The Silenced. Heather Graham
Maybe she needed to go much farther afield than the states of Virginia, Maryland or West Virginia.
She looked around the shadowed streets, walking as swiftly as she could. She’d worked very late before now—well, till one in the morning, anyway. She hadn’t been nervous those other nights, not at all. Congressman Walker was a good man; it just seemed now that he was a man who could be swayed, who could be fooled and manipulated into changing his views and his policies—into working with others to undermine what he had once believed in.
But she still felt that he was, at heart, a good man.
No matter what she’d learned today. No matter what she’d expected. No matter how disappointed she was. She had to believe he was a good man.
Was he really innocent of any knowledge of a man’s death?
She could be wrong; she probably was. But she couldn’t help suspecting that someone in his political camp had wanted Congressman Hubbard out of the picture. It was just a suspicion, she told herself again, and it could be unfounded!
Her fear tonight was simply a result of the shadows and the darkness. By day, tourists and lawmakers crowded these streets. Children laughed and ran around on the grass. The Smithsonian’s Castle stood as a bastion to the past and the country’s rich history—as the USA became a full-fledged country, one that had withstood the rigors of war and knew how to create the arts and sciences crucial to a nation of dreamers.
She could see the Washington Monument ahead of her in the night, shining in the moonlight that beamed down. Yes, she loved Washington, DC, but it was time to leave.
Her heels clicked on the sidewalk, echoing loudly in her ears. She prayed for a taxi to go by.
A beat-up van drew near and seemed to slow down as it passed her. She walked onto the grass verge, suddenly even more afraid. With her luck, she’d be worrying about the fate of the nation—and get mugged by a common thief.
Not long ago, a young woman had been found on the shore of the Potomac River. Naked, her throat and body ripped open. Police and forensic scientists were having a problem because river creatures had played havoc with her body. No “persons of interest” were being questioned in the death; the police feared they were dealing with someone suffering from a “mental disorder.”
Lord, she was stupid, taking off in the middle of the night like this! It was just that...
She’d been so upset, so indignant, so...perplexed that personal danger hadn’t even occurred to her!
She hardly dared to breathe. Why had she stood up and said she no longer wanted any part of it? Why had she taken off the way she had? Get a grip, she told herself again. The hard-core politicians she knew wouldn’t be stalking her; they weren’t suffering from any mental disorders. Wait—not true. Anyone in politics was suffering from a mental disorder!
She tried to laugh at her own joke. No sound came.
She quickened her pace; her feet, legs and lungs hurt. She kept her phone in one hand, trying to look fierce, as if she was ready to press 9-1-1 at a second’s notice.
Her heart was pounding.
It was a van.
Everyone who watched TV knew that evil men in vans caught victims on the street and dragged them in by a side door and then...
The van drove on.
She felt giddy with relief and smiled at her unjustified panic.
A moment later, she saw a sedan in the street. It slowed and she squinted, looking toward it.
“Lara!” The car slid to a halt, and a deep male voice called her name from the driver’s seat. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift!”
She had to know him; she should’ve recognized the voice. It must be muffled by the night air. She was being offered a ride by someone who was obviously official. Someone she knew, someone who knew her.
Maybe Ian had sent a driver out after her. Maybe he’d realized what time it was and that the streets might not be safe.
Her relief made her feel weak.
She dropped her phone into her purse and ran across the street, grateful and shaky.
But the man didn’t get out of the car. And for some reason—perhaps the warning voice inside her that reminded her she now knew too much—she grew suspicious.
Ian’s people would have gotten out of the car, opened the door for her!
She turned to run.
Where? Where should she run? The streets were empty, the Mall was empty...
Lara prayed the beat-up van would come back.
She nearly stumbled.
She paused briefly. She would not trip and fall and look back screaming the way idiots did in horror movies when giant reptiles were coming for them. She took the seconds required to kick off her heels while digging in her bag for her cell phone.
She did nothing stupid.
But that didn’t save her.
He was fast. Surprisingly fast.
He slammed into her and down on her like a tackle in a football game. She opened her mouth to scream.
Who the hell was it? She still couldn’t see him! Did it matter? Escape!
She couldn’t turn her head; he was behind her, forcing her down. And then...she felt his hand coming around her head. He was holding a rag. She smelled something sickly sweet and she began to see black dots. The smell gagged her. She had to keep fighting; she was going to die if she didn’t.
So she fought...
But as the scent overwhelmed her, she thought, Oh, God, no, I really am going to disappear.
The blackness took her.
* * *
He’d studied the information available on serial killers with the same concentrated attention he’d always given textbooks; what had to be done had to be done, and he had to do it the right way. He knew FBI men, behavioral scientists. He was careful never to talk too much, but he was an excellent listener. He never undertook any task lightly.
He’d invented an alter ego for himself, a man he called Slash McNeil. Slash McNeil was now fully part of his personality. Slash? Well, it made sense. McNeil? Why not? It seemed to go well with Slash. Not that he needed a name to sign to confessions or letters to the editors or police. He just liked it.
McNeil had been born off, as anyone who knew this manufactured alter ego would say. Even when he was a toddler, he’d enjoyed smashing bugs. As he’d aged, the bugs became small reptiles; McNeil liked to set snakes on fire. Once he grew older, the animals he tortured became kittens and puppies and then cats and dogs.
When he was sixteen, he committed his first murder. It hadn’t been particularly good, well planned or satisfying. He’d teased ugly Sarah Rockway, letting her think he wanted a make-out session with her, and lured her to a bridge. He’d kissed Sarah—and then tossed her over the bridge. In McNeil’s mind, at least, the girl had died happy.
But he hadn’t wanted Sarah Rockway—nor had he wanted the murder to be so swift. He’d wanted to slash her, cut her, as he had the kittens and puppies.
And he’d really wanted Celia Hampton. Celia, the cheerleader, the leggy beauty who would barely give him the time of day. He wanted her naked, doing anything he asked, begging him for her life.
But murder was an art to be properly learned, and practice improved any art.
It took him another two years to lure Celia Hampton away with him. He’d waited for a frat party. Waited until she was drunk and vomiting and offered her a wet towel—doused with a drug, of course. Then he’d slipped her into his old van and out