“How big was the victim?”

“Six feet, one hundred eighty pounds.”

Annie let that sink in before stating the obvious. “The man we’re looking for is one big, strong guy.”

“One big strong guy with a big nasty grudge, if your theory is correct,” Sam said.

“Big, strong, dangerous, and holding a grudge. Not a good combination,” Fiona noted.

“So what’s your next move?” John asked her.

“I’m going to Sanderson to see what I can find out about this latest victim.” Fiona turned to Sam. “I’ll give you a call and let you know what I find out.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Sam, you don’t have to do that. I’m sure you must have some very bad memories connected with Sanderson.”

“I’m coming with you,” he said levelly.

“If you’re sure-”

“I’m sure.”

“All right,” Annie said. “We have four deaths. Seven acts of mercy. Three acts left. Anyone know what they are?”

“I know them all. I looked them up.” Fiona ticked them off on her fingers. “We’ve already seen the killer run through feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, shelter the homeless, and this latest, minister to prisoners. The three remaining are heal the sick, clothe the naked, and-”

“Bury the dead,” Sam murmured, remembering, a chill running down his back.

Somewhere long ago, Sam had seen something that had depicted all of the acts, but where and when was locked in his memory. He had the uncomfortable feeling that somehow, that place, that time, was related to the killings. He tried to focus on it, but the image was elusive. He couldn’t call it back up.

Maybe Annie was right. Maybe the killer was from his distant past.

Maybe with any real luck, he’d put it together before someone else had to die.

THIRTEEN

The drive back to Virginia with Annie hadn’t proven to be as interesting as Fiona had hoped. She’d wanted to pick the profiler’s brain on a number of topics-starting with Annie’s take on Sam DelVecchio, for one-but no sooner had Fiona turned the key in the ignition than Annie had put her seat all the way back and closed her eyes.

“You don’t mind if I try to get a little nap in, do you?” she’d asked. “I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in eight days and I am close to the stupor zone right now.”

“Of course not. Go ahead and sleep while you can,” Fiona had replied with as much sincerity as she could muster. She knew what it was like to go for days without enough sleep, knew exactly how it felt to just want to crash. She couldn’t begrudge Annie her nap. She just wished she’d had a little time to ask a few questions, though.

Like, do you know if Sam has dated anyone since his wife’s death? Or, do you think he’s moved past his wife’s murder enough to consider going out with someone else?

Fiona didn’t want to appear ghoulish, didn’t want Annie to get the wrong impression. After all, Sam’s wife had been dead for three years now, and a lot of guys move past their losses in a lot less time than that. Still, she suspected perhaps nearly as many did not. Sam might well fall into the latter group.

Fiona just couldn’t read Sam at all-at least, not yet, she couldn’t. She’d only been in his company twice, but she was looking forward to working with him on this case. Certainly the case itself was intriguing, but Sam intrigued her just as much. Something about him drew her, and for someone as notoriously picky as Fiona Summers, that in itself said something. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she thought it might be worth exploring. If he hadn’t been dating, hadn’t gotten past his wife’s death, she wasn’t willing to make a fool out of herself by letting him know she might be interested. She’d figured Annie McCall was her best bet in terms of finding out where Sam’s head was, but Annie had nodded off almost as soon as they’d pulled through the gates of Robert Magellan’s mansion.

Fiona turned the radio on low and headed south, thinking that maybe it was for the best. Maybe it wouldn’t be the wisest thing to let anyone-even Annie-know that she was attracted to the former agent. She’d learned long ago not to discuss her private life with anyone. You never knew who you could really trust, and who would sell you out in a heartbeat. By the time she turned seventeen, Fiona had learned the very hard lesson of not speaking her heart to anyone. She’d kept very close counsel ever since.

It wasn’t that she didn’t have any friends. She had a few. Mostly, she acknowledged, within the Bureau. But wasn’t it natural to become friendly with the people you spent the most time with? There were friends to go to dinner with, friends from her unit she could hang out with at the local bars on those rare times when she let her hair down and went out for a few beers at the end of the day. But, she admitted, there were no confidants, no girlfriends-or boyfriends, for that matter-with whom she’d bare her heart and soul. It had been a long time since she’d wanted one.

For a moment, her life sounded crappy even to her.

It’s not that bad, she told herself. She had a job she loved-the only job she’d ever wanted-and she was damned good at it. She’d decided that the FBI was her future when she was seven years old, and had never considered any other path. She’d majored in criminal justice in college, minored in history. Upon graduation, she taught at a community college for three years to get her work experience in before applying to the FBI. She knew she’d be accepted. She was in top physical shape and she tested well, interviewed well. She’d been concerned that perhaps her personal background-her childhood-could be an obstacle, depending on who interviewed her, but that hadn’t proven to be the case. The woman who interviewed her had known exactly who she was, and had appeared to be tickled that Fiona was applying to join their ranks. She’d been twenty-four years old on the day she applied, and had been delighted to find herself included in the next class to begin training at the academy.

The Bureau had been her goal for so long, she’d known exactly what she needed to do to excel at the physical challenges. She worked out daily at a gym to build strength and stamina, and long before she was eligible to apply, she started spending several hours each week at a local firing range. Before she entered the academy, she’d become quite a marksman. The very few people who knew who she really was were impressed by her determination and her dedication. Of those few people, fewer still understood why she’d chosen the FBI. To Fiona-and those who did understand-it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to do.

Of course, there were many more who thought she’d lost her mind, and who could not understand why she’d give up what she could have had to play “cops and robbers,” as someone had put it.

That that someone had been her mother still rankled.

She made the turn onto Annie’s street slowly, so as not to jar the sleeping woman; better to wake her gently once the car was stopped. Fiona pulled up in front of the town house Annie shared with her husband, Evan Crosby, and turned off the engine.

“Annie.” She leaned across the console. “Annie, wake up. You’re home.”

“Hmmm?”

“I said, you’re home.”

“Home?” Annie’s eyes flew open. “As in… my home?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.” She tried to sit up but the seat was leaning too far back. “Talk about an ungrateful passenger. You should have poked me awake so I could keep you company.” She reached down and found the lever that moved the seat into a sitting position. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m used to traveling alone. It’s okay,” Fiona assured her.

“At least come in and let me feed you.”

“No, no. That’s not necessary. I’m not very hungry, but I am a little tired.”

Annie got out and opened the rear passenger door and grabbed her briefcase. “Why don’t you bunk here for the night, rather than drive the rest of the way home tonight?”