Page 25 of Girl, Unknown

Ripley fidgeted with the handle, metal clanging on metal. The gate rocked but stayed shut. Ripley gave her partner a wry smile and said, “You’re right, I think it is.”

Ella hopped onto the wall that flanked the motel’s back area, grabbed the fence, then perched herself between two of the crowning spikes. She cleared the fence in one jump, colliding with a pile of crushed cardboard as she hit the ground. The cushioned landing muffled her arrival, but since they’d gotten here, she hadn’t spotted a single soul anyway.

She unlatched the drop bolts, set the gate ajar. Ripley shuffled through and said, “Unreliable, those things. If anyone asks, you know what to say.”

“Asks about what?”

“Exactly.”

Ella was a little surprised by Ripley’s tolerance towards her rogue tactics, but Ripley was probably of the same mindset right now. They had a great lead here, and plenty of signs pointed to Arthur Walters being involved in the murder of Katherine Parkinson. The man was a sketchy criminal, a corporate psycho. If Katherine had brought him bad publicity, a man of his demeanor would lash out and seek absolute vengeance. She knew a monster when she saw one.

The agents disguised themselves among the shadows along the walls, creeping around until they had a clear view of the back entrance. The yard area was a concrete jungle of cinderblocks and building equipment, none of which seemed to gel with the aesthetics of the motel. The wood-effect cladding boards, however, looked oddly familiar.

“I recognize this from that newscast. It’s the same stuff used out front of Arthur’s nursing home.”

Ella felt a rush of excitement, coming in large waves then dispersing. Arthur was just one piece of this murderous puzzle, and once he was taken down, there was still another ghoul out there to find.One killer at a time,she told herself. Big journeys started with small steps.

“Then these places are definitely connected,” Ripley said.

Ella crept closer to a large steel door. A fire exit, unbreachable from the outside but she prayed that amateur craftsmanship might be in her favor. She pulled on the handle, firmly but not loud enough to disturb any secreted inhabitants.

No luck.

“How should we play this?” Ella asked. “Discretion or guns blazing?”

Ripley unsheathed her pistol and said, “You’re in charge now. Use your instincts.”

Ella struggled to hide her pride at Ripley’s exclamation of approval. It was a brief sample of what life would be like in a few months’ time when Ripley would no longer be around. Bittersweet, nerve-wracking, but ultimately for the best.

As she centered her thoughts, her eyes landed on the humming, gray mechanical box on the opposite side of the courtyard. A trail of thick black cables led through the motel’s walls, and as Ella edged closer, she heard it rumbling with life.

Ripley came up and said, “I’ve never known a building this small need a backup generator.”

Ella speed-read the specs. “Eleven-thousand watts. I don’t think this is a backup.”

“This guy must be loaded and he’s scrimping on the electricity bill. But if it’s humming, it means someone’s using electricity in there.”

Ella rummaged around, found the generator’s main lever. “Ready to lure this snake to the surface?”

Ripley retreated into the shadows, pistol clutched in her hand. “Don’t electrocute yourself.”

Ella pushed the lever up. The generator coughed and spluttered then died out, casting a tranquil silence over the courtyard. Ella rushed beside the door, out of sight, then readied herself for her first meeting whoever might be inside.

They waited. A minute passed, neither agent saying a word. Finally, Ripley broke the tension. “Come on out, you son of a bitch.”

Ella fought off her doubts but her mouth worked faster than her brain. “What if he’s not in there and the generator is just left running all the time?”

“Just wait. We’ll find out soon enough.”

Ella fixed her gaze on the fire exit, every passing second feeling like an eternity. The static image of a bland red door made her mind wander, all her earthly worries suddenly clambering for her attention. She thought about Logan Nash, the man whose faceless profile had taken up residence in her nightmares for nearly all her life. She thought about Clarissa Reed and her promise to call back tonight. Ben’s face suddenly cropped up in the spinning carousel, and she had a sudden yearning to hear his voice, feel his hand against hers, gaze at that birthmark on his cheek that undid the symmetry of his face just enough to be considered beautiful.

Then she prayed, through some miracle, that their two murders in Davenport had been committed by the same hand. If that was the case, then they’d be dealing with a psychopathology rarely seen in the serial killer realm, and such an unsub would be studied and scrutinized for years to come. Perhaps he was a modern offender that criminal psychology had yet to designate a name. Someone who thwarted the trappings of regular psychopaths because they were so familiar with how society deemed them to operate. A new, more dangerous, self-aware serial killer who used criminal psychology against those who chased him.

But Ella snapped back to reality in an instant because the fire exit door burst open. A stocky gentleman in gray pants and white shirt filled the doorway, taking one step out before stopping and freezing in place.

The agents had their guns on him. “Arthur Walters,” Ella said.

Ella kept her exhilaration to herself.

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