Chapter One

Baltimore, Maryland

Present Day

Frank McGuire slipped from the seat of his Denali and dashed up the steps of an unobtrusive brownstone in the heart of the city. The structure had seen better days. Suffering from years of neglect, the gray brick façade had faded, and the once pristine white shutters were blistered and losing paint like a snake shedding its skin The brick steps sagged precariously to the left, and the white newel posts and railing─like the shutters─were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. The relatively new sign above the front door, however, would pass the most scrupulous of inspections: F. McGuire, Private Investigator.

He remembered the day he hung the shingle, two days after Quinn Brennan’s funeral. After five years of service, Frank turned in his badge and walked away from Baltimore’s police force. The first year of duty, he worked street patrol in the seedy bowels of the city. His break arrived the day Detective Quinn Brennan took a particular interest in him and the glowing reports circulating through the department about the drug busts Frank had spearheaded. Before he knew it, Quinn took him under his wing, made him his partner and the rest as they say is history.

The day Quinn died was much like today, temperate and sunny. The call came in. A burglary was in progress at a prestigious bank in downtown Baltimore. Quinn didn’t have to respond to the call, but something compelled him. Looking back, Frank wondered if Fate had stepped in.

"Come on, McGuire," he’d said. "Let’s see what we’re missing out there."

A half-hour later, shot by a hyped-up speed freak looking for money to buy more drugs, Quinn died in his arms. He left a widow, Emily, and two kids―Rand, seventeen, and fifteen-year old Marlow. The next day, Frank turned in his uniform, and his Glock. Without Quinn, he couldn’t imagine chasing down criminals; not for the Baltimore Police Department anyway. He had a gut full of kissing offenders and dope heads’ asses. The time had come to rid the city of scum his way, down and dirty.

"Morning, Grace," he said, passing his assistant’s desk.

"Hey, Frank." She issued a subtle nod toward a man in the waiting room and slipped Frank a note: Mr. Jeffords, lead FBI agent on The Black Rail case.

Frank didn’t know what he’d do without Grace, the tranquil, composed woman who kept his office running like clockwork, kept him balanced and sane most of the time.

Frank walked over to the man and offered his hand. "Frank McGuire. You here to see me?"

The man’s handshake lacked depth but his smile was genuine. "Yes, I am. The name’s Jeff Jeffords."

Frank ushered him into his office and pointed to a chair. Grace entered moments later with a carafe of coffee, two cups, mini-packets of cream and sugar, and then closed the door behind her when she left.

His expression somber, Jeffords added two packets of cream to his coffee and met Frank’s gaze. "I saw the woman slip you a note, so you know my title."

Frank nodded.

"Then you must have guessed by now why I’m here?"

"I have a sneaking suspicion."

"The department put twenty men on The Black Rail case after the last body was found, and we know it’s just a matter of time before―"

"Twenty?” Frank whistled. “Must be a tight crew." He covered his grin behind the coffee cup when an image of twenty blue uniforms tripping over their own feet surfaced.

"Some say if you were still on the force, the maniac would have been behind bars months ago."

"Yeah, and some say they hope I never come back to the force.”

Jeffords raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t rub some of the new recruits the wrong way, did you, McGuire?

“Guess you could say that, but I always hoped it was for their own good, would make them tougher, better in the field.” Frank looked him in the eye. “So, what’s Plan B on The Black Rail since he’s still turning out corpses?”

"I’ll get right to the point."

Frank clucked his cheek. "I like it when people cut to the chase."

Jeffords leaned forward in his chair. "They brought the FBI in because they needed my help. And now, I need your help. Baltimore wants to hire you."

"You have twenty men chasing down The Black Rail and you’re asking for my help?"

"The heat is on. The media is killing the city over this one. Citizens are up in arms and local elections are looming on the horizon."

Frank waited for the rest of Jeffords’ spiel with detached interest. He had no desire to return to the force in any capacity.

"You’ve managed hundreds of sequential killer cases around the country; know what kind of background they come from, what their habits are, and why they do it."

"So have the lead detectives in the Department." Frank downed the rest of his coffee and filled his cup again with the realization if Jeffords wasn’t sitting across from him, he’d pull the flask of whiskey from the drawer and top it off.

"True, but they’re overlooking something.” Jeffords’ frown put a crease in his forehead. “Some piece of evidence he or she leaves at the scene―"

"He," Frank interjected. "It’s a he, and quite probable they’re missing something at the crime scene." An exasperated sigh left his lips. "These type of killers are among the most reckless of murderers. Their need to kill far outweighs the necessity to be cunning or discreet. What allows many killers to continue with their rampage is investigative incompetence."

"Wait . . . let’s back up a sentence or two. How do you know it’s a he? Just because the victims are young women doesn’t guarantee a man killed them."

"True, but call it my intuition."

"Which brings me to the next topic of conversation."

Jeffords picked at an imaginary piece of lint on his sleeve and then fixed his blue eyes on Frank’s. He knew the minute the man showed up, the conversation would eventually turn to the real reason for his visit. Jeffords was merely the gopher sent to cajole Frank into assisting them.

The man stepped into his question lightly. "You’re a mind reader, aren’t you, or I guess a better term would be―?"

Frank cut him off. "No, I’m not a mind reader, and to answer your next question before you ask, I’m not clairvoyant.”

"What exactly is that, a clairvoyant?"

"Most clairvoyants don’t gain knowledge through the mind but rather through objects, and I never claimed to possess such abilities."

"So, if I brought you an object, a piece of clothing, you couldn’t help us?"

Frank gave a slow nod. "I don’t put a label on this skill I somehow acquired. I learned it while practicing meditation and personal discipline. It’s a far cry from what clairvoyants or mind readers claim to do.”

Frank didn’t bother to share with Jeffords his ability to commune with the dead . . . or, he corrected his thoughts, the ability of the dead to find him.

Jeffords didn’t seem open-minded enough to accept that phenomena. The man seated opposite him appeared to be the kind who believed only what he read in scientific textbooks or police training books. Frank didn’t have the inclination to tell Jeffords─in the starched white shirt, impeccable blue suit, and spit-shined wingtips─that the appropriate term for his psychic abilities was precognitive. As in, one who saw the future or the past through dreams or while in an altered state of consciousness. Frank knew why information began funneling into his brain shortly after his tenth birthday, soon after his father was gunned down…like Quinn.

The depth of his pain over his father’s absence couldn’t be measured in pounds, didn’t abate by the number of minutes, hours or days that had passed. He didn’t know what else to do except somehow try to reach him, stem the overwhelming loneliness. His prayers were answered one night when his father came to him in one of his many sleep-deprived states. He reached out to Frank, his mouth moving but as silent as the tree falling in the forest when no one was there to hear it. The good news: He was elated to see his dad again; the bad news, somehow a gate had been opened and other dead souls began to find him.

“Frank,” the man said. “Did I lose you?”

“Sorry, drifted there for a moment. You were saying?”

“So, if I brought you a piece of a white cord the killer used to garrote his last victim, and if you meditated, would something kick your ability into gear?"

"Maybe, but I wouldn’t count on it."

Frank had meditated about The Black Rail’s profile for hours and nothing out of the ordinary filtered through. The man didn’t fit the profile of most sequential killers—white males in their mid-twenties, intelligent and underachievers who grew up in dysfunctional homes. During his meditations, Frank had a sick sense The Black Rail was an aberrant flux of the standard précis.

Jeffords looked so disheartened Frank thought the man might cry.

"Okay, tell you what. I’m not making any promises, but drop off the cord and we’ll see.

A smile stretched the man’s lips. "I’ll drop it off tomorrow; say around ten in the morning?"

"Fine." Frank fidgeted in his chair, anxious for Jeffords to leave his office.

Jeffords came to his feet, walked to the door, and opened it. "Should I drop off their pictures too?"

“What pictures?"

"Pictures of his victims and how we found them. There’s six now, zapped with a stun gun several times, handcuffed, and strangled. The pictures are quite graphic―"

"Seven," Frank said.

Jeffords brows met in the middle. "Huh?"

"Seven now. He killed again last night."

"What!" Jeffords’ shoulders slumped. "Oh, man, I don’t want to be there when the Mayor gets the news. Where should we look for this one, McGuire, along the Patuxent River again?"

Frank nodded. "Near the Little Patuxent this time, in the marsh grass."

"The marsh grass." He snapped his fingers. "The Black Rail, code name the Department uses for the killer, after the bird inhabiting the marsh along the river."

"A ground-dwelling marsh bird, rarely seen," Frank added. "Similar to the killer, it would seem."

"If you already know about the next victim and you know where we’ll find her, why can’t you find him?"

"I can’t explain it, Jeffords. It doesn’t work that way."

Still standing near the door, he said, "Try."

"Subliminal messages come to me in dreams during meditation." Frank blew air through his lips. "Sometimes, but not always. The location of where the body is stashed might be revealed through landmarks, hills, or numbers." He left out the part about the most recent victim. A young woman―a very dead young woman―had appeared in his dreams last night. Her name began with a G.

"Numbers?"

"Or letters." Frustrated, Frank put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. He knew Jeffords needed something to take back to his superiors. "This is the way it works. Remember two years ago when that four-year old boy was kidnapped from the southeast side?"

Jeffords nodded.

"His parents hired me to find him. I had a vision he’d be found by a billboard with the letter M in big red letters."

"They found him in a barrel near Weston’s Auto Parts."

"Right and therein lays the problem. The M was upside down in my dream . . . but in big red letters."

"So it’s not crystal clear?"

"Never, and that’s why I’m not sure I can help you."

"I’m asking you to give it a try, that’s all."

“Drop the cord and pictures off in the morning. If I’m not here, leave them with Grace. I’ll do my best.”

Jeffords gave him a grateful smile with a nod, walked out the door and closed it behind him.

The moment the man left his office Frank filled his coffee cup and added an ample amount of whiskey. Some called the ability to interpret dreams or communicate with the dead a gift.

Most days, Frank called the anomaly a curse.