Over three hours passed. In four hours Herschowitz was due to deliver his keynote address at the Radisson, if he was still alive. The killer might have already struck. She might already be too late. She should have taken out the driver and gone to the hotel. Herschowitz's blood would be on her hands.
Her eyelids drooped throughout the wait, but each time she closed her eyes, she saw him leaning down, his lips about to touch hers. Then the questions started all over again. What had become of this man?
The door opened to reveal an older man in a rumpled suit. Once he spoke, she recognized his voice from the phone call in Savannah. "Young, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?" he said. He slammed the door shut and then sat down.
"I was right about Junction, sir. A woman by the name of Judy Coleman was murdered this morning. Tonight he's going to strike again." She took out the flier, showing it to him.
"Someone underlined a name, so what?"
"It was left in the victim's mouth, sir. He wanted me to find it," she said.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"So far we have Steve in Savannah and some farmer's wife in Iowa and now a doctor here in the Windy City. What's the connection?" he asked.
"I'm not sure, sir."
"I want you to explain something to me," he said. He put on a pair of reading glasses and opened a manila folder. "You bought a ticket from Dallas to Savannah the night before Steve was murdered, is that right?"
"If you say so, sir."
"And you were the first person to find this Coleman woman, is that right?"
"Am I a suspect?" she asked in disbelief.
"A 'person of interest' at this point."
"I didn't kill Steve. How can you think that?"
"Then why did you go to Savannah before the murder?"
"I don't know, sir. I must have received a tip."
He shook his head and opened another folder. "You were a good agent," he said. "One of the best. I don't understand what's happened to you. After that incident in Tucumcari I thought we had all this straightened out."
"Tucumcari?"
"Don't tell me you don't remember. Have you started drinking again?"
"No. I, I-" she put both hands to her face as a scene played before her eyes. A stretch of desert highway. A swarm of flashing lights-police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances. She gets out of her car, pushes her way through the crowd, and sees it. A family sedan with its front end crushed and a pick-up truck with minimal damage. Three bodies are laid out on gurneys. She goes over to the first one and sees her father. On the second one lies her mother. Twenty-five years to the day they died the first time. Now it's happened again. She goes over to the third gurney, on which lies a twelve-year-old girl with her eyes open, staring into Samantha's. "My God," she whispered. "My God."