Chapter 19
“It’s not as if we didn’t already know
that both of us or either of us could be targeted as one of the
killer’s next victims,” Derek said. “My guess is that he’ll
gradually deviate more and more from the original Carver’s MO, so
having brown eyes eventually won’t protect us.”
“Your putting my thoughts into words
makes it seem more real.” Maleah eased back into the comfort of the
sofa.
He squeezed her shoulder. “I try not to
think about it. Besides, my guess is that your being jerked around
by Browning is what the copycat killer wants, not your death. At
least not yet.”
“Maybe.” She looked into Derek’s black
eyes. Her stomach tightened. “What about you? What’s your role in
all this craziness?”
“I’m the profiler. He knows my
background. I’d lay odds on it. And it’s just possible that he
wants me to profile him.”
“Why would he—?”
“He’s giving me clues to who he is and
it’s up to me to decide which clues are true and which are
false.”
Absently, Derek massaged her shoulder,
his touch seeming instinctive, as if he was barely aware of what he
was doing. She knew she should pull away, tell him to stop. But she
didn’t. She leaned back against the sofa cushion and closed her
eyes.
From the moment she had met Derek, she
had been aware of the tension between them. And spending so much
time with him these past few months had increased that live wire,
just-below-the-surface unease she felt when he was anywhere near
her. But on the other hand, as they had become better acquainted,
her initial opinion of him had altered, at least somewhat. She had
a greater respect for him, for his intelligence and his wit. She’d
even gotten use to the way he kidded her.
“We’re dealing with two, maybe three,
separate people,” Derek told her. “The copycat is playing Browning,
using him, and it’s possible that Browning isn’t aware that he’s
been used. I’m not sure how much Browning knows, if
anything.”
“That’s my job, isn’t it, to find out
what Browning knows.” She opened her eyes and glanced at
Derek.
“Yeah, that’s your job and we both know
he’s not going to make it easy for you.”
The gentle, continuous touch of his
hand on her shoulder changed from soothing to arousing. She didn’t
know if that was his intention or just her reaction, but either
way, she had to put a stop to it. Without making a big deal of it,
she slowly pulled away from him.
“You said there were three separate
people involved. There are Browning and the Copycat Carver. Who is
the third person?”
“I said possible
third person.”
“Okay, if you want to split hairs, who
is the possible third person?”
“Two scenarios,” Derek explained.
“First, the Copycat Carver is the man behind everything. He’s
working alone targeting Powell agents and members of their
families, probably as a direct act of revenge against Griff and /
or Nicole.”
Maleah nodded. “And scenario number two
is?”
“Someone else is the brains of the
operation and he or she is the one controlling the copycat and
Browning while keeping his or her hands clean.”
“That’s Griff’s theory—the Malcolm York
imposter is the Svengali puppeteer pulling all the
strings.”
“And Griff could be right. If he is . .
.”
Maleah waited for Derek to finish his
thought, but when he didn’t, she asked, “If Griff is right, then
even if we track down the copycat and stop him, this won’t be over,
will it?”
“We know Browning is a psychopath and
my guess is that the copycat is, too. Working up a profile on the
copycat is possible, but the third person—if there is a third
person—is an unknown. He could be a she. He could be anywhere in
the world, making it almost impossible for us to find him,
especially if he has unlimited resources.”
“How likely is that scenario?” Maleah
asked, hoping Derek would dismiss it as an unlikely
theory.
“I’d say between the two scenarios,
it’s fifty/fifty.”
“Damn,” Maleah mumbled. “So how do we
find out exactly who and what we’re dealing with?”
“You know the answer to that
question.”
“We have to find the
copycat.”
“That’s our job. Yours and mine,
working as a team, with the power of the Powell Agency behind us,”
Derek said. “And it’s Luke Sentell’s job to find out if the Malcolm
York imposter is a real person or if rumors about him are just
that, rumors, and nothing more.”
Maleah yawned. “Sorry.”
“You’re tired. Maybe you should go back
to your room and get a good night’s sleep.”
“No, I’m okay. I thought you were going
to use me as a sounding board, bounce your thoughts off
me.”
He grinned. Her stomach did a wicked
flip-flop. As if realizing the effect he had on her, he
chuckled.
Damn it! Damn
him!
“If you say one thing . . .” she warned
him.
“Oh, honey . . . er . . . sorry.
Scratch that endearment. Not honey. Let me rephrase.”
“Just skip it, will you. Stop smiling
at me. Get serious.”
“A little levity isn’t a bad thing, not
when it’s easy to get sucked into the kind of darkness these evil
bastards inhabit.”
She stared at him. “Is that how you see
them, the Carver and the copycat, as evil?”
“In a sense, yes, they are evil. Not
the they’repossessed-by-the-devil kind of evil, but evil in an all
too human way. Psychopaths and sociopaths have mental disorders.
Some can be treated through therapy and medication, if diagnosed.
Some become killers. It is believed that these people lack a
conscience and feel no remorse or guilt.”
“Do you agree with psychiatrists who
believe that sociopaths are a result of environment and psychopaths
are a result of heredity?”
“There’s too much controversy in the
mental health field regarding the differences between sociopaths
and psychopaths for me to take sides on that issue,” Derek said.
“Most clinicians use the ‘antisocial personality disorder’
diagnosis these days to describe both.”
“And yet you refer to Browning and the
copycat as psychopaths.”
“Browning’s doctors put that label on
him, not me. But I do agree. As for the copycat, I’m going on gut
instinct. This guy has to be highly organized. He thinks ahead,
plans ahead, doesn’t do anything erratic or
unplanned.”
“Even if someone else is telling him
what to do, as would be the case in scenario number
two?”
“If there is a third person who is in
charge, he would hardly choose a loose cannon to do his dirty work,
would he?”
“You’re right. He would choose someone
capable of taking orders, and someone who wouldn’t draw attention
to himself by acting in an irrational manner.”
“It’s not uncommon for many killers to
show signs of both the psychopath’s and the sociopath’s
characteristics, but each usually leans more in one direction than
the other.”
“You believe that our guy leans more
toward the psychopath’s characteristics, right?”
“Right. So my profile starts there. The
Copycat Carver is organized, possibly obsessively organized. He
will be difficult to catch because he does nothing on the spur of
the moment. He plans each step of his kills and makes sure he
leaves behind no clues.”
“And he certainly has no problem using
other people, without remorse or guilt, to achieve his
goals.”
“Our killer is probably above average
in intelligence, just as Browning is. The victims are strangers to
him, just as Browning’s Carver victims were strangers. Browning
deviated from the psychopath’s norm by leaving the bodies in plain
view.”
“And the copycat has done exactly the
same thing.”
“He is a copycat.”
Maleah nodded. “I know. It’s just . . .
Damn it, there’s something off about this whole thing. I can’t put
my finger on it, but it’s there, if only I could figure out what it
is.”
“I agree. That’s why the more I think
about everything, the more I’m beginning to wonder about the
copycat’s role in these murders.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s obviously intelligent, organized,
mobile, skilled, has no ties to his victims, and no problem using
murder to tie up loose ends. To date, he has mimicked Jerome
Browning’s murder MO five times. He strangled Wyman Scudder with
the skill of a trained solider and he shot Cindy Di Blasi with the
expertise of a professional.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Maleah realized
that the truth had been staring them in the face all along. “The
copycat is a professional.”
“Yes, I think he is. He’s not a typical
serial killer, actually not even a true copycat killer. He is, most
likely, a hired killer.”
“A hit man.”
“Yes, an assassin, bought and paid for
by our third person.”
“Then Griff’s been right all along,
hasn’t he?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean maybe?” she
asked.
“Even if our guy is a professional
assassin, that doesn’t mean someone calling himself Malcolm York is
his boss. Anyone with a grudge against Griff—or Nic for that
matter—could have hired him.”
Maleah yawned again. “Sorry, I guess I
am getting a little sleepy.”
“Let’s call it a night.”
“No, not yet. I should be good for a
while longer. I can’t stop thinking about your profile of the
copycat or the fact that we agree he could be a professional
killer.” Maleah kicked off her shoes, brought her bent left leg up
on the sofa and crossed her right leg over the left. Relaxing her
shoulders between the sofa back and the padded armrest, she faced
Derek. “So, tell me how you go about profiling a professional
killer?”
“One size doesn’t fit all,” Derek said.
“Although I believe it’s the consensus of law enforcement and
psychiatrists that for the most part, all professional assassins
have at least one thing in common—the thrill of
killing.”
Maleah shivered. The thought that
anyone could derive pleasure from murdering another human being was
an alien concept for her. “Are all professional killers
psychopaths?”
“No, not in the strictest sense. For
some of these killers it’s a matter of showing their control
because having that kind of power—power over life and death—gives
them an unparalleled rush, an excitement they can get no other
way.”
“My God, that is so sick, but you say
all of them aren’t mentally ill, that they aren’t
crazy.”
“Each of us has within us the ability
to kill,” Derek said. “Given the right circumstances, you or I
could and would kill. The difference is that most of us would not
derive pleasure from the act. It would be in self-defense or to
protect someone else. Or as soldiers do every day, we would be
willing to kill or die for our country, for a cause we believe
in.”
“But a soldier killing in wartime is
different.”
“Yes, it is. And yet . .
.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just . . .”
“Something you want to share?” She
stared at him.
He shook his head. “No, not
really.”
When she continued staring at him, he
glanced away, breaking direct eye contact. “When I was in my late
teens and early twenties, I bummed around the world on my own,
putting as much distance between myself and my family as I possibly
could. Not long after I turned twenty, I found myself flat broke. I
was damned and determined not to touch my trust fund, so I did
something really stupid.”
“I can’t imagine your doing anything
stupid. Not you.” Without giving her actions a thought, she reached
up on the sofa back and laid her hand over his.
He tensed the moment she touched him.
She eased her hand away.
“I joined a group of guys I met up with
when I was in Europe, some real badasses, and I thought I was as
mean and tough as they were so I sort of bluffed my way into their
circle. They were mercenaries of a sort, most of them former
soldiers. They weren’t all that particular about who joined them.
As long as I kept my mouth shut and did what I was told, we got
along fine. I spent nearly ten months with them.” He looked into
her eyes. “You’ve never killed anyone, have you,
Maleah?”
“No, I haven’t. But I have been in
several situations where I’ve had to return fire. And a few years
ago, I was shot and spent some time in the hospital.”
“I remember. I was working strictly
freelance at the time. I consulted on that case. Rick Carson was
the Powell agent in charge.”
“That’s right.”
They sat there in silence for a few
moments before Derek said, “I have killed. I’ve killed more than
just one person.”
“When you were working with those
mercenaries?”
“Yeah. The first time I killed a man, I
was scared to death. We’d been hired by a family to rescue a kidnap
victim. I thought of myself as one of the good guys and the man I
killed as one of the bad guys. The second time I killed a man, I
wasn’t quite as scared and eventually, it got easier. And finally
it became too easy. I began hating myself. That’s when I got out,
changed my life around and came home to the U.S.”
Maleah looked at Derek Lawrence with a
greater insight into the person he really was, not the man she
thought he was. Why he had chosen to share with her what was
obviously painful memories about his youthful walk on the wild
side, she didn’t know. But she was glad he had. Seeing him now, all
sleek and sophisticated with his expensive haircuts, his designer
clothes, his air of casual elegance, she never would have
thought—not in a million years—that he had ever been a soldier of
fortune when he was very young and apparently very
stupid.
She would never again be able to look
at him and see only an arrogant playboy.
“I really don’t know you at all, do I?”
She couldn’t take her eyes off him because she felt that she was
seeing him for the first time.
“Sure you do, hon—” He broke off
mid-word. “You know me. Sometimes I feel as if you can see straight
through me.” He grinned, the motion forced and self-mocking. “Now,
you know me a little better. I’ve given you more weapons in your
arsenal of reasons to dislike me.”
“Is that what you think, that I look
for reasons to dislike you?”
“Don’t you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Tell me one thing you like about me,”
he challenged.
“I’m not playing this game with you.”
She sat up straight and halfway rose to her feet.
He grabbed her upper arms and forced
her back down on the sofa. “Just tell me one thing you like about
me and I’ll let you go.” He kept a tight hold on her.
She didn’t fight him, didn’t even
squirm. “I like your silver Corvette.”
His lips twitched. “That’s something I
own. Try again.”
His tenacious hold loosened ever so
slightly.
“I like . . .” Her mind went blank. He
was staring at her with such intensity, as if her answer meant a
great deal to him. But that wasn’t possible, was it? Derek didn’t
really give a damn what she or anyone else thought of
him.
“You like what?” he asked. “My good
looks? My winning personality? My magnificent body? My keen
intellect?”
“Yes.” She swallowed hard.
“Yes, what? Be specific.”
“Yes, I like your looks, your body,
your intellect and your personality, too, except for the macho
he-man part that fights me for control and tries to put me in my
place.”
What is the point of
lying? He already knows how I feel about him.
“And what do you believe I think your
place is?” He slid his left hand down her arm and slipped it around
her waist, then moved his right hand up to circle the back of her
neck.
Keeping her eyes focused on him to show
him that he didn’t intimidate her, she replied, “You think I should
be a helpless, needy female who can’t survive without a big strong
man like you to lean on, to support me, and to make my decisions
for me.”
When Derek laughed, she felt as if he
had thrown ice water over her head.
“What’s so damn funny?”
“You are, Blondie. You have no idea how
wrong you are. Would I like to see you all soft and feminine, yeah,
sure I would. But you could never be helpless and needy. That’s not
who you are, thank goodness. You’re tough, outspoken, and
independent. And those are things I like about you.”
She stared at him with wide-eyed
disbelief.
“And FYI—I like your pretty face, your
gorgeous body, and your sharp mind.” With his hand at the back of
her neck, he drew her closer and closer.
He’s going to kiss me.
God help us both! What do I do?
You resist, you idiot,
that’s what you do.
But she didn’t resist. “What about my
personality?” she asked, her voice husky with emotion.
“I like your personality, except . . .”
He brought his mouth close to hers.
“Except?” she asked, her lips parting
in anticipation.
“I forget,” he told her.
And then he kissed her. A tender
marauding that claimed her mouth.
Mercy
Lord.
She kissed him back. Kissed him with
equal hunger and need and passion. Not until that very moment did
she realize exactly how much she had wanted Derek to kiss
her.