then continued with her work and continued speaking calmly. "Whether or not you believe she's an empath, John, you can't deny that for anyone to deliberately expose themselves on a regular basis to the worst pain and trauma experienced by other people argues an incredible amount of resolution and dedication. She's driven to do this out of some deeply felt motivation, and whatever it is, it won't allow her to just walk away."
"So she'll stick it out as long as she can bear it," Quentin said. "Deliberately opening herself up to pain and emotions none of us would choose to feel—if we had a choice. Fighting herself and her own instincts harder than she'll ever have to fight anyone or anything else."
"In other words, she's a loaded gun," John said.
"More like nitroglycerin in a paper cup."
John sighed. "But she can help us?"
Quentin nodded. "Oh, yeah, you were right about that. She can help us. She might even be able to help herself, by the time this is over. But the duration is apt to be ... painful for everyone concerned."
"I buried my sister a few months ago," John said steadily. "More painful than that?"
Quentin hesitated, traded a quick glance with Kendra, then said, "Could be, John. I know that's hard for you to believe, but the truth is that when new pain follows old pain, the weight of the whole tends to be a hell of a lot heavier than any individual wound."
Her eyes once again on the forensics file, Kendra said, "Four victims so far, and the rapist has left us virtually no hard evidence to consider. Nothing even remotely objective for us to concentrate on. That means our investigation is going to have to focus on the people involved. Victims, their backgrounds, friends and families. People in pain, all around us. Frightened, angry, grieving, hurting people."
John looked from one to the other of them with a frown. "Are you two trying to persuade me to leave Maggie out of this?"
"We never attempt the impossible," Quentin said.
"Almost never," Kendra corrected.
Quentin considered that, then shrugged and said to John, "Anyway, what we're trying to do is warn you that things are likely to get a lot worse before they get better, even for you."
"How could things get worse?"
Wincing, Quentin replied, "Never, never ask that question. Things can always get worse—and usually do. We've got a vicious madman roaming around out there, and he hasn't exactly left us a trail of bread crumbs to follow in order to stop him. We have four victims so far and no sign whatsoever that there won't be more. We don't know how he's choosing said victims, who appear to have virtually nothing in common except that they're female and white—which gives us about half the population of a major city to worry about. We have a police lieutenant with political aspirations in charge of a police department that seems to have just about reached the limits of its resources. We have a frightened city, an increasingly militant press— and we have to walk on eggshells while trying to investigate this because we're not supposed to be involved."
Quentin drew a breath, traded another glance with Kendra, then finished, "How could things get worse? Jesus, John—how could they not?"
"All right, point taken."
Quentin didn't press it. "When Kendra finishes our database, we'll run a comparison with everything the Bureau has on unsolved aggravated rape cases; even though most such seemingly isolated crimes aren't technically FBI territory, we've begun in recent years keeping track of as many as possible simply because sexual predators tend to grow more and more violent the longer they remain at large. And they usually have a history—if we can find it and track it."
"What do you mean?"
"He's been active here in Seattle for about six months, as near as the police can estimate. But his ritual is too well-established for him to be that new at it."
"I thought you weren't a profiler."
"I'm not the best at it. But I work with a few of the best, and I've
"So she'll stick it out as long as she can bear it," Quentin said. "Deliberately opening herself up to pain and emotions none of us would choose to feel—if we had a choice. Fighting herself and her own instincts harder than she'll ever have to fight anyone or anything else."
"In other words, she's a loaded gun," John said.
"More like nitroglycerin in a paper cup."
John sighed. "But she can help us?"
Quentin nodded. "Oh, yeah, you were right about that. She can help us. She might even be able to help herself, by the time this is over. But the duration is apt to be ... painful for everyone concerned."
"I buried my sister a few months ago," John said steadily. "More painful than that?"
Quentin hesitated, traded a quick glance with Kendra, then said, "Could be, John. I know that's hard for you to believe, but the truth is that when new pain follows old pain, the weight of the whole tends to be a hell of a lot heavier than any individual wound."
Her eyes once again on the forensics file, Kendra said, "Four victims so far, and the rapist has left us virtually no hard evidence to consider. Nothing even remotely objective for us to concentrate on. That means our investigation is going to have to focus on the people involved. Victims, their backgrounds, friends and families. People in pain, all around us. Frightened, angry, grieving, hurting people."
John looked from one to the other of them with a frown. "Are you two trying to persuade me to leave Maggie out of this?"
"We never attempt the impossible," Quentin said.
"Almost never," Kendra corrected.
Quentin considered that, then shrugged and said to John, "Anyway, what we're trying to do is warn you that things are likely to get a lot worse before they get better, even for you."
"How could things get worse?"
Wincing, Quentin replied, "Never, never ask that question. Things can always get worse—and usually do. We've got a vicious madman roaming around out there, and he hasn't exactly left us a trail of bread crumbs to follow in order to stop him. We have four victims so far and no sign whatsoever that there won't be more. We don't know how he's choosing said victims, who appear to have virtually nothing in common except that they're female and white—which gives us about half the population of a major city to worry about. We have a police lieutenant with political aspirations in charge of a police department that seems to have just about reached the limits of its resources. We have a frightened city, an increasingly militant press— and we have to walk on eggshells while trying to investigate this because we're not supposed to be involved."
Quentin drew a breath, traded another glance with Kendra, then finished, "How could things get worse? Jesus, John—how could they not?"
"All right, point taken."
Quentin didn't press it. "When Kendra finishes our database, we'll run a comparison with everything the Bureau has on unsolved aggravated rape cases; even though most such seemingly isolated crimes aren't technically FBI territory, we've begun in recent years keeping track of as many as possible simply because sexual predators tend to grow more and more violent the longer they remain at large. And they usually have a history—if we can find it and track it."
"What do you mean?"
"He's been active here in Seattle for about six months, as near as the police can estimate. But his ritual is too well-established for him to be that new at it."
"I thought you weren't a profiler."
"I'm not the best at it. But I work with a few of the best, and I've
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