Page 11 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

“That’s great,” Riley told Sam. “Hang on a minute, I want the Sheriff to hear this too.”

Holding her phone, Riley stepped out of the tent with Ann Marie following close behind her. She beckoned Sheriff Beeler over.

“Sam’s got something on those emails and photos Luther Shearer said his wife received,” Riley told Beeler. As he moved closer to listen, she said into the phone, “Go ahead, Sam.”

Sunlight glinted off the ocean in the distance as Sam’s voice crackled through the speaker. “I’ve traced the sender of those emails to Billie Shearer,” he declared. “It’s a man named Marcus Callahan. He’s the owner of a boat repair business in Sandhaven.”

Sheriff Beeler’s reaction was immediate; his eyes widened in a rare display of surprise. “Callahan,” he muttered, the word heavy with unspoken history.

“Sounds like you’ve heard of him,” Riley prompted, her tone carefully neutral. “What can you tell us about him, Sheriff?”

“Marcus Callahan’s been a thorn in our side for years,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “His business, Callahan’s Boat Repair, operates all along the Upper Banks. He’s got a reputation for being... difficult, especially with women.”

Ann Marie leaned forward, “Difficult how?” she prodded, mirroring Riley’s own need for details.

“Well,” Sheriff Beeler began, “we actually arrested him once on stalking charges. More than one woman has complained about him. One filed a legal complaint after he wouldn’t stop harassing her.

But the justice system failed us that time.

He got off with a fine and mandatory counseling.

If he’s behind those emails to Billie Shearer, I’d bet my badge he’s the one who sent those similar emails to Julie Sternan too. ”

There wasn’t a doubt in Riley’s mind that Beeler was right, but it was necessary to make sure.

“Sam, we need you to dig into Julie Sternan’s emails as well,” Riley said.

“Got it,” Sam said with a technician’s calm. “Her info is in the case file that you sent me. I’ll get right on it.”

“Thanks, Sam. We need everything you can find,” Riley replied.

“Will do,” Sam assured her before they ended the call.

The line went dead, and Riley pocketed her phone.

“So, we have two victims,” Ann Marie reiterated, her blonde hair ruffling in the ocean breeze.

Her blue eyes were sharp, reflecting a mind that was always working, evaluating.

“Both received anonymous emails with photos of themselves. And now we know that Marcus Callahan was behind at least one set of these emails.”

Sheriff Beeler shuffled beside them, his eyes fixed on the ground as if searching for answers in the grains of sand.

“Yes, Callahan,” he muttered. “This could be his doing. A guy like him could have moved beyond words and stalking from a distance. With these types it’s never just about emails or teasing. It’s about control.”

Control—the word resonated with Riley. Control was what killers craved, what they exerted over their victims to compensate for their own inadequacies. Maybe Callahan, if he was indeed their man, had lost control once too often.

“It seems likely he sent both sets of emails. The question is, did he escalate from stalking to murder?” Riley’s voice cut through the coastal air.

“I hate to say it, but it could fit his pattern of behavior,” Beeler admitted. “Callahan’s always had a problem with women who reject him or stand up to him. I don’t imagine he’s improved recently.”

“Then it sounds like it’s time to bring him in,” Ann Marie said.

Beeler raised a hand. “It might not be that simple. Callahan’s got a network of supporters up and down the islands. A bunch of ‘good old boys’ who share his... views on women. They might try to warn him or even help him evade arrest.”

Riley’s heart sank. She had run into that kind of tight-knit community, woven together by loyalties and secrets.

If Callahan was tipped off, they could lose him in the labyrinth of local sympathies.

It would take more than just a warrant to reel him in—it would take precision and perhaps a touch of subterfuge.

“All the more reason to move quickly,” she stated, her voice cutting through the stillness of the beach. “We can’t give him time to disappear.”

Beeler nodded. “You’re right. We need to head to Sandhaven right now. But we’ll need to be careful about it. If word gets out that we’re coming for Callahan, this could turn ugly fast.”

“Ann Marie, can you work with Sam to monitor any chatter among Callahan’s contacts?” Riley asked, her grey-streaked hair fluttering in the seaside breeze. “We need to know if he gets wind of us.”

“Of course,” Ann Marie replied quickly, tapping on her phone to draft a message to their tech analyst back at Quantico.

“Let’s get moving. We know that time isn’t on our side,” Beeler grumbled, leading the way back around the sand dunes towards his patrol car parked at the edge of the road.

The trek to the sheriff’s SUV was short, but Riley’s mind traversed miles of possibilities.

In spite of the clarity of evidence, a whisper of doubt lingered, suggesting that not all was as it seemed.

She took out her cellphone and studied the now-familiar photos of those two dead women posed postmortem on beach chairs dressed in vintage swimwear.

She couldn’t square her sense of the killer as being a man at all, perhaps especially not one prone to uncouth behavior toward women. But her intuitions hadn’t brought her anything solid enough to suggest that they investigate some other direction.

As they reached the car, Riley turned to the sheriff, “Sheriff Beeler, we’ll depend on your insight to approach this without setting off alarms.”

“Let’s keep a low profile,” Beeler suggested. “No sirens, no fanfare. We slip into town quietly. Our first stop will be the police station. Chief Thorne will be glad to assist us. He’s had trouble of his own with Callahan.”

Riley appreciated the tactic; stealth was essential when dealing with a suspect like Callahan, someone who might vanish into the wind at the first hint of trouble. As she settled into the passenger seat, she braced herself for the confrontation ahead.

As they drove southward, the Outer Banks’ panorama unfolded—a vast, serene backdrop to a storm brewing within Riley.

She thought of the victims, their strength and ambition snuffed out in a moment of violence.

Could the man they were pursuing have snatched away those lives in a fit of rejection-fueled rage?

Or was she overlooking an essential piece of this puzzle?

If she was wrong about the killer being a woman, what else might she have missed?

The drive was uneventful, a quiet prelude to what could be a storm of resistance.

As they neared Sandhaven, Riley’s phone buzzed.

She pulled it from her pocket and saw Bill’s name on the screen.

She glanced at Beeler and Ann Marie, who were still discussing the best approach for enlisting the local police’s cooperation, and thumbed the screen.

“Checking in,” read the message. “How’s it going?”

She replied with brisk efficiency. “Traced the emails to a Marcus Callahan in Sandhaven. A possibility.”

“Not a sure thing?”

“I wish,” Riley typed back with a sigh. “But he sounds like an unpleasant character. Heading to possibly arrest him.”

“Wish I was there,” came his almost immediate response. “Be careful.”

“Will do,” she typed back, her own pulse quickening at the thought of what lay ahead. “No need to worry.”

“Sorry, but worry is part of my job,” he sent back, followed by a heart emoji.

“Love you,” she responded, feeling a warmth spread through her chest that had little to do with the North Carolina heat.

Slipping the phone back into her pocket, Riley realized that her partner was looking at her. The younger agent’s eyes held a gleam of understanding.

“Bill?” Ann Marie asked, her tone light with curiosity.

Riley’s lips curved into a half-smile. “He worries,” she admitted, her voice tinged with affection.

“So what did you tell him?” Ann Marie pressed gently.

“I told him there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Ann Marie chuckled, echoing Riley’s silent thoughts.

The conversation waned, leaving Riley to mull over the day’s developments.

She’d built a career on profiling criminals, delving into the darkest recesses of the human psyche.

Now, as the evidence pointed to Callahan, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d missed something fundamental.

Could her initial theory have been wrong?

“Sandhaven is coming up,” Beeler announced.

“Callahan’s territory,” Ann Marie murmured, reviewing the notes on her tablet.

Their vehicle slowed as they entered the town, which was a stark change from the bustling beach communities they had seen on the North Carolina coast. The windows of shops lining the sidewalks displayed practical goods essential for daily life.

The homes they drove past were sturdy, but looked like they’d weathered more than just storms.

“Where’s the rustic charm?” Riley muttered under her breath.

“Agent Paige?” Sheriff Beeler’s voice cut through her reverie.

“Sorry, just thinking aloud,” she replied.

The streets here were quiet, with only a few locals walking or biking.

Even so, as they drove through the town, Riley could feel the glares that followed them.

She understood that this was a community shaped by the rigors and rhythms of a hardworking life on the water.

The locals here didn’t seem to have any interest in the tourist trade, and they didn’t look happy to see a newly-arrived sheriff’s cruiser.

Riley couldn’t help but make some comparisons.

She had grown up in small towns in the mountains, and those towns had been isolated too.

But she didn’t think the people living there had been as resistant as these seemed to be to be outsiders.

She reminded herself that she was remembering those towns as an insider, and a child at that.

But even so, she sensed a particular hostility here.

Their vehicle slowed as they neared the marina, where the local fishermen moored their boats. The majority of the fleet was out at sea, a few silhouettes visible against the horizon. In the marina, just a handful of solitary vessels swayed gently in the waters.

Seagulls wheeled and spiraled high overhead, their piercing cries echoing across the sky, their white bodies glinting in the sunlight. Every so often, one would dive with swift precision to snatch one of the floating scraps that were occasionally tossed onto the water.

Riley found herself examining the boats as they passed.

Utilitarian in design with sturdy hulls and practical layouts, they weren’t designed for speed or glamour.

These were working vessels, outfitted with fishing equipment rather than sun decks.

They did seem to be carefully maintained, their paint reasonably fresh and their decks tidy, in stark contrast to the weathered houses they had just driven by.

“Callahan’s Boat Repair is on the east end of the marina,” Beeler said. “That part of the marina is a labyrinth of docks and workshops. Easy to get lost if you don’t know where you’re going.”

“Which means we’ll need all the help we can get,” Ann Marie added, her tone serious as she turned to look at Riley and then back to Beeler.

“Exactly,” Beeler said, nodding. “We’re heading to the police station first. We’ll need the local chief’s help with this. He can help us coordinate the arrest without raising any more alarm than we need to.”

They were about to confront more than just a suspect—they were stepping into a tightly knit community where Callahan might have eyes and ears everywhere.

The prospect of enlisting local law enforcement offered some reassurance, but Riley knew from experience that trust had to be earned, and that seemed especially clear in this fisherman’s town.

Again, she wondered about her earlier hit on the sense that the killer was a woman.

If she was right, what did it mean for the investigation—for the arrest they were planning to make?

Right now, none of the evidence seemed likely to connect with her belief that a woman’s hand was behind these murders.

The possibility that Marcus Callahan might be their killer clouded her earlier conviction.

Does that mean I’m losing my edge? she wondered.

The notion prowled around her mind, feral and unwelcome. Profiling was her craft, honed over years of delving into the darkest corners of human behavior. To question it was to question her very identity within the BAU.

She swallowed hard at her spasm of self-doubt. It wasn’t like her at all—at least not before she’d given up field work for teaching. And with an impending arrest of a likely suspect at hand, she needed to keep her confidence high.

Focus, she told herself. Remember who you are.

Now was no time to forget that she was Special Agent Riley Paige.