Blood of Dawn Page 6

  Chief Peyton cleared her throat. “Good morning.” She motioned to the stranger. “This is Steve McBride. He’ll be handling Hough’s duties while she’s on medical leave.”

  We all uttered a polite hello, to which he gave each of us a little nod.

  “Now let’s go over the case.” Peyton motioned to the board she’d set up. There were two pictures on it—one of each of our victims. There was a line drawn from each photo to the words “Fitzgerald High School.” Another line was drawn from Stephanie Barnett to Michael Barnett. “This is what we have so far. The only connection between our victims is their school. They share nothing else in common, outside of gender. Different races—one Caucasian, the other black. Different body types. We’ve found no link between our one person of interest, Michael Barnett, and Emma Walker.”

  “But they both live in single-parent households. Middle-class,” I pointed out.

  “True.” She uncapped a whiteboard Magic Marker and wrote some notes below the high school.

  “They are geographically linked too,” JT pointed out.

  “Their homes are located within blocks of each other. Michael Barnett’s house is close to both.”

  “Has cause of death been confirmed for either victim yet?” I asked.

  “Yes. The official COD for both Barnett and Walker is fibrillation and heart failure caused by electrocution.”

  “Electrocution?” I echoed, completely surprised.

  “Yes.” Peyton turned on a projector, displaying a set of two photographs, both of the young women’s torsos. One was a smooth ivory color, the other a deep mocha. A series of branching red marks, like those found on lightning-strike victims, fanned out from the center of their chests.

  “Lightning strikes generally cause no entry or exit wounds. No muscle damage,” I recited. Back when I was little, after our neighbor had been struck by lightning, I’d done some reading on it. It seemed that it might come in handy in this case.

  “That is consistent with our victims,” the chief said, pointing at the photos. “The current interrupted the normal electrical activity of the heart, causing the cells to beat independently from each other, rather than as one coordinated system.”

  “What about the bite marks?” I asked as I jotted down some info. “Is our unsub vampiric?”

  “It appears he may be. Both victims were bit, but the level of blood loss was not lethal.”

  “Electrocution,” I repeated. I’d read a lot of my father’s research before I’d lost it. But I didn’t recall any Mythic that used electricity to kill its victims. I was going to have to skim through the book Damen had given me. ASAP.

  “Is it possible we’re dealing with a mortal unsub, pretending to be Mythic?” Chad Fischer asked. “Someone who is using some kind of electrical device to deliver the current and is merely biting, to throw us off?”

  “We may be. But the markings don’t support that theory. Either way, we need to find out why he is using this mode of killing. I haven’t done any research yet, but it seems to be his signature, unique to our unsub.” Peyton pointed to Gabe Wagner. “I’d like you to see what you can find out on electrocution. See if there have been any serial killers who’ve used it as their method of killing.”

  “Will do, Chief,” he said, standing.

  To me, Peyton said, “You know what your assignment is, Skye. It’s July. Summer classes are just getting started. You’ve registered, correct? If you register yourself, I’m not technically sending you undercover . . .” At my nod, she added, “Excellent. Keep your ear to the ground. See what you can learn about our two victims.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, yanking once again on my skirt.

  “And the clothes are perfect. Good job.”

  Perfect? It was no wonder I was a social outcast back in the day. I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a getup like this.

  This assignment was nothing like the last. I wasn’t putting myself directly in the line of fire, so to speak. I wasn’t setting myself up as bait. But, by the same token, I was about to revisit a time in my life I would have gladly forgotten. And I was doing it dressed like a ho.

  “I know you will do a great job.” She turned to JT next. “Thomas, you, Fischer, and I are going to have to sit down and hammer out a plan. Thomas, Fischer will be focusing on the victimology, looking for any common connections between the girls. I want you to work with McBride. See what you can dig up on Michael Barnett.”

  I gathered my things and scurried back to my desk. Class would be starting in a little over a half hour. I needed to get myself mentally prepared for this. And I might have to bend a few traffic laws to make it to class on time.

  I grabbed my purse, a notebook, and a pen; then I hauled ass out of the building, eliciting more than a handful of curious stares along the way. Outside, I cranked on my car and zoomed out of the parking lot.

  I was about to reenter the third level of hell. Yay, me!

  I read Dante’s Divine Comedy when I was in third grade. I never forgot it. This is why I can say with absolute certainty that he missed the mark, particularly when it came to his description of the deepest bowels of hell. I know this because I was in it.

  The teacher was droning on and on about nothing in particular. This was supposed to be an economics class, but he was talking about dodging the draft during the Vietnam War. I was getting the stink eye from the gaggle of girls in the back row. There was no air-conditioning, and it had to be at least 120 degrees in the classroom. And my phone, set on vibrate, was ringing nonstop.

  How the heck would I convince anyone that I belonged here? That I was one of them?

  Moving carefully, I slid my hand into my new backpack to check my phone. The last call was from Katie. I gave a mental sigh.

  “Excuse me, Miss Skye,” the teacher said. “Care to answer my question?”

  I zipped my backpack, snapping, “What question is that?”

  The class broke out into riotous laughter.

  At first, my face flamed. But then, as I noticed that more than one student was giving me a friendly smile, a virtual high five, my mortification lifted.

  Could it have been so easy? Could I have avoided years of torment if only I’d dressed like a prostitute and acted like I was stupid?

  Now the teacher’s face was turning colors. That shade didn’t look so great on him. It deepened when a few residual snickers echoed through the room. He pointed toward the door.

  I was being excused from class. I’d never been thrown out of a class. I’ll admit, I was a little embarrassed. But I did my damned best to hide it as I gathered my things. Just before leaving, I glanced at the gaggle. One of them acknowledged me with a little tip of the head.

  I headed out into the hall, wandered down to the principal’s office, and sat outside it. Principal Glover knew why I was here, at the school. He knew I was working undercover. But, as far as I knew, he was the only one. He gave me a look as he rushed in from somewhere, waved me into his office, and closed us in.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to fit in.”

  “Got it. Just try not to piss them off too badly.”

  “Will do.” The bell rang. I checked my printed-out schedule. “I guess it’s off to introductory algebra next.”

  “Good luck.” He opened the door, stepping aside to let me pass.

  “Thanks.” I donned a grim expression and shuffled out into the packed hallway. It was loud and chaotic, exactly as I remembered it. I joined the stream of bodies heading toward the math classrooms.

  “That was hilarious,” someone said behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Thanks.” I stepped to the side so I wouldn’t be trampled. A girl, the one I surmised had spoken, followed me. “He wasn’t even talking about economics. I was dying from boredom,” I added.

  “So was everyone else.” Jostling her books, the girl leaned closer. “If you want to skip class, we all go down to the bathroom on the D Wing. Nobody ever chec
ks it.”

  “Thanks. D Wing. Where are you headed next?”

  “Algebra.”

  “Me too. I’m Sloan, by the way.” I extended a hand.

  “Cool name. I’m Megan Carter.” She took it and gave it a shake. We began to walk down the corridor together.

  “Thanks. I hated my name when I was a kid. I thought it was weird. It’s grown on me. Good to meet you, Megan.”

  “You too.”

  I made a point to look around, as if nervous. “I heard about this school on the news. Two girls were killed. Just this week. That’s crazy.”

  Megan’s expression sobered. “One of them was my friend.”

  “Oh. Sorry I mentioned it.”

  “It’s okay. You didn’t know. How could you?”

  We were now standing outside our algebra classroom.

  A young man sauntered up, gave us a look, and sneered. “Hey, Megan. Looking good today,” he said to her boobs.

  We looked at each other.

  “Did you say D Wing?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” She motioned with her hand. “It’s this way.”

  “Who was that?” I asked, following her.

  “Derik Sutton. He’s a creep. Everyone hates him.” She peered over her shoulder, as though afraid he might be following us.

  Finally we ducked into the bathroom, which was empty. It was no wonder nobody checked it. This wing seemed to be unused right now. The hall lights were illuminated, but I noticed not a single classroom was lit up.

  Inside, we flipped on the light. Megan went to the counter, dropped her backpack on the floor, and stared into the mirror. “It was my fault,” she said, eyes reddening. “I haven’t told anyone.”

  “What was your fault?”

  “Stephanie’s death.”

  A little shiver buzzed up my spine. “Why do you think it’s your fault?”

  “Because I left her. At Joe’s party.” She wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t even know you. I guess I just needed to tell someone.”

  “That’s a hard secret to keep.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  I watched her struggle to contain her grief and guilt. My heart ached for her. It wasn’t fair that she was blaming herself, but I doubted I’d be able to convince her of that.

  “Did you know someone wanted to hurt her?”

  “No way.” She rubbed her thumb along her lower lashes, wiping away the raccoon eyes that were forming.

  “Then there’s no reason to blame yourself.”

  “If I’d walked home with her, instead of dumping her so I could hook up with that asshole Nate, maybe she’d still be alive.”

  “And maybe not.”

  Megan’s hands shook as she bent over to dig into her backpack. She pulled out a water bottle, flipped open the top, and took a swig. She handed it to me. “Drink? It’s vodka. The teachers can’t smell it on your breath.”

  I shook my head. I knew for a fact that wasn’t true. Any form of alcohol could be detected on someone’s breath. “No thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” She took another swallow, capped the bottle, and stuffed it back into her bag. “I don’t want to be here.”

  “Me neither.”

  She turned around, ass resting on the sink. “I don’t want to talk anymore. What’s your story?”

  “Me? I don’t have a story. I’m just here because I have to be. I wasn’t happy when I heard about it.”

  “Nobody is. School sucks balls. It’s summertime. I should be working on my tan, not doing fucking algebra.”

  “Yeah.” I wasn’t about to tell her that baking in the hot sun was about as enjoyable to me as having a tooth extraction.

  “My friends are all going to the shore today. And here I am.” Something in her backpack buzzed. She shoved her hand in and pulled out a phone.

  I smoothed on some lip gloss, trying not to cringe at my reflection in the mirror as I listened in on her end of the conversation. Unfortunately, she said very little. When the call ended, she looked at me, said, “Fuck this,” and left.

  I guessed she was heading to the beach.

  I debated whether I should hang out in the bathroom, alone, until the bell rang or head to algebra. The thought of sitting in a classroom, learning how to solve uber easy linear equations I could do with my eyes closed, made my brain ache. But sitting in the girls’ bathroom all day wasn’t going to get me a permanent gig with the FBI.

  Steeling myself for an hour of simplifying expressions, I took a deep breath and headed out.

  I have known a vast quantity of nonsense talked about bad men not looking you in the face. Don’t trust that conventional idea. Dishonesty will stare honesty out of countenance any day in the week, if there is anything to be got by it.

  —Charles Dickens

  7

  The rest of the day crept by at a snail’s pace. It was torture, but not in the way I’d expected. The subject matter was dull. Most of the teachers were trying their best to get the students involved and interested, but they were failing. In a nutshell, I was very glad to be leaving, and I was dreading going back tomorrow. The one highlight had been that little chat I’d had with Megan. She hadn’t given me any useful details, but I now knew that Stephanie Barnett had sneaked out to a party. Others had to have seen her. Maybe even with the killer.

  I tossed my backpack onto the backseat and flopped into the driver’s seat. My phone was in my fist, and I was about to call JT to bring him up to speed when his ringtone sounded.

  I hit the button. “Great timing. I was about to call you.”

  “I just got off the phone with Forrester. A third girl is dead.”

  “Already? This guy’s moving fast.” I stuffed the key into the ignition and cranked it. “I’m at the school. What’s the address?”

  “He’s thinking this one isn’t a murder. If it is, the MO is completely different. He’s on his way to the scene now.”

  “Do you have the address?”

  “I do. But you can’t go. Chief’s orders.”

  “But I can be there in five.”

  “And what if some of the students see you? Your cover will be blown.”

  I glanced out the window, watching the parking lot empty. A few stragglers were just leaving the building. “You’re right. It’s bad enough I couldn’t use a fake name to go undercover. I’m trying to keep my last name quiet. I guess that means I won’t be able to go to any of the crime scenes from this point forward. At least, not until I’m done with this assignment.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  I thought about the nausea, the jangling nerves, and the awkward conversations with grieving parents. “Of course not. I’d never complain. Anyway, I had an interesting conversation with a friend of Stephanie Barnett’s today. Barnett sneaked out to a party the night she died.”

  “Interesting. What else did the friend know?”

  “That’s it. Nothing else. They split up. She dumped her at the party and left with a boy. But maybe someone else saw Barnett.”

  “It’s something.”

  “It isn’t much. I don’t even know who was at the party, where it was, nothing.”

  “The fact that you somehow managed to find a friend of Barnett’s already tells me you won’t have any problems getting more information.”

  “That was dumb luck.”

  “We’ll see about that. Nothing about you is dumb, Sloan.”

  “And we’ll see about that.” The parking lot was clear now. I drove to the exit and steered out into traffic. I was headed toward the freeway, but I didn’t know which way to go once I got there. “What should I do now? Go back to the unit?”

  “No, there isn’t anything you can do there now. Might as well call it a day. I’ll call you as soon as I know more about the dead girl.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you later, then.”

  “Good-bye, Sloan.”

  “Bye. Um, JT?”

 
; “Yeah?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” There was a heaviness to his voice. I couldn’t miss it.

  “If you need to talk, I’m here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” When he didn’t say anything else, I added, “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Yep. Bye.”

  I clicked off and called Katie. No answer. I dropped my phone onto the passenger seat and pointed my car toward my “home away from home.”

  When I rolled into my folks’ driveway, I noticed a certain car was parked front and center. It would seem I had company. Again.

  He was early. It wasn’t even close to dinnertime.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” Damen took a slow, winding visual perusal of my person before lifting his gaze to my face. “That is some outfit you’re wearing.”

  “Yeah.” Feeling very uncomfortable, I hugged myself as I clomped up to the door. “It’s for work.”

  His brows rose. He shouldered the door frame as I knocked. I’d forgotten to ask Mom for a house key again.

  “I guess I shouldn’t ask?”

  “Probably not. But, based on your expression, I feel it’s pretty safe to say it isn’t what you’re thinking.”

  Sergio opened the door for us, gave me a little nod, then disappeared to take care of some other pressing matter.

  Damen cornered me in the foyer. “It’s going to take some getting used to, knowing you’re out there, risking your life—”

  “I’m an intern,” I pointed out. “Interns generally don’t risk their life . . . unless you consider going out for coffee or lunch a death-defying act.” I decided it wasn’t a good idea telling him the truth. Not yet.

  His chuckle was warm and his eyes sparkled, and I liked those sparkles very much. “Fair enough. I’ll worry no more.” He grabbed me at the waist and pulled me closer. “May I?” he asked, tipping his head.

  “You may.”

  I swear, my feet left the floor when he kissed me. My head was spinning when the kiss ended, and I opened my eyes to find I’d smashed my body against his and was holding on for dear life.