of the driveway.”

Griffin nodded. “We’ll wait for SDPD to finish securing the street behind his house before we make any kind of move. Anything else you can tell us about him?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Except that I can’t freaking believe this.”

“Believe it. According to his record, Halley was in the Special Forces in Afghanistan during his military stint and damn good at removing the Taliban from his path.”

A tech officer handed Griffin a tablet computer in a reinforced plastic case. It offered a greenish night-vision live view of Dean’s house.

Griffin turned to Kendra. “If you’re up for it, I want you to try to call his home number.”

She stared at him. “You want me to call and talk to him?”

“Only when I give the word. He knows you, and he hasn’t already seen us. Your caller ID won’t raise any red flags. If he answers, keep him talking until our team can break in and rush him.” He gave her a cool glance. “You appear reluctant. After all, it’s for his safety as well as that of the personnel on the scene.”

Lynch nodded. “Good idea.”

She didn’t know if it was a good idea or not. She was bewildered and uncertain of everything that was going on. But the plan appeared to offer the best chance for nonviolence. “Okay.” Kendra pulled out her phone. “Just give the word.”

San Quentin State Penitentiary

Execution Chamber

THE SUPERVISING PHYSICIAN, Dr. Edward Pralgo, stepped back from Colby and checked the IV lines he’d placed into two veins of the condemned man’s left arm. Each line was running a slow drip of saline, primed for the three medications that would soon course through his system.

The doctor realized that his own hands were shaking. Hopefully not enough for anyone else to see. Any sign of psychological weakness would put him in front of a review board in spite of all his experience. Executioners were supposed to be above emotion. But executioners were also human beings, and he’d defy anyone not to have an emotional reaction toward Colby.

He exited the chamber and checked the printer outside, which was unspooling a long roll of graph paper. Sharp, jagged lines indicated Colby’s heartbeat.

In the tiny adjacent anteroom, Dr. Pralgo picked up the tray with the three labeled syringes. He checked his watch—11:01 P.M.

The phone rang, and the execution supervisor picked it up. “Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone and addressed the physician, as always, in the clearest and most direct language possible. “The order has been given by the warden. Please proceed.”

Dr. Pralgo took a deep breath and stepped back into the execution chamber, where Colby was staring at the ceiling with his cold, dark eyes.

Dead eyes, the doctor thought, even though the man was still very much alive.

He administered the medications one syringe at a time: the first syringe, labeled sodium pentothal, was administered first to anaesthetize the condemned. Indeed, Colby quickly lost consciousness as it flowed from the IV though his eyes closed only slightly.

After a quick saline flush, the syringe labeled Pancuronioum bromide was injected to paralyze his system. After another saline flush, the syringe labeled potassium chloride was injected to place Colby in full cardiac arrest.

After a minute, Dr. Pralgo stepped over to the still-printing cardiac monitor.

Flatline.

He moved back to Colby’s body and administered the simple tests that would indicate death had occurred. The pupil check, brushing the cornea for a blink reflex, and listening for any sign of breathing.

Pralgo had done this check hundreds of times in his career, but this was different. This was no ordinary human being, capable of love and being loved.

This was pure evil.

He turned toward the execution supervisor.

“Time of death—12:09 A.M.”

Breaker Drive

San Diego

KENDRA LOWERED HER PHONE. “Nothing. Dean’s not answering.”

Griffin nodded and tapped his earpiece. “A couple of the officers just caught some kind of flashing in the living-room windows. They think it could have been his mobile phone lighting up when you called it.” He ducked low and looked around the back corner of the armored van. “Move in when you’re ready,” he said into his headset.

Lynch pulled Kendra closer to the protective plates of the van, and they huddled closer to Griffin’s tablet and its night-vision view of the house.

The night suddenly exploded with action!

Within seconds, the front yard was swarming with tactical teams, and she heard the front door splinter open even before she saw it happen.

Silence.

She saw the flashlights playing against the interior windows as the teams checked out the entire house.

No shots fired.

No shouts.

What the hell was happening?

After another two minutes, some of the officers emerged from the front door. The swagger and bold athleticism was now gone from their strides; their faces were drawn, and something was definitely different now.”

“Clear!”

She heard the word several more times down the street. She turned to Griffin. “What’s happened?”

He yanked off his headset. “There’s a body inside.”

“What? Whose?”

“We haven’t made a positive ID yet. Give our guys a couple minutes, and we’ll—”

“Screw that.” She took off running for the house.

“Kendra!” Griffin shouted. He started after her, but Lynch grabbed his arm.

“It’s too late. You’d have to knock her out to keep her out of that house,” Lynch said. “What did they tell you on that headset?”

“Nothing good.”

Kendra ran across the front yard toward the front door.

The cops and response-team members looked somewhat dazed and made no serious effort to stop her.

But as she reached the door a young officer stepped toward her. “Ma’am, you really shouldn’t—”

Kendra pushed past him and ran through the splintered doorway. She stood in the foyer for a long moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark living room. One of the officers helpfully, or perhaps cruelly, swung his flashlight to the middle of the room to show her what they had already seen:

Dean Halley’s decapitated head.

It was impaled on a tall pole in the center of the room. The pole was held upright by a small light stand.

She couldn’t breathe. Memories of that factory so long ago were there before her.

Heads on poles. Eyes glued open. Heads on poles.

“Oh, God…” She staggered backward, nauseous and dizzy. “No … No…”

“Kendra.” Lynch was behind her. His strong hands gripped her arms, propping her up.

“It’s Dean.”

“I know.”

“God in heaven. I can’t believe it…”

Lynch wiped away the tears she hadn’t realized were on her cheeks.

Only then did she look down at the oversized chair on the other side of the room, where Dean’s headless corpse was seated. It was positioned comfortably, with hands on the end of each armrest.

As police flashlights played across the corpse, Kendra could see that Dean’s shirt was unbuttoned.

Letters had been carved into his chest. A Latin phrase, she realized.

One of the cops crouched next to the corpse and tried to read it. “Meteor?”

“No,” Kendra said numbly. “It says ‘Mereor.”

“Mereor?”

“It means … ‘I win.’”

San Quentin State Penitentiary

Execution Chamber

WARDEN SALAZAR LOOKED DOWN AT COLBY’S FACE. Just as icy and cruel in death as in life, he thought.

The last of the witnesses had just left, and the execution team was prepping the body for transport to a waiting hearse.

“I want to see it,” he told Hoyle.

Hoyle shrugged. “Whatever you say, sir.” He stepped closer to Colby’s body and moved aside his open shirt to reveal Colby’s final message to the world.

There, scabbed and bloody, was scratched a single Latin phrase:

Mereor.

San Diego

1:33 A.M.

“COME ON.” LYNCH OPENED KENDRA’S passenger door. “I need to get you inside and give you a strong cup of coffee. I don’t like the way you’re looking right now.”

“I’m okay.” It was a lie. She felt frozen. The last hour she had spent at Dean Halley’s house had been a nightmare. She had not been able to concentrate enough to find any way to help with the investigation. All she could do was to keep trying to connect that grotesque headless corpse to the sweet, humorous man she had begun to care about. Memories kept flooding back to her of Dean at that Starbucks telling her about his family and offering her some of his pastry. Dean whisking her mother out of that classroom and taking over himself. “But I can use the coffee. I’m … cold.” She followed him to the door and watched him unlock it. “Though God knows I don’t want the caffeine to keep me awake tonight.”

“No, you want to block it all out.” He headed for the kitchen. “And that’s what I want for you, too. Just one night of rest and freedom before you dive into this horror again.” He gestured to the chair at the granite bar in the kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll have your coffee in just a minute.” He set the K-cup in the automatic coffeemaker. He didn’t look at her as he got down a cup from the cabinet. “You really liked him, didn’t you?”

“He was a good guy. Kind of funny and sweet…” She swallowed. “Mom thought he was the perfect match for me. Nice, solid, and steady. She was hoping he’d be able to persuade me to—” She stopped and drew a shaky breath. “How am I going to tell Mom about this? She thought the world of him, and now he’s—”

Head on a pole.

Headless corpse in a chair.

Mereor.

“You don’t have to tell her yet.” Lynch set the coffee in front of her. “Griffin is trying to keep the details of what happened from the media. You’ll have a few hours at least.”

“No more than that. I can’t risk her hearing it from someone else.” She took a sip of the coffee. It was hot and strong, and she needed it. “I just … don’t know how yet. How can I tell her that Dean Halley died because she arranged a blind date for me with him? Because that’s what happened, isn’t it? Myatt saw him with me at some time or other and decided that he’d be a perfect chess piece in this game he and Colby were playing with me.”

Head on a pole.

Back away. Don’t think of that unspeakable sight.

“Myatt thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s hurt me.”

“And has he?” Lynch asked quietly.

“Yes, he’s hurt me. No, he’s not won.” She took another sip of coffee. “I just have to be able to think again. It may take a while.” Her lips twisted. “But I may not be able to afford that time. He’s closing in on me, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” He took his own cup from the coffeemaker. “But I won’t let him get any closer. I have your back.”

“Do you?” She looked at him over the rim of her cup. “That can be dangerous. Dean wanted to protect me, too.”

“I have your back,” he repeated. “There’s no comparison between Halley and me.” He added bluntly, “If anyone’s going to end up on a pole, it’s not going to be me. Or you.”

Sledgehammer. But she welcomed that roughness at this moment. It soothed the rawness and shock and brought her back to what they were together.

“No, that’s not going to happen again. I’ll be sure—” Her phone rang.

San Quentin. Salazar.

She tensed. “It’s Warden Salazar.” On some layer of consciousness she had been expecting the call, but the night had been so full of horror that she had not been able to process it. Yet she knew that what was going on at San Quentin had been there, hanging over her through everything that had happened tonight. She punched the access button. “Kendra Michaels. Is it over?”

“Yes, Colby was pronounced dead at 12:09 A.M. I’d have called you sooner, but I had to make arrangements to get his body off the prison grounds as soon as possible.” He added sourly, “Those anti-death-penalty demonstrators at the gates were having too much fun mugging for the cameras and burning me in effigy because I obeyed the law.”

“Dead.” She felt weak with relief. “Thank God. I knew it was going to happen, but I was afraid the governor would change his mind and give him life instead.”

“That wasn’t an option he would have chosen,” Salazar said. “The voters would have sent him a clear message of disapproval at the next election.” He paused. “And I admit I’m glad to be done with Colby myself. My duty is not to judge but to enforce the law. But I stared down at that ugly face twisted by evil and death when they were putting him in the bag and I felt that justice truly had been done.”

“Not entirely. He should have died years ago. That’s what the father of one of his victims told me very recently. That I should have killed him instead of just wounding him in that gully where we captured him.”

“That’s between you and your conscience.”

“Yes, it is. But my conscience is screaming that I was wrong. If I’d killed him then, he wouldn’t have been able to influence Myatt, and we wouldn’t have had a whole string of new murders to deal with.” And Dean Halley wouldn’t have been one of them. He’d be riding his motorcycle and joking and living the good life.

“I was hoping your time with Colby would lead you to Myatt. I was sorry to have to ask you to Skype with him yesterday. I know it upset you.”

“You had to do what you had to do. It was my choice. Thank you for phoning and telling me about Colby. I appreciate it.”

“I wanted to bring you closure.” He paused. “I was considering not telling you about Colby’s last statement, but I decided you should know.”

“Statement?”

“Not a verbal statement. He carved it on his chest. Just one word.”

A chill went through her. One word.

“Mereor,” she whispered.

He was silent. “Yes. It seems I made the right decision. Good night, Dr. Michaels.”

She hung up the phone and turned to Lynch. “Colby died at 12:09 A.M.”

“Hallelujah,” he said softly.

She nodded jerkily. “Salazar said he wanted to bring me closure. Nice thought, but there’s no way. Not while Myatt’s out there acting like a Colby Wannabe.”

“We’ve cut off the head of the snake with Colby’s death.”

“Some freaky snakes have two heads. Haven’t you heard?”

“I’ve run into a few.” He reached out and touched her cheek. “One victory at a time. We’ll get Myatt, then I’ll mount that two-headed snake on our living-room wall.”

She smiled shakily. “But then we’d have to displace Ashley. All I want is to have him as dead as Colby.” She added, “But we have to get him soon. He concocted this horrible bloody plan tonight to give his hero a glorious send-off. Or maybe Colby concocted it. The same word was carved on Colby’s chest.” She was feeling a panicky urgency begin to ice through her. “We have to stop Myatt in his tracks. We don’t know who else is being targeted. Maybe I should go back to Dean’s house and go over the forensic evidence. I should probably have done it tonight before I—”

“No,” he said firmly. “Go to bed and get a few hours’ sleep.”

He was right. She was not much better mentally than she had been before.

And she still had to phone her mother and tell her that her good friend, Dean, was dead.

“I’ll be in touch with Griffin,” Lynch said. “If there’s anything new, I’ll wake you.”

She put her cup down on the bar and stood up. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” She moved toward the door. Her smile was bittersweet as she glanced over her shoulder. “Too bad Dean didn’t have an ironclad fortress like this one to keep that bastard out.”

“Yeah, he was probably taken by surprise.” Lynch stood looking at her. “I’m here for you if you need me. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know it,” she said wearily. “Thanks.” She moved down the hall. Rest for a while, then call Mom. It was going to be a terrible conversation. But she wouldn’t tell her right away about that horrible word that kept echoing in her mind.

Mereor.

*   *   *

“DEAR GOD,” DIANE WHISPERED. “I can’t believe it. Dean?”

“I can’t believe it either,” Kendra said. “I’m sick about it. I can imagine how you’re feeling.”

“I don’t know how I’m feeling. I think I’m numb.” She was silent. “No, I’m angry. I’m furious. That son of a bitch.”

“Yes.”

“I want to cut his throat,” Diane said. “Dean was … special.”

Kendra was silent.

“And you’re feeling guilty. I can feel it,” Diane said. “Don’t be stupid. It wasn’t your fault.” She was silent for an instant. “You expect me to ask you to bow out because I’m afraid for you. I’m tempted to do it. But that won’t help Dean, and it won’t help you. Myatt is going to keep going after you because that’s the nature of the vicious bastard. Anyone who would go after a nice guy like Dean just to punish you will just keep on until someone stops him.” Her voice was steel hard. “You stop him, Kendra. And if you can find a way, let me help. I’d like that, and I think Dean would like it, too.”

“You can help by staying safe and far away from Myatt,” she said unsteadily. “Is everything okay up there?”

Diane didn’t answer for a moment. “We’re protected and there have been no signs of Myatt. It appears he’s been busy in other areas.” She paused. “I’m going to hang up now. I’m going to have a good cry, then I’ll call Dean’s father and break the news to him.”

“Good night, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hung up the phone.

The call had been as difficult as she had thought it would be. Her mother had not responded how she had thought she would, but she was always unpredictable.

But her basic instincts were infallible.

She had realized that the first order of business was to mourn the dead. Dean Halley deserved that Kendra as well as her mother think of him and his life first. His murderer who had taken that life should be second on the list.

She lay down, her cheek on the pillow.

Good-bye, Dean. We’ll miss you.

And she let the tears come.