Just Right, page 13
"Sure. They can. I just need to keep the devices open," Cami said.
"Let's head out. I feel that we're wasting time here. We can at least go in the direction of his house. Perhaps there's a clue there, something we can use. Perhaps there's that tiny chance he might still be home. I’ll ask the local cops to process James McCallum’s release, but to ask him to stay in the local area with his phone open in case we need to speak to him again.”
"Let's do that," Cami said. She also felt glad to be going somewhere and getting out on the road. It felt as if, that way, they were at least getting a step ahead.
After organizing James’s release with the local police, they climbed into the car. Connor set off, heading for the apartment, which was in a rundown area to the south of Chicago, Cami saw.
She kept checking her devices. Surely, by now the program should have wrapped up. She felt impatient as if time was bleeding away and there would soon be none left. Where was he now? Where was he heading?
And then, abruptly, the program ended. Cami stared down and took a look at what the results were.
"Connor, we’re going in the right direction," she said. “But we’ll need to go further if he’s targeting one of his connections.”
“Why?” He braked sharply.
"I've got the map and the friends list. Based on the two programs, the comparisons between them, and the description of the victims he’s choosing, my software is telling me there are two people he could be targeting next. I don't know which one of them it will be."
"Tell me about them?" Connor said, as he swung the car in a U-turn, accelerating the other way.
"One is Meryl Steele. She lives a few miles south of Becker. She's a housewife, it looks like. She's blonde, in her forties, and she pins her location. She's home now. And the other is someone he has followed for a few weeks now. She's Jayne Bell, a model coach. She's in her forties also. Very glamorous, very fashion focused. She lives about twenty miles south of Chicago, in a smaller town. She's currently in the local school, doing coaching."
"And your algorithm can't tell which one is more likely?"
"No," Cami said, feeling frustrated. "The geolocation is too inconsistent. There's no set distance or route, it's just a southerly trajectory. He seems to be basing this more on the victims he's identifying along the way, than the places."
"Right. So people are his thing. As long as the places are within the ballpark, it works for him?"
"Yes. That seems to be his priority."
"I guess it's about the people. That's what he's trying to find. So, which one do we choose?" Connor tapped his finger thoughtfully on the wheel, glancing at the two locations.
"I'm going to go with the closer one," he said. "Let's go to Meryl Steele. I'll ask the local police to go to Jayne Bell. If she's twenty miles away, then they'll be able to get there before we will."
He swung the car along a side street, speeding to the suburb where Meryl Steele lived, barking out commands into the radio.
Cami kept her programs running and tried to keep a watch on both the women. She still felt an uneasy twist of her stomach when she thought about where they were, because in the past, he'd often targeted his victims shortly after they had traveled or moved.
She didn't want to rely on these two locations alone. If the killer had done basic research on his next target, he might know something about her movements that they didn't know.
At that moment, Connor’s phone rang again, and he picked up, speaking to the office.
“Yes? Any news?”
He switched the phone to speaker so that Cami could hear.
“We looked up the postmortem results for the Becker family accident,” the agent back in the office said.
“And? Anything to be found?”
“As you know, there were only five people in the vehicle. Not six. That’s confirmed. And the mother, who was driving, was wearing a blue armband, similar to the ones that have been found at the scenes.”
“Thanks,” Connor said. “That’s a help to us.”
The mother? Cami felt shocked.
This confirmed to her, for certain, that the killer was trying to play the accident scene out in his tortured mind again.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The lost man knew that this was the most important target yet. This was the last one he had to choose. After this, it didn't matter. He would have finished the search for his family.
His family. The words sounded strange. It was only recently that he'd remembered he even had a family. He'd forgotten they existed. He'd forgotten so much.
It had all come back to him, of course. First in snippets, and then suddenly, in a rush, he'd remembered all of it.
Before the memories had returned, all he'd known was the face of the bearded man who'd found him in the woods.
"Who? Who are you?" There had been a gun pointed at him. He'd known what it was of course, but even that word had taken a while to filter through to his mind.
All he could do was stammer out a name that came to him, from somewhere, but he didn't know where.
"Becker. Becker."
"Becker? You a runaway? Been in a crash? A fight?"
His head was hurting. The man was frowning, his tanned forehead creased, looking at a point on his temple, with some concern.
"I don't know."
"You got family?"
"I don't know."
The man's eyes widened with some surprise. "You don't know? You don't know who your family is?"
"No."
"You got no ID? No wallet? No cell phone?"
"No."
"You remember anything at all?"
"No. No, I don't."
"You sure? You in trouble? I think you are."
"I don't remember."
The man had waited a minute and then sighed. His voice had been sympathetic.
"You've had a bad time of it. You need to come with me, I'll get you some help."
The man reached to try and help him up. He'd staggered to his feet. He'd felt dizzy and weak and bruised in a hundred different places.
"We don't trust the police in our group. We're a private militia. But we can get that cut on your head cleaned up and then, if you work, you can pay your way for a while. We have lots of jobs to do. Building, construction, tree felling. We can always use extra hands."
The man who had found him had been kind, at first. The militia unit had given him a chance, a place to stay.
He was doing a job, the man had told him. He was helping the country. He had to be careful, he had to be vigilant, he needed to watch for what was wrong and what was dangerous.
And it had seemed true. He'd lost everything else. He couldn't remember anything. His name. His family. His home. No one knew who he was, and some people thought he was dangerous.
"We'll make you useful again," the man had said. "We'll teach you some skills, so you can support yourself with hard work. You’ll be free to leave after you've paid us through that work."
He'd gone along, and that had become his new life for a few years. The group, which comprised about fifty men and a few women and families, prioritized discipline. Every moment, every action, and seemingly every thought he’d had were policed. Even though from time to time, in his dreams, there were memories.
Memories of a family he had never known. Sisters. Memories of something else. A terrible accident. A car overturning. The crack of something hard, hitting his head.
But he’d never had a chance to worry about those nightmares, because he’d been kept busy and controlled. He’d spent his days working in the grounds, cutting grass, and maintaining machinery. In return, he’d received food and clothing and training in manual skills. He became a competent bricklayer, he could do basic plumbing, and he was able to grow vegetables and tend the soil. He had been quiet and obedient, even though from time to time, strange and devilishly violent thoughts had flitted through his mind. Under the strict supervision of his bosses, though, he knew better than to act them out.
When there had been a change in leadership, the new militia head had given him a choice. Join us as a full member, or else, you can leave on good terms.
Uncertain, but curious to revisit the world outside of those walls, he’d chosen to leave.
But outside of the walls had been more difficult to cope with than he’d expected. Spending his days in idleness, without the routine and activity, had left him feeling adrift. He’d gotten a few jobs, lost a few jobs, but he’d realized that his personality was slowly changing into someone different. Perhaps, the same someone he’d always been.
First slowly and then faster, the memories had seeped back. For some reason, being alone had accelerated their return.
And the memory that he couldn't bear to think of, the one that troubled him the most, was the worst one of all.
He'd been in trouble on that car ride. He'd been caught stealing something. It hadn't even been to help the family. It had just been petty theft. He’d taken a pair of sunglasses from a display outside a store in a shopping mall. But the family was in trouble. They were suffering, in hardship. The home was being foreclosed, and the appliance repair business was failing. It had been in trouble even before his dad had died. And now he had stolen, which his mother seemed to think was the worst crime of all.
And yet, to him at that moment, it seemed as if it was all his fault. He was the one getting shouted at. He was the one getting victimized. He’d gotten angry, and the rage had felt like a torrent that was swallowing him up.
He remembered the moment when it felt as if something within his brain had snapped. That was the time he had suddenly realized he couldn't take it anymore.
Becker had felt a vicious need for revenge, to stop his mother’s diatribe, even if it ended up destroying him as well.
He had leaned forward from the back seat where he'd been pinned between his aunt and his sister, with his mother screaming at him from the driving seat and his big sister turning around to look at him in worry and distress.
He had grabbed the wheel, pulling it away from her. He’d seen her try to grasp it. He’d seen her wrist in such detail, the blue wristband around it, the red flash of her beaded earring. And he had twisted it as hard as he could. He hadn’t been thinking beyond that, not any further, but he’d known with vicious triumph this would be enough to shut the old lady up at last.
Screams had filled the car as it had started to skid, hitting ice, whirling off the road, the trajectory sudden and violent and uncontrollable. It had tipped and rolled. A chaos of crashes, smashes, and screams.
And then, nothing. Only the blacktop, hitting his head, annihilating the memories. Nothing. He had no idea how he'd moved from the road, and he guessed that would always be a blur.
He'd killed his whole family by twisting the wheel. That, he now realized. That was what he'd pieced together.
But if he could only find them, if he could get to people who were close enough, he felt certain that he could bring them to life again. He needed to do it because the pain inside him was almost unbearable. He had to find a way to make it all disappear.
In the end, it only took a few days to find his first target.
It had been a few days of remembering, and a few days of piecing together the details, the social media sites, the friends, and the locations. They were all there. He wasn’t much of a planner; he was more of a spur of the moment kind of guy. But he'd learned to be patient. He'd learned to prepare. He had learned some very useful skills in the militia, even though he couldn't say he'd made any friends. That was a skill he didn't seem to know about.
He'd learned to become stronger than anyone could imagine.
Now, the man checked his phone and climbed into his borrowed car, smiling as he confirmed where he was heading. He had no doubt that his next target would be there because he had been very careful to confirm it correctly. That was one thing he found he was good at.
It was only after he'd left the militia that he had realized there were other social connections to be made, outside of friendships and groups. Online connections. He could follow people without them knowing it. That was fascinating to the lost man. Fascinating and strangely compelling. As his network slowly expanded, he realized that there were people out there who resembled his family.
Perhaps that was also what had triggered his memories. The first time he'd seen someone on social media who resembled his dead aunt, it was as if part of that memory had been unlocked. And from there, it had snowballed. And within the rush of memories, his plan had come to him. It was a brilliant plan. He felt totally confident it would work, but it relied on him following it through.
At first, the kills had felt strange. Later, though, he had found them satisfying.
He was looking forward to reaching this last destination. He checked the location pin. As he thought. His final victim was on the move.
And when she got to where she was heading, he would be waiting.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
While she and Connor were speeding toward Meryl Steele, Cami couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing an important detail. That there was going to be something this killer knew, and they did not.
Yet again, she checked her programs. They had identified only two potential victims, but it was always possible that he had changed his parameters slightly and was following a third.
Cami told herself that she had to trust his patterns, and she had to trust her program. There was nobody else she'd been able to identify who fitted the right description.
Connor's phone rang. Steering with one hand, he grabbed it. "Yes?" Quickly, he thumbed it onto speaker so that he could turn more accurately through a twisting series of bends.
"Connor? Can you talk?" The voice was unknown, and Cami's mind flitted immediately to Ethan. She hoped that he was okay. The few cases she'd been on had made her realize what a high level of risk was involved in every single criminal chase down. Busting a trafficking ring sounded dangerous.
"Hi, Ben. I'm on the road,” Connor said. “About five minutes away from the possible victim's residence. You got anything?"
Cami realized that Ben must be one of the team assessing the footage back in the FBI office.
"We're trying to narrow it down,” Ben explained. “We have the two sets of footage. They’ve just come in, but a section of one of them is corrupted, so we have to request it again."
"You know the approximate times," Connor said. "The aquarium will give you the narrower time frame, so look there first."
"We'll do just that, boss. I've identified the times, and we're searching within those parameters right now. As soon as we have the updated footage, we’ll hopefully be able to see if there’s a match."
"Excellent. Call me if you get results. I'll call you if anything changes."
Connor hung up and turned to Cami. "We've got somewhere to start with the vehicles. That might narrow down the search."
Cami tried to push down the feeling of unease that was creeping inside her. She knew that she had to think ahead and had to focus on what was waiting at Meryl Steele's place. The local police would hopefully be at Jayne's house within the next few minutes. With any luck, both these women would be safe. And now, at least they knew who their killer was. With his identity and his home address now confirmed, it would be far easier to track him down.
But she couldn't suppress the bubbling fear that they were going to be too late to prevent yet another death. That this man, with his damaged mind, his violent tendencies, and his basic knowledge of IT and social media, was still going to be ahead of them. That even with all her knowledge and skill and Connor’s speed and expertise, they were going to be too late.
"I'm feeling really nervous," she shared to Connor as they drove. He glanced at her, and she continued, "I don't know why. I have a very bad feeling about this."
"Why? You think you've missed something?"
"Yes. I'm worried he knows something we don't. I've run my programs over and over. There are only these two women. My parameters can't pick up anything else, and yet, I don't know if we are going to be in time. Is that crazy?"
"You might just be nervous. You've done a few cases now. When you start out as a rookie, you have no idea what’s happening. It's only with experience, when you start realizing the complexities and what can go wrong, that you get scared," Connor admitted.
"I hope so." But privately, Cami worried that her instinct was telling her something for a reason.
"We're close. We should get there in time."
"I know. I just keep thinking of the last time when we were too late. I can't get rid of the worry that we're going to be too late again."
"We'll get there in time," Connor repeated. "We have to."
"I hope you're right. I'm just nervous. I don't know why."
"You'll be fine. You've got this."
Cami nodded. She tried to channel some of that confidence, but she couldn't quite manage it. She couldn't shake the feeling that her fear wasn't irrational.
"Here we are. This is her road," Connor said. "And there's her house. On the corner."
There were no other cars nearby, Cami saw. Nobody was there. The door was closed. Her stomach twisted because she knew that didn't mean they—or Meryl—were safe. It might just mean he'd already done the deed and left.
Connor parked outside, and they raced up to the door. He hammered on it.
There was a pause. A terrible, seemingly endless silence that seemed to sear Cami's soul.
Connor didn't look traumatized. He looked deliberately calm. He raised his hand to knock again.
And at that moment, the door flew open.
Cami let out a deep breath as she saw an angry-looking blonde woman standing in the doorway. She was wearing an apron and rubber gloves. Cami had the impression that she'd been interrupted in a big cleaning project.
Her annoyance turned to surprise as Connor showed his badge.
"FBI. Ma'am, we're on the trail of a suspected criminal and there's a chance, based on our research, that you might be a target."
"Me?" She looked astonished. Then the light dawned. "Is this to do with these strange murders that have been taking place? I heard about them."
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