The FBI Thrillers Collection(206)

Keep calm, she had to keep herself calm, but it was hard to do, really hard. She wanted to see his face, to make him human, and real, to look hard at his eyes. The black ski mask made him a monster, faceless, terrifying. He was dressed in black too, down to the black running shoes on his feet. Big feet. He was a big man, big arms, long, but his belly was flabby. He wasn’t all that young, then. His voice was low, sort of raspy, as if he’d smoked too much for a long time. Keep thinking like this, she told herself over and over as she walked into the kitchen. Just keep calm.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. He was leaning against the counter, the gun—a small .22—still pointed at her, as if someone had told him that she’d had some training, that he shouldn’t just assume that because she was a woman she had no chance against him.

“Who are you?”

He laughed. “Call me Sam. You like that? Yeah, that’s me—Sam. My pa was named Sam too. Hey, I’m the son of Sam.”

“Someone hired you. Who?”

“Too many questions, little girl. Get that coffee on. Now start talking to me about this Marlin Jones. Tell me why you’re so important to this case.”

Nothing she told him about Marlin Jones would make any difference that she could see, and it would buy her time. “I was the one who was the bait to catch him in Boston. FBI agents do this sort of thing. There was nothing unusual about it. I was the bait because he’d killed my sister seven years ago in San Francisco. He was called the String Killer. I begged the cops to let me bring him down. They let me and I did bring him down, but it’s not over yet. I can’t go back home yet.”

He pushed off the counter, walked to her, and very calmly, very slowly, pulled back his arm and brought the gun sharply against the side of her head. Not hard enough to knock her unconscious, but hard enough to knock her silly. Pain flooded through her. She cried out, grabbed her head, and lurched against the stove.

“I know a lie when I hear it,” he said in that low, soft voice of his and quickly stepped back out of her reach. “This guy butcher your sister? Yeah, sure. Hey, you’re bleeding. Scalp wounds bleed like stink, but you’ll be okay. Tell me the truth, tell me why you really want to stay here or I’ll hit you again.”

She suddenly heard an accent. No, her brains were scrambled, she was imagining it. No, wait, the way he’d said “bleed like stink.” It was faintly southern; yes, that was it. And wasn’t that phrase southern as well?

He raised his arm. She said quickly, “I’m not lying. Belinda Madigan, the fourth victim of the San Francisco String Killer, was my sister.”

He didn’t say anything, but she saw the gun waver. Hadn’t he known? No, if he didn’t know, why else would he be here? He said finally, “Keep going.”

“Marlin Jones said he didn’t kill her. That’s why I’ve got to stay. I’ve got to find out the truth. Then I can go home.”

“But he did kill her, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. I wondered and wondered, then I even had some tests done on the wooden props used in all the murders in San Francisco, the hammering and screwing techniques, stuff like that. There’s an expert in Los Angeles who’s really good at that sort of thing. But his results were inconclusive. Marlin Jones killed her. He must have realized who I was and lied to me, to torture me. Who are you? Why do you care?”

“Hey, I’m a journalist.” He laughed again. He was big into laughter, this guy. She felt blood dripping off her hair onto her face. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“Yeah, I’m a journalist and I like to know the inside scoop. You guys are so closemouthed that none of us know what’s going on. Yeah, I’m with the Washington Post. My name’s Garfield.” He laughed. He was really enjoying himself.

Then just as suddenly, he straightened, and she knew that if he weren’t wearing that mask, she’d see that his eyes had gone cold and dead. “Is that all, little girl?”

“Yes, that’s all,” she said now, her voice shaking with fear. No, she thought, it wasn’t enough. More shaking, more show of fear. “But why do you care whether or not I go home? Or does the person who sent you want me to leave? Why? I’m no threat to anyone.” Marlin Jones was in her mind. Was he somehow behind this?

The man was silent for a moment, and she knew he was studying her, weighing his options. Who was he?

He said finally, reaching out his hand to touch a clump of bloody hair, “You know what I think? I think that just maybe old Marlin didn’t kill your sister. You’re like a little terrier, yanking and jerking and pulling, but you won’t find anything.