I climbed from the shower and changed into jeans and a pullover. As I tried to finger-comb my curls, a brown blob looked back from the mirror, swirling in the steam. I groped at the wall, fingers searching for the fan. Flicked a switch. The room went dark.

I pulled open the door to get some air just as Jack crested the stairs.

“I seem to have a sauna going here,” I said. “Is there a fan?”

“Nah.”

I retreated into the bathroom, expecting him to take his duffel wherever he’d been heading. He laid it on the hall floor.

“Need a blow dryer?” he asked.

“Not unless I want an Afro.” I raked my fingers through my shoulder-length curls. “This is definitely wash-and-wear.”

I sifted through my meager selection of nondisguise makeup and decided against it. If Evelyn was offended by the sight of my naked face, so be it. As for Jack, well, he was still standing there, getting a eyeful of what I looked like without it, so it was too late for vanity.

“Did Evelyn tell you what we found out?” I asked as I pulled on socks.

“Not yet.”

Something in his voice made me look up. His face was impassive…and yet.

“There’s been another one, hasn’t there?” I said. “Another murder.”

“Yeah.”

“When did it happen?” I said. “Where?”

He nodded toward the stairs. “CNN’s on. When you’re ready.”

I was crouched over, my sock half on. I yanked it up and he reached out, as if to help me keep my balance. I shook my head, slipped past him and down the stairs.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SEVENTEEN

That morning, retired naval captain Russ Belding and his dog had gone for their usual morning walk through a wooded park near his home. He was last seen at approximately 7:45 by a jogger. An hour later, two teens taking a shortcut through the woods had found Belding’s dog, dragging its leash, and within minutes, found Belding himself, shot through the base of his skull. A bullet through the central nervous system—dead before he hit the ground.

At noon a courier delivered a registered letter to five major media outlets. Inside the envelope were two sheets of paper. One was another page from Helter Skelter. The other was a letter in which the killer claimed to be the son of Charles Manson.

During the next few hours, every so-called expert the news station could drag out of his lead-lined nuclear-bomb/alien-invasion/Ebola-outbreak underground shelter got his fifteen seconds of fame. We listened to a few of them spout paranoia, then Evelyn started turning down the volume.

Jack lifted a hand to stop her.

Evelyn arched her brows. “What? Don’t tell me you’re buying this son-of-Manson shit.”

“There’s more.” Jack crouched beside the TV set and hit the channel button. Static fuzz filled the screen.