Undying. V.K. Forrest

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      “But she was the one who tipped you off to this case before anyone else did?”

      “She called me for the first time about a year ago.” Fia glanced at him, and then back at the road. “She saw me on TV after the beheadings. She asked me to look over the Buried Alive Killings. I didn’t get any further than anyone else in the bureau, but I kept up with the cases. She checks in periodically. Now he’s killed again.”

      “How many does this make, if it’s the same perp?”

      “Oh, it’s the same one.”

      “How do you know? You haven’t been to the scene yet.”

      “Just wait until you see them. You won’t be sleeping tonight.”

      He glanced out the window again, fighting the shiver that crept up his spine. This was part of his job, seeing the horrendous atrocities humans could commit. Witnessing so that he could justify their deaths. So why didn’t it get any easier? “How many times has he killed?”

      “This makes eleven families.”

      Arlan was always amazed by how calm and removed she could be from what she did. It came so easily to her, setting aside her emotions. He wished he could be more like her. In a morphed state, the way he usually conducted sept business, he was always emotionally raw. Always on the edge. He felt as if he carried that into his personal life. His niece Kaleigh always said he wore his heart on his sleeve.

      “Could he have killed more? Cases not yet connected? It happens with serial killers.”

      “I don’t think so,” Fia said slowly. “Maggie would know.”

      “How would she know?”

      She shook her head. “I don’t know her connection to this guy, but she knows him. Knows what he’s doing, but can’t stop him. It’s a brother, a father, maybe a boyfriend. Women get trapped in the middle of this sort of thing all the time. You know that. Pretty common.”

      “Pretty freakin’ weird. Doesn’t that make her an accessory? Shouldn’t you arrest her?”

      “I’ve never met her. She uses disposable cell phones to call me. It’s always from a different number and untraceable. Once in a while, I get an e-mail from her, but she somehow manages to hack into other people’s e-mail accounts. She’s made sure I can’t track her down.”

      “Sounds like she definitely has something to hide.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “How do you know she’s not helping the killer? And calling you to appease her guilt? Hell, how do you know she isn’t the killer? Sounds guilty as hell to me.”

      “I don’t think so. I don’t know how to explain it except to say that she’s scared of him. But more than scared.” She glanced at Arlan and then back at the road again. “This is even more complicated than I understand, yet. I just get that feeling. You know?”

      “Is there anything about your life that isn’t more complicated than either of us understands?” He kept his tone good-natured.

      She smiled, which was what he was hoping for.

      “So, how’s the HM?” he asked.

      “I hate it when you call him that.” Now she was frowning.

      “What?” Arlan opened his arms innocently. “He is, isn’t he?”

      “Glen is fine. We’re fine.”

      He glanced at her. “Pretty quick to throw that detail in.” He made a clicking sound between his teeth. “Doesn’t sound good, Fee. Doesn’t sound good at all. Bloom wearing off the rose? Getting tired of stealing into the kitchen after he’s asleep, waiting on the blood to thaw in the microwave and then having to sneak into the bathroom with it?”

      He was just teasing her. They all did it at some point. It was part of the price of living among mortals. Trying to fit in. But the look on her face made him want to take it back. There was something wrong. She and her human were having problems.

      “Can we talk about something else?” she asked.

      “Like when you’re going to marry me and have my babies?” It was an old joke with them. Sept members could only marry their own spouses, lifetime after lifetime, and reproduction was impossible. One of God’s blessings.

      “Something else,” she said.

      “Nice weather we’re having.”

      Macy parked her car alongside the road behind an older model BMW and sat in the driver’s seat for a moment. She debated whether or not she should drag out the press badge she kept in her glove compartment. The seven or eight vehicles parked on both sides of the street faced in the same direction.

      A loose stone driveway led east off the paved road, through neat rows of maple trees, disappearing over a hill. The Virginia Peninsula was narrow here, and even though she couldn’t see the bay or ocean surrounding the point of land, she could smell it. The family had lived on the bay side, a couple of miles south and west of town. The property had been easy to find. She had followed the emergency vehicles that she knew would be racing up and down the highways and byways for the next twenty-four hours. A case like this took time to process.

      She could see only the rooftop of the family’s farmhouse from the road. And the red and blue flashing lights of the emergency vehicles…

      In the end, she decided to tuck her press badge into the pocket of her jean jacket. There were TV and radio news vans parked on the road, but she doubted they were being permitted to actually gain access. The police never let the news hounds too close to a scene this grim. There was too great a chance some fool looking for a viewer-ratings increase would run a clip no one should have to see.

      Macy left her keys in the ignition, her backpack with her wallet on the floor of the car. There was no ID in it. Nothing to steal. No credit cards and little money. She kept her credit cards and various IDs locked in the trunk in the wheel well. Mostly she operated in cash, but sometimes prepaid credit cards that could now be purchased in mini-marts. She did take the new cell phone she’d pried out of its package while stopped at a gas station. She didn’t know yet if she would call Fia. She wouldn’t know what she was going to do until she reached the farmhouse down the hill.

      Macy followed the driveway, passing several state and local cops. She kept her head down and strode purposely, as if she belonged there. She had been amazed, over the years, as to how well the tactic worked for her.

      The pebbles under the soles of her shoes were rough. Bumpy. The early evening air was warm, and even above the sound of the rocks crunching underfoot, she could hear frogs croaking. Insects chirping. The air smelled of the Chesapeake Bay, and of the faintest scent of honeysuckle, which grew along the woods line to the north of the property. As she walked around the bend in the driveway, her feet feeling leaden, the farmhouse came into view. It was white clapboard, two story, typical for the turn of the century in the area. She’d done a piece on a similar house in Maryland the year before. The lawn had recently been mowed and clusters of bright orange flowers bloomed at the posts of the split rail fence that encircled the yard. Daylilies.

      A serene setting for a mass murder.

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