The Seven Day Target - Chapter Two

"'Morning, sunshine."

Libby groaned, wiping a film of sleep from her eyes. Then she sat up and realized that at some point early that morning, she'd fallen asleep, fully-clothed, on the recliner. Thick court transcripts were tucked around her, and more littered the floor. Her right hand rested on page 212 of day six of the Henderson trial. And a figure watched her from the doorway with barely-suppressed amusement.

"Rise and shine," Nick said, clutching a glass of water. He opened the curtains to admit a flood of sunlight, and Libby winced as he prattled on about something having to do with spring temperatures and daylight savings.

“I hate morning people,” she grumbled, running a hand across her mouth. God, was that drool on her cheek? And her skirt was practically riding up her thighs! She yanked it down. "What time is it?"

"Almost eight-thirty." His eyebrow arched rakishly as he visually scanned her. "I'm about to make some coffee, and you look like you could use some."

Libby ran the heels of her palms across her eyes. "I need a shower.” Without another glance at the morning lark standing in her doorway, she skulked into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

She looked in the mirror -- holy mess! Her mascara was smudged and flaking underneath her eyes, and she had dark shadows all over her face where the concealer from the day before had worn off. Her hair was parted oddly, rising up on the side of her head as if in rebellion. Libby’s cheeks grew hot as she rubbed at the black gunk affixed beneath her eyes. No wonder Nick had seemed so amused.

She stepped into the shower and turned the water to the hottest setting. As the fog in her head cleared, her stomach tensed. Someone was trying to kill her. A true Yankee, Libby thought in terms of utility, and she didn't know what to do with that information.

She stood in the spray of the shower, inhaling steam and the scent of jasmine soap. One thing was certain: Nick was lying to her. The FBI wouldn't take an interest in some creep sending her a photo of herself. No, not when there were terrorists and gangs and illicit drugs to worry about. She couldn't imagine what federal crime had been committed, not even mail fraud. "Official FBI business, my foot," she mumbled, turning off the water.

So then, why was he there?

As Libby dressed and dried her hair, she thought about those last weeks with her father when he’d been uncharacteristically concerned about her welfare. He’d called several times a day to ask where she was or to remind her not to walk alone to her car at night, then he bought a state-of-the art alarm system for her home. Libby had assumed his concern had escalated because he was dying. Now she knew better.

Her stomach growled and she sniffed. Bacon. And coffee. She headed toward the kitchen.

Nick was standing with his back to the doorway. He was barefoot, dressed in black mesh shorts and a gray T-shirt. He turned his head as she entered. "Coffee's ready, and I took out the cream and sugar."

Libby lurched gratefully toward the coffee, taking one of the mugs Nick set out and filling it to the brim with the hot, black, caffeinated goodness she needed to fully clear her head. She tasted it before adding cream and a little sugar. "This is really delicious," she murmured.

"That's because I bought it," Nick said matter-of-factly. "Enjoy a decent cup of coffee. My treat."

Libby’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't like the coffee I buy?"

"You mean that stuff in the green bag?" Nick chuckled. "I don't know what that is, but it's not coffee." He turned his head and gave her a broad, easy smile, dimple and all.

Last night on her front porch, Nick had been a tight coil of masculinity: hard, strong, and poised to erupt like a spring gun if tripped. Now he seemed so boyish, with his bed-rumpled hair, bare feet and shorts, that Libby fought the urge to run up and bite him playfully on the neck.

It was only a fleeting thought.

“Hey, Nick?” Libby set her coffee cup on the counter. “What exactly are you doing here?”

His back was to her, but she saw his shoulders tense slightly. “I told you. FBI business. I’m protecting you.” He scraped eggs and bacon onto two plates and turned to her. "Breakfast is ready.”

Libby fixed him with the same steady gaze she used in court with uncooperative witnesses. “That’s not true, is it, Nick? I’ve considered this from every angle, and I can’t see why the FBI would take an interest in letters some lunatic sent to my dad.”

Nick’s dark eyes flashed. “What is this, a cross-examination?”

“Call it what you want.” She crossed her arms. “You’ve been lying to me, haven’t you?”

His mouth tensed, accentuating the angular lines of his jaw. “I’m not supposed to talk about this, but a new order came down in our unit, and we’ve started to—“

Libby held up a hand. “Save it. I’ve thrown you out once, and I have no qualms about doing it again, so the next words out of your mouth had better be the truth.”

They paused, staring each other down. Finally, Nick flinched. “Your dad asked me to be here, Libby. He was receiving those letters, and he was dying. He wanted to know you were safe. What was I supposed to say?”

“Why didn’t he just call the police?”

“I asked him the same thing. He said he couldn’t call them.”

Libby jutted her chin defiantly. “He believed my life was in danger, and he didn’t want the police involved? No,” she shook her head. “Dad would never put me at risk like that.”

“Libby,” Nick said in a steadfast voice, “it’s the truth.”

She started at the gravity of his tone, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “Why would he say that?” She chewed on her lower lip as she thought. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Nick gestured to the two plates of steaming food he was still holding. “Can we sit down, at least? You look like you haven't had a decent meal in weeks."

He was right, and Libby had to admit the breakfast looked delicious, even if the bacon was burned. She nodded, and they sat at the little breakfast table.

As Libby began to drag a forkful of eggs across her plate, Nick cleared his throat. “Your dad called me in February and left a voicemail. All he said was, ‘Nick, we need to talk, and I’m dying, so why don’t you just come over?’ That was it.”

Libby smiled faintly. “Sounds like Dad.”

Nick nodded. “He was a straight shooter, all right. So a few days later, I drove up and went to his house, and he told me that you were in danger, but he couldn’t go to the police.”

“Why not?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He kept saying that it was his dying request and that I shouldn’t ask questions. He said that there were things in the past that should be left there.” Nick looked down at his coffee. “He said that he didn’t trust the police to protect you. He trusted me because…well, because of our history, I guess.”

Libby ran her fingers along her placemat absentmindedly. “What did he mean about the past? And why wouldn’t he trust the police?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Yeah, it didn’t sit well with me, either.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So I decided to honor the letter of his request, if not the spirit. I had to return to Pittsburgh, but I hired a couple of former FBI colleagues to keep an eye on you, to be your bodyguards. They’ve been checking your mail, by the way.” Nick looked at Libby with a slight tilt of his head. “That’s how I knew you’d received that photograph yesterday.”

Libby clenched the placemat. “So you’ve been having me followed?”

“The way I see it, you already have a psychopath watching your every move. You may as well have a few good guys in the wings. Besides, they’ve been doing some investigative work for me. They managed to track down those court transcripts I gave you last night.”

The knot in Libby’s gut loosened ever so slightly. If Nick had enlisted outside help from criminal investigation experts, he wasn’t the only one protecting her, after all. She had her own mini-police force.

Nick shook his head as he continued. “I’m trying to honor your dad’s request, but I hope you know I would never take risks with your life. Your dad didn’t even want you to know about any of this until it became necessary, but I think we’ve reached that point.”

Libby’s brow furrowed as she processed this information. Her father must have had a compelling reason for not wanting to involve the police, and she wanted to find out what it was. Still, she decided, that deathbed promise had been Nick’s, not hers. She wouldn’t hesitate to call the police in the upcoming days.

"Okay, Nick. Fine,” she sighed. “You're the expert in violent crime investigation. What are we going to do today?"

He sat back. "I've been looking over this file since your dad approached me, and I have a grasp of the basics, but I want to talk to someone who may have more insight." He finished his coffee and set the mug on the table. "We know it's not Will Henderson sending these letters, right? He's dead. So let's take that and work backwards. Maybe there were really two stranglers working together, and we only caught one."

"I thought serial killers usually worked alone?" said Libby.

Nick shrugged. "Stranger things have happened, Lib. I'm not taking anything off the table."

"Maybe Dad locked up the wrong guy? Maybe the real killer is still out there?"

"Could be."

"Or maybe it's a copy cat," she offered.

"Maybe," said Nick. "But your dad seemed pretty certain these letters were the real deal. Something about the details of the crimes, things that were left out of the papers."

Libby went cold as she thought of those letters. "Nick," she said softly, "tell me about this…guy. What does he do? What are we looking for?" She saw him turn his head slightly in hesitation. "Don't sugar coat it. I prosecute these bastards. I can handle it."

"It's a little different when you're the target, Libby."

"Either we're partners or we're not," she said. "If you're here with me, sleeping on my couch and protecting me, then you have to make me your partner."

Nick hesitated. "Libby, it's better --"

"Nick," she interrupted, "listen to me.” She waited until his gaze was on her. “I’ve come back from death before, remember? If I can beat cancer as a kid, I can handle this.”

Libby’s stomach still knotted when she thought about the time she’d gone to the doctor’s office with a fever and left with a diagnosis of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. After nearly a year of aggressive chemotherapy, she was declared to be in remission and ultimately cured. Being diagnosed with cancer at ten years old had been terrifying, and she’d fought like hell and beaten the odds. No one was going to tell her she couldn’t handle something.

Nick’s eyes moved across her face. "Okay." He reached for the carafe of coffee and poured another cup. "Let's assume we're dealing with the same guy your dad was dealing with in the seventies, okay?"

Libby nodded. "Okay."

"The guy's methodical. Precise. Sadistic." Nick took another sip of his coffee and set it aside. "He selects his victims carefully, always choosing a young woman with dark hair and fair skin. He stalks them for months, learning their routine, becoming familiar with their territory. Then when he’s feeling comfortable, he begins with the signs."

"The six signs," said Libby, reaching for the trial transcript. "I tried to find them here last night in the transcripts you gave me, but couldn't."

"No need, I've memorized them." Nick held up one hand. "Sign number one, firing a warning shot. He sends some kind of message to let his victim know that she's being watched. We've already received that one."

"Yes." Libby shivered. She couldn't get that photograph out of her mind.

"Sign number two, he makes contact from afar. This could be any variety of things, but it seems that he would be present at some point in the victim's day. Hiding in the open, so to speak."

"So, is he going to say something to me today?"

"Hard to say," Nick replied. "It will probably be an uneventful day, but we should keep our eyes peeled." He continued counting on his fingers. "Sign number three, he sends a gift."

"A gift? What does that mean?"

"It's not something a normal person would recognize as a gift," said Nick. "It got pretty twisted, with him leaving pieces of his hair for the victim, things like that."

Libby shuddered. "Sick."

"Sign number four, he makes personal contact. He would call the victim and not say anything, or he would bump into the victim on the street, something like that. Sign number five, he lays a trap."

"A trap?" The skin on Libby’s arms prickled.

"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."

"So sign five could be a lot of things, but in this sicko's head, he thinks he's setting a trap of some kind."

"It's about controlling the victim," said Nick. "Scaring her. Making her fear for her life. Hurting her."

"Like a cat toying with its prey.” Libby’s stomach turned. “And do I even want to know what sign six is?"

"That's the thing." Nick spread his hands wide. "We - they - never figured out what sign six was. Henderson was coy about it, and the victims never lived long enough to tell anyone about it. It must be very subtle."

Libby thought for a moment, biting her lower lip. "Tell me what happens on day seven, Nick."

His forehead creased as he looked at her. "He's not going to make it to day seven.”

"Humor me."

Nick shifted in his seat. "All of his victims were found in their home, strangled. He… would cut three fingers from the left hand. Seven days, seven fingers.” He clenched his jaw. “He did it while they were alive.”

The breath caught in her lungs and her hands flew to her mouth. Shaken to the core, Libby sat back and turned her head, looking out the window. “He tortured those poor girls,” she said. Without thinking, she glanced at her own trembling left hand, spreading her fingers out in front of her.

“Libby,” said Nick, his voice firm, “it’s not going to happen to you.”

She balled her fist. “I wonder what made my dad think the letters were written by the same person who committed the crime?” she whispered, more to herself.

“That’s why I was thinking that we could find someone who was involved in the case. A cop or a detective, maybe.”

Libby tapped her fingertips on the table as she thought. "Jack MacGruder. He was just out of law school when Dad prosecuted the case, but he sat second chair at trial. Maybe he'll have some insight. Besides, he’s been a mentor to me since the day I arrived at the District Attorney’s Office. I trust him."

"It's as good a start as any," Nick agreed. He looked at the clock on the wall. "We should get going. Is MacGruder working today?"

"MacGruder is always working." Libby drained her coffee cup and stood up. "Thanks for breakfast. I'll clean up. Why don't you shower?"

Nick stood and stretched, raising his arms over his head. As he did so, the T-shirt pulled just slightly above his shorts, revealing several inches of his taut midsection. Libby’s eyes were drawn to the thin trail of golden brown hair intersecting the bottom of his six-pack. An image flashed of the first time she’d touched him there, when she’d tucked her fingertips inside his waistband and felt his muscles quivering with effort to restrain his desire. Her chest grew warm at the memory.

Libby looked away and busied herself with the dishes. "You know where to find the towels.”

Nick began to walk out of the room and paused. “Hey, Libby.”

She stopped her fidgeting and looked up. His upper body was turned back to her, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He watched her with eyes that narrowed in concern, but his jaw was tense. “No one’s going to hurt you. I mean it. Over my dead body.”

Libby swallowed and nodded.

She gathered up the remaining dishes while listening to the familiar, heavy fall of Nick’s footsteps as he walked up the stairs. When he reached the top of the staircase, she realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled.

The reality was just starting to settle. She was a sitting target for some lunatic who enjoyed psychologically tormenting his victims. Anxiety eroded her insides, leaving her so raw that it took all of her energy to pretend she wasn’t hurting. Then there was Nick, so sure of himself, swearing to protect her. She liked to imagine he could. But then again, she liked to imagine that things between them were different, and that he was there because he loved her. She liked fairy tales.

He's here because your dad asked him to be here, she reminded herself as she headed toward the sink. Nothing sexy about that.

***

Like most things in Libby's house, each towel in the bathroom had its particular place, and they were folded identically and piled in the cabinet. Nick couldn't help but smile when he saw the familiar collection of nearly threadbare towels she bought in college and refused to throw out. She still had the offensively-colored discount towels she fished out of a bargain bin in the middle of law school and the souvenir beach towel she picked up in Myrtle Beach, with the shark in swimming trunks holding a surfboard and winking while giving a 'thumbs up.'

He selected the shark towel and unfolded it. He remembered the way she laughed the first time she saw that towel, and the tone of her voice when she declared it to be “all kinds of tacky.” Mostly he remembered the kiss they shared in the middle of the parking lot after she bought the towel, his lips lingering on her taste of dried salt water and coconut oil lip balm.

The memory stung. Somewhere, at some point after that kiss, something had changed. The girl who had once giggled about tacky souvenir towels had become consumed with the grave task of constructing a tower in which to hide from the world. Libby's moods had grown dark and her life had become serious. Nick thought it may have happened during those months he was at FBI training in Quantico, but looking back, he couldn’t say for sure. All he knew was that for a while, life had been better than he could have ever predicted. He was dating the girl he’d been in love with since they were children, and she seemed to love him in return. Then she’d disappeared without explanation, leaving in her place a distant, secretive woman who’d chosen to fill her free time with work.

Nick hung the shark towel on the hook next to the shower. The whimsical towel reminded him of the old Libby, the one who wore ‘Saturday’ socks on Wednesday and spent all Sunday morning lounging in her Coke-bottle glasses and bathrobe, reading the New York Times and listening to jazz. That was the Libby who had curled up against him on the couch and had wanted to talk about their day and their future for hours. That was the Libby who had embraced her world and its possibilities, who had accepted tackiness and imperfect boyfriends because she believed that life was better when slightly messy.

The memories caught in his throat. He missed the old Libby. He didn’t know whether she still existed.

He turned on the shower and stood under the spray, letting it run over his face. He had no time to dwell on the past. Libby’s life was in danger, and he had to focus on the mission at hand. He owed it to her father, and he owed it to her. Whether or not she would accept him in the end was secondary.

He showered quickly and debated shaving but then decided against it, running his palm over the prickly stubble on his cheek. It can wait, he decided. Everything else can wait.

***

Jack MacGruder’s eyes widened when he looked up from his desk and saw Libby standing there. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“You just can’t keep me away.” Libby smiled and gestured with one hand to Nick. “Jack, you remember Nick Foster?”

“Of course.” MacGruder stood to offer his hand. “Nice to see you, Nick.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

In the late morning light of MacGruder’s small office, he looked every minute his fifty-seven years. His nearly translucent tissue-paper skin creased between his thick eyebrows from years of serious thinking, and creased around his eyes and mouth from years of equally serious laughing. “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” he said, gesturing to two chairs in front of his desk. “You see, Nick, when you work for the state of New York for over thirty years, you get a corner office with old wood paneling and an extra government issued chair for visitors.”

Nick smiled. “You also get windows that don’t open, I see.”

MacGruder waved a hand. “Oh, you can get them open with a screwdriver if you get desperate. Don’t ask me what qualifies as getting desperate.”

Libby leaned forward. “Jack, we’re not here on a social visit, actually. We have reason to believe that someone is trying to hurt me.”

MacGruder sat back in his chair, his face stitched with concern, as Libby and Nick showed him the letters Judge Andrews received before his death and the photograph of Libby walking into the courtroom.

“Someone is following the Glen Falls Strangler pattern,” Libby said. “We thought we could talk to you, since you sat second chair on Will Henderson’s trial. Maybe you have some insight into who would do something like this?”

MacGruder took a deep breath as he thought. “Will Henderson is dead, but you must know that already.” He grabbed his bifocals from a corner of his desk and studied the letters, shaking his head. “It’s uncanny,” he mumbled.

Nick sat forward. “What’s uncanny?”

“The handwriting. The phrases being used. ‘I will lure your daughter to a fertile field and then slaughter her.’” Libby shifted uncomfortably, and MacGruder quickly folded the letter. “Sorry, Libby. But that’s the kind of language Will Henderson used in the letters he sent to his victims’ families.”

Libby’s eyebrows shot upward. “He sent letters to his victims’ families? I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, yes,” said MacGruder. “The letters were loaded with similar images. Lambs to slaughter, pastoral scenes gone terribly wrong.”

“Jack, I want you to be honest with me.” Libby ran her fingers over her forehead, trying without success to release all of the tension that was pooling there. “Do you think Will Henderson was the Glen Falls Strangler?”

“I have no doubt.”

Nick sat back in his seat, apparently startled by the speed with which MacGruder answered that question. “No doubt? None at all, even when you look at these letters?”

“All the evidence pointed to him, and he practically confessed to the crimes. No,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s not a doubt in my mind that Henderson was the Strangler.”

“You said that he practically confessed to the crimes, but he was only prosecuted for three,” said Libby. “Why is that?”

MacGruder nodded as he thought about it. “That’s right, Libby, we only got him on three of the crimes.” MacGruder sat back and shrugged. “Well, I don’t remember exactly what happened with those other three girls, but the evidence probably wasn’t strong enough.”

"Do we still have all of those files, or were they destroyed?" Libby asked.

"Your dad’s files, you mean? Henderson went through the entire appeals process, of course, so they should still be in the storage center."

Libby sat back. "Jack, we need to see everything you have on the Henderson case, and we need to see it right away."

MacGruder shook his head. "That's all sitting in storage, Libby. It will take a few days to get it here."

"You need to do better than that, Jack,” Nick replied. “Libby’s life may depend on it."

MacGruder looked out the window. "I'm not sure what storage facility we used. If it's the one in Ridgefield, that's only an hour away, and I could make some calls for you."

"We'll wait outside," Nick said.

He rose and gently clasped Libby’s hand, helping her to her feet. As she stood, she felt the warm pressure of his other hand against the small of her back. “Thanks,” she whispered. She walked out of the office, and Nick followed, closing the door behind them.

Libby paced the hallway before stopping to stare blankly at some photocopied newspaper articles taped to the wall. Nick approached her, edging closer until she smelled the spicy musk of his cologne. “I’m going to make a call over to the court records center. I want to see those letters.”

Libby nodded. “Me too.”

Nick took his cell phone from his pocket and started to dial. Libby heard a click behind them as MacGruder opened his door. "I have good news and bad news," he said.

"Yes?" Libby walked over to him.

"The good news is we sent the case files to Ridgefield. The bad news is they were stored in a unit that's had flooding problems, so I'm not sure what you'll find."

Libby and Nick exchanged a glance. "We'll check it out," Nick said. "Thanks, Jack."

As they turned to walk away, MacGruder grabbed Libby’s arm. "Libby," he said. "I've worked around death and violence my entire career. I've paid for it with my marriage and most of my faith in humanity." His brow was knit as he looked at her. "That case, more than any other, still haunts me. I know I said I was confident Will Henderson was our guy, but…"

"But what, Jack?"

“Can I see those letters again?”

Nick handed him the pile of letters. MacGruder opened one and held a page to the light. After a few seconds, he gasped. “My God.”

The words wrapped themselves around Libby’s heart and squeezed. “Tell me, Jack.”

MacGruder’s large blue eyes were wide, his jaw slack. “The letters from the Strangler. They all had one thing in common.”

Nick stepped forward. “What’s that?”

MacGruder held the page to the light again, pointing at the top right margin with a trembling finger. “That mark,” he said.

His finger indicated a faint watermark drawing. “A series of sevens,” MacGruder whispered. “Henderson called it the seven-headed beast.” He lowered the paper and turned to Libby, ashen-faced. “Libby, my dear. What have you gotten yourself into?”