The Third Victim Part 68

March one, two, three. At the door now. Pause. Deep breath. Hey, mister, want some towels? Or maybe shoot first and ask questions later ... She knocked on the door.

No answer.

Did you know what you were saying in that bar? Or were you making this stuff up just for me?

She knocked on the door again.

No answer.

The rest happened very slowly. She set down the towels. She picked up her 9 mm. She twisted the door handle, not surprised to find it unlocked, and led with her shoulder into the room.

Behind her, men yelled, Down, down, down. Others cried, Go, go, go.

Rainie tumbled into the room, bringing up her gun, though she didn't know what she expected to find or maybe she did. Maybe some part of her knew what body she would find there on that bed. Except.. .

Empty. Empty. Empty.

Officers jostled her aside. Seaside's finest pumped into the room.

"Police! Police! Police!"

Still nothing.

More scattered voices.

"What do you mean, nothing? Where the h.e.l.l could he have gone? I thought you said you were watching this room."

"I don't know, sir. I swear to G.o.d, I don't know."

Rainie didn't look at any of them. She was staring into the bathroom at the mirror over the double-basin counter and the large words scrawled there: Too Little, Too Late.

A lock of hair was taped beneath the red words. It was long, black, with just a hint of curl. Rainie didn't need a lab report to guess its owner.

Beautiful Melissa Avalon, lying dead in a pool of hair.

"Too little, too late," Rainie read aloud, her voice coming out shaky.

She finally looked at the men in the room.

"Would somebody, anybody, like to explain this to me?"

No one replied.

After another moment Sanders picked up his cell phone. He called the

CSU.

"Hey," he said shortly. "We got another crime scene."Friday, May 18, 10:38 p.m.

Two hours later Rainie and Quincy drove back to Bakersville. They had finally figured out how Dave Duncan vacated the room. He had cut a hole in the back of the closet, creating a small escape hatch that opened up behind a rhododendron bush at the side of the hotel. The police closed in. He squeezed out, taking his minimal baggage with him.

Quincy was right: The UNSUB liked to have contingency plans.

While the technicians dusted for prints, bagged the hair, and doc.u.mented the words written in lipstick, Quincy gave them a more detailed profile of the person they were looking for. In his experience, an UNSUB of this type would most likely be male, middle-aged, and unmarried. The crime was highly organized, indicating above-average IQ and professional skills. The UNSUB also utilized manipulation, meaning he felt comfortable being around others and might even have a serious relationship, though chances were his partner often felt she didn't understand her man very well.

According to profile statistics, the UNSUB had probably tried to join the police force or the military at one time but had been either turned away or dishonorably discharged. He was obviously mobile and would still be following the case quite closely.

Common wisdom held that the UNSUB's name wasn't Dave Duncan- he'd paid for the room with cash and showed a barely legible driver's license.

Perhaps he was finding a new motel even now, someplace a little more populated, where a 'traveling salesman' would be hard to locate. He knew the net was closing in, and yet they all shared the hunch the man wasn't done. The man wouldn't flee.

Seaside would work to write up all the information they could find on David Duncan's visit to their town -description, places he'd been, things he'd said. Sanders would once more coordinate processing the evidence with the CSU.

Luke still planned on watching Shep's house for the rest of the night.

Then he was heading to Portland to finish interviewing Mr. and Mrs.

Avalon. This time he'd take a composite sketch with him. Maybe sit across from Mr. Avalon. Maybe push the drawing under the man's nose and see what kind of reaction bubbled to the surface.

Rainie would inherit the fun-filled task of generating lists of hotels up and down the coast. Someplace not too far from Bakersville.

Someplace not too far from Seaside. Maybe even a rental room in a house run by a little old lady. Or a rarely used hunting shack.

She'd never realized how many places there were to hide around her small town. No one would envy her task.

It had been a long day. They were all exhausted beyond words. Sanders and Luke hit the road. Rainie and Quincy rode back in silence.

Inside the city limits, Rainie stopped at a small convenience store for a six-pack of beer. Then, by unspoken consent, she and Quincy went to his hotel.

There was an awkward moment. Rainie stood in the doorway with the Bud Light. Quincy stood in his room, surveying the s.p.a.ce as if realizing for the first time how small and intimate it was.

He pulled out two chairs from the rickety table. Rainie pointedly bypa.s.sed them and headed straight for the bed. He didn't say anything.

After another moment he shed his jacket, drew off his tie, unb.u.t.toned the top of his shirt, and sat on the mattress, not far from her. It was hard to read his face from her angle. Half was lit by the lamp next to the bed, half was hidden in darkness. She didn't know what he thought after days like this. Was he still excited, thrilled by the hunt? Or was the adrenaline fading now, leaving behind the sobering realization that another monster roamed the world? One more predator on top of last month's predator and the one the month before that.

Did he get tired? She was tired. She was restless and back to the kind of mood where she didn't trust herself. George Walker's words echoed in her head. So did Officer Carr's nervous look when he tried to figure out how to mention the accusation that she'd killed her own mother. She should have a thicker skin. Tonight she didn't. She felt vulnerable and weary, sick of pretending she knew what she was doing, when she hadn't known for days and the case was only getting worse.

She was soft tonight, a little bit aching. She looked at the hard plane of Quincy's chest, the exposed smattering of dark chest hair, and she wanted to lay her head on his shoulder. A strong, capable man. She wondered how his heartbeat would sound against her ear. She wondered if he would curl his arms around her and hold her the way leading men always held leading ladies in the movies.

She had never been held. Slapped on the shoulder in good-natured ribbing. Even patted on the b.u.t.t in pickup games of hoops. Lack of comforting touches wasn't something she dwelled on. But tonight it bothered her.

Rainie got out a beer. She tossed a bottle to Quincy, placed her own against the top edge of the bedside table, and whacked it once with the base of her palm to pop the top off. A cool mist rose immediately from the neck. She took a deep breath, pulling the scent of hops inside her mouth and rolling it over her tongue. d.a.m.n. What she would give for just one drink. One long, soothing, numbing drink.

She slouched back against the old wooden headboard instead and cradled the bottle against her belly.

Quincy's own bottle was unopened in his hand. He was watching her with a tight, dark look in his eyes.

"Talk to me," she murmured.

"Rainie, that display had nothing to do with conversation."

"Shut up and talk to me."

He arched a brow pointedly at that clear statement.