IN HIS KEEPING: CLAIMED

Connor was beginning to loathe doctors!  He couldn’t get a straight answer out of any of them.  They were evasive.  Everything they said was noncommittal, had a qualifier attached.  He had no idea what her prognosis was because they refused to say.  If he asked if she was improving, they’d respond by telling him she’d lost a lot of blood, that she’d suffered extensive head trauma.  If he asked how the surgeries went, they told him as well as could be expected.  What the fuck did that mean?  They were doctors for Christ’s sake!  Weren’t they supposed to know these things?  He wanted answers, but they refused to give him any.  Didn’t matter if they were local doctors or the ones he’d called in from downstate.  They were all equally closemouthed about her condition.  He wanted to move her, but they were equivocating.  She wasn’t ready, they told him.  Well, when the hell would she be?

She’d survived 25 hours of surgery.  That was a miracle in itself.  He’d paced the floor of the waiting room most of that time, hoping for some bit of good news as each surgical team finished up their part of the operation.  Connor wanted reassurance.  He didn’t get it.  By the somber looks on the various doctors’ faces when they came out to speak to the family, there was little cause to celebrate.  One of the doctors said she’d coded three times in the OR, doctor-speak for she’d died, but they’d managed to resuscitate her in every instance.  They’d drilled a hole in her skull so they could hook her up to an ICP, Intracranial Pressure Monitor, to check for evidence of swelling in the brain and to allow them to drain off excess cerebrospinal fluid if necessary.  They’d repaired her spleen rather than remove it.  And had done the same to her torn right kidney and ureter.  They’d sutured injuries to her liver as well.  What was worrying them was the ruptured gall bladder that had leaked bile into her system.  They were concerned about septicemia, blood poisoning.  Her large intestines had suffered blunt force trauma consistent with being repeatedly kicked in the abdomen.  Thankfully, they’d managed to fix the rupture by removing that segment of her colon and sewing the cut ends together without having to resort to a colostomy.  They warned, however, that she’d likely develop an infection called peritonitis from the injury.  Doctors surgically repaired the orbit of her left eye which had ‘trapped’ her eye muscle, hampering vision.  He’d never heard of that condition before, but evidently it was common with that kind of fracture.  They wouldn’t know if it had affected her sight until she woke up.  A team of thoracic surgeons mended her broken ribs with titanium and patched and reinflated her lungs.  The physical injuries to her lungs were exacerbated by the fire.  Smoke inhalation predisposes the airways to infection they told him.  Sylvie’d almost lost the ring finger on her left hand; but surgeons were able to repair the damage to her blood vessels and nerves, and then reattach the tendons, so she’d have use of it again.  They reset her broken nose and stitched up her split lips.  One doctor told him Sylvie would need a good plastic surgeon to deal with all the burns and scars, but that could wait.  She had injuries to her right knee and ankle as well.  Both were dislocated.  Doctors had manually slipped them back into place, but were going to wait on those too.  Eventually, she might have to have surgery on both; but for now, they’d be okay.

Connor was going crazy.  It was four days and she still hadn’t opened her eyes.  They were keeping her sedated and feeding her through a nasogastric tube they’d placed in her nose.  She had IVs, drainage tubes, and catheters stuck into every part of her body.  And there were machines, so many machines.  Devices pumping fluids in and out of her.  Monitors keeping track of her heart rate, respiration, and brain function.  But it was futile.  She wasn’t responding.

He sat by her bedside for hours at a time, sleeping in snatches on a cot in her room.  He hadn’t shaved or showered in days.  Connor had put his books and businesses on the back burner.  Right now his sole focus was getting Sylvie well.  He wasn’t taking any calls.  He’d left it to Brady to tell everyone to leave him alone, that he was incommunicado for the foreseeable future.  The only person he’d talked to was Lettie.  He was supposed to fly down to Palm Beach to spend Thanksgiving with her and her new paramour Warren.  He’d called to tell her he wasn’t coming.  Though he didn’t want to alarm her, in light of what happened to Sylvie, he decided to come clean and tell her some of what was going on.  He’d tried to talk to her about the investigation a month or so ago, but he’d gotten sidetracked.  They started discussing his parents’ death and Lettie started sobbing.  He hadn’t told her the fire that killed them was arson.  He didn’t want to burden her, so he opted instead to hire security people to watch over her 24/7.  He should have told her she might be in danger.  But they’d been irritated with one another and on the outs then.  Lettie had planned to come up for leaf peeping season in the fall like she did every year.  But Connor informed her that her ‘gentleman friend’ wasn’t welcome after she advised him Warren would be accompanying her and wanted to talk to him about something.  Connor thought he wanted to ask his permission, his blessing, to marry his aunt…so he cancelled the visit.  His aunt was furious.  But Connor wasn’t about to let that old sleazeball take advantage of his aunt.  This wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to run off one of her ‘beaus.’  Lettie attracted elderly fortune hunters like garbage did flies.  They flitted around her, pampering and flattering her, currying her favor, hoping she was just dumb enough or dotty enough to fall for their lines and lies.  Unfortunately, she frequently did.

Since her last husband died, she’d developed terrible taste in men.  They were all losers and he had to protect her from them.  His attitude toward her newest suitor riled Lettie no end.  She was not the kind of woman you said no to.  Things were said.  And names were called…mostly by him.  Lettie took umbrage at him referring to Warren as a geriatric gigolo, an aging lothario, and a lecherous old fogey.  She’d hung up on him.  The visit to Palm Beach was supposed to smooth things over…though Connor hadn’t been looking forward to it.  His aunt had moved that man into her house!  They were living together!  His security people told him they were carrying on like love-sick teens, playing grab-ass all the time.  He’d been livid, but what could he do.  Lettie was like a willful teenager.  The more Connor told her to stay away from Warren, the more she gravitated to him.  What do you do with a defiant seventy-year-old?  Connor hadn’t ever spoken to ‘the boyfriend’ before this happened.  He hadn’t trusted himself to be civil to the man.  He didn’t sound quite as slimy or reptilian as Connor had imagined.  He’d always envisioned ‘War,’ as his aunt called him, with a waxed mustache; slicked-back, longish, curly, salt and pepper or snow-white hair; wearing sockless loafers, chunky gold chains, and pinky rings.  His open shirt revealing a carpet of course chest hair, while he strutted around in linen pants that were too tight in the crotch.  Connor had told him that Lettie might be in danger and that he was arranging to beef up security for his aunt.  Warren told him not to worry; that in order to get to his ‘darling Lettie’ they’d have to go through him first.  It could have just been bluster or bullshit, but Connor found himself believing the old fart.

Sylvie was in bad straights.  It had now been 10 days and she still hadn’t opened her eyes.  Infection was spreading throughout her body.  She was burning up with fever, alternately dripping with sweat and shivering with chills.  They were treating her with IV antibiotics and were talking about going back in to clean out the infection raging in her abdomen.  But they worried she might not survive the procedure.  One of the doctors told him they might lose her.  But Connor refused to believe it.  Sylvie was a fighter.  She was going to pull through.  She had to.

People came and went in and out of the room.  But he never moved from the chair beside her.  It was as though he was rooted to the spot.  Connor sang to her.  An off-key version of ‘Baby I’m Amazed By You’ and an even worse one of ‘Happy.’  He sang ‘Jingle Bells,’ ‘Silent Night,’ and ‘O Come All Ye Faithful.’  And he read to her: short stories, poetry, and romances with happily ever after endings.  But mostly he talked about Ottawa and how he’d take her back there as soon as she got well.  About all the places they would go and all the things they would see and do if only she’d get better.

Connor watched the machine pumping air into her lungs.  She was so very pale, as though all the color and all the life had been drained from her.  He shook his head.  No!  He couldn’t lose her.  He’d fucked up everything.  She was fighting for her life because of him.  Because of his stupidity, his negligence, his disregard, his apathy.  He needed a chance to make it right.  How could he have been such an ass?  His actions had made her a target.  Everything he’d done thus far was wrong.  He’d been so full of himself; sure he knew what was best.  He’d deluded himself into believing he controlled the situation.  He’d been a fool.  Brash and arrogant.  Selfish and uncaring.  The only thing he’d accomplished with all his posturing was to drive her away.  He bent down and whispered in her ear.  ‘I’m sorry Sylvie.  I’m so very sorry.  Please forgive me,’ he begged, his voice cracking with emotion.  Connor’s fingers gently brushed against the pinky of her bandaged hand.  The rest of her fingers were swaddled in gauze.

She heard him…the sound of his voice piercing the fog.  Connor sounded very sad and far away.  It was dark and quiet here.  There was no pain.  Thankfully, she didn’t feel anything anymore.  She was numb…floating.  Carried away on a slow-moving river.  It was taking her deeper and deeper into the darkness.  She found the heat oppressive; everything was damp and clammy, like a jungle.  Her head was fuzzy, so she couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like he was crying and begging forgiveness.  Sylvie wanted to go to him, comfort him.  She picked her way through the darkness, following the sound of his voice.  She moved haltingly at first, as though in slow motion, but then found herself careening through the blackness at dizzying speed.  His voice was getting louder, but the closer she came to him the more aware she was of the pain.  It seemed to be everywhere at once.  She hesitated a moment.  Maybe she should go back.  But she couldn’t.  He needed her.  Sylvie struggled to open her eyes, but she was unable to pry her lids apart.  They felt glued shut, gritty and crusted over.  She attempted to speak, but no sound came out.  There was something in her mouth, held in place by bands of elastic that cut into her face.  Sylvie tried to lift her arms and move her legs, but nothing happened.  She didn’t have the strength.  She was too weak.  Or perhaps she was paralyzed.  Suddenly the sweltering heat dissipated and was replaced by bone chilling cold.  She shivered.  She felt the warmth of his skin against hers.  He was touching her.  Sylvie concentrated on her little finger and willed it to move.  It felt stiff and sore.  The knuckle was swollen and wouldn’t bend.  Try again.  Let him know you’re here.

Connor didn’t feel it at first.  The movement was almost imperceptible.  He thought it might just be her shivering.  But then she did it again.  The tip of her pinky was tapping his finger.  ‘Oh Sylvie baby, you can hear me can’t you?  That’s it Sylvie.  Good girl!  Do it again!’

‘What is it?’ Lucas asked in surprise from his chair on the other side of the bed.  ‘What’s going on?’

‘She’s awake!’  Connor told him trying to contain his tears of joy.  ‘She’s moving her finger.’

‘Are you sure it’s voluntary?’  They’d thought she was coming out of it several times over the past couple of days only to learn that the jerking motions her arms and legs made, and the bizarre expressions on her face, had been involuntary, caused by convulsions.

‘Positive,’ Connor assured him.  ‘Sylvie honey, stop moving your finger.’

Lucas came around the bed to see what Connor was talking about, followed close behind by Sara, Ben, Mark, and Luke.  They watched the tiny form on the bed, hoping against hope it was true.

‘Honey move your finger for me again.’

Everybody watched in anticipation and then broke into tears of joy and applause when they saw the misshapen finger bobbing up and down.  ‘It’s going to be a long road back,’ Connor told them, choking up with emotion, ‘but she just took the first step.’

The doctors had given the go-ahead.  They were moving her the day after tomorrow.  Sylvie would be transported to Columbia Presbyterian in Manhattan.  She’d been in the hospital in Ellenville 14 days.  Her fever was down now.  The antibiotics were finally having an effect.  Sylvie was still heavily sedated most of the time and couldn’t talk because of the ventilator, but she’d become more aware of her surroundings and was responding to questions by nodding or shaking her head.  Her left eye was still heavily bandaged, but she was able to open her right a little.  It looked like a reddish-purple baseball sticking out of her head.  She could barely open it a slit.  The first time she did Connor was horrified.  The white part of her eye was blood red like a vampire’s and filled with speckles of pus.  He tried not to think about the man who had done this to her.  He wouldn’t be able to control his rage if he did.  Right now he couldn’t think about anything but getting Sylvie well.  But once she recovered, he’d hunt him down, no matter what it cost, no matter how long it took, and then…then…then he’d kill that motherfucker with his bare hands!

Lucas, Leona, and Matt were the only ones here today.  His corporate jets had been ferrying her family back and forth between Newburgh and Rochester.  Matt flew in this morning and was leaving later tonight.  Everyone else had gone home to their jobs and their kids.  They were staggering visits so there would always be family at her bedside, while the rest were back home caring for children and running the farms.  He’d come to really admire her family.  They were a tough lot.  They pulled together in times of adversity, functioning like a well-oiled machine.  Now he knew where Sylvie got it from.  Duties were assigned, plans made, schedules established.  He’d struck a truce with her father and brothers.  They still blamed him for what happened to Sylvie; but they no longer appeared ready to beat the crap out of him every time he looked their way.

Lettie and Warren had showed up at the hospital yesterday morning.  Connor hadn’t been expecting them.  He had no idea how they found him.  He’d never told them what hospital Sylvie was in.  Poor Lettie walked in the door, saw the battered, bruised body on the bed and nearly fainted.  If it hadn’t been for Warren grabbing her, she would have.  Connor hadn’t told his aunt the extent of Sylvie’s injuries.  He didn’t think she needed to hear the grisly details.  So she wasn’t expecting the sight that greeted her.  Connor had assumed they would stay an hour or so and then go, but they hadn’t.  They joined the bedside vigil, playing musical chairs, as they each took turns sitting beside Sylvie.  Every time she stirred, the one-sided conversations would begin.  He’d learned a lot of the Jenkins’ family history.

‘Remember the day Grandma tried to blow out the candles on her birthday cake and her false teeth shot out of her mouth and hit Ben in the head?  And the time the bull chased Mark up a tree?  And when the dog ate the sequins off Sara’s prom gown?’

They talked about the holidays they’d shared.  Their pumpkin carving contests.  Caroling in the village.  Easter egg hunts.  Thanksgiving feasts with candied sweet potatoes, sausage stuffing, and cranberry chutney.  And their Fourth of July picnic and bonfire.  It sounded like she’d had an idyllic childhood.  Her family and their funny misadventures sounded like they belonged in a 1950s vintage TV sitcom.

Connor didn’t have fond memories of his childhood.  He’d erased them.  Put them completely out of his mind.  He refused to think about his parents or the life they’d once had.  He didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d lost.  It was too painful.  He might not want to talk about the past, but Lettie sure did.  She regaled Sylvie with stories about Connor and his parents, his first fishing trip, his prowess as a Little League pitcher, the blue ribbon he’d won at a science fair, his riveting role as a camel in a Christmas pageant and his turn as a rat in the Pied Piper of Hamlin.  Connor was embarrassed.  The last thing these people wanted to hear about was him, but he was unable to shut her up.  He had no idea why his aunt was going on so, until he looked over at Sylvie.  Even with the ventilator protruding from her mouth, her lips had turned up in the hint of a smile.

Aunt Lettie was in the middle of one of her stories when Morretti, McCoy and three other men came into the room.  Connor was surprised to see them.  Morretti and McCoy called to check on Sylvie’s condition every day, but he hadn’t seen them since the day after the attack.  They were among the officers who’d come to the hospital to secure evidence and to take photos documenting her injuries.  They were assisting the local law enforcement authorities with their investigation since the cases were linked.  But the three guys in dark suits didn’t look like they were from the local sheriff’s department.

‘How is she?’ Moretti asked.  ‘Any news on when she can be moved?’

That seemed like a strange question.  Connor couldn’t help noticing that the officer seemed troubled.  ‘They’re moving her to Columbia on Wednesday.’

‘That’s good…good,’ he replied, nodding his head.  ‘Can we have a word with you in private?’ he asked.  It wasn’t so much a request as an order.

‘What’s this about?’ Connor asked, looking from Morretti to the other men.

‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions,’ one of the men told him.

‘And who might you be?’ Connor asked, narrowing his eyes.

‘I’m Special Agent Richard Dover from the FBI, and these are my associates Special Agents Joshua Beechum, and Mark Kemper’ he told him, pointing to each man as he said their name.  ‘We need to speak to you about…’

Before he could finish, Lucas cut in.  ‘Whatever you have to say, if it has anything to do with the son of a bitch that did this to my daughter, I want to hear it.’

‘I’m sorry but…’ Dover started, but Lucas cut him off again.

‘But nothing.  I want to know what is going on with the case and what you’re doing to catch the bastard that did this to my little girl.  You want to question him, fine, but you’ll do it in front of me and her brother.  We’re her family.  We have a right to know!’

Dower grimaced.  It was obvious her father wouldn’t be put off.  ‘Alright, if you insist.  Maybe we should step outside.’

Lucas looked at Sylvie and then at Connor.  ‘No!  Here is fine!  Leona, why don’t you and Lettie go take a break and get yourselves some coffee.’

‘Not on your life!’ Lettie replied tartly.  ‘From what I hear, this investigation has been bungled from the start.  For whatever reason, you suspected my nephew from the beginning.  You focused on him instead of looking for the real killer.  And this is the result,’ she said, pointing to Sylvie.  ‘If you think I’ll let you cast suspicion on him again, you’ve got another thing coming!’

Connor smiled.  Lettie was a mite over protective.  She was scowling at the agents and police officers.

‘Very well,’ the agent grudgingly agreed, realizing he’d lost control of this interview.  ‘Mr. Hudson, have you ever been to Peoria?’

‘Illinois?’ Connor asked for clarification.

‘Yes.  Peoria, Illinois.’

‘No.  I don’t think so,’ he responded, wondering why Dover was asking.

‘How about Bismarck, North Dakota or Duluth, Minnesota?’

‘No.  Neither place rings a bell.’

Agent Kemper continued the questions.  ‘Do you know a Margo Lally, Hillary Cummings, or Kirsty Gustafson?’

‘No!’ Connor replied, irritated.  Why were they wasting his time, asking him a bunch of useless questions, when they should be out hunting down the bastard who did this?  ‘What do they have to do with this?’

‘If you’d just bear with me a minute.  I need to show you some photos.’  He moved some floral arrangements to the side and laid down three photographs of attractive young women who looked to be in their mid-twenties.  ‘Do you recognize any of these women?’

Everyone crowded around to see.

‘No.  Should I?’ Connor countered.

‘This one,’ Kemper said pointing to a dark-haired girl, ‘is Margo Lally.  She’s from Bismarck, North Dakota.  She was studying nursing at Bismarck State College.  The blond is Kirsty Gustafson.  She was a kindergarten teacher in Duluth.  The one with the light brown hair is Hillary Cummings.  She worked at the Peoria Zoo.’

Connor eyed him warily.  ‘You used the past tense when describing them.  Did something happen to these women?’

‘First I need to know if you recognize any of them.’

Connor shook his head.  ‘No.  I’ve never seen any of them.  Now do you want to tell me what this is about?’

‘Miss Jenkins was holding a cell phone when you found her.  At first the officers thought it was hers, but it wasn’t.  It belonged to her attacker.  When they examined it, they found some pictures taken of Miss Jenkins.’

‘What?  The bastard took pictures of what he did to her?  I want to see them,’ Connor demanded, his face contorting in rage.

‘Trust me Mr. Hudson, you don’t want to see them.  The photos are obscene.  He posed her in such a way that he could see every burn, every cut, every bruise he inflicted.  He wanted photographs to commemorate the despicable things he’d done to her; how he’d tortured and violated her  A lot of serial killers keep trophies or mementos of their victims.’

Lucas turned away.  His baby!  His poor, poor baby!  Leona grabbed his hand and gently squeezed it.  That small gesture was all she could do for him.  There were no words she could say, nothing she could do to assuage his pain.

‘What do these other women have to do with Sylvie?’  Connor asked, wanting to put an end to this.  He wanted them to leave the family in peace.  He hadn’t told her father or family the specifics of what was done to her.  She’d been brutally beaten, that’s all they knew.  He hadn’t said anything about the burns to her nipples or the fact that she’d been sexually assaulted with an object.  They had enough to deal with.  No purpose was served by telling them all the horrific details.  No father, or brother for that matter, needs to hear something like that.  She had bandages covering most of her body so they never saw evidence of what she’d endured.  McCoy may have told Matt the worst of it.  But if he knew, Matt never let on.

‘Hers weren’t the only pictures we found.  There are similar pictures of other women on the phone,’ Morretti told him.  ‘That’s when we decided to formally call in the FBI.  We had been in contact with them before, but since we had a suspect, we thought we had the investigation pretty much wrapped up, and wouldn’t require their assistance.

‘Yes, I know all about the direction your investigation took.  You were so busy trying to pin the murders on me that you never bothered looking for other suspects,’ he angrily accused Morretti.

‘I’m sorry.  We were obviously mistaken, but all the evidence pointed to you.’

Connor didn’t want to hear excuses or apologies.  It was a little late for that.  ‘What about the women?’ he said testily.

‘We contacted every law enforcement agency in the state to find out if they had any victims that matched the images on the phone.  They didn’t.  We used the criminal data base to check other states and were finally able to identify them.’

‘So what are you telling me?  That the man that hurt Sylvie isn’t the one that killed Marisol?  That it’s a different serial killer?’ he asked incredulously.

‘No.  We’re not saying that at all,’ Agent Dower told him.  We’ve reviewed the files on three of the New York murders: Marisol Vega, Callista Fleming, and Ariel Morgan.  And we’re convinced that all the murders were committed by the same man.’

‘All the murders?’ Connor repeated, trying to let the words sink in.  ‘How can you know that?’

‘He sometimes leaves a calling card on the body.  In this case he carved a small cross between their breasts.  He did it to all seven of these victims, including Miss Jenkins.’

Lucas kept his silence, but his look spoke volumes.  His face was a mask of unbridled fury.  He was planning on killing the bastard.  Matt appeared equally enraged.  He’d been blindsided by the news.  It was evident that McCoy hadn’t shared the details of the attack with him after all.

‘But I don’t know these women.  What reason would he have to kill them?  He’s trying to hurt me by killing people I care about.  Isn’t that what this is about?  First my parents…’  He heard a gasp come from Lettie.  Her face turned ashen.  The news had both shaken and unnerved her.  Warren immediately put a protective arm around her.  Connor hadn’t wanted her to hear it this way.  He’d yet to tell her his parents had been murdered.  It was bad enough knowing they’d perished in a fire, but to learn that it had been deliberately set.  He’d been waiting for the right time to tell her.  But how do you tell someone that their beloved brother was burned alive by a maniac?  He’d never intended to spring it on her like this, but it was too late now, the damage was done.  He focused his attention on Special Agent Dower and continued.  ‘Then Marisol, then the others.  It’s some kind of perverted revenge.  So how do these women figure into that?  Why would he kill them?’

‘Because he can.  Because he likes it,’ Dower told him.  There was no use soft-pedaling it.  ‘Yes, he probably does have a grudge against you, either real or perceived; but somewhere along the line, this became less about exacting revenge on you and more about the pleasure he derives from the hunt, the torture, and the kill.’

‘So you’re telling me he’s responsible for 10 murders?’  Connor asked horrified.

Dower sighed in resignation.  ‘Mr. Hudson, have you ever been to Rockport, Texas; Redlands, California; Golden, Colorado; Prescott, Arizona; Manhattan, Kansas; St. Augustine, Florida; Cody, Wyoming; Ketchum, Idaho; or Coos Bay, Oregon?’

Connor’s eyes widened in utter disbelief.  He could see where this was going.  ‘I don’t think so?  Wait!  No.  I’ve been skiing at Sun Valley.  That’s near Ketchum.  And Breckenridge.  That’s near Golden I think.’

‘Could you please look at these pictures for me Mr. Hudson?  Does anyone look at all familiar?’

Connor looked at the pictures of smiling, happy, young women, and shook his head in regret.  ‘Were they all murdered by the same killer?’

‘I’m afraid so.  Please.  I need you to tell me if you know any of them.’

‘No.  I’ve never seen any of these women before.  Did he carve crosses on all of them?  How was it that no one connected the murders before this?’

‘He’s clever.  Except for the murders here, he usually strikes in small towns or cities where the police departments have little experience investigating these kinds of murders,’ Dower explained.  He varies what he does to his victims.  So unless you knew what to look for, you wouldn’t see the pattern.  He likes to blindfold his victims in some way, covering their eyes with scarves, sleep masks, pillow cases, or duct tape.  He frequently places them on a home-made cross or ties them spread-eagled on a bed.  But not always.  He uses various stun guns to create distinct, often intricate designs on different parts of their bodies.  Sometimes on the legs, sometimes on the back, sometimes the breasts.  He’s known to carve a variety of symbols on their skin.  He’s particularly fond of pentagrams and crosses, but has also carved the symbols for man, woman, birth, and infinity.  As well as moons, suns, swastikas and an ankh.  He often burns them with cigars or cigarettes.  He splashed at least one with lye, and burned another with lighter fluid.  He’s a sadistic sociopath.  He’s punched, kicked, and stomped some,  literally beating them to death.  Others he’s repeatedly stabbed and slashed.  Those attacks appear to be the most frenzied.  He garroted one and suffocated two others with plastic bags.  He customarily finishes them off by bludgeoning them with a hammer or some other heavy object, bashing in their skulls.  Then he usually starts a fire and burns the house down around them when he leaves.  He’s managed to continue killing all this time because he’s a chameleon.  No two murders are exactly alike, so it’s been difficult to connect one to another.  We know the victims in New York State weren’t chosen at random, but we’re not sure about the others.  He comes prepared to kill; so we think he stalks his victims first; but we don’t know that for certain.  He’s never left any evidence up until now.  Miss Jenkins is probably alive now because she had the presence of mind to dispose of some of his ‘tools.’

‘I don’t understand.  What do you mean?  How could she dispose of anything?’

‘Apparently, she discovered he was in the house before he grabbed her, but was unable to flee; so she burned some of his things in the woodstove and the oven.  Brackets from a cross he’d fashioned were found in the woodstove and various tools, scalpels, ropes, plastic bags, and other items were found burned in the oven.  We discovered three empty bottles in the sink.  Miss Jenkins’ fingerprints were on them.  They’d contained acid and lye.  She’d dumped them down the drain.  Her quick thinking probably helped her survive.

Big tears were rolling down both Lucas’ and Leona’s faces.  Matt was standing ramrod straight, the muscles of his jaw clenched tight.

‘Does Miss Jenkins know how to shoot a gun?’ Dower asked.

‘She said she did,’ Connor responded.

‘She’s a damn good shot,’ Lucas told him.  ‘Why do you ask?’

‘We found several guns at the house.  We know the killer used a rifle to fire on the deputy.  But we also found shell casings from a revolver.  It had recently been fired.  The prints on it indicate that Miss Jenkins was the one who fired it.’

‘I don’t understand.  If she shot at the bastard, she wouldn’t have missed,’ Lucas told him.

‘We’re wondering about that.  Wondering where those bullets wound up.  You see, we can’t find any bullet holes,’ Dower said

‘She shot him?’  Connor couldn’t believe it.

‘We can’t be sure of that.  We didn’t find any blood evidence.  All the blood at the scene came from Miss Jenkins.’  Dower paused, looking very uncomfortable.  ‘There’s something we need to discuss with you.’

‘What?’ Connor asked.

‘We believe the killer has been calling hospitals trying to find out where Miss Jenkins is.’  Everyone’s eyes were suddenly riveted on him.  ‘We’ve contacted hospitals in a 100 mile radius and asked them to be on the alert for any calls coming in asking about Miss Jenkins by name, or by the date she was admitted, or by the type of traumatic injuries she sustained.  Thus far we’ve heard from eight hospitals reporting such calls…including this one.  The faces staring at him reflected a mixture of worry and dread.  ‘The first calls we learned about were made to hospitals in Manhattan.  But the last few have been upstate.  We only started checking with the hospitals four days ago, so we don’t know how many he may have called prior to that.  Unfortunately, there’s no way to trace the calls.’

‘She’s safe in the hospital isn’t she?’ Lettie asked, worried.  ‘He wouldn’t dare come here.’

‘What aren’t you telling us?’ Matt demanded.

‘Miss Jenkins isn’t the only victim who survived the initial attack,’ Beechum volunteered.

‘What the hell do you mean initial,’ Connor demanded, turning on the agent.

‘The woman in Bismarck survived too.  But four days later there was a fire in her hospital room and she burned to death.  Investigators found evidence that an accelerant had been used to set the fire.’

‘Oh my God!’ Lettie cried.

‘So what do we do?’ Lucas asked angrily.  ‘How are we supposed to keep her safe?’

‘You do what you were going to do.  You move her to another hospital.’

‘I’ll bring an army of guards to watch over her,’ Connor told him, his voice rising.  ‘That son of a bitch won’t get anywhere near her.  If I have to kill him myself!’

‘The guards will certainly help.  But I wouldn’t put anything past this man.  He’s a crazed killer who’s been playing God a long time and he will do whatever it takes to maintain that delusion, even if he has to kill, burn, and maim an entire hospital full of people to insure that his victim dies as planned.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Connor wailed.  ‘She needs to be in a hospital!  She nearly died and she’s not out of the woods yet!’

‘We know that Mr. Hudson,’ Dower said, trying to calm him, ‘But in order to insure that no more lives are put in jeopardy, I think you need to rethink your plans to transfer Miss Jenkins to a large, well-known hospital in the city.  That’s the first place he’ll look.  You need to move her to a hospital that’s off the beaten path.  Somewhere small that’s not on his radar.  A place he’d never think to look.’

Lettie was crying.

‘Don’t worry Cara Mia.  Leave it to me.  I will make inquiries.’  And with that Warren left the room.

Connor was too angry to think straight.  He needed to get her out of here.  The conversation continued, but Connor didn’t hear a word.

He felt someone touch his arm.  It was Morretti.  ‘Miss Jenkins called me the morning of the attack.  She left a message on my voicemail, saying she wanted to talk to me about an earlier murder that she thought was connected.  Do you know what she was talking about?’

‘An earlier murder?’  Connor looked at him blankly then shook his head.  ‘No.  I have no idea.’

‘Well if you think of something.  You let me know.  Once you finalize your plans,  you need to give us a heads-up.  We can escort the ambulance to assure you’re not followed.  You might want to consider using a van though.  It’ll be less conspicuous.  I know you have your own security teams; but we’re ready and willing to assist you however and whenever we can.  I can’t tell you how sorry I am this happened to her.  I swear to you we’re doing everything we can to hunt this scum down and make him pay for what he’s done!’

Connor nodded and thanked him.  A minute later the officers and agents left.  Lucas, Matt, and Connor stared at each other.  There was no time for hostilities or recriminations.  They had work to do.  Plans to make.  Sylvie’s life depended on it!