Chapter 4

The one.

Hanna.

Knowing her name thrilled him. He felt closer to her already, and he hadn't touched her yet. He didn't know her last name and didn't care, didn't really want to know it. Hanna was enough. Hanna.

The hunt was done; the stalk begun, and the urge was upon him.

He fingered the switchblade deep in his pocket and watched the girl smile coquettishly as her flirting, dark eyes settled on some boys leaning on a railing doing what boys do at a shopping mall: look nonchalant in baggy, low-slung pants and try to act cool.

The girl conferred with her chubby friend. Whispers. Giggles. Shy eyes - a lie - became bold and glinted mischievously as she turned with a twitch of her narrow, girlish hips, hips hugged by hip huggers so far down from her waist surely her pussy was only a fraction of an inch below the top of the denim. If she had pubic hair, she'd need to shave it, or kinky hair would be visible. The expanse of bare flesh between her hip huggers and the short cotton shirt covering her flat chest intrigued him. He was pleased the girl had not disfigured her prepubescent body by piercing her bellybutton.

The irony made him laugh - quiet, malevolent sounds.

A bellybutton ring would have saved Hanna's life.

He followed the girls through Barnes & Noble to a pick-up point on the street in front of the mall. Limber like a cat, Hanna settled atop a short wall. She sat Indian-style, and from his viewpoint, he could see her flowered panties above the hip huggers from the rear. The chubby one stood, switching ponderously from one foot to the other.

He assumed they were waiting for their ride, so he hurried to his car. He planned to follow his prey to her home. The mall was too crowded for a take down. After sliding into his vehicle and starting the engine, he cursed, pushed a button to lower a window and cranked up the air conditioning. The car's interior was stifling hot.

Opportunity. He waited for opportunity to strike. The stalk was on. Capturing his prey followed the stalk. The intimate place was prepared. Now he needed only the right moment, and he'd recognize that moment - or create one.

The small bright light appeared and slowly expanded until David's consciousness fell away from his body and became one with the light. Somehow, someway, the trip was different than all other journeys he'd ever taken, save one, but try as he might, he couldn't resolve the similarities in the two flights that made them unique. Also, he couldn't fathom the difference between this flight and all the others. There were no outward manifestations, no unusual vortex or twist, but he could feel something different.

The feeling wasn't uncomfortable or foreboding, and because the journey took little or no time, the feeling was infinitely fleeting. Still, David's consciousness sensed... something, and when he hovered over the person he'd ordered his consciousness to visit, he realized there had to have been something different about the journey because once again his consciousness had slipped through time.

He hovered sometime, somewhere in Nora Patterson's past.

Since first viewing the comely, tantalizing woman, he'd visited her hundreds of times, rejoicing after each trip when he uncovered no daunting negatives in her personality or habits. David knew no one was perfect, and Nora was no exception, but many of her imperfections were endearing, like her habit of eating ice cream directly from the carton when she was depressed. The next day she punished her indulgence by running an extra mile. Keeping her body in top condition was important to Nora, both personally and as a requirement of her job. A female FBI agent had to compete with the male agents, and Nora excelled in most physical components of the job. She was particularly adept with a handgun, and David made a mental note to avoid any physical altercation with her after he'd watched her easily handle a hefty man in hand-to-hand combat.

Trying to rationalize why he'd journeyed into Nora's past, David remembered his last visit with her when he'd watched her gaze fondly at a framed photograph on her desk. David assumed the older man in the photo was her father because his arm draped Nora's shoulder, and she was glancing up at him, not at the camera's lens, and the expression on her face was full of love and admiration. Nora wore a cap and gown, so the picture had been taken at a graduation ceremony. From her youthful look, David guessed the occasion was her high school graduation. During that visit, he wondered what she was like as a little girl.

Had his consciousness granted his wish? Was time tripping that simple?

No, the Nora Patterson he had connected with was no little girl. She was a teenager, fifteen or sixteen years old, and her innocent beauty took David's breath away, a sensation only. His consciousness didn't breathe.

It was summertime wherever he was. Nora wore a tight pair of jeans and a flowered blouse, simple clothes, well worn, but clean, certainly not expensive, not like the tailored dark suits she wore for her work as an agent for the FBI. Her hair shined golden in the dappled sunlight streaming through shimmering leaves of aspen trees.

Aspen. She's at a high elevation, David reasoned. Aspen normally grew on the slopes of high mountains, so Nora's current here and now was probably in the western United States, in the Rockies or Sierras. His consciousness swooped high for an eagle's view of the landscape. Steep mountains rose up each side of a deep gorge. A narrow mountain stream gurgled and flowed, cascading from a spring high up in the canyon to ultimately join another stream in the valley below.

David soared along the stream noting picnic tables scattered willy-nilly along the creek's banks. Some fishermen wet worms; children dashed here and there; metal clanked metal when a horseshoe spun around a metal peg. A ringer. No tents. The place wasn't a campground, merely a public picnic area offering clean air, a clear mountain stream, and awesome scenery.

And Nora.

David watched as two strapping young men in their late teens to early twenties converged on her. Nora knew them, smiled at them, and the three of them strolled away from the picnic area. As they chatted, David revised his estimate of the boys' ages. Like Nora, they were still in high school. They were jocks, both on the school football team, one of them a wide-end, the other a defensive back. Out of sight in heavy foliage, one of the boys pulled Nora into his arms and kissed her, but before the kiss ended, the other young man moved in and stole her away, kissing her with even more fervor than the first. Nora laughed gaily, danced away from them and ran over a small ridge and down to a meadow dotted with red Indian paintbrush and flowering purple thistles. Just ahead of the boys, she darted through some scrub oak, but they caught her deep in a stand of pinion pines.

Pine needles crunched under the boys' feet as they vied for Nora's attention. She'd let one succeed, only to reject him for the other. She's playing a dangerous game, David thought, unless she plans to do them both, and for a brief moment it appeared that was her game. As they kissed her, both boys fondled her at the same time, palming her breasts and pushing their obvious erections against her, one from the front, the other from the rear, but once again she squirmed away and ran through the pines with the grace of a deer. Her athletic ability amazed David. The strapping boys didn't have a chance as she bounded across the meadow, raced fearlessly over the ridge and plunged down the mountain side, leapt the creek like a long jumper and skidded to a stop at a picnic table where she joined an older man, the man in the photograph on her desk.

He smiled at her. "If you don't stop teasing those boys, they're liable to throw you to the ground and have their way with you." He raised a bushy eyebrow. "Or is that what you want?"

Flushed from her run or the boys' kisses and busy hands, most likely both, she sat close to the man and took his hand in hers. "No need to worry, Pops. I can outrun them, especially when they're excited." With a shake of her blonde tresses, her green eyes glowed with mischief. "Running with bulges in their pants is painful and impedes their speed," she explained unabashedly as she leaned up and kissed Pops' cheek. "Then again, one of these days I might let one or both catch me, just for the fun of it." She laughed heartily, happy sounds pleasing to David's invisible ears.

"Damned tease," Pops muttered, but the words flowed through a loving grin.

"Only if I never let them catch me. Are you hungry? I'm famished." She jumped up and rummaged though a picnic basket, pulled out a red-and-white checkered cloth and draped it over the rough wood of the table. "I made fried chicken, potato salad, and we have pickles and olives, chips, and some raw vegetables for me," she announced as she placed everything on the cloth. "Get a beer for you out of the creek. I'll have a coke."

The bright, white light appeared, and David's consciousness fell back to his body. "Dammit," he cursed when his eyes opened. Yet again, he'd lost his connection during a trip without his volition.

He immediately willed his consciousness to take another flight, but he didn't journey to the past. The Nora he viewed occupied space in her here and now, but he wasn't disappointed. Just finished with a shower, she was toweling her lush body with a fluffy blue towel.

Did you ever let them catch you, Nora girl?

It was the question he'd wanted to ask her just before his consciousness returned to his body.

He suspected she did. It was time for David to meet Nora Patterson in the flesh.

Special Agent Nora Patterson studied the youthful, innocent faces in front of her. Some appeared bored, some inquisitive, and quite a few a little frightened. Nora had been assigned the dubious task of presenting a group of fifth-grade students a brief overview of the FBI and the cool stuff the Bureau did to bring missing and abducted children home.

She used words like cool stuff, because the first time she'd made the presentation a few months ago, she'd talked over the children's heads. This time, although she detested the assignment, she was determined to communicate with the boys and girls at their level, and more importantly, outline what they needed to do to protect themselves. "Don't do a job unless you do it right," her father had told her more than once, and although her father would never accept the premise, Nora usually followed his advice, especially since she'd moved away from him and the small mining town in Nevada where she'd spent her youth under her father's care and guidance.

"So," Nora said in conclusion, "if anything seems weird or confusing to you, if something or someone makes you feel uncomfortable or creepy, tell your parents about it, or any other grownup-in-charge, like your teacher. They'll listen to you and believe you. You're not alone."

The teacher started the applause, and the kids joined in.

Prevention works, Nora thought as she guided the government vehicle from the grade school parking lot onto the street. Then she shook her head in despair. Was she merely trying to convince herself that the assignment she'd just completed was necessary and worthwhile? Yeah, she was, but worthwhile or not, what she really wanted was to be in the thick of the hunt for eleven-year-old Hanna Jenkins' killer. The little girl's parents had reported her missing two days ago, and early that morning, a jogger had found her savagely mutilated, plastic-encased body floating in the lake in Encanto Park where the killer had dumped it sometime last night.

As the newest special agent in the Phoenix Field Office, and a female to boot, Nora drew the crap assignments, which was understandable, but Nora suspected even after another agent joined their ranks giving her a little seniority, if the agent were male, she'd still be shuffled to the sidelines. Her boss, Colin Pierce, was one of the dinosaurs left over from the Hoover era who believed women didn't have what it took to be a special agent. Pierce, like Hoover, maintained the subterfuge that women were too valuable as clerical workers to become special agents. Talk about crap, Nora thought.

During Hoover's tenure, the FBI didn't accept women as special agents. Hoover wasn't just a chauvinist, either; he was also a racist. Despite a direct order from Attorney General Robert Kennedy, Hoover adamantly refused to hire women or blacks as special agents. After Hoover's death in 1972, the Bureau eagerly recruited both minorities for the job. Still, women made up less than fifteen percent of the special agents within the Bureau. Because women and blacks were making headway now, Nora would hang tough. She'd perform the crap jobs and would do them to the best of her ability, too. She'd do whatever it took to be what she'd wanted to be since she was a little girl, a girl even younger than Hanna Jenkins.

She'd given up a lot for her dream: a husband, children, being close to the only man she'd ever loved, her father - in other words, a normal life. However, with her transfer to the Phoenix Field Office, Pops wasn't so far away he couldn't drive to see her, or vice versa, and he was due to arrive this coming weekend. She could hardly wait.

David wasn't truly interested in the attractive woman on his arm. Iris Olsen and David had been an item for a short time a woman or two before he'd become involved with Claire, and Iris had readily accepted his invitation for dinner and dancing. She appeared surprised, though, and perhaps a little disappointed, when he parked in front of Henagar's, a popular restaurant in Scottsdale that boasted a piano bar with a small dance floor. Iris preferred a gourmet restaurant followed by dancing at a disco, with loud music, flashing strobe lights and bodies gyrating to an insistent beat. The intimate atmosphere of a piano bar didn't put her gyrating body on stage, and quiet conversation wasn't Iris's strong suit.

Tim Bingham, David knew, shared Iris's preferences, but Tim had selected the nightspot because Nora enjoyed the piano bar in Henagar's. A middle-aged singer named Ella took requests and accompanied herself on the piano. Her smoky, teasing voice, reminiscent of Doris Day's, crooned old standards. David had made it a point to get to know the pianist and hoped Ella would make introductions while David and Iris shared the piano bar with Tim and Nora.

An inveterate flirt, Iris teased every attractive man she ever met. Flirting was part of her nature. She flirted naturally without consciously trying, and David hoped Tim would fall prey to Iris's charms and give David an opening to hold Nora in his arms while they shuffled their feet on the dance floor to a slow, romantic melody.

Fate smiled on David when he noted two vacant stools at the piano bar next to Tim and Nora. He guided Iris so she sat next to Tim, who turned to her and gave her a wide smile when she settled onto the stool. Tim also took in Iris's slim, shapely legs when she crossed them. The slit in the skirt fell away each side of her legs, exposing them nearly to the top of her hose. Knowing Iris as he did, David suspected she wore thigh highs or hose held aloft with a garter belt, not panty hose. Because she wore a shimmering black cocktail dress, her panties would be black and sheer to match, and would probably be a thong to hide any panty lines, a fashion sin, to Iris's mind. She obviously wore no bra.

True to her nature, Iris returned Tim's smile. So far, so good, David thought. He forced himself not to look toward Nora and ignored Iris, which would encourage his date to respond to the other male sitting next to her and giving her the attention she needed.

Ella was just finishing Wish you Were Here, drawing out the last high note until it faded naturally at the start of David's applause. Nora's, too. Tim and Iris were speaking quietly with each other and didn't notice the end of the song, let alone give Ella the applause she deserved.

Before David could make a request, Ella's fingers trilled over the keyboard, and she started to sing Sentimental Journey, the song that made Doris Day famous toward the end of World War II. It was also one of Nora's favorite standards, and David assumed she'd asked Ella to sing it for her. David, rhythmically but lightly, rolled his fingertips over the piano bar and glanced to his right. Iris was flirting outrageously with Tim, and Nora's wonderful bare shoulders were swaying slightly to the music. She'd closed her eyes and was oblivious to Iris and Tim's shenanigans.

When Iris placed her hand on David's thigh, he turned to her.

"David, this is Tim Bingham," she said. "He's a stockbroker. Tim, this is David Stanley. He's an investor. The two of you should get along famously."