Page 21 of So Lethal (Faith Bold #22)

Faith rejoined Rebecca and Michael at the room.

“I’m very sorry,” Rebecca said softly. “If I’d known you were suffering from hearing loss, I wouldn’t have been so rude. I didn’t mean to minimize your fear.”

Faith forced a smile and said, “That’s all right.”

“Just so you know, there are resources all over the country for people like you. There are advocates who will help you—”

“I appreciate that,” Faith said, “Thank you. I’d rather focus on the case now, so if you are still willing to interpret for us—”

"Oh yes, absolutely. I was a little freaked out when I realized that you guys suspected me, but I definitely want to help you find the killer if he's still out there. I don't know if Marcus was a killer, but he was definitely violent, so it wouldn't surprise me."

“Well, we’ll handle the detective work. You just need to make sure we all understand each other.”

“Of course. And if you need—”

“That’s all I need,” Faith said bluntly.

Rebecca reddened slightly and lowered her eyes. “Right.”

Michael frowned at Faith, but the last thing she needed from him right now was judgment. She brushed past Rebecca and left the hotel room. The others followed, Turk right at her side looking at her with concern. She reached down to scratch him behind his ear. “I’m all right, boy.”

Turk’s expression suggested he didn’t believe that for a second.

Michael kept up the conversation with Rebecca as they drove to Marcus Wolfe’s house.

He was probably doing that so Faith didn’t have to talk with her and could have time to calm down and focus on the task ahead.

Faith had time to calm down, but she didn’t do a very good job of focusing on the upcoming interview with Marcus.

Why had she reacted like that? It was fine to be afraid of losing her hearing, but to lose control like that? What was going on?

She had been emotionally fragile in the past, beginning with her recovery from the torture she’d endured at the hands of Jethro Trammell.

Turk had come into her life and helped her through that, but then the Copycat Killer had come up, and Faith started to suffer from nightmares.

When that copycat killer was revealed to be none other than her therapist, Dr. Franklin West, she had come dangerously close to going off the deep end.

Now she was teetering on the edge again, and it wasn’t just a little hearing trouble that was doing it. There was a third killer out there, also obsessed with Faith, also killing people close to her in vicious ways to get her attention.

Also, doing a good job of staying hidden.

That was one thing that Trammell, West, and this Messenger Killer had in common.

Faith could ordinarily find a ritualistic serial killer within a few days, maybe a week or two at most. These ones eluded her for months.

True, she wasn't allowed to work the cases officially, but even when she was working on them in spare moments without the FBI's knowledge, she couldn't make progress.

She had been so excited by Michael's discovery of West's fan mail, but that had failed to produce any leads, and now they were back to square one.

That was it. That was why Faith was so off balance. In a way, Tabitha was right. Faith’s celebrity status was a problem. Not because the media paid undue attention to her but because she had somehow become the fixation of three separate serial killers.

Why? What was it about her that made her so “special?”

“We’re here,” Michael said.

That was another courtesy. Michael could tell that Faith was lost in her thoughts, so he told her where they were, knowing she wouldn't even look through the damned windshield to see. Her cheeks burned as she got out of her car. She looked at Michael and said, "You take lead this time."

Michael nodded, showing no sign of concern in front of Rebecca. Faith knew she’d get an earful of that concern later, but she’d deal with it when it came.

They stood on the porch, and Michael dialed Marcus’s phone number. “Marcus Wolfe, this is Special Agent Michael Prince. My partner and I were here earlier today. We’ve come back with an interpreter. We need to talk to you. Please come to the door.”

He hung up and asked Rebecca, “How long does it take for those TTY machines to work?”

“They should be instant. Older ones would need a second to catch up to the words, but newer ones use laser or inkjet printing. They should be just as fast as speech.”

Michael nodded. He put his ear to the door. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Could you really hear something that way?” Rebecca asked.

“We should,” Michael replied. “But I don’t hear anything. No movement, no television, no appliances running.”

“He could be asleep,” Rebecca suggested.

“At seven-thirty?” Faith asked.

“If he’s a chronic drinker, that’s not out of the question,” Michael pointed out.

Faith sighed. “Right. Call him again. We’ll give it a few minutes, and if he doesn’t answer, we’ll pick the lock and go in.”

“Can you do that?” Rebecca asked. “I thought that was illegal.”

Faith’s lips thinned. Technically, it was illegal, but sometimes, it was okay to bend the rules if it didn’t hurt anyone and got Faith the answers she needed.

And what were they supposed to do, anyway? They couldn’t let their suspect use the fact that he couldn’t hear as an excuse to impede their investigation.

Faith sighed. “Well, call him, and we’ll go from there. And Rebecca, I really need you to stay quiet and let us do our jobs.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Michael left another message. The group waited a few minutes with no more response. Faith sighed. “Okay, Michael, you stay with Rebecca. Turk and I are going to go around the house and see if we can find Marcus.”

“You got it.”

Faith and Turk moved to the side of the house, and Turk barked almost immediately. He rushed forward but only made it a few steps before yelping and dropping to the ground just as he had at the Amtrak station when Dr. Crane shot him with the sound pistol.

The whining noise came to Faith’s ears again, but she didn’t panic this time. She was almost certain that the killer’s sound weapon was causing this latest episode.

She rushed past Turk and rounded the corner. The whine faded, replaced by a deep rumbling sound.

That was telling, but more telling was the figure standing in the backyard holding a black object about the size of an old Walkman CD player. The two of them stared at each other for a moment before Faith drew her handgun.

The figure twisted a knob on the object and threw it at Faith. The rumbling became a deep basso roar in Faith’s ears. She winced and batted the object away. It hit the ground and split into two pieces. The rumbling stopped, and Faith breathed a sigh of relief.

And remembered that she had just drawn her weapon on a suspect. She swore and looked ahead, expecting the killer to be rushing her.

Instead, he was rushing away. She just caught sight of his silhouette in the darkness ahead.

She swore and drew her flashlight. The killer was running in between the houses, using the darkening night to conceal his movements. Faith sprinted after him, calling, “Stop! FBI! Stop running!”

That command worked as well as it always did, which was to say not at all.

The killer ran quickly and easily, his movements urgent but self-assured.

Faith brushed away the blow that dealt her pride and focused on how to overcome his size and speed advantage.

Turk was usually how she did that, but apparently he hadn’t recovered from the earlier attack because he hadn’t followed her.

You’d better not have hurt my dog.

She aimed her handgun and shouted, “Stop now, or I’ll shoot!”

That was an empty threat. She couldn't shoot in a neighborhood like this, where a stray bullet could easily kill an innocent person. She was hoping her killer didn't know that.

He did. Or he felt he could still get away. Whatever the reason, he didn’t slow or stop at all.

She bared her teeth and increased her pace, her feet pistoning back and forth like a track star. She wasn’t gaining any ground, but she wasn’t losing any more ground either.

They reached the end of the neighborhood now and came to a city park.

The killer continued to run, sprinting into a cluster of trees.

Faith kept her light on him, and holstered her handgun, pulling her taser out instead.

She still didn’t want to risk a shot here, but she felt comfortable with less lethal options.

She entered the trees and saw branches rustling ahead. “Stop now!” she called. “You’re going to get tased!”

The killer didn’t reply, so Faith continued to pursue. The trees were dense here, and her light reflected off of their branches and made it impossible for her to see the suspect, but she followed the rustling branches and kept up with him that way.

Her radio chirped. “Faith? Where are you?”

“I’m pursuing the suspect, Michael. He injured Turk with a sound weapon and ran. I’m in a city park about a half mile north of the residence. Do you have eyes on Turk?”

“Yeah, I have eyes on Turk,” Michael replied. “He’s okay.”

Faith saw rustling right in front of her. She caught a blur of dark clothing and tackled it.

She was rewarded for her troubles by a screech and a flash of fangs.

She cried out and stumbled backwards just in time to see the possum she had tackled rush to the higher branches of the tree.

She stared at the animal in disbelief for a moment, then heard an engine revving.

Headlights switched on, and a moment later peeled away.

That would be her suspect escaping while she was wrestling with an animal. She pounded her fist into the ground and cried, “Damn it!”

Her radio chirped again. “Did you get him?”

“No. He got away.” She stood and brushed herself off. “Damn it! I didn’t even get the make and model of the car.”

“Well, you should probably come back here and look at what Turk found. Or rather, who Turk found.”

Faith’s heart dropped to her feet. “Who?”

“Marcus Wolfe.”