Free Perfect Victim by Jay Bonansinga Page A

her response carefully. She wondered if she had perhaps stumbled into a pivotal moment here—a crossroads, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Maybe this was the back door to success she had been seeking. Maybe, just maybe, Drinkwater could manipulate the master manipulator.
    The biggest irony here was that Grove had no idea how diligently Drinkwater had investigated him before coming to the Bureau, how she had spent the months leading up to her arrival at Quantico digging up details on his life. She had used FBI websites, city directories, academic records, and military archives to build his biography. She had also used the Freedom of Information Act to get transcripts of public hearings, cold case files, and declassified memoranda among investigators.
    On the surface, of course, Grove’s background, albeit very cosmopolitan, didn’t give Drinkwater much to go on. Born forty-one years ago in the small Kenyan town of Kinyasha to an African mother and a Jamaican father who vanished shortly after Grove’s birth, young Grove had emigrated at the age of two with his mom to the United States. Raised on the mean streets of Chicago, the boy kept to himself, got good grades, and stayed out of trouble. Undergraduate studies in criminology at the University of Michigan were followed by basic training, followed by three years as a noncommissioned officer in the Army—first as an MP and then as an investigator in the military’s CID unit.
    But none of that interested Drinkwater as much as the stuff that was missing .
    Nobody knew how Grove did his “thing” at the Bureau, how he tracked these monsters down. Notwithstanding all that hooey about his spooky African juju, or his eerie connection to the perps, Drinkwater was starting to wonder if she had been wrong about his insincerity. During his lectures, something had sunk a hook into her. She had been dreaming about that shooting range silhouette from his Archetype talks—and some of these dreams had been nightmares. During the daytime, every now and then, she would close her eyes and see that disgusting, coal-black, featureless outline of a head.
    â€œBefore I agree to do this, I’d like to ask you something,” she said at last, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “If you don’t mind.”
    Grove looked at her with an inscrutable expression now. “Go ahead.”
    â€œThere’s only a half dozen field agent spots waiting for us this spring.”
    â€œThat’s true.”
    â€œWhat I’m saying is, let’s say I do this thing. Will I get one of those spots?”
    Grove kept looking at her with that unreadable expression. Then he smiled. “Seems fair.”
    â€œAnd if there’s any legal question, you’re gonna have to take the heat.”
    â€œI understand.”
    Drinkwater took a deep breath. “I’m gonna need access to Geisel’s files.”
    Grove nodded. “Got them all on hard disk. I’ll have them delivered to your hotel. I’ll pull his personal journals, too, if that’ll help.”
    Drinkwater chewed the inside of her cheek, and then stopped walking. “Okay.” She gave him a hard, determined look. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
    â€œGood, good.” Grove shook her hand. “Go home. Get some sleep. You can start tomorrow. I’ll square your absence with the dean.”
    â€œThere’s one more thing.”
    Grove told her he was listening.
    She looked at him. “What if I find out something—something about you —something you don’t really want found out?”
    Grove stared at her for a long time.
    He didn’t have an answer for that one.

PART II
Cold Metal Misery Machine
    The future overcomes the past by swallowing it.
    â€”J OSÉ O RTEGA Y G ASSET
    Once upon a time the psychopath wore the skin of legends—folktales, witches, werewolves. It was the only way we could comprehend an evil so perverse it defied the