“And the note? Claustrophobia?”
“Fitting.” Barry or Trudy, one of them suffering from a fear of enclosed spaces, builds a house that was designed to be open, the living room the airiest of all, and with an expansive view of the lake just beyond the sliding glass doors. As he’d followed Carter and O’Shea around the rest of the crime scene—three place settings of half-eaten breakfast, cooking dishes in the sink, minor signs of a struggle—Lincoln couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting back to the note placement, nor could he stop his brain from circling the same two suspects. Barry or Larry, and how that note could factor in for each.
“It could apply to both,” Lincoln said, the ultimate conclusion he’d drawn. “If Barry or Trudy is the victim, one could interpret this house, and the need to wander, as a means of counteracting a sort of claustrophobia.”
“Being so tied to Apex,” Carter said, picking up the thread. “A relatively isolated mountain town. And if Larry is Dr. Fear, that must grate. Barry or Trudy wandering off the land he wanted and Barry away from the job he wanted.”
“Go more meta,” Lincoln said. “And back to that notion of being stuck here, in Apex. What if that diagnosis is Dr. Fear diagnosing himself? If it’s Barry, we laid that out. His need to wander. If it’s Larry, or anyone else for that matter, it likewise makes sense. Dr. Fear’s first victim of every cycle is someone he spots here in Apex. An out-of-towner he latches on to, who gives him an excuse to leave town, and he works out his claustrophobia, albeit violently, by working out other people’s fears for a week in DC before returning home.”
Carter slowly rotated his head, eyes wide. “Holy shit, L. That’s the motive. That’s the missing piece of the profile.”
“I have been researching this killer for more than a decade. I just didn’t have all the pieces until now.” Plus, the underlying theory also wasn’t unfamiliar to Lincoln. In fact, he probably deserved a face-palm for not making the connection sooner. But not in front of the FBI team. Carter maybe, but no self-flagellation in front of O’Shea and company. “Gabby talks about being stuck someplace the same way,” he explained to Carter. “Every assignment, thirty months in and she starts yammering about the walls closing in. It’s time for her to go. Clearly, Dr. Fear’s mileage varies as to how long he can go between cycles. Something must happen that triggers the walls closing in for him.”
Carter was nodding now. “All that makes sense.”
“Even more than you know for Larry.”
Lincoln and Carter almost knocked heads as they straightened and whipped around to the source of the new, unfamiliar voice. Dressed in jeans, a sweater, a puffy vest, and combat boots, the woman at the near end of the deck was unremarkable in appearance—average height, brown eyes, black pixie-cut hair, freckles across the bridge of her nose. But she was remarkable in her bearing—authority and confidence rolled off her, as did unconcealed indignation at Lincoln and Carter. Cop, Lincoln discerned, the bulge at her side beneath the vest—a holster likely—propping up the notion.
Carter had come to the same conclusion. “Detective Lang?”
“Jo,” she said sans hand.
Josephine Lang. The detective Carter had mentioned who’d turned a blind eye to all those missing persons cases, including Stacy Weathers’s. This woman? Lincoln didn’t see it. Everything about her screamed competent. Or maybe she was just competent at covering things up? Her next words confused Lincoln further.
“So you two are the reason my husband has been MIA for two days?”
“Two days?” Lincoln said. “And I thought Barry was married to Trudy?”
She pointed inside the house—at Agent Mark O’Shea, on the phone, standing by the kitchen table alone. As if sensing her attention, he glanced up and the adoring smile that brightened his face was unmistakable. He was definitely in love with this woman. His wife, apparently.
“You’re married to O’Shea?” Carter said. “I thought he worked out of Richmond?”
“He does, but his field office covers Apex and he has some experience with ViCAP, so he’s regional point for serial cases. We have a house here and in Richmond. We make it work.”
“How do you know who we are?”
“Well, let’s see,” she said, approaching. “Last time I spoke to Mark, he said he was called out on a serial case, and I watch the news, which is flooded with Dr. Fear coverage, and you two were out here discussing said serial killer, ergo . . . ”
Competent and smart.
“He also mentioned working with some hot-as-fuck agent and his pet professor.”
“Hey!” Lincoln squawked.
“Okay, you got me.” Her frosty demeanor melted, a little. “I made that part up.”
Lincoln took a gamble, on her judgment of them and her trustworthiness, despite those missing persons reports. Something didn’t add up there; he wanted to know why. He extended a hand. “Agent and Professor Lincoln Monroe, Quantico.”
“Ha! I was right,” she said, returning the handshake. “The argyle is a dead giveaway.” She shifted her attention to Carter, and at the sultry look she gave him, Lincoln reconsidered his favorable opinion. “I wasn’t lying about the hot-as-fuck part either. Mark and I are in the market for a third.”
“Special Agent Carter Warren.” He smiled wide, and Lincoln wanted to kick him. “And while I appreciate the offer”—he twirled the ring on his finger—“I’m off the market.”
Did Lincoln say kick? He meant kiss. But wait. Off the market? As the real versus cover war raged on, Lincoln spoke to ignore it. “Can we rewind? To the part where you thought our Dr. Fear hypothesis fit Larry Petticoat better than we knew?”
She strolled past them, waving at her husband as she crossed to the loungers on the other side of the deck. “I’m from Apex. Mom is a nurse at the hospital. Dad ran a construction business until he got hooked on crystal meth and OD’d when I was sixteen.”
“Shit, Jo, I’m sorry,” Lincoln said, even as he grew more confused. A history like that . . .
