Page 84 of Murder Notes

“Come and gone,” he confirms.

I look down and I’m now standing in a puddle of blood. I really, really hate puddles of blood, and since this crime scene is clearly a message to me, you’d think the killer knew how I felt. Andrew rejoins me. “How’s the profiling going?”

“I could run down all the basics for a case like this,” I say, “but I think you know most of them and do you really want to do that here?”

“Not really.”

“Go, Andrew,” I say. “I’ll be a while.”

“This doesn’t faze you at all?”

“You find a way to compartmentalize when it’s what you do all the time.”

He turns to face me. “But you’re not so cold now that you can’t see how brutal this is, right?”

I’m not sure he can handle hearing me say that I have to respect the killer’s work to catch the killer. Or that I don’t see the brutality but the craft of the kill. I settle on, “That’s not how this process works for me.”

He stares at me with disbelief, like he’s seeing a monster, or maybe he’s seeing Murder Girl for the first time. “I’ll be downstairs,” he says, and I think, We are changed forever, the way I was changed the night a different monster found me. I return my focus to the bodies, and I stare at the man and woman, and think, Kane and me. It’s a crazy thought, but the idea that this is a threat sticks. I think of Junior’s note: W is for Warning.

It’s a warning. My brow furrows and I note that the bodies seem to be posed. I turn and face the direction of the bodies. I’m now staring at a big-screen TV. My gaze lands on the DVD player where a DVD is sticking out. I walk to it and remove it with my gloved fingers to read the title: Take Me to Church. This crime scene is meant for me. The question is, was it ever about Kane at all? Or was it about getting me here?

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Blood has a way of silencing people, or maybe it’s just seeing your sister for who she really is, because Andrew doesn’t have much to say on the way to the airport. Even Rich seems to feed off his mood, and the result is peace in the car during the ride to the airport, or at least, quiet. Once we’re at the chopper and in the air, my mind goes to work, dissecting what I’ve learned today, and I keep coming back to the connection between this case and me. My past and this case. My attacker’s tattoo and the one victim with the same tattoo. That crime scene was not only meant for me but also meant to be a direct reflection of my hunt for the tattoo and encounter with the old man. My dilemma now becomes, how do I solve this case and not convict myself in the process?

We land in the Hamptons at nearly five, and when we exit the chopper, my brother grabs my arm, halting my intended rapid departure. “I love you, Lilah, but I don’t understand you and Kane. I’m going after him and I’m not going to stop until I take him down.” He turns and starts walking away.

Rich, seemingly having waited his turn, claims Andrew’s spot beside me. “And I’m going to help him. I’m requesting that Murphy let me remain here until you return home.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, following Andrew toward the terminal.

I decide, for the time being, to let them both go work off some of their testosterone overload on their own, for now. I have a killer chopping off heads and leaving me messages. Chip ’n’ Dale are the least of my worries. At least Kane was smart enough to just zip it and be quiet after that earlier text message he sent me. Avoiding pretty much anyone breathing, I dart a path to my car, and fifteen minutes later, I pull into my garage, then go straight to Purgatory where I unload my briefcase and prepare to work. This is it. It’s time. This is when I don’t sleep, or communicate with others, until I catch my killer.

By nine o’clock, there isn’t a white space left on my boards, the floor is covered, and I’m starving. I order a pizza and when it arrives, I take it and a couple of diet Sprites back to Purgatory. I open the box and sigh as I find a note attached to the inside. “Enough,” I growl at the same moment my phone starts ringing. I ignore it and the note, taking a bite of my pizza. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I’m pissed off. My phone rings again. And again. It’s going off like a kid hitting a buzzer incessantly for the fun of it. Andrew. Rich. Andrew. Eddie. Eddie? I answer the call. “Why are you calling me?” I demand.

“Woods is dead.”

My head sags forward. “Where’s the body?”

“There is no body.”

I straighten. “What does that mean?”

“He videotaped a long confession, then set himself on fire. Andrew e-mailed you the video.”

“I’m pulling it up now.” I hang up and pull up my e-mail, downloading the video.

I punch Play and watch as a thirtysomething man with a scruffy beard who identifies himself as Kevin Woods names all five of the murder victims as part of a hit list he’d created based on random encounters with rude people. He then apologizes and says he’s worthless and sets himself on fire. I hit the close button and then e-mail it to Murphy, about the same time my phone rings, with Andrew on caller ID. “You saw?” he asks.

“I saw. Where did it happen?”

“Upstate New York. I’m talking to the officials up there. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Yeah. Do.” My phone buzzes. “That’s going to be my boss. I need to go.” I end the call with Andrew and answer Murphy’s.

“What the hell did I just watch, Agent Love?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t know.”

“Is he our man?”