Текст книги "The Naturals"

Автор книги: Jennifer Lynn Barnes

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CHAPTER 16

Michael and Dean were already in the living room when Sloane and I arrived. In the past fourteen minutes, my blond companion had quieted, like the Energizer Bunny powering down. She took a seat on the sofa next to Michael. I sat down next to her. Across from us, Dean was sitting on the edge of the fireplace, his gaze locked on the floor, hair in his face.

Sofa, chairs, pillows, rug, I thought. And he chooses to sit on stone.

I flashed back to the first time I’d seen him, lifting weights and pushing his body to the brink. My very first impression had been that he was punishing himself.

“Glad to see you all made it.” Lia didn’t just walk into a room; she made an entrance. All eyes on her, she sank to the floor and stretched her legs out, crossing her feet at the ankles and spreading mydress out around her. “For your entertainment this evening: Truth or Dare.” She paused, raking her eyes over the rest of us. “Any objections?”

Dean opened his mouth.

“No,” Lia told him.

“You asked for objections,” Dean said.

Lia shook her head. “You don’t get to object.”

“Do I?” Michael asked.

Lia considered the question. “Do you want to?”

Michael glanced at me, then back at Lia. “Not particularly.”

“Then, yes,” Lia replied. “You do.”

Beside me, Sloane raised her hand.

“Yes, Sloane?” Lia said pleasantly. Apparently, she wasn’t concerned that our resident numbers girl might object.

“I’m familiar with the gist of the game, but I’m unclear on one thing.” Sloane’s eyes gleamed. “How do you win?”

Michael grinned. “You have to love a girl with a competitive streak.”

“You don’t winTruth or Dare,” I said. In fact, I deeply suspected this was the kind of game that everybody lost.

“Is that an objection?” Lia asked.

From across the room, Dean was telegraphing the words SAY YESto me, as clearly as if he’d hired a plane to write them in the sky. And if I’d been in a room with any other teenagers on the planet, I would have. But I was in a room with Michael, who I couldn’t quite profile, and Dean, who’d said the other day that Naturals didn’t work on active cases anymore. I had questions, and this was the only way I was going to get to ask them.

“No,” I told Lia. “That wasn’t an objection. Let’s play.”

A slow smile spread across Lia’s face. Dean banged his head back against the fireplace.

“Can I go first?” Sloane asked.

“Sure,” Lia replied smoothly. “Truth or dare, Sloane?”

Sloane gave her a look. “That’s not what I meant.”

Lia shrugged. “Truth. Or. Dare.”

“Truth.”

In a normal game of Truth or Dare, that would have been the safer option—because if the question was too embarrassing, you could always lie. With Lia in the room, that was impossible.

“Do you know who your father is?”

Lia’s question took me completely off guard. I’d spent most of my life not knowing who my own father was, but couldn’t imagine being forced to admit that in front of a crowd. Lia seemed fond of Sloane, more or less, but clearly, in Truth or Dare, the kid gloves came off.

Sloane met Lia’s eyes, unfazed. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“A swing and a miss,” Michael murmured. Lia gave him a dirty look.

“Your turn,” she told Sloane, and from the look on her face, I guessed she was bracing herself for payback—but Sloane turned to me.

“Cassie. Truth or dare?”

I tried to imagine what kind of dare Sloane might come up with, but drew a blank.

“Statistically, the most common dares involve eating unpleasant food, making prank phone calls, kissing another player, licking something unsanitary, and nudity,” Sloane said helpfully.

“Truth.”

Sloane was silent for several seconds. “How many people do you love?”

The question seemed harmless enough until I started thinking about my answer. Sloane’s blue eyes searched mine, and I got the distinct feeling that she wasn’t asking because she thought it would be amusing to hear my answer.

She was asking because she needed data points to compare to her own.

“How many people do I love?” I repeated. “Like … love how?”

I’d never been in love, so if she was talking about romance, the answer was easy.

“How many people do you love, total?” Sloane said. “Summing across familial, romantic, and all other variations.”

I wanted to just choose a number at random. Five sounded good. Or ten. Too many to countsounded better, but Lia was watching me, very still.

I’d loved my mother. That much was easy. And Nonna and my father and the rest—I loved them. Didn’t I? They were my family. They loved me. Just because I wasn’t showy about it didn’t mean that I didn’t love them back. I’d done what I could to make them happy. I tried not to hurt them.

But did I really love them, the way I’d loved my mom? CouldI love anyone like that again?

“One.” I barely managed to get the word out of my mouth. I stared at Lia, hoping she’d tell me that wasn’t true, that losing my mom hadn’t broken something inside of me and I wasn’t destined to spend the rest of my life two shades removed from the kind of love that the rest of my family felt for me.

Lia held my gaze for a few seconds, then shrugged. “Your turn, Cassie.”

I tried to remember why I’d thought playing this game was a good idea. “Michael,” I said finally. “Truth or dare?”

There were so many things I wanted to ask him—what he really thought of the program, what his father was like, beyond the issue of tax fraud, whether there had ever been more to his relationship with Lia than trading verbal barbs. But I didn’t get a chance to ask any of those questions, because Michael leaned forward in his seat, his eyes gleaming. “Dare.”

Of course he wasn’t going to let me dig around in his brain. Of course he was going to make me issue the first dare of the game. I racked my brain for something that didn’t sound lame, but also didn’t involve kissing, nudity, or anything that might give Michael an excuse for trouble.

“Hit me with your best shot, Colorado.” Michael was enjoying this way too much. I had a feeling he was hoping that I would dare him to do something a little bit dangerous, something that would get his adrenaline pumping.

Something Briggs would disapprove of.

“I dare you …” I said the words slowly, hoping an answer would present itself. “… to dance ballet.”

Even I wasn’t sure where that came from.

“ What?”Michael said. Clearly, he’d been expecting something a little more exciting, or at the very least risqué.

“Ballet,” I repeated. “Right there.” I pointed to the center of the rug. “Dance.”

Lia started cracking up. Even Dean bit back a smile.

“Ballet is a tradition of performance body movement hailing back to the early Renaissance,” Sloane said helpfully. “It is particularly popular in Russia, France, Italy, England, and the United States.”

Michael stopped her before she could orate an entire history of the art. “I’ve got this,” he said. And then, a solemn expression on his face, he stood up, he walked to the center of the room, and he struck a pose.

I’d seen Michael do smooth. I’d seen him do suave. I’d felt him push a piece of hair out of my face—but this. This was really something. He stood on his tippy-toes. He twirled in a circle. He bent his legs and stuck out his butt. But the best thing was the look in his eyes: cold, steely determination.

He capped the performance off with a curtsy.

“Very nice,” I said between hysterical giggles. He sank back onto the sofa and then turned dagger eyes on Lia.

“Truth or dare.”

Not surprisingly, Lia chose truth. Of all of us, she was probably the only one here who could lie and get away with it.

Michael smiled, as genial as Lia had been when she’d started this whole thing. “What’s your real name?”

For a few brief seconds, vulnerability and irritation passed over Lia’s features in quick succession.

“Your name isn’t Lia?” Sloane sounded strangely hurt at the idea that Lia might have lied about something as simple and basic as her own name.

“Yes,” Lia told her. “It is.”

Michael stared at Lia, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly.

“But once upon a time,” Lia said, sounding less and less like herself with every word, “my name used to be Sadie.”

Lia’s answer filled my mind with questions. I tried to picture her as a Sadie. Had she shed her old name as easily as she changed clothes? Why had she changed it? How had Michael known?

“Truth or dare …” Lia dragged her eyes across each of us, one by one, and I sensed something dark slowly unfurling inside of her. This wasn’t going to end well.

“Cassie.”

It didn’t seem fair that it was my turn again already, when Dean had yet to go, but I stepped up to the plate.

“Dare.” I don’t know what possessed me to choose that option, other than the fact that the look on Lia’s face convinced me that she’d make Sloane’s question look about as personal as an inquiry about the weather.

Lia beamed at me, and then beamed at Michael. Payback.

“I dare you,” Lia said, relishing each and every word, “to kiss Dean.”

Dean reacted to that sentence like he’d been electrocuted. He sat straight up. “Lia,” he said sharply. “No.”

“Oh, come now, Dean,” Lia cajoled. “It’s Truth or Dare. Take one for the team.” Without waiting for his reply, she turned back to me. “Kiss him, Cassie.”

I didn’t know what was worse, Dean’s objection to the idea of being forced to kiss me or the sudden realization that my body didn’tobject to the idea of kissing him. I thought of our lessons with Locke, the feel of his hand on the back of my neck. …

Lia watched me expectantly, but Michael’s eyes were the ones I felt on my face as I crossed the room to stand in front of Dean.

I didn’t have to do this.

I could say no.

Dean looked up at me, and for a split second, I saw something other than deadly neutrality on his face. His eyes softened. His lips parted, like there was something he wanted to say.

I knelt next to the fireplace. I put one hand on his cheek, and I brought my lips to his. It was a friendly kiss. A European hello. Our mouths only touched for a second—but I felt it, electric, all the way to my toes.

I pulled back, unable to force my eyes away from his lips as I did. For a few seconds, we just stayed there, staring at each other: him on the fireplace and me kneeling on the rug.

“Your turn, Cassie.” Lia sounded pretty darned satisfied with herself.

I forced myself to stand up and walk back to the sofa. I sat down, still able to feel the ghost of Dean’s lips on mine. “Truth or dare, Dean?”

It was only fair: he was the sole person present who hadn’t been in the hot seat yet. For a second, I thought he might refuse and call an end to this game, but he didn’t.

“Truth.”

This was the opportunity Michael hadn’t given me. There were so many things I wanted to know. I concentrated on that, instead of what had passed between us a moment before.

“The other day, when Locke said she couldn’t take Lia to the crime scene, you said that wasn’t what the program was anymore.” I paused. “What did you mean?”

Dean nodded, as if that were a perfectly reasonable question to ask after you’d kissed a person. “I was the first one,” he said. “Before there was a program, before they started using the term Naturals, it was just Briggs and me. I didn’t live with Judd. The FBI brass didn’t know about me. Briggs brought me questions. I gave him answers.”

“Questions about killers.” I wasn’t allowed a follow-up question, so I phrased it as a statement. Dean nodded. Lia cut in, breaking off all conversation.

“He was twelve,” she said, clipping the words. “Your turn, Dean.”

“Cassie,” Dean said. That was it—no “truth or dare.” Just my name.

Beside me, Michael’s jaw clenched. Lia’s payback had hit its target—and then some.

“Truth,” I said, trying not to dwell on Michael’s reaction or what it might mean.

“Why did you come here?” Dean asked, looking at Lia, at his own hands, at anything but me. “Why join this program at all?”

There were a lot of answers to that question that would have been technically true. I could have said that I wanted to help people. I could have said that I’d always known that I’d never quite fit in the regular world. But I didn’t.

“My mother was murdered.” I cleared my throat, trying to say the words like they were just any other words. “Five years ago. Based on the blood spatter, they think she was stabbed. Repeatedly. The police never found her body, but there was enough blood that they don’t think she could have survived. I used to think that maybe she had. I don’t anymore.”

Dean didn’t react visibly to that confession—but Lia went unnaturally still, and Sloane’s mouth dropped open as she averted her eyes. Michael had known about my mother, but I’d never said a word to any of the others.

Truth or dare, Dean. I wanted to say the words, but I couldn’t keep asking Dean questions. Already, we’d kept this game between the two of us for too long. “Truth or dare, Lia?”

“Truth.” Lia said the word like a challenge. I asked her whether she was messy or neat. She lowered her chin, raised her eyebrows, and stared at me.

“Seriously,” she said. “That’s your question?”

“That’s my question,” I confirmed.

“I’m a mess,” she said. “By everysense of the word.” She didn’t give me time to meditate on the fact that I’d pegged her right before she targeted Michael for the next round. I expected him to pick dare again, but he didn’t.

“Truth.”

Lia ran dainty hands over her dress. She gave him her most wide-eyed, innocent look. Then she asked him if he was jealous when I kissed Dean. Michael didn’t bat an eye, but I thought Dean might actually throttle Lia.

“I don’t get jealous,” Michael said. “I get even.”

No one was surprised when Michael aimed the next round at Dean.

“Truth or dare, Dean?”

“Truth.” Dean’s eyes narrowed, and I remembered Lia saying that if Dean had a temper, Michael would have been dead by now. I waited, my stomach heavy and my throat dry, for Michael to ask Dean something horrible.

But he didn’t.

“Have you ever seen The Bad Seed?” he inquired politely. “The movie.”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched. “No.”

Michael grinned. “I have.”

Dean stood up. “I’m done here.”

“Dean—” Lia’s tone was halfway between mulish and wheedling, but he silenced her with a look. Two seconds later, he was stalking out of the room, and a few seconds after that, I heard the front door open, then slam.

Dean was gone—and a person didn’t have to be an emotion reader to see the look of satisfaction on Michael’s face.

YOU

Every hour, every day, you think about The Girl. But it’s not time for the grand finale. Not yet. Instead, you find another toy at a little shop in Dupont Circle. You’ve had your eye on her for a while, but resisted the urge to add her to your collection. She was too close to home, in an area that was too densely populated.

But right now, the so-called Madame Selene is just what you need. Bodies are bodies, but a palm reader—there’s a certain poetry to that. A message you want—need—have to send. It would be simpler to kill her in the shop, to drive a knife through each palm and leave her body on display, but you’ve worked so hard this week.

You deserve a little treat.

Taking her is easy. You’re a ghost. A stranger with candy. A sympathetic ear. When Madame Selene wakes up in the warehouse, she won’t believe that you’re the one who’s done this to her.

Not at first.

But eventually, she’ll see.

You smile, thinking about the inevitability of it all. You touch the tips of her brown hair and pick up the handy box of Red Dye Number 12. You hum under your breath, a children’s song that takes you back to the beginning, back to the first.

The palm reader’s eyes flicker open. Her hands are bound. She sees you. Then she sees the hair dye, the knife in your left hand, and she realizes.—

You are the monster.

And this time, you deserve to take things slow.

CHAPTER 17

When Agent Locke showed up Monday morning, she had dark circles under her eyes. Belatedly, I remembered that while we’d been watching TV and playing Truth or Dare, she and Briggs had been out working a case. A real case, with real stakes.

A real killer.

For a long time, Locke didn’t say anything. “Briggs and I hit a brick wall this weekend,” she said finally. “We’ve got three bodies, and the killer is escalating.” She ran a hand through hair that looked like it had been only haphazardly brushed. “That’s not your problem. It’s mine, but this case has reminded me that the UNSUB is only half the story. Dean, what can you tell Cassie about victimology?”

Dean stared holes in the countertop. I hadn’t seen him since Truth or Dare, but it was like nothing had changed between us, like we’d never kissed.

“Most killers have a type,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s a physical type. For others, it may be a matter of convenience—maybe you focus on hikers, because no one reports them missing for a few days, or students, because it’s easy to get ahold of their class schedules.”

Agent Locke nodded. “Occasionally the victims may be serving as a substitute for someone in the UNSUB’s life. Some killers kill their first girlfriend or their wife or their mother, over and over again.”

“The other thing victimology tells us,” Dean continued, flicking his eyes over to Agent Locke, “is how the victim would have reacted to being abducted or attacked. If you’re a killer …” He paused, searching for the right words. “There’s a give-and-take between you and the people you kill. You choose them. You trap them. Maybe they fight. Maybe they run. Some try to reason with you, some say things that set you off. Either way, you react.”

“We don’t have the luxury of knowing every last detail about the UNSUB’s personality,” Agent Locke cut in, “but the victim’s personality and behavior account for half of the crime scene.”

The moment I heard the phrase crime scene, I flashed back to opening the door to my mother’s dressing room. I’d always thought that I knew so little about what had happened that day. By the time I’d gotten back to the dressing room, the killer was gone. My mother was gone. There was so much blood.…

Victimology, I reminded myself. I knew my mother. She would have fought—nail-scratching, breaking-lamps-over-his-head, struggling-for-the-knife fought. And there were only two things that could have stopped her: dying or the realization that I was due back in the room at any second.

What if she went with him?The police had assumed she was dead—or at the very least unconscious—when the UNSUB had removed her from the room. But my mother wasn’t a small woman, and the dressing room was on the second floor of the theater. Under normal circumstance, my mother wouldn’t have just let a killer waltz her out the door—but she might have done anything to keep her assailant away from me.

“Cassie?” Agent Locke said, snapping me back to the present.

“Right,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes. “Right what?”

“Sorry,” I told Locke. “Could you repeat what you just said?”

She gave me a long, appraising look, then repeated herself. “I said that walking through a crime scene from a victim’s perspective can tell you a lot about the killer. Say you go into a victim’s house and you find out that she compulsively writes to-do lists, color-codes her clothes, and has a pet fish. This woman is the third victim, but she’s the only one of the three who doesn’t have defensive wounds. The killer normally keeps his victims alive for days, but this woman was killed by a strong blow to the head on the day she was taken. Her blouse was buttoned crookedly when they found her.”

Putting myself into the killer’s head, I could imagine him taking women. Playing with them. So why would he let this one off easy? Why end his game early, when she showed no signs of fighting back?

Because she showed no signs of fighting back.

I switched perspectives, imagining myself as the victim. I’m organized, orderly, and type A in the extreme. I want a pet, but can’t bring myself to get one that would actually disrupt my life, so I settle for a fish instead. Maybe I’ve read about the previous murders in the paper. Maybe I know how things end for the women who fought back.

So maybe I don’t fight back. Not physically.

The things Locke had told me about the victim said that she was a woman who liked to stay in control. She would have tried reasoning with her killer. She would have resisted his attempts to control her. She might have even tried to manipulate him. And if she’d succeeded, even for an instant …

“The UNSUB killed the others for fun,” I said, “but he killed her in a fit of rage.”

Their interaction would have been a game of control for him, too—and she was just enough of a control freak to disrupt that.

“And?” Agent Locke prompted.

I drew a blank.

“He buttoned her shirt,” Dean said. “If she’d buttoned it, it wouldn’t have been crooked.”

That observation sent my mind whirring. If he’d killed her in a rage, why would he have dressed her afterward? If he’d undressed her, I could understand it—the final humiliation, the final assertion of control.

You know her, I thought.

“The UNSUB’s first two victims were chosen randomly.” Agent Locke met my eyes, and for a second, it felt like she was reading my mind. “We assumed the third victim was as well. We were wrong.” Locke rocked back on her heels. “That’s why you need both sides of the coin. Checks and balances, victims and UNSUBs—because you’ll always be wrong about something. You’ll always miss something. What if there’s a personal connection? What if the UNSUB is older than you thought? What if heis a she? What if there are two UNSUBs working as a pair? What if the killer is just a kid himself?”

I knew suddenly that we weren’t talking about the type A woman and the man who’d killed her anymore. We were talking about the doubts plaguing Locke right now, the assumptions she’d made on her current case. We were talking about an UNSUB that Locke and Briggs hadn’t been able to catch.

“Ninety percent of all serial killers are male.” Sloane announced her presence, then walked up to join us. “Seventy-six percent are American, with a substantial percentage of serial murders concentrated in California, Texas, New York, and Illinois. The vast majority of serial killers are Caucasian, and over eighty-nine percent of victims of serial crimes are Caucasian as well.”

I could not help noticing that she spoke significantly slower when not under the influence of caffeine.

Briggs followed Sloane into the room. “Lacey.” He got Agent Locke’s attention. “I just got a call from Starmans. We have body number four.”

Thinking about those words—and what they meant—felt like eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help myself. Another body. Another person, dead.

Locke clenched her jaw. “Same profile?” she asked Briggs.

Briggs gave a brisk, slight nod. “A palm reader in Dupont Circle. And the national database search we ran came back with more than one match for our killer’s MO.”

What MO?I couldn’t shake the question, any more than I could stop wondering who this new victim was, if she’d had a family, who had told them that she was dead.

“That bad?” Locke asked, reading Briggs’s face. I wished Michael were there to help me do the same. This case was none of my business—but I wanted to know.

“We should talk elsewhere,” Briggs said.

Elsewhere. As in somewhere that Sloane, Dean, and I weren’t.

“You didn’t have trouble coming to Dean for advice when he was twelve,” I said, unable to stop myself. “Why stop now?”

Briggs’s eyes darted over to Dean, who met his gaze without blinking. Clearly, that wasn’t information Dean was supposed to share with the rest of us—but just as clearly, Dean wasn’t going to look away first.

“The flower beds could use some weeding.” Judd broke the tension, coming into the room to stand between Briggs and Dean. “If you’re done with the kids for a bit, I can put them to work. Might be good for them to get their hands dirty, get some sun.”

Judd directed those words at Agent Briggs, but Locke was the one who replied. “It’s fine, Judd.” She glanced first at Dean, then at me. “They can stay. Briggs, you were saying the database turned up more than one case with the same MO?”

For a moment, Briggs looked like he might argue with Locke about letting us stay, but she just stood there, stubbornly waiting him out.

Briggs gave in first. “Our database search returned three cases consistent with our killer’s MO in the past nine months,” he said, clipping each word. “New Orleans, Los Angeles, and American Falls.”

“Illinois?” Locke asked.

Briggs shook his head. “Idaho.”

I processed that information. If the cases Briggs was talking about were related, we were dealing with a killer who’d crossed state lines and had been killing for the better part of a year.

“My go bag is in the car,” Locke said, and suddenly, I remembered– weweren’t dealing with anything. Locke hadn’t let Briggs shuffle the three of us out of the room, but at the end of the day, this wasn’t a training exercise, and it wasn’t mycase, or even ours.

It was theirs.

“We leave at sixteen hundred hours.” Briggs straightened his tie. “I left work for Lia, Michael, and Sloane. Locke, do you have anything for Cassie and Dean—besides weeding the flower beds?” he added with a glance at Judd.

“I’m not leaving them a cold case.” Locke turned to me, almost apologetically. “You have an incredible amount of raw talent, Cass, but you’ve spent too much time in the real world and not enough in ours. Not yet.”

“She can handle anything you throw at her.”

I looked at Dean, surprised. He was the last person I expected to be making this argument on my behalf.

“Thank you for that glowing endorsement, Dean,” Locke said, “but I’m not going to rush this. Not with her.” She paused. “Library,” she told me. “Third shelf from the left. There’s a series of blue binders. Prison interviews. Make your way through those, and we’ll talk about getting you started on cold cases when I get back.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Dean’s voice was curiously flat. Locke shrugged.

“You’re the one who said she was ready.”