No Escape. Meredith Fletcher

attended many funerals when it had been raining or so muggy you could drown in your own clothes. The sun was shining, the trees were green and vibrant overhead, blocking the early afternoon sun and dropping a green tinted haze over the cemetery. A gentle wind blew to stir things up, but even then the grounds were quiet enough that the preacher’s voice rang out.

      A lot of people had turned up for the funeral. That was one of the things that Heath had noticed during his attendance at the funerals of murder victims, and of his own family. There were always more people at a young person’s funeral than at an older person’s burial. Common sense said that an older person would have made more friends and more solid relationships. In actual practice, more people attended the funerals of the young.

      Death was a new experience for young people, and it was scary at the same time. They didn’t know how to act, and when an older person passed, they were always a generation or two away. Death didn’t seem so close. So they came to funerals because it was a social event and because it was something new.

      Now you’re being cynical. Heath took in a breath and let it out. He was tired. He still wasn’t sleeping well because the frustration clamored inside him. But over the past three nights, the last one in Jamaica and the two since, he’d had nightmares, too. He still had the ones involving Janet, but Lauren Cooper was in there now as well, and he didn’t know why.

      The worst one had been when he’d stood by helplessly while Gibson put Lauren into one of those boxes magicians always used, locked her down tight, then broke out the chain saw. In practice, magicians routinely passed swords, guillotines and chain saws through those boxes. No one ever got hurt, though. But in the dream, Lauren had screamed in pain, and blood had cascaded to the floor. Heath hadn’t been able to save her.

      A creeping chill climbed Heath’s spine. He was dressed in a black suit, fitting in with the other attendees, but he suddenly found himself wishing he’d brought a jacket.

      And a gun.

      His own sidearm was back in Atlanta, and the revolver he’d bought in Jamaica was still there in that hotel room behind the air vent cover. Getting a pistol while in Chicago was too problematic.

      He’d slept in his rental car down the street from Madeline Taylor’s home. That was where Lauren had been spending her nights. She had her own apartment, but she’d stayed with her mother. Heath had gotten a police scanner from a pawn shop and tuned it in, then grabbed as much sleep as he could during the night while watching over the two women. In the mornings, he’d tailed Lauren as she’d gone about making arrangements for her sister’s funeral.

      He’d gone back to stakeout mentality, sitting on a person of interest and hoping for the best. There was no reason to think Gibson would be there, but the killer’s habits were accelerating and no one knew why. Sometimes they just did. The adrenaline rush the killer got from killing wore off faster and faster.

      Taking shelter behind the tree where he stood, Heath raised the small digital camera he’d brought with him from Jamaica, part of his investigation go-bag he had for when he had to move fast. He focused the camera quickly and took another round of shots, getting as many of the faces as he could. He’d get more when the people came by to pay their last respects at the grave. Identification would come through Facebook and online college and high school yearbooks.