The 7th Victim

“You said he was organized,” Sinclair said.

Vail nodded. “He’s what we call an organized offender. There’s thought and premeditation to everything he does. There’s no evidence of a struggle and only minimal defensive wounds, if any. That indicates he did a significant amount of planning. If we look at each of the victim’s houses, we see that the front door has sufficient cover from the street. That allows him to interact with the vic without anyone seeing him, just in case a neighbor is passing by at the time. Or, could be it’s a safety net in case she denies him admittance and he has to force his way in. Either way, there’s planning involved.

“At the other end of the spectrum are lower IQ killers. They’re usually disorganized. The killing is more impulsive, they use weapons of opportunity, or those already in the victim’s apartment, and they make a great deal of mess by mutilating the victim and smearing her blood around the crime scene.”

“Hold it a second,” Hancock said. “Your profile indicates organization but the crime scenes show the opposite.”

Vail sighed. She was tired and didn’t feel like justifying her opinions to Hancock. But his confusion was understandable, and she figured that if he hadn’t asked the question, someone else would have.

“There’s a lot of blood, I know. That usually points to disorganization. But if we look at the blood not by volume but by what he does with it, the painting, the artistic nature of the images, then I think we have to consider it to be purposeful. Purpose indicates organization.”

“What about weapons of opportunity—”

“Every person has steak knives of some sort in their kitchen. Fact that he didn’t bring the knives to the vics tells me he’s smart. Why risk getting caught with knives that can be traced to other victims? He uses what’s there because he knows it’s likely going to be there. To me, that’s another sign of organization. But beyond that, stabbing the eyes is not how he kills these women, asphyxiation is. The knives are merely used for his postmortem behaviors.”

“What about the evisceration? That’s mutilation, disorganization for sure, even going by your own definition.”

Vail tapped her foot and hesitated before answering. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it, except to say that maybe this guy is a mix. Elements of organization blended with some disorganization. More often than not, that’s the case anyway.” Vail rubbed at her painful brow. “Wish I could give you more. I might be able to refine it a bit once I have time to go through it again, run it by my unit.”

“A lot of mights and maybes,” Manette said.

Vail closed the file on her desk. “Hey, a profile is just a tool, like an alternative light source or a compound microscope. It’s not going to give you a suspect’s name and number. You think you can do better, have at it.”

There was silence for a moment before Robby spoke. “I heard one of the forensics guys saying they found some dirt in Sandra Franks’s house.”

“Loose dirt in the hallway and bedroom. One tread mark that matched your shoe,” Bledsoe said. “So that’s of no help. As for the other dirt, they’re running it through the chromatograph and spectrometer. I don’t have the results yet.”

“We didn’t put booties on till after we chased him through the yard,” Vail said. “Ten to one that dirt comes back a dead end.”

Bledsoe shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough. Also looking over hair and fibers. Some latent prints were found, but no hits on AFIS. Except . . . one good latent was lifted from the murals. Judging by the commonly used items in the house as a reference source for Sandra’s fingerprints, seems he used the vic’s severed left hand to paint.”

“That’s just gross,” Manette said.

“All this shit is gross,” Bledsoe said. “Now, as for the other prints ... Sin, what’ve you got?”

Sinclair stood up and stretched. “I’m checking into Franks’s friends and family, just in case the prints are theirs. Some of the latents have probably been there awhile. But I doubt we’ll find anything: with all the blood at the scene, if the fucker wasn’t wearing gloves, he’d have left bloody prints all over the damn place. There weren’t any, so I think the latents are also gonna be a dead end.”

“And that puts us back to where we were. To hocus-pocus psychosymbolism,” Manette said.

A tiny watch alarm started beeping, and Sinclair glanced at his wrist with trepidation. “Got an appointment with one of the vic’s employer’s personnel administrators. This guy’s a real prick.” He pushed out of his chair and gathered up his weathered brown leather shoulder bag.

Bledsoe stood as well. “Okay, let’s get back out there. You know your assignments. Let’s dig a little deeper, see if we can come up with something.”

“DETECTIVE,” HANCOCK SAID, crowding Bledsoe’s space, “you got a minute?”

The other detectives were filing out the front door. Bledsoe shrugged, took a step backward. “Yeah, what’s on your mind?”

Hancock danced a bit, checked over his shoulder, and watched Vail leave with Robby. “I gotta talk to you.” He leaned close again, lowered his voice. “About Vail, I think it could be something.”

Bledsoe’s eyes narrowed a bit, then he turned and led the way into the kitchen. They waited until the front door closed, then he brought his eyes up to Hancock’s. “We’re alone, what’s on your mind?”

“I was reading the files you put together for me. Thanks, by the way, I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Is that what you had to tell me?”

“No, no. I found something in the crime scene manifest for vic number two.” He opened a file he had tucked beneath his arm. “Here, under fiber analysis.” He handed Bledsoe the report.

“Yeah, so? A red hair. What’s the problem?”

“Vail has red hair. The conclusion is that the comparison microscope study matched it to comps on Vail.” He paused, the corners of his mouth sinking, as if Bledsoe should’ve caught on by now. “Vail’s hair was found at the second vic’s crime scene. Why wasn’t anything done about it?”

“Done?” Bledsoe asked. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at Hancock. “What would you have wanted us to do?”

“Did you investigate her?”

“Karen Vail? Special Agent Karen Vail? The woman who has trouble sleeping because this killer is still out on the street?”

Hancock shifted his feet again. “You don’t know her like I know her. She’s devious, ruthless—”

Bledsoe held up a hand. “Okay, Hancock. Thanks for the tip—”

“You need to investigate her. She could be our killer.”

The statement left them both quiet. Bledsoe sighed, then settled into a chair. “That’s a very serious allegation you’re making, you realize that? Based on a strand of hair found at a crime scene?”

Hancock did not answer.

Bledsoe continued: “When an investigator steps into a crime scene, it’s possible his or her fibers, fingerprints, DNA—hell, any trace evidence could be deposited there. That’s one of the challenges we face when our guys answer a call. That’s why we rope off and secure the area—”

“Don’t talk down to me, Detective.”

“I’m explaining why Karen’s hair was at the vic’s house.”

“And you’re sure that’s the reason.”

Bledsoe shook his head in disgust.

“Vail was an art history major. We’ve got these blood murals all over the vics’ walls that look like the work of someone with a background in art. Still not convinced?”

Bledsoe pushed out of his chair and stepped up to Hancock, toe to toe. “Look, Vail told me you were a prick. I’ve tried to keep an open mind, because both of you have biases against each other. If this is a cheap shot to discredit her, to get back at her for your problems with the Bureau several years ago—”

“This has nothing to do with that.”

Bledsoe’s head was tilted back, his gaze fixed on Hancock’s eyes. Neither of them blinked. “You want to investigate Karen Vail on your own time, go for it. Have a picnic. Just don’t poison my investigation.” Bledsoe pushed past Hancock and headed out of the kitchen.

“You’ll see,” Hancock called after him. “You’ll see that I’m right.”

nineteen

Robby walked Vail to her car and stood there a bit longer than necessary after she’d said good-bye and closed the door.

She opened the window and looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the sky’s dreary glare. “Something wrong?”

“I, well . . . no.” He looked down at the ground, then gazed at the houses on the street.

“Robby?”

“How would you like to grab some lunch. Or dinner. I’ve got some more questions. Profiling questions.”

Vail sat there staring at him, wondering if he was, in fact, asking her out. This wasn’t the best timing, after what had happened with Deacon—

“You agreed to tutor me, remember?”

But maybe it was exactly what she needed. Take her mind off all the negatives, bring some happiness into her life. Everyone needs balance; it was a lesson she’d learned many years ago. She spoke before allowing herself to think the situation to death. “Lunch or dinner, huh?”

“Or coffee. Whatever.”

“You know, a sharp profiler might conclude she’s being asked out on a date.”

His gaze drifted off to the surrounding houses again. “But a plain old small-town detective might just think it’s two colleagues getting together to talk about a case. Theories and methods.”

“Theories and methods. . . .” A smile crept across her lips. “Okay. I like theories and methods. Reminds me of my favorite course at the Academy. Dinner tonight, six o’clock?”

“Great.”

“Something casual. Meet me at the office, we’ll go from there.”

“Sure, great.”

“Oh, and Art Rooney, another profiler, may want to join us. That okay?”

Robby’s face drooped a bit, though he seemed to try to keep it propped up. He shrugged an indifferent shoulder. “Yeah.”

Vail smiled, squinted against the sun that had poked through the clouds. “You know what, forget Rooney; he’s probably got other plans. Can’t discuss theories and methods with more than just a couple of people anyway, right?”

Robby winked. “Exactly. Pick you up at six.”

ROBBY POURED A GLASS of chardonnay for each of them and set the bottle back on the table. “So you never told me how a nice detective like you got stuck in a gross profession like profiling.”

“It was one of the safest jobs in the Bureau. I had a scare about seven years ago when I was caught in the cross fire during a botched bank robbery.” Her mind flashed back to Alvin in the bank a few days ago. Different scenario, but the setting was all too familiar. “It was just the way things went down. We were following a tip, moving on these guys fast, and I got there first. While I was waiting for backup, the perps came out of the bank. Another couple agents arrived on scene and didn’t know what hit them. The scumbags took out one agent and put the other down with a shot to the chest. I was pinned down but eventually got out of it.”

Robby’s eyes were narrow with interest. “How?”

She took a gulp of wine. “I thought we were going to discuss theories and methods.”

Robby’s eyebrows rose. “We are. Karen Vail’s theories on getting out of a tough spot with only her brains and bare hands—”

“Try a Glock and a spare magazine. And they had MAC-10s. Sprayed the shit out of my car. Windows were blowing out all over the place. We were hunkered down returning fire.” She shook her head. “It was war, right there on the street in the middle of suburbia. . . .”

Robby edged forward on his seat. “And? What happened?”

She took another drink of chardonnay, then looked up and found Robby’s eyes. “What?”

“How’d you get out of it?”

“I got down low, under the car, and shot the perp in the ankle. He went down, the other agent survived, all the scumbags died, and everything turned out okay.” She let the words linger in the air for a moment, staring at her nearly empty wine glass.

“So, the safest job in the Bureau,” Robby prompted.

“After that lovely episode, I realized it wasn’t something I should be doing while trying to raise a child. Jonathan was seven at the time. The thought of him growing up without a mother made me think long and hard about what I was doing with my life.” She laughed a hollow chuckle. “I make it sound as if it was a rational, one-night decision. It wasn’t. It took me weeks to decide what I was going to do. I even thought of leaving the Bureau.”

“Instead you ended up in the profiling unit?”

“While OPR investigated, my ASAC felt it was best to give me a break from my usual surroundings. He loaned me out to nearby police departments to help them solve a few dormant cases. The trails were so cold you could get frostbite just by handling the case folders.”

Robby leaned back in his chair. “Ouch. You think he did that on purpose, to kill your career?”

“Nah, he was a good guy. Besides, if that was what he had in mind, I screwed up his plans big time. I solved almost every one of the cases. Word traveled fast. Got a rep around the Bureau.”

“I can see why.”

“My ASAC sent a memo to the Division Two unit chief at BSU, and next thing I knew I was the profiling unit’s Eastern District liaison. A month later, I was competing with Chase Hancock for the one vacant spot in the unit. Rest is history.”

Robby’s head was tilted and his gaze was fixed on Vail’s face.

She finished off her glass of wine and waited for a response. “You okay?” she finally asked.

“Fine,” he said, breaking his daze and sitting up straight.

“Theories and methods,” she said with a smile.

“Right. And here’s my theory: you’re a special person, Karen Vail, and I’d like to get to know you better.”

“Told you this smelled of a date.”

“Guess a small-town detective can’t put one over on a sharp FBI agent.”

The waiter delivered their food: Oriental chicken salad for Vail, well-done chili burger for Robby. Vail watched him dump globs of ketchup onto his fries. She flashed on the image of herself as a child. The thought seemed to emphasize the age difference between the two of them. She lifted her fork and felt Robby’s gaze on her face. He had put his foot forward and was patiently waiting for her to take the next step. She let her wrist go limp, lowering her fork back to the plate, and said, “You’re what, twenty-nine, thirty?”

“Thirty.”

“I’m . . . a little older. Why don’t you pick on someone your own age?”

Robby’s hamburger sat in front of him, untouched. He leaned toward her; she was now his total focus. “Karen, I’ve seen things, lived things most kids never should have to live through. I could’ve ended up on the street like the thugs we haul in—but that’s not what I’m about.” He paused to read her face, but she did not react. He popped a ketchup-dripping french fry in his mouth. She took another sip of wine. He finally swallowed, then shrugged. “I may not be thirty-two, like you,” he said with a wry smile, “but I’ve been around the block. A couple hundred times.”

She nodded slowly, then held up her glass. He filled it and topped off his own.

Her eyes moved from the wine to his face. “So then the method would be one step at a time, see how things turn out.”

Robby smiled. “A methodical approach. Like any good investigation.”

“Move too fast and you can screw things up, make mistakes.”

Robby lifted his glass. “To theories and methods.”

Vail raised her glass and touched it against Robby’s. “And methodical approaches.”

twenty

Another victim lies in the next room, tied up and waiting for me to return. And there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re like a quadriplegic, watching things happen around you but physically unable to participate. You see the deaths, the murder, the devastation of their lives, and you’re powerless to stop me.

Look—look at the victim. Open your eyes, do you see her? I said look! In the bed, tied down. Look at her face, look at her eyes, watch as I climb atop, straddle her, then stab her left eye. I draw the knife back, bring it forward fast and hard and whack! The blade sinks into the socket. Blood and fluid spatter on me, on my chest, on my chin. I withdraw the knife, agonizingly slowly as if it were some playful act of sex, then lean back and shift my weight so I can stab the right eye.

Don’t you see it yet? I stab the eyes because you can’t see what needs to be seen. You can’t see me. Look! Look in the mirror above the bed. That’s it—come on, raise your head!

As she tilts her chin back, she sees the mirror’s reflection. And staring back at her, in vivid Technicolor, is a redhead.

You see it now, don’t you. You see it!

She looks at the killer’s face but can’t see anything—no eyes, no mouth, just a blurred out image as if a television censor had altered it, the way they obscure a woman’s bare breast. But just as she is about to turn away, it comes into focus—and staring back at her from the mirror is someone she knows.

She’s looking at her own face—

Vail awoke with a gasp. She’d seen the face of the Dead Eyes killer. And it was hers. She dragged a clammy hand across her eyes, as if wiping them would make the image disappear. What did it mean? She didn’t have much time to ponder it—and even if she did, what good would it do? It was just a dream, something that no doubt stemmed from her frustration with being unable to get a handle on the case. Still, it hovered like a storm cloud, following her throughout the day.

She got out of bed and showered, then drove to work. The call from the unit secretary came through at 8:03 A.M., two minutes after she had sat down at her desk: “Mr. Gifford wants to see you in his office ASAP.”

Vail dropped her leather satchel on the chair and headed into Gifford’s office.

The meeting was short and to the point: the Office of Professional Responsibility had reviewed her report on the Virginia Commonwealth Savings Bank incident and concluded she needed to complete a refresher course at the Bureau’s training facility, Hogan’s Alley. The mock-up town had been created to hone an agent’s real-world skills: because when you were in Hogan’s “town,” in the bank, in the drugstore or movie theater, motel or photo lab, anything could happen. You never knew who or what was part of the exercise ... you had to play it as it came, and as you saw fit. As Gifford had explained it, after the episode in the bank, the bureaucrats felt she needed “some work” on her tactical skills.

“It’s a small price to pay,” Gifford had told her, “and a light sentence.”

The vivid image of this morning’s nightmare crept into her thoughts. She pushed it aside and forced herself to focus on Gifford’s comment. He seemed to be waiting for her to respond. “In the middle of Dead Eyes? Can’t it wait?”

“You’re one member of a task force, Agent Vail. You’re not even one of the investigators. You’re just support.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Report to the Academy immediately. Your contact is Agent Paul Ortega.”

That was an hour ago, and she was now standing outside the Hogan Bank and Trust, gun drawn—blanks in the chamber—but her pulse jumping just the same. Fucking OPR. Why’d they have to make it a bank?

“We’ve got three armed Caucasian males inside,” the voice crackled over her radio.

No, we’ve got a serial killer on the loose in our own damn backyard. And I’m playing games.

She peered around the brick wall into the front window, then lifted the radio from her belt and depressed the talk button. “Suspects visible.”

“Two units on their way. Hold your position. ETA one minute, then we’re going in.”

Her heart continued to pound. Adrenaline was in her veins, speeding her pulse, dilating her pupils. Brain as sharp as a pinpoint. I’m ready.

She tightened the grip on her gun and she flashed on Alvin cradling the hostage in his arms, his eyes bouncing back and forth, his feet shuffling—

And her cell rang. What the hell?

Anything goes in the town of Hogan’s Alley. Anything. But a phone call in the middle of a bank robbery? It could happen. It is happening. Answer it? Was this part of the exercise?

Low roar of a car engine in the distance . . . she would have to storm the bank in a matter of seconds. Phone ringing.

Shit. Pulled the BlackBerry from her belt, looked at the display. Blocked number. Of course. They were not going to make it easy. Hit the button, glanced down the street for the approaching vehicles. “Vail.”

“Karen, get your fucking ass over here. Jonathan forgot his school book and wants you to pick it up—”

“Deacon?”

“Jonathan says the teacher needs the book today. Come get it.”

Her eyes swept the street. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Training exercise or not, she didn’t want to blow this, especially since the report would be going straight to OPR.

Back to Deacon: “Why can’t you bring it over?”

“’Cause I can’t. I’m busy.”

Shit. “Fine, I’ll be there as soon as I can get away.”

“Only gonna be here another hour—”

She hit the End button as the first vehicle pulled up to the curb. Two agents poured out and made eye contact with her. The second unmarked car then screeched to a stop, followed by the voice over the radio: “All units, Charlie Delta Echo. Go go go!”

Vail grabbed the door handle, swung her body around, and stormed the bank.

THE CAR KEYS were in Deacon’s hand as he stared at Vail through the screen. “Didn’t think you were gonna make it. I’m out the door.”

“Just give me the damn book, Deacon.” Vail had handled the bank situation just fine, but the exercise left her jittery, the residual adrenaline still sloshing around her bloodstream. She was in no mood for Deacon’s bullshit.

He snarled, then walked back toward the living room. She entered and stood in the entryway, tapping her foot. Being in the house gave her the willies. She had the overwhelming urge to take the butt of her gun and crack him good across the noggin. Just for old times’ sake. And for what he’d been doing to Jonathan. Most of all, for what he’d done to her yesterday.

“So,” Deacon called from the kitchen, “did you enjoy our last rendezvous, Karen?”

She squeezed her left arm against her body and felt her Glock, shoved into its holster. Deacon suddenly appeared around the bend with Jonathan’s book in hand.

He was wearing a shit-eating grin as he danced into the living room. Did a spin in front of Vail. “Here ya go, darlin’.” Held the book in front of him.

As she reached for it, he pulled it away and hid it behind his back.

Rage. Crack him across the head. Right between his mud brown eyes.

“Deacon, I’m not in the mood. Give me the damn book.”

Her face was inches from his. She leaned forward, he leaned back. “You shoulda pulled the trigger yesterday, Karen. Because I’m still around, and as long as I’m still around I’m gonna make your life miserable. Then there’s Jonathan, and I’m already making his life miserable—”

Her blood pressure had risen beyond safe limits and if she didn’t let off some steam or get the hell out of there fast, she was going to do something she would regret. She clenched her jaw, then spun around. Book or not, she was leaving. Jonathan would have to understand.

But as she turned away

Deacon grabbed her arm

And the tap opened and anger poured out like water from a faucet—

she swung hard, bone on bone

and he fell backwards

knees crumpling

And he hit the floor with a loud thump!

She looked down at her fallen ex, who was shaking his head, trying to regain some sense of self. “You deserve that you son of a bitch,” she spat. “Don’t you ever touch me again!”

She located the textbook, which had skittered beneath the sofa, and bent down to retrieve it. After straightening up, Vail heard movement behind her and started to turn—

But Deacon grabbed her ankles and twisted and she fell back, landing sideways on the couch.

Looking at him, his eyes still distant and vacant: she yanked her right leg free and kicked him in the face, a swift shot intensified by the heel of her shoe. A moan escaped from Deacon’s bloody lips and he fell back to the floor.

Vail pushed herself off the couch and stood over her stunned ex-husband. Then kicked him in the ribs, for good measure. “I mean it, Deacon. You come near me again, I’ll kill you.”

OUTSIDE, VAIL SAT IN HER CAR, her heart pounding, her strength gone, her mind racing, on the verge of tears. The squeal of brakes from a nearby delivery truck put her back on track. She found her keys, tossed the book onto the seat beside her, and started the engine.

She thought of the last time she drove down this road . . . beaten, dazed, and frazzled. A victim.

But at the moment, Deacon was the one beaten and dazed. And she had to admit, it felt much better this way.

twenty-one

He sent off his message but had not yet received a response. He ended up having to do some thinking, let alone a lot of research, to make it work. He could’ve just haphazardly thrown his writings out there, but what’s the sense in that? No, he had to do it just right. The proper tool is key to honing your work. A painter could no more create a finely detailed landscape with a wide brush than a photographer could capture the close-up beauty of a flower with a box camera. The right tools for the right jobs.

Which got him to thinking . . . tools weren’t the only things that mattered. Presentation was critical. Would an artiste display his most precious work in a basement somewhere, where no one could see it? Or would he look for the right stand, the proper lighting to emphasize its attributes, the best setting for his piece? A writer must do the same. What good would his work do sitting on a hard drive locked away in a computer? So he spent the time to do it right . . . such things can’t be rushed. After all, patience is a virtue. Who said that? Who cares? Somebody did, and it happens to be true. And that’s really all that matters to me.

They’ll react. They have to.

The neighbor’s dog was barking and that made it hard to concentrate. He sat at the computer and nothing came out. Was this writer’s block? He’d read about that, where you stare at the blank screen and can’t write anything. He was no writer, at least he never thought he was, but that goddamn cocker spaniel had been hitting the same pitch and rhythm for the past fifteen minutes. Bark-bark-bark. Bark-bark-bark. Bark-bark-bark. Same monotonous tone that wore on him. Who can write with this noise? Can Stephen King? Definitely not!

He had the urge to go next door and drive a knife through its fucking brain, end the incessant noise.

Yet annoying as it was, it was something he was able to control. He could stop himself from killing the dog because it was a lower form of life—and therefore worthy of some mercy. It knows not what it does.

But when it came to the bitch-whores, he couldn’t help himself. He finally realized he didn’t want to, because it defined the very essence of who he was. It took him a while to understand that. Once he did, he knew how to satisfy the desire, the need for more. For satisfaction.

No, it was more than that. It was an uncontrollable urge. A hunger.

It was something only he understood. He’d never tried to make others feel what he felt, because he knew they wouldn’t, or couldn’t. He accepted that. He accepted that he was different—and that even his inner self would never accept him for who he was.

So be it. He’d gotten comfortable with who he’d become. No longer would someone control his life, dictate when he could do the things he wanted to do. He’d learned how to free himself. Freedom was one of the most valued rights of our great country, and it took him years to learn how to find it. So much more the reason to savor it.

But perhaps the best freedom of all is that no one has stopped him from fulfilling his needs. Because they couldn’t. No one could find him. He had the perfect hiding place, the perfect disguise. And no matter how hard they searched, no matter what places they looked, he wasn’t there.

They will never find me.

The dog’s bark quickened for a moment, the change in rhythm breaking the monotony. Someone strange was near. If there was one thing he looked for in a potential target, it was the absence of a dog. He could kill the dog, that wasn’t the problem—first time he did that he was about thirteen, maybe fourteen. The problem was that the damn thing would bark and he didn’t need the noise. Or the hassle of possibly getting bitten. It was just easier to avoid them.

He walked to his door in time to see the FedEx delivery person heading toward his stoop, a box wedged beneath her arm. As the woman was reaching for the buzzer, he pulled the door open. Ms. FedEx jumped backward.

He sniffed deeply, smelled fear. A dense odor, putrid almost, and moist . . . a familiar scent he’d sampled far too many times to count ... and it was oozing from this slut’s pores like sweat. Must’ve scared the crap out of her.

He signed for the package, and as he was taking it, Ms. FedEx squinted a bit when looking at him. He hated when people did that. It’s just damned rude. He dismissed the delivery person—she didn’t realize how lucky she was—and grabbed a pair of scissors, then took to the box with the excitement of a child descending the stairs on Christmas morning.

After clearing away the packing, he saw his new tool . . . lying in the box, propped up and ready for use. He removed the stun gun and read the advertising panels. Some guys get excited over drills and power saws and screwdrivers. For him, a useful tool has to do more. It has to help him define his freedom. That’s the way he looked at it. This was his freedom tool.

He glanced at the instruction manual. Not as precise a resource as he’d like it to have been. There was more mumbo jumbo lawyer junk to head off liability claims if the unit was used improperly than about the operation of the damn thing.

Downstairs, the cocker spaniel barked again.

He looked down at the stun gun in his hands and instantly felt the spark of excitement inside his chest. He would try out his new tool on the dog. Lower species or not, it was going to get the jolt of its life.

He felt the balance of the precisely machined device and realized the power harnessed in its small, black rectangular body.

The right tool for the right job.

twenty-two

State Senator Eleanor Linwood sat behind her massive, highly polished mahogany desk. Her auburn hair had been colored and re-cut this morning, then gelled and sprayed into place. A man, bent at her side, swiped a makeup brush across the gentle folds of her neck, attempting to lessen their prominence for the TV cameras. With gold reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she read aloud the lines her speechwriter had prepared. “And let me state right here and now—”

“Senator.” Chief-of-staff Levar Wilson was standing in the doorway, sheaves of dog-eared papers clutched in both hands. “What are you doing?”

She waved off the man applying the makeup. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m practicing, for the press conference.”

“Senator, with all due respect, this is an extremely important speech. The public is going to see you like they’ve never seen you before; you need to make the most of this situation, seize the moment—”

“I’ve delivered hundreds of speeches over the years, Levar—”

“This isn’t a stump speech where you’re angling for votes. You’re telling your constituents they’re safe. That you’re doing everything humanly possible to catch this killer. All the mothers out there are putting the safety of their daughters in your hands. You have to show them you’re strong and in control, that you’re up to the task.”

“Your point?”

“Let’s give it a run-through in the conference room. I need to go over some details with you.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary? I’ve only got thirty-five minutes before—”

“Yes. Please come with me.”

She frowned, then gathered her papers and followed Wilson down the hall. The conference room was rectangular, twice as deep as it was wide, and large enough to accommodate a small army of press people packed a bit more loosely than sardines. A wooden podium stood alone on a raised platform against a brown curtained backdrop.

“There’ll be a cup of water on the podium. Do not touch it. You have to tell the viewers you’re working to the exclusion of everything else to keep them safe. You’re not even going to stop for a glass of water.”

“That’s a bit over the top, Levar.”

“Now,” he said, ignoring her objection, “set the papers down and grasp both edges of the podium. I hope you don’t mind borrowing a bit from the Democrats, but Bill Clinton had this down to a science. He has these large hands and he curled them around the edges of the podium, caressing it, symbolizing that he had a full grasp of the situation.”

“Levar—”

“Go with me on this, Senator. It’ll work.”

She sighed her consternation, then dropped her papers on the podium and took hold of its edges.

“No, no—stand at ease, the podium is merely a prop. Here, picture it this way. The edges of the podium are a woman’s shoulders. Pretend it’s your daughter—”

“I don’t have a daughter,” she said firmly.

“Pretend, Senator. Please.”

“Very well.”

“Hold her shoulders gently, but with authority. She’s upset about something, and you’re about to give her some comforting advice. Look into her eyes. In this case, the camera. Tilt your head,” he said, doing the same with his and waiting for her to follow. “That’s it, now pause for a second. You’re thoughtful, but deliberate. Explain to your daughter that she’s safe and that you’re going to do everything possible to look after her safety.”

Linwood’s eyes softened a bit. Wilson nodded his approval. “Good, perfect. Now, back to your papers. Pick up with the sentence, “And I promise. . . .”

THE TELEVISION ZOOMED IN on the senator’s face; this was true drama, in primetime. And it was all because of him. How flattering. Not his intention, but what the hell. We all got our fifteen minutes of fame sooner or later.

“And I promise to do my best to make sure no woman has to worry about being safe in her own home. My representatives and I are working hand-in-hand with the police to catch this madman. And I assure you, we will catch him.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He pressed the mute button and she had no choice but to listen to him. “Now, wouldn’t that be something . . . a remote control to make all the bitch-whores shut up on my command!”

Madman, she called me a madman. I’m not mad! I may be angry, but I’m not mad. Only a dog can be mad, not a person! Stupid bitch.

He hit the remote and her voice came alive again.

“The police and the FBI are poised to act on several leads. I expect we’ll see a major break in the case any time now.”

“Several leads . . . major break. . . .” Why can’t people tell the truth? They got jack. “Admit it! You don’t know who you’re dealing with! You’ll never find me!”

VAIL WALKED INTO the task force’s operations center and heard the measured drone of a television emanating from the kitchen. She was jumpy yet exhausted, remnants of her latest run-in with Deacon. She had dropped off the book at Jonathan’s school and gone home to straighten herself up before heading to the op center.

She laid her purse atop her makeshift desk and picked up a note clipped to a folder. As she started to read it, someone tapped her shoulder. She turned, saw Bledsoe, and winced as pain cut through her left leg. When Deacon had grabbed her ankles, he’d twisted the knee she had injured in Sandra Franks’s yard. It had been killing her since leaving Deacon’s a couple of hours ago.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. Knee’s a little sore. What’s up?”

“Linwood’s on TV. Dead Eyes press conference.”

“What press conference?”

“You already know as much as I do. Far as I know, she’s doing this on her own.”

Bledsoe followed Vail into the kitchen. Manette and Robby were huddled around a scarred, faux wood-encased Sony television with fuzzy reception.

Vail moved in beside them to get a clear view of the screen, which showed Linwood standing behind a podium.

“. . . and to the Dead Eyes killer, I say your days are numbered. We’re on your trail, and we will persevere until we find you. You will rot in hell, your soul hung out to dry in front of everyone, for society to see who and what you are—”

“Oh, that’s just great,” Vail said, grabbing the back of her neck. “Incite him.” She turned to Bledsoe. “How can she do this—shouldn’t she need clearance from us to go on TV?”

“Politics,” Robby said. “That’s what this is about.”

Vail looked around the room and noticed someone was missing. “Where’s Hancock?”

“I texted him,” Bledsoe said. “Haven’t heard back.”

“I bet he’s behind this,” Vail said. “Doesn’t she realize what’ll happen if the offender sees this?” Vail asked. “We can’t have loose cannons—”

“She challenged him,” Manette said. “Right on network TV. It’ll be shown in sound bites on every major channel for the next several days.”

“Not to be cynical, but I bet that’s exactly what she’s counting on,” Robby said. “Prime-time exposure, for free. Leading up to an election, getting in the offender’s face, and showing him who’s boss is a powerful political statement. Brilliant strategy, really.”

“She won’t look so smart when he uses it as an excuse to kill again,” Bledsoe said.

Manette rose slowly from her chair. “As if he needed an excuse.”

“Whether he did or not,” Vail said, “she’s just given him one.”

I KNOW THOSE EYES. He paused the recording and stared at Linwood’s face. Oh, yes . . . evil, evil eyes. His gaze remained fixed on the image until it suddenly sputtered back to life.

“You will rot in hell, your soul hung out to dry in front of everyone, for society to see who and what you are: a monster. A wart, a sin on the face of God.”

He grabbed a gob of clay and hurled it at the TV. It stuck to the screen as if clinging for its life. “I’ll rot in hell, huh?” He threw his tools off the table. Pulled at his collar. Hard to breathe. Fucking bitch. “Whore!”

The clay suddenly lost its grip and fell with a light thud to the floor.

“Rot in hell? I’ll rot in hell? How dare she talk to me like that? How dare she, how dare she? If I’m a wart on the face of God, she’s a fucking boil!”

He laughed. Laughed so hard he couldn’t stop. He bent down on one knee and gathered himself. He felt the blood rushing to his head, pounding, pounding, pounding. Finally it eased and he sat on the floor, leaned against the wall.

But this was not a laughing matter. He wasn’t laughing because it was funny. He grabbed his new tool, got his keys, and headed out. Someone was going to pay.

MANETTE left the op center shortly after Linwood’s speech had ended. Robby walked Vail to her car and watched as she searched her purse for her keys.

“I had a good time last night,” he said.

She pulled her empty hand from her purse and looked toward the house. “Me too.” She was not in the mood for flirting, not with Deacon’s sneering face still branded in her mind—and on the bottom of her shoe.

“What’s wrong?”

“Left my keys in the house.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me it is.”

She studied his face for a moment, then turned and leaned back against her car. “Problems with my ex,” she said, then gave him an abbreviated version of her last two encounters with Deacon.

Robby’s gaze was fixed on the ground, his foot tapping furiously. “I’ve never met this guy. But I’d like to, just to talk to him, you know?” His fists were clenched and his shoulder muscles were bunched in anger.

Vail placed a reassuring hand on his taut forearm. “I’ve got it handled, Robby. I don’t think he’ll bother me again.”

“And what about your son? This asshole is gonna take out his beating on Jonathan. Do you have him tonight or does Deacon?”

“Deacon.”

“Then I suggest you go by his school and pick him up. You want, I’ll call Deacon and tell him you’ve got him, after the fact. He won’t give me any grief. Better yet, I’ll go with you.”

Vail shook her head. “He wouldn’t hurt Jonathan. He did, I’d kill him. He knows that. And after today, he knows I’m capable of it.”

“Probably true. But I still think it’s best to err on the side of caution. Pick him up, keep him at your place till Deacon cools off.”

Vail nodded slowly. “What day is today?”

“Twenty-third.” Robby’s cell phone began to ring. He fished it out of his pocket.

Vail’s eyebrows crumpled, then she consulted her watch. Four thirty. Jonathan had a chess club meeting today, which meant he would be out at five.

Robby flipped his phone shut. “I’ve gotta go, something came up on one of my old cases. Break-and-enter on this rich guy’s condo. I know the perp they like for it, busted him a couple of times before. He’s holed up in a house, took a kid hostage. EST’s on the scene, but the perp’s asking for me.” He dropped the phone in his pocket and started to back away. “You want me to get someone to go with you, I can arrange it. Hell, ask Bledsoe.”

“Not necessary.”

“I’ll catch up with you later. You need any help, let me know.”

While Robby got into his car, Vail ran back into the house to retrieve her keys. She waved to Bledsoe, who was in the kitchen with the phone handset tucked beneath his chin. She grabbed her keys and ran outside, where a Fairfax County police cruiser was pulling up behind her Dodge Stratus. She nodded at the officer as he got out of his car.

“Karen Vail?”

Vail glanced at him over her shoulder. “Yeah.” She unlocked the door and opened it, tossed her purse on the passenger seat.

“Ma’am, I’m Officer Greenwich, County Police. I need a moment of your time.”

“Wish I could help you, Officer, but I’ve got an appointment. Detective Paul Bledsoe is in the house—”

“Ma’am, he won’t be able to help me. I need to talk to you.”

“I really do have to run. If this is about Dead Eyes, Bledsoe heads up the task force.” She sat down in her seat and started to pull the door closed, but the cop grabbed it and held it open.

“Excuse me?” she said. “Let go of my door.”

The cop removed his hands. “Ma’am, I really need your assistance. Police business.”

Vail squinted at the cop, forgot his name. Glanced at his name tag. “Look, Officer Greenwich, if this is some kind of joke—”

“It’s not, ma’am. I’ve got some questions. Can you step out of the car? I just need a minute of your time.”

As Vail got out, another cruiser pulled up to the curb across the street. She stood and faced Greenwich, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so. African American, head shaved bald, and large eyes, he exuded confidence. Maybe he was all jacked up about hassling an FBI agent. “Ask away, just make it quick.”

The other officer, gelled brown hair and medium build, took a position ten feet away, to Greenwich’s left. He hooked both thumbs in his utility belt but did not say a word. Vail did not like the look of this.

“Ma’am, mind telling me where you were at noon today?”

Then it hit her. This was about Deacon. “Why, what’s the problem?”

“It’d be easier if I ask the questions. Now, noon today. . . .”

She folded her arms across her chest. “At my ex-husband’s house. Deacon Tucker. I was picking up a school book for my son.”

“Can you tell me what happened while you were there?”

“Look, Officer. This all goes back—” and then she stopped herself and realized she should just shut her mouth and say as little as possible. “Has he sworn a complaint against me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the young officer said, his posture erect and confident. “I just came from the hospital. He’s being treated for two fractured ribs and a broken nose. Did you strike Mr. Tucker, ma’am?”

Jesus. This rookie is going to run me in. Goddamn you, Deacon. She bit her lip, then shook her head out of disbelief. Time was ticking. She needed to get to Jonathan’s school. “Yes, in self-defense.”

He tilted his head from side to side, looking her over. “I don’t see any bruising on your person. Do you have any bruises, ma’am?”

“No, Officer, I don’t have any bruises.”

“Self-defense, but you don’t have any bruising?”

Was it self-defense? He taunted me, grabbed my arm, but I took the first swing. I took the only swing. Goddamn you, Deacon.

“Can you show me any evidence that he injured you?”

Through a tightened jaw, she said, “No.”

“You said it was in self-defense. What exactly did he do that made you feel as if you needed to defend yourself?”

“He grabbed my arm.”

“Mind rolling up your sleeve?”

Vail thought of the bump on the back of her head, but with her dense hair, what was he going to see? Besides, that was hardly proof Deacon had hit her. In truth, she didn’t even know how it happened. She noticed Greenwich was waiting, so she did as requested and pulled back the loose sleeve of her sport coat. “He grabbed my forearm, right here.” She pointed; the officer stepped closer, tilted his head and examined the area. “I don’t see anything.”

“I told you. No bruising.”

Greenwich glanced at his colleague, then back at Vail. “Ma’am, are you carrying a weapon?”

“Of course I am—”

“Where is it located?”

Vail moved her suit coat back, about to expose the shoulder harness—

And Greenwich held out a hand. “No, no. That’s okay, just tell me where it is.”

“In my shoulder holster.”

“Any other weapons on your person?”

“No, that’s it.”

“Protocol, ma’am. Have to follow protocol,” he said as if she would immediately understand.

In fact, she did understand. But it didn’t make it any easier.

Greenwich removed her Glock from its holster, then handed it to his partner. “Ma’am, according to eighteen-two-fifty-seven point two of the Virginia Code, in a domestic violence case I’m compelled by law to make an arrest.”

“The bastard knocked me unconscious and took my handgun! I wasn’t going to let him do it to me again—”

“Hang on a second,” he said, holding out a hand. “Now you’re saying he knocked you unconscious? Your story seems to be changing—”

“No—it’s not. Look, Officer, let me explain—”

“I think at this point I’ve got to advise you of your right to remain silent—”

“No, no. Listen to me. You don’t have to do this—”

“In fact, ma’am, I do have to do this. You’ll have your say, I promise you that, but I’m going to need to take you in. I’ll be as discreet about it as I can.” He pulled a set of cuffs from his belt and held it out in front of him long enough for her to see what was going to have to happen. He cocked his head, waiting for her to turn around. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“I’m a fucking FBI agent, I know my rights!”

But he continued on nonetheless.

“Bledsoe!” she shouted at the closed door to the house. Would he hear her? What could he do, anyway? She felt the cold metal touch her wrists and the deputy’s voice disappeared in her mind. Tears filled her eyes. This can’t be happening. “I need to get my son. I need to—ow!” The hard cuffs bit into her skin. “You don’t need to make the damn things so tight. Didn’t they teach you anything at the academy?”

Greenwich swung the cruiser door open and nudged Vail toward the backseat. She more or less fell in as he guided her head past the door frame.

“Can I at least make a phone call?”

He looked down at her. “After you’re processed, I’ll make sure you get access to a phone.”

And then the door slammed shut.

She looked at the front door to the house, willing Bledsoe to walk out and save her from this nightmare. “Bledsoe!” she screamed.

But the cruiser windows were closed. She glanced at the clock: it was ten minutes to five. Even if she was able to reach Robby—who was in the middle of a crisis of his own—he wouldn’t be able to get someone to the school in time.

The other officer headed back toward his squad car as Greenwich opened the door, got in, then slammed it shut. “Four-ten Baker,” he said into his radio.

“Go ahead Four-ten Baker.”

“Heading toward ADC, prisoner in custody.”

As the car pulled away from the curb, Vail closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the seat. This can’t be happening.

Goddamn you, Deacon.

twenty-three

He was so pissed at the moment, he had the urge to do something, to do someone. Right now. Like that dog that wouldn’t stop barking, this was monopolizing his thoughts. He stunned the dog to shut him up. But he couldn’t shut off the anger inside him. He couldn’t make it go away. He paced, then kneaded some clay, but none of it helped. He sat down and began to write.

I want to stab him, hurt him like he hurts those whores he brings home. I want to kill him. How would I do it? Shooting him would be the easiest and least risky way, but I don’t have a gun. I’d hit him with a baseball bat, but I don’t know if I could hit him hard enough before he turned it on me.

But a knife . . . a knife in the face would stun him. In the eye and he wouldn’t be able to come back at me. A fast attack. I could do that.

Stab and run. No, stab and stab and stab.

Yes, I could do that. I could do that. I could.

He liked what he’d written, but it didn’t cool his anger, his urge, which felt like a ravenous hunger eating away at his stomach. If anything, the rage, the fury he felt toward the prick was driving him to take action sooner rather than later. He wasn’t prepared for this, and for a few seconds wondered if he was behaving irrationally, allowing his emotions to control his actions. He had a plan, and he should stick with it. It’s when you cut corners that you end up making mistakes.

But he couldn’t help himself.

He found himself sitting outside the nearest Food & More about twenty minutes from his house. Supermarkets, bars, and malls were the best places to find a bitch when you were desperate, that much he’d thought through. And the stun gun was tucked away in his glove box, just in case he got pulled over. So many details, so many things to keep straight.

It was four o’clock and the sky was darkening, meaning he had maybe forty-five minutes of light left. He got out and walked into the market, his overcoat flapping in the brisk breeze, the hat threatening to lift off his head.

He angled for the deli counter. Women standing around, nowhere to go while they waited for their orders. He stayed there for ten, fifteen minutes watching them chitchat, watching them peer into the display cases. Watching their eyes. But none of them intrigued him. On to the dairy section . . . another place where the bitches seem to always linger while they scanned the ever-expanding varieties of cheese.

He hurried there, the heat of the hunt making his neck sweaty. He was close, he could feel it. He turned left down an aisle and slammed into a bitch coming right at him. They’d both been moving at a good clip and were thrown back a bit. Her purse went flying and opened, scattering all sorts of shit across the aisle.

Her hands flew into the air, then came to rest on her sunken cheeks. “You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he said. You bitch-whore. Next time watch where you’re going. He forced a smile. “Guess we were both in a hurry.”

She bent down to collect her fallen items. He knelt, too, and they were nose to nose. Crows feet hidden below caked foundation, dirty blond hair. And her eyes: hollow, nearly lifeless. This one was dead already. She just didn’t know it. Definitely not the one. He had to disguise his lingering gaze, so he grabbed a lipstick, makeup case, and a pack of Wrigley’s off the floor. He handed them to her and she took them with cold hands and a crooked smile.

But then, a high-pitched voice: “Oh, here. Let me help.”

His head whipped to the right. Brunet twenty-something kneeling beside him, wire-rimmed glasses magnifying her golden tiger eyes. What incredible detail. He’d never seen so many swirling colors before. Golds and browns and tans with a hint of black. He couldn’t move. Yes, yes, yes. Pretty but evil. Like camouflage, you had to look carefully to find it. But once you saw it, it stood out like a green tomato.

You, you’re the one.

The brunet gathered up a handful of the remaining items and handed them to the blond-haired bitch, who held her purse open. “Thanks for your help, both of you.”

He fought back a smile and couldn’t help but think, No, no . . . thank you.

TWENTY-NINE MINUTES LATER, the tiger-eyed brunet came slinking out of the Food & More. He sat back and watched from about thirty yards away. She quickly loaded the groceries into the trunk and got into her car. He started his Audi and drove toward her, timing his arrival with her exit.

He’d taken a quick inventory of her before they’d parted company: a bare ring finger; a smattering of items in her cart: veggies, spices, herbal tea, fresh salmon. No beer or frozen pizza, steaks or pork chops. Not as foolproof as checking the house for large tennis shoes or men’s clothing, but he felt reasonably sure she did not have a male significant other waiting for her at home.

They left the parking lot together and headed home. Her home, where they’d soon be face-to-face. And eye-to-eye.

twenty-four

The drive to the Adult Detention Center was a long one, slowed by rush hour traffic. The deputy moved through the lines of cars using his overhead light bar whenever possible, but even driving the shoulders made the hour-long ride seem twice as long.

Vail kept her head turned away from the window, hoping no one she knew would see her. With her arms drawn back behind her shoulders, she had to sit forward in the seat—and after the first fifteen minutes, her hands had gone numb and her back ached something terrible. But her ego and emotions were in far worse shape. Humiliation was much too weak a word to describe how she felt: the anger, the embarrassment ran much deeper.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered how the arrest would affect her position with the Bureau. She had heard of agents getting into domestic disputes, but it hadn’t happened to anyone she knew or anyone who’d worked out of her field office, so she never learned the agents’ final disposition.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered how her unit would relate to her now. She’d always had difficulty fitting in, even with six years under her belt. Now, having been accused of assaulting her ex-husband, it would feed the stereotype every law enforcement professional had of a female agent: that she had to be buff and butch and aggressive to succeed. She wanted to think it wasn’t true, but another part of her conceded that to some extent, it might just be the case.

For a fleeting moment, she thought of putting a gun to Deacon’s head.

For a fleeting moment, tears began to pool in her eyes.

And it was then that the cruiser pulled up to the sprawling Adult Detention Center on Judicial Drive. Populated with multistory buildings and encompassing several square blocks, the campus housed the booking center, the male and female prisons, the sheriff’s department, Juvenile and Domestic Relations, magistrate offices, and the courthouse. Vail had visited the ADC a number of times while meeting deputies in court, visiting prisoners she needed to interview for her research papers, and consulting on the department’s new LiveScan fingerprint identification database. But there were thousands of employees, and she knew only a handful. Doubtful she would run into any of them, particularly now, since the day shift had long since ended. Doubtful they could do anything to help her, anyway.

The squad car pulled down the long ramp leading to the Sally Port and waited for the guard, who was watching them on a monitor inside the building, to open the mammoth electronic steel doors. Vail had never come in this way before, and as the large entryway slammed shut behind them and darkness descended on the garage, she decided once was enough.

After parking the cruiser beside an unmarked cherry red Ford Mustang, the deputy placed his handgun and her Glock into the weapons locker, then led her through the Sally Port’s double set of electronic security doors into the central booking area. The last time Vail had been here was when she’d been given a tour of the new facility a few days before it had opened a few years ago. It was then a cavernous, deserted room, computers and equipment blanketed with clear covers, white ceramic tile, and freshly painted cinder block walls. Her nose had stung from recently varnished oak trim and countertops. It was almost too spiffy to be a jail, she’d thought at the time.

But she didn’t feel that way now. Deputies manned the expansive booking desk, where papers stuck to clipboards and files were stacked on end, memos and rosters were taped to walls. Phones rang, keys clanged, printers spat out documents . . . movement was everywhere as prisoners were being processed.

She was led to a counter-mounted camera, positioned in front of a wall with measured hash marks, and handed a metal identification sign that she held in front of her chest. The flash flickered, her face flushed out of embarrassment, and she was ushered over to a fixed cement stool. “Wait here,” Officer Greenwich instructed. He handed some paperwork to another deputy, who was operating the freestanding electronic fingerprint unit.

“It’ll be a while, I’ve got a line ahead of her,” the deputy said.

Greenwich leaned forward, turned his body slightly, and spoke into his colleague’s ear. The deputy glanced at Vail, said something to Greenwich, who nodded, then walked back over to Vail.

“He’s going to move you up a bit,” Greenwich said. “Professional courtesy.”

Forty-five minutes later she was standing in front of the LiveScan fingerprint scanner, where her ridges and whorls were recorded electronically. She knew this system intimately. The thought of being on the receiving—rather than the demonstrating end—depressed her. And she had plenty of time to be alone with her thoughts, as she waited again, this time for over an hour, before being led to a row of intake booths, a line of four-by-four semiprivate cubicles outfitted with bulletproof glass, a built-in microphone, and a pass-through slot. This was where she would meet with a magistrate, where she would finally have her chance to say something in her defense.

Greenwich slid the signed statement of facts through the narrow opening in the glass. The magistrate—Nicholas Harrison, according to the nameplate on the desk—was a broad, round-faced man with black-rimmed bifocals. He pushed a file aside and picked up the deputy’s form. He glanced at Vail, then nodded to Greenwich, who was standing behind her and off to the right.

“Good evening, Your Honor. I’ve got an eighteen-two-fifty-seven point two, Dom Vio. Complainant is Deacon Tucker. Suspect is Karen Vail, a special agent with the FBI. Mr. Tucker alleges that Ms. Vail presented to his house, and when he asked her to leave, she became violent and kicked him in the face—”

Vail stepped forward. “That’s not the way it happened—”

“Just a moment, Agent Vail,” Harrison instructed through the glass. His voice was tinny through the speaker, but his wrinkled brow and extended index finger were quite clear. “You’ll have an opportunity to give your version in a moment.” He turned back to Greenwich. “Continue.”

“After getting kicked in the face, Mr. Tucker fell. He alleges that Agent Vail then delivered two kicks to his torso. She left the scene and complainant was taken by ambulance to Virginia Presbyterian with multiple broken ribs. He was treated and released four hours later.”

The magistrate reclined in his high-backed chair. “Anything else?”

“Computer picked up a PD forty-two in the file from eighteen months ago.”

“Same complainant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s a PD forty-two?” Vail asked.

Harrison removed his glasses and leaned forward. “It’s what’s called a suspicious event. If there’s a violent altercation between spouses but insufficient evidence to make an arrest, the incident is logged and held inactive in the file.” He replaced his glasses and opened a folder, then rifled through some papers. He pulled a document and looked it over.

Vail shifted her feet. Eighteen months ago. That was when Deacon hit her with his fist and she hit him back with an iron skillet, opening a gash on his forehead. He called the police and attempted to have her arrested. But because she had also had physical signs of an injury—a swollen and bloody lip—and no eyewitnesses, the officers were unable to identify the primary aggressor and could not take any action.

“Well,” the magistrate said without lifting his eyes from the sheet, “there seems to be a pattern of violence here, Agent Vail.” He slowly met her gaze. “Do you have anything to say?”

“I do, Your Honor. The incident eighteen months ago was perpetrated by my ex-husband. He hit me and I hit him back with a pan. I took my son with me and we left that night. I filed for divorce the next morning. Today’s incident was an extension of something that happened a few days ago. Deacon Tucker assaulted me—”

The magistrate’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. Is there a report on file with FPD?”

“No, Your Honor. I didn’t report it. I should have, but he’d knocked me unconscious and I wasn’t thinking straight. But I told Detective Paul Bledsoe about it right after that and he’ll corroborate my story.”

Harrison looked away, which Vail interpreted as a bad sign. “Paul Bledsoe is a fine detective, but he didn’t directly witness anything. I’m sure you understand, Agent Vail.”

Of course I understand, but understanding won’t end this nightmare. “As to the incident this morning, Deacon summoned me to his house to pick up a book for my son. He refused to bring it to school—”

“Cut to the chase, please.”

He was getting impatient, another bad sign. “We got into an argument, Your Honor, and tempers flared. He was gloating—”

“According to Officer Greenwich’s statement here,” he said, searching for the right document, “you claimed it was self-defense. Did he ever take a swing at you?”

“When I saw he wasn’t going to give me the book, I turned to leave. I didn’t want to get into it again with him. He grabbed my arm and pulled and . . . I swung at him.”

Harrison sighed. “I’m not a trial judge, and this isn’t a trial, Agent Vail. My purpose here is only to determine probable cause, and I believe I’ve got more than enough for that. You’re in a tough spot. I hope it gets resolved to your satisfaction.”

Vail bristled while watching the magistrate scribble his signature on a document, then pass it through the slot. “Officer, you’ve got your warrant.”

Greenwich took the paper and signed it, then handed it to Vail. “Your Honor, I’m required to request an EPO on behalf of the complainant.”

“An Emergency Protective Order? Against me?”

Harrison stared back at Vail. “Agent Vail, when you make bond and are out roaming the streets, I need some assurance that you’re not going to go over to your ex-hubby’s house and blow his brains out.”

That was exactly what she felt like doing. But voicing her desires would surely land her in a heap of trouble. “I’m not going to do anything of the sort. I’m going to steer clear of him.”

Vail’s hesitation was not lost on Harrison, apparently, as he shook his head. “You waited just a tad too long for me there, Agent Vail. I’m reasonably sure you’re not going to do anything foolish, but you own a gun, you’re skilled in using it, there’s substantial bad blood between the two of you, and you’ve already demonstrated to me you have the potential for violence if the situation presents itself. I’m going to help you out here, Agent, though I doubt you’re going to see it that way.”

Harrison pulled another form from his desk, signed it, and handed it through the slot to Greenwich. “Fill it out, Officer. She’s got a seventy-two-hour EPO slapped on her.” He looked at Vail. “A cooling off period, to think about your actions. Guilty of the charges or not, you’re better off staying away from Deacon Tucker.”

Vail sighed through pursed lips and shook her head. Could this day get any worse?

“One other note, Agent. Consider it another favor. Get yourself the very best defense attorney you can afford. Misdemeanor Domestic Violence/Assault is not something to fool around with. You get convicted, it’s not just a measly misdemeanor. Under the new law, it’s taken very seriously. You’ll lose the ability to carry a weapon. That’s Federal law, not Virginia code. You’ll lose your job. Plain as that.”

Vail closed her eyes. Her day had, in fact, just gotten worse.

“As to the issue of bond,” Harrison said, “I already know your occupation, which gives me your income level, lack of prior criminal history, and your flight risk, which I deem to be minimal. Not if you have hopes of keeping your job.” He wrote something on a document, signed it, and lifted the glasses off his face. He closed the file. “Five hundred dollar secured bond is hereby granted. Thank you, Officer.”

Greenwich turned to Vail, who was still staring at the glass window in disbelief. “I left my purse in the car. I don’t have any money with me.”

“Then that phone call I promised you earlier will come in pretty handy.” He forced a smile, then led her out of the intake booth.

twenty-five

“The jail cell was six-by-eight, Robby. A cinderblock room with a tiny window.”

Robby took his eyes off the road to glance at Vail. “I know, I’ve seen them.”

It was a few minutes past two in the morning and they were on I-395, headed toward the task force op center to pick up her car—and her purse. The winding, tree-canopied road was nature at its best during the day, but eerie on a winter night, when the headlights caught the barren, low-lying branches as the car sped beneath them.

“If I didn’t have claustrophobia before, I probably have it now.” Vail shivered, then pulled her seat belt away from her chest, as if it had renewed the confining sensation of the jail cell. “What a horrible experience. It took them three hours to get a phone over to me.”

“Three hours?”

“There were a shitload of prisoners all waiting their turn on two phones. They cut me some slack here and there, gave me the red carpet treatment—if there is such a thing in the slammer—but even with that it took forever to get a line.”

“Sorry it took me so long to get here.”

She waved a tired hand. “Hey, I appreciate you laying out the cash.” She leaned back against the headrest. “Hopefully the trial will go my way and I’ll be able to put it all behind me.”

“It will, Karen, everything’ll turn out.”

“It better, or I’ll need to find a new line of work.” She shut her eyes, tried to force the thoughts of disaster from her mind. “Tomorrow I have to find a good lawyer. Magistrate said I should hire the best I can afford. I feel like vomiting over the thought of having to hire a defense attorney. They’re vermin.”

“Just keep things in perspective. Focus your energy. There are more important things to deal with right now.”

Robby was right, there were more important things. “I hope Jonathan’s okay,” she mumbled. “I never did get to his school.” She was about to reflect on the frailty of life when her BlackBerry went off, followed a second later by Robby’s cell phone. Vail looked down at the display, then at Robby, who was struggling to read his in the dark while keeping the car steady.

They glanced at each other, the dread of having to view another mutilated body written on Robby’s face. He tightened his grip on the wheel and shook his head. “Here we go again.”

“Two in the morning,” she said. “Doesn’t Dead Eyes know I just got out of the slammer?”

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, they were pulling up to the curb in front of a small, square brick house in Alexandria. Rattan furniture adorned its porch and an American flag hung from a column that supported the second-story overhang.

Bledsoe’s Crown Victoria was parked in front, behind Hancock’s Acura and Manette’s Volkswagen Jetta. Crime scene tape had already been strung across the trees at the sidewalk, extending all the way over to the neighbor’s side yard—a wide swath of land to protect the crime scene and guard against disturbance of potential ingress and egress footprints made by the Dead Eyes killer. Halogen lamps on tripods lit the front of the house as a criminalist scoured the exterior. To those who were awakened by the activity, it had the surreal circus atmosphere that accompanied a Hollywood movie production. But there were no cameras, no fake extras. This was, unfortunately, the real thing.

As they got out of Robby’s car, Sinclair pulled behind them in his 1969 Chevy pickup. They nodded at Sinclair and the three of them walked in together. By the time they hit the bedroom, there was no doubt this was one of their cases. Murals across the walls, message written above the bed.

“No defensive wounds,” Bledsoe said. “Same drill. Ate his usual meal at the scene. No dental impressions. Looking for saliva, but I doubt we’ll find any.” The woman had been treated to the same filet job, and the left hand had once again been amputated. “Vic is Denise Cranston. No business card, but we found a pay stub. Works for Lamplighter Design Gallery in Old Town. Sales manager.”

“What is she, vic six? Or five?” Sinclair asked. “I’ve lost count.”

Vail couldn’t help but stare at the eviscerated body. “Unofficially, she’s number six.”

“Whatever number we give her, it’s too many, far as I’m concerned,” Bledsoe said.

Manette craned her neck as she took in the room’s interior. “Did you say she worked at a design gallery?”

“High-end furniture,” Bledsoe said.

“Judging by her digs,” Manette quipped, “she shoulda brought some of that stuff home with her.”

Robby sighed deeply. “She doesn’t seem to fit the pattern, career wise. Sales manager, accountant, dental hygienist—”

“Unless there is no pattern and it was all our imagination,” Bledsoe said.

Hancock was studying the walls. “There’s something to these paintings, I’m sure of it,” he said.

Vail yawned. “Keep looking, maybe you’ll find it. Like the hand.”

Hancock shot her a look. “I’m still working on that.”

Sinclair slipped on a pair of latex gloves. The others followed suit. “Guess we just dig in.”

Vail walked over to Robby and told him she was going outside to check her messages, in case Jonathan had called her.

She stood out front, beyond the crime scene tape, as the phone connected. Her answering machine started, and she entered her security code. Her lone message began playing: it was left earlier in the evening by a nurse at Fairfax Hospital, informing her that Jonathan had had an accident. Her heart fell a few feet into her stomach as she fumbled with the keypad to dial the number left by the nurse. It was the main line, and after searching the registry, the operator put her on hold.

Vail walked inside the house, pulled Robby aside, and got his car keys. After waiting on hold far too long while trying to negotiate the dark streets with a nervous hand, on unfamiliar streets in the middle of the night, the call was dropped. “Damnit!” she yelled, then tossed the BlackBerry onto the seat beside her.

Twenty minutes later, she was running toward the nurse’s station at the intensive care unit. “They told me downstairs my son is here. Jonathan Tucker, he was brought here last night. I’m Karen Vail, I just got the message.”

The nurse was in her early sixties, gray hair pulled up into a bun. She looked condescendingly at Vail, then consulted her paperwork. “A message was left at nine-forty-nine—”

“Yes, I know. I was—I wasn’t home last night. Where’s my son?”

“Follow me,” she said and maneuvered her wide body out from behind the counter. She led Vail to a room in which Jonathan was lying, IV lines running into his arms.

“Oh, my God. Jonathan. . . .” She stood by his side, placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “What happened?”

“I wasn’t on, but according to the records the boy was brought in with the history of having fallen down the basement stairs.” She glanced at the file, flipped a page. “Ambulance was called by his father at nine-fifteen and your son arrived at the hospital at nine-thirty-one—”

“What’s wrong with him? Can I talk with the doctor?”

“I’ll go get him.” And the nurse waddled out of the room.

Vail pulled up a chair and sat beside her son, stroked his hair. “Oh, Jonathan, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. . . .”

FIVE MINUTES LATER, a tall, thin black man in his late thirties walked into the room. “I’m David Altman,” he said in a deep, hoarse voice. “You’re the boy’s mother?”

“Karen Vail.”

The doctor nodded. “Ms. Vail, your son apparently fell down a flight of stairs and struck his head. The trauma rendered him unconscious and we’ve put IV lines in, as you can see, to feed him. He’s breathing on his own. An MRI scan revealed brain swelling—”

Vail held up a hand. The other was pressed against her lips to stifle an outburst of emotion. “In short, Doctor. Please.”

“He’s got a closed head injury/concussion with traumatic cerebral hemorrhage. He’s in a coma, Ms. Vail. My initial prognosis is guarded, but if pressed I’d say poor to fair. There are a few signs of responsiveness, but there are complicating factors. Good news is there’s no need for advanced life support. My prognosis will improve if I see more signs of responsiveness and purposeful movement.”

Vail took a deep, uneven breath, fearing she was losing the battle to keep from crying. But she had to be strong at the moment, she had to keep her mind clear to ask the right questions. She knew Deacon had done this, she knew it. “When he wakes up, will he remember what happened to him?”

“He’ll probably have retrograde memory loss for the events immediately preceding the precipitating event. In this case, the fall. But it will come back to him. How long, it’s hard to say. Could be hours, could be weeks.”

She bit her lip, felt it quivering. Took a deep breath through her nose, exhaled slowly and unevenly. She felt weak and stuck out a hand behind her to feel for the chair.

“I know this is a lot to absorb all at once. I wish I could give you more information, or at least a better prognosis. At the moment, I’ve told you all I know. We have to give the body a chance to heal itself. Meantime, if you want to talk to him, read to him, I can’t tell you for sure he can hear you, but there are some studies that suggest the comatose brain can receive such stimuli.”

She forced herself to look at the doctor. “Will there be any permanent damage? Give it to me straight, Doc.”

He hesitated a moment, seemed to size her up. “Right now, I can’t even tell you if he’s going to regain consciousness. Why don’t we take it one step at a time?”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“There’s a chance he’ll be fine when he awakens, but there’s also a chance there’ll be some residual deficits. It’s too soon to tell, and that’s the truth.”

Vail nodded and thanked the doctor, who excused himself. She sat there, placed a clammy hand atop Jonathan’s, and rested her face on his arm. As the door clicked shut, she felt a tremendous release, then burst into tears.

twenty-six

Vail was thinking about happier times . . . Jonathan on a swing in the park in Queens, Deacon away on a business trip, working for a new package delivery company in a management-level position. His career prospects bright, hers likewise poised to bloom. She had just put in her application to the FBI Academy, a chance to not only move up in the law enforcement ranks, but an opportunity for a safer work environment. Jonathan swung back and forth, gently, the three year old laughing as he flew through the air. “Higher!” he said between giggles. “Higher, Mommy!”

She pushed the swing higher, the temperature a sweltering ninety-five, the humidity approaching pretty much the same figure. She swatted some air at her neck, wishing she’d brought a sun hat with her. Good old New York weather.

She thought of her promotion from the Academy, which was followed three years later by Deacon’s layoff from his job because of accounting irregularities. He maintained it was an honest mistake, a claim Vail believed and defended. But true or not, it began his downward spiral, a freefall that would last the next four years. He stopped taking his bipolar medication, started drinking, and lost motivation to find a new job. He drifted from one low-paying position to another, each one of lesser prestige than the last. He seemed defeated, and though Vail did everything she could to help pull him out of his doldrums, he struck bottom when she was promoted to the profiling unit. His teetering male ego couldn’t take another hit, and he only appeared to garner an intensified resentment toward her.

Vail took to raising Jonathan on her own, arranging for her son to go to after-school programs and day care until she could pick him up on her way home from work. Busy with her new career, she saw less and less of Deacon, who’d taken what was supposed to be a temporary job as a long-haul trucker. Like an ice cube in a refrigerator, their love slowly melted away, until there was nothing remaining of what had drawn them together so many years ago. The thought of divorce crossed her mind many times, but she could never pull the trigger. Karen Vail, expert marksman, daring NYPD detective, and crack FBI agent, couldn’t hit the most significant target of her life.

When Deacon was relieved of his job because of repeated incidents of road rage, it was the final brick in the wall. He sat at home and drank beer, his anger slowly turning toward his wife in the form of verbal abuse, which built over six months to the one and only time he struck her. She walked out the door with a swollen lip and a deep sense of sadness she never imagined possible.

She served Deacon with her application for divorce five days later.

Vail shook her head. The fuse had been lit, and now this. Her son lay in a hospital bed in a coma. How could this have happened?

The rhythmic vibration of her BlackBerry invaded her thoughts and woke her from her semisleep. She lifted her head and realized she had drooled on Jonathan’s forearm. She wiped it away, then looked at her watch. It was seven thirty in the morning.

The text was from a private line at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. She dialed in and was routed to Thomas Gifford’s office. Her boss had no doubt just learned of the arrest. With all that had gone on, she had forgotten to call him. Shit. Got any more kerosene for the fire?

“Mr. Gifford wants to see you in his office ASAP,” the secretary said.

“Tell him I’m on my way, be there in about forty-five minutes.”

She gave Jonathan a kiss on the forehead, knowing there was nothing she could do sitting by his side. “I love you,” she said, then left.

VAIL ARRIVED at the commerce center and parked. She looked in the rearview mirror and tried to fix herself up, but she had to admit, she looked like hell. She still had Robby’s car, no purse, no makeup, and she still had not been home to shower and change.

She took the elevator up to the second floor, punched in her ID code, and wandered down the hallway toward Gifford’s office. It was three times the size of her own cubicle, with a huge picture window view of the surrounding Aquian foliage.

Vail knocked on the open door. Gifford looked up and motioned her in. A phone was stuck to his ear and he was nodding. “I know, but that’s just the way I want it. I don’t care if he thinks he’s the fall guy. . . . You know what? Fine, then he is. Tell him whatever you want to tell him.” He grunted, then hung up.

“If this isn’t a good time—” Vail started.

“No, no. Sit down. Any time’s a good time to meet with one of my agents who’s been—how should I put it . . . arrested? Any time’s a good time to sit and chat about how one of my agents beat the living crap out of her husband, landed in jail, and didn’t even bother to call her superior to give him a heads-up. I’ve gotta get a fucking call from the Fairfax County PD. Some grunt lieutenant tells me he’s got some bad news for me.”

“Sir, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the embarrassment to you, to the Bureau—”

“You’re supposed to be working on a task force. Dead Eyes, remember him?”

“Sir, I was going to call you when I got out of jail. Things dragged on, and I didn’t get out till almost two this morning. I was on my way to the task force op center to get my car and my purse, and to leave a message on your voice mail. We got texted en route by Paul Bledsoe. There’s another vic.”

Gifford sat back in his leather chair. “Another Dead Eyes vic?”

Vail nodded.

“Shit.” His eyes roamed his desk for a moment before coming to rest again on Vail’s face. “You look like crap.”

“I know, sir. Haven’t been home yet. While at the vic’s house, I got word my son was in the hospital—” She felt the urge to cry again, but fought it back into her throat. Took a deep breath. “His father pushed him down the stairs. He’s in a coma.” She turned away, wiped at the tears beneath her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

She nodded. “I will beat these charges against me, sir.”

He picked up a pen from his desk and stared at it. Vail knew what was coming. The fact he didn’t make eye contact with her made it all the more inevitable.

“I hope you realize that I’m truly sorry about what I have to do. But I’ve got to place you on paid administrative leave, effective immediately. You can keep your creds and gun. But you need to stay away from work. I spoke with OPR a little while ago. They’ll be here at eleven to interview you. Cooperate with them. Remember, they’re on your side in this. Internal review is a formality. At the moment, this is obviously a personal matter. Once they’ve opened their file, they monitor the situation. They’ll only act if the charges stick.”

Vail was looking at the floor. “I understand, sir.”

“Why don’t you go wait in your office, get your desk straightened up. When OPR is ready for you, I’ll let you know.”

She stood from her chair and headed for the door. “Thanks,” she said, without turning to face him. Then she walked out.

twenty-seven

Straighten up her desk, that was what Gifford had told her to do. But her desk was neat. She looked around her office, wondering just how serious this OPR review would be. She was, after all, arrested for assaulting her ex-husband. How would that play out? She was innocent, but was it merely a matter of giving Gifford an excuse to let her go? Did he want her gone? He was sometimes hard to read. Vail challenged him, sure, but she was damn good at what she did. That counted for a lot, didn’t it? She knew the answer to that was, not necessarily.

Vail needed to clear her mind, stop stressing over what might happen. She opened Outlook and downloaded her email, not knowing if they’d allow her to keep accessing her Academy mail while on leave. She paged through the unimportant messages, dashed off a quick reply to a prosecutor on another case that was going to trial, and was about to close down when she saw one that caught her attention. The subject read “It’s in the”—and sent a shiver through her body.

She glanced down at the preview pane, where the text hit her like a brick across the forehead. She opened the message and read:

The hiding place smells like some musty box I once opened when I was looking for his cigarettes. It’s strong and kind of burns my nose. And it’s small and dark, but it’s mine. He doesn’t know I have it, which means he can’t find me here. And if he can’t find me, he can’t hurt me. I can think here, I can breathe here (well, except for the smell) without him yelling. I sit in the darkness, alone with myself, where no one can hurt me. Where he can’t hurt me.

But I watch him. I watch everything he does through little holes in the walls. I watch him bring home the whores, I watch what he does to them before dragging them upstairs to his bedroom. Sometimes I even hear what they’re saying, but most of the time I just see. I see what he does.

But I really don’t have to see. I already know. I know because he does the same things to me.

Holy shit. He’s communicating with me. Dead Eyes sent me a message. Had there ever been a serial offender who sent the cops an email? A letter, yes, but an email? Not that she’d ever seen. Emails are inherently easier to trace—

She looked at the sender’s name: G. G. Condon. She knew that would be a dead end, that it was easy to obtain an email account with fake information. She tried forwarding the message to the lab, but nothing happened. She clicked File/Print, yet the page came out blank.

“What the hell?”

She pressed the PrtScn key to take a “picture” of the screen—everything that was displayed on her computer desktop—and pasted the image into a Word document.

Vail lifted the phone and dialed CART, the Computer Analysis Response Team, and informed the technician, Cynthia Arnot, of what she had. While she was on the line, the email vanished from her inbox.

“It’s gone?” Cynthia asked.

“Gone,” Vail said, furiously scrolling through her Outlook inbox. “Like it was never there. All my other messages are there, but this one just . . . disappeared.”

“Check your Deleted Items folder. Maybe you accidentally deleted it.”

“I didn’t delete it, Cynthia.” Nonetheless, Vail clicked to the folder. “Not there.”

If she’d been able to retain the email, they could’ve gone into the originating server, tracked the routing information, and traced it using digital clues largely unknown or poorly understood by the average computer user. The offender may think he’s smart; the Bureau’s experts were often smarter. But without the message. . . .

“I did get a screen shot of it.”

“Very good, Karen. Send it over, let us take a look at it.”

“I’m not losing my mind. I didn’t delete it. Could it be some kind of virus?”

“Not likely. But there is some interesting stuff out there that can make messages unprintable, make them self-destruct, allow them to spy on your movements and passwords—”

“This isn’t just spyware, Cynthia. I’m working Dead Eyes. I’ve got reason to believe this message was from the offender. This could be huge.”

“We’ll do our best. Meantime, shut it down and unplug the PC. I’ll send someone over to get it, we’ll need to go through the hard drive. Just because a message is deleted doesn’t mean we can’t pull traces of it off the disk. But it’ll take a while.”

Vail glanced at the clock and realized OPR would be arriving soon. “Would it help to tell you we don’t have a while?”

“Nope.”

Vail leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Didn’t think so.”

“OKAY, LISTEN UP,” Bledsoe said as they walked through the door to the op center. “I hope everyone made good use of the hour off, because we’ve got more work to do. More legwork and more brain-work. I know you’re all tired. So am I.” He ripped open a box of Danish and set them on the table in front of him. “Before we get started on the new vic, I want an update on all our loose ends. This thing is threatening to get away from us real fast, and I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

The detectives and Hancock took their seats. Vail’s chair was conspicuously empty.

“What about Karen?” Sinclair asked.

Bledsoe stood in front of the whiteboard at the short end of the living room. “We go on without her. I’ll brief her later.” He pulled the cap off a marker and wrote “Dental patient lists.”

“Sin, you’re first up.”

“Right. Vic worked for three dentists. I’ve gotten patient lists from each of them and have someone at my office crunching the names. No correlations so far, but they’re not done yet. I had them start with the most recent two years.”

Bledsoe made a couple of notes on the board. “Good. Hernandez, you were doing the employee lists.”

“Still gathering info. But I’ve got a few things I’m working on. Hits on three registered sex offenders. I’m running their sheets and talking to co-workers. I’ve got appointments with the personnel managers to correlate work shifts, days off, days called in sick, and so on.”

“Interviews with victim families, friends, neighbors . . . we’re all doing that. Anybody still have open appointments?”

“I’ve got one parent to follow up with,” Manette said. “Parents are divorced, father’s out of town.”

Bledsoe made some notes on the whiteboard, then recapped the marker. “Ex-cons with facial disfigurements? Who’s got that?”

“Mine,” Sinclair said. “Had thirty-five to choose from. I’ve still got a dozen to get through, but so far it’s a dead end. A few are dead, six or seven are in the slammer again, and the rest had solid alibis.”

“Anything on the massage therapy angle?”

“Nothing,” Sinclair said.

“I got myself a free massage from a major hunk,” Manette said.

“I’m happy for you,” Bledsoe said. “I owe all of you the soil analysis on Sandra Franks’s place. Lab said it was all native to the area, mainly from the vic’s backyard.” He tossed his marker on the desk in front of him. “Make sure Vail gets your VICAP forms so she can correlate all the victimologies. Maybe there’s something in there.”

Manette snorted. “That’d be real helpful, seeing as we got dick right now.”

“Oh,” Bledsoe said. “Something else on Franks. Autopsy and x-rays showed antemortem bruising on her right cheek as well as a broken nose. Appears the UNSUB punched her.”

Robby leaned forward. “That’s new. Maybe something tipped her off and she and the UNSUB got into it. She was into working out, maybe she fought back and landed a good shot. Any defensive wounds?”

Bledsoe consulted a pad in front of him. “No, but the left hand is missing. If she punched him with her left hand, there’s no way to know.” He turned the page. “And she is—was lefty.”

“So maybe our offender has a big, ugly bruise on his face,” Sinclair said.

Bledsoe pursed his lips. “Without any suspects, I’m not sure that helps us. Makeup can hide shit like that, and in a few days it’ll be gone.” He tossed down the pad. “Okay, keep your same assignments for today’s vic, Denise Cranston. Anything else?” With everyone remaining silent, Bledsoe said, “Let’s get back at it.”

twenty-eight

He stood beside the potter’s wheel, watching the blonde place her hands on the wet clay. The last of the other students had just left, the door clicking shut behind him. The studio was quiet, except for the hum of fluorescent lights.

The blonde looked up at him with round, sapphire blue eyes. “Can you help me with this?”

He hesitated for a second. If only you knew, bitch, if only you knew. He put on his best smile, the one he used for his students, and said, “Sure.”

She was new; this was only her second class, and he’d already covered the nuts and bolts of modeling, painting, and firing . . . the usual beginner’s course. He liked to hit the basics as fast as he could, then let them get their hands on the clay, because there was simply no substitute for feeling the slippery stuff slither between your fingers. He always tried to gauge his students’ artistic abilities by their reaction to the consistency of the clay. What they did with it once they got their hands on it told him a great deal about them.

This one liked the clay’s cold wetness; he could tell that. But as to her ability . . . he didn’t think there was much promise. But she wanted to stay after class to try the wheel, which surprised him.

It’s amazing, really, how trusting some people are. Especially the bitches. They think they’re immune to all the bad things that can happen. They go places alone at night, the supermarket or the ATM, thinking they’re safe. Thinking that nothing will happen to them. Are they just dumb, or so convinced of their immortality that they can’t allow themselves to believe they could be the next victim?

Oh, some are, indeed, afraid to go out. He’d seen the news reports, read the papers. Experts advising single women to go places in groups. To avoid high-risk areas—as if he preyed in high-risk areas!—and to be aware of their surroundings. Yeah, that sage advice would do them a lot of good when he’s standing at their front door in a suit holding up his FBI badge and asking for assistance.

He stood behind the blonde bitch, the sweet peppermint scent of her shampoo whispering across his nostrils. He sniffed deeply, enjoying the smell. He looked at her left hand, at the diamond ring on her finger. Such an unimaginative setting. Plain vanilla. Probably what she would produce with the clay. Not art, but something only marginally better than a gaudy, imperfect piece later tossed in the garbage—or the equivalent, sold in a garage sale for fifty cents. His impressions about her creative ability were suddenly reinforced.

But more important than the horrid design of the ring was the fact that she was married. And blonde. With blue eyes. Clear eyes that reminded him of the sky.

He leaned into her, his arms extending out alongside hers, then took her hands in his. The wheel was spinning, the clay a lump of formless material. He asked her if she realized the power she held in her hands. “To transform this hunk of clay into a work of art, to be able to shape it, to be able to create, is something you mustn’t take for granted.”

She didn’t get it, but she evidently found it funny and giggled, her shoulders jumping a bit. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was flirting with him. But maybe it was just him and his skewed view of things. If only she knew.

If only she was brunet, if only she had evil eyes. He could take her right here and now. If only.

twenty-nine

The office of P. Jackson Parker, attorney-at-law, was sparse, with worn industrial carpet, metal-framed reproductions of Monet and Manet on the walls, and molded white plastic lawn chairs in the waiting room. The seats were surprisingly comfortable, but strangely out of place in an indoor environment. The reception area consisted of a museum-piece PC that could not even run Windows, and a two-line phone that had seen better days . . . ten years ago.

His office was on the outskirts of Washington, in a not-so-desirable patch of real estate near Union Station. Vail had gone up against Parker on two occasions, with one being most notable. She was called to testify as an expert witness, having been the agent who profiled his client. He proceeded to ridicule the work of the profiling unit, calling it a blanket of suppositions and assumptions woven together in a veil of crystal ball psychology. The case against serial killer Bobby Joe Dunning was largely circumstantial, but Vail knew the accused was the offender. There was not an ounce of doubt as far as she was concerned. But you couldn’t base a case solely on a profiler’s analysis because there could be thousands of people who fit the profile, and thus no compelling reason for the jury to believe the accused man the police were parading before them was the guilty party.

Parker had done a magnificent job of injecting doubt into the jury’s bloodstream . . . but the prosecution prevailed. Regardless of the positive outcome, Vail never forgot how masterful Parker had been in picking apart the district attorney’s case. It was largely responsible for her ending up in the man’s waiting room today.

P. Jackson Parker poked his head through the beat-up wood door and caught Vail’s attention. “Agent Vail, come on back.”

Vail nodded at the empty receptionist chair. “A one man show? I wouldn’t have thought it.”

“I sent my receptionist for coffee. Our coffee maker’s on the fritz, and I can’t work without my java. Opens the arteries, helps me think.”

She followed him down a short hallway, passing a couple of rooms with equally beat up doors. They entered Parker’s office, and he meandered around piles of overstuffed files and clipped groupings of papers. Vail’s head turned, panning the surroundings, her trained eyes taking everything in.

She realized she was still standing, looking at the room’s disarray, while Parker was seated, his long, delicate fingers pressed together in a triangle in front of his lips.

“Please, take a seat.”

Vail sat. She was on the edge of the chair, her back rigid, her eyes still moving.

“You know, I took some courses in body language many years ago. The courses taught me how to read juries, to evaluate what they were thinking. And it proved to be as important as any courses I took in law school. Maybe more so. But it had an added side benefit, Agent Vail.” Her eyes met his at the mention of her name. “It also taught me how to read my clients. And in criminal defense, it’s nice to know when your client is lying and when he’s telling the truth. We don’t always get the straight scoop, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I can gather the meaning.”

“You’re uncomfortable, apprehensive.”

“The attorney profiling the profiler.”

“Sometimes we wear many hats. I’ve been a counselor, a psychologist, a tax advisor, a conscience. I do what it takes.”

Vail nodded.

“You’ve got something on your mind. Why don’t you say it?”

“What’s there to say?”

“That you don’t like me.”

Vail squirmed a bit, then moved her buttocks back into the chair to cover her apparent fidgeting. “I don’t think that’s a fair statement. I don’t like criminal defense attorneys. You just happen to be one.”

“I see. I guess that’s a common malady amongst your kind.”

Vail conceded that point with a nod. “You might say we perceive ‘your kind’ as the enemy.” She forced a smile.

“We’re not the enemy, Agent Vail. We’re purveyors of justice. We try to make sure the laws of our land are enforced. Our constitution provides for protection of the accused, to make sure the ‘innocent until proven guilty’ get a fair trial.”

“I don’t have a problem with fair trials. I have a problem when your kind manipulates facts into false truths, manipulates our statements, our witnesses, into making it appear as something completely different from what it really is.”

“I see. And you’re telling me the police, the prosecutors never do that? Planted evidence, hidden documents that surface years later—”

“I can’t sit here and tell you it doesn’t happen. But it’s rare. You people do it all the time.”

Parker’s eyebrows rose. “By ‘you people,’ do you mean people of color? African-Americans?”

Vail looked away in anger. When her eyes met Parker’s again, they were on fire. “You know exactly what I meant. But there you go, illustrating my point. Twisting what I said into meaning something I had no intention of saying.”

Parker burst out laughing.

Vail’s anger only rose with his response. “What’s so funny?”

“I baited you. But you know, showing is always better than telling. I just showed you how good I am at what I do. I knew I couldn’t win our disagreement, so I changed the rules. Smooth as silk. Just like that”—he snapped his fingers—“you were on the defensive.” He smiled, tilted his head.

Vail chewed the inside of her lip, unsure of what to make of this man. “I’m here not because I want to be here, but because I have to—”

“Let’s get something straight, Agent Vail. None of the people who come through my doors are here because they want to be here. They don’t want to stand accused of a crime facing a jury of their peers. They don’t want to be getting bills from me. They’re here because they’ve got a problem. As I assume you do.”

“A problem. Yeah, you could call it that.” She proceeded to give him the details of what had happened. He encouraged her to be completely forthcoming, even if there was something she felt was irrelevant.

“Tell me everything and let me make the call.”

So she told him everything. She realized, as she sat back in the chair, that the bloodletting had been cathartic, and she felt better.

He rocked a bit in his chair, hands again posed in a triangle in front of his mouth. “Let me tell you a little about me. I would imagine you’ve checked me out, beyond what you already know, but I’ll assume nothing. When I’m not defending murderers, I like to dip into the family courts. Domestic violence is an interest of mine. Don’t ask why, I don’t feel like discussing it. Suffice it to say that I’m well respected by the judges and the Commonwealth attorneys. You’ll need that. Dare I say you’ve made a wise choice in coming here.”

Vail nodded, but she suspected her body language said otherwise as her gaze bounced around the room again.

“Don’t let the surroundings color your opinion of my skills. I live in Great Falls and my home is worth two million dollars. I drive a brand new Jag. But I keep my business overhead low because in criminal defense, fancy furniture and spacious conference rooms don’t do anything for the clientele I represent. It doesn’t ensure them of a not guilty verdict. And anything that doesn’t work for my client I get rid of. My sole focus is getting you off.”

She looked away again.

“I know that language is disagreeable to you, because you’re frequently on the other side of the table. But understand something. When you walk into that courtroom, you’re not Supervisory Special Agent Karen Vail, sworn FBI agent who devotes her life to catching bad guys and keeping society safe. You’re a woman accused of brutally assaulting your ex-husband, breaking his ribs and putting him in the hospital. They’re going to portray you as a tough, mean-spirited cop who’s trained in the use of deadly force, who has a short fuse and a chip on her shoulder. It’ll be my job to show the jury that’s not what you’re about. I’ll be painting a different picture. Point is, you need me. As of this moment, I’m your friend. Your best buddy. You’ll tell me everything and hold back nothing. Because when the dust settles, I won’t just be your best friend, I’ll be your only friend.”

Vail didn’t see any need to discuss the matter further. If he made his case in front of the judge as well as he had just made it to her, she was, truly, in good hands. She read through, and then signed, his fee agreement.

And it was suddenly evident how he was able to afford his two million dollar home and brand new Jaguar.

thirty

“I waited for OPR for forty minutes.” Vail stood on the porch talking to Robby, smoking a Chesterfield she had bummed off Sinclair. “Enough time to sit in my office and think. Think about how screwed up everything is, what Gifford said. Then I got that email, and, well, that’s all I could think about till OPR showed up.”

Robby tilted his head. “What email?”

“Didn’t Bledsoe show it to you guys? I forwarded a screen shot of it to him.”

“Nah, he didn’t mention it. Who was it from?”

“Dead Eyes.”

“He sent you an email? You sure?”

“Pretty sure. I’ve got the lab working it, some sort of self-destructing message. It vanished right before my eyes. But I got a hard copy of it. Subject line read ‘It’s in the.’ Who else could know of that? We haven’t released that to the press, and if it was leaked we’d see it somewhere in some paper, not some obscure email outlining child abuse.”

“Child abuse?”

Vail stuck the cigarette between her lips, reached into her coat pocket, and handed Robby a folded copy of the message. “I thought Bledsoe would show it to everyone, but I should’ve made sure he got it. I’ve been a little . . . preoccupied. My follow-up’s been pretty shitty.”

Robby read through it, studied it a bit, then pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay, so this guy’s real fucked up.”

“I’m hoping for a more substantial analysis from BSU.”

He handed her back the email, which she folded into her pocket. “Any news on Jonathan?”

“Nothing. I wanted to go back there again, but I’m scared. I don’t think I could handle seeing him. I just. . . .” She tossed the butt to the ground and crushed it against the pavement with her heel. Swiped at a tear. “There’s just too much shit going on right now, Robby.”

He reached out and pulled her close. She didn’t resist. “I know.”

“I feel like I should be there, by his side, holding his hand, twenty-four/seven. But with everything on my plate, I’m afraid it would all come crashing down. That I’d fall apart. I need to stay busy, take my mind off things.”

“You can only do what you can do, Karen. My aunt used to say we have an emotional gas tank. When that tank fills up, it starts running out and spilling over. All it would take is a spark to make everything go up in flames. She said we should always try to keep the tank from getting full.”

“Emotional gas tank, huh? I guess these days I should be wearing a warning sticker on my back: Danger: highly combustible.” She sighed. “I’ve got to find a way of getting through this.”

“One day at a time, one issue at a time.” He tipped her chin back with a finger. “And I’ll be there every step of the way to help you through it.”

She smiled. “Thanks.” She pulled her overcoat around her body to ward off a chill. “I hired an attorney today. Jackson Parker. Excuse me. P. Jackson Parker.”

“I’ve heard of him. Good things, if you’re a skel.”

“That’s what he told me.”

“What’s the ‘P’ stand for?”

“Pompous.”

He laughed.

She sighed long and loud. “I need to get away, Robby, get reenergized.” He looked at her and she immediately knew what he was thinking. “Yes, I’m running away. But I know myself, and I know when I’ve reached my stress point. Getting out of town for a day will help.”

“Want some company?”

She sniffled. “Thanks, but I need to be alone with my thoughts for a while.”

“Where you gonna go?”

“Old Westbury.”

“As in Long Island?”

Vail looked out across the early afternoon sky. It was hazy and overcast, unsure if it should rain or shine. “It’s my mom’s place, where I grew up. I haven’t seen her in . . . well, too long. Our last couple conversations she seemed distracted and I’ve been meaning to pay her a visit, but. . . .” She waved a hand. “It’s about a five-hour drive. I can have a late dinner with her, stay the night, and get back here noonish.”

Robby looked down at her, thought about it a long moment. “Sure you don’t want some company? I could use a change of scenery myself. I’ll give you your space, I promise.”

“Really, I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will. But after all you’ve been through, that knock on the head, then being up all night, sure you want to make a five-hour drive alone?”

“Bledsoe will never let you go.”

“Does Bledsoe know? About the suspension?”

She shook her head. “I better go get it over with.”

BLEDSOE WENT THROUGH A STORM of emotions in a matter of minutes: from anger over Vail’s suspension and having gotten caught by Deacon’s lies to fury over what Deacon had done to Jonathan, to frustration over her request to leave town when they were in the middle of an active time-sensitive investigation. But when Vail gave Bledsoe her reasons, he reluctantly agreed.

Before leaving, she asked him if he’d seen the message she’d sent him, but he said he hadn’t read his email in days. She handed him the folded copy of Dead Eyes’s missive, then gave him a quick rundown of how it self-destructed. Bledsoe wanted his people working on it, too, but he knew there was nothing they could do at this point. He checked in with his department, and, sure enough, without the coded routing information, they had to wait for the results of the data recovery efforts the Bureau was conducting on the hard drive.

“What if he sends you another one while you’re gone?”

“The lab is screening my unit’s email before they release it to us. Anything comes through, we’ll know about it. They’ve got instructions to notify you immediately.”

He gently squeezed her shoulder. “See you when you get back.” Vail glanced at Robby, then walked out.

As the door closed, Bledsoe looked up from a file he’d started reading and noticed Robby was still standing in front of him. “You need something, Hernandez?”

“I was thinking I should go with her, make sure she’s all right.”

“Karen’s a tough cookie. She doesn’t need a bodyguard, believe me.”

“Normally, I’d agree, but—”

“I’m already one guy short.” He lifted the file back to his face. “I’d have to have my head examined if I let two of you go.”

Robby cleared his throat but did not move. Bledsoe lowered the folder. “What?”

“She’s been through a lot of stuff the past few days, assaulted, arrested, thrown in jail—”

“I know the story, Hernandez.”

“And she didn’t sleep much last night. You really want her driving five hours alone? We’d be back tomorrow around noon. Not a big deal.”

“I’ll decide what’s a big deal and what’s not. Of course I don’t want Karen driving herself. Hell, I don’t want her going because I need her.” He dropped his eyes to the report. “But that’s just the way it is.”

“Well, then this is the way this is: I’m taking some personal time. You don’t like it, take it up with my sergeant.”

Bledsoe felt the blood rushing to his head as Robby turned and walked out. Tossed the file across the room, took a deep breath, then leaned on the table. “Beautiful.”

ROBBY JOINED VAIL outside by her car. “Well?”

“We’re good,” Robby said. “Let’s go.”

She hiked her brow. “Bledsoe is full of surprises.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow at noon. Not a big deal.”

They took Robby’s car and headed up I-95 before switching onto I-495 toward Baltimore. They drove in silence for the first couple hours, which was fine by Vail, since she needed the quiet, and Robby was determined to keep his promise of giving her space. Finally, she fell asleep with her head against the side window and slept until they neared the Queens Midtown Tunnel.

Vail sat up and rubbed her eyes, then looked around. “How long have I been out?” It was dark and the lights of nearby Manhattan twinkled in the early evening haze.

“Couple of hours. We’re making good time.”

“Sorry I abandoned you. The lull of the highway put me out.”

“Figured you needed it.”

She pulled down the visor and peered into the mirror. “I look awful.”

“You never did get back to your place, did you?”

“I’m looking forward to a long shower at my mom’s.”

The traffic slowed a bit as they approached the tunnel. Getting through the city wasn’t as bad as they had thought, and half an hour later they were driving down the street where Emma Vail lived. Vail thought of how long it’d been since she had last been here. Too long. Worst of all, her mother hadn’t visited her, either, meaning they hadn’t seen each other in over a year. Shame on me.

“There,” she said, pointing to a house sunken below street level. “My best friend lived there. Andrea. We used to play together all the time. Drove our parents crazy.”

Robby slowed the car. “Eight nineteen, you said?”

“Yeah, right here.”

He pulled the car into the driveway and killed the lights. “Looks pretty dark,” he said, craning his neck. “Did you give her an idea of what time we’d be here?”

Vail opened the door and took in a lungful of the fresh night air. “I never called.”

Robby got out of the car and looked at her across the roof. “Your mom doesn’t know we’re coming?”

She strained to see the house in the dark. Partially obscured by the tree-canopied setting she associated with Old Westbury, the two-story Craftsman style house fit in perfectly amongst the tall pines and cedars. Vail walked up the path, stepping on each flagstone square as she went, just like she did when she was a kid. One step, one stone. “You can’t put two feet on one square or it’s bad luck,” she told Robby. “At least, that’s what I thought when I was a kid.” Funny how old habits stick with you.

She stepped onto the last flagstone and found herself at the front door. The tarnished brass knocker was still there, along with the rusted black metal mailbox.

She knocked a couple times and waited. Brushed a few hairs into place and curled a wisp behind her right ear. Lifted the brass weight and struck the door again, waited, then consulted her watch.

“Should’ve called,” Robby said.

The porch light suddenly popped on and the curtain to their right parted. The door opened a crack and an older woman with gray hair and a rumpled face appeared. “Yes?”

“Mom, it’s me.” Still no response. “Kari.”

The door opened halfway and Emma squinted at her daughter. “Kari,” she said. “Did you forget something?”

Vail looked at Robby, who merely shrugged. I should’ve warned Robby about the Alzheimer’s. “No, Mom. I needed to get away and I thought you could use some company. Should’ve called, I’m sorry.”

Emma’s eyes flicked over to Robby.

“Oh, this is my friend, Robby Hernandez.”

Robby bowed his head. “Glad to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? Please, call me Emma. And come in out of the cold. I need to close the door, we’re letting the heat out.”

They walked through the barren entryway toward the living room. Emma turned on a couple of lamps and sat down stiffly on the edge of a plush gold chair. The house was half a century old and looked it: worn cocoa-rust carpet, tan walls, and threadbare furniture.

Vail sat on the sofa beside Robby. Her mother looked thin, the kind of unhealthy thin that accompanied a debilitating disease, like cancer. Her face had more wrinkles and the skin on her neck hung as if it had finally given up the decades-long fight against gravity’s pull.

“Do you work in my daughter’s office? The FBI? She works for the FBI, you know.”

Robby smiled. “I’m a detective, with the police department. I’m working with Karen on a case.”

“Well, I’ve got a case for you right here. A real who-done-it. Someone keeps stealing things from me. First it was a book I was reading, then it was my glasses. I have a good mind to call the police. Stupid neighborhood kids.”

Vail glanced around. Everything appeared to be in order, from what she could tell in the dim lighting. “Did you leave the door open? Do you think someone’s been in the house?”

“I hear noises,” Emma said, her hands fumbling in her lap, “but I’ve never seen anyone.”

Vail looked at Robby. “We’ll take a look around, make sure all the locks work, okay?”

“Well, enough about me. Tell me, how’s Deacon?”

Vail swallowed hard. “We’re getting divorced, Ma.”

“Divorced? What happened?”

Vail’s face was stone. The progression of her mother’s Alzheimer’s had been far more pronounced than she had thought. During their last couple conversations, Emma had been distant and harried. But clearly it was more serious.

“Ma,” Vail said, “we’ve talked about the divorce. Don’t you remember?”

Emma’s face flickered for a moment, then she turned to Robby. “Oh, I’ve been a terrible hostess. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Emma Vail.”

Robby forced a smile. “Robby Hernandez.”

“Are you a friend of Kari’s?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” She waved a hand. “Oh, please. Call me Emma.” She turned to Vail, whose eyes were tearing. “What’s wrong, Kari?”

“Nothing, Mom. Nothing.” She stood and took Robby’s hand. “I’m going to show Robby around, okay?”

“Whatever you’d like, dear,” Emma said.

Vail flipped on the large backyard spots and low-voltage path lights. “I knew this day was coming, I just hoped it’d be later rather than sooner. I figured she had a few years before it got this bad.” She took a deep breath of the pine-scented air, then swung her head around and looked inside to see her mother still sitting on the couch, just as they had left her. “I need to get her some help, or move her out. I don’t know what would be best.”

Robby took her hand and led her through the wooded yard. While the house was small—cozy, Emma had once called it—the land was not: two full acres of mature pines. They walked for a moment in silence.

“I remember the brown needles crunching under my sneakers when I was a teenager. I used to come back here to clear my mind. Sometimes I’d find a bed of needles and take a nap. If they weren’t so damp, I’d lie down right now and fall asleep. Dream of happier times.” She bent down and scooped up a handful. “My mom taught me to appreciate the beauty of nature. She once told me you never knew when life would deal you an unplanned twist of fate. Enjoy things while you can, she said, because you just never knew.” She sighed. “Little did I know she was talking about herself.”

Robby took a deep breath. “It’s beautiful here. A private forest.”

“When Jonathan turned eight, I brought him here to visit. He went shopping with grandma and I spent an entire day out here, whittling away with my knife, making a walking stick. It was as close to a perfect day as I can remember. I wanted to seal the image away in my mind forever. But it wilted real fast once I got back to the office and started staring at grisly crime scene photos. Looking at things like that, the beauty of nature seems to fade pretty damn quickly. You find yourself knee deep in the blood and guts, and the crunch of pine needles beneath your feet is a million miles away.”

They started walking again. “Didn’t help that the day after I got back I caught a new case, one of the first I profiled on my own. Vic’s body was dumped on a forest floor just like this one. Kind of killed the image for me. Haven’t been able to look at pine trees the same way since.” She opened her hand and let the needles fall to the ground.

Robby reached into his pocket and produced a Swiss Army knife, then bent down and chose a short, thick branch. Vail reluctantly took the knife and immediately began clearing the nubs from the stick.

“I didn’t know you liked to carve.”

“Since I was about ten. See these?” She lifted her left hand and showed him several thin, short, barely visible scars on her fingers. “Cut myself lots of times. My father even took me to the ER for stitches once. It was a nasty bleeder.”

“I take it your father passed on.”

“Long time ago. I was twelve. Came home from school and my mom told me he’d had a heart attack. Died in the ambulance.” She stopped carving and stared at the dark landscape ahead of her. “I wonder how Jonathan is.”

“Want to call the hospital?”

She shook her head. “I gave them my cell number. I told them, anything happens, I want to know.” She tossed the stick to the ground and closed the knife, handed it to Robby. “Let’s go in.”

They got back to the house and found Emma seated in front of the television, watching the blank screen intently. Vail took her by the hand. “Come on, Ma. Let’s go make dinner.”

THE KITCHEN APPLIANCES were the same ones installed when the house had been built. With the exception of the countertop microwave, they were all from the aluminum and Bakelite era. An old pink Frigidaire hummed against the far wall.

Vail found a large pot in the cabinet, where her mom had always kept it. She placed it in the sink and turned on the faucet. “Do you still see Aunt Faye?”

“Yes, of course. She comes by and we have tea.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Oh, it’s been a while, I guess. You know how it is with three kids. She’s busy, busy, busy.”

Vail figured she would call her aunt after dinner, see about making temporary arrangements to have Emma stay with her until she could get her mother situated in an assisted care facility. Faye was her father’s sister, but the two women had remained close even after he had passed away.

The shifting in and out of lucidity was frustrating, and Vail felt an urgency to ask important questions while her mother was able to answer them. But under pressure, nothing came to mind.

Dinner was a conglomeration of spaghetti with Ragu sauce doctored with whatever Emma had in her pantry . . . which wasn’t much: stewed tomatoes, canned mushrooms, and a dash of garlic salt. After eating, Vail took Robby on a tour of the house. “Things are pretty much unchanged, if you can believe that,” she said. They walked into a small room on the second floor.

“Let me guess. Your room.”

A large, horizontal glass-faced cabinet was mounted on the far side of the room, which sported sunflower-yellow walls with pink trim.

“Obviously,” Robby said, surveying the dolls behind the glass, “you’re a collector.”

“I can tell you where I got each one.” She walked over to the cabinet and let her eyes roam over them—they ranged from tall to petite, porcelain to plastic—with the world’s ethnicities well represented. “Figured I’d give them to my daughter one day.”

“Until your girl came out a boy.”

A smile flitted across her lips. “Didn’t think Jonathan would appreciate them.”

Robby laughed. “I think you’re right.”

Vail slid the wall closet door aside and found a rolled poster on the top shelf. “It’s still here,” she said. She pulled off the rubber band and unfurled the yellow-aged paper across her bed. “You’ll never believe who my teen heartthrob was.”

Robby looked at the large smiling face staring back at him. “Kind of looks familiar.”

“Shaun Cassidy. Every girl I knew fell for him.” She noticed the reference was lost on him. “The Hardy Boys.”

“Oh, yeah.”

She let go of the poster and it rolled back on itself. Robby pointed to the white dresser with gold trim. “Anything left in the drawers?”

“Doubt it.” She pulled one open and peered inside. “Hmm. Must be stuff my mom put in here.” She removed a box, which contained a photo album. They sat on the bed together and thumbed through the photos. “I don’t remember ever seeing these.”

“Who are these people?”

“Haven’t the slightest. Relatives and friends, I guess.” The black-and-white snapshots were held in place on dark paper with scalloped corner mounts. She turned a page and pointed to one of the photos. “Oh. That’s Aunt Faye with my dad. I guess I’m the little one on his lap.” Robby bent forward to get a close look. “You were cute. You were, what, a year old there?”

Vail nodded. “About.” Turned the page. “Here’s my mom again.”

“She was beautiful,” he said, studying the photo. “Who’s that next to her?”

“I don’t know. Kind of looks like Mom, though, doesn’t it?” She carefully pulled the picture out of the corner mounts and turned it over. Written in scripted pen were the words, “Me and Nellie.”

“Obviously,” Robby said, “that’s Nellie.”

Vail nudged a shoulder into his. “Guess that’s why you’re the detective, Detective.”

“Your room is just as you left it.” Emma was standing in the doorway, a knit shawl draped around her shoulders.

“Except for this,” Vail said, holding up the album. “Found it in my dresser drawer.”

Emma smiled. “Haven’t seen that in years. I’d forgotten where I put it.”

“Who are these people?” She opened the album to the first page and handed the book to Emma.

“That’s Uncle Charlie—my Uncle Charlie—and his father, Nate. Nate was from Ireland. Nate O’Toole. Half the people on his side had red hair. Probably where you got yours from.” She pointed to another photo. “And that’s Mary Ellen, she used to live next door to us in Brooklyn, before Gramps moved us all out here.”

A teapot whistled in the distance. “Oh. Do either of you want some tea?”

Robby nodded. “Sure.”

“I’ll go tend to it, then.” She handed the album back to Vail, then disappeared down the hall.

“She’s very sweet,” Robby said.

“She was a good mother.” Vail studied the photo she still held in her hand. “When she loses her memory completely, she’ll take a good part of our family history with her.”

“I’ve got a buddy I work with, an investigator who’s been with VPD for fifteen years. He’s got this software to make your own family tree. Works on it every day. Traced his roots all the way back to the Native Americans who lived in Virginia. Pretty cool. Maybe you should do one. Before it’s too late.”

“I hardly know anything about my family. Would’ve been good to get all this info together before they started dying off.” Vail suddenly became aware of the teapot’s building whistle. She looked at Robby. “She should’ve poured the tea by now, don’t you think?”

They headed downstairs and found Emma sitting in the living room on the edge of the easy chair, staring at the blank television.

“I’ll get it,” Robby said above the shrill noise.

“Ma,” Vail said, kneeling beside Emma. “Ma, what are you doing? You went to pour us some tea.”

Emma’s face turned hard. “You’re always yelling at me. Why can’t you just leave me alone!”

“Ma, I’m not yelling at you.” But she knew that trying to reason with a person afflicted with Alzheimer’s was futile. “I’m sorry,” Vail said. “I won’t yell anymore.”

“I can’t find my glasses,” Emma said. She grabbed the arms of the chair. “I can’t find my glasses.” She looked at Vail, then reached out to touch her face. “Nellie, is that you?” She smiled. “Can you help me find my glasses?”

Tears pooled in Vail’s eyes as she looked at Emma. She set the old photo on the coffee table, knelt at Emma’s feet, and took her hand in hers. She had been so wrapped up with her own affairs the past year she hardly had any quality contact with her mother. Now, as she looked at Emma’s wrinkled face and felt her knobbed, arthritic hand, guilt crept into her thoughts. After so many years of dealing with victims’ families, the phrase “I should have” was ingrained in her brain like acid on stone. Now she felt herself uttering the same words. I should’ve spent more time with her. I should’ve made her move closer to me. I should’ve brought Jonathan here more often.

“Did you find Papa’s watch? He’s going to be angry with us if we lost it,” Emma said. She took her daughter’s cheeks in her hands and looked at Vail’s face as if she hadn’t seen it in years, studying every square inch.

Then, as if someone had waved a wand over her head, Emma’s eyes changed. Vail struggled to define what had happened. A narrowing, maybe, or perhaps it was something more. The sharpness had returned. “Ma?”

“What’s wrong?” Emma asked. “Why are you kneeling in front of me, Kari? Did I faint?”

“Ma, who’s Nellie?”

Emma’s gaze rose above Vail’s shoulder. Vail thought she had lost her again, but Emma spoke: “Nellie?”

“You were just talking about her. And I found this.” She reached beside her and scooped up the old picture. “It says ‘Me and Nellie’ on the back. She looks a lot like you.”

Robby appeared in the doorway. Vail’s gaze met his and told him not to come any closer. He set the tea cups down and hovered in the background.

“Ma, is Nellie a relative of ours?”

Emma’s eyes teared. “My sister.”

Vail waited for her to elaborate, but she remained silent. Emma pulled her hand from Vail’s and interlocked her fingers in her lap.

“Ma, you don’t have a sister.”

Emma’s eyes met Vail’s. “I don’t feel like talking about it.”

Vail leaned forward. She felt pressured to elicit the story before her mother drifted back into another Alzheimer-induced fog. “Please, tell me. About Nellie.”

Emma must have sensed Robby’s presence, because she turned suddenly, rose from her chair, and pointed an arthritic finger. “Who are you! What are you doing in my house?”

Robby looked at Vail, who wore a look of chagrin.

“Ma, calm down, that’s my friend Robby. You met him before. He’s a detective, a police officer.” She helped Emma sit back in her seat.

Robby reached into his shirt pocket and handed Vail a pair of glasses. “They were in the freezer, in the ice cube tray.”

Vail handed them to Emma. “Look, Ma, Robby found your glasses.”

“I told you the police would find them.” She looked up at Robby. “Thank you, Officer.”

He smiled. “Just call me Robby.”

Then Emma’s eyes teared up and she held a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Vail sat on the adjacent couch and rested a reassuring hand on her mother’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Ma. I understand.” She knew this was not a good time to press the issue, but as had always been the case, she had a difficult time controlling her curiosity. “Ma,” she said softly, “you were going to tell me about Nellie.”

“Nellie? Your mother?”

Vail’s brow furrowed. She picked up the photo she had dropped on the floor and showed Emma. “No. Nellie, your sister. I want to know about Nellie.”

Emma’s eyes again dropped to her lap. Her hands rolled into a fist and she shook one at Vail. “How could you do that to me? You asked me to watch her for a couple of hours! What kind of a mother abandons her baby?”

Vail stared at Emma, trying to understand what she was talking about. She looked up at Robby, as if he could provide some answers. He sat down slowly beside Vail on the couch.

“She thinks I’m Nellie,” she whispered to him.

“You can’t just show up now and expect to take her back,” Emma said, her voice firm. “Ward and I raised her, she’s ours.”

Vail’s hand slid off Emma’s shoulder. She was silent for a moment, staring at Emma’s reddened face.

“Talk to her as if you’re Nellie,” Robby said softly by Vail’s ear.

“Emma,” Vail said, “I’m not here to take her from you. I’d never do that. I just came by to see you. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Nell.” She reached out and gently touched Vail’s face.

“Oh, my god,” Vail whispered. She swallowed hard, then turned away from Emma and found Robby’s eyes. “Emma is my aunt. Nellie is my mother.” Vail shook her head, as if this was a bad dream and denying it would make it go away. “No. This is just an Alzheimer’s fantasy. She’s confused—”

“Karen . . . Emma is still your mother. She raised you, just like my aunt raised me.”

“But my biological mother is Nellie.” Vail turned to Emma, who was crying silently, a hand draped across her eyes. Vail pulled her close, letting Emma cry on her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Kari,” she said.

“It’s okay, Ma,” Vail said, then felt her own tears trickle down her cheek. “It’s okay.”

thirty-one

He was in a rhythm, words tumbling from his mind like rocks in a landslide. He couldn’t type as fast as he was thinking, which made it frustrating. But he continued, nevertheless, figuring he’d go back and fix the typos when he was done, before he’d send these sections off for “publication.”

My needs are outgrwing my home. I can do jsut so much with a space barely larger than a tiny closet. And as I’ve gotten older and taller, the space has gotten even smller. I even took in a pet. A mouse I call Charlie. He dosn’t take up much space, other than a little cage. I take him out while I’m in there, let him roam around. He’s my only friend.

But then I started thinking that I really need more room. I knocked on one of the walls, and it sounded hollow. So I bought a saw with money I made at the slaughterhose down the road. It’s my job to feed the cattle and clean up after them as they get ready to be sliced and diced. It’s not a great job, but it’s money under the table, and if you have money you can do things.

Then I borrowed a book from the library. I didn’t really borrow it, I more like stole it. But tht’s okay, because it has exactly what I need. I do my sawing in the afternoon, right after I get home from school—or on days when I stay home and skip. I don’t have any friends at school, so it’s not like I’m missing anyhting. To me, school is a lot like being with the prick. It’s all about control. Teeachers tell you where you can and can’t go, what you can and can’t do. They don’t hit you like a father does, but it’s not a whole lot different. One day I’m going to stab the pretty little whore teacher right in the stomach and watch her twist in pain. She yelled at me the other day, and I yelled back. Almost got suspended. As if I care.

She should know I’m different from most twelve year olds. The prick shouldv’e told her that.

I like the way my place is turning out. I ran some wire in and now have a bare bulb light. Charlie likes it better too. I still have to put up a littel plywood, but I can finish that tomorrow if I can find a way of getting the plywood home. I can get my hands on a shopping cart and load it in, then push it home. It’s a few miles, but if you want somehting bad enough, you find a way.

I also need some things to decorate the space, but that’ll come. I have a Playboy centerfold I plan to hang. I can hang it with pushpins, right through her eyes. Yeah, that’ll be good. Through the eyes. Like most whores, she’s got evil eyes—

It had never come out so fast. What does that mean? It probably means something, because expanding his hideaway marked the beginning of his escape, another step on the road to freedom. Maybe he should’ve celebrated at the time, because it turned out to be so significant. Damn, he wished he could write like that all the time. Maybe this was one he’d keep to himself. At least for now. Too much information to give Super Agent Vail and her cohort, Paul Bledsoe. But what a name for a detective! How perfect that he’d be assigned to this case. “Gee, I’m really sorry she died, Detective, but she just bled so! What can you do?”

He took one more look at the passage he wrote and realized he’d have to go back and fix the spelling errors. But not now—he was too riled up. He opened the freezer door and the cold air hit his bare feet like a pail of water. He shivered. The fog crawled around his ankles.

He reached into the freezer and removed two Tupperware containers, the special ones he’d bought just for this purpose.

He pulled open the lid on the first one and removed the Ziploc freezer bag. Inside, rolled in gauze, were his prizes. Slight ice crystals had formed and the cotton stuck a little as he peeled it away.

He set the hands on the table in front of him. He was amassing quite a collection. But was it too much? Was this getting out of hand? Ha! Out of hand, that was a good one. He looked over each of them, marveling at his work. He’d had to cauterize the veins and arteries to prevent the blood from draining out completely. Then the hand would shrivel and wouldn’t be the same. They needed to look as close to the way they looked when he’d harvested them.

But he couldn’t move the fingers. They were curled, frozen in place, except for the index fingers, which he’d used for painting his masterpieces on the bitches’ walls. It was the same finger his father used to point at him when he was young. The prick would curl it and wiggle it forward and back, his sign to come to him.

But the fingers were his now. He had control over them.

Each hand looked similar to the other: blood thick on the index finger’s tip, dried and frozen to the print’s ridges. But even though they looked alike, he knew which bitch-whore contributed which hand, just like a mother can tell her children’s baby pictures apart.

He stuck one of the hands in the microwave, just to see if he could soften up the fingers. He chose number four, since hers were the thinnest and would probably nuke the fastest. He entered fifteen seconds, then hit start. The little tray turned slowly as it cooked. Kind of reminded him of his potter’s wheel. Now that would be something.

Ideas were flying through his mind. The microwave beeped and the rotating tray came to a stop. He opened the door and heard a slight sizzle, but the skin appeared to be intact. He took it out and set it on the table. It was still frozen, but the sizzling bothered him. He didn’t want to risk thawing it too fast and burning the delicate hair or skin. Perhaps a slow defrost in the refrigerator would work better. Then maybe a formaldehyde solution, brushed onto the skin and injected into the muscle. He didn’t want to soak it, because that might make it tough and leathery.

He unwrapped the other hands and sat down at the table. He’d missed the third one, and he could kick himself for that. But he learned something. That was the most important thing, right? To learn from your mistakes?

Another lesson he needed to learn was to be grateful for what he had and not to lament over what he didn’t have. At least he had these hands. They helped him remember each bitch, each killing, in detail. He felt his pulse quicken, and he suddenly got hot. He had to unbutton his collar. His breath had gotten shallow, just like it did whenever he sliced the bitches open.

But something was missing. The eyes. He needed some more eyes.

He grabbed the TV remote, and started the recording of Eleanor Linwood. “You will rot in hell, your soul hung out to dry in front of everyone, for society to see who and what you are: a monster. . . .”

Yes, he’d found the eyes he wanted next.

He looked back at the hands, undid his pants, and reached inside.

thirty-two

Vail was in bed, wearing a nightgown borrowed from her mother. She had taken her long overdue shower, then called Aunt Faye, who agreed to come by in the morning to help pack Emma for a temporary stay until Vail found a care facility in Virginia.

Robby had stayed awake with Vail until one in the morning, talking with her about the revelation that her mother was really her aunt, and the fact that her biological mother was nowhere to be found. Finally, she told Robby to get some sleep, and he settled himself onto the downstairs couch.

Now, as the clock hit 2 A.M., Vail was glad she was having a hard time falling asleep—no chance of lapsing into one of her nightmares, which might wake Robby. She’d then have to tell him about the dreams, and that was something she wasn’t prepared to do just yet. She needed to get her own mind around them before she tried to explain them to others.

She turned onto her side and faced her closet door, where the old Shaun Cassidy poster once hung. She remembered sitting in her room listening to his records on a beat-up, secondhand Panasonic phonograph, wondering if Corey Andrews, a boy in her class, would notice her. It seemed so terribly important at the time. Totally focused on him, smiling his way, brushing up against his arm, hoping he would talk to her.

When he didn’t, and the school year ended, Emma had comforted her and told her that she was beautiful and smart, and that eventually boys would be lining up to ask her out. It happened, of course, the next year in seventh grade, but that summer was miserable. Miserable because a boy hadn’t asked her out.

She flashed on her memory of sitting in the six-by-eight jail cell, waiting her turn for the portable phone to be wheeled to her. Her thoughts turned to Jonathan, again, as they had done every other minute since she had visited him at the hospital. Her BlackBerry remained silent, which meant there was nothing significant to report.

Nothing significant to report.

She certainly had something significant to report. Things that really meant something, not a preteen infatuation that failed to develop. But that was the way life went. Problems seemed to weigh on you until you realized there were far worse issues, far worse situations, that would make your current concerns instantly seem petty. Her son was lying in a coma, her mother, who’s really her aunt, was losing her mind, and she was on suspension because she had beaten up her ex-husband, who had assaulted her—and held her at gun-point. And there were young women being murdered because she couldn’t help catch the killer. Those were real problems. Too much for one person to handle.

She rolled out of bed and walked downstairs to Robby, who was sound asleep on the couch. She nudged him over and curled up against his body. She was close to falling off the edge, which she found hilariously ironic. How symbolic of her life at the moment.

She reached up and pulled his arm across her, feeling his warmth, the firmness of his body, and felt better. His fingers closed around her hand. He stirred, then lifted his head. “Karen?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I needed some company.”

“Okay.” The next words he mumbled were unintelligible as he drifted back asleep.

She lay there awake, thinking and lamenting. And worrying.

thirty-three

The ride back to Virginia brought reflection. Robby again gave Vail her space, and after thirty minutes of highway driving, she lapsed into another nap. Not having slept much the past two days, the mounting fatigue and stress were wreaking havoc on her body.

As the car lurched out of the toll booth on I-95 near the Maryland border, Vail’s head popped up. Her hands flailed in front of her, as she fought to orient herself.

“Welcome back to Earth,” Robby said.

She squinted against the bright sunlight. “Where are we?”

“About to cross into Maryland.”

“I think I just figured out how to link victim three to Dead Eyes. Where’s your file?”

“You figured that out while you were sleeping?”

“My mind’s pretty much ‘on’ twenty-four/seven these days. The file?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Backseat.”

Vail grabbed his leather shoulder bag, reached inside, and pulled out the thick Dead Eyes folder. She paged to victim number three, Angelina Sarducci, and found the crime scene manifest. Her finger stabbed at one of the entries. “A package,” she said, curling a lock of hair behind her right ear.

She dug out her phone and dialed UPS. She entered the tracking number listed on the crime scene manifest, then waited while the automated system processed her request. She pressed “end” and handed the phone back to Robby.

“It was delivered at 6:30 P.M.” She turned some more pages.

“So what?”

Her finger traced the lines of another document. “ME estimated time of death to be between 6 and 7 P.M.” She looked over at Robby, whose eyes were still on the road.

“I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”

“Here’s the scenario: vic lets offender in, he kills her, then starts to do his thing with the body. But at six-thirty, the UPS guy comes to the front door and rings the bell. Offender freaks, goes out the back door. Leaves vic as is. He never had a chance to engage in his postmortem behavior, like severing the left hand and stabbing the eyes.”

“Okay, I see where you’re headed.” He chewed on this for a moment, then shrugged. “Works for me.”

Vail nodded slowly. “Me, too.”

AT 12:15 P.M., Robby pulled behind Vail’s Dodge at the task force op center.

“You coming in?” he asked.

“Going right to the hospital, check in on Jonathan. Then I’ll shoot over to the office, run this victim three theory by my unit. Tell Bledsoe I’ll talk to him later.” She placed a hand on his and squeezed. “Thanks.”

As she got in her car, the memory of Officer Greenwich standing beside her door moved through her mind. Though it was barely two days ago, it seemed like another lifetime. She arrived at Fairfax Hospital at one o’clock, with no memory of having driven there.

She walked into Jonathan’s room, where Dr. Altman and a nurse were hunched over a machine. They turned when she entered. “Ms. Vail,” Altman said.

“How’s Jonathan?”

“Well, he’s showing incremental improvement. Some slight opening of the eyes. It’s nothing dramatic, which is why I didn’t have them call you. But it’s definitely encouraging.”

I told them to notify me of any changes. She couldn’t fault them, however. To her, that Jonathan had made progress was significant. But medically, it was merely “incremental improvement.” Vail stepped up to her son and took his hand. “Is that all you can tell me?”

“Unfortunately, that’s all I can say now. We just have to wait—”

“Wait and see. Yeah, I know.” She sighed. “Sorry, Doctor. It’s been a rough week.” Or two.

“I understand. We’ll keep you posted of any substantial changes.”

“Has—I’m just curious . . . has my—has Jonathan’s father been by to see him? Deacon Tucker.”

Altman deferred to the nurse, who answered. “You’re the only visitor he’s had.”

The doctor tilted his head, considering her comment. “Seems like that’s important to you. Do you want to know if he comes by?”

“If my suspicions are right, he pushed Jonathan down the stairs. But I’ve got no proof, so I can’t get a restraining order. So, yeah, I’d like to know if he shows up. The minute he checks in at the nurse’s station.”

Altman leaned his head back. “Okay. I’ll make sure the entire nursing staff knows.”

Vail thanked Altman and he left with the nurse. She pulled up a chair and stroked her son’s cheek, ran her fingers through his hair, and talked to him. She told him she loved him, and that she was planning a big camping trip to Yellowstone, for when he got out of the hospital.

Vail felt foolish talking to someone who was unconscious and unable to respond. But she did it anyway, because according to Altman there was a possibility her son could hear her voice. And since no one knew how active a comatose mind was, there was also a chance Jonathan might be feeling scared and alone. Both were emotions with which she herself had suddenly become familiar. She was fortunate her friendship with Robby was strong, and that he’d made it clear he would be there to help her through things.

Jonathan, however, had only her.

thirty-four

Vail arrived at the BAU at five o’clock. She scanned her ID card, then moved through the heavy maple doors and down the narrow hallways toward Thomas Gifford’s office. She could feel her colleagues’ gazes following her, but she kept her eyes focused ahead and didn’t acknowledge anyone. She was there for a reason and didn’t feel like chatting with any of them about her suspension, which would be the likely topic of conversation.

She stood in front of the secretary’s desk and waited for Lenka to hang up the phone. “Can you ask the boss if he’s got a moment for me?”

“Sure thing.” Lenka punched a button, explained into her headset that Vail was in the anteroom, and hung up. “Go on in.”

Vail thanked her, then entered Gifford’s office. The chief honcho was behind his desk, Frank Del Monaco reclining in the guest chair to Vail’s right; Del Monaco’s legs were spread apart, his pudgy fingers splayed and resting comfortably on his thighs. The two men were laughing, as if they’d shared a joke.

“Agent Vail,” Gifford said, forcing the smile from his lips. “I thought you were supposed to remain at home pending the investigation.”

“I have something to discuss with you, sir. Just came up.” She glanced over at Del Monaco, who was biting his lip . . . as if he was still thinking about the joke. Unless the joke was about her.

Gifford bent his head down and ruffled some papers, no doubt to keep himself from looking at Del Monaco and losing his composure. “Agent Del Monaco,” he said, “a moment please.”

“Yes, sir.” Del Monaco stood and turned to walk past Vail, a grin widening his face.

The door slipped shut behind her, and Vail stepped forward. “I was thinking—”

“How’s your son?”

She hesitated a second, changing gears in her brain from business to personal. “Not much change. Some slight improvement.”

“Good. That’s good. Slight improvement is better than no improvement.”

She twisted her lips, confounded by his awkward attempt to show concern. “Sir, I had a thought about victim number three. The one everyone doubts was done by Dead Eyes—”

He held up a hand. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re on suspension.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She wanted to tell him that even though she draws her paycheck from the government, she really works for the victims—and they haven’t taken her off the job. Instead, Vail chose the less confrontational thought that flittered into her brain. “But being on suspension doesn’t mean my mind turns off. I’m still working the case in my head.”

“Just make sure it stays in your head. I don’t want any media hounds ramming mikes up my ass asking about your involvement. Bureau’s in for enough embarrassment once they find out you beat up your husband.”

“Ex-husband. And I’m certainly not going to talk to any reporters.”

“They have ways of finding these things out, you know that. That’s if your ex doesn’t make the call himself.”

Vail sighed. The last thing she needed was the newsies invading her privacy. “Sir, about vic three. I can explain why the scene’s different, why the Dead Eyes behaviors are absent.”

Gifford rubbed at his eyes, then swiveled his chair to face the large window and his second-story view. “We’ve been through this so many times—”

“I didn’t have proof before. Now I do.”

“Fine. Tell it to Del Monaco, he’ll present it to the unit.”

“Why Del Monaco?”

“He’s been assigned the file until further notice.”

Vail looked away. It was like a slap to the face, but in the instant it took her to process the comment, she realized it was a likely development. Someone had to take it over. “I’d like to be the one to present it. It’s my theory, it’s already . . . a volatile topic. I think I should be there to stand behind it, to give it the attention it deserves.”

Gifford leaned back in his chair a bit and rocked, as if mulling over her request. “I really think it’s in your best interest to distance yourself from the Dead Eyes case—”

“You mean from the Bureau.” She felt her blood pressure going up, the line of mercury rising in the narrow glass tube.

He spun his chair around to face her. “I mean from both. Look,” he said, lowering his voice, “you’ve got enough trouble without Linwood and the police chief on your back, too.”

“Linwood and the police chief?”

“There’s only so much I can do to protect you.”

“With all due respect, I don’t need your protection.”

“Yes, you do.” He looked away. “I’ve already gotten calls. Pressure from all levels. I’m standing behind you, Karen, because I think you’re a damn good profiler. One of the best I’ve got. Now I’m asking you, don’t blow your career over this. Focus your energies on beating this rap. Then we’ll worry about Dead Eyes. If he’s still at large, you’ll get the case back.”

“I guess I should thank you, for helping out. I appreciate it.” She sat down in the chair. “But please let me address the unit. Just this once.”

Gifford held her gaze for a long moment, then buzzed an extension. “Frank, can you come in here for a minute?” He hit the button again. “Run your theory by the two of us. If it passes our smell test, you can talk to everyone else.”

Vail nodded and waited the thirty seconds it took Del Monaco to return to the ASAC’s office. He walked in carrying a file folder and sat down in the chair beside Vail.

Gifford nodded at Vail. “Talk.”

“I have some proof to back my theory with victim three—”

Del Monaco rolled his eyes. “Not this again—”

“Listen to what she has to say, Frank. Then we’ll assess.”

Del Monaco crossed his legs, then reluctantly tilted his head toward Vail. His body language said “Don’t bother me with this shit.” But verbally, he was a bit more polite. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

Vail resented having to justify herself to Del Monaco before being permitted to go in front of the unit. But since these were the ground rules Gifford set forth, she had no choice but to take her best shot. “There’s a crime scene unit manifest for a UPS package discovered at Angelina Sarducci’s front door. I called UPS and tracked it. It was delivered at 6:30 P.M. ME said time of death was between 6 and 7 P.M.”

“So you think the delivery guy rang the vic’s doorbell and scared off the offender,” Gifford said.

“Which is why he didn’t engage in most of the postmortem behaviors we’ve seen with the other vics.”

“But this is nothing new,” Del Monaco said. “A year ago you said the same thing, that someone had interrupted him.”

“Yeah, but now I’ve got proof.” Vail sat back and waited for a response. Both men were staring ahead, musing on her remarks.

After a moment of reflection, Del Monaco spoke. “Karen, I know this linkage thing is important to you. And in the end you may be right. But here’s the thing: our job is to look at the behaviors left by an offender at a crime scene and make inferences based on what we see. What you’re doing is looking at an absence of behaviors and trying to create a relationship. If we later find out this is a Dead Eyes case, we can then say your UPS package theory was right on the money.”

“It’s possible you’re right,” Gifford added, “but we can’t deal in possibilities or we’d be all over the damn map.”

Vail was probing the inside of her teeth with her tongue, doing her best to keep her mouth shut. Now was not the time for a confrontation. Besides, she didn’t really know what she would say. They had a point.

Del Monaco opened the file he was holding. “How about we take theory, opinion, and emotion out of the equation. Look at the numbers. For all the Dead Eyes vics, both the Safarik HIS scale and the ISS show a point nine-five correlation. Victim three doesn’t even make the cut—”

“Of course the severity of injury to vic three is less. You can’t use those numbers—”

“Hold it a second,” Gifford said. “What numbers are these?”

Del Monaco seemed annoyed his boss had interrupted. “The Safarik Homicide Injury Scale measures the degree of injury suffered by the victim. It’s a new variable for analyzing offender behavior. ISS stands for Injury Severity Score—”

“ISS is used by CDC for categorizing triage results from automobile accidents,” Vail said.

Del Monaco nodded animatedly. “And I’ve seen it used for homicide victims, too.”

Vail looked away.

“Bottom line,” Gifford said, “is no matter how you look at it, you can’t say it’s a Dead Eyes vic because behavior is absent. Your theory accounts for the lack of additional behavioral evidence, but it doesn’t necessarily point to Dead Eyes.”

Vail kept her head down. She had anticipated resistance, but cursed herself for not thinking things through more thoroughly. Del Monaco and Gifford were right: though her theory might be correct, they can’t abandon their conventions because of something that’s not there. She sighed frustration.

“I did get something you’ll find interesting, though,” Del Monaco said, handing her a printout from the file. “VICAP results. They were handed to me on the way over here. Haven’t even looked at them yet.”

Vail took the report and scanned it. “I knew the number of hits would be small, but this is amazing.” She took another few seconds to look over the data, flipped a couple of pages, then looked at Del Monaco. “I did a search of murders, attempted murders, and unidentified human remains, to see how many offenders had written something in blood at the scene. Of the twenty-three thousand VICAP cases, we got a hit on only twenty-one cases.”

Del Monaco sat up straight. “Jesus. Twenty-one out of twenty-three thousand. That’s small.”

Vail thumbed back and forth. “Smaller than that, actually.” She spent a moment with the data, then continued: “If we eliminate two cases where blood was smeared, and only include the cases that contained writing, we’re down to nineteen cases. Those cases involved twenty-six victims. If we extrapolate out the male vics, which were gay, we’re left with nine female victims.”

“Out of twenty-three thousand cases.”

She flipped a page. “Looking at it from the perspective of the blood murals,” Vail continued, “if we eliminate the crime scenes that contained offender writing, we’re looking at only two cases. Two.”

They were silent for a moment. “Okay,” Gifford finally said, “what does this mean?’

Del Monaco said, “On the surface, that it’s extremely rare to find blood-based writing or painting at a scene.”

“Yeah, but what does it tell us about the offender?”

Vail considered this before speaking. “Well, only one of the VICAP cases is still unsolved, and that’s in Vegas. Way out of this guy’s geographic range. Besides, other than the writing, the ritual behavior is very different.” She handed him back the report. “Not only does this tell us that none of these other cases are related to Dead Eyes, I think we can reasonably assume that Marci Evers is, in fact, Dead Eyes’s first vic.” Establishing the first victim of a serial killer often provided important clues because the offender was not as sophisticated when he started killing, and thus was more likely to have made mistakes.

“You’ll be getting a call from Kim Rossmo,” Vail said. “I sent him the case, asked him to work up a geographic profile for us.”

Del Monaco nodded. “I’ll look for it.”

Vail stood and glanced at Gifford. “Thanks for hearing me out.”

“Use the time off wisely, Karen. Clear your head of Dead Eyes, even if it’s only for a few days. Get your house in order, and then get your ass back in here. We sure could use you.”

Vail forced a half-smile, then walked out. She wanted to think Gifford was being genuine, but she could never be sure with him. She took one last peek at her empty office, then headed to the elevator.

thirty-five

A light drizzle fell as Vail showed her credentials then drove through the checkpoint leading to the FBI Academy. Gifford’s idea of getting Dead Eyes out of her thoughts for a while had merits. Besides, it would allow her some time to focus on the other mystery in her life, the identity of her biological mother.

On the way out of the commerce center, she had given the front desk receptionist the photo of Emma and Nellie, and asked her to place it in intra-agency mail for immediate shipping to a buddy of Vail’s, Tim Meadows, at the FBI lab.

Once in the car, she had called Meadows to explain the package he would be receiving. “I need a huge favor, Tim. I want a computerized aging of the woman on the right. It’s personal, not for a case.”

“That’s bigger than a huge favor. We’re not supposed to—”

“I know, Tim. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. The woman is my mother. I need to find her.”

There was a few seconds of silence. Vail figured Meadows was mulling over her request. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll do it, but it’ll have to wait till eight o’clock, when I clock out. At least if I get caught I won’t be doing it on taxpayer time.”

She thanked him, then left a voice mail message for Bledsoe, relaying and explaining the VICAP findings so he could share them with the task force. She told him she would call him soon.

Vail chose a spot in the main parking lot and made her way toward the administration building. The Academy was laid out like a campus, with multistory earth-toned structures connected by nearly identical windowed corridors, or tubes. If you weren’t careful, you could find yourself wandering down one of the hallways without the slightest hint of where you were. Directory maps, mounted on the walls and lettered in white against a milk chocolate background, provided three-dimensional renditions of the campus. Labeled plaques above each map used oversized arrows to point you in the proper direction. The directories were especially helpful to senior law enforcement supervisors who attended the eleven-week National Academy certification program to improve their management, administrative, and investigative abilities. Without the maps, or a personal guide to take them through the labyrinthine hallways, the attendees might never find their way to class.

Vail walked into the administration building, signed in at the receptionist desk, and passed the x-ray machine en route to the glass doors. With the darkness outside and the windowed corridors well lit, she felt like a rodent on display in a maze.

She walked into the library’s rotunda and looked up at the second and third stories, marveling at the beauty of the large room. The architects who created the Academy were not typical government designers. This complex was functional, but like a high-end home it had a majestic flair, a feeling of grandeur and self-importance.

She sat down at one of the computers and logged onto the system. Huddling over the keyboard, she organized the information in her mind. Emma’s maiden name was Irwin, and she had been born in Brooklyn. While Vail didn’t know anything about Nellie Irwin, she made the initial assumption she had also been born in New York. If her searches came up empty, she could then widen the parameters.

She curled some hair behind her right ear, then attacked the keyboard. Like a fisherman, she would first troll the waters where information would be most likely to yield results: birth and death records, then real estate holdings, criminal databases, and so on until she got a tug at her line . . . something that would make her stop the boat and weigh anchor.

The next three hours passed without thought of food. People came and went, the overcast darkness had dissipated into a rural star-lit sky, and her stomach finally let her know it was beyond late. She made her way into the closed dining hall, picked out a ready-made turkey sandwich, and devoured it in a matter of minutes. She had been checking her cell throughout the evening, hoping it would bring news of Jonathan’s improvement.

But like a criminal facing a murder charge, the BlackBerry remained silent.

Vail returned to the library and reviewed her notes. She had located Nellie Irwin’s place and date of birth: Rutland Road in Brooklyn, February 16, 1947. She did not have a criminal record, but had worked two jobs, from 1964 through 1967. She worked one week into 1968.

Vail had been searching by social security number, so even if she had gotten married, she still would have been able to trace her. But there was nothing . . . not even a tax return had been filed. She widened her search to the entire United States, then waited as the computer sifted through records.

As she reached for her cell phone to dial in to the hospital, the vibration of a text message startled her. Jonathan—

She pulled the device from her belt and looked at the display. Not the hospital. A number in DC. Headquarters. Tim Meadows.

AT 9:45 P.M., the drive from Quantico to the Hoover Building took forty-five minutes. She was checked against a clipboarded list of expected guests and given clearance by the FBI Police sentry standing at the mouth to the underground garage. She parked and continued up the elevator to the lab, where all was quiet except for the plucking of Andreas Vollenweider’s New Age electracoustic harp. She followed the music to a back room lit with subdued fluorescents, where Tim Meadows sat at a twenty-four-inch flat panel screen, moving his mouse across an image.

“Don’t look,” he shouted at Vail as she neared.

“What, this is a surprise?”

“I would think so,” he said.

She glanced around the room. She had only been in the back room once, about three years ago. They’d added some equipment since then, but it was nevertheless the same: a techie’s dream. Floor to ceiling electronics were mounted in steel racks that resembled bookshelves. Wires and cables snaked up and down, side to side, feeding one device and sucking from another. Reel-to-reel tape decks stood beside TV screens, VCRs, DVD players and burners; stacks of VHS tapes and jewel cases, labeled with case numbers and dates, littered the Formica desk that sat like an audience inside a three-sided stage, facing the digital and analog devices . . . the performers who put on the show.

Vail remained ten feet behind Meadows, who had angled his body to block the screen. Her eye caught an LED clock that hung on the wall above Meadows’s head: it was 10:40 P.M. but she felt wide awake, as if she had just gotten out of the shower.

“I really appreciate you doing this, Tim. I owe you.”

“Yes, you do. How ’bout dinner at McCormick & Schmick’s?”

“Whoa, that’ll place a strain on the wallet. This photo that good?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He struck a couple keys, then said, “Okay, come on over.” Onscreen was the original photo Vail had sent to Meadows. Seeing it again—seeing Emma—sent a pang of emotion coursing through her gut. In that split second, she felt sympathy, anger, frustration, love. And distance.

“Okee dokie. That’s the original. Now, you didn’t give me any parameters to work from, that being what year the photo was taken, so I had to do a little extra work.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem. Consider it the appetizer. How about clams on the half-shell?”

“How about I’ve got a kid to clothe and feed?”

Meadows winked at her. “But they’re soooo good.”

“How would you know?”

“Read a review.” He indicated the screen, zoomed in on the photo. “I determined, through a little chemical analysis of the paper and the approximate age of the automobile fender in the background, that this was taken around 1959 or ’60.”

Vail looked up at the ceiling and did the math. “That’s probably about right.”

“Thought so.” A self-satisfied smile thinned his lips. “So, working on that assumption, I first enlarged your mother’s face to this,” he said, then clicked the mouse. “Then I began aging it. Here’s about age twenty.” The computer morphed the facial features and a mature woman stared back at her. “Then, if I keep going, we can see her age through the years.” He struck another series of keys and the image subtly shifted, changed, evolved.

“What a horrible thing to see. Bad enough watching the aging process in the mirror. At least it happens gradually. This thing makes it happen in a matter of seconds.”

He looked at her. “Happens to all of us. Wrinkle here, sagging there, some age spots thrown in for flavor.”

She frowned. “See this one?” Her finger found the exact spot on her cheek without having to look in a mirror. “This isn’t flavor, Tim. It’s aggravation.”

The computer beeped and they turned to look at the screen. “Ah, very good. There she is. That’s your mother, aged to about sixty.”

Vail stared at the screen. She immediately recognized the face. “Holy shit. . . .” She pried her eyes away and rested them on Meadows, who was smiling at her.

She swallowed hard. Her eyes were pulled back to the image as if drawn by an unseen force. “Can you make a print of that?”

“You betcha.” He clicked with his mouse. “It’ll take a few minutes.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Thought you might.”

“How accurate is this thing?”

“You questioning my work?”

She didn’t answer.

“Pretty accurate. But not a hundred percent. Things happen to people, stress and other environmental factors come into play that influence the result. I’d use it as a guide.”

But Vail knew the answer before he’d responded. It was a very accurate result.

“By the way you’re looking at the screen, I take it you recognize her. Shit, I recognize her.”

Vail nodded, but couldn’t pull her gaze from the screen.

“Whatcha gonna do?”

The Andreas Vollenweider CD ended just as she was about to answer, and an eerie silence permeated the room. “I’m not sure.”

VAIL’S FIRST COURSE OF ACTION had been to return to the FBI Academy. It was now approaching midnight, but she still felt no signs of fatigue. She was a bloodhound, nose to the ground, sniffing her trail. Her prey was near, so near she’d actually seen it. Now it was a matter of gathering information before going in for the kill.

There was no one around this time of night, other than a few new agents sitting in the commemorative hall, telling stories of their days as a beat cop or detective or attorney . . . now in training to become one of the elite law enforcers in the world.

Vail found the maintenance engineer and sweet-talked him into letting her into the library for a while. She told him the truth about locating the mother who had abandoned her, and being the sap that he was, he felt sorry for her and pulled out his ring of keys. That was forty-five minutes ago, and rather than stopping to read through the results popping up across the screen, she printed the pages to make the most efficient use of her time. Even at that, it was taking longer than she had anticipated.

While waiting for the computer to finish the last search, she pulled her cell phone and dialed the hospital. Nothing new to report, she was told by the desk nurse. Jonathan had continued to open his eyes, and had moved them a bit—more “incremental improvement”—but that was all she could tell her. Vail thanked the nurse and watched the last of the search results flicker across the monitor.

She hit PRINT, then waited by the mammoth HP LaserJet for the document. As the papers emerged, a wide yawn spread her lips. Fatigue had finally set in. She would go home, get some sleep, and review the paperwork in the morning.

There was nothing else demanding her time at the moment.

thirty-six

Go ahead, grab her hair and stab the eyes. Stab, stab, stab! Do it!

Grasp a handful of straw dry hair, lift the head, then plunge the knife down into the eye. Squish!

Look at yourself, don’t be blind. Look up, into the window, and see. See for yourself.

After letting go of the knife, the slime from blood and eye juice spatter trailed off the fingertips like saliva from a hungry wolf salivating over its prey. Straightened up . . . looked into the dark window across the room. It was her. Again. Karen Vail in the reflection.

You killed your mother. How does it feel?

Vail craned her head down and tried to look beyond the knife protruding from the right socket, but she couldn’t see the face. She moved closer for a better angle. She killed her mother?

Yes, the bitch had to die. You did it, you did it, you did it. . . .

THE MORNING SUN burned away the clouds that had been hovering over the region the past couple weeks. Vail couldn’t help but think the lingering haze had become a symbol of her misfortune. Perhaps the break would bring the promise of new opportunities, of a reversal of her bad luck.

Of course, first she had to get past the image of having murdered her mother. She needed to do something, talk to someone about it. These dreams had to stop.

While driving to the hospital, she called her Aunt Faye, who had taken on the task of finding an assisted care facility in the Alexandria region. Based on Emma’s long-term care coverage, Faye had narrowed the list of possibilities to three, and it was now in Vail’s hands to investigate each one to determine which would best accommodate her mother’s needs. In the meantime, rather than move Emma out of her familiar surroundings, Faye’s three daughters were taking turns staying at the house to make sure Emma ate regularly and did not wander off. With a backyard as large and wooded as hers, she could get turned around fifty feet from her house and forget how to get home.

Vail arrived at Fairfax Hospital and carried in with her a sampling of Jonathan’s favorite childhood books: The Hobbit, Old Yeller, The Phantom Tollbooth, and one he had been in the middle of when he was hospitalized: the seventh Harry Potter tale. She brought a thermos of coffee and sat beside him, at first just looking at him, his eyes opening and closing, tracking back and forth, as if his brain was taking in the surroundings but not processing what it saw.

She read to him for an hour, then took a break and dove into the task of making screening calls to the three assisted care facilities. Based on the attitude of the staff and level of service provided, she immediately eliminated one of them. The other two would work, subject to a records search for pending complaints and violations.

She gave Jonathan a kiss, told him she loved him, and headed out for lunch with Bledsoe. They met at a Subway restaurant a mile from the op center. His face was long, but when she walked in his expression brightened. He stood as she approached the table.

“Whatever you want, it’s on me,” he said.

“Tuna on wheat, everything on it.”

He nodded, turned to the counter person and put in the order. Bledsoe watched through the display case glass as the woman slapped on tomatoes and sprinkled oil. “How was your visit with your mother?”

“She’s got Alzheimer’s. It’s bad, I’ve got to move her to an assisted care facility.”

Bledsoe sighed. “Sorry.”

“Me, too. I wasn’t prepared.”

“Must’ve been tough.”

“Add it to the list.” She considered telling him about Nellie and Emma, then thought better of it. “I thought I needed some time by myself, but given everything that happened, I’m glad Robby was there. Thanks for letting him go.”

Bledsoe eyed her obliquely. “I didn’t.”

“You—”

“We didn’t quite see eye-to-eye on the matter. He told me he was taking some personal time and walked out.”

Vail chewed on that one. Robby had led her to believe Bledsoe gave his blessing.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “He and I had a chat. It won’t be a thing between us. We’ve got bigger issues to tackle.”

“Yeah, about that . . . sorry I didn’t show up this morning,” Vail said.

He turned his head to face hers. “You’re on leave.”

“From the Bureau, not from the task force.”

Bledsoe moved a few steps down, paid for the sandwiches, and loaded them on a tray. “Linwood and the police chief wanted you off the case.”

Vail slid into a booth and sat down. “Guess I’m bad publicity. Beating up your husband doesn’t play well in the papers. Too much fallout.”

Bledsoe unwrapped his sandwich and pulled off the pickles. “I told her no pickles. You heard me say that, right?” He shook his head.

“You have to close this case,” Vail said. “I make your job easier—and probably faster. And a faster resolution means fewer women die. You need me.” Vail bit into her sandwich and let her comment ride on the wind for a moment.

“They made it pretty clear they want you to stay away.”

“Do you want me to stay away?” She had stopped chewing and focused on his eyes.

“No.”

“I work for the victim, Bledsoe. Not the government, not you, not the police chief.”

“I know that.”

“Then to hell with ’em all. Let me work the case. I’ll do it at home. Get me a copy of the file, we’ll work it together.”

Bledsoe took a bite and looked at Vail as he chewed. She returned the gaze. Pleading without speaking. He finished off his sandwich a few bites later, then took a long pull from his Coke.

“Okay,” he said.

“You’ll get me a copy of the file?”

“I’ll bring it by your place myself.”

She nodded. “Keep me up on what the task force does.”

He wiped his mouth, then got up. “Thanks for meeting me for lunch.”

“Thanks for paying. And for sticking with me.”

Vail watched Bledsoe walk away, knowing she had done the right thing for the victims. But she couldn’t help wondering if it was the wrong thing for her career.

thirty-seven

There was a sunset for the first time in weeks, and Vail pulled over to the side of the road to watch the reds burn into oranges, then fade into an expansive horizon of pale pink, as if God had blown brilliantly colored chalk dust off the palette. She pulled down on the gear shift and yanked it into drive, then got on I-495 toward 193 and Great Falls, Virginia.

She turned on the radio, not bothering to change the station—it didn’t matter what was playing, because she wasn’t listening. It merely served as background noise to take her mind off where she was headed, and what she would say when she got there. As dusk descended, she turned on her headlights and exited at Georgetown Pike. The area of Great Falls was a sprawling community set amongst rolling hills, forests of mature oak and helm, and million dollar homes.

As Vail drove down Potomac River Road, darkness’s arrival seemed to accelerate, the remaining light filtered by the dense blind of branches and leaves. She hung a right onto a shoulderless single-lane residential road and flicked on her dome light to check the directions she had scribbled on a piece of paper. The house on the left was an Early American three-story brick mansion. Vail squinted at the lamppost, which lit an address sign surrounded by well-manicured hedges. She turned onto the gravel driveway that cut through an expansive lawn and led straight to the entrance of the home.

Security lights popped on as her car approached the circular turnaround. She parked and got out, walked up to the door, and pressed the bell. A hearty chime sounded up and down the scale. Ten seconds passed, but it seemed like minutes before the hand-tooled oak door finally swung open.

Chase Hancock stood there, eyebrows raised slightly. “Vail, what are you doing here? Come to beg your way back onto the task force? Or did you come here to kick my butt?”

“That’s funny, Hancock. I’d prefer the latter, but it’s none of your business why I’m here. Is Senator Linwood in?”

Hancock squinted. “Are you here on official business? Otherwise, call ahead and make an appointment.”

Vail forced a smile. “Thanks so much for that thoughtful bit of advice, but I’m not in the mood for your bullshit. My business is with the senator, not with you. Now move aside or I’ll move you myself.”

Hancock stepped forward and threw his chest out. “You’re trespassing, Vail. I suggest you turn around and leave with your tail between your legs before I arrest you. Citizen’s arrest, I can still do that.”

“That won’t be necessary.” The voice came from behind Hancock. Vail craned her neck around his wide body and saw Eleanor Linwood standing there, still dressed in her business suit.

“I’m sorry we made so much noise, Senator,” Hancock said. “I’ll take care of this. Agent Vail was just leaving.”

But Linwood continued to move forward and was now standing beside her head security agent. “That’s okay, Chase, I’ll take it from here.”

“But—”

She turned her head to face his. “I’ve got it, thank you.”

Though it was a moment Vail wanted to savor—she hadn’t had many of those lately—she struggled to contain her smile.

As soon as Hancock walked off, Linwood’s face hardened. “You wanted to see me, Agent Vail.”

“Yes, Senator. I wanted to speak to you about . . . a private matter. Can we go somewhere to talk?”

Without comment, Linwood turned and walked down the wood plank hallway, her heels clicking as they struck the floor. Vail followed, her head rubbernecking in all directions as she took in the décor: the high ceilings and ten-foot windows of the formal dining room, rough-hewn beams, stone fireplace, and lace curtains of the living room. They turned left into a smaller room with a paisley sofa and hardwood plantation shutters. Linwood sat on the edge of the couch and motioned Vail to do the same. Vail reached over and shut the door, an action Linwood found suspicious, judging by the squint of her eyes.

“What can I do for you, Agent Vail? Or is it your policy to drop in on elected officials’ homes unannounced?”

She put Vail on the defensive with practiced ease. “I apologize, Senator. I didn’t think you’d see me if I called ahead.”

“Perhaps you’re correct.” She glanced at her watch. “And unless you provide me with a compelling reason for this visit in the next thirty seconds, I’ll have my very efficient security agent show you the door.”

Vail bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t care for the senator’s smug attitude, but at the moment, she tried to see it from her point of view. Vail hadn’t yet given her an explanation.

“If this is about being removed from the task force, I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to take up with the police department. Contrary to what you may’ve heard, I have no influence over the machinations of the Fairfax County PD.”

“With all due respect, I don’t believe that for one moment. However, that’s not why I’m here.” Linwood started to object, but Vail held up a hand. “I want to tell you a story about two women born—”

“I don’t have time for bedtime stories, Agent Vail. I’ve got—”

“You’ll want to hear this one, Senator.” Vail had leaned forward, her eyebrows hunched downward. “It’s a story about two sisters born in Brooklyn. One of them, nine years older, always seemed to be the one who made the correct decisions in life. The younger one went out of her way to be different and often got into trouble.”

Linwood rose from the couch. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything—”

“I’ll get to the point,” Vail said, then began speaking faster. “The younger sister—we’ll call her Nellie—got herself pregnant. This angered her parents, a good Catholic family who didn’t believe in premarital sex. They disowned her. Depressed and unprepared for dealing with a newborn, Nellie showed up at her older sister’s house. She asked her sister to watch the baby for a couple of hours while she went to a movie. Nellie never returned, and the baby was raised by the aunt and uncle.”

Vail detected tears in Linwood’s eyes. The senator sunk down in the couch and Vail continued: “Nellie, out on her own, got a couple of low-paying jobs before realizing she needed to straighten herself up. She met someone, an up-and-coming heir to a booming family business that supplied shipping containers to international transportation companies. Having just graduated from Harvard with his MBA, the man met Nellie and fell in love. Now here’s the interesting part,” Vail said, leaning forward. “Her knight in shining armor helped her get a new social security number, new name, new background, new identity. Nellie ceased to exist.” Vail reached into her shoulder-slung portfolio case and removed a hunk of papers. She dropped them on the couch beside Linwood. “It’s all in there.”

Linwood’s eyes fell to the stack of documents, atop which was a copy of the picture of Emma and Nellie Irwin. Linwood gently removed the photo and looked at it for a long moment. She then noticed the computer-enhanced image, and raised an eyebrow. Her gaze drifted away, coming to rest on the turn-of-the-century wood floor. Finally, she spoke. “Nellie needed to start a new life. When she met Richard, it was like a dream come true. His father had the connections to make her past go away. And to give her a new future. It was much easier to do in those days.” After a moment, her eyes found Vail’s. “You’ll never prove any of it. I don’t care what’s in those papers. You go to the media, I’ll deny it all.”

Vail’s chin shot backward. “The media? Who cares about the media?”

“Why else would you dig into my past? To force me into helping you get back on the task force? To discredit me in my campaign—”

“This has nothing to do with your campaign, and it’s got nothing to do with the task force.” She paused, hoping Linwood would catch on. But she didn’t. Finally, Vail forged ahead. “Senator, I’m that newborn you left at Emma’s house thirty-eight years ago.”

A tear meandered down Linwood’s cheek, then dropped to her lap.