“They say that you’re a profiler,” a reporter called out. “That you have a Ph.D. in understanding the criminal mind. Why haven’t you profiled this killer, Agent King?”
This was Paige’s moment. “Because there’s nothing special to say about this individual.”
“Nothing special?” one of the reporters said. “What about the fleur-de-lis? They’re saying that this killer is elegant, that he kills with particular style.”
“Who says that?” Paige countered. “The last thing this killer manages to be is stylish. He’s ordinary, run of the mill. He walks up to people and stabs them. There’s nothing special about that.”
“So you really don’t think that there’s anything special about this killer?” another of the reporters asked.
“Nothing special about him at all,” Paige said. “If anything, he’s kind of pathetic.”
“So why has he managed to evade the FBI for so long?”
Paige took a breath, knowing that each thing she said put her in more danger, but also knowing that she had to push this as far as she dared if she was going to get a reaction from the killer.
“Luck. Nothing but luck. Let’s not pretend that this is a clever man, or one with a particular flare for this. I’m frankly astonished that you’re all here. This is someone who is barely worthy of your time, and certainly not worthy of anyone’s respect. He’ll be caught soon, and once he is, no one will even remember him.”
Paige stared down the nearest camera in a challenge as she said it. She made herself laugh then, even though her fear made it hard to do.
“Seriously. This is nobody. A pathetic little nobody.”
She turned and went back inside then. Christopher was waiting for her, his expression grave.
“Sauer wants to speak to you, now,” he said. It was obvious that saying no wasn’t an option. “This is bad, Paige. He’s angry. Really angry.”
Christopher led the way up to the office, where the image of Agent Sauer was there on the screen. As Christopher had said, he didn’t look happy. In fact, he looked as if he might shout at Paige at any moment.
“What do you think you were just doing, Agent King?” he demanded. “I just watched your little press conference. In it, you just antagonized a serial killer to the point where he’s likely to kill again, just to spite you. Do you have any idea of the damage you’ve just done?”
“The idea was to bait the serial killer in,” Paige said. She held up the keys she’d been holding throughout the press conference. “He knows where I will be now. He’ll think working it out proves how clever he is. I’m willing to bet that he’s not going to lash out randomly. He comes for people who have insulted him. He’s going to try to kill me.”
“And that’s meant to make things better?” Agent Sauer demanded, his voice rising. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call you back to Quantico and fire you right now, Agent King.”
Horror filled Paige at the prospect that he might do just that. If she lost her job, she would never be in a position to learn more about the killer who had haunted her since the day he’d killed her father. Paige had worked so hard to get where she was, and now, it sounded as though she might be about to lose it all.
“I agree with Agent King, sir,” Christopher said.
Agent Sauer turned his gaze Christopher’s way. “You were the one who called me about your concerns, Agent Marriott.”
“I have concerns for Paige’s safety,” Christopher said. “But I also agree that if the killer is still out there, this is the best way to catch him. Paige has been right in her assessments of killers before. I trust her now.”
“And are you willing to bet your job with the BAU on this too, Marriott?” Sauer demanded. “Because that’s what it means if all of this goes wrong. If the killer strikes elsewhere, if he murders some other woman… the FBI will have to give this case over to the local PD, and I will see to it that both of you are posted to minor field offices, if you keep your jobs at all.”
Paige’s heart was in her mouth. She couldn’t let Christopher take that kind of risk with a career he’d built up over years.
“I trust Paige’s judgement,” Christopher said.
“So be it,” Sauer replied, and hung up.
Paige felt sick. She couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“Christopher,” she said. “You didn’t have to do that, not for me.”
“I think Sauer would have gotten you on the first flight back to Quantico if I didn’t,” Christopher said. “And while I don’t know if you’re right, if you are, then we can’t afford to just sit back and wait for this killer to murder someone else. But we do this right, Paige. You’ve tried to lure a killer into a trap. Now, we need to make sure that it’s one he can’t escape from.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
He was sitting at home, watching the news, watching the impact that he was having on the world while he contemplated what he was going to do next. The sounds of his apartment block surrounded him, the music of the woman on the floor above proving far too annoying, as usual.
He wanted to just walk up there and kill her. He’d been thinking about it for a while now. Ever since his mother had died and he’d gone off the medication the doctors had tried to force on him to control him. She hadn’t insulted him directly yet, hadn’t turned him down like Meredith Park, cursed at him like Peggy Cane, or almost run him over like Giselle Newbury, but that small annoyance certainly felt like it could be a reason to pick her.
It would be easy to engineer it, the way duelists had done for centuries. He could walk up to her door and tell her to turn her music off. He had no doubt that she would tell him to go away in the bluntest terms possible. After that… well, justice would be required.
Just not here, not now. He would have to pick a place and a time when it couldn’t just be traced back to him. The same way that he’d held off on killing Meredith and Peggy until there had been a chance to do it without being seen. Lesser people, with their lesser morality, didn’t understand what he was doing. They would call him a criminal, a murderer, if they realized that it was him. Their petty courts would try to convict him, as if he didn’t stand above all of that.
So he sat in his apartment, trying to think of a way and a place.
The apartment was… not what he deserved. It was too small, too dingy. There was a damp patch on one of the walls, and the reception on the TV flickered every so often as the cable messed up. He had to sit in a slightly worn red felt armchair, rather than the throne he deserved. His collection of medieval oddments, and his stack of fleur-de-lis ornaments, had to sit on slightly rickety shelves. Even the manager of the building was getting onto him about his rent, as if such things mattered to him.
Briefly, he thought about dueling the building manager, but no, there was something more satisfying somehow when it was a woman. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the manager. That wasn’t it. It didn’t matter at all that he was three hundred pounds and a former boxer. It didn’t. It was just… better when it was a woman, someone who should show him respect and adoration, rather than insulting him.