Mary, Mary

Apparently, he had allegiances of his own, even if it meant sticking by me.
    We then moved on to Mary Smith’s new e-mail. He used the conference room’s projection system to put the message up on the big screen where we could all see it.
    As I read it through, I was struck not by what she had written, but by what she seemed to be saying to us. It was the same thing I’d noticed before, in her earlier messages, but much plainer now, like a steady drumbeat that had gotten louder over time.
    Come and get me,
she was telling us.
    Here I am. Just come and get me. What’s taking you so long?
    And she’d sent the e-mail to the late Arnold Griner, the dead letter office, so to speak.

Chapter 81
    To: [email protected]
    From: Mary Smith
    To: The one who will be next:
    We’ve already met, you and I, so how about that?
    Do you remember? I do.
    You gave me an autograph the other day, and you were so full of your perky, charming mannerisms. You seemed so approachable, so down-to-earth. I don’t want to say where we met, but you wouldn’t remember anyway. I told you how much I liked your movies, and you smiled as though I hadn’t said anything at all. It reminded me of how invisible I can be to you people.
    It wasn’t the first time you looked right through me, either. You didn’t see me at the day care yesterday, or at the gym today. Not that I’d really expect you to.
    It’s like I’m the opposite of you in every way. Is that a
clue
I smell burning?
    Everyone knows who you are, and no one knows who I am. I’m not famous or movie-star beautiful or any of the things you are. I don’t have flawless skin or a trademark grin. By all reports, you are a better mother than Patsy Bennett was, a better actress than Antonia Schifman, a better wife than Marti Lowenstein-Bell, and surely more famous than that up-and-comer Suzie Cartoulis.
    You are exactly who they mean when they say “she has everything.” You do—and I’ll bet that you know it, even if you forget from time to time.
    There’s only one thing I have that you don’t.
I know something
. I know that by noon two days from now, you’ll be dead. You’ll have a bullet in your brain and a face that no one could recognize, not even your own beautiful children, not even the adoring public that flocks to your films.
    But I didn’t tell you any of that when we met.
    I just smiled, almost curtsied, and thanked you for being you. I walked away knowing that the next time you look at me, it will be in a different way.
    Next time,
I won’t be invisible,
I promise you that much.
    And I keep my promises—just ask Arnold Griner.

Chapter 82
    “WHAT DO WE THINK about this?” Van Allsburg asked the room, and then he stared directly at me. “You have more cases like this one than anyone else here. What’s going on? What is she up to now?”
    I just went ahead and said it. “She wants to be caught.”
    I felt I needed to stand to address the group. “Most likely, this is a person who feels completely isolated. The reaction to eliminate the people she fixates on is paradoxical. She, he, or it destroys what she can’t have. Over time, it’s making her feel worse. Some part of Mary may know that, and doesn’t want to do this anymore, but she lacks the self-control to stop on her own.”
    “And the latest e-mail?” Fred asked.
    “Another sign that the killer is conflicted. Maybe the conscious mind believes it’s taunting the authorities while the subconscious is drawing a map for us to follow. That’s the only thing I can come up with that makes sense of what’s happened, and I’m not even sure if it makes sense.”
    “What about the counterpossibility?” asked David Fujishiro. “That she’s trying to deliberately mislead us, throw us off with fiction.”
    “You’re right. That is a real possibility,” I said. “And what it leaves us with is every conceivable outcome
except
what’s in the e-mail. I think we have an obligation to take the message at face value first, and consider the alternatives second. But David has just stated the other logical possibility. Of course, we don’t know if she’s logical.”
    Several agents, including my buddy Page, scribbled notes while I spoke. I was aware of my stature here, if not exactly comfortable with it.
    “Do we know what LAPD’s doing with this? I’m talking about the latest threat,” asked an agent in the back, one of several faces I had never seen before. I looked over to Van Allsburg for a