The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“Good idea. Where?”

“You tell me.”

“My apartment,” I say.

“He’ll feel trapped there.”

“I’ll just see where he wants to meet. I think he called me from his cell phone. I’ll call you back.” I hang up and tab through my call log for his number, punching the autodial. It goes to his voicemail. “Nolan, hi. This is Samantha. I just visited with my grandfather, and we were talking about you. I didn’t realize you’d spent so much time with him. I’d love to catch up. It’s hard now, with his mind so gone. I was shocked at how much he remembered about you. Call me.” I hang up and call Lang back. “I left a message. Damn it, this is going to turn into a manhunt. I’ll meet you at the station. I’m calling Wade to get reinforcements.”

“Be careful.”

“Always.” I hang up and dial Wade.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m about to get on a plane.”

“I need help now.”

“What’s up?”

“I know who he is, but he figured out that I know. He’s missing.”

“I’m getting off the plane,” he says, cool and calm, but there’s an urgency hidden just beneath the surface. “I’ll take a later flight. Text me his information so I can call this in now.”

I pull into a gas station and idle by the curb. “Doing it now. Thanks, Wade. I know him. I grew up with him.”

“Holy hell. This is about you.”

“And my grandfather.”

“Where are you?”

“On my way to the station.”

“Good. I know you’ll be safe there. Be careful.”

“Always,” I assure him.

“Don’t give me that standard answer you give. I mean it, Sam. Be careful.”

“I know. I am. You too.”

“I’ll call you when I get things moving.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Sam—I’m—we—”

“I know. Me, too. I just—just come home.”

“Soon.”

He disconnects and I call Lang again. “Anything?”

“Not a damn thing. We’re checking traffic cameras near his home and work, but he’s a tech genius. We now know how he avoids detection on our security feeds. From what I’m reading, this guy can out-tech any tech we have on staff. Hurry the fuck up and get to the station.”

We disconnect, and for once, I don’t mind being cursed at. He’s worried. So am I. Killers like Nolan do one or two things when trapped. They go on a killing rampage or they disappear and sometimes are never found. Nolan has money and resources. He may have had a plan to disappear, but the FBI will send out travel alerts immediately. Nolan is smart enough to know that will happen.

I think back to that boy in my class who was killed so many years ago. We’d all thought he’d been killed for bullying Henry, by Henry. Nolan was in my class, too. I now think it was Nolan that killed the bully. I’m not sure why, perhaps because the bully mocked Henry for reading a poem. We’d been thirteen. My stomach churns with realization. The same age as the boy I’d shot and killed.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

Feeling downright sick now, certain we’re dealing with a man with a long history of murder, a history that may well run far longer and deeper than we ever imagined, I pull back onto the highway, thinking about what Lang said. What if Nolan had more than one personality? Could one of them be evil and the others not, and therefore, I didn’t feel his evil when I was with him? The idea that this kind of evil can hide so easily is a terrifying thought. We have to catch him before that evil hides somewhere we can’t find him. Because that evil might hide, but it’s not going away.

Chapter 107

Wade doesn’t come to the station when he lands in Austin. He heads to his local FBI office and coordinates resources that he’s pulled in across the state. Everyone on our team is present at the precinct, including the captain, but at near two in the morning, we agree to take shifts. It takes a lot of effort to get Chuck to go home. Lang stubbornly insists on staying with the night detectives despite being dead tired.

“We need you and Chuck with working brains,” he insists. “He’s a genius we need pitted against Nolan. And you understand Nolan’s poetry bullshit. I’ll take a nap in the captain’s office.” He gives the captain a challenging look.

“It’s all yours.”

“The only reason I’m agreeing is that I want to go through all my research at home and try to figure out where he might go. Maybe there’s a clue in the poetry I’m missing. And Wade is meeting me at my place.”

Lang motions to Officer Jackson, who’s been hard at work with us. “Make sure she gets home safely and that patrol is at her damn door. Then you get some rest, too.”

Jackson scrubs his jaw. “Let’s get you home, Agent Jazz.”

We move toward the door and the captain stops me. “Agent Jazz.”