Carolina Moon

friend to do that check on like crimes, crimes that had taken place during the last two weeks of August.”
    “There are others.”
    “You already knew.”
    “No, felt. Feared. How many more?”
    “Three that fit the profile and time frame. A twelve-year-old girl who went missing during a family trip to Hilton Head in August 1986. A nineteen-year-old coed taking summer classes at the university in Charleston in August 1993, and a twenty-five-year-old woman who’d been camping with friends in Sumter National Forest. August 1999.”
    “So many,” Tory whispered.
    “All were sexual homicides. Raped and strangled. There was no semen. There was some physical violence, particularly in the facial area. That escalates with each victim.”
    “Because their faces aren’t right. Their faces aren’t hers. Hope’s.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    Tory wished she didn’t. Wished the sickness of it wasn’t so horribly clear. “They were all blondes, weren’t they? Pretty, slim builds?”
    “Yes.”
    “He keeps killing her. Once wasn’t enough.”
    Abigail shook her head, a little concerned at the way Tory’s eyes went vague and dark. “It’s possible they were killed by the same man, but—”
    “They were killed by the same man.”
    “The length of time between the murders deviates from the typical serial-killer profile. So many years between. Now, I’m not a criminal lawyer, and I’m not a psychologist, but I have done some studying up on this subject in the last week or two. The ages of the victims don’t fit the standard profile.”
    “This isn’t standard, Abigail.” Tory opened the burl box, closed it again. “It isn’t typical.”
    “There has to be a basis. Your friend and the twelve-year-old indicate a pedophile. It appears to me a man who chooses children as victims doesn’t switch to young women.”
    “But he’s not switching anything. Their ages have everything to do with it. Every one was the age Hope would have been if she’d lived. That’s the pattern.”
    “Yes, I agree with you, though neither of us is experts in this area. I suppose I felt obligated to point out the flaws.”
    “There may be more.”
    “That’s being investigated as well, though at this point, my contact assures me, none has been found. The FBI is looking into it.” Abigail’s pretty mouth firmed. “Tory, my contact wanted to know why I was interested, how I’d learned of the hitchhiker. I didn’t tell him.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You could help.”
    “I don’t know that I can. Even if they’d let me, I don’t know if I’m capable. It freezes me up inside. It was never easy. Always wrenching. And now, I don’t want to face that again, to put myself through that again. I can’t help them. This is for the police.”
    “If that’s really how you feel, then why did you ask me to find out?”
    “I had to know.”
    “Tory—”
    “Please don’t. Please. I don’t want to go back there again. I’m not sure I’d come out whole again this time.” To keep her hands busy, she began shifting items on a shelf. “The police, the FBI, they’re the experts here. This is their job, not mine. I don’t want the faces of all those people in my head, what happened to them, inside my head. I already have Hope.”
    Coward. The voice whispered the taunt in her ear throughout the rest of the day. She didn’t ignore it, she accepted it. And she was going to learn how to live with it.
    She knew what she needed to know. Whoever had killed Hope was still killing, selectively. Efficiently. And it was the job of the police, or the FBI, or some special task force to hunt him down and stop him.
    It was not up to her.
    And if her deepest and most personal fears were realized and that killer had her father’s face, could she live with that?
    They would find Hannibal Bodeen soon. Then she would decide.
    When she locked up for the day, she thought it might do her good to walk around town, through the park. She could drop by Sherry’s and speak with her instead of her answering machine. Take care of business, Tory reminded herself. Take care of yourself.
    Traffic was light. Most would already be home from work, sitting down to supper. Children had already been called in to wash up, and the evening, long and bright, would stretch out with television and porch sitting, homework and dirty dishes.
    Normal. Everyday. Precious for its simple monotony. And she wanted it for herself with a quiet desperation.
    She cut