A cry for help, p.7
A CRY FOR HELP, page 7
"We've got company besides the police," I said, my voice tighter than I intended. "Victor Reeves is back there watching."
Matt's hands gripped the steering wheel harder, knuckles whitening. "The security contractor? The one with the temper?"
"And the collection of crime scene photos. Yes." The image of Reeves standing motionless under the harsh glow of the streetlamp burned in my mind. He hadn't been trying to hide. If anything, he'd positioned himself to be seen.
The silver snake ring on his finger had caught the light as he'd watched us flee—the same ring that had left distinctive bruising patterns on three different women who'd filed restraining orders against him. During the investigation years ago, I'd noted his meticulous collection of newspaper clippings detailing violent crimes, stored in labeled binders in his apartment. "Research," he'd called it. Among law enforcement, he was nicknamed "The Collector" for his disturbing hobby.
Matt drove with controlled aggression, taking sharp turns down unlit back roads, cutting through an abandoned parking lot, doubling back along a service road behind a row of warehouses. The truck's suspension protested each maneuver, metal groaning beneath us. My fingers gripped the cracked vinyl of the dashboard as we bounced through a pothole deep enough to lift us from our seats momentarily.
"Trying to break any pattern," Matt explained unnecessarily. "If anyone's following, they'll expect us to head straight out of town."
I nodded, dividing my attention between the side mirror and the road ahead. No headlights appeared behind us. No police sirens wailed in the distance. The quiet felt almost more threatening than pursuit.
The truck's headlights carved a narrow path through absolute darkness as Matt turned onto what appeared to be a logging road, trees pressing close on either side. My body tensed with each curve, anticipating the flash of lights or the sudden appearance of a roadblock. Twenty years of chasing suspects had taught me all the standard containment protocols. Now those same protocols were being used against me.
Rule Three of The Profiler's Code echoed in my mind: Maintain emotional distance. A profiler who becomes emotionally invested loses objectivity and risks missing crucial details. I'd taught that rule to trainees and had lived by it during countless investigations. How could I maintain emotional distance when I was the subject of the manhunt? When every instinct for self-preservation screamed against the detachment my training demanded?
I forced myself to breathe deeply, to analyze rather than react. Victor Reeves had appeared too conveniently. His presence suggested either incredible luck or deliberate planning. Given everything else that had happened—the planted body, the taillight sabotage—luck seemed increasingly unlikely.
"Reeves fits the profile," I said, thinking aloud. "He has a history of violence, a fascination with crime scenes, and a grudge against me personally for the investigation and for putting him away."
My analytical mind continued dissecting possibilities even as my body betrayed me with physical responses to fear—elevated heart rate, cold sweat beading along my hairline, the slight tremor in my hands that I tried to hide by clenching them into fists. I'd interviewed countless killers, had stared into the eyes of people who'd committed unspeakable acts, all without losing my professional composure. But this was different. This time, I wasn't just the profiler. I was the prey.
Matt reached over, his right hand briefly squeezing mine before returning to the wheel. The simple gesture of connection grounded me, pulling me back from the edge of my spiraling thoughts. His face remained focused on the road ahead, but that momentary touch conveyed everything words couldn't—we were in this together, we would find a way through, we had each other when we had nothing else.
The truck climbed a gentle rise, its engine straining against the incline. At the crest, Matt killed the headlights, and we continued in darkness, guided only by ambient moonlight filtering through the trees. Below us, the twinkling lights of Tampa are now a place of danger. Somewhere in that sprawl of light and shadow were answers—and people determined to stop us from finding them.
As we descended the far side of the rise, disappearing into the protective darkness of the forest, I thought about Victor Reeves standing under that streetlamp, his silver ring catching the light. Had he been there as a participant in the frame against me, or as a messenger? Either way, his presence confirmed what I'd already suspected—someone was watching our every move, anticipating our decisions, using my own profiling techniques against me.
Chapter 15
THEN:
Ann's fingers tapped a rhythmic pattern against the laminated order pad as she watched the wall clock tick its way toward 1:15. The minute hand seemed to move with deliberate slowness, as if aware of her scrutiny. Three days now. Three consecutive days, Marcus Hale had appeared at exactly 1:15, requested her section, ordered black coffee with one sugar, and watched her every move until precisely 2:00, when he would leave, leaving behind a too-generous tip and the weight of his attention that lingered long after he was gone.
The lunch rush swirled around her—families with fussy children, businesspeople with laptops open beside their plates, the regular crowd of office workers from the building across the street. Ann moved between tables with practiced efficiency, but her eyes kept returning to the clock, to the front door, to the empty four-top in the corner of her section.
1:13. She refilled water glasses at table twelve, her hands steady despite the flutter in her chest.
1:14. She delivered a club sandwich and fries to the man in the blue tie, smiling automatically at his thanks.
1:15. The door opened.
Marcus stood in the entrance, uniform crisp, posture military-straight. His eyes found hers immediately, as if drawn by some magnetic force. Ann felt a jolt of excitement.
The hostess approached him, menu in hand. Ann watched their exchange from across the room, saw the hostess glance at her section, saw the slight shake of her head as she consulted her seating chart. A ten-minute wait for Ann's section. Other sections had immediate availability.
Marcus said something, his expression pleasant but firm. The hostess looked toward Ann again, then nodded reluctantly. He would wait for Ann's section just as he had yesterday. And the day before.
"Your cop's back," Miriam appeared at Ann's elbow, voice low and teasing. "Right on time. Man's punctual, I'll give him that."
Ann's smile felt stiff on her face. "He's not my cop."
"Tell that to the way he looks at you." Miriam nudged her playfully as they both retreated to the service station. "Like you're the only menu item he's interested in."
The metaphor made Ann's skin prickle uncomfortably. "Don't you think it's weird? He comes in at exactly 1:15 every single day and only wants my section."
Miriam shrugged, reaching past Ann for a stack of napkins. "I think it's flattering. Guy's obviously into you."
"But the timing. Always 1:15. Never 1:14, never 1:16." Ann's fingers had resumed their tapping against the order pad. "And that first day, then pulling me over the next morning, then back here again…."
"Some guys are creatures of habit. And the traffic stop was just a coincidence." Miriam glanced over at Marcus, who had taken a seat in the waiting area, his eyes never leaving Ann. "Besides, he tips well, right? And he's not grabby or creepy like some customers. I think you should count yourself lucky."
“I guess so.”
But there was something about the constancy of his gaze that felt more invasive than a wandering hand ever could. Ann nodded distractedly, moving to clear a recently vacated table in her section. The sooner she cleaned it, the sooner Marcus would be seated.
As she wiped down the table, she felt his eyes on her back—a tangible weight between her shoulder blades. She'd once found his attention thrilling. Now, as it continued day after day, minute after precise minute, something about it felt less like admiration and more like… surveillance.
The hostess approached with Marcus in tow. "Table for one," she announced, setting down a menu with more force than necessary. Ann suspected the hostess didn't appreciate being overridden about the seating arrangement.
"Officer Hale," Ann said, the name sticking slightly in her throat. "Nice to see you again."
"Ann." He smiled, transforming his features from severe to almost charming. Almost. "How are you today?"
"Fine, thank you." The script was the same each day. "Coffee, black with one sugar?"
"You remember." His smile deepened, as if pleased by this evidence of her attention. "Yes, please."
As Ann turned toward the coffee station, a commotion erupted from table twenty. A red-faced man in an expensive suit was gesturing angrily at his plate, his voice carrying across the restaurant.
"This is raw! Completely raw in the middle! Are you trying to poison me?"
Ann detoured smoothly, approaching the table with her professional smile firmly in place. "I'm so sorry about that, sir. Let me take this back to the kitchen immediately."
"Sorry doesn't cut it!" The man's voice rose further, attracting stares from nearby diners. "I'm on a tight schedule. I don't have time for incompetence."
"Of course, sir. I'll have Chef rush a new order for you." Ann maintained her calm tone despite the man's increasing volume. "And we'll certainly remove this from your bill."
"You're damn right you will!" He pushed the plate toward her, causing some of the sauce to slosh onto the tablecloth.
Ann was acutely aware of Marcus watching this exchange, his gaze a physical pressure on her skin. She handled the plate carefully, apologized once more, and retreated to the kitchen, feeling Marcus's eyes tracking her all the way to the swinging door.
In the kitchen's relative safety, she exhaled shakily.
"Problems?" Chef Cho asked, eyeing the returned plate.
"Table twenty says it's raw." Ann set down the offending steak, which looked perfectly medium-rare to her experienced eye.
Chef Cho prodded it with a knife, face impassive. "Customer's always right," she said flatly, though her expression suggested the opposite. "I'll make another, well-done this time."
When Ann returned to the dining room, Marcus's coffee was her priority. As she set the cup before him, she noticed anew how he had positioned himself—back to the wall, facing both her section and the front entrance. It was a positioning she'd seen him take each visit, a detail she'd mentally filed away alongside his consistent arrival time and coffee order.
"Thank you," he said, his eyes never leaving her face. "Everything okay with that table?"
"Just a cooking preference issue." Ann's smile felt stretched across her face. "Can I get you anything else?"
"Just the coffee for now." The same answer as always. He never ordered food; that was only the first time. Now, he just nursed the single coffee for exactly 45 minutes.
As Ann dealt with the angry customer—delivering his well-done steak with profuse apologies, offering free dessert, enduring his continued muttering—she felt Marcus's eyes following her every movement. When she served other tables, when she chatted with Miriam, when she refilled salt shakers at the service station. Always watching, always tracking.
By the time 2:00 arrived and Marcus rose to leave, Ann's shoulders had knotted into tight coils of tension. He paid his check—$2.50 for the coffee, $10 tip—and gave her that same smile that had once made her heart race but now made her pulse quicken for entirely different reasons.
"See you tomorrow, Ann," he said. Not a question, but a statement of fact.
Ann's shoulders ached as she punched out for the day, the tension that had accumulated during her shift settling into a knot in her stomach. Six hours of serving, smiling, and feeling Marcus's eyes on her had left her physically drained and mentally frayed. The employee lounge suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in, and she hurried to gather her purse and jacket, eager for the relative safety of her car, her apartment, her locked door.
"See you tomorrow!" Miriam called from the break room table where she was counting her tips.
Ann managed a tight smile. "Yeah, see you."
"You sure you're okay?" Miriam's brow furrowed with concern. "You've been jumpy all day."
"Just tired," Ann lied, the words feeling hollow even to her own ears. She pushed through the back door before Miriam could press further.
The employee parking lot was half-empty now, the afternoon shift having replaced the lunch crew. Ann's car waited in its usual spot, unremarkable among the other vehicles. She walked quickly, keys clutched in her right hand with the longest key protruding between her fingers.
Each step on the asphalt seemed to echo too loudly. Ann glanced over her shoulder twice before reaching her car, though the parking lot contained nothing more threatening than a stray paper bag tumbling in the breeze. She unlocked her car, slid inside, and immediately pressed the lock button, the solid thunk of the mechanisms engaging providing momentary comfort.
For several seconds, she sat motionless, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing. Marcus's face appeared in her mind—his watchful eyes, his precise movements, his smile. Three days of the same routine. The traffic stop that couldn't have been a coincidence.
Ann started her car, the engine's familiar rattle grounding her slightly. She was being ridiculous. Plenty of people had routines. Plenty of cops regularly patronized the same restaurants. It didn't mean anything.
She backed out of her parking space and headed for the exit, following her usual route home—left onto Maple, right at the second light onto Westfield Avenue. The flow of afternoon traffic enveloped her car, anonymity providing a sense of security that began to ease the tightness in her chest.
At the first stoplight, Ann glanced in her rearview mirror—a habitual check that became anything but routine when she spotted the white and blue patrol car two vehicles behind her. Her hands clenched involuntarily on the steering wheel, knuckles blanching white against the black vinyl.
"It's not him," she whispered to herself. "It can't be him." But she couldn't see the driver clearly through the windshield glare, couldn't confirm or deny her suspicion.
The light changed. Ann accelerated, perhaps a touch too quickly, earning an irritated horn blast from the car beside her. She eased off the gas, forcing herself to drive normally. Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again. The patrol car remained two vehicles back.
At the next intersection, one of the cars between Ann and the patrol car turned right. Now, only one vehicle separated them. Ann's breathing grew shallow, her chest tight with each inhaled breath. She turned left onto Henderson Street—still her regular route home, nothing unusual, nothing that would suggest she was aware of being followed.
The car between them turned into a strip mall parking lot.
Now the patrol car was directly behind her.
Ann's fingers tightened further on the steering wheel, her knuckles now bloodless. She could feel her pulse in her temples, a rapid drumming that seemed to match the frantic pace of her thoughts. Was it Marcus? Was he following her? Or was this an ordinary patrol, a coincidence that her paranoia was transforming into something sinister?
Three consecutive intersections, and the patrol car remained behind her. Not tailgating, not flashing lights, just… present. Persistent. Following the same route she took every day from work to home.
The route Marcus would know if he'd been watching her.
Ann made a decision that felt like it belonged to someone else—someone braver or more foolish than she considered herself to be. At the next intersection, instead of continuing straight toward her apartment complex, she turned right, toward the grocery store she occasionally visited but hadn't planned to stop at today.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she watched the rearview mirror, waiting to see if the patrol car would make the same unexpected turn.
It didn't.
The police cruiser continued straight ahead, growing smaller in her mirror until it disappeared from view altogether. Ann pulled into the grocery store parking lot, steering into a space near the back, and killed the engine. For several long moments, she simply sat there, hands trembling slightly as she released her death grip on the steering wheel.
"You're overreacting," she told her reflection in the rearview mirror. "It's a patrol car. They patrol. That's literally their job."
But the rational explanation did nothing to slow her racing heart or ease the tightness in her chest. Ann forced herself to take several deep breaths—in through the nose, out through the mouth. Gradually, her pulse slowed, though her hands continued to tremble.
After five minutes, she started the car again and pulled back onto the road, resuming her route home. Every few seconds, her eyes darted to the rearview mirror, checking for white and blue vehicles. Each mirror check became more frantic than the last—side mirror, rearview, other side mirror, rearview again—a compulsive pattern that left little attention for the actual road ahead.
A siren wailed in the distance, the sound faint but unmistakable. Ann jolted so violently that her car swerved, crossing briefly into the opposite lane before she corrected with a jerky motion of the wheel. A horn blared as an oncoming car passed, its driver gesturing angrily through the windshield.
"Sorry," she whispered, though no one could hear her. "I'm sorry."
The siren grew fainter, headed in another direction, responding to some emergency that had nothing to do with her. Ann forced herself to focus on driving, on maintaining a steady speed, on signaling properly for turns—all the mundane details of operating a vehicle that had never required conscious thought before.
By the time she turned into her apartment complex, her shirt was damp with sweat despite the car's air conditioning. She scanned the parking area before pulling into her assigned space, checking for patrol cars, for unmarked vehicles that might contain watching eyes, for anything out of the ordinary.
Nothing seemed amiss, yet Ann couldn't shake the feeling of exposure as she walked from her car to her building, keys clutched in her defensive grip once more. She found herself looking over her shoulder every few steps, scanning rooftops and parked cars for any sign of surveillance.
