Free Where Serpents Lie (Revised March 2013) by T. Jefferson Parker Page B

rewards. How do you work it with your ex, the custody, I mean, do you have a regular schedule?”
    “He gets Brittany every other weekend.”
    “Same as mine. I wish I could see them more, but let’s face it, mothers make better mothers.”
    When the video ended she looked at him.
    “What do you think?” he asked.
    “It’s okay. No, I mean, I really like it. The technical part is just perfect, and you made me look good. It’s a keeper.”
    He smiled. “I thought you’d like it.”
    “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
    He nodded but said nothing.
    “How long have you been working for Bright Tomorrows?”
    He went kind of quiet then, like he always did when they got aggressive, but he told her: about a year now. Just one of my accounts. Kind of a subcontractor with them. Work with some other dating services. Also do weddings. Parties. Events. Whatever. Do some work just for the fun of it.
    He mustered up some extra courage and offered her a true personal anecdote, though he resented her for making him do it: “Last year this couple got married in a hot-air balloon and I went up with them. I do almost any kind of video or still photography, really.”
    If she sensed his uneasiness, or smelled his something-dead-inside breath, she gave no sign of it.
    “Fun job,” she said.
    He signed off on the video request sheet for BTs, then detached her carbon copy and set it on the table by the monitor. She was reaching for it but he didn’t hand it to her, didn’t want to risk any contact, it would just ruin everything. Get touched, get hurt was what he’d gathered about women. Nice to look at, but keep your skin to yourself. Skin is personal.
    “It’s been a pleasure, Abby,” he said.
    She stood and gathered her purse off the chair.
    “Thanks … oh gawd, not again—”
    “David Lumsden. You’re really very welcome. And good luck with BTs.”
    She offered her hand but he just opened the door for her and smiled and looked at her eyes, pretending he didn’t see it.

F IVE
     
    I called CAY together right after the morning brief. We meet in a small room without windows or interruptions and we tend to work fast.
    We read through the profile and I told them I thought a proactive stance was too risky now. All agreed except for Frances, who was visibly rattled when I told her that Strickley had predicted a quickening of The Horridus’s pace, and a likely escalation to rape and murder if he felt we were close to him. Frances is a stocky blonde with a fair Scandinavian complexion that seems to register everything she’s thinking. She colored after I spoke my piece.
    “We can’t wait,” she said.
    “Nobody’s going to wait, Frances,” I said. “That’s why we’re here. What do you have on the fabric he used for the robes?”
    Frances did her rundown: it was a material made of nylon, rayon, polyester and/or Lurex, from one of three domestic manufacturers, or one of several offshore. It had various trade names—Wyla, Allure Stretch Mesh, Lacy Sawtooth Galoon, Deco-Mesh, Tuff-Net, Angel’s Wing, Gossamesh. They made it in the U.S., Mexico and China. She could get a maker from the crime lab, but it would take time. The stuff was sold in scores of county yard goods stores, costume supply houses, five-and-dimes—from $1.19 to $7.99 per yard, depending on the design imprinted on the mesh and the quality. Ours was plain white. She had already worked the bigger outlets to see if a man had recently purchased any in quantity—but with our scant physical description it had been a shot in the dark. With Strickley’s profile, she’d start all over again.
    “And the safety pins are a bust,” she added. “They’re standard issue—you can get them anywhere.”
    I assigned her the real estate listings for any homes offered for sale in the past three months that had a detached studio or maid’s quarters. I told her he’d be in a hurry to sell, so watch for the bargains. And ignore the mansions—they’d be out of his