Calm was an interesting word. He was hardly calm about this. It was more of a detachment. When he thought about what could possibly happen to Gabe at the hands of this murderer, it ripped at his heart. He had to choose to look at it forensically, examine it as a doctor would a gaping chest wound. There was no profit in compa.s.sion if it came at the expense of swift action. "It's a simple matter of necessity. Gabe needs me to be strong and keep my head clear."

"Aren't you worried about him?"

"Of course I am."

"How can you just blather on about facts and evidence as if you're talking about a frog you're dissecting?"

"Because I don't want you to do that thing you do, get all emotional when there's nothing I can do to help. I can't deal with anyone else I love hurting right now. I don't have anything left."

A tear trickled down the side of her nose. She turned her head away and pressed her lips to her knuckles.

"See. That's what I'm talking about. I can't do this right now."

"I'm not trying to add to your stress." She sniffed.

"Then let me grieve when I'm ready. For now I need to stay focused on doing what I can to help Holly-and I can't do that if I'm having an emotional break down." He released his stress in a long exhale. "Look. I'm going for a walk. I'll be back."

Jenna's response was silence. It was the best she could muster when her emotions began to peak into the red. He was grateful it wasn't hysteria. That was the next stage, which usually ended with Jenna in a fit of crying, unable to talk or breathe.

Chapter 18.

Holly scanned page after page, devouring everything she could about the Cape murderer, hoping some pattern might emerge. Agent Grant was correct in her a.s.sessment of him, there weren't many similarities between the cases. His calling card was the children's blocks, and after the first case, he'd started connecting with the mothers through video. The first video was a recorded message, but that developed into the live streaming presentation she had witnessed. There were no videos on the website; Holly was thankful for that. She would not have been able to resist watching them, yet she was sure they would have driven her to the shattering point. The way her emotions were rocketing from one extreme to the next, there was no doubt she was pressing the tolerance of her ability to cope. Her only relief was to continue to search for answers. The searching offered her hope, and kept her mind busy.

Her head swam, the three Tylenol tablets had barely touched the incessant pounding which made it difficult to process the facts. She squeezed her eyes shut, then focused on the screen. Four children, all between the ages of two and six, taken from mothers on state a.s.sistance who had sought counseling for their pregnancies as teenagers. The author of the website also made a connection between the mothers and drug abuse, but his evidence was mostly circ.u.mstantial.

Each case was more elaborate than the last, yet each death less gruesome. The first mother found children's blocks on her doorstep: four numbers that represented a time, the time the killer intended to shoot her son dead in cold blood. When the clock struck 14:15, military time, a bullet broke through the gla.s.s of her living room and killed her son while he sat watching cartoons. That was it. It was over.

Victim number two was a little girl. She was taken and executed on a recorded video. No ransom was requested. The only evidence tying the case to the Cape murderer was the stack of blocks in the back yard that spelled out the location of the box where a pre-recorded video could be found.

By this time the Cape murderer had developed a style. He began looking for ways to communicate with the mothers of his victims, apparently as some form of self therapy, always making references to how difficult it was to live life as the child of a degenerate mom.

Victim three was a beautiful little chubby blond girl. Police had found her in a dumpster wrapped in plastic. The cause of death: suffocation. Victim four was a little boy, age five. Cause of death: sleeping pills. In the last two cases the Cape murderer sent several messages, first with children's blocks, but later by other elaborate means. His notes all had the same accusatory tone and all were a reminder that he was not responsible for the death of the children, because he wasn't the one who chose to have them.

Dan poked his head into the kitchen. "Hey, Holly. Want me to pop out and get us some sandwiches or pizza or something?"

She pulled her hair back and glanced up at him. "Do you think the police will let you back in?"

"I can ask."

"I don't think I can keep much down, but a slice of pizza might make my belly ache less."

His face beamed. "I'll run down the street and be back in a few minutes. Here," he said. He came into the kitchen, leaned cautiously over her, and brought up a sticky note on his computer. "This is my cell phone. If you hear anything, call me, and I'll come back immediately."

She avoided eye contact. "Thanks."

He backed away. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

She was almost amused by the fact that she would dread his departure. He wasn't much company, but the apartment felt safer with someone in it.

"Yes. I'm fine."

"Okay. Call me. I'll just be down the street." He left the room, then, in cla.s.sic Dan fashion, sprung back into the kitchen. "What do you want on your pizza?"

"Anything is fine. I probably won't eat much anyway."

"Okay." He smiled again, then was gone.

She turned her attention back to the website and continued to dig. With each post the composite sketch of the killer solidified in her mind. This was a man filled with hatred. He was angry about his difficult childhood and looking for someone to accuse, probably because the one who had caused him so much pain, his own mother, had pa.s.sed away.

He had mentioned Holly being one hypodermic needle away from leaving Gabe alone in the apartment, wondering when his mom would come home. Was that the killer's own experience?

She brought up the picture of Gary and stared at it. Had he ever mentioned losing his mother, or dealing with trauma as a child? Had he ever shown a bitterness toward teen moms? She couldn't remember, but she didn't think so. It seemed like all the times she could remember him coming over she was high on something. Remnants of conversations swam around in her drug-impaired memory.

She pushed away from the computer, irritated, but not entirely out of frustration for her inability to remember her conversations with Gary-there was a low beeping noise she could not ignore any longer. It was probably the furnace or some appliance she'd left on. It was barely audible, but was enough to bother her.

She left the kitchen, searched the bathroom, the hall, and then her bedroom, turning her ears to find the sound. It was definitely in the bedroom, but seemed to be coming from everywhere. It repeated in a loop, three short beeps then five seconds of silence. What did she own that made three short beeps? The only thing she owned that beeped was the phone in the living room. It beeped when the battery was dying, but it didn't sound like this.

She checked the closet and the dresser drawers. She looked behind the bean bag in the corner and under the bed. The noise was stronger under the bed. She circled and found it to be strongest on the right side, but there was nothing on the floor and nothing attached to the bottom of the box spring. She placed her ear to the mattress. There could be no doubt, the noise was coming from inside the bed itself. She ripped the covers up onto the bed. On the side of the mattress a hole had been st.i.tched. She dug at it with her fingers, but the st.i.tches held. The thread was thick and black so it would be noticed easily. There was no doubt, this was the work of the killer.

She got to her feet and ran to the kitchen. Her fingers fumbled for a steak knife and she pulled it to her chest. She had no idea what she was doing; each action was commanded by impulse, but she had to know what was in that bed. There was no thought of the danger, though her heart beat rapidly in her chest. If she had thought of the danger, she would have stopped herself. Instead, she ran into the bedroom and slid across the wood floor to where the black st.i.tches marred the side of her mattress. She drove the knife into it, cutting at string and mattress with desperation.

Once a hole was formed, she plunged her hand in and groped for the source of the sound. Her fingers touched something, it was hard with round edges, and could only be pulled out with index finger and thumb. She slid it back and forth until the device pulled free. It was a two-way radio, but not like anything she had ever seen at a store.

A tiny red light blinked on the top. Next to the light was the word "Page." She watched the light blink on and off as if it were the only thing that existed in her universe. Here was her connection to the cold-blooded killer she had read so much about. She knew his methods. This was how he planned to torture her before finally killing her son. There was no doubt in her mind. Yet, still, she pressed the b.u.t.ton, and forced herself to speak.

"I'm here."

Chapter 19.

Jake slammed the door behind him, startling Aiyana. She was once again sitting on a cardboard box in the hallway, her tablet still in her lap.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't know you were there."

She scanned him with her blue eyes. Her eyebrows rose in the center and scrunched. "Did you have a fight?"

"Ah, no, not a fight," he said, downplaying his embarra.s.sment. "It's just boy girl stuff."

"Oh," she said, making a face.

"What's that look supposed to mean?" he said, forcing a smile.

"Don't worry," she said, "you'll grow out of it."

He stared at her. "Out of what?"

"This phase of your relationship."

He rolled her words around in his mind. What eight- or nine-year-old says phase of your relationship? Could this girl be one of them? As soon as it came into his mind, he was beating himself up for thinking it. She was the next-door neighbor's child. He saw them moving in this morning. He laughed inwardly at himself. Get a grip, Jake. You're starting to see ghost-children everywhere.

"Yes," he said. "This phase of our relationship will pa.s.s. It's astute of you to know this. Is your mom or dad a marriage counselor or something?"

"No."

"Then how do you know so much about relationships?"

She thought about it. "I don't know anything about them. I just know that there is a season for everything under heaven." She shrugged. "A time to laugh and a time to mourn, a time to build and a time to tear down. This season you're going through won't last forever. You'll move past it into something else."

Again Jake stared at her. A season for everything under heaven...? What child talks like that? "You're smart for a little girl. Do you read a lot of books?"

"Not yet, but I hope to."

"You hope to what? Read?"

"Yes. I love using my imagination, like making up adventures with heroes and villains and dragons."

"So you want to be a writer too?"

"No. I might do that a little, but not much."

"So, you're going to focus on being an artist."

"I love the feel of the paper and the way shapes play with each other in the grey mists." She blinked, and her eyes sparkled. "It's like a song only I know how to sing, and I sing it with my finger tips."

Jake marveled. "What are the grey mists?"

She held her hand up, revealing the pencil lead coating her palm and fingers. "When I look at the white of the page, I see a land filled with brilliant white light, and, as I slide my hand across," she made the motion with her dainty fingers, "the grey mists appear."

"Oh. I see."

"And in the mists the shapes play with each other." She rubbed the face of the drawing tablet. "Then I give them life."

Jake was mesmerized by the little girl. There was no doubt she was different from every other child he had ever known. But it seemed likely she was just some sort of artistic savant. Her grasp of abstract concepts far exceeded Jake's own knowledge of the subject. A ghost wouldn't have an understanding of such things. Would they?

He thought back to the first little girl. She'd had a similar air about her, as though she were aware of concepts only an adult would be aware of. But the boy at his work and the chubby girl who terrorized him at Holly's were definitely childlike in their behavior. Maybe they were all different-and maybe Aiyana was one of them.

He could solve the problem quickly enough by knocking on the neighbor's door and asking where their daughter was. If she was real, they would be quick to say she was right behind him. But if she wasn't real, and they didn't have a daughter, they would wonder why he was asking-then what would he give for an answer?

Perhaps he could welcome them to the building and see if they happened to talk to Aiyana during the conversation. Jake strolled toward their door; doing something was better than doing nothing. All he had to do was keep cool and only speak to Aiyana if they spoke to her first. The last thing he needed was for his new neighbors to think he had lost his marbles.

He raised his hand to knock, but just then a door opened and closed down the hall. Maybe he didn't have to bother his new neighbors. He headed toward the elevator to see who it was. At the intersection he ran into the red-haired woman with her green-eyed daughter Abby.

The woman stumbled slightly when she turned. Jake noted a slight wobble in her walk, and there was a definite sluggishness about her as well.

"Hi again," said Jake.

Her face lit up. "Hi! You're the guy from the elevator! I mean, you don't live on the elevator, you know what I mean."

He could smell alcohol on her breath as she neared.

"Yeah. I live up the hall."

Her eyelids were heavy. She took in a breath and looked up the hall. "Oh? Are you moving in?" she slurred.

"No, actually, these boxes belong to the people across the hall."

"Oh," she said.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shhure," she said with a subtle bob of her head.

He stood with his back to Aiyana, and lowered his voice. "What do you see at the end of the hall?"

Her brows lifted. "At the end of the hall?" She swayed to the side. "Boxes, windows-coupla doors."

He turned and looked. Aiyana had not moved from her perch.

"Boxes and windows and doors? Are you sure you don't see anything else?"

She looked again, this time with a squint. "Is this a game? Like where's Waldo?" Her hand came up and gripped his tricep. Her eyes opened wide. "I see a boat."

"A boat?"

"Yeah," she slurred. "In the shadows on the floor. See the two masts and the sails and the hull right there?"

The way the shadows fell on the floor did create the vague shape of a boat, if one were to really stretch their imagination. Jake was happy to use it as an excuse to end his game; he had what he needed.

"You found it!" he said.

She beamed and put the weight of her warm body against him.

"Well," he said, uncoiling himself from her, "I just wanted to see if I was crazy, but, sure enough, there's a boat there."

She took his nonverbal hint and backed off. Her fingers went to fixing her hair as she tried to hide a look of dejection. "So," she said, trying to comprehend the situation with her groggy senses, "you're all set then?"

"Yup. I just needed a second opinion. Thanks."