A Voice in the Dark. Jenna Ryan

him,” he said through his teeth.

      But still no shots reached him.

      “Angel!” he tried again.

      “Big, heavy jerk…Ouch! Damn.”

      Noah pounded through the alley exit and disarmed his truck. He almost tore the hinges off as he opened the door.

      He was jamming the key into the ignition when he heard her vexed, “You’re really pissing me off, pal. Face down, stay there and don’t move. Don’t twitch. Don’t even breathe hard.” Louder, she called, “Liz!” Then to the phone, “I’m okay, Noah. It’s a vagrant.”

      “Street person,” her assailant’s voice sneered.

      All the air left Noah’s lungs. He let his forehead fall onto the steering wheel.

      “You’re breathing hard,” Angel warned.

      “What d’you expect, lady?” Her prisoner grunted. “You kicked me in the…”

      “Angel?” Liz clattered in. “I heard a commotion…Ah. Who’s he?”

      “Street person. Noah, are you there?”

      Drill the bastard, he thought, but breathed it out and managed a level, “Yeah, I’m here. What the hell’s going on?” Not that he didn’t know, but until his heart returned to his chest, he wanted her to do the talking.

      “Just a trespasser,” she answered lightly.

      “Yeah, right, like you were invited in.”

      “A dirty trespasser,” she continued, “who needs glasses desperately. I’ve been holding my ID in front of his nose for the past two minutes.”

      “Could be fake.” The man snorted. “How do I know you’re not running a grow op here? All I wanted to do was sleep where it’s not wet.”

      “Move your hand another inch toward my gun and you’ll be in a deeper sleep than you can imagine. Liz?”

      “Call’s in. Cops are coming.”

      Climbing out of his truck, Noah welcomed the sting of near-freezing rain on his face. “You sure you’re not hurt?”

      “Sore cheekbone,” she told him. “He clipped me before I realized what was happening. Otherwise, I’m fine.”

      He pictured a bruise under one of her stunning hazel eyes, let the rain wash over his face while his system rebalanced.

      “Noah?”

      “Yeah.”

      “I’ve got the note.”

      “The what?” He had to drag his mind back, reorient.

      “You told me to look for a note. Pretty sure I found it. It’s written on a diner-style paper napkin. It’s not the same as the napkins that came with the Chinese takeout, but it’s definitely diner-like.”

      “Can you read it?”

      “Clearly. Whoever did it printed the words in caps using one of those art supply stencils. You want cryptic? You got it. It says: SUFFERING IS THE BRIDGE TO UNDERSTANDING.”

      “MAYBE HE SEES HIMSELF as a martyr,” she theorized later.

      “Pseudo and sick, but with the genuine belief that he’s ridding the world of evil.”

      Liz waited for the server to deposit their lunch orders. “I went through the records last night, Angel. Explain to me what’s evil about a soccer mom with three kids who belonged to the PTA and baked cookies for her husband’s geek squad computer repair coworkers.”

      “On the surface, nothing. But I checked the files, too. She lived in Danvers. Maybe she was a closet witch. Wicked as opposed to Wicca.”

      “You’re grasping, partner.”

      “At really flimsy straws.” Angel drummed her fingers. “The woman was killed eight years ago, yeah?”

      “That’s what Joe said Noah said.”

      Propping her chin in her hand, Angel nudged her bowl aside and let her mind wander. To an inappropriate place, she had to admit, but she was as human as the next person and female to boot.

      “Liz, why will Noah let Joe see him and not me?”

      Her partner swallowed a spoonful of Irish stew and groaned. “This is so good. If I knew, Angel, I’d tell you, I really would. For what it’s worth, I haven’t seen him either, or even spoken to him on the phone. No one I know has. Anyway.” She used her index finger to scoop the hair from Angel’s eyes. “You don’t want to see him right now. That cheekbone of yours is bruising nicely.”

      Angel touched the mark, sighed, dropped her hand. “‘Suffering is the bridge to understanding.’ That’s not cryptic, it’s the inside of a fortune cookie.”

      “Written on a napkin, with a stencil.”

      “Noah says that’s how the guy does it. He prints a piece of philosophical gibberish on a scrap of paper, or a napkin, or a candy bar wrapper and slips it to his victims. More often than not, and Foret’s no exception, there’s a partially eaten meal or half empty glass nearby. Which suggests a follow up form of contact at some point, instructing the victim to meet him.”

      “Or else…” Liz finished the threat.

      Angel glanced over as her cell phone began to vibrate.

      “Speak of the invisible devil.” Liz dipped into her stew again. “Listen, I hate to beg favors of a man I’ve never met, but could you ask Mr. Graydon to stop beating my husband at chess? It’s deflating to his ego, and we get enough of that from Graeme and his centerfold girlfriends.”

      “It’s not Noah.” Angel tried to stem the feeling of disappointment that made her want to ditch the call. But that was a childish response—and all the more disturbing for that reason. She picked up with a pleasant, “Hey, Brian. What’s the news?”

      “What’s the noise?” her dour-sounding coworker countered.

      The restaurant Angel and Liz had chosen played edgy flute music at mid-volume. The atmosphere was dusty Irish Goth, with the barest hint of an underlying maritime theme. Not that they could see the ocean, but they could certainly hear the storm blowing in from it as belts of wind battered the weathered outer walls.

      “That,” she replied, “is the sound of a glorious autumn rainfall in New England. Any prints on the napkin?”

      “Only Foret’s.”

      Angel massaged a spot on the back of her neck. “Brian, you were in Boston when the murders stopped five years ago. How many victims did the Penny Killer have?”

      “How much wood could a wood chuck chuck…” He offered back a verbal shrug. “Seven that we know of, and I can still name them all.”

      She visualized him puffing up as he rattled off the list.

      Brian Pinkney, better known as the Brain in Bureau circles, whizzed around the office on his electric wheelchair, getting in everyone’s face and just as frequently on their nerves. He could walk—Angel had seen him do it—but after a car accident several years ago had left him with nerve damage to his spine, he preferred not to tax himself and usually rode instead. He was fiftysix years old, beefy, bald and seemed to sport a new tattoo every time he rolled up his sleeves. No one really liked him, but they couldn’t deny he knew his stuff. Which was probably why he’d lobbied Bergman for the first crack at profiling the Penny Killer.

      That he hadn’t succeeded in his bid would make the lives of everyone in the office hell for a good long while, but as Angel saw it, life was all about facing challenges. Another one more or less wasn’t likely to affect her day.

      “Five of the victims came from Massachusetts,” Brian continued now. “Two from Philadelphia.