Child, Lee. Running blind

She looked away again and made a left, away from the river. Then another, which set her heading north on Route 9.

“I’ll pick up 1-84 in Fishkill,” she said. “Go west to the Thruway, south to the Palisades, pick up the Garden State.”

He was silent. She glanced at him.

“Whatever,” he said.

“Just making conversation.”

“No need.”

“You’re not being very cooperative.”

He shrugged. “You told me you wanted my help with the Army. Not with the basic geography of the United States.”

66

lf*M

She raised her eyebrows and made a shape with her mouth like she was disappointed, but not surprised. He looked away and watched the scenery from his window. It was warm in the car. She had the heater on high. He leaned over and turned his side down by five degrees.

“Too hot,” he said.

She made no comment. Just drove on in silence. 1-84 took them across the Hudson River and through Newburgh. Then she turned south on the Thruway and squirmed back in her seat, like she was settling in for the trip.

“You never fly?” he asked.

“I used to, years ago,” she said. “But I can’t now.”

“Why not?”

“Phobia,” she said simply. “I’m terrified, is all.”

“You carrying your gun?” he asked.

She lifted a hand from the wheel and pulled back the flap of her jacket. He saw the straps of a shoulder holster, stiff and brown and shiny, curving next to her breast.

“Would you use it?”

“Of course, if I had to.”

“Then you’re dumb to be scared of flying. Driving a car and getting in gunfights are a million times more likely to kill you.”

She nodded. “I guess I understand that, statistically.”

“So your fear is irrational,” he said.

“I guess,” she said.

There was silence. Just the hum of the motor.

“The Bureau got many irrational agents?” he asked.

She made no reply. Just reddened slightly under the pallor. He sat in the silence, watching the road reel in ahead. Then he started to feel bad for riding her. She was under pressure, from more than one direction.

“I’m sorry about your sister,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Well, I know you’re worried about her.”

She kept her eyes on the road. “Blake tell you that? While I was making the coffee?”

“He mentioned it.”

“She’s my stepsister, actually,” she said. “And any worrying I do about her situation is strictly professional, OK?”

“Sounds like you don’t get along.”

falSUHA (filing 67

“Does it? Why should it? Should I care more just because I’m close to one of the potential victims?”

“You expected me to. You expected me to be ready to avenge Amy Callan, just because I knew her and liked her.”

She shook her head. “That was Blake. I would have expected you to care anyway, as a human being, except in your case I wouldn’t, actually, because you match the killer himself for profile.”

“Your profile is wrong. Sooner you face up to that, sooner you’ll catch the guy.”

“What do you know about profiling?”

“Nothing at all. But I didn’t kill those women, and I wouldn’t have, either. Therefore you’re wasting your time looking for a guy like me, because I’m exactly the wrong type of a guy to be looking for. Stands to reason, right? Borne out by the facts.”

“You like facts?”

He nodded. “A lot better than I like bullshit.”

“OK, try these facts,” she said. “I just caught a killer in Colorado, without ever even being there. A woman was raped and murdered in her house, blows to the head with a blunt instrument, left posed on her back with her face covered by a cloth. A violent sexual crime, spontaneously committed, no forced entry, no damage or disruption to the house. The woman was smart and young and pretty. I reasoned the perpetrator was a local man, older, lived within walking distance, knew the victim, had been in the house many times before, was sexually attracted to the victim, but was either inadequate or repressed as to communicating it to her appropriately.”

“And?”

“I issued that profile and the local police department made an arrest within an hour. The guy confessed immediately.”