Chapter 7

"Would you like to try out my new potter's wheel while you're here?" Blythe asked. She and Mary were sitting at the bistro table in the kitchen sharing a light lunch. "You were getting pretty good at one time."

"I think that may have been Gillian." Mary was trying to ignore the throbbing in her shoulder, which had been getting increasingly worse since her encounter with Hitchcock. It hadn't helped that she'd been working on the profile for almost forty-eight hours straight. "I was never very good at throwing pots."

"Oh, you were too! Let's make an evening of it. Gillian can come. We'll get a bottle of wine. Be creative. What do you think?"

"Let's not rush into things."

Mary had come to terms with the fact that she and Gillian would be working together. She didn't like it, but she was a professional, and professionals had to adapt to unpleasant situations. That didn't mean she was ready to hop in the sandbox with her sister.

"Later, maybe," her mother said, momentarily deflated. Blythe gathered up a large canvas bag, water bottle, and car keys. "I've gotta run. Try to get some rest." She gave Mary a kiss on the cheek, then left to teach her afternoon and evening pottery classes at the Pot House.

Mary went upstairs and took a hot shower. She'd hoped the heat might help the pain, but by the time she'd dried off, her shoulder was aching even more. She made an ice pack out of a plastic bag and kitchen towel, then settled in bed with the pack on her shoulder and laptop on her lap.

Her phone rang.

Gillian was calling to tell her about a suspect they'd brought in for questioning. "Sebastian Tate," she said. "He's a student at the university and dated the third victim a few times."

"What did you find out?"

Gillian filled her in on Tate's rap sheet and how he'd reacted to her.

"I'm not sure you should be involved in the questioning of suspects," Mary said, surprised that they'd sent Gillian out on the initial canvas.

"It's my job." Gillian didn't bother trying to disguise her resentment.

"Didn't anyone stop to think that you fit the victim-ology?" Mary had to work to keep her voice smooth, even though she was irritated by Wakefield's lack of judgment. She'd expected more from him.

"I know I fit the victimology. I thought my going on the canvas was a good strategy."

Had she really thought it out that thoroughly? Mary wondered. More than likely, it had come to her later, when Gillian was face-to-face with the suspect.

"The last victim was also identified," Gillian said. "Justine Ramsey."

"Had she been reported missing?"

"No. Lived alone, no close friends."

"Like the first girl."

"Exactly." The conversation shifted. "How are you coming on the profiles?"

"I'll have the preliminary paperwork ready to present to Detective Wakefield by early tomorrow. Hopefully I can get the Behavioral Science team to sign off on it in two or three days so the profile can be made official and the information gotten to the public."

There was a pause, as if Gillian were weighing her next words. "You sound tired."

Her concern took Mary by surprise. "I am," she admitted.

"Try to get some sleep."

"As soon as I wrap this up." Her voice was once again distantly polite.

"I'll let you get back to work," Gillian said, sounding rebuffed.

"Gillian?" Mary paused. "If Tate comes around, call the cops."

"I am a cop."

"You know what I mean. Don't try to deal with him by yourself. He could be dangerous." Mary disconnected.

The ice in the plastic bag had turned to tepid water; Mary dropped it and the towel on the floor. Would Gillian follow her advice about Tate? Probably not. Mary shouldn't have said anything about her being careful around the guy. Gillian had a history of doing the opposite of whatever her sister suggested.

For the next two hours Mary fine-tuned the killer and victim profile, adding the finishing touches before shutting off the computer and lying back in bed.

She was almost asleep when the doorbell rang.

She kept her eyes closed, trying to pretend she hadn't heard anything. The doorbell rang again. It was probably some sweet-faced kid selling something she didn't want to buy but would anyway. Dressed in navy blue cotton pajamas, she made her way downstairs, leaning forward to peer through the peephole.

Anthony Spence stood on her mother's front porch.

She blinked. He was still there.

She opened the door, the chain lock catching. She slammed the- door, undid the chain, and opened it again.

Instead of a greeting, he got directly to the point: "You look like hell."

On the other hand, he looked great. But when didn't Anthony look great? He was dressed in the FBI black he was so fond of, complete with trench coat.

"Nice to see you too."

The pain was making her dizzy. She turned around and plopped down on the steps, wincing as she jarred her arm. "What are you doing here?"

"Are you sick?" He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

"A headache." It was the first thing that popped into her mind. It seemed childish and immature-always evading everyone-but she hated to be fussed over.

Anthony put a hand to her forehead. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the coolness.

"You feel warm."

"Think so?"

"How's the shoulder?"

"A little sore," she admitted reluctantly.

"A little?" From his expression of disbelief, it was apparent she hadn't fooled him for a second. "I know your definition of 'a little.' Like the time you had a little pain in your side and ended up having an emergency appendectomy."

She gave him a weak smile, then tried to steer the attention away from her. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought you might need some help."

"You should have told me you were coming. I'd have met you at the airport."

"Let me see your shoulder."

"No."

"Come on."

"For some reason, you seem to think you own me now. That you own my shoulder." She was uncomfortably aware that she was in pajamas while he was fully dressed.

"Is that so unreasonable? I'm partially responsible for that shoulder."

Without asking permission, he unbuttoned the top button of her shirt. He slipped his hand inside, under the fabric. His touch felt wonderfully cool.

He frowned. "Hot."

Her heart sank, and then began to beat rapidly. What did that mean?

"Do you have your doctor's phone number?"

"Upstairs. In my data book." She started to get up.

"Stay there." His voice held urgency. "I'll get it."

"Take a right at the top of the stairs."

He disappeared, then quickly returned with a small leather booklet. Anthony flipped through the pages and located the number. He sat down near her on the stairs, pulled out his mobile phone, and dialed.

Dr. Farina was in surgery, but the problem was relayed to him and he insisted that Mary get to a Minneapolis physician immediately. "It could be one of three things," his nurse explained. "Inflammation due to overexertion, infection that has been incubating since the surgery, or staph." The nurse gave them the name of a reputable physician and added that Dr. Farina would call Mary that night.

Staph. Mary and Anthony looked at each other, and she saw her own fear reflected back at her. The best possible staph scenario might mean weeks in an isolation room while they pumped antibiotics into her veins in an attempt to kill the resistant bacteria. A bad scenario could mean a lost limb. It could mean death.

It took thirty minutes to get to the Edina office where Mary's doctor suggested they go.

Once there, she was put through a series of tests. She had blood drawn, cultures taken, and was sent to an adjoining hospital for an MRI. When that was completed, she met with Dr. Tabora. Anthony insisted on being in the room when the verdict was announced.

"You have quite a bit of inflammation," he said, "but the preliminary quick test didn't show any evidence of staph."

No staph. Mary wilted in relief and looked at Anthony. He was leaning against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, sending up his own thank-you.

"I'm going to put you on an anti-inflammatory drug. That should take care of the problem. Come back and see me in two weeks unless you're in Virginia. In that case, see Dr. Farina. I'll be sending him a copy of my report."

He handed Mary the prescription order. "Rest and take it easy. Try not to use your arm for the next few days; then begin exercises gradually, much the way you did after surgery. There are some excellent physical therapists in the building. I'll have the receptionist set up an initial visit."

At the front desk, Mary was handed a card that gave the date and time of her therapist appointment.

She would cancel it later.

At the pharmacy Mary turned in the script, then moved away from the counter to wait. She was sensing a strong, negative energy coming from Anthony, and it put her on the defensive.

"I can tell you're thinking about having me pulled from the case," she said as soon as they were in his rental car. "Well, I'm not leaving." Which seemed weird when she thought about it, since she hadn't wanted to come in the first place. But it was like that first plunge into cold water. Once you were wet, you might as well stay in and swim.

"The doctor told you to take it easy."

"Anthony, I want to remain on the case. If you have me pulled off, I'll continue to investigate on my own."

"Why are you being so hardheaded about this?"

Anthony didn't know about Fiona. Once, he'd asked her why she'd wanted to become an FBI agent, and she'd mumbled something vague about the challenge and the desire to help people.

Pain stabbed through her shoulder, redirecting her thoughts. "You need to get in the right lane so you can get on 494 East. Oh, and Anthony? My mother doesn't know about my being shot, so don't mention it to her."

He pulled away from a green light and then cut to the right lane. "You're a little old to be hiding things from your mother, aren't you?" He sounded puzzled and slightly annoyed.

"She worries about me enough as it is," Mary explained. "So please don't say anything."

He shrugged, but didn't press the issue.

It was late afternoon, and traffic was heavy, adding fifteen minutes to their return trip. Once home, Mary took her pills, retrieved her laptop from her room, and handed it to Anthony, determined to get back to business as usual. "The profiles are finished. Would you mind going over my notes before I present them to Detective Wakefield and Quantico?" Every breath made her shoulder hurt. "I'm going upstairs to lie down for a while. The kitchen is that way, the bathroom over there." She pointed. "My mom should be home in a couple of hours."

After she left, Anthony wandered around the living room. Over the years he'd conjured up a mental image of Mary at her childhood home in Minneapolis. The place he'd put her was nothing like this living room with its red walls, framed artwork, exotic rugs, wild plants, and strange sculptures. This wasn't at all the landscape he'd expected the rigid, unbending Mary Cantrell to come from.

Her shooting had scared the hell out of him.

She almost died.

Up until then he'd thought of them both as invincible, with Mary seeming even more of a superhero for some reason. Although she didn't know it, the trauma he'd experienced over her being shot had been crippling. So much so that he was seeing an FBI therapist, who'd suggested he and Mary quit working together for a while. The only problem was, he worried about her twice as much when she was out of his sight.

He settled into a soft ottoman, opened Mary's laptop, and turned it on. While waiting for it to boot up, his mind drifted to thoughts of his ex-wife. Ex. Such a negative word. As if she'd been crossed out of his life. Divorce papers didn't suddenly mean they no longer cared about each other, because they did. Things were just different now.

With hindsight, he could see that their marriage had been a recipe for disaster. She was so sensitive that TV ads for horror movies gave her nightmares. There was no way he could talk to her about his work, no way he could tell her what was bothering him. She'd begged him to quit, but he couldn't. She said he didn't love her enough, and he thought she might be right.

In the end, she was even jealous of Mary. "You spend more time with her than you do with me," she'd shouted at him one particularly ugly night. It was true, he'd realized. Then he'd had an ever more alarming thought: This is never going to work.

On Mary's laptop, the FBI screen saver was humming at him. He opened the writing program and quickly found the most recent file.

He read her notes, then looked at the background information on the murders and personal observations. That was followed by the profile.

The crime scenes reflect characteristics of the organized offender. Most likely a chameleon personality. Cunning. Cruises for victims.

Crime Scene: Kills at undetermined location, then disposes of body at abduction site. Very likely tortures victims, either psychologically or physically or both.

Leaves little or no physical evidence.

Development: Has been hurt in some way, and is angry, yet feeling fear or loss.

Thinks himself superior to others. Selects victims he can manipulate, dominate, and control.

He constantly feels the need for approval and feminine admiration. He is self-confident and arrogant, but may have doubts about his own sexuality. Could be attracted to men, and his denial of that attraction is taken out on innocent women.

Method: He usually preselects his victims, but if a victim doesn't work out, he may take one by opportunity. He uses the surprise approach, attacking between midnight and 5:00 a.m. The victim will always be alone.

Sex of Offender: Male

Race: White

Age: 24 to 35 Physical Description: 5'11" or above, muscular Scholastic Achievement: High school, possibly some college.

Lifestyle: Single, but may have friends or relatives who only see one side of him.

Social Adjustment: Did well in grade school, but when he reached adolescence, began to cause trouble. Has leadership qualities.

Demeanor: Confident, possibly quite charming.

Mental Problems: Phobias. Some type of stressor most likely occurred to bring about the first kidnapping and murder.

Grafted Rose Branches: Symbolic of his need to seek perfection in a mate along with his need to manipulate his victims in impossible ways.

The next file contained the victimology, which was every bit as important as the offender profile.

Sex: Female

Race: White

Age: 15 to 25

Height: 5'4" to 5'8"

Weight: 110 to 135

Hair color: Blond Victim will most likely be someone who is young and healthy, dresses stylishly, yet can be manipulated. Offender is an opportunist, and if the right victim can't be found, he makes do.

A note at the bottom proposed sending the profiles to the media as soon as the FBI signed off on them.

As Anthony shut down the computer and put it aside, he heard a key turn in the front lock. He was getting to his feet when the door swung open and an attractive woman walked in. Mary's sister? Mother?

He didn't want to frighten her, so he quickly pulled out his ID, nipped open the leather case, and introduced himself. Did she know who he was? he wondered. Had Mary ever mentioned him? "I'm Mary's partner," he explained in case she hadn't.

"Anthony! How wonderful!" the woman said, extending a hand. "I'm Blythe. I'm so glad to finally meet you." She was looking at him with curiosity.

"Excuse my hands," she said, smiling warmly. "I've been mixing clay all afternoon, and you know how hard clay is on your skin."

He hadn't known, but now he did.

She glanced around. "Where's Mary?"

It was tempting as hell to blow Mary's cover for her own good, but if he did, he doubted she'd ever speak to him again. "She didn't feel well, so she's upstairs sleeping."

"I knew something was wrong with her earlier today." Blythe frowned. "Is it Bu, do you think?"

This was Mary's mother. How could he lie to Mary's mother? "Hard to say," he replied uncomfortably.

"I'll just go up and check on her."

Blythe disappeared, then returned a few minutes later. "She's sound asleep, poor dear." She clasped him on the upper arm. "What about you? Did you just fly in? Have you had anything to eat? Come in the kitchen, and we'll have a chat while we wait for Mary to wake up."

She led him through the house to a kitchen that was as cluttered and as warm as the living room, with copper pans hanging above the stove. He noticed in particular a wire mesh bust in the corner. She talked while she pulled out condiments and heated water for tea. "Would you prefer beer? Wine? Soda? Oh, please sit down."

He could see that she was the kind of person who loved taking care of people, who would love to be taking care of Mary. Mary had recently told him she hadn't been home in five years. Not for the first time, he wondered why.

There was a little table in front of sliding glass doors that looked out onto a deck and backyard. He chose one of the stools at the kitchen counter.

"You and Mary don't look much alike," he observed.

"Mary's dark, like her father," Blythe said. "And Gillian's light like me. As far as personality, Mary and I are nothing alike either," she added, slicing a tomato. "But believe it or not, she used to be a lot more like me."

"Really?" He was having a hard time picturing Mary fluttering around a kitchen, wearing bright colors and talking nonstop.

"You should have known her before."

"Before? Before what?"

"Why, before Fiona died."

Mary awakened abruptly.

She could hear the soft, indistinct murmur of voices coming from downstairs. Disoriented, she turned on the lamp next to the bed and checked her watch. A little after seven.

She changed clothes, slipping into a pair of jeans and digging out a long-sleeved top. Downstairs, she found her mother and Anthony huddled together in the kitchen.

Blythe got to her feet. "I was just getting ready to come up and check on you." She gave Mary a quick hug. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better."

She leaned back to examine her. "Do you think it's the flu?"

Mary glanced at Anthony, thankful he hadn't told her mother everything. "It's not the flu; it's my arm."

"I was afraid," Blythe said with drama, "that there was more to your injury than you were letting on."

"I'm going to have to take it easy for a few days."

"Can I get you anything?"

"No." She put her uninjured arm around her mother and gave her a hug. "Everything's going to be fine."

Blythe was an optimist, so it was easy to convince her that there was no reason to worry. Satisfied with Mary's response, she excused herself, leaving the two of them alone to "talk business."

"Did you look at the profile?" Mary asked once her mother was gone.

Anthony nodded and lifted a glass to his mouth. The liquid was light green-Blythe was already plying him with herbal tea. "The profile looks pretty good as far as I can tell."

"Do you have anything to add, or anything you feel different about?" When it came to crime scene psychology they were a perfectly synchronized pair, and Mary had total faith in his judgment.

"He has some strangely conflicting qualities."

"I know. I keep going over everything and coming up with descriptions that seem more suited to two people than one. That's why I wanted to get your reaction."

"I really can't say until I have time to go over the victims' case files."

She waved her hand in impatience. "I promised Detective Wakefield a rough draft by tomorrow morning."

"I'll try to get everything read before that. What about the decomposed victim? Were you able to link her to the other two murders?"

"It's going to take a crime lab to do that."

He gave her a disapproving look. "This wasn't quite the break I envisioned for you."

"I didn't need a vacation."

"Come on, Mary." It had to be one of his favorite lines.

"You're not going to win this argument. Believe me, I'll be fine. I'm feeling much better already."

He seemed to be considering something and then finally said, "I'm sticking around."

"To keep an eye on me?"

"You weren't sent here to do the work of two people. Take tomorrow off. I've got a reservation at a hotel a few blocks from police headquarters, so I'll deliver the profile to Detective Wakefield in the morning. If he has any questions, he can call you. How does that sound?"

His idea seemed a fair compromise. "You're welcome to stay here," she offered. "There's a private area at the back of the house that used to be my father's work space. It has a bed and shower."

He stared at her for what seemed like a full minute.

Why was he looking at her like that? Had he misconstrued her invitation? she wondered. She was just trying to be friendly. But of course he wouldn't want to stay at their house. Not when the government was putting him up in a nice hotel.

His eyes cleared as if he'd finally made sense of her offer. "You're not trying to keep me under your thumb, are you, Mary?"

"Idiot." They were back on familiar ground. That evasive cat-and-mouse teasing that was so much a part of their relationship.

"You really are feeling better."

"I was just trying to be nice."

"Well, cut it out. You're scaring me."

She laughed.

"Thanks for the offer, regardless of how it came about," he said. "But I have to turn it down. I wouldn't want to be any trouble."

"It's too late for that."

"I'm afraid you're right." He glanced at her shoulder.

"That's not what I meant."

A look of resignation crossed his features, and she suddenly became aware of how tired he was.

She cupped his face with her hands, feeling abrasive stubble against her palms. She'd never touched him in such a way. "Quit beating yourself up about my injury," she whispered. "It happened. It's over. Forget about it."

"I can't."

It was unsettling to catch herself looking so deeply into Anthony Spence's eyes. She broke contact and moved away, suddenly embarrassed by her impulsiveness.

"Yeah, well… I'd better get going." He bustled around to cover the awkward moment, gathering up his jacket, quickly shrugging into it. "I've got a lot of homework." Two minutes later, he was gone.