Agent Curran
“Shit!” Agent John Curran cursed as he tossed his cell into the center console after calling the hotel where Katherine McCurdy worked on the weekends.
“What did they say?” Agent Hawkins asked, glancing his way, pressing her hand to the dashboard as John took a turn at a high rate of speed, barely slowing down.
“She called out sick this morning. Said she felt dizzy. Had difficulty standing.”
“Do you think he already got to her?”
“I hope not.” John pressed the gas harder, skillfully maneuvering through traffic.
After a drive that felt like it took hours instead of mere minutes, John finally pulled into the parking lot of the townhome complex where Katherine lived, his tires screeching as he slammed on the brakes.
He jumped out of the SUV, Agent Hawkins close behind as he jogged toward the correct unit, gun drawn, eyes scanning the area for anything that looked out of the ordinary.
But nothing did.
To anyone else, it was a typical Sunday afternoon. The sun was shining. Birds chirping. A slight breeze rustling the trees.
But John feared Katherine’s Sunday afternoon was anything but typical.
Approaching the door to her townhome, he paused, glancing at Agent Hawkins.
“Do we knock?” she whispered. “If he’s in there and alerted to our presence…”
“He might kill her,” John finished, voice soft. “If he hasn’t already.”
“Exactly.”
John tried the knob. Locked. He put his ear up to the door, listening for sounds to indicate any movement from within. Anything to indicate a struggle.
But there was nothing. No feet padding on the floor. No rustling of clothes.
No life.
Were they too late?
“There are sliding glass doors in the rear of these units,” Agent Hawkins offered.
“Let’s go.”
They took off at a sprint, running around the building and into the back alley, counting to make sure they entered the correct one. Jumping the short, stone wall onto Katherine’s back patio, John cautiously approached the rear sliding door, expecting to have to break the glass to enter.
But it was slightly ajar.
After giving Agent Hawkins a look, he slowly slid it open, doing his best to remain as quiet as possible. As he stepped into Katherine’s living area, his gaze methodically scanned the space for any movement or evidence that something was amiss, but everything appeared normal.
A stack of mail sat on the kitchen counter. A few wine glasses were in the sink. A blanket was sprawled along the couch. Other than that, everything was neat. Orderly. Peaceful.
Until a muffled cry pierced the air, the sound sending a chill through John. He didn’t hesitate, rushing toward the source, gun raised as he flung open the bedroom door.
A pair of petrified, blue-gray eyes met his, gag over her mouth, wrists tied to the headboard, a tall man between her legs holding a knife to her throat.
“Put it down,” John demanded, gun trained on the man, something familiar about him.
“I must do this. She has to die.”
His voice was crazed, obsessed. Just as John knew this man was. Hell, you had to be in order to devote the past five years of your life to carrying out a series of methodical murders. It required a level of compulsion he couldn’t even begin to understand.