Back at the start, Sundew had been obliged to spend months drumming up business. The process involved hours of online research just to identify potential clients. Then followed the laborious task of introducing them to the notion that their inheritance problems could be made to go away as if by magic—for a price.
The business was more streamlined these days, requiring less research and less risk. As always, word of mouth had proved to be the best form of advertising. The online whispers were so effective that Sundew had no shortage of potential clients dropping into the chat room.
Money was no longer the object. Now Sundew worked to support a habit.
Somewhere along the line, the murder-for-hire game had become a total rush.
Until recently, Wilby, Oregon, had been the perfect lair in which to hide between hunts. True, the brouhaha two years ago had been a near disaster but things had settled down after Gwen Frazier left town. Then Sundew had discovered that Evelyn Ballinger had become suspicious. The problem had been resolved easily enough, but now the situation had begun to disintegrate.
The bitch was back in town, and she was not alone.
On her own, Frazier wouldn’t have been a problem. She was nobody, just a low-level talent who could view auras—not exactly a weapon of mass destruction. In spite of what had happened two years ago, it was hard to see her as a serious threat. One way or another, she could be dealt with.
But Coppersmith’s presence complicated the situation. His family was powerful and would no doubt make a lot of waves if one of the sons and heirs to the business empire turned up dead in a small town like Wilby. Questions would be asked.
The Coppersmiths also appeared to be a family with a lot of secrets. What’s more, they were very good at concealing those secrets.
Secrets were always interesting. Sundew’s own family kept a lot of them. And they were just as good at hiding them as the Coppersmiths were.
Twenty-nine
Judson awoke just before dawn to a sure and certain knowledge of the killer’s mind.
I know what you are and why you’re killing, you bastard. I’m one step closer. Not much longer now.
He shoved aside the quilt and sat up on the edge of the bed. He was wearing only his briefs. Memories of the night slammed through him. He’d gone back into the damn dream—maybe too far into it this time—but Gwen had pulled him out. Like it or not, for a time he had become her client.
He reached for the holster and gun. What mattered, he concluded, was that after she had yanked him out of the dream, they had gone back to being lovers.
The door between the two rooms was open.
He pulled on his trousers and went to the doorway. Gwen was still in her nightgown and robe, but she was not in bed. She was curled up in the chair, her head resting on a pillow. Her eyes were closed. Max was ensconced alongside her thigh. The cat glared at him through half-closed eyes.
“Tough luck, pal,” Judson mouthed. “Just because you got to her first, don’t think you’ve got claiming rights.”
Max did not look impressed. Judson was deliberating between scooping up Gwen and putting her on the bed or covering her with a blanket when she opened her eyes.
“You’re awake,” she said.
“So are you.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Good.” He paused and then did what had to be done. “Thanks to you. I’m not real sure we’d be having this conversation this morning if you hadn’t pulled me out of that dream last night. I owe you.”
She raised her brows. “No, you don’t owe me any more than I owe you. We’re partners in this thing. Yesterday you saved me as well as Nicole and Max. Last night I was able to help you. That’s what partners do. You have my back; I have yours. Neither of us would leave the other behind. That’s how it works.”
He moved closer to the fire. “You know about that kind of thing because of your time with Abby and Nick at Summerlight, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
He looked at her, understanding sleeting through him. Partners. Lovers. Not client. He could work with that.
“No,” he said. “Neither one of us would leave the other behind. Not ever.”
“Glad we got that settled.” She smiled and stretched. “I did some thinking while you were out.”
“I had a few thoughts of my own when I woke up.” The cold thrill of the hunt was riding him now. “I know him, Gwen. Not his name and identity—not yet—but I know him and I know why he’s killing.”
Excitement illuminated her eyes. He knew then that she comprehended what he was feeling. He also knew that she didn’t have a problem with knowing that he was a little addicted to the rush. Make that a lot addicted.
“You woke up with a flash of intuition?” she asked. “Tell me.”
“We’ve been working on the assumption that we’re dealing with a copycat killer who managed to get hold of Taylor’s camera. But that’s not what’s going on here. This guy is a pro.”
“A professional?” Gwen uncurled her legs, her expression sharpening. “Are you talking about a hit man?”
The suddenness of her movement disturbed Max. He grumbled, rose and vacated the chair. He landed on the floor with an audible thud and stalked across the room. He vaulted up onto the windowsill and glowered out at the dawn-lit world.
“The way he got rid of Evelyn Ballinger and Louise Fuller feels like the work of a pro who is cleaning up,” Judson said. He dropped into the chair across from Gwen. “It explains the controlled energy I picked up at the scenes. Pros get an adrenaline rush when they take out the target, but they know how to handle it. They’re crazy in their own way, but they leave a different calling card.”
“A psychic hit man armed with a crystal that can kill without a trace.” Gwen leaned forward and folded her arms on her knees. She looked into the fire. “I don’t know which scares me more, the thought that we’re dealing with a wack-job of a serial killer or a hit man who kills for money.”
“I’ll take the wack-job any day,” Judson said.
She glanced at him. “Why?”
“Because the wack-job is more likely to screw up. The pros tend to disappear fast when the heat comes down, and they know how to stay disappeared as long as necessary. Pros have several sets of IDs and rent houses on no-name islands in the Caribbean. Pros are very hard to catch.”
Gwen frowned. “But this pro is evidently living in a no-name town in the Pacific Northwest.”