MARA VANCE's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

The parcel sat behind the bar, wrapped in brown paper and string. Mara stared at it. The killer's new name was written across the top. She wanted to tear it open. But she couldn't. Opening another man's mail without cause would poison anything she found. A judge would throw it out. The killer would walk. She needed a reason the law would accept. The bartender watched her hesitate. "You want it, take it," the woman said. "He hasn't come in weeks." "I can't," Mara said. "Not like this." She needed cause, and she needed it fast. The door banged open. Sterling McPherson filled the frame, coat buttoned crooked, badge tilted on his chest. Mara's stomach sank. Twice she had watched this man wreck evidence with his own hands. He had smeared the transfer card only days ago. "Vance!" he boomed. "Followed your car down. Thought you might need backup." He spotted the parcel and reached for it. "That the killer's mail? Let's have a look." "Don't touch it," Mara snapped. She stepped between him and the bar. "Touch that and you ruin everything." Sterling stopped, hurt. "I was only helping." Then his eyes moved past her, to the window. A boy crouched by the dock, holding something on a leash. It was a spotted river otter, sleek and wriggling. The animal squirmed loose and darted under the tavern door. It skidded across the floor, hit the bar, and knocked the parcel to the boards. Paper split. String snapped. The contents spilled out at Sterling's boots. Mara froze. The mail had opened, but not by her hand. No warrant broken. No law bent. An accident in a public room. Sterling grinned and bent down. "Well, would you look at that." "Stop." Mara caught his wrist before he could paw the papers. For once she was fast enough. "I've got it." She crouched and read without touching. A schedule. Dates and a place. Three names down a column, none of them she knew. Beside each name, a time. The last line held a date four days out and a single word: harbor. Mara's chest went tight. This was not a record of old crimes. This was a plan. The killer meant to strike again, here, in four days. The boy scooped up his otter and fled. The bartender crossed herself. "He's not collecting mail," Mara said. "He's marking targets." Sterling whistled low. "So we wait for him." "No." Mara stood. Four days. Three names. She had chased this man for ten years, and now she held his calendar. "We warn them first. Then we set the trap." She folded the paper into her coat. The killer would come to the harbor. And this time, Mara would be waiting before he did.