Free The Prophet by Ethan Cross Page A

had introduced himself as Andrew Garrison. She gave him an is-he-always-like-this? look to which Garrison answered with an awkward sorry-about-my-partner shrug.
    She followed Williams out the sliding glass door, furious that she had to babysit these idiots instead of catching a killer.

16
    Marcus exited the Olague house and made his way through the backyard. The snowfall crunched beneath his feet, and the cold irritated his cheeks. He reached the alley and released a deep breath. It hung in the air as a puff of white vapor. His eyes closed, and he tried to shut out all the distractions and center himself. Somewhere in the distance, he heard Vasques complaining to Andrew and Andrew playing the role of the diplomat, but he ignored them.
    He reached down inside and felt the hunger churning in his gut. It waited for him down in the depths, in the dark place, and he called it to the surface.
    When his eyes opened, he was ready. He looked at the house with new awareness.
    From his vantage point, he could see into part of the kitchen and dining room but not clearly enough to know when Jessie Olague had gone to bed. They had left the lights on. He could see many of them burning in the windows, but from the alley, he couldn’t see her bedroom window on the far side of the house. Maybe from the front? No, a large hard maple tree blocked the view from there.
    The killer would want to see her. That was part of the game, part of the excitement. To violate her privacy. Watch her and then own her, possess her.
    The alleyway was on a slant. Maybe farther up it? Marcus walked up the slight incline and turned round. From here, he would have had a better view of the kitchen and some of the other rooms if he’d used binoculars. Marcus flipped on his flashlight and scanned the ground, looking for anything out of place—cigarette butts, candy-bar wrapper, coffee cup. But no such luck.
    It still didn’t feel right. This woman hadn’t been chosen at random. She’d been selected for a reason, and every aspect of the crime was planned out carefully. He would want to see her, Marcus thought again. Maybe even know her, or at least feel as though he did.
    “What the hell is he doing? It’s freezing out here,” Vasques said to Andrew.
    Marcus ignored her and moved back to his original position. He would have wanted to know the lay of the land in order to ensure that he wasn’t seen as he approached the house. He was very careful. Every movement calculated, analyzed. Marcus made a mental note that the killer might work with numbers or variables, but he knew that was pure conjecture at this point.
    As he examined the area—the alley, the position of the Olague house, viewpoints from the homes of neighbors, fences, trees, obstructions—the killer knew that there would be no way to make sure that no one saw him or his vehicle. He took them in the night, so most of the neighbors would be sleeping, but that couldn’t be guaranteed. Too many variables, not a risk he would take.
    He would wear a mask or hood, obscure his face and hair in some way. And he would have taken precautions to make sure that his vehicle was untraceable.
    Marcus moved toward the house, following the path the killer would have taken, until he reached the back porch and the sliding glass door. The porch was just an elevated concrete slab with an awning over the top. It provided no cover from watching eyes. A credit card wouldn’t work in a sliding glass door. He could pick the lock—as Marcus and Andrew had done earlier—but that would leave him very exposed. If someone was observing, he would want his entry to seem casual, not like a burglary. Picking the lock was risky, especially if the back-porch light had been left on. It would’ve been best to have a key.
    “No signs of forced entry, right?”
    “Oh, so you’re talking to me now?” Agent Vasques said.
    Marcus shot her a withering glance and waited. After a moment she gave up on the staring contest and replied,