In spite of Riley's calls, no answer came from Marie. There were no sounds in the house other than those she made herself. The place felt empty. She made her way up the stairs and turned carefully into an open doorway.
As she turned the corner, Riley's breath stopped in her throat. She felt as if the world were collapsing beneath her.
There was Marie: suspended in mid-air, hanging by her neck from a cord tied to a light fixture on the high ceiling. An overturned stepladder lay on the floor.
Time seemed to stop as Riley's mind rejected reality.
Then her knees buckled and she caught herself against the door frame. She let out a long harsh sound.
"NOOOO!"
She dashed across the room, turned the ladder upright and scrambled up on it. She wrapped an arm around Marie's body to relieve the pressure and fingered Marie's neck, searching for any sign of a pulse.
Riley was sobbing now. "Be alive, Marie. Be alive, goddammit."
But it was too late. Marie's neck was broken. She was dead.
"Christ," Riley said, collapsing back onto the ladder. Pain surged up from somewhere deep in her abdomen. She wanted to die here, too.
As moments passed, Riley became dimly aware of sounds downstairs. The first responders had arrived. A familiar emotional mechanism kicked in. Basic human fear and grief gave way to a cold, professional efficiency.
"Up here!" she shouted.
She wiped her sleeve across her face to blot the tears.
Five heavily-armed, Kevlar-clad officers charged up the stairs. The woman in front was visibly surprised to see Riley.
"I'm Officer Rita Graham, the team chief," she said. "Who are you?"
Riley got off the ladder and flashed her badge. "Special Agent Riley Paige, FBI."
The woman looked uneasy.
"How did you get here before we did?"
"She was a friend of mine," Riley said, fully in professional mode now. "Her name was Marie Sayles. She called me. She told me something was wrong, and I was already on the way when I called 911. I didn't get here on time. She's dead."
The responder team quickly checked and confirmed Riley's declaration.
"Suicide?" Officer Graham asked.
Riley nodded. She had no doubt at all that Marie had killed herself.
"What's this?" the team leader asked, pointing at a folded notecard sitting on an end table next to the bed.
Riley looked at the card. Written in a barely legible scrawl was a message:
This is the only way.
"A suicide note?"
Riley nodded again grimly. But she knew that it wasn't the usual kind of suicide note. It wasn't an explanation, and it certainly wasn't an apology.
It's advice, Riley thought. It's advice for me.
The team took pictures and made notes. Riley knew that they would wait for the coroner before removing the body.
"Let's talk downstairs," Officer Graham said. She led Riley down to the living room, sat down on a chair, and gestured for Riley to sit down too.
The curtains were still drawn and no lights were on in the room. Riley wanted to throw open the curtains and let in some sunlight, but she knew better than to change anything. She sat down on the sofa.
Graham turned on a table lamp beside her chair.
"Tell me what happened," the officer said, taking out a notepad and a pencil. Although she had the toughened face of a seasoned cop, there was a sympathetic look in her eyes.
"She was the victim of an abduction," Riley said. "Almost eight weeks ago. We both were victims. You may have read about it. The Sam Peterson case."
Graham's eyes widened.
"Oh, my God," she said. "The guy who tortured and killed all those women, the guy with the blowtorch. So that was you—the agent who escaped and blew him up?"
"Right," Riley said. Then, after a pause, she said, "The trouble is, I'm not sure I really did blow him up. I'm not positive that he's dead. Marie didn't believe that he was. That's what finally got to her. She just couldn't take not knowing. And maybe he was stalking her again."
As Riley continued her explanation, the words flowed automatically, almost as if she'd learned the whole thing by heart. She now felt completely detached from the scene, listening to herself report how this horrible thing had happened.
After helping Officer Graham get a handle on the case, Riley told her how to contact Marie's next of kin. But as she talked, anger was building beneath her professional veneer—a cold, icy anger. Peterson had claimed another victim. Whether he was dead or alive didn't matter. He'd killed Marie.
And Marie had died absolutely certain that Riley was doomed to be his next victim, whether by his hand or her own. Riley wanted to take hold of Marie and physically shake this wretched idea out of her head.
This is not the only way! she wanted to tell her.
But did she believe that? Riley didn't know. There seemed to be too damned much she didn't know.
The coroner arrived while Riley and Officer Graham were still talking. Graham got up and went to meet him. Then she turned to Riley and said, "I'll be upstairs for a few minutes. I'd like you to hang around and fill me in a bit more."
Riley shook her head.
"I've got to go," she said. "There's someone I need to talk to." She pulled out her card and put it down on the table. "You can get in touch with me."
The officer began to object, but Riley didn't give her a chance; she got up and walked out of Marie's dark home. She had urgent business.
*
An hour later, Riley was driving west through the Virginia countryside.
Do I really want to do this? she asked herself again.
She was exhausted. She hadn't slept well last night, and now she had been through a waking nightmare. Thank goodness she'd talked with Mike in between. He had helped steady her, but she was sure he'd never approve of what she was going to do now. She wasn't altogether sure she was fully in her right mind.
She was taking the quickest route from Georgetown to Senator Mitch Newbrough's manor house. That narcissistic politician had a lot to answer for. He was hiding something, something that might lead to the real killer. And that made him partly responsible for this new victim.
Riley knew that she was headed for trouble. She didn't care.
It was late afternoon when she pulled into the circular drive in front of the stone mansion. She parked, got out of the car, and walked up to the enormous front doors. When she rang the doorbell, she was greeted by a formally dressed gentleman—Newbrough's butler, she assumed.
"What may I do for you, ma'am?" he asked stiffly.
Riley flashed her badge at him.
"Special Agent Riley Paige," she said. "The Senator knows me. I need to talk with him."
With a skeptical look, the butler turned away from her. He raised a walkie-talkie to his lips, whispered, and then listened. The butler turned back toward Riley with a rather superior smirk.
"The Senator does not wish to see you," he said. "He's quite emphatic about it. Good day, ma'am."
But before the man could shut the doors, Riley pushed straight past him and strode on into the house.
"I'm going to notify security," the butler called after her.
"You go right ahead and do that," Riley shouted over her shoulder.
Riley had no idea where to look for the Senator. He could be anywhere in the cavernous mansion. But she figured it didn't matter. She could probably get him to come to her.
She headed into the living room where she had met with him before and plopped herself down on the huge couch. She fully intended to make herself right at home until the Senator showed himself.
Only a few seconds passed before a big man clad in a black suit stepped into the room. Riley knew by his manner that he was the Senator's security man.
"The Senator has asked for you to leave," he said, crossing his arms.
Riley didn't budge from the couch. She looked the man over, assessing just how much of a threat he really was. He was big enough to probably be able to remove her by force. But her own self-defense skills were very good. If he took her on, more than one of them was going to get pretty badly hurt, and doubtless some of the Senator's antiques would be damaged.
"I hope they told you that I'm FBI," she said, locking eyes with him. She doubted very much that he'd actually draw his weapon on an FBI agent.
Not easily intimidated, the man stared back at her. But he didn't move toward her.
Riley heard footsteps approaching behind her, and then the sound of the Senator's voice.
"What is it this time, Agent Paige? I'm a very busy man."
The security man stepped aside as Newbrough walked in front of her and stood there. His photogenic politician's smile had a sarcastic cast to it. He was silent for a moment. Riley sensed right away that they were about to engage in a battle of wills. She was determined not to move from the couch.
"You were wrong, Senator," Riley said. "There wasn't anything political about your daughter's murder—and nothing personal either. You gave me an enemies list, and I'm sure you passed along that same list to your lapdog at the Bureau."
Newbrough's smile twisted into a slight sneer.
"I take it you mean Special Agent in Charge Carl Walder," he said.
Riley knew that her choice of words was rash and that she'd live to regret it. But right now she didn't care.
"That list was a waste of the Bureau's time, Senator," Riley said. "And meanwhile another victim has been abducted."
Newbrough stood firmly rooted to his spot.
"I understand that the Bureau has made an arrest," he said. "The suspect has confessed. But he hasn't said much, has he? There's some connection to me, you can be sure of it. He'll tell all in due time. I'll make sure that Agent Walder follows through on it."
Riley tried to hide her amazement. After yet another abduction, Newbrough still considered himself to be the primary target of the killer's wrath. The man's ego was truly outrageous. His capacity to believe that everything was about him had no limits.
Newbrough tilted his head with seeming curiosity.
"But you seem to be blaming me somehow," he said. "I take umbrage at that, Agent Paige. It's not my fault that your own fecklessness has led to the capture of another victim."
Riley's face tingled with rage. She didn't dare reply. She'd say something far too rash.
He walked over to a liquor cabinet and poured himself a large glass of what Riley assumed to be extremely expensive whiskey. He was obviously making a point of not asking Riley if she wanted a drink.
Riley knew that it was high time for her to get to the point.
"The last time I was here, there was something you didn't tell me," she said.
Newbrough turned to face her again, taking a long sip from his glass.
"Didn't I answer all your questions?" he said.
"It's not that. You just didn't tell me something. About Reba. And I think it's time you did."
Newbrough held her in a penetrating stare.
"Did she like dolls, Senator?" Riley asked.
Newbrough shrugged. "I suppose all little girls do," he said.
"I don't mean as a little girl. I mean as an adult. Did she collect them?"
"I'm afraid I wouldn't know."
Those were the first words Newbrough had said so far that Riley truly believed. A man this pathologically self-centered knew little about anybody else's likes and interests—not even those of his own daughter.
"I'd like to talk to your wife," Riley said.
"Certainly not," Newbrough snapped. He was adopting a new expression now—one that Riley had seen him use on television. Much like his smile, this expression was carefully rehearsed, undoubtedly practiced thousands of times in a mirror. It was meant to convey moral outrage.
"You really have no decency, do you, Agent Paige?" he said, his voice shaking with calculated anger. "You come into a house of grief, bringing no comfort, no answers to a bereaved family. Instead you make veiled accusations. You blame perfectly innocent people for your own incompetence."
He shook his head in a gesture of injured righteousness.
"What a mean, cruel little woman you are," he said. "You must have brought terrible pain to a great many people."
Riley felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. This was a tactic she hadn't been prepared for—a complete turning of the moral tables. And he'd hit her own genuine guilt and self-doubt.
He knows exactly how to play me, she thought.
She knew that she had to leave right now or she'd do something she'd regret. He was practically goading her in that direction. Without a word, she got up from the couch and walked out of the living room toward the front entrance.
She heard the Senator's voice call after her.
"Your career is over, Agent Paige. I want you to know that."
Riley brushed past the butler and charged out the front door. She got in her car and started to drive.
Waves of rage, frustration, and exhaustion crashed over her. A woman's life was at stake, and nobody in the world was rescuing her. She was sure that Walder was just expanding the search area around Gumm's apartment. And Riley was sure they were looking in the wrong place. It was up to her to do something. But she no longer had any idea what to do. Coming here certainly hadn't helped. Could she trust her own judgment anymore?
Riley hadn't driven for more than ten minutes before her cell phone buzzed. She looked down at it and saw that it was a text from Walder. She had no trouble guessing what it was about.
Well, she thought bitterly. At least the Senator didn't waste any time.
