Once Chosen (A Riley Paige Mystery—Book 17) Page 7

  Riley was surprised by the sharpness in her own voice. She could see that her words had hurt Ann Marie’s feelings.

  Ann Marie shrugged slightly and said, “OK, fine.”

  She turned away and walked away.

  Riley almost called out to apologize and tell the rookie to come back, but she quickly thought better of it. Having Ann Marie around was already having a detrimental effect on her ability to focus. Maybe just a few minutes without her was exactly what she needed right now.

  She walked into the park and looked around. As Ann Marie had said, most of the park extended away from the direction they’d been checking. But this narrow end of it was close to this sidewalk that the missing girl might have been using.

  Riley walked onto a path that wound across the well-groomed grass and tried to imagine what this area had looked like on Halloween night. Had there been lots of kids roaming these paths?

  No, she thought. They’d have been busy going house to house.

  Besides, their parents would probably have warned them away from here. The paths were well-lighted, but there were also bushes and small wooded areas where someone might lie in wait. This was not a good place for kids to play at night.

  But Ann Marie was right about one thing. There was no apparent reason for Allison Hillis to have taken a detour in this direction.

  Unless …

  Had someone perhaps enticed her into the park?

  If so, how?

  She couldn’t quite make sense of it. Even so, a familiar feeling started to come over her—a sense of the killer’s presence, of what he might have been thinking and feeling as he’d lurked in any of a dozen places she saw around her.

  Riley breathed long and slowly.

  Yes, it had been a good thing to get Ann Marie out of the way. These instinctual moments were Riley’s greatest asset as a BAU agent. There was nothing psychic or supernatural about her feelings of connection with a killer, and sometimes her gut feelings turned out to be flat-out wrong. But often enough, they led to productive insights.

  She kept breathing slowly as she walked along and let her mind drift where it might. She wished she could guess which of these wooded or bushy spots the killer might have chosen for a hiding place.

  She stopped at the first patch of shrubbery she came to and stepped behind it and crouched there. Sure enough, she could see that he’d had a clear view of the lighted street if he’d chosen this particular spot. He could have watched kids wander up and down the street without his presence being suspected.

  It was easy for Riley to imagine how he might have felt as he crouched in wait.

  Mysterious.

  Powerful.

  Dangerous.

  Riley also guessed that he didn’t experience those feelings in his everyday life. Far from it, he might well feel weak, inadequate, and ineffective.

  But here he felt like … what?

  The Goatman, Riley thought.

  She remembered what Sheriff Wightman had said about the Goatman legend. It was the story of a hybrid creature, half man and half goat, hungry for human blood.

  Did the killer actually imagine himself to be the Goatman?

  Riley didn’t know. Perhaps he fancied himself more as the Goatman’s minion, his loyal helper. In any case, his sense of connection to the Goatman legend elevated him above the blandness of ordinary everyday life.

  Still looking toward the street, Riley wondered …

  What might he have been waiting for?

  And who?

  Did he know his victim already—well enough to know what route she’d take while walking to a party on Halloween night? Riley somehow doubted it. She was sure he’d come here fully prepared to kill, but she got the feeling that his choice of victims was impulsive, almost random.

  Or maybe not quite random.

  Looking through the branches, Riley imagined how the killer’s heart would have quickened to see the specter of death walking alone along the street. Of course he would have known that it wasn’t really a walking skeleton but a young person wearing a costume.

  But even so, the girl in that costume would have seemed the perfect prey, as if fate had dropped her into his waiting hands.

  And she had been alone.

  But how had he approached her?

  Maybe he didn’t approach her at all.

  Riley reminded herself of her feeling that he had somehow enticed his victim.

  But how could he have done that?

  How could he have lured the girl away from the safety of a well-lighted street into the murkier park?

  She remembered something from one of the notes the killer had sent.

  NOW THE GOATMAN WILL TAKE HIS TURN

  SINGING THE GOAT SONG.

  Did he sing to her? Riley wondered.

  Or maybe whistle?

  The sheer absurdity of the idea struck her in an instant.

  Singing or whistling behind a bush was hardly any way to entice a young girl off the street and into the park.

  In fact, it was surely the perfect way to scare her away.

  Riley’s sense of connection of the killer suddenly evaporated with the ridiculousness of the notion.

  She sighed aloud. She knew from experience that she wasn’t going to be able to slip back into that state of mind—not here, not right now.

  It’s over, she thought. I might as well head back to the car.

  When she got back to her feet, her cell phone rang.

  Her spirits rose to see that Bill was the caller.

  She sighed with relief.

  Just who I need to hear from, she thought.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bill’s heart warmed at the sound of Riley’s voice answering the phone.

  He’d never enjoyed working at his desk, but he’d been hunkered down in his office doing research at his computer for hours now. He really wanted to get out of here soon, but even though he didn’t have anything really urgent to report to Riley, he did want to talk with her rather than just email her the results of his investigations.

  Working separately from her was feeling downright intolerable right now, and her voice sounded incredibly sweet.

  Remember, this is business, he reminded himself.

  “Did I catch you at an OK time?” he asked.

  He heard Riley let out a sigh.

  “I don’t think you could catch me at a bad time,” she said. “I’m not in the middle of anything, anyway. What have you got for me?”

  “Maybe something, I’m not sure,” Bill said. “I’ve been poring over purchases of large freezing units in the Winneway area. Most of them look legitimate enough—restaurants and supermarkets and the like. And most of the sales were years ago. But I found one that looked rather odd.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Bill peered at the information he’d brought up on his computer.

  He said, “Last year late in October a guy named Gabriel Ballard bought a freezer chest—definitely a commercial unit, but it was delivered to his private residence, not some food-related business.”

  “The timing sounds right,” Riley said. “He could have bought the chest in preparation for the murder.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Bill said. “I did a quick check on his name. He’s done short time for assault and battery but that was some years back.”

  “Do you have an address for him?” Riley asked.

  “Yeah. It’s there in the Winneway area—345 Magnolia Road.”

  Riley said, “Sounds like my new partner and I ought to pay him a visit.”

  “How are things going with the kid?” Bill said.

  “Don’t ask,” Riley grumbled.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Well, let’s just say she’s a work in progress. She’s left me alone for a few minutes, which is a relief.”

  Bill was pleased to hear that. It would be nice to talk to Riley privately, even if it was only about work.

  Riley asked, “What about that other thing I aske
d you to look into? Some possible significance for the words ‘goat song’?”

  “I think maybe I’ve found something on that too,” Bill said.

  He brought up a new page on the screen. “The Greek word ‘tragedy’ literally means ‘goat song.’”

  “No kidding?” Riley said, sounding quite interested.

  “Nope, no kidding,” Bill said. “Nobody seems to know exactly how the word ‘tragedy’ originated. But this article says that the ancient roots of drama were in religious ritual, and also in choral song and dancing. Scholars think it’s possible that a goat was sacrificed as part of those rituals.”

  “Hence the name ‘goat song,’” Riley said.

  “Yeah. Do you think maybe our killer is aware of that connection?”

  “What do you think?” Riley asked.

  Bill thought for a moment, then said, “What was the wording in his notes? Regarding the goat song, I mean.”

  “Well, let’s see. In the first note, he wrote, ‘Now the Goatman will take his turn singing the goat song.’”

  Bill scratched his chin. “Maybe he’s saying that the goat is tired of being the sacrificial animal. It’s time for humans to become the sacrifice. It’s a case of ‘the worm turning,’ so to speak. The goat will have his revenge.”

  “That’s an interesting idea,” Riley said. “In his second note, he says, ‘He will feast and sing again.’ It’s still a sacrifice, still a ritual with song and dance. But the rules have changed.”

  Bill nodded and said, “Of course, it’s just a theory at this point.”

  “Yeah, but a pretty good one. It sure sounds like he could be playing with that kind of idea.”

  Bill asked, “So are you thinking that this killer actually believes himself to be the legendary Goatman?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself,” Riley said. “I’m not sure. For one thing, he keeps referring to the Goatman in the third person—as ‘he.’ Maybe he’s more of a worshipper or a disciple or something.”

  She chuckled a little and added, “That is, if we’re not just letting our imaginations run away with us. For all we know, we’re concocting this whole ritual idea out of thin air. Maybe he’s just some sick, crazy bastard who likes goats. Or who’s just messing with our heads. Have you got anything else?”

  Scrolling on the screen, Bill said, “Well, the Maryland ‘Goatman’ story didn’t appear out of thin air. There’s a whole body of myths and legends from all over the world about creatures who were half-man and half-goat going back thousands of years—satyrs, for example. I couldn’t even scratch the surface of all that kind of lore.”

  “Well, you’ve found out a lot,” Riley said. “I appreciate it. Maybe you should call it a night, go home and get some sleep.”

  “What about you?” Bill said.

  “I’m not sure,” Riley said. “It’s kind of late, but I’m thinking that maybe my rookie partner and I might pay Gabriel Ballard a friendly visit, maybe ask what he’s doing with that big freezer of his.”

  “You be careful,” Bill said.

  “I will,” Riley said. “I always am.”

  She fell silent for a moment.

  No, Bill thought. You’re not always careful. That’s why I should be there.

  Then she said, “But I wish we were doing this together.”

  Bill felt his throat catch a little.

  “Yeah, me too,” he said. “Do you think this is a temporary assignment or that Meredith wants to split us up for good?”

  “I don’t know why he would.” Riley groaned, then asked, “What do you think?”

  “We’re a great team,” Bill replied. “Our record is outstanding. But it could be that he’s going to want both of us to help to break in new agents from now on.”

  “I guess somebody’s got to do it,” Riley muttered. “But it never occurred to me that being good at our jobs might get us split up after all these years. It’s a change I don’t even like to think about.”

  “I know,” Bill said. “And that’s not all that’s changing.”

  “Of course not,” she replied.

  “You’ve always been my best friend, Riley. You’ve always meant the world to me. But now …”

  He paused, knowing that now he was no longer thinking about business. But these were words he wanted to say, so he went on.

  “But now you mean more than that to me. More than my job. More than the world.”

  “I know. I feel the same way.”

  A silence fell between them.

  Bill thought, This is where one of us should say “I love you.”

  Or maybe both of us.

  It seemed odd, in a way, that neither of them had said those words aloud.

  But isn’t it true?

  As if wondering the same thing, Riley said, “We’ve still got a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

  Bill nodded. “We certainly do.”

  “But face to face,” Riley said. “Not over the phone.”

  “I agree,” Bill said. “So hurry up and finish this case so we can get together. I miss you more than I can say.”

  “I miss you too,” Riley said.

  They ended the call, and Bill sat staring at the phone in his hand.

  He wondered how many other BAU partners had fallen in love like this—and how they’d dealt with it when they had.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.

  “Working late, Agent Jeffreys?”

  Bill turned to see the babyish freckled face of Carl Walder. The Special Agent in Charge was standing in Bill’s office doorway.

  Bill’s heart jumped.

  I should have shut the door, he thought.

  But at this hour, he hadn’t expected anybody to drop in like this—least of all Walder, who was well known to avoid personally staying late even though his teams sometimes worked on into the night.

  In answer to Walder’s question, he replied nervously, “Just doing some research.”

  Walder’s lips shaped themselves into a smirk.

  “Research, eh?” he said.

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.

  He said, “I hear Agent Paige is working on a case over in Maryland. I’m surprised you’re not there with her.”

  “Yeah, well … things came up,” Bill said.

  “Things sometimes do,” Walder said.

  With a knowing smile, Walder nodded and headed on down the hall.

  Bill breathed a sigh of relief that he was gone. Even under the best of circumstances, Walder was hardly the sort of guy Bill wanted to have a chat with. And these weren’t the best of circumstances. And now Bill couldn’t help feeling paranoid.

  How long was he standing there?

  How much did he hear?

  Did he know I was talking to Riley?

  Of course Bill and Riley both knew that they couldn’t keep whatever was happening between them a secret forever at the BAU. But Bill hated the possibility that Carl Walder might be the first to find out.

  He could make real trouble for us, Bill thought. And he’s always happy to do that.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The materials on the table before him appeared to be everything the man needed for what he was about to do—a blank sheet of paper, a bottle of glue, a pair of scissors, and a small pile of magazines to cut words and letters from. But he just sat there in his basement, staring at them by the glow of a single bare light bulb.

  He knew that the most important thing was still lacking …

  Inspiration.

  But he waited patiently. He had no doubt that inspiration was coming. In fact, he felt hints of it tingling in his bloodstream already.

  “Come to me, Pan,” he murmured aloud. “I’m waiting. I’m ready.”

  He spoke a little louder, “Sing me the message.”

  He knew that Pan would sing to him soon.

  As he waited, he thought back to how he’d been chosen for this. When he was just a kid, others had tried to frigh
ten him with tales of a monstrous Goatman. Then they had him left him all alone there in the dark woods.

  He laughed aloud now, remembering how he had embraced the very thing they expected him to fear. He had felt the touch of real power before he emerged from those woods. Over the years he had recognized just how mighty the thing that visited him was. The shabby local Goatman legend was just a shadow of the demon deity known as Pan.

  And over the years that power had visited him again and again, telling him what to do and giving him the strength and stealth to carry it out. Pan had guided his every step, just a few days ago singing the message that he had sent to the police—a message that had led to the discovery of the young woman’s body.

  Exactly as Pan had intended.

  The foolish police would never figure it out.

  They’ve got no imagination, he thought.

  People were such herd-like animals, after all. Which was why Pan, the eternal keeper of flocks, found such ready ways to trick them. Pan was now wreaking his revenge for all the hoofed animals that people had so wantonly sacrificed in their futile rites and rituals—the sheer tragedy of it all. It was humans’ turn to be sacrificed to the god. And someday Pan would unleash the full force of his terrible power and set all of humankind into a vast stampede of universal panic.

  For as the man also knew, the very word “panic” came from the god’s name.

  “When will it come—your sacred panic?” he asked the god in a whisper.

  No reply came. Of course the man knew that Pan wouldn’t answer such a question, not even when he arrived tonight, even when he sang his song. The man was a mere mortal, after all, and he wasn’t meant to know such divine secrets.

  But what an honor it was to be Pan’s instrument!

  How privileged he felt to feel his power flowing through him!

  And not just his power, but his genius.

  For the man knew from experience that the god Pan was possessed of uncanny intelligence, especially when it came to human nature. He remembered last year on All Hallows’ Eve when he was full of the god, how he’d crouched behind a bush in that park in Aurora Groves, watching the lighted street for the arrival of Pan’s prey. Children in costumes were coming and going. But Pan didn’t seem interested in any of them.