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news.
    “It is time for the people of the United States to listen for a change,” the man said in heavily accented English. The skin on his cheeks, forehead, and prominent nose was heavily pockmarked. The skin color, mustache, and apparent height matched the eyewitness accounts from that afternoon at the Riverwalk.
    This was our guy, wasn’t it? The one who’d thrown the author Tess Olsen twelve stories to her death? And before that, seen fit to humiliate her with a dog leash?
    “Each one of you watching this film is guilty of murder. Each one of you is as guilty as your cowardly president. As guilty as your congress and your lying secretary of defense. Certainly as guilty as the pathetic American and British soldiers who defile my streets and kill my people, because you believe that you own the world.
    “And now, you will pay with your lives. The blood of Americans will be spilled in America this time. Blood that I will spill myself. Make no mistake, there is much that one man can do. Just as none of you are innocent,
now none of you are safe
.”
    The man got up and approached the camera, staring out at us as if he could see right into the den. Then he beamed with the most horrific smile. A second later, the screen went back to static.
    “Christ,” Sampson said into the ensuing silence. “What the hell was that crazy piece of shit? Who was that maniac?”
    Just as Bree was reaching for the “stop” button, another image came up on the screen.
    “A double feature,” said Sampson. “Man believes in giving us our money’s worth, anyway.”

Chapter 16

    AT FIRST, IT WAS A BLUR—someone standing in front of the camera. When he stepped back, we saw that it was the same man, only now dressed in plain green coveralls and a black baseball cap that said MO .
    The scene was obviously Tess Olsen’s living room.
Today
. Mrs. Olsen was in the background on all fours, naked and visibly trembling. Her mouth was taped shut. And around her neck was the red dog leash.
    He had filmed everything, playing to an audience the whole time he was here.
    The feeling in the den went from bad to a lot worse. The killer—or the terrorist, as I’d already begun to think of him—approached Tess Olsen. He pulled hard on the leash, and she struggled to her feet. The woman was sobbing uncontrollably. Possibly she knew what was going to happen now.
Did that mean she knew the killer? How would she know him? Because of a book she was writing? What was her latest project
?
    Seconds later, the man had pulled her out on the terrace. He first peeled, then ripped the tape off her mouth. We couldn’t hear much from this distance—not until he grabbed Mrs. Olsen and hung her over the edge. Then her piercing screams reached the camera’s microphone, which was set up maybe twenty feet away.
    All the while, the killer kept checking over his shoulder, looking toward the camera every few seconds.
    “See that? How he moved back into the frame?” Bree said. “He wasn’t just putting on a show for the crowd on the street. This was meant for us as well—for whoever found the tape, anyway. Look at the bastard’s face.” Now he was smiling. Even from this distance, his eerie grin was clear and unmistakable.
    The next few seconds seemed to stretch on forever, as I’m sure they did for Tess Olsen. He pulled her back inside and then set her down on the floor.
Did she think there would be a reprieve? That she was to be spared
? Her shoulders heaved once, then she began to cry again. A minute or so later, he brought her out on the terrace again.
    “Here it comes,” Bree said gravely. “I don’t want to watch this.” But she did. We all did.
    The killer was a powerful man, probably over six feet tall and well built. He shocked me by lifting Tess Olsen like a barbell, straight up over his head. He looked back at the camera one more time—
Yes, you bastard, we’re watching
—then winked and threw her off the balcony.
    “My God,” Bree whispered.