The Seance by Heather Graham

blockbuster, huh?” There was a note of venom in O’Donnell’s voice that surprised Jed. He’d thought the department had accepted that the Interstate Killer had been one of their own gone bad.
    â€œWhere are you off to?” Jerry asked Jed suspiciously.
    â€œGainesville,” Jed told him.
    â€œTo see Larry Atkins?” O’Donnell asked sharply.
    â€œYes.”
    O’Donnell shook his head. “Atkins will swear on his life that he knew he was doing the right thing. What do you expect? That he wants to be known as a trigger-happy cop who killed his own partner?”
    â€œMaybe these are copycat killings,” Jerry said. “Hell, none of us were around back when it all went down.”
    O’Donnell looked away. He obviously wasn’t pleased to have Jed around now. Too bad, Jed thought. Because if he felt like it, he could say he had been hired to look into the case.
    Beau Kidd’s sister was looking for the truth.
    Jed felt a sense of uneasiness. It was imperative for them to solve this case quickly. This guy was piling up victims fast.
    But there was something more frightening, more personal, about the current situation.
    The killer was focusing on redheads. Like Beau Kidd’s sister.
    And like Christina Hardy.
    Jed looked at his watch. Plenty of time. He had an hour-, hour-and-a-half ride ahead of him. Larry Atkins had retired to a farm outside Gainesville, where he kept retired racehorses that hadn’t been successful enough to become breeding stallions or broodmares, horses that might have wound up in the glue factory. He was a homebody. His wife had died a decade ago, and his kids had gone to college out west and stayed there.
    Most nights Larry could be found on his porch from about seven to nine, smoking his pipe in peace and quiet, and staring out over the acreage his pension had bought him.
    Two killings. God in heaven, Larry had to have something to give him. It was as if this guy was carrying out a series of perfect murders, as if he were in law enforcement, forensics…
    As if he were a detective assigned to this very case.
    There was no such thing as the perfect murder, Jed reminded himself.
    â€œTell Larry hi for me,” O’Donnell said.
    â€œWill do,” Jed assured him, and he headed for his car.
    â€œHey!” O’Donnell yelled.
    â€œYeah?” Jed turned back.
    â€œNo secrets, no being a big man and thinking you’re going to solve the case. You—”
    â€œYes, I know,” Jed said patiently. “If I come up with anything at all, I’ll be calling.”
    Christ!
    What the hell did it matter who figured it out?
    As long as the killing stopped. Now. Before…
    He gritted his teeth and kept going to his car.
    Â 
    It was the phone. Nothing more than the phone.
    Christina laughed aloud, then sobered, glad she hadn’t hurt herself when she’d jumped off the piano bench with such force that it had tipped over. She’d forgotten that the phone rang as loud as a banshee’s howl because Gran had been afraid she was losing her hearing.
    â€œHey, you,” Ana said when Christina caught her breath and picked up.
    â€œHey, yourself.”
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Ana asked cheerfully.
    Sitting here afraid that I’m imagining really weird things. Or that I’m not imagining them and they’re real, which is even worse.
    â€œWorking,” she said instead.
    â€œI’m coming over, and we’re going out,” Ana said.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œYou need to get out of that house,” Ana said.
    â€œAna, I just moved in.”
    â€œYou have to get away from your own company for a while,” Ana said.
    â€œNow, that’s just mean. I actually like myself just fine,” Christina told her.
    â€œGreat, well, then, do you still like me?”
    â€œOf course I do.”
    â€œGood. Because I want to go shopping. I don’t have anything to wear for