smile when they pant.
The next second, I realize it must have been my imagination. His lips and eyes look as dour and disturbed as could be. Was this my first pang of paranoia? A first instance where I'm letting the stress and strangeness of the dune spread to the things around me?
I turn back to the woman and study her profile as the lie of the white cloth reveals it. You can discern the shape of her nose and lips and chin. I look also at her hair and the shape of her body. She was beautiful once.
Suddenly, an acute and electric pang runs through me.
I stare at her. Feel frozen in place.
“You okay, Radley?” Silva asks.
I can’t yet put my finger on it. But there's that echo of familiarity again. Like when I saw the foot. But stronger now. A knowing pulse within me—like my body, through other levels of awareness, grasps something my brain cannot.
Or will not.
I glance down at the woman’s left arm, the one closer to me. The fingers of her hand are extended and her palm is pressed flat against the ground.
Suddenly, everything is trembling. I reach out and turn her hand over—knowing before I do what I'll find. Yet, as I turn it over, I recoil in terror, and a tiny gasp escapes my lips.
The inside of her wrist and forearm are covered with long, straggling scars. They’re old and fully healed and run both up and down and side to side, crisscrossing the pale skin like a pile of pickup sticks.
They're scars from a suicide attempt with a razor blade.
Scars I remember well.
Throat constricts. Like I’m being choked by an invisible, phantom hand.
I reach out and grasp the corner of the handkerchief and pull it slowly off her face.
Even in this mutilated state, my mind finds within her an indestructible constant. An image burned into me eleven years before that will never fade or age or decay. That will endure as long as I endure.
I reach out and touch her face.
“Lisa,” I whisper and I lay my head down on her chest and weep.
13
Colorado
This sting operation thing is actually happening. I agreed to do it, of course. How could I not—knowing that if he isn't caught, he's going to keep killing, knowing that we might be able to save other Jessicas?
So, it's happening. As if my life needed any more drama. They—the FBI—have already set me up in this new apartment at University Terrace. It's a three bedroom and it comes furnished with two undercover agent roommates who are supposed to protect me. They're moving stuff into their rooms as we speak. There's a blond surfer guy named Bryce and a chick with short, dark hair named Ronette. The scenario is kind of like
Point Break
meets
Three's Company
.
“Yo,” says Bryce, appearing in the doorway of my room. He's holding some sort of radio transmitter contraption in his arms.
Bryce is attractive, I suppose. Super tan and muscly in the way people get when they drink too many protein shakes. He looks too young and baby faced to be an FBI agent, which I guess is the point, since he's pretending to be a college student. “Everything copacetic?” he asks.
“Wicked nar,” I say, poking fun at his surfer roots.
Bryce give me a thumbs up, looks me over just a split-second too long, then turns and goes.
The sting operation was Quentin Bloom's idea. He's the head profiler on the Handyman case. We're not on the best terms. The rift occurred because the FBI recorded that cell phone conversation I had with “Chris” at my aunt's house. During thecall, he mentioned leaving his glasses behind. Bloom, who knew no glasses were found at the scene, put two and two together and they searched the room at my aunt's and found the glasses in the nightstand. Pretty embarrassing. And I wish I had a sane explanation for what I did.
But they must still consider me sane enough for undercover work. Unless I've been hand-picked precisely on account of my kookiness—since no one level-headed would have agreed to do it. At any rate, Bloom's hunch is that Chris may keep trying
The next second, I realize it must have been my imagination. His lips and eyes look as dour and disturbed as could be. Was this my first pang of paranoia? A first instance where I'm letting the stress and strangeness of the dune spread to the things around me?
I turn back to the woman and study her profile as the lie of the white cloth reveals it. You can discern the shape of her nose and lips and chin. I look also at her hair and the shape of her body. She was beautiful once.
Suddenly, an acute and electric pang runs through me.
I stare at her. Feel frozen in place.
“You okay, Radley?” Silva asks.
I can’t yet put my finger on it. But there's that echo of familiarity again. Like when I saw the foot. But stronger now. A knowing pulse within me—like my body, through other levels of awareness, grasps something my brain cannot.
Or will not.
I glance down at the woman’s left arm, the one closer to me. The fingers of her hand are extended and her palm is pressed flat against the ground.
Suddenly, everything is trembling. I reach out and turn her hand over—knowing before I do what I'll find. Yet, as I turn it over, I recoil in terror, and a tiny gasp escapes my lips.
The inside of her wrist and forearm are covered with long, straggling scars. They’re old and fully healed and run both up and down and side to side, crisscrossing the pale skin like a pile of pickup sticks.
They're scars from a suicide attempt with a razor blade.
Scars I remember well.
Throat constricts. Like I’m being choked by an invisible, phantom hand.
I reach out and grasp the corner of the handkerchief and pull it slowly off her face.
Even in this mutilated state, my mind finds within her an indestructible constant. An image burned into me eleven years before that will never fade or age or decay. That will endure as long as I endure.
I reach out and touch her face.
“Lisa,” I whisper and I lay my head down on her chest and weep.
13
Colorado
This sting operation thing is actually happening. I agreed to do it, of course. How could I not—knowing that if he isn't caught, he's going to keep killing, knowing that we might be able to save other Jessicas?
So, it's happening. As if my life needed any more drama. They—the FBI—have already set me up in this new apartment at University Terrace. It's a three bedroom and it comes furnished with two undercover agent roommates who are supposed to protect me. They're moving stuff into their rooms as we speak. There's a blond surfer guy named Bryce and a chick with short, dark hair named Ronette. The scenario is kind of like
Point Break
meets
Three's Company
.
“Yo,” says Bryce, appearing in the doorway of my room. He's holding some sort of radio transmitter contraption in his arms.
Bryce is attractive, I suppose. Super tan and muscly in the way people get when they drink too many protein shakes. He looks too young and baby faced to be an FBI agent, which I guess is the point, since he's pretending to be a college student. “Everything copacetic?” he asks.
“Wicked nar,” I say, poking fun at his surfer roots.
Bryce give me a thumbs up, looks me over just a split-second too long, then turns and goes.
The sting operation was Quentin Bloom's idea. He's the head profiler on the Handyman case. We're not on the best terms. The rift occurred because the FBI recorded that cell phone conversation I had with “Chris” at my aunt's house. During thecall, he mentioned leaving his glasses behind. Bloom, who knew no glasses were found at the scene, put two and two together and they searched the room at my aunt's and found the glasses in the nightstand. Pretty embarrassing. And I wish I had a sane explanation for what I did.
But they must still consider me sane enough for undercover work. Unless I've been hand-picked precisely on account of my kookiness—since no one level-headed would have agreed to do it. At any rate, Bloom's hunch is that Chris may keep trying
Similar Books
