Carter snapped more shots, and Lincoln eyed the surrounding area for gray hairs. Anything to avoid contemplating his name, in Dr. Fear’s handwriting, on the outside of that note. No gray strands that he saw but they’d have to alert ERT to the possibility. The likelihood? Could he say that much with certainty yet? No, but it was the best hypothesis they had. Whether or not it applied to the copycat might not matter much longer, but this wasn’t the copycat’s kill.
“All right,” Carter said, stepping aside so Lincoln could scoot in front of him in the narrow space between the bed and wall. “You’re good. I’m going to keep snapping pictures over your shoulder.”
Lincoln picked up the note with surprisingly steady hands and found not one but two sheets of paper. He unfolded them, but before flipping them over, held them up to the light beside the bed.
“Letter Elegant,” Lincoln said. “Batch 302.”
“Fuck,” Carter murmured. “It was him.”
“Them.”
“His clock. That’s what the copycat said.”
Lincoln lowered the sheets and turned them over. The first was Stacy Weathers’s diagnosis. “Fear the drugs would kill her.”
“They did,” Carter said, gesturing at the unused paraphernalia on the table. “They were bait. The copycat probably used them to lure her.”
“And Dr. Fear wouldn’t have had time to stalk her. To learn if she had any real—or rather, clinically diagnosable—phobias.”
“I suspect it was real enough for her. I infiltrated a heroin cartel once with this ATF agent out of San Francisco. Addicts know the drugs will kill them one day. They fear that—it’s not a good death—but the fear of going without, of withdrawal, of facing reality is more powerful.”
Lincoln glanced from the note to Stacy to the gashes carved into her arms. And gasped, the realization setting in now that he had the added context of Dr. Fear’s diagnosis. “Look at the cuts, where they’re located.”
Carter tilted sideways, peering closer, then whipped back upright, horrified gaze turned to Lincoln. “Did he connect the track marks?”
Lincoln nodded. “I think so.”
Carter’s eyes flickered to the notes. “What’s on the second sheet?”
Bile crept up Lincoln’s throat again. On it, a wave of fear that the second sheet might be his own diagnosis. Or Carter’s. More likely his, as it had been addressed to him. He flipped it over—and slowly breathed out through his nose, careful not to heavy sigh particulates onto the paper. Another diagnosis of the copycat.
Except it was evolving. “He scratched out fear of anonymity,” Lincoln said. “Idolatry as a diagnosis, along with a fear of disappointment and the truth. Fuck, they know each other. And Dr. Fear realizes it now too. It’s not just a random copycat trying to steal his notoriety.”
“Which is why he intervened in the copycat’s kill.” Carter gestured at Stacy. “Tit for tat. He’s escalating.”
Twelve
For the sake of maintaining their cover, Carter and Lincoln had cleared out before the local authorities arrived at the motel. While they’d convinced O’Shea to delay notifying Larry about the station arsonist and about Weathers’s whereabouts, there was no stalling on reporting Stacy’s murder. Carter just hoped the murder and its connection to Dr. Fear didn’t immediately leak to the press and that Larry wouldn’t challenge O’Shea’s jurisdictional strong-arming. This case needed to stay with the FBI, and quiet, for now, not only because it was connected to Dr. Fear, but because Dr. Fear was somehow tied into Apex. Of that much Carter was sure, and he and Lincoln were on his trail. Most of all, though, Carter hoped they’d given Kirk and Beverley what they needed to rescue Ruby and Chase.
Still no word there, which Carter suspected was the reason for Lincoln’s pacing a loop around the dining table, into the kitchen, and back again. They’d come straight home and shot off texts, emails, and voicemails to Kirk and Beverley. The director reported back that Stacy’s car had been tracked to three different locations in DC and tactical teams were on their way to each, with Kirk leading the team targeting an Ivy City warehouse near where one of Stacy’s cards had been used. Radio silence since then. Not surprising. And not surprising that the holding pattern was causing Lincoln to fray, which in turn was causing Carter to unravel. Not in the good way.
“We should go to the library. Or to the lab.”
Carter didn’t see how that would do Lincoln much good in this state. He’d just be pacing a smaller area. “We should wait for direction from DC as to next steps,” he said from his seat at the table. “For now, why don’t you sit?”
Lincoln walked past him, commencing lap fifteen. “We’re hours past the kill window for Ruby and Chase.”
“They’re not gonna call mid-op, and the op likely pushed out the window. Distraction and delay.”
Lincoln rounded the kitchen island. “Or it sped the window up.”
“Why don’t you grab your guitar and play something?” Carter suggested. If Lincoln’s skills with the guitar were half as good as his talent at the piano, it was something Carter wanted to see and hear, a distraction for them both. “You sing too?”
A stutter step, a curse, a dark glare from the other side of the table.
“Ooh,” Carter drawled. “That’s a yes.”
“I’ve done enough playing today already.”
