Page 86 of Knox

I locked the door, checked the scene outside for any sign of Lehman’s van, then followed the agents inside.

“How can I help you?” Sloane asked.

Agent Darvis stood near an armchair while Agent Reid took a slow lap around the room, noting the security cameras, the defensive positioning of furniture, the clear sight lines I’d established. “You’ve upgraded security recently. Smart move. You’re going to need it.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Sloane said.

“It’s not meant to be. This is a serious situation, Ms. Mercer.” Agent Darvis gestured to the furniture. “May we sit?”

“Of course.”

Sloane and I returned to the couch. The agents took chairs facing us. Agent Reid pulled out a tablet while Darvis leaned forward, her expression grave.

“We executed a search warrant on Walter Lehman’s property this afternoon,” Agent Darvis began. “What we found confirms what you discovered at the ranger station. Surveillance equipment. Maps annotated with hiking trails and points of interest. A workshop containing materials used to develop photographs.” She paused. “And evidence connecting him to at least seven homicides spanning four states over nine years.”

My arm tightened around Sloane. Seven victims.

“The missing hikers,” Sloane whispered.

“They were three of his victims, yes.” Agent Reid turned his tablet, showing photos of women in their twenties and thirties. Below each photo was an image of a scotch bonnet shell. “But there are four others. Katherine Morrison in Maryland. Angela Murphy in South Carolina. Both hikers, both found buried near remote trails. Two more in Virginia—Jennifer Walsh and Maria Santos.”

“These are crime scene photos,” Agent Darvis continued. “In every case, a scotch bonnet shell was found either on the victim’s body or at the site where they disappeared. It’s his signature. His calling card.”

Sloane’s hand trembled in mine. “The shell he left at my house.”

“Exactly.” Darvis’s expression was grim. “You’re the first person to receive the shell and survive. Which tells us two things. First, his pattern is deteriorating. He’s escalating, becoming more reckless. The gaps between victims are shortening. One each summer initially, then three in two years, then you only three weeks after the last.” She paused. “Second, he’s obsessed with you specifically. The surveillance photos we found show meticulous documentation of your movements over several weeks.”

Agent Reid swiped to a new image. A photo of Walter Lehman, the man I’d met at his property, who’d offered to help us search. Who’d shown up at Island Adventures. “Walter James Lehman. Age fifty-two. Former park ranger with extensive knowledge of coastal trail systems. Prior arrests for stalking in Virginia, assault in Maryland, charges dropped due to insufficient evidence. He’s been on our radar for years, but we could never build a solid case. Until now.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

“We don’t know.” Darvis’s admission hung in the air. “He hasn’t returned home. No indication of where he went. We have roadblocks on every bridge and ferry route off the island. State police have checkpoints on major highways. Coast Guard is monitoring waterways. Every law enforcement agency in the Carolinas has his photo and vehicle description.”

“And?” Sloane asked.

“And he’s vanished.” Agent Reid’s frustration was evident. “The VW bus hasn’t been spotted since it left the ranger station. No hits on traffic cameras, toll booths, nothing. Either he’s holed up somewhere we haven’t checked, or he ditched the vehicle and is traveling on foot or using another mode of transportation.”

“Our profiler has two theories,” Darvis continued. “Theory one: Lehman knows we’ve identified him and he’s running. He’ll abandon this hunting ground and start over somewhere new, which is consistent with his pattern of moving between states. Theory two—” She looked directly at Sloane. “He views you as unfinished business. The one who got away. And he won’t leave until he’s completed what he started.”

“Which theory do you believe?” I asked.

“Honestly? I think he’s still here.” Darvis leaned forward. “He’s invested too much time, too many resources. The surveillance photos show obsessive behavior. Men like Lehman don’t just walk away from their targets. They escalate until they’re caught or they succeed.”

Sloane’s breathing had gone shallow. I pulled her closer.

“What we found at his property suggests he’s been planning something,” Reid added. “Recent purchases of rope, zip ties, plastic sheeting. A cooler with ice packs. Supplies consistent with abduction and transport of a victim.”

The implication made my blood run cold.

“Which brings us to why we’re here,” Darvis said. She studied us both for a moment, something calculating in her expression. “Mr. Hawthorne, your service record is impressive. Force Recon, multiple deployments, specialized training in close protection and high-value target security. You’ve done excellent work keeping Ms. Mercer safe so far.”

I dipped my chin in acknowledgment, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“As you might suspect, this is now a federal case. Sheriff Sullivan will remain involved in an advisory capacity, as he knows this island and the local networks. But we have jurisdiction, resources, and nearly a decade of investigation into Walter Lehman’s patterns.” She paused. “We’d like to propose a collaborative operation.”

“What kind of operation?” Sloane asked, though I already knew where this was going.

“We set up surveillance at your residence. FBI agents in unmarked vehicles, monitoring equipment, the works. You continue your normal routine as much as possible. If Lehman is still in the area and fixated on you, he’ll make a move. When he does, we’ll be ready.”