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  But winter was still a long way off, and it was impossible to tell what might happen to him in the meantime. For all he knew, and sometimes for all he cared, he could be dead by then. That might be for the best anyway. He was a burden on society, a burden on his mother, and always a burden to himself.

  He glanced around the single-room hut. He had discovered this place many years ago and enjoyed some peaceful times here—away from the rest of the cruel and uncaring world, and away from his parents’ arguing. He hadn’t been here since his father had died, and he’d kept this place a secret. It was a safe haven, and a place where he could be alone and not have to hear about what a loser he was.

  But back then, he’d known he could always return home after he’d recharged his soul. Now, this was home, and there was no turning back.

  He sighed and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. The roof was still intact, and the walls, although leaning and bulging in places, still appeared solid enough. Whoever had built this place had done a good job, considering the location. He wondered what it had been used for at the time. Perhaps it was once someone’s home. Maybe someone who needed a refuge—just like him.

  The shack was dry, built on a solid piece of land rising above the swampy waters, and the builder had mounted it on half a dozen firm wooden pillars to be certain it would endure. That kept it well above the rising and falling of the waters.

  Unlike most people who shunned the muddy, decaying wetland, looking on it as nothing more than a place to be feared, a place of death and decay, Adam felt at home in the steaming bog. Much like himself, it was misunderstood. It was a place of vibrant life and rebirth, a place of new beginnings and innocence.

  He closed his eyes and breathed in the pungent odor surrounding him. The beautiful fragrance of constantly decaying vegetation signified a second chance. The black waters of the wild wetland would regenerate, sprout anew, and breathe fresh life into death.

  If it were possible, he would throw himself into the beautiful black waters and reincarnate into what he yearned to be—normal, like the rest of the world, happy, healthy, and free.

  A bullfrog’s deep voice spoke somewhere close by. Adam opened his eyes and gazed through the small window—a square hole in the wall—and strained to see the visitor. The thick foliage and the rising steam perfectly camouflaged the creature from its predators, invisible to all but a mate perhaps waiting nearby.

  The situation he found himself in was completely beyond his control. His illness had caused him to do the unthinkable—take the life of another human being. Though the voices in his head hadn’t presented themselves today, he knew they would be back. It was only a matter of time before they hounded him again, causing him to make another rash move.

  He wondered how many times he’d hurt someone, or worse still, killed another human being without knowing it. The woman might not have been the first—just the first time he got caught.

  If worse came to worst, he would allow himself to die in the swamp rather than let the voices control him. The problem was, when he blacked out he didn’t know what he did. He could kill someone and never know it had happened.

  It was a despairing thought, and he felt helpless. There was nothing he could do about it, and it all seemed to be beyond the expertise of his doctor, the doctor he might never see again. Dr. Zalora would turn him in for sure. Even his mother wouldn’t be able to help him much. The police would be certain to keep an eye on the house in case he returned, and the penalty for sheltering a fugitive from justice would be more than she deserved.

  He rose wearily to his feet and stepped outside the hut. On the high ground where he stood, weeds and wildflowers thrived. Vines swallowed one side of the building, reaching for the sun from the rooftop. Lush grass flourished in patches of dark green about his feet. Here and there an evergreen stood amid the quaking moss. Tall reeds shot upwards from the muddy ground a few feet away, and further down, the swamp bubbled and steamed endlessly.

  Adam wondered if they would track him here. They would scour the neighborhood and perhaps the rest of the city, but surely no one would think he had retreated to such a desolate and dangerous place. Maybe they would give up eventually, assuming he’d moved from the city, or maybe even out of the country.

  That is, if he could keep himself under control and not make an appearance during one of his blackout periods.

  Perhaps he was being too optimistic, a rather unusual state for him. He was more used to being unduly paranoid, in fear of the unknown, frightened of unseen dangers that permeated his thoughts and overwhelmed him with panic.

  It was during those irrational panic attacks he entertained thoughts of ending it all. He often found himself on the cusp of a decision—to give in entirely to the voices, or stop them forever by ending his own worthless existence.

  He never seemed to make that decision. During those times when his will was weak, perhaps it was a natural instinct for self-preservation that aided him in the battle against the voices. When the panic subsided, he still existed as before. Nothing changed.

  Long ago, he had given up hope they would ever find a cure. His case was unusual, the doctor told him. His advice was to adapt, persevere, and hope one day ongoing research would result in something to stabilize him. All he wanted was to get his life back and be normal. Was that too much to hope for?

  Adam sat down on a rock by the edge of the teeming bog, pulled his feet up, and wrapped his arms around his legs. He gazed over the landscape in front of him, swamp as far as he could see, the place he now called home. It would take care of him, feed his soul, and nourish his mind, and the small measure of peace it brought to his tortured heart would be all he could hope for.

  Chapter 16

  Tuesday, 6:18 p.m.

  ANNIE SAT IN her favorite chair in the living room, her legs curled underneath her, staring unseeing at the television. It was the first time they’d taken on a murder case that was already solved. The police were on the hunt for a solid suspect, and it was just a matter of time before they brought the killer in.

  With their limited resources, she was unsure how she and Jake could aid in the hunt for Adam Thorburn. The police had employed their manpower to exhaust all possible leads, yet they had been unable to find information pointing to his whereabouts.

  She glanced down at Matty. He lay on his back, a cushion under his head, absorbed in a comic book. Jake was on the couch, stretched out, his hands behind his head. He seemed to be in thought, his eyes on the ceiling rather than the muted television.

  He swung his feet to the floor, sat up and leaned forward, looking at Annie. “I think Virginia Thorburn knows more than she’s telling us,” he said.

  Annie glanced at Jake. “What makes you say that?”

  “It was something she said before we left, that she thought it best to leave Adam alone and let him make up his own mind. I think she might know where he is, but she doesn’t want to turn him in against his will.”

  Annie thought about Jake’s statement, then asked, “But if she knows, how do we get that information from her?”

  Jake shrugged. “I have no idea, but if she’s covering for him, he might show up at the house again.”

  “The police are watching the house.”

  “True enough,” Jake said. “But she knows that. She might meet him elsewhere.”

  “So you think we should tail her?”

  Jake sat back and shrugged one shoulder. “Just a thought. I’m trying to come up with some ideas.”

  The doorbell rang and Matty dropped his comic, sprang to his feet, and ran to the door. A moment later, Hank’s voice came from the foyer. “Hey, Matty.”

  “Hey, Uncle Hank.”

  The cop followed Matty into the living room, set his briefcase on the floor, and sat on the other end of the couch. Matty dropped in between Hank and his father.

  “I assume you didn’t find Adam Thorburn yet?” Jake asked.

  Hank shook his head. “Not yet, but as soon as he shows his fa
ce, we’ll get him. He has to come out of hiding some time.”

  “They showed a photo of him on the news,” Annie said. “The whole town must know what he looks like by now.”

  “And Teddy White thinks we can help,” Jake said. “He was almost begging us. We took the case, but we don’t know where to start.”

  “If we don’t find Adam right away, it’s just a matter of time,” Hank said. “He’s on medication to control his schizophrenia. Assuming he has it with him, he’ll run out eventually and have to find more or he’ll be unstable.”

  Annie looked at Matty. Her son was intent on the conversation, his eyes moving back and forth between Hank and Jake. She often let him listen in, but when things turned to more gruesome matters, she would rather he didn’t hear.

  “Matty, will you go to your room for now?” she asked.

  Matty frowned. “What did I do, Mom?”

  “Nothing. It’s just for a few minutes.” She pointed to the doorway. “Read a book or something for now.”

  “Aw, Mom.” Matty slid off the couch and picked up his comic book. He turned to Hank and faked a pout. “Bye, Uncle Hank.”

  Hank leaned forward for a fist bump. “See you, Matty.”

  The boy frowned at his mother, then turned and sauntered away, slowly thumping up the stairs.

  Annie leaned forward and looked at Hank. “When Adam runs out of medication, he might kill again. If he’s already unstable with his medication, how much worse will he be without it?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Hank said. “The murder of Nina White was so cold-blooded and brutal, the next one might be as horrendous.” He picked up his briefcase, laid it in his lap, and flipped it open. He pulled out a business card and studied it. “I dropped by to see Adam’s psychiatrist this afternoon. Dr. Zalora. He was shocked when he heard the news, but not surprised. He expressed concern Adam had deteriorated lately and they were running out of medical options to stabilize his behavior.”

  “They’ve tried everything?” Annie asked.

  “Not everything,” Hank said. “There’re some more aggressive medications, but they’re new and very expensive. It’s a question of money as well. Mrs. Thorburn has limited funds, and there’s no government assistance available for the medication.”

  “So either way, his actions are completely out of control,” Jake said.

  Hank closed his briefcase, sat it on the floor, and leaned back. “Not completely. Nina White wasn’t a random victim. There was some level of planning on Adam’s part. He knew the victim, and if she was targeted, he had to have known how to find her.”

  “Perhaps his gripe was with the school,” Annie said. “Maybe he would’ve killed the first person who came along.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Hank said. “But it’s certain he planned to kill someone.” He paused. “The ME found a rose in the victim’s mouth. The same roses that grow on the Thorburn property.”

  Annie frowned. “A rose?”

  “It sounds like planning to me,” Jake said.

  Hank looked at Jake. “But not careful planning. He was careless about leaving evidence behind. He didn’t worry about hiding the car or even covering his face.” Hank shook his head slowly. “It’s as if he didn’t care about getting caught.”

  “Which tells me his mind is unstable,” Annie said. “His only desire was to kill and never mind the consequences.”

  “Sounds more like a psychopath to me,” Jake said.

  “Perhaps,” Hank said. “But according to his doctor, he’s never displayed such extreme violence before. In the past, it was usually abnormal behavior, the occasional tantrum, or irrational anger.”

  “But the doctor said his behavior has deteriorated lately,” Annie said.

  Hank nodded. “And now he’s completely out of control.”

  “What’s the significance of the rose?” Jake asked.

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Hank said. “It obviously has some meaning to him.”

  “What color was the rose?” Annie asked.

  “Red.”

  “Love.”

  “That’s what King suggested,” Hank said. “Perhaps Adam was secretly in love with Nina White. She was a school guidance counselor, and a role like that tends to be more personal, almost like a therapist. It’s not unusual for someone to fall in love, and even expect a relationship, with someone in that position.”

  “A therapist is focused entirely on you and your needs. What can be more gratifying than that?” Jake added.

  “Exactly,” Hank said. “And when a person is weak and unstable to start with, they might interpret it as signs of true caring and affection.”

  “But this was all years ago,” Annie said.

  “He might’ve buried his feelings all these years and they finally surfaced.”

  “Has Adam ever had a girlfriend?” Jake asked.

  Hank shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Apparently, he has no friends, was bullied at school, and keeps mostly to himself.”

  “Sounds like a recipe for disaster,” Jake said.

  “Add schizophrenia to the mix and that’s exactly what you have,” Hank said.

  Jake sat back and scratched his head. “So, if Adam had a thing for Nina White, then she wasn’t a random victim.”

  Hank nodded. “That’s the presumption we’re going with. The connection between Adam and Nina White is too solid to suggest otherwise.”

  “Then we have to hope she’s his only victim,” Annie said. “And he needs to be tracked down before we find out otherwise.”

  Chapter 17

  Tuesday, 8:44 p.m.

  RAYMOND RONSON pulled his 2004 Volkswagen Beetle up to the rear door of Millfield Elementary School and shut down the engine. After almost thirty years at the same job, a job he never tired of, he treated this place as his home away from home.

  The kids he ran into during the day were like family. Sure, they came and went as they grew up and graduated to higher education, but there was always a nice assortment of youngsters who took the time to say hi when they saw him in the halls. And they enjoyed the stories he sometimes told. Short stories—enough to make them smile, but not too long to keep them from their studies.

  He was here every school day until the kids went home, and the children were what made this job most enjoyable. He and Eunice hadn’t been able to have any family of their own, and he was thankful for the day he’d found this job. It didn’t pay a lot, but he and his wife had simple tastes and got by nicely.

  And cleaning up after kids was a joy—part of the job, and he wouldn’t trade what he did for twice the money. Each evening, when he popped back to do a final cleaning after the staff cleared out, he took pride in making the place sparkle, all clean and shiny, ready for the kids on the next school day.

  Picking up his cap from the passenger seat, Raymond sat it on his head and worked it into place. He brushed back the hair above his ears, just enough hair that no one would suspect he had an expanding bald spot under the cap. Not that he cared. There was no shame in being bald.

  He stepped from the car, each day growing more mindful of the increasing effort it took him to get around. At sixty-eight, he had a lot of good years left, but he felt his age creeping up on him. But never mind—complaining never did any good, and anyway, his job wasn’t all that back-breaking.

  Stepping to the rear door, he tugged at the key ring fastened to his belt with a chain, selected a key, and unlocked the door. He heaved on the handle and the door scraped open. The bottom brushed the concrete and held. He would have to get around to fixing that up soon. It was probably the hinges sagging. He could tighten it up with a screwdriver, allowing the door to swing closed properly on its own.

  He stepped into the dimly lit hallway and tugged at the door to free it. It almost caught his heels as it scraped behind him and snapped closed. He flicked a light switch on the wall, flooding the hall with cool fluorescent light. One bulb flickered and would soo
n die. Maybe he would take care of that first. Bulbs didn’t last forever. Except for him, people rarely came into this area of the building, but he needed the bright lighting for his own aging eyes.

  Raymond shuffled down the hall, pushed open a metal door, and stepped into the supply room. He lugged an aluminum ladder out, stood it under the dying bulb, and carefully climbed the steps. Reaching up, he slipped the plastic light cover aside and twisted the bulb gently. It had been there awhile. One end was corroded and stubborn, but he tugged, and it finally moved.

  The end of the forty-eight-inch tube slipped from his grasp and swung downward. He grabbed for it, missed, and watched in disgust as the bulb did a somersault, hit the hard tile floor, and exploded. He shook his head, annoyed at his own clumsiness, and climbed back down the ladder. He avoided tramping in the shattered glass as he pushed the ladder out of the way. He would sweep up the mess before he installed a new bulb.

  He ambled down the corridor to the far end, pushing open a door that led into the main area of the building. To his left and right, lockers lined the hallway, classroom doors at even intervals along the far side. He squinted in the subdued lighting, moved to his left, and opened the storage room where he kept his organized array of cleaning supplies and equipment.

  Flicking on the storage room light, he chose a wide push broom from the selection hanging on the wall and went back to the entrance corridor.

  He opened the door and frowned. The light had gone out. That was strange because he knew he’d left it on. Anyway, the light switch was by the exit door at the other end of the long hallway and he didn’t remember turning it off. Why would he?

  Even more strange, the outside door was open. The roof of his car, parked outside, shone in the bright moonlight.

  “Who’s there?” he called, cupping a hand behind his ear, waiting for an answer.

  No one did. He called again. “Hello? Is someone there?” He paused to listen, then headed for the exit, pushing the broom ahead of him.