The Watcher. BEVERLY BARTON

in the opposite direction at a plodding speed, the man was almost out of sight. He hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t turned and followed her.

       How silly of me to think that that pudgy-looking guy was dangerous.

      Although Nic was still officially on vacation, she’d driven into D.C. to Justice Square and met Doug just as he arrived at the office. If she had stayed at home, the waiting would have driven her stark, raving mad. It had been over three and a half hours since she’d spoken to Griff and he hadn’t called back. She figured he didn’t have anything to report, that she hadn’t solved the rubies and lemon drops word puzzle. After all, what were the odds that they’d actually been able to put all the pieces together using those last two asinine clues?

      Nic had wanted to see ADIC Ace Warren, but Doug hadn’t been able to arrange a meeting.

      “Ace can’t fit you in,” Doug had told her. “I’ll see if I can get you a few minutes of his time tomorrow. In the meantime, go home, take it easy. You’re supposed to be on vacation, you know. A much-needed vacation.”

      There was no point in her hanging around here, accomplishing nothing except irritating Doug. She knew the wheels were turning, if somewhat slower than she would like. But the field offices in each state where a woman had been murdered—shot in the head, scalped, and hung by her feet—had been notified, and agents were checking into the matter and comparing notes. If she made a pest of herself, she wasn’t likely to endear herself to either Doug or Ace Warren. And the last thing she wanted was to piss off either of them. What she wanted was for Ace to put her in charge of the bureau’s investigation into this serial killer case when the bureau actually became officially involved.

      Just as Nic slid behind the wheel of her Chevy Trail-Blazer, her cell phone rang. With shaky hands, she jerked the phone from her pocket, noted the caller ID, and flipped open the phone.

      “Yeah, what?” she asked.

      “You were right,” Griff said, but he didn’t sound pleased.

      “Right about?”

      “She’s a basketball player for UT. Her name is Amber Kirby. She’s twenty, blonde, and runs early every morning as part of her daily fitness routine.”

      Nic swallowed hard, her gut warning her that something was wrong. Bad wrong. “Just tell me.”

      “Amber Kirby went for her morning run three hours ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

      “Son of a bitch!” Emotion tightened Nic’s throat. “He’s got her.”

      “Yeah, more than likely.”

      “If only we’d figured out that final clue sooner.”

      “Don’t go there,” Griff told her. “This is not our fault.”

      “If we just had some idea where he’s taken her and what he’s going to do to her. Assuming he stays true to form, we have twenty-one days to find her before he kills her.”

      “Twenty-one days or twenty-one years, it doesn’t matter. We don’t have the slightest idea where he’s taken her.”

      “He’ll call us,” Nic said. “He’ll give us more clues.”

      “Maybe.”

      “I’m right. You wait and see. He enjoys tormenting us far too much not to continue forcing us to play his game. He may not call today or tomorrow, but he’ll call.”

      “Nic?”

      “Huh?”

      “Are you going to be all right?”

      “Yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

      “Right.” He paused for a couple of seconds, then asked, “Are you still on vacation or have you—?”

      “Officially, I haven’t gone back to work yet. I was supposed to take two weeks, but I can’t. Not now. I’ll save a week for later on.”

      “I have a suggestion.”

      “What?”

      “You could come here to Griffin’s Rest for a few days.”

      “Why would I do that?”

      “You could meet some of my team, work with us, and we’d be together when the Scalper calls again,” Griff said.

      “The Scalper, huh?”

      “You and I both know that it’ll take some time for the bureau to coordinate things with local and state authorities. It could be another week or two before they form a task force, if then. Work with me and we could be ahead of the game.”

      He made it sound so tempting. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”

      “Okay. Have it your way.”

      “Griff?”

      “Yeah?”

      “If he calls you—”

      “I’ll let you know immediately.”

      “Same here.”

      “Take it easy, honey. And stop beating yourself up for not being Wonder Woman.”

      Griff had taken his small, single-engine fishing boat out onto the lake earlier today and had spent a couple of hours in the fresh air and sunshine. He owned several seacraft, everything from the fishing boat to a yacht he kept docked in Charleston, where he owned a beach house. As much as he enjoyed deep sea fishing, there was something to be said for hours of lazy, relaxed fishing on a tranquil lake. As a boy he’d gone fishing in any branch or stream he could find, and his mama had always fried up his catch for supper. Those had been lean days when a fat catfish on their dinner table had meant the difference between eating and going hungry.