owery called first thing Monday morning, asking them to come over immediately. He had just returned from Quantico with the character profile.

The day was hot and clear and sticky, with the temperature already in the mid-eighties, predicted to reach the high nineties, and the humidity there already. Dane hadn’t slept well the entire weekend, probably because Marlie hadn’t. She had been restless, able to doze for only short periods before jerking awake. The strain of the weekend, waiting for a vision of murder to appear, had left her pale and withdrawn, with dark circles of fatigue under her eyes. He had spent long hours cuddling her, letting her know that she wasn’t alone even if he couldn’t prevent the vision, if it came. It hadn’t.

How much more of this could she take? She was under so much stress, both physically and emotionally, that he was afraid for her. A lot of people would have broken under the strain, years ago. She hadn’t, which was a testimony to her strength; Marlie wasn’t a delicate flower, wilting at any hardship. Despite the finely drawn lines of her too thin body, she was remarkably sturdy. But even an oak tree could be felled, and he was worried.

Trammell was showing strain, too, probably from terror of his impending nuptials. He and Dane barely spoke on the way over to the Bureau, each of them absorbed in his own worries.

Freddie and Worley were already there, as was Bonness. DiLeonardo was present, with that besotted look on his face again as he maneuvered around the conference table for a seat next to Freddie.

Lowery was freshly shaved but was more rumpled than usual, making Dane think that he had truly just arrived from Virginia, on the early-bird flight.

“The ISU really worked on this,” he said quietly. “You’re to be congratulated on noticing the pattern so quickly, but catching this guy isn’t going to be easy. He’s the worst kind of killer, the Bundy type. He’s as cold as ice; he’s intelligent, resourceful, and totally without a shred of guilt.

“I have a list of similar murders: slashings, no suspects, no evidence. It’s possible some of them were done by the same guy. Some of them are impossible, because they took place at roughly the same time on opposite sides of the country as some of the other murders, but there’s no way of telling which one to eliminate.

“The murders started approximately ten years ago. ISU puts his age in the early to mid-thirties. Most serial killers start killing in their early twenties. But ten years of successful killings means he’s going to be very hard to apprehend; he’s experienced, he has learned from his mistakes and perfected his crime. He knows what he’s doing. He has studied forensics and police procedure, and he’s very careful to leave no identifiable evidence behind.”

“Could he have been a cop?” Bonness asked. “Maybe in the military?”

“Not likely,” Lowery replied. “He wouldn’t deal well with authority of any type, so it isn’t feasible that he would have been able to complete any type of military or police training. He wouldn’t even have been accepted as a candidate.

“He’s white; all of the victims have been white, and serial killers seldom cross racial boundaries. He’s athletic, very strong. He’s an organized killer, very confident, and that’s the worst kind. An unorganized killer is messy, makes mistakes, has no clear plan. This guy has everything planned, down to the last detail. He doesn’t knock the victims out or tie them; he’s confident that he can control the situation, and so far, he has. The weapon he uses is a knife from the victim’s kitchen, which he leaves at the scene. Since there are no fingerprints, the weapon can’t be connected to him. He takes no trophies. ISU thinks he stalks the victims, possibly for weeks beforehand; he enters the house when no one is home, becomes familiar with it. He’s very patient.

“He rapes, but doesn’t use restraints, and that’s a slight aberration. Some women will fight even with a knife at their throat. For some reason, his victims haven’t.”

Because he soothes them, at first, Dane thought violently. He made them think that they wouldn’t be hurt if they just didn’t fight. He was gentle, and he used a rubber. They were paralyzed by the unexpectedness of being attacked in their own homes, and in that first terror, they believed him. But those were details Marlie had given him, so he kept quiet.

“He doesn’t blindfold the victims,” Lowery continued, “doesn’t keep the corpses. Again, those are traits of the organized killer. It was surprising that he cut off Mrs. Vinick’s fingers, because mutilation isn’t one of the traits—”

“We think she scratched him,” Dane interrupted.

Lowery sighed. “If so, that’s even more evidence of his intelligence. He couldn’t risk his skin samples being found under her fingernails. A brutal but effective solution. He doesn’t panic. He thinks on his feet, and isn’t a slave to a rigid plan.

“He likely holds down a full-time job, is outwardly normal. The other murders were all done at roughly the same time for each area. In one area, the murders were committed in the daytime, meaning he was either unemployed or working nights somewhere. I suspect he was working, because there’s nothing about this man that would attract attention. He’s methodical, predatory, and has this down to a science. His car will be several years old, nothing flashy, the kind of car you would see hundreds of in any neighborhood. Middle-class all the way. He could walk into police headquarters and no one would think anything about it, except to ask how they could help him.

“There is the danger that he’s escalating. Until now, he has kept himself under control, spacing out the murders. Killing on two successive weekends could mean that he is beginning to need the thrill of the hunt more often. I know there haven’t been any slashing murders reported this weekend, but it’s possible the victim simply hasn’t been found.”

A quick look passed between Dane, Trammell, and Bonness. They knew there hadn’t been another murder, because Marlie hadn’t had a vision.

“Identification at this point is impossible,” Lowery said. “Unless he makes a mistake and leaves some evidence behind to link him to the crime, he’ll have to be caught in the act.”

It was a grim group that returned to headquarters, though Lowery hadn’t told them much that they hadn’t already known. The killer was a smart son of a bitch, and ordinarily they wouldn’t have had a prayer of catching him. Dane was silent, thinking of Marlie. She was their secret weapon; she would be the one who caught him.

It broke on the news that afternoon. Dane was surprised that the leak had taken that long; for something to remain a secret at city hall for a week was almost unheard-of, particularly something that dramatic. It was the headline story for all the local television and radio news; he caught it on the radio while he was driving home.

“A source in city hall has confirmed that police believe a serial killer is stalking women in the Orlando area,” the announcer intoned solemnly. The plummy voice continued, “Two recent murders appear to have been committed by the same man. Two weeks ago, Nadine Vinick was murdered in her home, and a week later Jacqueline Sheets was found murdered in her home. Chief of Police Rodger Champlin refuses to comment on the cases or say if they have any suspects. He does urge women in the city to take precautions for their safety—”

He snapped off the radio, infuriated by the knowledge that the killer was getting a real rush from this. He had expected the news to break, was prepared for it, but knowing that the bastard was laughing and soaking up all the attention was still hard to take.

Marlie was sitting curled on the couch when he got home. The television was on, though the news program had advanced to the weather portion. He tossed his jacket across a chair and sat down beside her, then lifted her onto his lap. They sat silently, watching the meteorologist point to this high-pressure system and that low one, make sweeping movements of his hand to indicate their projected movement, and finally make his prediction: hot and muggy, the way it had been all day, with the ever-present possibility of thunderstorms.

“Anything interesting happen today?” she asked.

“The local FBI gave us the character profile they had worked up; this guy has probably been moving around the country for the last ten years, leaving a string of victims behind, and nobody has a clue what he looks like, or a shred of evidence that connects to him.” He hugged her to him. “But we’re working on getting a list of new accounts from the utility companies. It’s a long shot, but it’s something.”

She had changed into shorts and a T-shirt when she had gotten home from work, and he stroked his hand appreciatively over her bare thighs. “What about you? Anything interesting happen in the accounting department?”

She snorted. “Get real. The most exciting part of the day was when a man called, irate because he had been charged an overdraft fee on a bad check when he had been a customer of the bank for years.”

“Bet that got the old ticker revved up.”

“I almost fainted from the stress of it all.” Marlie sighed and climbed from his lap. “I’d better see what’s in the kitchen if we’re going to eat tonight.”

“Want me to go out for something?” he offered.

“No, I’m not in the mood for takeout. I’ll think of something. Why don’t you just sit here and read the newspaper? You look as if you need to unwind a little.”

He definitely agreed with that assessment, and went into the bedroom to change out of his sticky, wrinkled clothes. Marlie poked around in the refrigerator and cabinets before deciding on chicken stir-fry. She was glad Dane had gone along with her suggestion, because she needed more time by herself. He was so intuitive that he would soon figure out that something more than the situation was upsetting her, and she didn’t want to be around him until she had herself more under control.

She hadn’t been paying much attention today when the head of accounting had been talking to the irate customer, trying to explain and soothe without backing down, but suddenly she had been overwhelmed by frustration and anger. Startled, she had automatically looked around for the source, and only then realized what had happened. She was picking up the department head’s emotions.

She had quietly panicked, sitting frozen in her chair and trying to shut out the flow of emotion. To her surprise, it had stopped as abruptly as it had started, though the conversation behind her had continued.

She didn’t know if she had succeeded in blocking it, or if her ability to read people was merely sputtering to life again. Either way, Dane wouldn’t like it.

She knew that he viewed the visions differently, that he didn’t see them as a threat to his privacy. But if her ability to read people returned in full force, she didn’t know if Dane would be able to accept it. He hadn’t liked being the target of clairvoyance, which was not, and never had been, her major talent. If he knew that she could read him at will... he would probably leave, even though she had promised that she wouldn’t invade his privacy. She had to face that likelihood. Dane cared for her, but she doubted that he cared enough to stay under those circumstances. It wasn’t anything new; people had always been uncomfortable around her.

The decision not to tell him had been easily made. She didn’t know what was happening: if her abilities would return in full force, if she would recover only a portion of her former capability, or if she would be even stronger. She hoped it wasn’t the last possibility, for if her empathic powers returned stronger than before, she would have to move into an underground bunker to find any peace. It was a certainty that Dane wouldn’t share that bunker with her.

She felt as if she were living in limbo with him. There had been none of the customary courtship stages, no getting to know each other. They had been thrown together in a crisis, had first been adversaries, then, abruptly, lovers. They had never had a discussion about their relationship, whatever it was. He had simply moved in, and she had no idea what to expect. After the killer was caught, would he simply return to his own house with a blithe “See you around” or—or what? If circumstances had been normal, the logical step, the one she had expected, would have been for him to spend a few nights each week with her.

She needed emotional security. She could bear anything if she had a solid foundation to fall back on, but she wasn’t certain she had that with Dane.

It was silly, considering that she was living and sleeping with the man, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to ask him outright what his intentions were. She admitted to herself that she was frankly afraid of hearing the answer. Dane wasn’t a man who would prevaricate; he would bluntly tell her the truth, and she wasn’t ready for that. Later. Everything had to wait. After this was all over, then she would be able to handle anything he said, even if it was exactly what she didn’t want to hear.

She had fallen in love with him, but she didn’t fool herself that she knew all about the kind of man he was. For all their physical intimacy, he kept a large part of himself private, safely secluded behind an iron wall. Sometimes he watched her with a silent, intent speculation that was almost frightening, because she couldn’t read any desire in his eyes during those times.

What was he thinking? More important, what was he planning?

The media were relentless. The phones in headquarters rang endlessly. Reporters camped outside the chief’s office, outside the mayor’s office, outside police headquarters. Both uniformed and plainclothes officers began taking evasive action when entering or leaving the building, going to extraordinary lengths to avoid the hassle.

Even worse than the media were the crank calls that began pouring in. Hundreds of people in Orlando suddenly recalled suspicious persons skulking around Dumpsters and storefronts. People with grudges found revenge by phoning in anonymous tips, accusing the person they disliked of being the killer. Every night officers investigated panicked calls of a prowler in the house, but most times it was nothing. Several mothers-in-law turned in their daughters’ despicable husbands, certain that the lazy bastards were guilty of all manner of unspeakable crimes. The hell of it was, all of it had to be investigated. No matter how wild an allegation, it had to be checked. The uniformed officers were run ragged, worn down by the sizzling heat and never-ending demands on their time.

Chief Champlin held a news conference, hoping to ease some of the intense media pressure. He explained that there wasn’t a lot of information he could give them, because of the ongoing investigations. But logic was a useless weapon; it didn’t satisfy the voracious appetite for facts, for stories, for airtime and column space. It didn’t sell newspapers or jack up the ratings numbers. The reporters wanted juicy, gory, frightening details, and were frustrated when none were forthcoming.

Carroll Janes watched the news programs and read the newspapers, and smiled with satisfaction. The police couldn’t give the media much information because they didn’t have much. The stupid saps were overmatched, just as all the others had been. He was too smart for them to catch—ever.