The Seven-Day Target Read online

  As if he could read her thoughts, he reached over and took her hand carefully in his. “I’m going to make some hotel coffee when we get back, and we’re going to go through these boxes and do our best to figure out why this guy is after you.” He gave her hand a squeeze.

  Libby brought her other hand on top of his and held on to him.

  Half an hour later they’d cleared an area on the floor of the suite and were going through the boxes. Intermittently they searched leads on the internet to see what they could uncover. They worked through dinner, silently reading the files and making notes. Libby rose to draw the curtains long after the sun had set and noticed Nick looking at her. She gave him a wan smile.

  “So, are you finding anything?” she asked.

  “More than expected. I keep coming across all of these campaign flyers for Jebediah Sinclair.” He picked one of the flyers up and handed it to her.

  “Of course.” Libby nodded as she read the flyer. “Jeb Sinclair. He and my dad were good friends. David, my boyfriend, is his son.”

  Nick flinched. So he was her boyfriend now? He noticed her giving him a furtive sidelong glance before she continued.

  “Gosh, I remember going door-to-door with Dad for Jeb Sinclair’s re-election campaigns when I was a kid. We had campaign materials everywhere in the house, piles of flyers and mailers stacked in the hallway. Dad told me that he would take a bunch of flyers when he left in the morning and hand them out after work. And now that I see them in his files, I guess he wasn’t kidding.” She smiled. “I collected his campaign buttons. I think I had a few shoe boxes filled with them.”

  “Sinclair,” Nick said thoughtfully. “I remember him. I never knew David, though.”

  “David went to private schools. I knew him when I was much younger but only recently met up with him again. Jeb was the longest-serving mayor of Arbor Falls. I think he was elected thirty-seven years ago, and he was one of Dad’s biggest supporters when he ran for judge.” She turned her gaze to a stack of papers, making a face as she looked at them. “I found copies of letters that Henderson sent his victims. They’re similar to the one found beside the body of that poor girl. Sign one.”

  Nick glanced over the letters. Sure enough, the content was similar to the first sign and contained open threats and political nonsense. He frowned. “Henderson wrote this?”

  “Well, yes. He committed the crimes. Why?”

  “Because the handwriting on these letters doesn’t look like the handwriting on his confession.” Nick lifted the confession from its place on the top of his documents and put them side by side. “See? I don’t think the same person wrote these letters. I’m going to ask to scan these at the front desk and send them over to an expert at the Bureau to see what she thinks. I’ll ask her to put a rush on it.”

  Libby pursed her lips as she studied the confession. “He signed a confession? But there was a trial....” She traced her finger along as she read the scrawl. “Oh, I see. He only confessed to breaking and entering to plant the signs but not to committing the murders. The state had to try him for the murders.”

  “Six signs over six days. There was a pattern to them.” He reached for a notepad and began reading. “Sign one is ‘firing a warning shot.’ He would send the victim a picture of themselves in the ordinary course of their day.”

  Libby’s skin prickled. “That was the newspaper photo he left at the scene of the murder. And of course he dressed the girl to look like me.” She felt ill at the memory.

  “Sign number two, he ‘makes entry.’ It seems Henderson liked to let himself into the victims’ homes to plant that sign. Just like he did with your case file.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Libby curled up with her back against a chair and drew her knees to her chest. All of a sudden she felt very cold.

  “Sign number three, he sends a gift.” His face darkened. “Is that what this bastard considered McAdams to be?”

  Libby tucked her fingers beneath her knees and her teeth chattered. “God, Nick. It’s like when cats leave their prey on the front steps. But maybe the gift wasn’t McAdams, but the clue? That led us to these documents, and maybe it will give us a fighting chance to stop him.”

  His brow was knit tightly and he didn’t respond, except to continue. “Sign number four was ‘contact from afar’: leaving threatening notes for the victim, just like the one he left in the smoke detector today. Which leads us to sign number five: ‘the trap.’”

  “A trap?” Libby pulled her knees closer.

  “What the police learned during the investigation was that all of the victims escaped some kind of life-and-death situation before their actual death. One was mugged on the street, one was in a car accident.” Nick’s brow creased as he thought. “There were six victims total, and they were all a little different.”

  “Six victims,” repeated Libby, clutching her hands together to stop her fingers from trembling. “God.”

  “Yes, but Henderson was only prosecuted for three of them. The evidence on the other crimes wasn’t strong enough.”

  Libby’s stomach turned. “And do I even want to know what sign six is?”

  “That’s the thing.” Nick spread his hands wide. “I can’t find it anywhere. Henderson didn’t say, and the victims never lived long enough to tell anyone about it.”

  “It all fits. He’s following the pattern of the Arbor Falls Strangler.” She felt hot as a wave of nausea churned her insides. She brought her trembling fingers to her mouth. “Does that mean he’s going to try to kill me tomorrow?”

  “Libby, no. Don’t go there.” Nick was at her side immediately, his arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “Tomorrow is another threat, but it’s not the end. This is why we have these files, so we can anticipate what he’s going to do and then try to stop him.”

  His arms felt strong and his body warm, but she couldn’t stop shaking and she couldn’t bring herself to speak. Images streamed through her mind. The murder victims. The fire in the warehouse. The photograph of her. She couldn’t move, and she couldn’t stop her mind from racing. Her chest felt as if it was being squeezed in a vise.

  “Come on.”

  Nick lifted her gently as if she were weightless, tucking one arm underneath her curled legs and the other behind her back. He carried her to the bed and placed her on the mattress. Then he smoothed her hair back from her face. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

  He held her hand and stroked her hair, and his eyes never left her face. Minute by minute, breath by breath, her breathing deepened, the shaking slowed and the pain in her chest subsided. She tightened her fingers around Nick’s, and when he squeezed her hand back, her heart swelled in response. “Don’t leave me. Please promise me.”

  He swallowed and his eyes softened. “I’m not leaving your side, honey. I promise.”

  She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb but didn’t say any more. The promise only went so far because if she survived this ordeal, Nick would be gone again in a matter of days. A heavy sadness fell across her, pressing her further into the mattress. Closing her eyes, she attempted to memorize the feel of his hand wrapped around hers, to give her something to think about when he was gone and she was alone once again.

  Chapter 10

  Once Libby felt recovered, she and Nick continued to read through the Henderson files. He’d urged Libby to go to bed, but she was insistent.

  After reading for a while, Nick looked up. “I’m learning more about this Will Henderson. Seems the police only began to suspect him after receiving a tip from an anonymous source. Until then, despite frequent brushes with the law for petty theft, he was never even on their radar. In terms of his criminal past, nothing I’ve seen suggests that he should have been considered for these crimes.”

  Libby didn’t look up from the document she was reading. “We’ve been through this already. Lots of serial killers begin as petty criminals.”

  “But the crimes that serial killers begin with are more antisocial i
n nature. They set fires and torture animals. Grabbing purses or stealing cigarettes doesn’t seem to fit the profile.”

  “But Henderson told the police about the signs, right?” Libby sat back. “That’s compelling evidence of his guilt.”

  Nick turned to her. “What are you thinking?”

  “Let’s assume the police had a bunch of evidence from the crime scenes, including a lot of things they didn’t understand or view as significant. Let’s also assume that they never told Henderson about this evidence. Wouldn’t it be strong evidence of Henderson’s guilt if, as part of his confession, he was able to explain the significance of evidence the police never told him they had?”

  Nick nodded. “Yeah, sure. False confessions are common, so we hold back details all the time. If the person confessing to a crime can explain those details, it’s an indication that the person is telling the truth.”

  “And Henderson explained the signs in his confession. He gave the police additional information about the cases.” Libby gave him a triumphant smile. “So you see? Henderson must have been the killer. Even if it doesn’t make absolute sense for a petty thief to become a serial killer, this is great evidence that in this case, it happened that way.”

  “Libby, I understand why you would be relieved about Henderson being the Strangler,” Nick began slowly. “After all, that means your dad prosecuted the right person. But if Henderson was the real killer, that doesn’t tell us who is threatening you now, or why. There must be something else going on with this case.”

  “Did he have a wife?” Libby asked. “Kids? Maybe we should talk to them.”

  “No kids, and the wife died while Henderson was in jail. She took her own life shortly after her husband was sentenced.”

  Libby winced.

  “There’s one other problem with Henderson being the killer. I found a note about an eyewitness who was interviewed early on in the investigation. She claimed to see someone lurking around the second victim’s home. According to this witness, she saw this person leaving the scene of the crime, his clothes covered in blood.”

  “Eyewitness testimony?” Libby’s eyebrows rose. “I’m confused. I thought there hadn’t been any eyewitnesses to the crime.”

  “I thought the same thing. But then I saw this note. Clearly there was an eyewitness, but she was never called upon to testify at trial.”

  Libby frowned, her whole face a jumble of confusion. “Well, why on earth wouldn’t Dad call an eyewitness to testify at Henderson’s trial?”

  “From what I can figure, it’s because the eyewitness would have sworn that Henderson wasn’t the one she saw that day.”

  Libby paled. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight.” She leaned forward. “Will Henderson signed a confession. Not only did he confess to planting the signs, but he gave the police reliable information about the evidence they had collected, further strengthening his confession. And now you’re telling me that there was an eyewitness who would have testified that Henderson wasn’t the person she saw leaving the second victim’s house, covered in blood?”

  “Here, you can see for yourself.” Nick handed her a file.

  Libby sifted through the file, which contained several newspaper clippings about a victim’s neighbor who claimed to have seen the killer brazenly leaving her house in broad daylight. “‘Harriet McGovern,’” she read aloud. “Oh, shoot—she was seventy-three at the time.”

  “Yeah, seventy-three forty-one years ago. We’re not getting an interview.”

  Libby continued to sort through the papers in the file, coming across handwritten notes on sheets of yellowing paper. “Looks like Dad had the opportunity to sit down with Harriet.” She squinted. “Is this even written in English?”

  “Here, I’ve always had an easier time reading your dad’s writing.” Nick took the paper. “This says that Harriet was having tea on her porch at three o’clock in the afternoon when she saw a man leaving the victim’s house, covered in blood.”

  “Did she say what the man looked like?”

  “It looks like she did, if I’m reading this correctly.” Nick had his finger against the paper as he focused on the barely legible writing. “She said he was extremely tall, well over six feet. Light brown hair. Does that say red?” He showed the paper to Libby.

  “It looks like ruddy. Ruddy face.” She sat back. “That’s an interesting description. So she saw an extremely tall man with light brown hair and a ruddy face. I found a few pictures of Will Henderson on the internet, but I didn’t see anything about his build.”

  “I did. Henderson was no taller than five foot eight, with fair skin and dark hair. Here.” Nick showed her Henderson’s mug shot.

  “It doesn’t seem likely that Henderson would be confused with an extremely tall man with light hair.” Her tone was quiet.

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  She brushed her hair behind her ears. “It doesn’t add up. Maybe Dad made a mistake, after all.”

  She looked down at the floor, staring silently at nothing. His body tensed. The past few days were more than anyone should have to deal with.

  “Hey,” he said, touching her arm lightly. “Why don’t you go to bed. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  She paused, trailing her gaze across his face. “Is that really what you wanted to say?”

  Nick’s stomach tensed. That was one of the things he wanted to say, but he had a hundred more to add. He wanted to know what had happened between them, how they could have gone from best friends and lovers to virtual strangers.

  “I’m trying to make this better, Libby. I’m trying to fix this so you can go back to your normal life.” He brushed his fingers through his hair. “I really do want you to sleep well tonight. You need to get some rest.”

  She was quiet. “What if this is all I have, Nick? What if tonight is it?” Her widened pupils were surrounded by her brilliant blue irises.

  “It’s not,” he replied, feeling the words catch around the tension in his throat. “You’ll live to be a hundred.”

  “But you don’t know that. All I have is today.” She paused before rising and walking to the arm of the couch, where she perched like a small bird.

  “Libby.”

  He said it without knowing what would follow. There was nothing more to say, and he didn’t want to lie to her. All of his professional training and preparation had taught him that she was right. Nothing was guaranteed. If he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit that this could be their last night together. But he couldn’t face that honesty. Not now.

  * * *

  Libby pulled at the charm bracelet on her wrist. It chimed softly when she moved. “This was my mom’s. Dad gave it to me the Christmas after she died. He took me and Cassie to Sarasota. He told us that Christmas was canceled.” She twisted her mouth as the pain of the memory rose in her throat. “It was miserable.”

  Nick shifted. “I can imagine.”

  “When Christmas came, it was like we spent the whole day avoiding it. I had this giant book that I was reading so I didn’t have to talk to anyone. Cassie was angry with Dad about something...I forget what.” She shrugged. “It was easier for her to be angry with Dad than with God. I can’t even tell you what we ate for dinner. We were thousands of miles from home, isolated in a beachfront hotel, and we barely spoke a word all day. And then, after dinner, Dad wanted to take a walk on the beach.”

  Nick studied her. “You never told me about any of this.”

  She tightened her fists against the ache of the memory. That Christmas, night had fallen early, but the remains of dusk clung to the horizon. Libby had taken off her shoes and walked on the sand, not caring that it was too chilly. In that place, so vastly different from home, she’d been haunted by thoughts of her mother—the way she’d held Libby’s hand while she’d napped during chemotherapy treatments, or the way she’d hugged her after school and asked about her day. Her mother had been the most constant presence in her life, and Libby had visualized the pain
in her chest that Christmas Day as a cavity filled by the bottomless depths of her absence. Everything else had felt numb.

  Her mother was supposed to have had more time. She was supposed to have been at the breakfast table the morning after she kissed Libby goodbye. She should have been there to pick out her prom dress and to send her off to college. Libby pulled the bracelet tightly against her wrist, allowing its sharp edges to pinch. You were supposed to have been there when the doctors told me I couldn’t have children. You were still supposed to be my mother.

  “We stopped at a spot on the beach near a palm tree strung with white lights. That’s where Dad told us about Mom.” Her throat ached from holding back the emotion, and she swallowed before continuing. “He told us to remember that her favorite color was blue and that she wore a perfume that smelled like lily of the valley. He told us to remember that she hated the snow and liked to be barefoot and that she would have wanted us to be somewhere warm for that first Christmas without her. Then he gave Cassie a locket, and he gave me this.” She fingered the charm bracelet. “It was Mom’s. He told me that he used to watch me sit on her lap when I was a toddler and play with it. I liked the treasure chest and the piano. See? Because they both open and close.”

  He smiled faintly. “I see.”

  Libby dropped her wrist to her lap and frowned. “Then he told us that Mom was gone and that we should bury her there, on that beach.” Her chin trembled. “He said that we had to be strong. Emotions were signs of weakness, and he would never talk about her again. And he never did.” The tears welled in her eyes, and blinking sent them streaming down her cheeks. “But Cassie and I talked about her all the time, in secret. She was our mother.”