Undying. V.K. Forrest

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      Macy woke hot and sweaty, overwhelmed by a heavy sense of dread. As she showered and went through her morning ablutions, she tried not to think about the meaning of it, or the IM’s last night. How many times had she been through this? There was nothing she could do. Nothing last night. Nothing this morning. Except maybe make that dreaded call.

      The call would make it real.

      She dressed and poured a cup of black coffee in a travel mug. Her appointment today was just a pre-meet, but the assignment was a big one; five full-color pages of the exterior of a house and its garden, northeast of Richmond. She collected her laptop, some files and photographs from her desk, and the canvas backpack she always kept packed in her closet. She did not lock the door when she left.

      Late morning, Macy met the homeowners, walked through their garden and made suggestions as to what could be done to improve the property aesthetically before it was photographed. Often, she took her own photos, but for this assignment, the magazine would be using their own photographer. Then, while waiting on the photographer assigned to her, Macy excused herself to check phone messages.

      Instead of checking her voice mail, which was a pretty involved process, she made the call, punching in the extension she knew from memory.

      “Special Agent Kahill.”

      Macy hesitated. She always did at this point. Why did she torture herself this way? The FBI was no closer to finding him than they had been fourteen years ago. Why did she make the calls?

      Because she had to.

      Because it was her penance.

      “Special Agent Kahill,” the female voice repeated.

      “Fia, it’s me. Maggie.” Macy had picked the name. No last name, just Maggie for Magnolia. For her mother.

      There was a pause. “How are you, Maggie?”

      “Anything more on the McNaughton case?” Macy said softly. The McNaughton family had been the last to die.

      A blue Toyota pulled into the driveway. The photographer. Macy would have to go.

      “Not really, Maggie. I check on it from time to time. The agents are keeping the investigation active, but no significant changes.”

      Macy ran her fingers through her fine, long blond hair. It was hot. She needed a band to pull it back into a ponytail.

      “What can I do for you, Maggie?”

      Macy exhaled. “He…” Her throat constricted. She stopped and started again. “You need to check the morning reports. Today. The next couple of days.”

      She didn’t have to say any more. She and Special Agent Fia Kahill had an interesting relationship. The agent accepted Macy for what she could offer, what she would offer and what she would not. Other law enforcement agents might have pushed her until Macy completely disengaged and stopped calling. But Fia seemed to understand how brittle her informant was.

      “Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” the FBI agent whispered. “So soon after the last? This is unexpected.”

      “Maybe I’m wrong,” Macy murmured. But the silence between them that followed made it evident that neither thought so. Not in their bones. Fia understood knowing something in your bones.

      The photographer had climbed out of her car. She had her hatchback up and was pulling bags from the trunk.

      Macy turned her back to the car. “I…I’m at work so I can’t really talk. I don’t know anything, Fia, except that Teddy’s out there. He’s on the move. He’s going to do it again…if he hasn’t already.”

      Fia sighed. Macy imagined her running her hand over her pretty face. They had never met in person, but Macy had seen Fia’s photograph in the news last year when she’d solved a string of murders in her own hometown. It was after that that Macy had contacted her. They talked about once a month but this would be the second time she made this kind of call. Last time, Macy had been right on the money. Upstate New York. Mother. Father. Two little girls and an infant boy.

      “Where do you think he is?”

      The photographer headed up the driveway toward the house, cameras swinging on both her shoulders. She waved to Macy, smiling. Macy waved back and turned away again, gripping the cell tighter in her hand.

      “Listen, I have to go. Check it out. There was nothing on the news this morning, but you know how it goes. Sometimes it takes a few hours to find them.” Once it had taken four days.

      “Can I call you back, Maggie? After I look into it?”

      Macy hesitated. She usually didn’t do things that way, but the cell only had a few minutes left on it. Then she would toss it. She already had a new one on the floor of the back of her car. She’d bought it at a Piggly Wiggly two days ago. “Sure, you can call me.”

      “What’s the number?” Fia played it cool.

      Macy almost smiled. She liked Fia Kahill. In another life, they might even have been friends. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Special Agent Kahill. You’re not going to find me. It’s a disposable, as always. I’m tossing it tonight whether I hear from you or not.”

      “You’re good, Maggie-With-No-Last-Name.”

      Macy gave her the number and hung up. She met the photographer at the wrought iron gate covered in crepe myrtle and shifted into work mode, setting Special Agent Kahill and Teddy aside for a few hours.