Chapter Three

Frank parked the Denali in the parking lot of Station North Townhomes and bounded through the gate of the front entry. A distinct and contemporary new community of thirty-two garage townhouses, the place he called home was located in Baltimore’s Arts and Entertainment District. Frank bought the place through a realtor, a buxom young woman whose enthusiasm made up for her lack of finesse.

He didn’t regret his choice. The townhome suited his needs. Close to downtown and transportation out of the city, the location was the ideal place to kick back and escape the pressures of his job.

He tossed his briefcase on the kitchen table and removed the pictures of the dead girls from the envelope again. He had two hours before Emily expected him. The first he’d spend meditating while holding the photos in his hand, the last, taking a shower and changing into more casual attire.

He dimmed the lights, lit a candle, and slumped into the La-Z-Boy® next to the tapestry loveseat. He’d taken several courses on meditation, long after the dreams and visions began in his childhood. The classes taught him how to connect with his inner spirit, tap into a wellspring of spiritual energy. After months of concerted meditation, his sixth chakra opened―the inner eye―affording him clear insight and superior vision. He didn’t have to wait now for the visions to find him during sleep, but rather, he’d learned to summon them during his waking hours.

He closed his eyes and studied the screen filling the space behind his eyelids. Particles or patterns of light appeared. He focused on that light and didn’t endeavor to create images or interpret them, but simply looked at the light with relaxed attention. His consciousness shifted; a normal reaction before he slipped into a trance-like state. Soon he would connect with his inner spirit, the catalyst for a gradual shift to an even higher level of consciousness.

Scenes flashed through his head, similar to water rushing over Niagara Falls. Images of every victim appeared, first as children, alive and well, and then in death. The locations of where their bodies resided now flooded his subconscious, along the Patuxent River and always in the tall marsh grass along the banks.

The stun gun appeared and next the handcuffs, cold and metallic gray shining brighter than a beacon around their pale, slender wrists. Eyes, and only their eyes amid a stream of tears, appeared on the screen, filled with terror and a desolate pleading. On the periphery of the room, a human stalked the victims with the stealth of a lynx. Frank focused, calling on his inner spirit for clarity, but the form faded faster than a mist rolling out to sea.

Yanked from his meditative state with a jolt, he tried desperately to return, without success. He’d been so close, and yet his inner eye failed to reveal the one piece he needed. The killer’s face. He grabbed the legal pad from the coffee table and scratched down some notes, his mind still fresh with the haunting montage. Then he dialed Jeffords’ cell phone.

"Jeffords here."

"Frank McGuire. Say, the pictures you left of the girls are faceless."

"Yeah, I know, I thought you wanted to see the guy’s handiwork. What did you expect, prom pictures?"

"Why, do you have prom pictures?"

"No," Jeffords said. "But I have more recent snapshots."

"How recent?"

"Recent. I asked their parents for all the pictures they had in their possession during the last year." Jeffords’ tone changed to inquisitive. "Hey, you come up with something from those photos I left? See anything that might help you identify who―?"

"No, not yet, but I need to see the girls as they were in life, you know, everyday snapshots that show their faces."

"Sure, no problem. I’ll drop them off tomorrow."

"Thanks. Leave them with my assistant, Grace."

Jeffords curious tone turned anxious. "You’ll call me if you stumble onto something, won’t you?"

"Oh, yeah." Frank couldn’t hide his sarcasm. "You’re number one on my speed dial."

Jeffords paused as if wondering if Frank was fucking with him. "You haven’t had any visions about victim number eight, have you?"

"No, Jeffords, these things take time. Just drop off the photos, will you?"

Frank punched end on his cell phone before the man could respond. He rose from the chair to hit the shower. The clock said he had one hour to clean up and drive to Emily’s, not counting the time it would take to slam down a drink before he left. Maybe two if time permitted. The thought of seeing her again sent mixed emotions coursing through him, remorse for deserting her so quickly after Quinn died and guilt over his tangled feelings for their son.

Moonbeams blanketed the land as he parked the car and then strolled up the walkway of the Brennan’s two-story Tudor. Emily opened the door with a smile. Frank took in her fine features. Time hadn’t vanquished her beauty. If anything, she embodied the word now more than ever.

"Frank." She took his hand and pulled him into the foyer. "Let’s go into the kitchen, I’ll fix us a drink."

"Sounds good, and by the way, Em, you look wonderful." He smiled and slid into a stool at the kitchen counter.

She handed him a drink. "Straight from the white oak barrels, Jack Daniels with a splash of sour, right?"

He nodded and watched her cherry lips stretch over small, sparkling white teeth. He’d always admired her resiliency. After Quinn died, although devastated, she maintained a façade of dignity, a steel resolve on the outside. The masquerade was for Rand and Marlow’s sake, but Frank knew on the inside she was a train wreck. Quinn had been her rock. Ten years older than Emily, there were times the man treated her more like a coddled, precious daughter than a wife. She’d told him one night shortly after the funeral Quinn was the epitome of a father figure to her rather than a lover. He didn’t pursue her comment because he knew exactly what she had meant. Quinn had assumed the role of a father with him too. Frank had never met a more caring man.

She leaned over the counter opposite him, her chin resting in her hand, her long ebony hair tumbling forward. "You look good too, Frank."

"Look," he said, "I’ve never been good at bat-fowling."

One neatly arched eyebrow rose. "Bat-fowling?"

"Beating around the bush."

"Oh, that’s a new one for me." She straightened and crossed her arms. "No, you weren’t good at that." She picked up her drink and took a sip.

He hesitated while his gaze wandered for a moment and then returned to her pretty face. "I’m sorry I took off the way I did after Quinn died and didn’t stay in touch. It was cowardly." His throat felt achingly dry, his lips parched. "It isn’t that I haven’t thought about you, Rand, and Marlow."

"No need to beat yourself up. I know how hard it was on you to have Quinn die in your arms and, I know you loved him." She tilted her head to the side. “Quinn told me about your father. You were a small boy when he-he─”

“Was gunned down like Quinn.”

“Is that why you went into police work?”

“I suppose. Some hidden penchant to avenge him, I guess.”

Emily reached across the counter and placed a hand on his. “Life has a way of meting out perverse irony, doesn’t it?”

Frank pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, the two men I loved most in life taken away by lowlifes.”

“Not fair, not fair at all.”

"You’re holding my hand so I guess that means I’m forgiven."

"Nothing to forgive." Tears brimmed in her eyes. "You did what you had to do to survive . . . like me. Besides, I wouldn’t have called you to help me find Rand if I held a grudge, now would I?"

"No." He shook his head. "I guess not."

She stretched out an arm, grabbed a picture with her free hand from the counter and handed it to him. "This is Rand, six months ago on his twenty-second birthday." A gamut of emotions flickered through her eyes―anguish, terror, worry and immense love. "Downtown, that’s where you’ll find him, unless something terrible has happened."

He squeezed her hand. "I’ll find him if I have to search every street corner, haunt every bar and billiard hall."

She swiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand and looked into his eyes. "Okay, okay." She grabbed a piece of clothing that had been resting beside the picture and slid it across to him. "This is his favorite T-shirt." Another tear slid from her eye. "He used to love Metallica. I think he still does.” A humorless chuckle escaped from her lips. "The shirt must have been in the wash when he left, otherwise, he’d never have left it behind."

The front door opened and footsteps echoed in the hallway. Frank turned toward the archway between the great room and the kitchen. "Mom?” Her gaze traveled to Frank and back to her mother. “Is everything all right?"

"Fine, Marlow, fine. Do you remember Frank McGuire, your father’s partner?”

"Hey, Mr. McGuire." She graced him with a smile. "Yes, of course I remember him. I’m not apt to forget after five years. Besides, Mom keeps a picture of you and Dad on her dresser."

Emily raised her glass. "My handsome men in uniform."

Marlow was an equal blend of Quinn and Emily beneath the gothic attire. She possessed her mother’s fine features, but Quinn’s blue eyes. Her hair was dark and silky, her eyelids covered in a thick coat of cobalt blue shadow. Her lips had been painted black to match her fingernails, and numerous piercings appeared on her pale skin―one through her nose, one on her bottom lip, and another crossing her left eyebrow.

She looked into Frank’s eyes. "Are you here about Rand?”

“Kind of. Your mother and I were discussing his lack of staying in touch with his family.”

Marlow’s chin came up. “That’s his Metallica shirt you’re holding, isn’t it?”

Frank nodded with a smile. “Yeah, she says it’s his favorite band.”

“Ah, well, gotta run. Homework is calling me.” She turned to walk away and then pivoted to face him again. “Nice to see you again, Mr. McGuire, and I hope you find Rand."

Emily rolled her eyes. “Goodnight, Marlow. Remember, your homework awaits.”

“I’m going, I’m going. Just wanted you two to know I’m not as naïve as you think.”

“I’ll be up to tuck you in soon.”

“Tuck me in. Isn’t she funny, Mr. McGuire? She still treats me as if I’m ten.”

“That’s because she loves you, and what’s this Mr. McGuire stuff. You always called me Frank.”

A spurt of pleasant laughter left her lips. “All right. Goodnight, Frank.”

“Goodnight, Marlow.”

After the girl left the room, Frank slid from the stool, picked up the picture and the T-shirt and turned to Emily. "You didn’t tell her why I’m here, did you?"

"No, she would only worry more.” Emily pinched her forehead between her thumb and fingers. “If it’s possible for her to worry more.”

Frank came to his feet and eased his hand from Emily’s. "Give me a day or two and I’ll be in touch."

She nodded. "If you hear anything or discover his whereabouts, you’ll call me?"

"I promise."

She walked him to the door and said goodnight, leaving him on the front stoop to stare at the moon for a minute. His heart went out to Emily and Marlow. They didn’t deserve to be going through this. Once he found the self-centered little bastard, he’d teach him a lesson he’d never forget.