cut me deep, Genny.”
She smiled, her gaze lingering on his tall athletic build, her eyes sadder than she intended. “Sugar, I don’t cut you at all.”
Mac, however, was already striding out the door.
Outside, the heat smacked the grin off of Mac’s face. Merry blue eyes immediately turned dark, his expression went from teasing to grim. It had been four weeks since he’d last received a call. He’d been beginning to wonder if that was it.
GBI Special Agent Mac McCormack flipped open his cell phone and furiously started dialing.
The person picked up after the first ring. “You are not even trying,” an eerily distorted voice echoed in his ears. Male, female—hell, it could’ve been Mickey Mouse.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Mac replied tightly. He stopped in the Virginia parking lot, looking around the dark, empty space. The phone number always read Atlanta, but lately Mac had begun wondering about that. All a person had to do was use a cell phone with a Georgia number, then he could call from anywhere with the same effect.
“He’s closer than you think.”
“Then maybe you should stop speaking in riddles and tell me the truth.” Mac turned right, then left. Nothing.
“I mailed you the truth,” the disembodied voice intoned.
“You sent me a riddle. I deal in information, buddy, not childish games.”
“You deal in death.”
“You’re not doing much better. Come on. It’s been six months. Let’s end this dance and get down to some business. You must want something. I know I want something. What do you say?”
The voice fell silent for a moment. Mac wondered if he’d finally shamed the caller, then in the next instant he worried that he’d pissed off the man/woman/mouse. His grip tightened on his phone, pressing it against the curve of his ear. He couldn’t afford to lose this call. Damn, he hated this.
Six months ago, Mac had received the first “letter” in the mail. It was a newspaper clipping really, of a letter to the editor of the
Virginian-Pilot
. And the one short paragraph was horribly, hauntingly similar to other editorial notes, now three years past: planet dying . . . animals weeping . . . rivers screaming . . . can’t you hear it? heat kills . . .
Three years later, the beast was stirring again. Mac didn’t know what had happened in between, but he and his task force were very truly frightened about what might happen next.
“It’s getting hot,” the voice singsonged now.
Mac looked around the darkness frantically. No one. Nothing. Dammit! “Who are you?” he tried. “Come on, buddy, speak to me.”
“He’s closer than you think.”
“Then give me a name. I’ll go get him and no one will be hurt.” He changed tack. “Are you scared? Are you frightened of him? Because trust me, we can protect you.”
“He doesn’t want to hurt them. I don’t think he can help himself.”
“If he’s someone you care about, if you’re worried for his safety, don’t be. We have procedures for this kind of arrest, we’ll take appropriate measures. Come on, this guy has killed seven girls. Give me his name. Let me solve this problem for you. You’re doing the right thing.”
“I don’t have all the answers,” the voice said, and for a moment, it sounded so plaintive, Mac nearly believed it. And then, “You should’ve caught him three years ago, Special Agent. Why, oh, why didn’t you guys catch him?”
“Work with us and we’ll get him now.”
“Too late,” the caller said. “He never could stand the heat.”
The connection broke. Mac was left in the middle of the parking lot, gripping his impossibly tiny phone and cursing a blue streak. He punched send again. The number rang and rang and rang, but the person didn’t pick up and wouldn’t until Mac was contacted again.
“Damn,” Mac said again. Then, “Damn, damn, damn.”
He found his rental car. Inside, it was approximately two hundred degrees. He slid into the seat, leaned
She smiled, her gaze lingering on his tall athletic build, her eyes sadder than she intended. “Sugar, I don’t cut you at all.”
Mac, however, was already striding out the door.
Outside, the heat smacked the grin off of Mac’s face. Merry blue eyes immediately turned dark, his expression went from teasing to grim. It had been four weeks since he’d last received a call. He’d been beginning to wonder if that was it.
GBI Special Agent Mac McCormack flipped open his cell phone and furiously started dialing.
The person picked up after the first ring. “You are not even trying,” an eerily distorted voice echoed in his ears. Male, female—hell, it could’ve been Mickey Mouse.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Mac replied tightly. He stopped in the Virginia parking lot, looking around the dark, empty space. The phone number always read Atlanta, but lately Mac had begun wondering about that. All a person had to do was use a cell phone with a Georgia number, then he could call from anywhere with the same effect.
“He’s closer than you think.”
“Then maybe you should stop speaking in riddles and tell me the truth.” Mac turned right, then left. Nothing.
“I mailed you the truth,” the disembodied voice intoned.
“You sent me a riddle. I deal in information, buddy, not childish games.”
“You deal in death.”
“You’re not doing much better. Come on. It’s been six months. Let’s end this dance and get down to some business. You must want something. I know I want something. What do you say?”
The voice fell silent for a moment. Mac wondered if he’d finally shamed the caller, then in the next instant he worried that he’d pissed off the man/woman/mouse. His grip tightened on his phone, pressing it against the curve of his ear. He couldn’t afford to lose this call. Damn, he hated this.
Six months ago, Mac had received the first “letter” in the mail. It was a newspaper clipping really, of a letter to the editor of the
Virginian-Pilot
. And the one short paragraph was horribly, hauntingly similar to other editorial notes, now three years past: planet dying . . . animals weeping . . . rivers screaming . . . can’t you hear it? heat kills . . .
Three years later, the beast was stirring again. Mac didn’t know what had happened in between, but he and his task force were very truly frightened about what might happen next.
“It’s getting hot,” the voice singsonged now.
Mac looked around the darkness frantically. No one. Nothing. Dammit! “Who are you?” he tried. “Come on, buddy, speak to me.”
“He’s closer than you think.”
“Then give me a name. I’ll go get him and no one will be hurt.” He changed tack. “Are you scared? Are you frightened of him? Because trust me, we can protect you.”
“He doesn’t want to hurt them. I don’t think he can help himself.”
“If he’s someone you care about, if you’re worried for his safety, don’t be. We have procedures for this kind of arrest, we’ll take appropriate measures. Come on, this guy has killed seven girls. Give me his name. Let me solve this problem for you. You’re doing the right thing.”
“I don’t have all the answers,” the voice said, and for a moment, it sounded so plaintive, Mac nearly believed it. And then, “You should’ve caught him three years ago, Special Agent. Why, oh, why didn’t you guys catch him?”
“Work with us and we’ll get him now.”
“Too late,” the caller said. “He never could stand the heat.”
The connection broke. Mac was left in the middle of the parking lot, gripping his impossibly tiny phone and cursing a blue streak. He punched send again. The number rang and rang and rang, but the person didn’t pick up and wouldn’t until Mac was contacted again.
“Damn,” Mac said again. Then, “Damn, damn, damn.”
He found his rental car. Inside, it was approximately two hundred degrees. He slid into the seat, leaned
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