Come inside, p.2
COME INSIDE, page 2
“Of course,” Hannah said, a knot of worry tightening in her chest. “Is everything alright with my father?”
“Oh, he’s settling in as well as can be expected,” Mrs. Albright said with a reassuring smile. “A bit resistant, which is perfectly normal. He’s a proud man. Mr. Wilson is a wonderful influence on him; it’s good for him to have his friends around.”
“Yes, Hank’s a lifesaver,” Hannah agreed, the knot loosening.
Mrs. Albright’s smile became a little more professional. “Actually, I needed to speak with you about a small administrative matter. It’s about the payment for this month’s care. It hasn’t come through yet. It was due last Friday.”
Heat flooded Hannah’s face. She looked away, down the long, polished corridor, her mind flashing to the hours she’d spent the previous week obsessing over cold case files, cross-referencing databases, trying to find a thread that connected the murder of a jazz bassist in Missouri to her mother’s death sixteen years ago. In her relentless pursuit of her mother’s killer, she’d forgotten the tangible needs of the present.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said, turning back to the manager. “I am so sorry. It completely slipped my mind. Things have been… hectic. I’ll transfer it right now from my car. I sincerely apologize for the oversight.”
“Not a problem at all, Agent Mercy,” Mrs. Albright said, her voice softening at Hannah’s genuine embarrassment. “We understand. Life gets busy. It was just a reminder.” She gave a final, professional nod and continued down the hall, her sensible shoes squeaking faintly on the linoleum.
Hannah stood there for a moment, the flush of shame slow to fade. She realized how preoccupied she’d been with her mother’s case. So preoccupied that she had to remind herself she came back to Nebraska, not to catch her mother’s killed, but to look after her ailing father. She walked out into the crisp November air, the encounter leaving a sour taste in her mouth. In her car, the first thing she did was pull out her phone and make the bank transfer, watching the confirmation screen with a sense of relief and lingering guilt.
With that handled, her mind immediately snapped back to the other problem. She reached for the file on the passenger seat and opened it again. Leo Vance, jazz bassist, fifty-eight. Found in a Kansas City alley. Strangled. His prized vintage bass, a 1962 Fender, was missing. It was the Maestro’s pattern, or close enough to demand her attention.
She pulled out her phone and dialed the number for the Kansas City Homicide Division. The call connected to a generic switchboard.
“Kansas City Police Department, how can I direct your call?”
“Homicide, please. Detective Miller.”
A moment of tinny hold music followed, a soulless electronic melody that grated on her nerves. Finally, a new voice came on the line, flat and unimpressed.
“Homicide, this is Admin.”
“I’m trying to reach Detective Miller regarding the Leo Vance homicide,” Hannah said, keeping her voice even. “My name is Special Agent Hannah Mercy with the FBI.”
“Detective Miller is in a briefing,” the woman replied. “I can take a message.”
Hannah took a breath, controlling her impatience. “This is the second time I’ve called. I left a message last week. It’s regarding a potential link to a multi-state serial investigation. The matter is urgent.” She was pushing, using the weight of her title on an unofficial inquiry, but her frustration was mounting.
“And which investigation would that be, Agent?” the admin asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice. “I don’t have any requests for federal assistance logged for the Vance case.”
“It’s a developing inquiry,” Hannah said, choosing her words carefully as this wasn’t quite an official investigation yet. “Look, could you please just find him and tell him that Agent Mercy called again? It’s about a pattern of killings targeting musicians. The victimology is specific, and the MO is similar. It could help his case significantly.”
A weary sigh came through the phone. “I will pass the message along when he becomes available.” The tone was a clear dismissal. A brush-off.
“Can you put me through to his voicemail?” Hannah tried.
“Voicemail is full.”
Hannah hung up, tossing the phone onto the seat beside her. She felt like she was shouting into a void. Stonewalled. This was the curse of her quest; no one else saw the connections, the faint, ghostly threads that tied these disparate deaths together. She stared at the file, the urge to drive to Kansas City, to take over the investigation herself, a burning coal in her gut. She needed to know if this was him.
Her phone rang, startling her. She glanced at the screen. Derek.
She answered, her voice all business. “Mercy.”
“Hannah,” Derek’s voice was a welcome, grounding presence. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Just hitting a brick wall with my head. What’s up?”
“Change of plans for your week,” he said. There was no preamble, just the facts. It was how he worked. “We’ve been called in. Two violent deaths at separate rural schools in Nebraska. Happened this morning. Apparently someone on the school board is a buddy with an FBI director and managed to get their attention.”
Hannah sat up straighter, the file on Leo Vance momentarily forgotten. Her mind switched gears, the personal slipping away, the professional taking over. “Schools?”
“Yeah. Both victims were school employees. Both crime scenes have some… unusual elements. Local PD are overwhelmed and have requested federal assistance. Victoria wants us on it.”
Two deaths. Rural schools. An old yet compelling feeling, separate from her father’s illness or the Maestro’s shadow, began to creep over her. This was something new. Something different.
“I’ll meet you at the field office, Derek,” she said, her hand already reaching for the ignition. “Send me the preliminary details.”
She ended the call, the engine rumbling to life. As she pulled out of the parking lot, she glanced back at the memory care facility, a clean, quiet building holding the most important person in her world. Then she looked ahead, at the road that would take her towards two dead bodies and a new, unfolding darkness
CHAPTER TWO
The tires of the sedan hummed a low, hypnotic note against the cold asphalt. Lincoln’s streets were a familiar map of gray buildings and bare-limbed trees under a November sky that promised more ice than snow. Hannah kept her speed steady, her hands light on the wheel, feeling for any hint of lost traction. The chill outside seemed to seep through the glass, a persistent cold that had little to do with the weather.
She fiddled with the car radio, skipping past a burst of pop music and a frantic commercial for a local furniture store. She landed on a talk program, the calm, modulated tones of an interview filling the car.
“…and it’s this dormancy period that people find so fascinating, and frankly, so terrifying,” a man’s voice said. He sounded academic, measured. “A serial offender, particularly one as meticulous as the subject you’re referring to, doesn’t just stop. The compulsion is too great. They may be forced into a hiatus by life circumstances; incarceration for another crime, illness, a change in environment; but the urge remains.”
“So you’re saying it’s plausible,” the interviewer pressed, “that a killer like ‘The Maestro,’ as he’s been dubbed, could simply be… waiting?”
Hannah’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. The name, spoken so casually, sent a jolt through her.
“It’s more than plausible; it’s likely,” the forensic psychologist replied. “These individuals are predators. A predator doesn’t forget how to hunt. They simply wait for a new season, a new opportunity.”
“And we’re hearing that new season may be upon us,” the interviewer’s voice took on a conspiratorial edge. “We have a source, who we can’t name, who has suggested that The Maestro may have become active again recently. What does that mean for a community, Doctor, when a twisted individual like this resurfaces?”
“It means fear in the community,” the psychologist said simply. “And it means law enforcement has to connect dots that may be decades old to get a handle on it, a monumental task.”
“And speaking of monumental tasks,” the interviewer said, his tone shifting, “there are now other rumors, fueled by recent tabloid reports, that the FBI may be re-examining this cold case. Specifically connecting it to Special Agent Hannah Mercy, who returned to the Lincoln field office a year ago. The reports allege she believes The Maestro was responsible for the unsolved murder of her own mother, Eleanor Mercy. Could an agent’s personal investigation inadvertently make a killer like this active again? Poke the sleeping bear, so to speak?”
Hannah cringed. Hearing her own name, her mother’s name, broadcast into the cold air felt like a violation. It made the hunt public, turning her personal agony into a piece of speculative entertainment.
“That’s a delicate question,” the psychologist responded carefully. “It’s conceivable that the renewed attention could act as a stressor, or even an inspiration, for the offender to re-engage. They often follow their own press. However, we cannot place the onus for a killer’s actions on a law enforcement officer. The responsibility, moral and legal, lies entirely with the one who commits the act. An agent seeking justice for any victim, let alone a family member, is doing their job. The blame rests with the monster, not the one hunting it.”
Hannah hated the idea that the killer might be out there, somewhere in the vast, quiet Midwest, listening to this very program. She hated the thought of the perverse satisfaction he would get from it, knowing he had created an obsession that had defined her life. The psychologist’s words, meant to be exonerating, only confirmed her fear: he was probably listening. And he was probably enjoying it.
The distraction was total. Her mind was miles away, caught in a web of speculation and old pain.
The car hit the patch of black ice without warning.
One moment, the tires were gripping the road; the next, they were floating. The back end of the sedan swung out, a sickening, weightless feeling. The world outside the windshield became a spinning blur of gray sky and brick storefronts. Hannah’s training kicked in. She corrected the wheel, her movements instinctive, her heart pumping hard.
Through the passenger window, she saw a young family on the sidewalk, the mother pulling her child back with a gasp, their faces wide with alarm. The image burned into her mind as the car spun a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, the tires screaming in protest before catching on a patch of dry pavement. The sedan jolted to a jarring halt, facing the wrong way in the street.
A man walking a dog rushed over to her window and tapped on the glass. “Are you okay, miss? That was some spin!”
Hannah took a shaky breath, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. “Lost it for a second. I’m fine.”
She looked at the radio, its calm, conversational tones now feeling like an accusation. With a sharp jab of her finger, she silenced it. The sudden quiet was a relief. She pulled herself together, executed a careful three-point turn, and continued on her way, her earlier focus completely shattered. She chastised herself for the lapse. For letting him get into her head, even through a car radio.
She pulled into the parking lot of the Lincoln City Field Office a few minutes later. As she got out of her car, a sudden movement caught her eye. It wasn't one person, but a small group, moving towards her with a single purpose. Reporters. They must have been waiting, alerted by the same leaks that fueled the radio show.
They surged forward as she closed her car door, a small pack of wolves sensing a story.
“Agent Mercy!” a woman with a microphone called out, shoving it towards her face. “Is it true The Maestro killed your mother?”
“Is the Bureau dedicating resources to this because of your personal connection?” another shouted.
“How does it feel knowing the man who murdered your mother might still be out there?” a third asked, the question a low, cruel blow.
The questions came in a flurry, a cacophony of morbid curiosity. The flash of a camera went off, a temporary blindness. Hannah kept her expression neutral, a carefully constructed mask of professionalism, her gaze fixed on the entrance to the building fifty feet away. She clutched the strap of her bag, the leather digging into her shoulder.
“I can’t comment on the work we’re doing,” she said, her voice level and firm, a practiced line that felt flimsy against their assault.
“So you are confirming The Maestro case is now active?” a younger reporter with an ambitious look shot back.
The trap. Simple, elegant, and effective. She opened her mouth to deflect, to sidestep, but a firm voice cut through the clamor.
“That’s enough!”
SAC Victoria Reeves stood at the building’s entrance, her presence alone enough to make the reporters take a half-step back. Her gray hair was impeccable, her dark suit radiating an authority that needed no badge. She walked towards Hannah, parting the sea of journalists as if by sheer will.
“Agent Mercy has a job to do,” Victoria said, her voice calm but carrying an unmistakable warning. She put a hand on Hannah’s shoulder and began to usher her towards the door. “If you care about this city, and if you want this individual caught, I suggest you let us do our job while you do yours, report the news.”
“Do you have confidence in Agent Mercy to lead this investigation?” someone shouted from the back of the pack.
Victoria paused at the door and looked back, her gaze sweeping over them, cold and appraising. “There is no official investigation here at the field office, but if she were tasked with it? Without a doubt,” she said, and then they were inside, the heavy glass doors swinging shut, cutting off the noise and the flashing lights.
Hannah let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Thank you,” she said as they passed the security desk and headed for the elevator.
“They’re like vultures,” Victoria said, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t let them get to you.”
They stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, cutting them off. Hannah almost smiled.
As the elevator began its ascent, Victoria asked, “How’s your father?”
“He’s stable for now,” Hannah replied. “I managed to get him into a memory care facility a few days a week. It gives me some peace of mind.”
Victoria nodded, then her hand moved, and she pressed the emergency stop button. The elevator jolted to a halt between floors, the silence absolute. She turned to face Hannah directly, her gaze serious.
“Are you up for this, Hannah? This new case with Derek?”
“Of course,” Hannah said immediately.
"It's a lot," Victoria continued, her voice softening slightly. "Your father's health. A double homicide at a school. And now all this Maestro business is blowing up in the press. There is no shame in taking a step back if you need it."
“I’m fine, Victoria. I can handle it.”
Victoria studied her for a long moment.
“Boss, have the directors said anything else? About me looking into the Maestro case?”
"They've still not okayed an official re-opening of your mother's case." Victoria said. "However, we have some leeway. But it's not a lot. That means you report everything to me the minute you find it. No more going off-book. If anything about our unofficial investigation reaches the directors through the press before I can brief them myself, any official backing you have will be gone. They'll pull you so fast your head will spin. And so will mine. Do you understand?"
“I understand,” Hannah said.
Victoria nodded, satisfied. She pressed the button, and the elevator resumed its smooth ascent. The doors pinged open onto their floor.
Derek and Pinton were standing right there, mid-argument, discussing the pros and cons of two fictional characters.
“…and that's the point, Pinton! Kirk would have just punched the Romulan and stolen his ship!” Derek shook his head.
“An illogical and brutish response, Agent Hawthorne,” came Pinton’s clipped reply. “Captain Picard would have employed diplomacy and strategic acumen to outmaneuver the Romulan Praetor, thereby avoiding unnecessary conflict.”
“You’d be blown to pieces while Picard was still drafting a strongly-worded letter!” Derek was saying, gesticulating with a file.
“The statement stands,” Pinton said, adjusting his glasses. “Picard is the superior captain to Kirk in every quantifiable metric.” He noticed Victoria and Hannah and gave a stiff, formal nod before turning and walking briskly toward his cubicle.
Derek came over. “Pinton is insane… Glad you’re here,” he said to Hannah. “I was about to go downstairs with a fire extinguisher to deal with your fan club.”
Victoria shot him a look, but there was a hint of a smile on her face. "Don't you dare, Hawthorne. We have enough heat for now. Good luck, you two." She walked past them towards her office.
Hannah turned to Derek. “Ready to head out?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “I’m getting sick of arguing with Pinton. The man is a complete robot.” He shook his head. “I think he just does it to annoy me.”
“To be fair, you do like to wind him up as well. You’re both as bad as each other.”
He stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, leaving them alone.
“Probably better if I drive,” Derek said. “My car is in the underground lot. It’s the best way to get past the press without another spectacle.” He looked at her, a playful glint in his eye. “Unless you want to hide under a blanket in the back seat. I have one in the trunk.”
“I’m not hiding under your blanket,” Hannah said. “God knows what you’ve used it for.”
He grinned. “Who would have thought I’d be working with a local celebrity?”
Hannah rolled her eyes. “Local, yes. Celebrity, no.
