Voices Carry by Mariah Stewart

there.” Genna leaned against the doorway.
    “Patsy told me that your boyfriend is some kind of special investigator for the FBI. I’m so impressed. . .”
    “He’s not my boyfriend,” Genna made a point to tell Nancy, who sped right past her.
    “. . . to know someone who knows someone like that. I saw a show on cable not two weeks ago about how the FBI can create these profiles on serial killers.” Nancy turned to Patsy. “It’s uncanny, how they can tell so much about a person with so little to go on. And so often, they’re right on the money! Why, they went over all the details on this one case, and they had this man pegged to a T.”
    “It’s true, it seems uncanny, but it’s really not at all random. There’s very little guesswork involved.”
    “Now, what does your boyfriend work on when there are no serial killer cases?” Nancy asked.
    “There’s always another serial killer,” Genna told her. “Most serial killers are never caught. They travel, they move around. They get lucky or they are very careful. They die of natural causes and are never found out for what they really are. But most of them are never caught until they do something stupid or predictable.”
    “Well, then, tell me. . .” Nancy leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.
    “Nope. No more.” Patsy shook her head vehemently. “I refuse to waste any more of my day talking about serial killers and crazies.”
    Patsy stood up and waved all the ugly thoughts away with one sweep of her hand.
    “Now. Who’s ready to do a little fishing?”

6
    The evening lights in the parking lot had just come on when the shadow appeared at the top of the steps. The concrete stairs led down to a path that served as a shortcut through a small park to the housing development beyond. Off to the right was a stream, and beyond the stream, a golf course. The man standing at the top of the steps knew every blade of grass and stone between the parking lot and the houses, between the park and the stream and the golf course.
    Who was it who had once said that the man who would meet with the most success was the man who had the best information?
    He smiled, knowing he had done all he could, was as well prepared as he could ever hope to be. For the past several days, he’d followed her—from a safe enough distance, of course—to learn her routine. Once he knew her daily route, he made certain that she encountered him several times under the most benign circumstances, catching her eye and smiling somewhat absently. And the route, well, it couldn’t be more perfect. There was hardly ever foot traffic here at this time of the day. Those who habituallychose to park not in the lot but along the street at the edge of the woods were long gone. Of those souls who lived in the development and worked for the university—a mere six people—well, five of them had already gone home, as he’d known they would. For the past three days, he’d been watching them, too. And other than his nondescript dark blue van, there were no other cars parked along the woods.
    And by now, she was so accustomed to seeing him, that she’d barely notice him at all.
    All so that when he came to take her, she would not be alarmed at his approach.
    He’d rehearsed this night so often in his mind, there was surely no way he could fail. The key to success, he’d once heard, was to be able to imagine oneself actually doing whatever it was one wanted to do.
    God knew that he’d imagined the scene over and over and over again.
    In his mind’s eye, he’d walked toward her—past her—making brief but casual eye contact, as he had done over the past several days. Looking just like everyone else did, his hands in the pockets of his jeans (where he could caress the switchblade, but she, of course, wouldn’t know that). Walking not too quickly, not too slowly—purposeful, but distracted so she would have no sense of dread. Then, after he’d passed her, he’d spin around and grab her