Wanted By The Marshal. Ryshia Kennie
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the blanket and the book on the couch as she went into her bedroom and over to the nightstand. She hesitated a second before opening the drawer. She looked at the gun lying there as if that would somehow make her feel better. The gun had rested in the bottom of her aunt’s purse for forty years, or so the woman who had raised her had claimed. She’d kept the gun after she had died, as a memento, nothing more. She didn’t like guns. And, for the longest time, aside from getting a permit to carry a concealed weapon, she’d kept it in a locked storage box. Despite the promise of police surveillance, being checked in on didn’t feel like it was enough. In her fear, she’d taken the gun out of the locked storage box the day after she left the hospital. Her life had turned on its head. Her aunt had been right, one should always be prepared. If she’d had the gun with her that fateful night, maybe she would never have been taken.
“Auntie Nan, you may have known what you were talking about,” she said. Her voice was soft, reflective. She looked upward as if somehow, somewhere, her aunt would be listening.
“Damn it.” She hated this, hated the fact that her life was in shreds and now she was the victim of some idiot. A prank caller on top of everything else was too much. For she knew her freedom would soon be curtailed by personal protection. A man prowling her property night and day was not something she wanted, and not, according to the FBI, anything she could avoid.
A US marshal was security she didn’t need. They’d soon be here anyway. What she wanted hadn’t seemed to matter in over a week. First the kidnapping and now in its aftermath, the surveillance, protection they liked to call it. Despite their insistence of vigilance, the irony was their reasons for it. They didn’t believe her claims that there was another killer. Instead, they feared that she would run. There was no danger in either option. She wouldn’t run and there was another killer. But Cheyenne wasn’t a place where a serial killer could continue his sick activities and not get caught. It wasn’t a place where he could blend in. It was a small city and that made it difficult to hide. Whoever the second killer was, he’d follow a pattern already established over the last year and head to a larger center where there was more opportunity. She was as sure of that as she was that the second killer existed. She tried to tell herself she was safe, that the fact that only one killer was behind bars, didn’t matter. She tried to tell herself that the killer that authorities insisted didn’t exist, was no threat to her but they would be a threat to another woman in some other town or city in this country. But despite thinking that, she wasn’t so sure that she was safe or, that it was over. She wasn’t a forensic expert or a psychiatrist, but she knew a little about serial killers. She’d met one face-to-face and she’d been in the presence of the other.
The other. She shuddered for it was the thought of that—of the one on the loose that terrified her most.
The one they hadn’t caught, the one they didn’t believe in, that one had been the leader. At least, that’s what she sensed. She also sensed that nothing would stop them. They’d go on, find a new partner, maybe work alone. But the end result would be that someone else would die. She shuddered. Someone had to stop the killing and to do that someone had to believe her.
At five minutes after five o’clock in the morning, the phone rang again. There was no point hesitating. That wouldn’t make any of this go away. She answered.
The deep breathing started. As it had before, it went on for a minute. This time she said nothing after the first hello, not for thirty seconds. Then she demanded that this end. She demanded an identity. She got neither of her demands. The phone call ended exactly thirty seconds after that.
She tossed the phone to the other end of the couch as if distance would make a statement, end the harassment. Prank calls were what she had thought yesterday. But now she sensed something else was at play, as a sense of déjà vu almost choked her.
* * *
THE SUN HAD only begun to rise when Travis turned the corner onto the quiet residential street. The assignment was low-key. That’s what he’d thought going in. He’d also learned a long time ago that situations like this could turn on a dime. And a second read of the file gave him a feeling that something was off. It was because of that, because he trusted his instincts, that he was here this early. His shift didn’t start for another three hours. Something told him that he needed to be more proactive than normal.
He wanted to get a clear handle on things. He wanted an uninterrupted look at what he was dealing with. That included not only the witness but her environment as it was now—undisturbed. Less than a minute later, he pulled up to the three-story off-white condo building in the middle of the block. The ground-floor unit was the one that the witness, Kiera Connell, resided in. She’d purchased it a year ago. He knew that because he’d already run a check on the property. It was built five years ago, and she was the second owner. They were trivial facts but even in a low-threat case like this, it was his habit to research such things. Even though there was a driveway, he parked the SUV in the parking lot a group of similar buildings shared. It was too early in the morning to knock on her door and introduce himself. The entire building, including her condo, was still in darkness. He could see the darker shadows of flowers in the flower bed. Everything seemed to be in place—neat and organized.
He wondered what the inside of her place was like and he wondered what the occupant was like. He didn’t know what she’d been like before the incident. But he could only guess that now she would be in need of support and counseling for many months, or even years, to come. She’d survived a vicious attack by a serial killer who had left a trail of women dead. The women had all been raped and then murdered, all except the first two. They’d been murdered without any evidence of sexual assault. That wasn’t odd but rather an indicator that the perpetrator had evolved. An attack like that could leave the victim broken and unable to return to their former life. He hoped that wasn’t the case. But the law of averages wasn’t in her favor. It was too bad. According to the file, she’d been a determined young woman. She had carved a career for herself despite adversity. But a file never told the whole story, nor did the authorities who led the investigation. To keep her safe, he needed to know who she was as a person. That was for later; for now he’d scout out the area. The advantage of this early hour was that he could do so without any distractions. He was lead on the team of marshals who would protect Kiera Connell. The danger to the witness was minimal. Despite the low risk of danger, he was working the case like he did any other.
On this assignment, he’d had shorter notice than most. It was up to him and his team to keep her safe and make sure she kept it together until the trial was over. The feds had pinned their case not only on the evidence they’d collected but on the testimony of the only witness.
He’d learned as much as he could about the woman who was his latest assignment. It fascinated him that she was the only victim who had escaped. That a twenty-five-year-old nurse, with little life experience, had been the one to do it—that, to him, was mind-blowing. Although, he couldn’t imagine how messed up she must be from the experience at the madman’s hands. He felt for her. But he still would rather bow out of this assignment. For, he saw little challenge. The perp was behind bars and he and his team were effectively babysitters to a witness who was too important for authorities to take any chances on. She was the key to ending a killing spree that had lasted far too long. For they suspected it had gone on long before they’d become aware of it. All that aside, bowing out was, unfortunately, not an option.
He looked at his watch. It was twenty to six. He’d been up since four after only five hours of sleep. It wasn’t a big sleep loss, only an hour less than he usually got. He shrugged the thought away. It wasn’t a factor. The amount of time that had passed since he’d arrived was. He’d learned a long time ago that time could slip away if not tracked and organized. Time was critical for it could mean life or death. That was why he always kept a tight schedule and a close eye on the time.
A window at the front of her property was open a crack. It was the swing-out kind that, if one was into such things, could open from the outside. He frowned at that. No matter that the killer was behind bars—open windows low to the ground were begging for a crime to happen. He stood at the corner of the condo. The sun was rising. Streaks of sunlight were making it easy to see without the aid of a flashlight. He took a step forward