Fear Nothing by Lisa Gardner Read Free Book Online Page A

since your accident. That you’re suffering some kind of panic attack—”
    “I don’t panic!”
    “Some kind of emotional response isn’t unwarranted. You’re not carved out of stone, sweetheart.” Alex’s voice grew gentle. “You’re a real person. And real people feel fear and pain and uncertainty. It doesn’t make you weak. It just means you’re human.”
    “I don’t panic,” she muttered, still looking away. Then, because she simply had to know: “Is the dog okay?”
    “Staying at the neighbor’s, which I gather was already like a second home to her.”
    “She was covered in blood. The dog, right? Only way a smear this big . . . The dog’s legs, stomach, would have to be covered in blood. From the mattress. From lying down next to her owner and the mounds and mounds of flayed skin . . .”
    “We can go home, D.D., anytime you’d like.”
    “When the wind blows,” she murmured.
    “What’s that?”
    She merely smiled, then got her head up and her shoulders back. “And down will come baby, cradle and all.”
    She continued down the hall.
     • • • 
    T HEY HAD LEFT THE SCENE relatively intact. The body was gone, of course. But the blood-soaked mattress, bottle of champagne, fur-lined handcuffs, remained. And the bloody sheet, now tacked up on a bare wall. D.D. had witnessed the technique before, bedding, clothes, even entire sections of flooring, suspended at the original crime scene to enable better spatter analysis. Even then, she had to steel herself as Alex flipped on the overhead light, chasing away the thickening shadows and revealing the full bloody glory.
    “I asked them to leave as much of the initial scene as possible,” Alex said quietly. “Allow me the opportunity to study it in situ.”
    D.D. nodded. Her left shoulder had started a deep, throbbing ache.
    “Same bottle of champagne,” she observed, looking at anything but the suspended sheet.
    “Phil believes the killer brings everything with him—the champagne, handcuffs, rose.”
    “Props for his play.”
    “He wants it to be just so,” Alex said. “Not just any bottle of wine, or any kind of flower. But these specific items.”
    “Ritualized.” She’d thought this before. They were looking at a killer’s highly developed fantasy. Now other thoughts returned to her, like shadows of a dream. “ViCAP?” she asked, referring to the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, which included a searchable database filled with pertinent details from criminal cases all around the country. Investigators could use it to match a crime in their jurisdiction with similar deeds from other localities.
    “I’m sure they’re checking it.”
    “He makes it appear romantic,” she murmured. “Flowers, champagne, lovers’ toys. But it’s about control. Him, in control of everything.”
    Alex didn’t say anything. He twisted behind them and pointed the tight beam of his high-intensity light back toward the hallway. The bright white beam immediately illuminated dozens of stains, mostly bloody paw prints from the dog pacing back and forth. Then he turned his beam onto the floor in the master bedroom and D.D. was immediately captivated by the contrast. A series of paw prints led from the queen-size bed to the door; then a thinner smear appeared on the floor near the right-side nightstand, where there had been blood, but the killer had made an attempt to wipe it up.
    Otherwise . . . nothing.
    Here, in the room that had served as center stage for one of the most gruesome homicides D.D. had ever seen, there was almost no blood evidence. Not on the floors. Not on the walls.
    “But . . . but . . . ,” D.D. found herself sputtering. Then, more firmly: “Not possible. No way you can fillet a human being without being positively coated in blood yourself. And no way the killer could then move around this room, let alone exit the house, without leaving an obvious trail. Even if he cleaned up after himself with a