Page 17 of So Savage

Special Agent Michael Prince reflected on his partner’s warning.He’d dismissed West’s bravado as the desperate attempt of an insecure narcissist to feel dangerous and important even with the looming threat of his sentencing hanging over his head.He still felt that way, but considering the consequences of being wrong, he wondered if maybe it was time to stop his extracurricular activities and bring these developments to Desrouleaux’s attention.He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe that he could keep Ellie and David safe on his own, but the Bureau’s monitoring of them when West was at large had kept them safe.

He would have to consider that.In the meantime, he would focus on his suspect.If Marion Ravenwood ended up being the Messenger Killer, then all of this was a moot point.

He pulled his SUV to the curb across the street.Marion Ravenwood had a comfortable home in Bustleton in the northeast portion of the city.The porch was shoveled and salted and the walk was similarly protected against snow and ice.The planter in front of the house was filled with poinsettias, a winter-appropriate flower popular in holiday arrangements, and a wreath still hung in the living room window.Michael imagined a smiling woman in an apron with shoulder-length hair and soft brown eyes who could believably spend most of her days in the kitchen watching sitcoms on a small countertop TV while baking cookies for the local homeless shelter.

In his career, he’d seen plenty of harmless looking people turn out to be incredibly dangerous.West himself was rather slightly built with a mellow voice that reminded Michael more of an NPR host than one of the most dangerous serial killers in U.S.history.

When he reached the door, he heard the theme song to a popular sitcom playing inside and stifled a chuckle.He knocked, and the music quieted.

He crossed his arms to bring his right hand closer to his pistol, just in case.The door opened, revealing a woman who almost perfectly fit Michael’s description.The only difference was that she wore a pair of jeans rather than an apron.She smiled politely at Michael, but with a hint of wariness.“Can I help you?”

Michael returned her smile.“Good afternoon, ma’am.I’m Special Agent Michael Prince with the FBI.Are you Marion Ravenwood?”The color drained instantly from her face, and Michael said, “You are.I can tell by the instant terror that came to your eyes.That tells me you also have something to tell me.So, shall we talk?”

Marion swallowed.“I don’t think so.I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t appreciate you walking up to my porch and telling me all of this nonsense.”

She made to close the door, but Michael stopped it with his foot.That was a huge no-no, but his entire involvement in this case was a huge no-no, so why stop now?

“See, the thing is, I have evidence that you’ve been corresponding with Franklin West, aka the Copycat Killer, aka the most dangerous serial killer since Henry Lee Lucas, aka the man who has repeatedly threatened the FBI and its agents with some very colorful promises of death and destruction.”

"I don't know what you're talking about.Now leave my property…"

Her voice trailed off when Michael reached into his jacket, not for his gun, but for folded letters with very clear handwriting on it.“So you didn’t write these?”Michael asked.“When we raid your office and find examples of your handwriting, it won’t match perfectly?We won’t see security footage of you mailing these letters?We won’t—”

“Okay,” Marion hissed.“Shit.”She ran her hands through her hair.“Come inside.”

Michael replaced the letters and showed her his gun.“I’ll come inside,” he said, “and I’m coming back outside.Are we clear?”

She paled further.“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You’ll have to forgive me for not believing you,” he said.

“Well, I’ll be in sight, and if you prefer, we can talk in the living room away from the kitchen knives.”

He raised his eyebrows.“Well, since you bring it up, I would love to talk in the living room away from the kitchen knives.”

Marion looked over Michael’s head, biting her lip.“Did anyone see you come in?”

He frowned.“A lot of people know I’m here.If you—"

“I’m not threatening you!”she snapped.“I just don’t want the neighbors seeing a strange man walk into my house.God, is that your car?”

She pointed at Michael's Grand Wagoneer."That's it.Why?"

“Because it’s the size of a damned yacht.Honestly, why do people need cars that big?”

He rolled his eyes.“Let’s criticize my choice of transportation after we talk about the letters you sent to a known serial killer talking about how an FBI agent deserved to—and I quote—have her eyes cut out and fed to—”

“Okay,” she whined.“Come in then, and let’s talk.”

She made an impatient rowing motion with her hands, and Michael resisted the urge to move slowly just for the hell of it.He followed her into the living room, keeping one hand on his gun and letting his eyes scan back and forth for any accomplices.

When they reached the living room, Marion closed the blinds of the windows, moving briskly across the room.Soon, the outside world was cut off.Michael pulled his handgun and set it on the small table next to the couch.

Marion took her seat across from him on the loveseat.When she saw the gun, she cried out.“What the hell?Are you serious?”

Michael ignored her.“We’ll start with a direct question: are you the Messenger Killer?”

“The what?”

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