Undying. V.K. Forrest

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      The closer Macy drew to the farmhouse, the worse she felt. He wasn’t here, but he had been here. She could sense the remnants of his presence. She could almost smell him on the warm, early evening air. He was taunting her.

      Macy thought she would be scared to come here today. She always was. She always went to the crime scenes, sometimes hours later, or days or weeks, but she always went as if pulled by an invisible thread. And she was always scared. Something was different tonight.

      The closer she moved to the congested crowd of TV crews, cops, medical personnel, and everyday rubbernecks, the more tied in knots she became. But there was something about this feeling that was different than before. Different than all the other times she had approached one of his gruesome vistas, in their aftermath. As she walked, contemplating her state, Macy found herself surprised to realize this wasn’t fear that balled in the pit of her stomach and threatened to constrict her airway. It wasn’t terror that made her mouth go dry and her ears hum. It was anger, pure and simple.

      Anger at him. At herself.

      As she met the edge of the mingling crowd, and felt their fear, she became conscious of the idea that she was tired of being fearful. She was tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of renting cottages, buying disposable cell phone minutes, and tired of living out of the trunk of her car. She was angry with him for doing this to her and even angrier with herself for letting him.

      The emotion that washed over her was so overwhelming that she halted for a moment to catch her breath. No one seemed to notice her. It was as if she was invisible.

      She stared up at the helicopter that circled high above the farmhouse and then sped north, as if to escape the horror Macy knew waited somewhere beyond the lines of yellow crime scene tape.

      How had she let her life become this? How had she let him do this to her? She’d have been better off letting him kill her years ago.

      Was that the point? Was he letting her live to torture her this way?

      Macy skirted the crowd, avoiding the cameras and microphones. She didn’t like pictures taken of herself; you never knew where they might pop up later.

      Macy didn’t know what she was looking for here. She certainly didn’t want to see the dead family. She guessed it wasn’t what she was looking for here, but whom.

      She spotted her, on the far side of the yellow tape strung between peach trees, walking between two guys in suits. Macy only caught her profile, but she knew it was her.

      Special Agent Fia Kahill was prettier in person than she had been on TV and in the news magazines and newspaper photos. She was hauntingly beautiful, with dark red hair that fell silky over her shoulders, lily pale skin, and dark, luminous eyes. And she was tall. At least six inches taller than Macy. She had to be six feet. An Amazon.

      Why hadn’t the camera angles reflected that?

      Macy, like most of America, had been glued to the TV news programs when the beheadings began to take place in the sleepy little seashore town on the Delaware coast. But after the first murder, the story had seemed to take a back burner to other news: the fighting in the Middle East, a passenger train wreck in Spokane, an earthquake in South America. Then suddenly, at summer’s end, the story broke again. All at once, Special Agent Fia Kahill’s face was everywhere. She was making statements and doing interviews on Larry King Live. She was a celebrity. She solved the mystery of the beheading murders, and two young men were currently serving multiple consecutive life sentences for their crimes. Agent Kahill was a hero.

      Macy had read the news articles. She had listened to Fia’s statement on Fox News Live. It wasn’t the beheadings that had fascinated Macy, or the fact that the clever female agent had been able to solve the mystery. It was something much more basic about Fia that had intrigued Macy. There was something about the agent that set her apart from others. Something that made her different. Macy had seen it reflected in her dark, incandescent eyes.

      Macy slipped her hand into her coat pocket and wandered away from the crowd. There was a quaint back porch that smelled as if it had been recently painted. She sat down on the steps leading up to the porch and dialed the phone number.

      She watched as Fia responded to the vibration in her pocket. Special Agent Kahill was too professional to leave her phone on ring at a crime scene.

      From across the lawn, through the branches and leaves of the peach trees, Macy saw Fia glance at her phone in her palm, note the incoming call number, then speak to one of the FBI agents in suits. She stopped, letting the men continue walking. Fia couldn’t have known the number because the cell was new, but Macy knew Fia knew it was her.

      “Special Agent Kahill.”

      Macy continued to watch her. “Hey,” she said, suddenly feeling almost shy. What was she doing calling her, right here where he had been? “It’s me.”

      “Hey, me.” Fia spoke lightly. “You thought about what I said?”

      “Thinking about it.” Macy watched her turn and look in the direction of the two agents walking away. They had to be going to the actual burial site, beyond the lean-to barn.

      “I’d really like to talk to you, Maggie. I’d like to see you. Meet face to face. I think it’s time.”

      Her elbow resting on her knee, Macy lowered her head until her forehead touched the heel of her hand. Her blond hair fell over her face as she cradled the phone to her ear. Hearing Fia’s voice on the end of the line made Macy realize how lonely she was. It was good just to hear Fia’s voice. How pathetic was that?

      “Will you come?” Fia prodded.

      Macy lifted her head, throwing her hair back. “I’m here,” she whispered.

      “You are? You’re here? At the scene?”

      Macy watched the agent turn around, studying the crowd. She started walking back toward the yellow line of tape, her long legs taking long strides. Fia Kahill didn’t look past the crowd, beyond the commotion, to the lonely back porch. To the lonely, invisible blond sitting on the step.

      Macy had made a career of remaining invisible.

      Except to him, of course.

      She felt the anger bubble in her chest again.

      “I want to talk to you,” Macy heard herself say. “Face to face.”

      Fia stopped walking, but she was still scanning the crowd. More uniformed police had arrived. Macy would have to join the crowd if she was going to stay any longer. Otherwise, someone was going СКАЧАТЬ