An Evil Mind

One

‘Morning, Sheriff. Morning, Bobby,’ the plump, brunette waitress with a small heart tattoo on her left wrist called from behind the counter. She didn’t have to check the clock hanging from the wall to her right. She knew it would be just past 6:00 a.m.

Every Wednesday, without fail, Sheriff Walton and his deputy, Bobby Dale, came into Nora’s truck-stop diner, just outside Wheatland in southeastern Wyoming, to get their sweet-pie fix. Rumor had it that Nora’s Diner baked the best pies in the whole of Wyoming. A different recipe every day of the week. Wednesday was apple-and-cinnamon-pie day, Sheriff Walton’s favorite. He was well aware that the first batch of pies always came out of the oven at 6:00 a.m. sharp, and you just couldn’t beat the taste of a freshly baked pie.

‘Morning, Beth,’ Bobby replied, dusting rainwater off his coat and trousers. ‘I’ll tell you, the floodgates from hell have opened out there,’ he added, shaking his leg as if he’d peed himself.

Summer downpours in southeastern Wyoming were a common occurrence, but this morning’s storm was the heaviest they’d seen all season.

‘Morning, Beth,’ Sheriff Walton followed, taking off his hat, drying his face and forehead with a handkerchief, and quickly looking around the diner. At that time in the morning, and with such torrential rain outside, the place was a lot less busy than usual. Only three out of its fifteen tables were taken.

A man and a woman in their mid-twenties were sitting at the table nearest to the door, having a pancake breakfast. The sheriff figured that the beat-up, silver WV Golf parked outside belonged to them.

The next table along was occupied by a large, sweaty, shaved-headed man, who must’ve weighed at least 350 pounds. The amount of food sitting on the table in front of him would’ve easily been enough to feed two very hungry people, maybe three.

The last table by the window was taken by a tall, gray-haired man, with a bushy horseshoe mustache and a crooked nose. His forearms were covered in faded tattoos. He’d already finished his breakfast and was now sitting back on his chair, toying with a packet of cigarettes and looking pensive, as if he had a very difficult decision to make.

There was no doubt in Sheriff Walton’s mind that the two large trucks outside belonged to those two.

Sitting at the end of the counter, drinking a cup of black coffee and eating a chocolate-coated donut, was a pleasantly dressed man who looked to be in his forties. His hair was short and well kept, and his beard stylish and neatly trimmed. He was flipping through a copy of the morning’s newspaper. His had to be the dark-blue Ford Taurus parked by the side of the diner, Sheriff Walton concluded.

‘Just in time,’ Beth said, winking at the sheriff. ‘They’re just out of the oven.’ She gave him a tiny shrug. ‘As if you didn’t know.’

The sweet smell of freshly baked apple pie with a hint of cinnamon had already engulfed the entire place.

Sheriff Walton smiled. ‘We’ll have our usual, Beth,’ he said, taking a seat at the counter.

‘Coming right up,’ Beth replied before disappearing into the kitchen. Seconds later she returned with two steamy, extra-large slices of pie, drizzled with honey cream. They looked like perfection on a plate.

‘Umm. .’ the man sitting at the far end of the counter said, tentatively raising a finger like a kid asking his teacher’s permission to speak. ‘Is there any more of that pie left?’

‘There sure is,’ Beth replied, smiling back at him.

‘In that case, can I also have a slice, please?’

‘Yeah, me too,’ the large truck driver called out from his table, lifting his hand. He was already licking his lips.

‘And me,’ the horseshoe-mustache man said, returning the cigarette pack to his jacket pocket. ‘That pie smells darn good.’

‘Tastes good too,’ Beth added.

‘Good doesn’t even come close,’ Sheriff Walton said, turning to face the tables. ‘Y’all just about to be taken to pie heaven.’ Suddenly his eyes widened in surprise. ‘Holy shit,’ he breathed out, jumping off his seat.

The sheriff’s reaction made Bobby Dale swing his body around fast and follow the sheriff’s stare. Through the large window just behind where the mid-twenties couple was sitting, he saw the headlights of a pick-up truck coming straight at them. The car seemed completely out of control.

‘What the hell?’ Bobby said, getting to his feet.

Everyone in the diner turned to face the window, and the shocked look on everyone’s face was uniform. The vehicle was coming toward them like a guided missile, and it was showing no signs of diverting or slowing down. They had two, maybe three seconds before impact.

‘EVERYBODY TAKE COVER!’ Sheriff Walton yelled, but he didn’t have to. Reflexively, everybody in the restaurant was already scrambling on their feet to get out of the way. At that speed, the pick-up truck would crash through the front of the diner and probably not stop until it reached the kitchen at the back, destroying everything in its path, and killing everyone in its way.

A chaotic mess of desperate screams and movement took over the restaurant floor. They all knew they just didn’t have enough time to get out of the way.

CRUUUUNCH-BOOM!

The deafening crashing noise sounded like an explosion, making the ground shake under everyone’s feet.

Sheriff Walton was the first to look up. It took him a few seconds to realize that somehow the car hadn’t crashed through the front of the building.

Frowning was followed by confusion.

‘Is everyone all right?’ the sheriff finally called out, frantically looking around.

Mumbled confirmation was returned from all corners of the room.

The sheriff and his deputy immediately got to their feet and rushed outside. Everyone else followed just a heartbeat later. The rain had gotten heavier in the past few minutes, now coming down in thick sheets, severely reducing visibility.

Out of sheer luck, the pick-up truck had hit a deep pothole on the ground just a few yards from the front of the diner, and had drastically veered left, missing the restaurant by just a couple of feet. As it detoured, it had clipped the back of the dark-blue Ford Taurus parked outside, before smashing head-first into a side building that housed two bathrooms and a storage room, completely destroying it. Thankfully, there was no one inside either of the bathrooms, or the storage room.

‘Holy shit!’ Sheriff Walton breathed out, feeling his heart race inside his chest. The collision had turned the pick-up truck into a totally mangled wreck, and the outside building into a demolition site.

Skipping over the debris, the sheriff was the first to get to the truck. The driver was its only occupant — a gray-haired man who looked to be somewhere in his late fifties, but it was hard to be sure. Sheriff Walton wasn’t able to recognize him, but he was certain he’d never seen that pick-up truck around Wheatland before. It was an old and rusty, early 1990s Chevy 1500, no airbags, and though the driver had been wearing his seatbelt, the impact had been way too violent. The front of the truck, together with its engine, had caved backward and into the driver’s cabin. The dashboard and steering wheel had crushed the driver’s chest against his seat. His face was covered in blood, torn apart by shards of glass from the windscreen. One had sliced through the man’s throat.

‘Goddammit!’ Sheriff Walton said through clenched teeth, standing by the driver’s door. He didn’t have to feel for a pulse to know that the man hadn’t survived.

‘Oh, my God!’ he heard Beth exclaim in a trembling voice from just a few feet behind him. He immediately turned to face her, lifting his hands in a “stop” motion.

‘Beth, do not come here,’ he commanded in a firm voice. ‘Go back inside and stay there.’ His stare moved to the rest of the diner patrons who were moving toward the truck fast. ‘All of you go back into the diner. That’s an order. This whole area is now out of bounds, y’all hear?’

Everybody stopped moving, but no one turned back.

The sheriff’s eyes searched for his deputy, and found Bobby standing all the way at the back, by the Ford Taurus. The look on his face was a mixture of shock and fear.

‘Bobby,’ Sheriff Walton called. ‘Call for an ambulance and the fire brigade now.’

Bobby didn’t move.

‘Bobby, snap out of it, goddammit. Did you hear what I said? I need you to get on the radio and call for an ambulance and the fire brigade right now.’

Bobby stood still. He looked like he was about to be sick. Only then did the sheriff realize that Bobby wasn’t even looking at him or at the mangled pick-up truck. His eyes were locked onto the Ford Taurus. Before crashing into the bathroom building, the truck had clipped the left side of the Taurus’ rear-end hard enough to release its trunk door.

All of a sudden Bobby broke out of his trance and reached for his gun.

‘No one move,’ he yelled out. His shaky aim kept jumping from person to person. ‘Sheriff,’ he called in an unsteady voice. ‘You better come have a look at this.’

Two

Five days later.

Huntington Park, Los Angeles, California.

The petite, dark-haired checkout girl rang the last item through and looked up at the young man standing at her register.

‘That’ll be $34.62, please,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

The man finished packing his groceries into plastic bags before handing her his credit card. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty-one.

The checkout girl swiped the card through the machine, waited a few seconds, bit her bottom lip, and with doubtful eyes looked up at the man.

‘I’m sorry, sir, this card’s been declined,’ she said, offering the card back.

The man stared back at her as if she’d spoken to him in a different language.

‘What?’ His eyes moved to the card, paused, and then returned to the checkout girl. ‘There’s gotta be some sort of mistake. I’m sure I still have some credit left on that card. Could you try it again, please?’

The checkout girl gave him a tiny shrug and swiped the card through one more time.

A tense couple of seconds went by.

‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s been declined again,’ she said, handing the card back to him. ‘Would you like to try another one?’

Embarrassed, he took the card from her and faintly shook his head. ‘I don’t have another one,’ he said shyly.

‘Food coupons?’ she asked.

Another sad shake of the head.

The girl waited as the man started searching through his pockets for whatever money he could find. He managed to come up with a few dollar bills, and a bunch of quarters and dimes. After quickly adding up all his change, he paused and looked back at the checkout girl, apologetically.

‘I’m sorry. I’m about twenty-six dollars short. I’ll have to leave a few things behind.’

Most of his shopping consisted of baby stuff — diapers, a couple of pots of baby food, a can of powdered milk, a bag of baby wipes, and a small tube of diaper rash ointment. The rest was just everyday essentials — bread, milk, eggs, some vegetables, a few pieces of fruit, and a can of soup — all of it from the budget range. The man didn’t touch any of the baby stuff, but returned everything else.

‘Could you see how much that comes to now, please?’ he asked the girl.

‘It’s OK,’ the man standing behind him in the checkout line said. He was tall and athletically built, with sharp, chiseled, attractive features and kind eyes. He handed the checkout girl two twenty-dollar bills.

She looked up at him and frowned.

‘I’ll get this,’ he said, nodding at her before addressing the young man. ‘You can put your groceries back in the bags. It’s my treat.’

The young man stared back at him, confused, and unable to find any words.

‘It’s OK,’ the tall man said again, giving him a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Still stunned, the young man’s gaze moved to the checkout girl, and then back to the tall man.

‘Thank you so much, sir,’ he finally said, extending his hand, his voice catching in his throat, his eyes becoming just a little glassy.

The man shook his hand and gave him a reassuring head nod.

‘That was the kindest thing I’ve ever seen happen in here,’ the checkout girl said once the young man had collected his groceries and left. Tears had also welled up in her eyes.

The tall man simply smiled back at her.

‘I’m serious,’ she reiterated. ‘I’ve been working at the checkout in this supermarket for almost three years. I’ve seen plenty of people come up short when it comes to paying, plenty of people having to return items, but I’ve never seen anybody do what you just did.’

‘Everybody needs a little help every now and then,’ the man replied. ‘There’s no shame in that. Today, I helped him, maybe someday he’ll help someone else.’

The girl smiled as her eyes filled with tears again. ‘It’s true that we all need a little help every once in a while, but the problem is, very few are ever willing to help. Especially when they need to reach into their pockets to do so.’

The man silently agreed with her.

‘I’ve seen you in here before,’ the checkout girl said, ringing through the few items the man had with him. It came to $9.49.

‘I live in the neighborhood,’ he said, handing her a ten-dollar bill.

She paused for a moment and locked eyes with him. ‘I’m Linda,’ she said, nodding at her nametag, and extending her hand.

‘Robert,’ the man replied, shaking it. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

‘Listen,’ she said, returning his change. ‘I was wondering. My shift ends at six this evening. Since you live in the neighborhood, maybe we could go for a coffee somewhere?’

The man hesitated for a brief moment. ‘That would be really nice,’ he finally said. ‘But unfortunately, I’m flying out tonight. My first vacation in. .’ He paused and narrowed his eyes at nothing for an instant. ‘I don’t even remember when I last had a vacation.’

‘I know the feeling,’ she said, sounding a little disappointed.

The man collected his groceries and looked back at the checkout girl.

‘How about if I call you when I get back, in about ten days? Maybe we can have a coffee then.’

She looked up at him and her lips stretched into a thin smile. ‘I’d like that,’ she replied, quickly jotting down her number.

As the man stepped outside the supermarket, his cellphone rang in his jacket pocket.

‘Detective Robert Hunter, Homicide Special,’ he answered it.

‘Robert, are you still in LA?’

It was the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division’s captain, Barbara Blake. She was the one who, just a couple of days ago, had ordered Hunter and his partner, Detective Carlos Garcia, to take a two-week break after a very demanding and exhausting serial killer investigation.

‘Right now, yes,’ Hunter replied, skeptically. ‘I’m flying out tonight, Captain. Why?’

‘I really hate to do this to you, Robert,’ the captain replied, sounding sincerely sorry. ‘But I need to see you in my office.’

‘When?’

‘Right now.’

Three

In lunchtime traffic, the 7.5-mile drive from Huntington Park to the LAPD headquarters in downtown Los Angeles took Hunter a little over forty-five minutes.

The Robbery Homicide Division (RHD), located on the fifth floor of the famous Police Administration Building on West 1st Street, was a simple, large, open-plan area crammed with detectives’ desks — no flimsy partitions to separate them or silly floor lines to delimit workspace. The place sounded and looked like a street market on a Sunday morning, alive with movement, murmurs and shouts that came from every corner.

Captain Blake’s office was at the far end of the main detectives’ floor. The door was shut — not that unusual due to the noise — but so were the blinds on the oversized internal window that faced the floor, and that was undoubtedly a bad sign.

Hunter slowly started zigzagging his way around people and desks.

‘Hey, what the hell are you doing here, Robert?’ Detective Perez asked, looking up from his computer screen as Hunter squeezed past Perez and Henderson’s desks. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on vacation?’

Hunter nodded. ‘I am. I’m flying out tonight. Just having a quick chat with the captain first.’

‘Flying?’ Perez looked surprised. ‘That sounds rich. Where are you going?’

‘Hawaii. My first time.’

Perez smiled. ‘Nice. I could do with going to Hawaii right about now too.’

‘Want me to bring you back a lei necklace or a Hawaiian shirt?’

Perez pulled a face. ‘No, but if you can manage to slip one or two of those Hawaiian dancers into your suitcase, I’ll take them. They can do the hula up on my bed every goddamn night. You know what I’m saying?’ He nodded like he meant every word.

‘A man can dream,’ Hunter replied, amused by how vigorously Perez was nodding.

‘Enjoy yourself over there, man.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ Hunter said before moving on. He paused before the captain’s door, and instinct and curiosity made him tilt his head to one side and check the window — nothing. He couldn’t see past the blinds. He knocked twice.

‘Come in.’ He heard Captain Blake call from the other side in her usual firm voice.

Hunter pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Barbara Blake’s office was spacious, brightly lit and impeccably tidy. The south wall was taken by bookshelves packed by perfectly arranged, and color-coordinated hardcovers. The north one was covered by framed photographs, commendations and achievement awards, all symmetrically positioned in relation to each other. The east wall was a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window, looking out over South Main Street. Directly in front of the captain’s twin-pedestal desk were two leather armchairs.

Captain Blake was standing by the panoramic window. Her long jet-black hair was gracefully styled into a bun, pinned in place by a pair of wooden chopsticks. She was wearing a silky white blouse, tucked into an elegant navy-blue pencil skirt. Standing next to her, holding a steaming cup of coffee, and wearing a conservative black suit, was a slim and very attractive woman, who Hunter had never seen before. She looked to be somewhere in her early thirties, with long, straight blonde hair, and deep blue eyes. She looked like someone who would normally be entirely at ease in whatever situation she found herself in, but there was something a little apprehensive about the way she held her head.

As Hunter entered the office and closed the door behind him, the tall and slim man who was sitting in one of the armchairs, also in a soberly dark suit, turned to face him. He was in his mid-fifties, but the heavy bags under his eyes and his fleshy, saggy cheeks, which also gave him a somewhat hound-like look, made him look at least ten years older. The thin flock of gray hair he still had left on his head was neatly combed back over his ears.

Taken by surprise, Hunter paused, narrowing his eyes.

‘Hello, Robert,’ the man said, standing up. His naturally hoarse voice, made worse by years of smoking, sounded surprisingly strong for a man who looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Hunter’s gaze stayed on him for a couple of seconds before moving to the blonde woman, and finally to Captain Blake.

‘Sorry about this, Robert,’ she said with a slight tilt of the head, before allowing her stare to go rock hard as it honed in on the man facing Hunter. ‘They simply turned up unannounced about an hour ago. Not even a goddam courtesy call,’ she explained.

‘I apologize again,’ the man said in a calm but authoritative tone. He was definitely someone who was used to giving orders, and having them followed. ‘You look well.’ He addressed Hunter. ‘But then again, you always do, Robert.’

‘So do you, Adrian,’ Hunter replied unconvincingly, stepping toward the man and shaking his hand.

Adrian Kennedy was the head of the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) and its Behavioral Analysis Unit — a specialist FBI department that provided support to national and international law enforcement agencies involved in the investigation of unusual or serial violent crimes.

Hunter was well aware that unless it was absolutely mandatory, Adrian Kennedy never traveled anywhere. He now coordinated most of NCAVC operations from his large office in Washington, DC, but he was no career bureaucrat. Kennedy had begun his life with the FBI at a young age, and quickly demonstrated that he had tremendous aptitude for leadership. He also had a natural ability to motivate people. That didn’t go unnoticed, and very early in his career he was assigned to the prestigious US President protection detail. Two years later, after foiling an attempt on the president’s life by throwing himself in front of the bullet that was destined to kill the most powerful man on earth, he received a high commendation award, and a “thank you” letter from the president himself. A few years after that, the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime was officially established in June 1984. They needed a director, someone who was a natural leader. Adrian Kennedy was the name at the top of the list.

‘This is Special Agent Courtney Taylor,’ Kennedy said, nodding at the blonde woman.

She moved closer and shook Hunter’s hand. ‘Very nice to meet you, Detective Hunter. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Taylor’s voice sounded incredibly seductive, combining a sort of soft, girlish tone with a level of self-assurance that was almost disarming. Despite her delicate hands, her handshake was firm and meaningful, like that of a businesswoman who had just closed a major deal.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you too,’ Hunter replied, politely. ‘And I hope that some of what you’ve heard wasn’t so bad.’

She gave him a shy, but truthful smile. ‘None of it was bad.’

Hunter turned and faced Kennedy again.

‘I’m glad we managed to catch you before you’d left for your break, Robert,’ Kennedy said.

Nothing from Hunter.

‘Going anywhere nice?

Hunter held Kennedy’s stare.

‘This has got to be bad,’ he finally said. ‘Because I know you’re not the sort to sugar-talk anyone. I also know you couldn’t care less about where I am going on my break. So how about we drop the bullshit? What’s this about, Adrian?’

Kennedy took a moment, as if he had to carefully consider his answer before finally replying.

‘You, Robert. This is about you.’

Four

Hunter’s attention wandered over to Captain Blake for a brief moment; as their eyes met, she shrugged apologetically.

‘They didn’t tell me much, Robert, but the little I know sounds like something you would want to hear.’ She went back to her desk. ‘It’s better if they explain.’

Hunter looked at Kennedy and waited.

‘Why don’t you have a seat, Robert?’ Kennedy said, offering one of the armchairs.

Hunter didn’t move.

‘I’m fine standing, thank you.’

‘Coffee?’ Kennedy asked, indicating Captain Blake’s espresso machine in the corner.

Hunter’s gaze hardened.

‘All right, fine.’ Kennedy lifted both hands in a surrender gesture, while at the same time giving Special Agent Taylor an almost imperceptible nod. ‘We’ll get on with it.’ He returned to his seat.

Taylor put down her cup of coffee and stepped forward, pausing just beside Kennedy’s chair.

‘OK,’ she began. ‘Five days ago, at around six in the morning, while driving south down US Route 87, a Mr John Garner suffered a heart attack just outside a small town called Wheatland, in southeastern Wyoming. Needless to say, he lost control of his pick-up truck.’

‘It was raining heavily that morning, and Mr Garner was the sole occupant of the truck,’ Kennedy added before signaling Taylor to carry on.

‘Maybe you already know this,’ Taylor continued. ‘But Route 87 runs all the way from Montana to southern Texas, and like most US highways, unless the stretch in question is going through what’s considered a minimum populated area or an high accident-risk one, there are no guardrails, walls, high curbstones, raised center island divisions. . nothing that would keep a vehicle from leaving the highway and venturing off in a multitude of directions.’

‘The stretch that we’re talking about here doesn’t fall under the minimum populated area, or high accident-risk category,’ Kennedy commented.

‘By pure luck.’ Taylor moved on. ‘Or lack of it, depending what point of view you take, Mr Garner suffered the heart attack just as he was driving past a small truck-stop diner called Nora’s Diner. With him unconscious at the wheel, his truck veered off the road and drove across a patch of low grass, heading straight for the diner. According to witnesses, Mr Garner’s truck was in a direct line of collision with the front of the restaurant.

‘At that time in the morning, and because of the torrential rain that was falling, there were only ten people inside the diner — seven customers plus three employees. The local sheriff and one of his deputies were two of the customers.’ She paused to clear her throat. ‘Something must’ve happened right at the last second, because Mr Garner’s truck drastically changed course and missed the restaurant by just a few feet. Road accident forensics figured that the truck hit a large and deep pothole just a few yards before getting to the diner, and that caused the steering wheel to swing hard left.’

‘The truck crashed into the adjacent lavatory building,’ Kennedy said. ‘Even if his heart attack hadn’t killed Mr Garner, the collision would have.’

‘Now,’ Taylor said, lifting her right index finger. ‘This is the first twist. As Mr Garner’s truck missed the diner and headed toward the lavatory building, it clipped the back of a blue Ford Taurus that was parked just outside. The car belonged to one of the diner’s customers.’

Taylor paused and reached for her briefcase that was by Captain Blake’s desk.

‘Mr Garner’s truck hit the Taurus rear hard enough to cause the trunk door to pop open,’ Kennedy said.

‘The sheriff missed it.’ Taylor again. ‘Because as he ran outside, his main concern was to attend to the truck driver and passengers, if there had been any.’

She reached into her briefcase and retrieved an 11x8-inch colored photograph.

‘But his deputy didn’t,’ she announced. ‘As he ran outside, something inside the Taurus’ trunk caught his eye.’

Hunter waited.

Taylor stepped forward and handed him the photograph.

‘This is what he saw inside the trunk.’

Five

FBI National Training Academy, Quantico, Virginia.

2,632 miles away.

For the past ten minutes Special Agent Edwin Newman had been standing inside the holding cells control room in the basement of one of the several buildings that made up the nerve center of the FBI Academy. Despite the many CCTV monitors mounted on the east wall, all of his attention was set on a single and very specific one.

Newman wasn’t one of the academy’s trainees. In fact, he was a very experienced and accomplished agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, who had completed his training over twenty years ago. Newman was based in Washington DC, and had specially made the journey to Virginia four days ago just to interview the new prisoner.

‘Has he moved at all in the past hour?’ Newman asked the room operator, who was sitting at the large controls console that faced the monitors’ wall.

The operator shook his head.

‘Nope, and he won’t move until lights off. Like I told you before, this guy is like a machine. I’ve never seen anything like it. Since they brought him in four nights ago, he hasn’t broken his routine. He sleeps on his back, facing the ceiling, hands locked together and resting on his stomach — like a cadaver in a coffin. Once he closes his eyes, he doesn’t move — no twitching, no turning, no restlessness, no scratching, no snoring, no waking up in the middle of the night to go pee, no nothing. Sure, at times he looks scared, as if he has no fucking idea why he’s here, but most of the time he sleeps like a man with absolutely no worries in life, crashed out in the most comfortable bed money can buy. And I can tell you this —’ he pointed at the screen — ‘that bed ain’t it. That is one goddamn uncomfortable piece of wood with a paper-thin mattress on top.’

Newman scratched his crooked nose but said nothing.

The operator continued.

‘That guy’s internal clock is tuned to Swiss precision. I shit you not. You can set your watch by it.’

‘What do you mean?’ Newman asked.

The operator let out a nasal chuckle. ‘Every morning, at exactly 5:45 a.m., he opens his eyes. No alarm, no noise, no lights on, no call from us, and no agent bursting into his cell to wake him up. He just does it by himself. 5:45, on the dot — bing — he’s awake.’

Newman knew that the prisoner had been stripped of all personal possessions. He had no watch or any other kind of timekeeper with him.

‘As he opens his eyes,’ the operator continued, ‘he stares at the ceiling for exactly ninety-five seconds. Not a second more, not a second less. You can watch the recording from the past three days and time it if you like.’

No reaction from Newman.

‘After ninety-five seconds,’ the operator said, ‘he gets out of bed, does his business at the latrine, and then hits the floor and starts doing push-ups, followed by sit-ups — ten reps of each in each set. If he isn’t interrupted, he’ll do fifty sets with the minimum of rest in between sets — no grunting, no puffing, and no face-pulling either, just pure determination. Breakfast is brought to him sometime between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m. If he hasn’t yet finished his sets, he’ll carry on until he’s done, only then will he sit down and calmly eat his food. And he eats all of it without complaining. No matter what tasteless shit we put on that tray. After that, he’s taken in for interrogation.’ He turned to look at Newman. ‘I’m assuming you are the interrogator.’

Newman didn’t reply, didn’t nod, and didn’t shake his head either. He simply carried on staring at the monitor.

The operator shrugged and carried on with his account.

‘When he’s brought back to his cell, whatever time that might be, he goes back to a second battery of his exercise routine — another fifty sets of push-ups and sit-ups.’ He chuckled. ‘If you lost count, that’s one thousand of each every day. When he’s done, if he isn’t taken away for further interrogation, he does exactly what you can see on the screen right now — he sits on his bed, crosses his legs, stares at the blank wall in front of him, and I guess he meditates, or prays, or whatever. But he never closes his eyes. And let me tell you, it’s fucking freaky the way he just stares at that wall.’

‘For how long?’ Newman asked.

‘Depends,’ the operator replied. ‘He’s allowed one visit to the shower every day, but prisoners’ shower times change from day to day. You know the drill. If we come get him while he’s wall-staring, he’ll simply snap out of his trance, step off the bed, get shackled and go to the shower — no moaning, no resisting, no fighting. When he comes back, he goes straight back to the bed-sitting, wall-staring thing again. If he isn’t interrupted at all, he’ll carry on staring at that wall until lights off at 9:30.’

Newman nodded.

‘But yesterday,’ the operator added. ‘Just out of curiosity, they kept the lights on for an extra five minutes.’

‘Let me guess,’ Newman said. ‘It made no difference. At exactly 9:30, he lay down, went back to his “body in a coffin” position, and went to sleep, lights off or not.’

‘You got it,’ the operator agreed. ‘Like I said, he’s like a machine, with a Swiss precision internal clock.’ He paused and turned to face Newman. ‘I’m no expert here, but from what I’ve seen in the past four nights and four days, mentally, this guy is a fucking fortress.’

Newman said nothing.

‘I don’t want to overstep my mark here, but. . has he talked at all during any of the interrogation sessions?’

Newman considered the question for a long moment.

‘The reason I ask is because I know the drill. If a special prisoner like this one hasn’t talked after three days of interrogation, then the VIP treatment starts, and we all know how tough that gets.’ Instinctively the operator checked his watch. ‘Well, it’s been three days, and if the VIP treatment was about to start, I would’ve gotten word of it by now. So I’m guessing — he talked.’

Newman observed the screen for a few more seconds before nodding once. ‘He spoke for the first time last night.’ He finally looked away from the wall monitor and stared back at the room operator. ‘He said seven words.’

Six

As Hunter studied the photograph Special Agent Courtney Taylor had handed him, he felt his heartbeat pick up speed inside his chest, and a rush of adrenaline surge through his body. Several silent seconds went by before he allowed his stare to finally leave the picture and wander over to Captain Blake.

‘Have you seen this?’ he asked.

She nodded.

Hunter’s eyes returned to the photograph.

‘Clearly,’ Kennedy said, standing up again. ‘Mr Garner’s pick-up truck clipped the back of the Ford Taurus hard enough not only to release the trunk door, but also to knock that ice container over.’

The photograph showed a family-size, picnic-style ice container that had been tipped on its side inside the Taurus’ trunk. Large cubes of ice had spilled out of it, rolling off in all directions. Most of the ice cubes were crimson with what could only have been blood. But that was only secondary. Hunter’s full attention was on something else — the two severed heads that undoubtedly were being preserved inside the container until it was disturbed by the accident. Both heads were female: one blonde — longish hair; one brunette — short, pixie-styled hair. Both heads had been severed from their bodies at the base of the neck. From what Hunter could tell, the cut looked clean — experienced.

The blonde woman’s head was lying on its left cheek, her long hair covering most of her face. The brunette woman’s head, on the other hand, had rolled away from the container and, with the help of several ice cubes, had wedged itself in such a way that the back of her head was flat against the trunk’s floor, her features clearly exposed. And that was what made Hunter pause for breath. Her facial wounds were more shocking than the decapitation itself.

Three small, locked, metal padlocks crudely and savagely pierced the flesh on both of her lips at uneven intervals, keeping her mouth shut, but not completely sealed. Her delicate lips, crusty with blood, still looked swollen, which indicated that the padlocks had ripped through her flesh while she was still alive. Her eyes had been removed. Her eye sockets were empty. Just two black holes caked with dried blood, which had also run down her cheeks, creating a crazy, dark red, lightning bolt effect.

She didn’t have the skin of an old woman, but guessing her age from the picture alone was practically impossible.

‘That photograph was taken by Sheriff Walton just minutes after the accident,’ Kennedy offered, walking over and pausing next to Hunter. ‘As Agent Taylor mentioned earlier, he was having breakfast in the diner that morning. Nothing was touched. He acted fast because he knew the rain would start destroying evidence pretty quickly.’

Taylor reached inside her briefcase and retrieved a new photograph, handing it to Hunter.

‘This one was taken by the forensics team,’ she explained. ‘They had to travel all the way from Cheyenne, which is only about an hour away, but when you add delay time, assembling the team together and getting on the road, they only got there about four hours after the accident had happened.’

In this new photograph, both heads had been placed side by side, facing up, still inside the Taurus’ trunk. The blonde woman’s face showed exactly the same wounds as the brunette’s. Again, guessing the second woman’s age was nearly impossible.

‘Were their eyes inside the container?’ Hunter asked, his attention never leaving the picture.

‘No,’ Taylor replied. ‘There was nothing else inside the ice container.’ She looked at Kennedy, and then back at Hunter. ‘And we have no idea where their bodies might be.’

‘And that’s not all,’ Kennedy said.

Hunter’s eyes left the picture and settled on the man from the FBI.

‘Once those padlocks were removed from their lips,’ Kennedy explained, nodding at the photograph. ‘It was revealed that they’d both had all of their teeth extracted.’ He paused for effect. ‘And their tongues cut off.’

Hunter stayed silent.

‘Since we have no bodies,’ Taylor said, taking over again. ‘And consequently no fingerprints, one could argue that the perpetrator removed their teeth, and possibly their eyes, to avoid identification, but the sheer brutality of the wounds inflicted on both victims. .’ She paused and lifted her right index finger to emphasize her point. ‘. . prior to death, tells us otherwise. Whoever killed them, enjoyed doing it.’ She phrased her last few words as if she’d just revealed a big secret. It sounded a little patronizing.

Kennedy pulled a face while at the same time giving Taylor a sharp look because he knew that she hadn’t told anyone in that room anything they hadn’t already figured out. Despite not being part of the FBI National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, or the Behavioral Analysis Unit, Robert Hunter was the best criminal profiler Kennedy had ever met. He had tried to recruit Hunter into the FBI for the first time many years ago, when he first read Hunter’s Ph.D. thesis paper titled An Advanced Psychological Study in Criminal Conduct. Hunter was only twenty-three years old at the time.

The paper had impressed Kennedy and the then FBI Director so much, that it became mandatory reading at the NCAVC, and still remained so. Since then and over the years, Kennedy had tried several times to recruit Hunter into his team. In his mind, it made no sense that Hunter would rather be a detective with the LAPD’s Special Homicide Division than join the most advanced serial-killer-tracking task force in the USA, arguably in the world. True, he knew Hunter was the lead detective for the Ultra Violent Crimes Unit, a special unit created by the LAPD to investigate homicides and serial homicides where overwhelming brutality and/or sadism had been used by the perpetrator, and Hunter was the best at what he did. His arrest record proved that, but still, the FBI could offer him a lot more than the LAPD could. But Hunter had never shown even an ounce of interest in becoming a federal agent, and had declined every offer made to him by Kennedy and his superiors.

‘Interesting case,’ Hunter said, handing the pictures back to Taylor. ‘But the FBI and the NCAVC have investigated a ton of similar cases. . some even more disturbing. This isn’t exactly something new.’

Neither Kennedy nor Taylor disputed that.

‘I take it that you don’t have an identity on either of the two victims,’ Hunter said.

‘That’s correct,’ Kennedy replied.

‘And you said that their heads were found in Wyoming?’

‘That’s also correct.’

‘You can probably guess what my next question is going to be, right?’ Hunter asked.

A second of hesitation.

‘If we don’t know who the victims are,’ Taylor said, nodding at him. ‘And their heads were found in Wyoming, what are we doing in Los Angeles?’

‘And why am I here?’ Hunter added, quickly checking his watch. ‘I have a plane to catch in a few hours, and I still need to pack.’

‘We’re here, and you’re here, because the federal government of the United States needs your help,’ Taylor replied.

‘Oh please,’ Captain Blake said, with a smirk on her lips. ‘Are you going to give us the patriotic bullshit speech now? Are you for real?’ She stood up. ‘My detectives put their lives on the line for the city of Los Angeles, and consequently for this country, day in, day out. So do yourself a favor and don’t even go there, sweetheart.’ She pinned Taylor down with a stare that could melt metal. ‘Does that bullshit actually work on people?’

Taylor looked like she was about to reply, but Hunter cut in just a second before.

‘Need me? Why?’ He addressed Kennedy. ‘I’m not an FBI agent, and you guys have more investigators than you can count, not to mention a squad of criminal profilers.’

‘None of them as good as you,’ Kennedy said.

‘Flattery will get you nowhere in here,’ Captain Blake said.

‘I’m not a profiler, Adrian,’ Hunter said. ‘You know that.’

‘That’s not really why we need you, Robert,’ Kennedy replied; he paused a moment, and nodded at Taylor. ‘Tell him.’

Seven

The tone Kennedy used caused Hunter’s right eyebrow to twitch up just a fraction. He turned, faced Agent Taylor, and waited.

Taylor used the tip of her fingers to tuck her loose hair behind her ears before beginning.

‘The Ford Taurus belonged to one of the customers who was having breakfast in the diner that morning. According to his driver’s license, his name is Liam Shaw, born February 13, 1968, in Madison, Tennessee.’ Taylor paused and observed Hunter for a second, trying to pick up any signs that he’d recognized the name. There were none.

‘According to his driver’s license?’ Hunter questioned, his gaze ping-ponging between Taylor and Kennedy. ‘So you have doubts.’ He stated rather than asked.

‘The name checks out,’ Kennedy said. ‘Everything looks above board.’

‘But you still have doubts.’ Hunter pushed.

‘The problem is. .’ Taylor this time. ‘Everything looks above board if we go back a maximum of fourteen years. Beyond that. .’ She faintly shook her head. ‘We could find absolutely nothing on a Liam Shaw, born February 13, 1968, in Madison, Tennessee. It’s like he never existed before then.’

‘And judging by the way you were observing me when you mentioned his name,’ Hunter said, ‘you were looking for signs of recognition. Why?’

Taylor looked impressed. She’d always been very proud of her poker face, the way she could study people without them noticing it, but Hunter had read her like a book.

Kennedy smiled. ‘I told you he’s good.’

Taylor seemed to take no notice of the comment.

‘Mr Shaw was arrested on the spot by Sheriff Walton and his deputy,’ she said. ‘But Sheriff Walton also quickly realized that he had stumbled upon something that he and his small department simply wouldn’t be able to handle. The Taurus’ license plates were from Montana, which created a cross-state reference. With that, the Wyoming sheriff department had no option but to bring us in.’

She paused and shuffled through the contents of her briefcase for a new document.

‘Now, here is the second twist to this story,’ she said, moving on. ‘The Taurus isn’t registered under Mr Shaw’s name. It’s registered under a Mr John Williams of New York City.’

She handed the document to Hunter.

Hunter barely glanced at the sheet of paper he’d been given.

‘Surprise, surprise,’ Kennedy said. ‘There was no John Williams at the address the car was registered to.’

‘John Williams is quite a common name,’ Hunter said.

‘Too common,’ Taylor agreed. ‘About fifteen hundred in New York City alone.’

‘But you have Mr Shaw in custody, right?’ Hunter asked.

‘That’s correct,’ Taylor confirmed.

Hunter looked at Captain Blake, still a little confused. ‘So, you’ve got Mr Shaw, who is apparently from Tennessee, two unidentified female heads, a vehicle with Montana license plates, which is registered to a Mr Williams from New York City.’ He shrugged at the room. ‘My original question still stands — why are you in LA? And why am I here and not at home packing?’ He checked his watch one more time.

‘Because Mr Shaw isn’t talking,’ Taylor replied, her voice still calm.

Hunter stared hard at her for a couple of seconds.

‘And how does that answer my question?’

‘Agent Taylor’s statement isn’t one hundred percent accurate,’ Kennedy cut in. ‘We’ve had Mr Shaw in our custody for four days. He was transferred to us a day after he was arrested. He’s being held in Quantico. I assigned Agent Taylor and Agent Newman to the case.’

Hunter’s eyes moved to Taylor for just a second.

‘But as Agent Taylor said. .’ Kennedy moved on. ‘. . Mr Shaw has been refusing to speak.’

‘So?’ Captain Blake interrupted, a little amused. ‘Since when has that stopped the FBI from still extracting information from anyone?’

Kennedy was unfazed by the spiked remark.

‘During last night’s interrogation session,’ he continued, ‘Mr Shaw finally spoke for the first time.’ He paused and walked over to the large window on the east wall. ‘He said only seven words.’

Hunter waited.

‘He said, “I will only speak to Robert Hunter.”’

Eight

Hunter didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. His facial expression remained unchanged. If Kennedy’s words had affected him in any way, he showed no signs of it.

‘I’m sure I’m not the only Robert Hunter in America,’ he finally said.

‘I’m sure you aren’t,’ Kennedy agreed. ‘But we’re also sure that Mr Shaw was talking about you, not someone else.’

‘How come you’re so sure?’

‘Because of his tone of voice,’ Kennedy replied. ‘And his posture, his confidence, his attitude. . everything about him, really. We’ve analyzed the footage countless times. You know what we do, Robert. You know that I have people who are trained to read the faintest of telltale signs, to recognize the slightest change of voice intonation, to identify body-language signals. This guy was confident. No hesitation. No trepidation. Nothing. He was certain that we would know who he was referring to.’

‘You can watch the recording if you like,’ Taylor offered. ‘I’ve got a copy right here.’ She gestured toward her briefcase.

Hunter remained silent.

‘That’s why we thought that maybe you might recognize the name,’ Kennedy said. ‘But then again, we had our suspicions that Liam Shaw was just a bogus name anyway.’

‘Have you tried Tennessee, where this Mr Liam Shaw is supposedly from?’ Captain Blake asked. ‘There might be a Robert Hunter somewhere over there.’

‘No, we haven’t,’ Taylor replied. ‘No need. As Director Kennedy said, Mr Shaw was too confident. He knew that it would take us no time to find out exactly whom he was referring to.’

Kennedy took over. ‘As soon as I heard the name, I knew that he could only be talking about one person. You, Robert.’

‘Do you have that footage?’ Hunter asked.

‘I do,’ Taylor replied. ‘I also have a photograph of Mr Shaw.’ She retrieved one last picture from her briefcase and handed it to Hunter.

Hunter stared at the photograph for a very long, silent moment. Again, neither his facial expression nor his body language gave anything away. Until he took a deep breath, and his eyes moved up to meet Kennedy’s.

‘You have got to be shitting me.’

Nine

The man who called himself Liam Shaw sat on the bed inside the small cell located deep underground — sublevel five of a nondescript building inside the FBI Academy complex in Quantico, Virginia. His legs were crossed under his body, his hands loosely clasped together, resting on his lap. His eyes were open, but there was no movement in them, just a dead, half-scared, half-uncertain look, staring straight ahead at the blank wall in front of him. In fact, there was no movement from him at all. No slight headshake, no twitching of the thumbs or fingers, no tiny adjustment of the legs under him, no shifting or rocking of the body, nothing, except for the unavoidable physical motor-reaction of blinking.

He’d been in that position for the past hour, simply staring at that wall, as though if he stared at it for long enough he’d be magically transported somewhere else. His legs should’ve cramped by now. His feet should’ve been tingly with thousands of pins and needles. His neck should’ve been stiff from the lack of movement, but he looked as comfortable and as stress-free as a man sitting in his own luxurious living room.

He’d taught himself that technique a long time ago. It had taken him many years to master it, but he could now practically empty his mind from most thoughts. He could easily block out sounds and blind himself to what was happening around him, despite having his eyes wide open. It was a sort of meditation trance that elevated his mind onto an almost unearthly level; but most of all, it kept him mentally strong. And he knew that that was exactly what he needed right now.

Since last night, the agents had stopped bothering him. But he knew they would. They wanted him to talk, but he just didn’t know what to say. He knew enough about police procedure to know that whatever explanation he gave them wouldn’t suffice, even if it were the truth. In their eyes, he was already guilty, no matter what he said or didn’t say. He also understood that the fact that he wasn’t being held by a regular police or sheriff’s department, but had been turned over to the FBI, complicated matters immensely.

He knew he had to give them something soon, because the interrogation methods were about to change. He could feel it. He could sense it in the tone of voice of both of his interrogators.

The attractive blonde woman who called herself Agent Taylor was softly spoken, charming and polite, while the big man with the crooked nose who called himself Agent Newman was much more aggressive and short-tempered. Typical good-cop-bad-cop team play. But their frustration due to his total commitment to staying silent was starting to show. The charm and politeness were about to end. That had become obvious in the last interrogation session.

And then the thought came to him, and with it came a name:

Robert Hunter.

Ten

Hunter eventually made it back to his apartment to pack his bags, but the flight he took just a couple of hours later wasn’t the one he had booked to Hawaii.

After taxiing its way up the runway, the private Hawker jet finally received the takeoff ‘go ahead’ from the Van Nuys airport control tower.

Hunter was seated toward the back of the plane, nursing a large cup of black coffee. His job didn’t really allow him to travel much, and when he did, if at all possible, he usually drove. He’d been on a few commercial planes before, but this was his first time inside a private jet, and he had to admit that he was impressed. The plane’s interior was both luxurious and practical in equal measures.

The cabin was about twenty-two feet long by seven feet wide. There were eight very comfortable, cream leather seats, set out in a double-club configuration — four individual seats on each side of the aisle, each with their own power outlet and media system. All eight seats could swivel 360 degrees. Low-heat LED overhead lights gave the cabin a nice, bright feel.

Agent Taylor was sitting on the seat directly in front of Hunter, typing away on her laptop, which was sitting on the fold-out table in front of her. Adrian Kennedy was sitting to Hunter’s right, across the aisle from him. Since they left Captain Blake’s office, he seemed to have been on his cellphone the whole time.

The plane took off smoothly and quickly climbed up to a cruising altitude of 30,000 feet. Hunter kept his eyes on the blue, cloudless sky outside his window, wrestling with a multitude of thoughts.

‘So,’ Kennedy said, finally coming off his phone and placing it back inside his jacket pocket. He had swiveled his seat around to face Hunter. ‘Tell me about this guy again, Robert. Who is he?’

Taylor stopped typing into her laptop and slowly rotated her seat around to face both men.

Hunter kept his eyes on the blue sky for a moment longer.

‘He’s one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met,’ he said at last. ‘Someone with tremendous self-discipline and control.’

Kennedy and Taylor waited.

‘His name is Lucien, Lucien Folter,’ Hunter carried on. ‘Or at least that’s the name that I knew him by. I met him on my first day at Stanford University. I was sixteen.’

Hunter grew up as an only child to working-class parents in Compton, an underprivileged neighborhood of South Los Angeles. His mother lost her battle with cancer when he was only seven. His father never remarried and had to take on two jobs to cope with the demands of raising a child on his own.

Hunter had always been different. Even as a child his brain seemed to work through problems faster than anyone else’s. School bored and frustrated him. He finished all of his sixth-grade work in less than two months and, just for something to do, he read through all the modules for the rest of his lower-school years. After doing so, he asked his school principal if he was allowed to take the final exams for grades seven and eight. Out of sheer curiosity and intrigue, the principal allowed him to. Hunter aced them all.

It was then that his principal decided to get in contact with the Los Angeles Board of Education; after a new battery of exams and tests, at the age of twelve, he was accepted into the Mirman School for the Gifted.

But even a special school’s curriculum wasn’t enough to slow his progress down.

By the age of fourteen he’d glided through Mirman’s high school English, History, Math, Biology and Chemistry curriculums. Four years of high school were condensed into two and at fifteen he’d graduated with honors. With recommendations from all of his teachers, Hunter was accepted as a ‘special circumstances’ student at Stanford University.

By the age of nineteen, Hunter had already graduated in Psychology — summa cum laude — and at twenty-three he received his PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology.

‘You said he was your roommate?’ Taylor asked.

Hunter nodded. ‘From day one. I was assigned to a dorm room on my first day in college.’ He shrugged. ‘Lucien was assigned to the same room.’

‘How many sharing the room?’

‘The two of us, that’s all. Small rooms.’

‘Was he also a psychology major?’

‘That’s right.’ Hunter’s gaze returned to the sky outside his window as his memory started to take him back to a long time ago. ‘He was a nice guy. I never expected him to be so friendly to me.’

Taylor frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Hunter shrugged again. ‘I was a lot younger than anyone around. I had never been too much into sports, going to the gym, or any sort of physical activity, really. I was very skinny and awkward, long hair, and I didn’t dress like most people did at the time. In truth, I was a bully magnet. Lucien was almost nineteen then, loved sports and worked out regularly. The kind of guy who’d usually have a field day with someone who looked like me.’

From Hunter’s look and physique, no one would ever have guessed that he’d been a skinny and awkward kid when young. He looked like he’d been a typical high school jock. Maybe even captain of the football or the wrestling team.

‘But he didn’t,’ Hunter continued. ‘In fact, it was because of him that I didn’t get picked on as much as I would have. We became best friends. When I started going to the gym, he helped me with workouts and diet and all.’

‘And how was he on a day-to-day basis?’

Hunter knew that Taylor was referring to Folter’s inner-character traits.

‘He wasn’t the violent kind, if that’s what you’re asking. He was always calm. Always in control. Which was a good thing, because he sure knew how to fight.’

‘But you just said that he wasn’t the violent kind,’ Taylor said.

‘That’s right.’

‘But you’ve also just implied that you’ve seen him in a fight.’

Half a nod. ‘I have.’

Taylor’s eyes and lip-twist asked a silent question.

‘There are certain situations that, no matter how calm or easy-going you are, you just can’t get out of,’ Hunter replied.

‘Such as?’ Taylor insisted.

‘I only remember seeing Lucien in a fight once,’ Hunter explained. ‘And he really tried to get out of it without using his fists, but it didn’t work out that way.’

‘How so?’

Hunter shrugged. ‘Lucien had met this girl in a bar at the weekend and spent the night chatting to her. As far as I am aware, that was it. There was no sex, no kissing, nothing bad, really, just a few drinks, a little flirting and loads of laughs. On the Monday after that weekend, we were coming back from a late study session at the library, when we got cornered off by four guys, all of them pretty big. One of them was the girl’s “very pissed off” ex-boyfriend. Apparently, they’d split not that long ago. Now the thing about Lucien was that he’d always been a great talker. As the saying goes: He could sell ice to an Eskimo. He tried to reason his way out of that situation. He said that he was sorry, that he didn’t know that she had a boyfriend, or that they had just split. He said that if he’d known, he would’ve never approached her and so on. But the guys didn’t want to know. They said that they weren’t there for an apology. They were there to fuck him up, full stop.’

‘So what happened then?’ Taylor asked.

‘Not much. Until then I had never seen anything quite like it. They just went for him. Me? As skinny as I was, I wasn’t about to sit and watch my best friend get beat up by four Neanderthals, but I barely got a chance to move. The whole thing was over in ten. . fifteen seconds, tops. I couldn’t really tell you what happened in detail, but Lucien moved fast. . too fast, actually. In absolutely no time, all four of them were on the floor. Two had a broken nose, one had about three or four broken fingers, and the fourth one had his genitals kicked to the back of his throat. After we got out of there, I asked him where he learned to do that.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He gave me a bullshit answer. He said he watched a lot of martial arts movies. One thing I had learned about Lucien was that there was no point in trying to push him for an answer when he didn’t want to give you one. So I just left it at that.’

‘You said that he’s a great talker,’ Taylor said with a slight lilt in her voice. ‘Well, he hasn’t made that much conversation in the past few days.’

‘When did you last see him?’ Kennedy asked.

‘The day I got my PhD diploma,’ Hunter explained. ‘In college I graduated a year before him.’

Taylor knew from Hunter’s résumé that he had sped through his college years as well, condensing four years into three.

‘But I stayed in Stanford,’ Hunter said. ‘I was offered a second scholarship to carry on studying for a PhD So I took it. Lucien and I continued to share the dorm room for one more year, until he graduated. After that, he left Stanford.’

‘Did you keep in touch?’

‘We did, but not for very long,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘He took a few months off after he graduated. Went traveling for a little while, and then decided that he wanted to go back to university. He also wanted to get a PhD.’

‘Did he go back to Stanford?’

‘No. He went to Yale.’

‘Connecticut?’ Taylor was surprised. ‘That’s all the way on the east coast. Why so far away when you have Stanford, Berkley, Caltech, and UCLA right there in California? Four of the best universities in the whole of the country.’

‘Yale is also a great university,’ Hunter countered.

‘I know that. But you know what I mean. Connecticut is a hell of a hike from California. I’m guessing that, after living there for so many years, he probably had lots of friends and some sort of life back in LA. Why the sudden change? Is that where his family is from, Connecticut?’

Hunter paused for a second, trying to remember.

‘I don’t know where his family is from,’ he said. ‘He never talked about them.’

Taylor’s gaze slowly moved to Kennedy and then back to Hunter.

‘Don’t you think that’s a little odd?’ she asked. ‘You two spent years together sharing a dorm room. As you’ve put it, you became best friends. He never said anything about his family at all?’

Hunter shrugged matter-of-factly.

‘No, and I don’t think that’s odd at all. I never talked about my family, to him, or anyone else for that matter. Some people are more private than others.’

‘So you last saw him when you received your PhD diploma,’ Kennedy said.

Hunter nodded. ‘He flew over for the graduation ceremony, stayed for a day, and flew back the next morning. I never heard from him again since.’

‘He just flew back to Connecticut and disappeared?’ Taylor spoke again. ‘I thought you were best friends.’

‘Maybe I was the one who disappeared,’ Hunter said.

Taylor hesitated for an instant.

‘Why? Did he try to get in contact with you?’

‘Not that I am aware of,’ Hunter replied. ‘But I didn’t try to keep in touch with him either.’ He paused and looked away. ‘After my graduation I didn’t keep in touch with anyone.’

Eleven

The private Hawker jet touched down on Turner Field landing strip in Quantico, Virginia, almost exactly five hours after taking off from Van Nuys airport in Los Angeles.

After Hunter’s conversation with Kennedy and Taylor about what he could remember of his old best friend, they all sat in silence for the rest of the long flight. Kennedy fell asleep for a couple of hours, but Hunter and Taylor stayed awake for the duration, each one lost in their own thoughts. For some reason Taylor’s memory took her back to when she was still a child, and how she was forced to learn how to take care of herself at a very young age.

Her seemingly healthy father died of an unexpected heart attack, triggered by a coronary aneurysm, when she was fourteen years old. Taylor took his death very badly, and so did her young mother. The next couple of years became a tremendous battle, emotionally and financially, as her mother — who had been a housewife for the past fifteen years — struggled with a series of odd jobs and the pressures of being a recent widow, and consequently a single parent.

Taylor’s mother was a tender woman with a kind soul, but she was also one of those people who just couldn’t handle being by herself. What followed was a string of deadbeat boyfriends, some of them abusive. Taylor was just about to graduate from high school when her mother became pregnant again. Her mother’s boyfriend at the time told her that he just didn’t want that kind of responsibility, that he wasn’t ready to become a father and have a family, and that he had no intention of becoming a father to someone else’s daughter — a girl that he couldn’t care less for. When Taylor’s mother refused to follow through with the abortion clinic appointment he’d set up for her, he simply dumped her and left town the next day. They never heard from him again.

With her mother heavily pregnant and unable to work, Taylor gave up on the idea of going to college and started working full time at the local mall. A month later, her mother gave birth to a baby boy, Adam — but unfortunately Adam was born with an abnormality on chromosome eighteen, resulting in moderate mental retardation, muscle atrophy, craniofacial malformation, and huge difficulty in coordinating movement. Instead of bringing her joy, Adam’s birth threw Taylor’s mother into an out-of-control depression spiral. She didn’t know how to cope with it and found solace in sleeping tablets, antidepressants and alcohol. At the age of seventeen, Taylor had to become ‘big daughter’, ‘big sister’, and ‘man of the house’.

Government subsidy wasn’t nearly enough so, for the next three years, Taylor worked whatever jobs she could get and took care of her little brother and mother, but despite all the medical support, Adam’s health kept on deteriorating, and he died two months after his third birthday. Her mother’s depression worsened considerably, but without medical insurance, professional help was nearly impossible to find.

One rainy night, when Taylor came back from working a late waitress shift in a restaurant downtown, she found a note from her mother on the kitchen table:

Reading the note filled Taylor with a heart-stopping dread, and she rushed to her mother’s room. . but it was way too late. On her mother’s bedside table there were three empty bottles — one of sleeping pills, one of antidepressants, and one of vodka. Taylor still has nightmares about that night.

A black GMC SUV with tinted windows, FBI-style, was already waiting for them on the runway when they landed.

Hunter stepped off the plane and stretched his six-foot frame against the early morning breeze. It felt good to be breathing clean air again, and to finally get out of such confined space. No matter how luxurious the jet’s passenger cabin was, after five hours locked inside it, it felt like a sky prison.

Hunter checked his watch — the sun wouldn’t be up for another two hours, but surprisingly, the night air in Virginia at that time of year felt just as warm as it did back in Los Angeles.

‘We all need to try to get some sleep,’ Kennedy said, coming off his cellphone again. All three of them boarded the SUV. ‘And a decent breakfast later on. Your quarters are ready,’ he addressed Hunter. ‘I hope you don’t mind staying at one of the recruit dorms at the academy.’

Hunter gave him a subtle headshake.

‘Agent Taylor will come get you at ten a.m.’ Kennedy consulted his timepiece. ‘That’ll give everyone around six hours’ break. Get some sleep.’

‘Can’t we make it any earlier than that?’ Hunter asked. ‘Like now? I’m here already. I don’t see the point of delaying this any longer.’

Kennedy looked straight into Hunter’s eyes. ‘We all need some rest, Robert. It’s been a long day and a long flight. I know that you can work on very little sleep, but that doesn’t mean that your brain doesn’t get tired like everyone else’s. I need you sharp when you walk in there to talk to your old friend.’

Hunter said nothing. He simply watched the lampposts fly by as the SUV drove off.

Twelve

Special Agent Courtney Taylor knocked on Hunter’s dorm room door at exactly 10:00 a.m. She had managed five hours’ sleep, had showered, and was now wearing a businesslike but elegant black pinstripe suit. Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a very slick ponytail.

Hunter opened the door, checked his watch, and smiled.

‘Wow, I guess you timed your arrival to absolute perfection.’

Hunter’s hair was still wet from his shower. He was wearing black jeans, a dark blue T-shirt under his usual thin black leather jacket, and black boots.

Dozing on and off, he had only managed to sleep a total of two and a half hours.

‘Are you ready, Detective Hunter?’ Taylor asked.

‘Indeed,’ Hunter replied, closing the door behind him.

‘I trust that you got breakfast OK?’ she said, as they started walking down the corridor toward the staircase.

At precisely 9:00 a.m., an FBI cadet carrying a healthy breakfast tray of fruit, cereal, yogurt, scrambled eggs, coffee, milk and toast had knocked on Hunter’s door.

‘I did,’ Hunter said with a questioning smile. ‘But I didn’t know the FBI did room service.’

‘We don’t, this was a one-off. You can thank Director Kennedy for that.’

Hunter nodded once. ‘I’ll make sure I do.’

Downstairs, another black SUV was waiting to drive them across the compound to the other side. Hunter sat in silence in the back seat, while Taylor sat in front with the driver.

The FBI Academy was located on 547 acres of a Marine Corps base forty miles south of Washington, DC. Its nerve center was an interconnected conglomerate of buildings that looked a lot more like an overgrown corporation than a government training facility. Recruits in dark blue sweat suits, with the bureau’s insignia emblazoned on their chests and FBI in large golden letters across their backs, were just about everywhere. Marines with high-powered rifles stood at every intersection and at the entrance to every building. The sound of helicopter blades cutting the air seemed to be constant. There was no way of escaping the palpable sense of mission and secrecy that soaked the entire place.

After a drive that seemed to have lasted forever, the SUV finally reached the other side of the complex, and stopped at the heavily guarded gates of what could only be described as a compound within a compound, completely detached from the main network of buildings. After clearing security, the SUV moved inside and parked in front of a three-story brick building fronted by dark-tinted, bulletproof-glass windows.

Hunter and Taylor exited the car, and she escorted him past the armed Marines at the entrance and into the building. Inside they went through two sets of security doors, down a long hallway, through two more sets of security doors and into an elevator, which descended three floors down to the Behavioral Science Unit, or BSU. The elevator opened onto a long, shiny and well-lit hardwood corridor, with several portraits in gilded frames lining the walls.

A big man with a round face and a crooked nose stepped in front of the open elevator doors.

‘Detective Robert Hunter,’ he said in a harsh voice that came across as a little unfriendly. ‘I’m Agent Edwin Newman. Welcome to the FBI BSU.’

Hunter stepped out of the lift and shook Newman’s hand.

Newman was in his early fifties, with combed-back peppery hair and bright green eyes. He was wearing a black suit with a pristine white shirt and a silky red tie. He smiled, flashing gleaming white teeth.

‘I thought that we could have a quick chat in the conference room before we take you to see. .’ Newman paused and looked at Taylor. ‘. . your old friend, as I understand.’

Hunter simply nodded and followed Newman and Taylor to the opposite end of the hallway.

The conference room was large and air-conditioned to a very pleasant temperature. The center of the room was taken by a long, polished mahogany table. A very large monitor showing a detailed map of the United States glowed at the far wall.

Newman took a seat at the head of the table and nodded for Hunter to take the seat next to him.

‘I know you’ve been made completely aware of the delicate situation we have here,’ Newman began, once Hunter took his seat.

Hunter agreed with a head gesture.

Newman flipped open the folder on the table in front of him. ‘According to what you told Director Kennedy and Agent Taylor, the real name of the man we have in our custody is Lucien Folter, and not Liam Shaw, as it was stated in his driver’s license.’

‘That’s the name I knew him by,’ Hunter confirmed.

Newman nodded his understanding. ‘So you think that Lucien Folter could also be a made-up name?’

‘That’s not what I said,’ Hunter replied calmly.

Newman waited.

‘I see no reason why he would use a false name back in college,’ Hunter said, trying to clear things up. ‘You also have to remember that we’re talking about Stanford University here, and someone who was just nineteen at the time.’

Newman gave Hunter a very subtle frown, not quite following the detective’s line of thought.

Hunter read it and explained. ‘That means that this nineteen-year-old kid would’ve had to have expertly falsified several records to be accepted into a very prestigious university, in an era when personal computers did not exist.’ He shook his head. ‘Not an easy task.’

‘Not easy,’ Newman agreed. ‘But it was doable.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘The only reason I ask is because of the hidden meaning in his name,’ Newman said.

‘Hidden meaning?’ Hunter looked at the agent curiously.

Newman nodded. ‘Did you know that the word Folter means torture in German?’

Hunter agreed with a head gesture. ‘Yes, Lucien told me.’

Newman carried on staring at him.

Hunter didn’t look too impressed. ‘Is that what you mean by hidden meaning?’ He glanced at Taylor, then back at Newman. ‘Did you also know that the name Lucien comes from the French language and it means “light, illumination”? It’s also a village in Poland, and the name of a Christian saint. Most names have a history behind them, Special Agent Newman. My family name means “he who hunts”; nevertheless, my father was never a hunter in any shape or form. A great number of American family names will, by coincidence, mean something in a different language. That doesn’t actually constitute a hidden meaning.’

Newman said nothing back.

Hunter took a moment, and then allowed his gaze to move to the folder on the table.

Newman got the hint and began reading. ‘OK. Lucien Folter, born October 25, 1966, in Monte Vista, Colorado. His parents — Charles Folter and Mary-Ann Folter, are both deceased. He graduated from Monte Vista High School in 1985, with very good grades. No youth record whatsoever. Never got into any trouble with the police. After graduating from high school, he was quickly accepted into Stanford University.’ Newman paused and looked up at Hunter. ‘I guess you know everything that happened during the next few years.’

Hunter remained silent.

‘After obtaining his psychology degree from Stanford,’ Newman continued, ‘Lucien Folter applied to Yale University in Connecticut for a PhD in Criminal Psychology. He was accepted, did three years of his degree, and then simply disappeared. He never completed his PhD.’

Hunter kept his eyes on Newman. He didn’t know that his old friend hadn’t completed his doctorate.

‘And when I say disappeared,’ Newman said. ‘I mean disappeared. There’s nothing else out there on a Lucien Folter after his third year at Yale. No job records, no passport, no credit cards, no listed address, no bills. . no anything. It’s like Lucien Folter ceased to exist.’ Newman closed the folder. ‘That’s all we have on him.’

‘Maybe that was when he decided to take up a new identity,’ Taylor offered. She was sitting across the table from Hunter. ‘Maybe that was when he got tired of being Lucien Folter and became someone else. Maybe Liam Shaw, or maybe even someone completely different that we don’t know about.’

Silence took over the room for the next few seconds, before Newman broke it again.

‘The truth is that whoever this guy really is, he’s a living, breathing, walking mystery. Somebody who might’ve lied to everyone throughout his whole life.’

Hunter chewed on that thought for a moment.

‘I wanted you to understand this before you go talk to him,’ Newman added, ‘because I know that things can get a little emotional when we’re dealing with people from our past. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’ve read your file, and I’ve read your thesis on “An Advanced Psychological Study in Criminal Conduct”. Everybody in BSU has, it’s mandatory reading, and so I know that you know what you’re doing better than most. But you’re still human, and as such you have emotions. No matter how clued-up a person is, emotions can and will cloud best judgments and opinions. Keep that in mind when you walk in there.’

Hunter stayed quiet.

Newman then proceeded to explain to Hunter how unconventional and mysterious Lucien Folter had appeared to be since he had arrived in Quantico — the extreme silence, the up-to-the-second biological internal timekeeping, the long exercise sessions, the wall staring, the extraordinary mental strength, everything.

From what he knew of his old friend, Hunter wasn’t too surprised Lucien could be that mentally focused.

‘He’s waiting,’ Newman said at last. ‘I guess we better get going.’

Thirteen

Newman and Taylor guided Hunter out of the conference room, back down the hallway, and into the elevator, which descended another two floors to sublevel five. This level was nothing like the Behavioral Science Unit’s floor. There was no shiny hallway, no fancy fixtures on the walls, no pleasant feel to the place whatsoever.

The elevator opened onto a small concrete-floored anteroom. On the right, behind a large safety-glass window, Hunter could see what had to be a control room, with wall-mounted monitors and a guard sitting at a large console desk.

‘Welcome to the BSU holding cells floor,’ Taylor said.

‘Why is he being held here?’ Hunter asked.

‘A couple of reasons, really,’ Taylor replied. ‘First, as was mentioned before, the sheriff’s department in Wheatland had no idea how to deal with a case of this magnitude, and second, because everything indicates that this is probably a cross-state double-homicide case. So until we’re able to establish where your old friend should be rightly held, we’ll keep him here.’

‘Also because your friend’s potential psychopathy has triggered several bells within the behavioral unit,’ Newman added. ‘Especially his incredible mental strength, and the way he’s able to hold firm under pressure. No one in the unit has ever come across anyone quite like him. If he really is a killer, judging by the level of brutality that was used on the two victims’ heads found, then we might have stumbled upon a Pandora’s box.’

Taylor signaled the guard inside the control room and he buzzed open the door directly across the room from them. The US Marine standing by the door took a step to the side to allow them through.

The door led them into a long corridor where the walls were made of cinder block. There was a distinct sanitized smell in the air, something that tickled the inside of the nose, similar to what one would find in a hospital, but not as strong. The corridor led them to a second heavy metal door — breach and assault proof. As they got to it, Taylor and Newman looked up at the security camera high on the ceiling above the door. A second later, the door buzzed open. They zigzagged through another two smaller hallways and two more breach/assault proof doors, before arriving at the interrogation room, halfway down another nondescript hallway.

This new room was nothing more than a square box, 16 feet by 16 feet, light gray cinder-block walls, and white linoleum floor. The center of the room was taken by a square metal table with two metal chairs at opposite ends. The table was securely bolted to the floor. Also bolted to the floor, just by where the chairs were, were two sets of very thick metal loops. On the ceiling, directly above the table, two fluorescent tube lights encased in metal cages bathed the room in crisp brightness. Hunter also noticed the four CCTV cameras, one at each corner of the ceiling. A water cooler was pushed up against one of the walls, and the north wall was taken by a very large two-way mirror.

‘Have a seat,’ Taylor said to Hunter. ‘Get comfortable. Your friend is being brought here.’ She gestured with her head. ‘We’ll be next door, but we’ll have eyes and ears in this room.’

Without saying anything else, Taylor and Newman exited the interrogation room, allowing the heavy metal door to shut behind them, and leaving Hunter alone inside the claustrophobic square box. There was no handle on the inside of the door.

Hunter took a deep breath and leaned against the metal table, facing the wall. He’d been inside interrogation rooms countless times. Many of them face to face with people who turned out to be very violent, brutal and sadistic killers. Some of them serial. But not since his first few interrogations had he felt the choking tingle of anticipation that was now starting to strangle at his throat. And he didn’t like that feeling. Not even a little bit.

Then the door buzzed open again.

Fourteen

To Hunter’s own surprise, he found himself holding his breath while the door was being dragged open.

The first person to step through it was a tall and well-built US Marine, carrying a close-quarters combat shotgun. He took two steps into the room, paused, and then took one step to his left, clearing a pathway from the door into the room.

Hunter tensed and stood up straight.

The second person to step into the room was about one inch taller than Hunter. His hair was brown and cropped short. His beard was just starting to become bushy. He was wearing a standard, orange prisoner jumpsuit. His hands were cuffed and linked together by a metal bar that was no longer than a foot. The chain that was attached to that metal bar looped around his waist and then moved down to his feet, hooking on to thick and heavy ankle cuffs, restricting his movements, and forcing him to shuffle his way along as he walked — like a Japanese Geisha girl.

His head was low, with his chin almost touching his chest. His eyes were focused on the floor. Hunter couldn’t clearly see his face, but he could still recognize his old friend.

Directly behind the prisoner followed a second Marine, armed identically to the first.

Hunter took a step to his right, but remained silent.

Both guards guided the prisoner to the metal table and to one of the chairs. As they sat him down, the second Marine quickly shackled the prisoner’s ankle chain to the metal loop on the floor. The prisoner never lifted his head up, keeping his eyes low throughout the entire procedure. Once all was done, both guards exited the room without uttering a word, or even looking at Hunter. The door closed behind them with a heavy clang.

The tense silent seconds that followed seemed to stretch for an eternity, until the prisoner finally lifted his head up.

Hunter was standing across the metal table from him, immobile. . transfixed. Their eyes met, and for a moment they both simply stared at each other. Then, the prisoner’s lips stretched into a thin, nervous smile.

‘Hello, Robert,’ he finally said, in a voice that sounded full of emotion.

Lucien had gained a little more weight since Hunter had last seen him, but it looked to be all muscle. His face looked older, but leaner. He still had the same unmistakably healthy hue to his skin as he had all those years ago, but the look in his dark brown eyes had changed. They now seemed to possess a penetrating quality often associated with greatness, looking at everything with tremendous focus and purpose. With his high cheekbones, full, strong lips and a squared jaw, Hunter had no doubt that women would still refer to him as handsome. The one-inch-long diagonal scar on his left cheek, just under his eye, gave him a rough, ‘bad boy’ look that Hunter was sure would come across as charming to many people.

‘Lucien,’ Hunter said, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

The staring continued for several seconds.

‘It’s been a very long time,’ Lucien said, looking down at his shackled hands. ‘If I could, I’d hug you. I’ve missed you, Robert.’

Hunter stayed quiet simply because he didn’t really know what to say. He’d always hoped that one day he would see his old college friend again, but he’d never imagined that it would be in the situation they found themselves in at that moment.

‘You look well, my friend,’ Lucien said with a renewed smile, his eyes analyzing Hunter. ‘I can tell you’ve never stopped working out. You look like. .’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘. . a lean boxer ready for his championship fight, and you barely look like you’ve aged. Looks like life has been good to you.’

Hunter finally shook his head, just a subtle movement, as if awaking from a trance.

‘Lucien, what the hell is going on?’ His voice was calm and composed, but his eyes were still showing surprise.

Lucien took a deep breath and Hunter saw his body tense uncomfortably.

‘I’m not sure, Robert,’ he said. His voice was a little weaker.

‘You’re not sure?’

Lucien’s eyes returned to his cuffed hands and he shuffled himself on his seat, looking for a more comfortable position, a clear sign that he was struggling with his own thoughts.

‘Tell me,’ he said, avoiding eye contact. ‘Have you ever heard from Susan?’ For an instant he seemed surprised by his own question.

Hunter frowned. ‘What?’

‘Susan. You remember her, don’t you? Susan Richards?’

Flashes of memory exploded inside Hunter’s head. He remembered Susan very well. How could he not? The three of them were almost inseparable during their years at university. Susan was also a psychology major, and a very bright student. She had moved from Nevada to California after being accepted into Stanford. Susan Richards was one of those happy-go-lucky kind of girls, always smiling, always positive about everything, and very little ever fazed her. She was also very attractive — tall and slim, with chestnut hair, beautiful almond-shaped hazel eyes, a petite nose, and plump lips. Susan had inherited most of her Native American mother’s delicate features. Everyone used to say that she looked more like a Hollywood star than a psychology student.

‘Yes, of course I remember Susan,’ Hunter said.

‘Have you ever heard from her in all these years?’ Lucien asked.

Hunter’s psychological training took over, and he finally realized what was happening. Lucien’s defense and fear mechanisms were kicking in. Sometimes, when a person is afraid, or too nervous, to talk about a delicate subject, he/she might, almost unconsciously, try to steer the conversation away from that fragile topic, and avoid talking about it, at least for a little while, until their nerves settle. That was exactly what Lucien was doing.

As a psychologist, Hunter knew that the best way to deal with that was to just play along. Nerves would settle in time.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘After her graduation, I never heard from her again. Did you?’

Lucien shook his head. ‘Same here. Not even a little note.’

‘I remember she’d said that she wanted to go traveling. Europe or something. Maybe she did and decided to stay over there for some reason. Maybe she met somebody and got married, or found a career opportunity.’

‘Yes, I remember she talked about traveling, and maybe she did,’ Lucien agreed. ‘But even so, Robert. We were together pretty much all the time. We were friends. . good friends.’

‘Things like that do happen, Lucien,’ Hunter said. ‘You and I were best friends, and we didn’t keep in touch after college.’

Lucien looked up at Hunter. ‘That’s not entirely true, Robert. We did keep in touch for a while. A few years, actually. Until you finished your PhD. I went to the ceremony, remember?’

Hunter nodded once.

‘I thought that maybe she had kept in touch with you.’ Lucien shrugged. ‘Everyone knew that Susan was into you.’

Hunter said nothing.

Lucien gave Hunter a friendly smile. ‘I know that you never got together with her because you knew that I really liked her.

‘That was very cool of you. Very. . considerate, but I don’t think I would’ve minded. The two of you probably would’ve made a very nice couple.’

Lucien’s eyes avoided Hunter’s for a second.

‘Do you remember when we went with her to that tattoo parlor because she wanted to get that horrible thing on her arm?’ he asked.

Hunter did remember it. Susan had decided to get a tattoo of a red rose, where its stem, full of thorns, was wrapped around a bleeding heart, giving the impression that it was strangling it.

‘I do remember it,’ Hunter said with a melancholic smile.

‘What the hell was that? A rose strangling a heart?’

‘I liked that tattoo,’ Hunter said. ‘It was different, and I’m sure it meant something to her. I thought it looked very good on her arm. The tattoo artist did a great job.’

Lucien pulled a face. ‘I don’t really like tattoos. Never did.’ He paused and his eyes moved to a random spot on the cinder-block wall. ‘I miss her. She could always make us laugh, even in the worst of situations.’

‘Yes, I miss her too,’ Hunter said.

Silence took over the room for several seconds. Hunter filled a paper cup with water from the cooler and placed it on the table in front of Lucien.

‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a quick sip.

Hunter poured himself one as well.

‘They’ve got the wrong man, Robert,’ Lucien finally said.

Hunter paused and looked back at his old friend. It sounded like Lucien’s nerves were finally starting to settle, and he was now ready to talk. Hunter questioned with his eyes.

‘I didn’t do it,’ Lucien said, his voice full of emotion again. ‘I didn’t do what they’re saying I did. You have to believe me, Robert. I’m not a monster. I didn’t do those things.’

Hunter stayed quiet.

‘But I know who did.’

Fifteen

Behind the large two-way mirror, inside the observation room next door, Special Agents Taylor and Newman were attentively watching every movement made and listening to every word spoken by Lucien Folter. Doctor Patrick Lambert, a forensic psychiatrist with the FBI Behavioral Science Unit was also present.

On a table by the east wall, two CCTV monitors were showing highly detailed images of Lucien taken from different angles. Doctor Lambert was patiently examining every facial movement, and scrutinizing every different voice inflection the prisoner produced, but that wasn’t all. Both monitors were also hooked up to a computer equipped with state-of-the-art facial analysis software, which was capable of reading and evaluating the most minuscule of facial or eye movements. Movements that could not be controlled by the interviewee, triggered subconsciously as his state of mind altered from calm to nervous, to anxious, to irritated, to angry, or to any other state. Inside that observation room, they were all sure that if Lucien Folter lied about anything at all, they would know.

Neither Doctor Lambert, nor Special Agents Taylor and Newman, needed the facial analysis program to pick up all the anxiety and nervousness in Lucien’s tone of voice, eye movement and facial expressions. That was something they were already expecting. After all, he was talking for the first time since he’d been arrested for a very brutal double homicide. Add to that the fact that he was now face to face with an old friend he hadn’t seen since his college days, and Lucien was bound to be nervous and anxious. It was a common psychological human reaction. As was the initial avoidance of the subject. Talking about something common to him and his old friend was an easy and secure way to calm his nerves, to steady his uneasiness. They all waited, knowing that Detective Hunter would soon start slowly steering Lucien toward talking, but Hunter didn’t even need to. Lucien went back to the subject of his own accord. But his last few words caught everyone by surprise.

‘They’ve got the wrong man, Robert.’

The tension inside the observation room went up a notch, and instinctively everyone craned their heads forward in the direction of the monitors, as if that would make them see or hear better.

‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do what they’re saying I did. You have to believe me. .’

‘Of course he didn’t,’ Newman said with a half-chuckle, looking over at Taylor. ‘They never do. Our prison system is full of innocent people, isn’t that right?’

Taylor said nothing. She was still carefully watching the screens, and so was Doctor Lambert.

‘But I know who did.’

Those last five words were something no one was expecting, because in truth, those words equated to an admission of complicity. Even if Lucien Folter hadn’t been the one who’d murdered and decapitated both of those women, by admitting that he knew who’d done it, not alerting the police, and being picked up transporting the women’s heads cross-state, made him an accessory to murder with at least a couple of aggravating circumstances. And in Wyoming, where he was arrested and the death penalty was still enforced, the District Attorney’s office would no doubt push for it.

Sixteen

Despite his surprise, Hunter did his best to appear calm and relaxed. He was certain that Lucien’s last five words had been enough to bring the tension inside the observation room next door up a few degrees, but now that Lucien’s nerves seemed to have settled down enough for him to start talking, Hunter knew he had to keep the conversation between them going as smoothly as possible. Simply steer it in the right direction and allow his old friend to talk.

Hunter pulled a chair and sat across the table from Lucien. ‘You know who did it?’ he asked, his tone as tranquil as someone asking for the time.

Interrogators usually hold a standing, more authoritative position, while the person being interrogated is kept in an inferior, sitting-down one. The theory behind it is that it works as an intimidation technique — the person asking the questions is at a higher level, talking down at the person who is answering them. It plays on, and appeals to, a childhood memory that most people will probably have of a parent reprimanding them when they’d been bad. But the last thing Hunter wanted right now was for Lucien to feel any more intimidated than he already was. Having a seat directly in front of him did away with the authoritative position, bringing Hunter level with Lucien. Psychologically, Hunter’s move would hopefully have an unthreatening effect, keeping the tension in the room down to a minimum.

‘Well,’ Lucien said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table, ‘I don’t really know “exactly” who did it, but it’s a logical conclusion. It has to be either the person who I was supposed to be delivering the car to, or the one who delivered the car to me. If they didn’t directly do it, they’ll know who did. They are the ones you have to go after.’ Lucien paused and let go of a deep, heartfelt breath. ‘You have to help me, Robert. I’m not the one the FBI wants. I didn’t do this. I’m just a delivery boy.’

For the first time, Hunter noticed a slight emotional trepidation in Lucien’s voice. He knew the car wasn’t registered in Lucien’s name. The FBI had told him that, but this was the first he’d heard of Lucien delivering the car to someone else.

‘You were taking that blue Ford Taurus to someone?’ Hunter asked.

Lucien’s eyes averted Hunter’s once again. When he finally spoke, his tone was back to being calm and controlled, but it carried a hint of anger this time.

‘The reality is, life doesn’t treat everyone equally, my friend. I’m sure you know that.’

Hunter was uncertain of what Lucien was really talking about, so he waited.

Lucien’s gaze quickly moved to the cameras on the ceiling, and then to the large two-way mirror just behind Hunter. He knew he was being recorded. He knew that nothing he said would be private to only Hunter and himself, and for the briefest of moments he looked embarrassed.

Hunter picked up on his friend’s sudden discomfiture, followed his stare, but there was nothing he could do about others listening in. This was the FBI’s show, not his. He gave Lucien a moment.

‘After I left Stanford, I made a few mistakes,’ Lucien said. Paused. Rethought his words. ‘Actually I made quite a few mistakes. Some of them very bad.’ He finally looked back at Hunter. ‘I guess I should start from the beginning.’

Seventeen

For some reason, Lucien’s words had an atmospheric chilling effect, as if all of a sudden someone had switched on an air-conditioner unit inside the interrogation room.

Hunter felt the awkward chill trickle down his neck and travel down his spine, but held steady.

Lucien had another sip of his water, and as he did so, the look in his eyes became melancholic.

‘I met a woman during my second year at Yale,’ he began. ‘Her name was Karen. She was British, from a place called Gravesend, in southeast England. Have you heard of it?’

Hunter nodded.

‘I hadn’t,’ Lucien said. ‘I had to look it up. Anyway, Karen was. .’ He considered what to really say. ‘. . different from what most people would expect a Yale PhD student to be like. . or look like.’

‘Different?’ Hunter asked.

‘In every aspect. She was a free spirit, if you believe people can be such things. You remember the kind of girls I used to go for, right?’

Hunter nodded again, but said nothing, allowing his old friend to carry on uninterrupted.

‘Karen was nothing like any of them.’ A timid smile parted his lips. ‘When we met, she was forty-two. I was twenty-five.’

Hunter had started taking mental notes.

‘She was five-foot-one. A whole twelve inches shorter than me. . and curvy.’

Hunter remembered that Lucien used to be attracted only to tall, slim women — five-foot-ten or over, with a lithe, dancer’s body.

‘She also had quite a few tattoos,’ Lucien continued. ‘A lip piercing, a nose piercing, her left ear was stretched to a full centimeter, and she had this Bettie Page-style fringe.’

This time it was hard for Hunter not to show surprise.

‘I thought you didn’t like tattoos.’

‘I don’t. And I don’t much care for facial piercings either. But there was just something about Karen. Something I can’t really explain. Something that grabbed hold of me and didn’t let go.’ Another sip of his water. ‘We started dating just a few months after we met. It’s funny how life is always full of surprises, isn’t it? Karen looked nothing like any of the girls I used to go for, she didn’t act like them either, but nevertheless, she was the one I fell head over heels for.’ Lucien paused and looked away. ‘I guess I can say that I was truly in love.’

Hunter saw a muscle flex on his friend’s jaw.

‘She was a very sweet woman,’ Lucien said. ‘And we got along fantastically well. We did everything together. Went everywhere together. Spent every second together. She became my haven, my heaven, my heart. I was living a dream, but there was one problem.’

Hunter waited.

‘Karen had gotten involved with some very bad people.’

‘What kind of bad?’ Hunter asked.

‘Drugs bad,’ Lucien said. ‘The kind of bad you don’t mess with, unless you’ve grown tired of this life and feel like exiting it in a very violent way.’ He finished the rest of his water in three large gulps before crushing the paper cup in his right hand.

Hunter took note of his friend’s silent angry outburst, stood up, poured him a new cup of water, and placed it back on the table.

‘Thank you.’ He stared at the cup. ‘I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t strong enough, Robert,’ Lucien continued. ‘I’m not sure if it was because I was too much in love, or if I was just swallowed up by the moment, but instead of talking her out of it, I ended up joining her, and trying some of the stuff she was using.’

There was a pain-stricken, embarrassed pause.

Hunter carried on observing his friend.

‘The problem is,’ Lucien moved on, ‘and I’m sure you know this, some of this shit is hard to only try.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘So I got hooked.’

‘What kind of drugs are we talking about here?’

Lucien shrugged. ‘The heavy kind. Instant hook stuff. . and alcohol. I started drinking a lot.’

Hunter had seen so many strong people fall victim to those kind of drugs, he’d lost count.

‘From then on everything went downhill, and in a hurry. All the money I had went into supplying Karen’s habit and mine. It ate away at my finances faster than you could imagine. My entire life started suffering. I dropped out of Yale in my third year, and would do anything to get my daily fix. I ran up debts everywhere, and with the wrong kind of people. The people Karen had introduced me to. The really bad kind.’

‘You didn’t have anyone you could turn to for help?’ Hunter asked. ‘I’m not talking about financial help. Someone who could help you kick the habit, bring you back.’

Lucien’s gaze met Hunter’s and he chuckled derisively. ‘You know me, Robert. I never had that many close friends. The few I had, I had broken contact with.’

Hunter read the hint. ‘You could’ve still looked me up, Lucien. You knew where I was. We were best friends. I would’ve helped you.’ Hunter paused and his stare went hard as he realized his mistake. ‘Shit, you were already hooked when you flew down for my PhD graduation, weren’t you? That’s why you only stayed in LA less than twenty-four hours. But I was so consumed by the moment that I didn’t even notice. That was you asking for my help.’

Lucien looked away.

Hunter felt a stab of guilt cut through his flesh. ‘You should’ve said something. I would’ve helped you. You know I would’ve. I’m sorry I didn’t notice it.’

‘Maybe I should have. Maybe that’s just another one of my bad mistakes. But I’m not going to cry about things long gone, Robert. Things that can’t be changed. Everything that happened to me was my own doing, my own fault, nobody else’s. I know it, and I accept that. And yes, I know that everyone needs a little help every once in a while. I just didn’t know how to ask for it.’

It was Hunter’s turn to have a sip of his water. ‘Were you still with Karen when you went to LA?’ he asked.

Lucien nodded. ‘She also quit Yale, and did some very. . very stupid things to get hold of cash.’ He hesitated, took a deep breath, and his eyes saddened. ‘We stayed together for three years. All the way until she overdosed.’ A long pause. ‘She died in my arms.’

Lucien looked away as his toughness began showing cracks. Tears came into his eyes, but he held steady.

Silence took over the room for a long moment.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Hunter finally said.

Lucien nodded and rubbed his face with his shackled hands.

‘What happened then?’ Hunter asked.

‘Then I really went to hell, and I did it a step at a time. I lost my way, big time. I hit depression hard and at full speed. Instead of learning from what happened to Karen and kicking the habit, I got deeper into it.’ Lucien stole a peek at the two-way mirror once again. ‘I should’ve been dead by now, and in many ways I really wish I were. The fight-back was very long, very slow, and very painful. It took me many years to manage to get my addiction under control. A few more to finally kick it. All the while I just got myself into more and more debt, and involved with the worst kind of characters society has to offer.’

Blood tests run by the FBI had shown that Lucien Folter was clean. Hunter knew that.

‘So when did you finally kick it?’ he asked.

‘Several years ago,’ Lucien said, being deliberately vague. ‘By then, I had lost all hope of a career in psychology or in anything decent, really. I went through a series of odd jobs, most of them awful, some of them not quite legit. In the end, I hated what I had become. Even though I was clean, I just wasn’t the person I once was anymore. I wasn’t Lucien Folter. I had become someone completely different. A lost soul. Someone I didn’t recognize. Someone no one recognized. Someone I really didn’t like.’

Hunter could guess what was coming next.

‘So you decided to change identities,’ he said.

Lucien looked straight at Hunter and nodded.

‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘You know, being a junkie, living life as “scum” for as long as I did, puts you in contact with some very colorful folks. People who are able to get you anything you want. . for a price, obviously. Getting hold of a new identity was as easy as buying a newspaper.’

Hunter knew Lucien wasn’t lying because he understood the reality of the world they lived in. All one needs to obtain whatever documents one likes in a different name is to know the right people, or wrong people, depending which way you look at it. And these people aren’t even that hard to find.

‘Once I became Liam Shaw,’ Lucien said, ‘I then concentrated on getting healthy again. It took me quite a while to manage to put weight back on. . to regain focus. With all the drugs, I had the body of an anorexic. My stomach had shrunk. My mouth was full of ulcers. My health had deteriorated to a hair away from death. I had to keep on forcing myself to eat.’ He paused and looked at his arms and torso. ‘I look OK on the outside now, but my insides are royally fucked up, Robert. I’ve caused a lot of damage to my body. Much of it irreversible. Most of my internal organs are so damaged, I’m not even sure how they’re still working.’

Despite his words, Hunter picked up no self-pity in Lucien’s tone of voice or in the look in his eyes. He had simply accepted what he had done to himself. He had acknowledged his mistakes, and he seemed OK with paying the price.

‘Tell me about this car delivery thing,’ Hunter said.

Eighteen

Lucien’s eyebrows bobbed up and down once, as he looked back at his old friend.

‘The problem with getting involved with the kind of people I got involved with, is that they get their claws very deep into you right at the beginning. And once they do that, they never really let go. They own you for life. I’m sure you understand that these people can be very persuasive when they want to be.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘It started about a year and a half ago.’ Lucien moved on. ‘The way it happens is, I get a call on my cellphone telling me where to pick up the car from. They give me a delivery address and a time-frame. No names. When I get there, there’s always someone waiting to collect the car. I hand the car over, he gives me enough money for a ticket back. . maybe a little extra, and that’s all. Until the next phone call.’

‘I’m guessing you don’t always deliver the cars to the same place,’ Hunter said.

‘Not so far,’ Lucien agreed. ‘A different pick-up and delivery address every time.’ He paused and looked at Hunter. ‘But I’ve always delivered to the same person.’

That came as a surprise.

‘Can you describe him?’ Hunter asked.

Lucien pulled a face. ‘About six-foot tall, well built, but deliveries were always made at night, in some dark field. The person receiving the car was always wearing a long coat with its collar up, a baseball cap, and dark glasses.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s as good a description as I can give.’

‘So how do you know it was the same person?’

‘Same voice, same posture, same mannerisms.’ Lucien sat back on his chair. ‘It wasn’t hard to tell, Robert. I’m telling you, it was the same person every time.’

Hunter saw no reason to doubt Lucien. ‘How about the person who delivered the car to you?’ he asked.

‘As I’ve said, the instructions came over the phone. Car was left in a car park. Keys, car park ticket and delivery address were left inside an envelope in a safe place for me to collect. No human contact.’

‘And you had no idea what you were delivering?’ Hunter asked. ‘I mean — you didn’t know what was in the trunk?’

Lucien shook his head. ‘It was always part of the instructions — don’t ever look in the trunk.’

Hunter pondered over that for a second or two, but Lucien anticipated his next question, and offered an answer before Hunter could even ask it.

‘Yes, I was curious about it. Yes, I thought about taking a quick peek many times, but like I said, these are the kind of people you simply don’t fuck with. If I’d opened that trunk, I’m sure they would’ve had a way of knowing it. Curious or not, that was one stupid mistake that I wasn’t prepared to make.’

Hunter had a quick sip of his water.

‘You said that this all started about a year and a half ago?’

Lucien nodded.

‘How many deliveries were there?’

‘This was supposed to be my fifth car delivery.’

Hunter held steady, but alarm bells started ringing everywhere inside his head. Five deliveries. If Lucien was telling the truth, and he was delivering the same or very similar cargo every time, then this whole thing had just escalated into a serial-murderer investigation. And judging by what he’d seen, a very brutal and sadistic one.

Lucien paused and looked at Hunter differently, like a rookie poker player who’d just gotten a great hand and was unable to disguise it. ‘My trump is — I know who the person over the phone was.’

Hunter’s eyebrows arched.

Lucien took a moment before speaking again. ‘For now, I’ll keep that information to myself, together with all the previous pick-up and delivery locations.’

That answer caught Hunter completely by surprise and he frowned.

‘I know you’re not running this show, Robert,’ Lucien explained. ‘The FBI is pulling all the strings here. The only reason you’re here is because I asked for you. I know they’ve probably told you that you’re only here as a guest. . a listener. You have no authority over anything. You can’t guarantee me anything because here you have no bargaining powers. My only bargaining power, on the other hand, is information.’

‘I understand that,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But I don’t see how withholding it can help you, Lucien. If you are innocent, you have to help the FBI prove that, not play games with them.’

‘And I will do that, Robert, but I’m scared. Even a child can see that the evidence against me is overwhelming. I know that I’m facing death row here, and I’m petrified. Yes, I’ll admit that paranoia has set in in here.’ Lucien lifted his shackled fists and hit them three times against his forehead before looking straight into Hunter’s eyes. ‘I didn’t tell them anything so far because I didn’t think they’d believe me.’

It was easy to see how paranoia and fear could’ve easily distorted Lucien’s vision of reality. Hunter had to reassure him. ‘It doesn’t quite work like that, Lucien. Why wouldn’t the FBI believe you? They’re not out to send you, or just anyone to prison. They want to find the person who’s responsible for those murders, and if you can help them, of course they’ll listen to you. Of course they’ll follow up on what you tell them.’

‘OK, maybe they would, but I panicked.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Then I thought of you. I have no family left, Robert, everyone’s gone. There’s no one on this earth who even cares if I live or die. I met a lot of people in my life, but you’re the only real friend I’ve ever had. The only one who knew the real me, and you were also a cop. So I just thought that maybe. .’ Lucien’s voice was filled with emotion one more time. His toughness cracked again. ‘I didn’t do this, Robert. You have to believe me.’

Back in college, Hunter could usually tell when Lucien was lying because he had a very subtle tell. Hunter had identified it in their second semester at Stanford. As he was telling a lie, Lucien’s stare would harden, become more determined, as if somehow the tough look in his eyes could hypnotized you into believing him. Consequently, for just a fraction of a second, his lower left eyelid would tighten, producing not exactly a twitch, but a very delicate movement. He couldn’t help it because he didn’t even know he was doing it. It’s been over twenty years, but Hunter hoped he could still identify it because he knew what to look for. But there had been no hardening of the stare. No movement of the lower left eyelid whatsoever, no matter how subtle.

‘Remember when I told you that I didn’t know how to ask for help, your help?’ Lucien paused for breath. ‘Well, I’m doing it now. Please help me, Robert.’

Hunter felt the stab of guilt slash through him for the second time.

‘How can I help you, Lucien?’ he asked. ‘You said so yourself just a moment ago. I’m here as a listener. I have no authority over anything. I’m not even an FBI agent. I’m a detective with the LAPD.’

Lucien locked eyes with Hunter for a long moment, and then, all of a sudden, his gaze softened.

‘If I’m brutally honest, Robert, I don’t think I really care if I live or die anymore. I messed up a long time ago. I made way too many mistakes, and since then, I’ve done nothing but live a sub-life. I lost everything, including my dignity and the only person I truly loved. I guess I can say that I’m ashamed of most of my life, but I’m not a murderer. I know that this might sound silly, but I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, except you, Robert. Regardless of what happens to me, I want you to know that I’m not a monster.’

Hunter was about to say something, but Lucien interrupted him.

‘Please don’t say that you already know that, or that you don’t believe I am one, because I don’t want your pity, Robert. I want you to know. Really know. That’s why I’m going to tell you what I’m going to tell you, because I know that you will check on everything I say, with or without the FBI.’

Still no telltale signs from Lucien.

Hunter knew Lucien was right. There was no way he would walk away from that interrogation room and forget about everything Lucien was about to tell him, no matter what sort of pressure the FBI tried to put him under.

‘So what is it that you want to tell me?’ he asked. ‘What is it that you want me to go check out?’

Lucien looked down at his hands before meeting Hunter’s stare. . and then he started speaking again.

Nineteen

Special Agents Taylor and Newman, together with Doctor Lambert, stepped into the interrogation room thirty seconds after Lucien was taken back to his cell. Hunter was leaning against the metal table, facing a blank wall, a pensive look on his face.

‘Detective Hunter,’ Taylor said, grabbing his attention. ‘This is Doctor Patrick Lambert. He’s a forensic psychiatrist with the BSU. He also watched the entire interview from the observations room.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective Hunter,’ Doctor Lambert said, shaking Hunter’s hand. ‘Impressive work.’

Hunter gave him a subtle frown.

‘Your paper. Impressive work. And to think that you wrote that when you were so young.’

Hunter accepted the compliment with a simple head gesture.

‘For someone who had said only seven words in five days, you sure got him talking,’ Taylor said.

Hunter looked at her, but said nothing back.

‘We didn’t pick up anything relevant,’ Newman announced, pouring himself a cup of water from the cooler.

‘What do you mean?’ Hunter asked.

Newman told Hunter about the facial analysis software they were using inside the observation room.

‘There were a few nervy eye, head and hand movements,’ Doctor Lambert said. ‘A few emotional qualities here and there in his tone of voice, but nothing that would flag as too anxious or too nervous. Bottom line is — we have no clear indication that he was lying about anything.’ He paused for effect. ‘But we also have no clear indication that he was telling the truth about anything.’

So much for your expensive facial analysis software, Hunter thought.

‘And that includes everything he told you in the last few minutes of your interview,’ Doctor Lambert added.

Lucien had tried keeping his voice quiet; quieter than throughout the entire session, but the powerful multi-directional microphone on the ceiling directly above the metal table had picked up every word he had said to Hunter.

‘I’m sending a riddle your way, Robert. A riddle that only you will know the answer to.’ Lucien had placed both elbows on the table, leaned forward, and looked over Hunter’s shoulder at the two-way mirror behind him. ‘I don’t trust those fuckers.’

His voice had become almost a whisper.

‘For the past several years, I’ve been living — or hiding, if you prefer — in North Carolina. The house is rented, and I pay cash in advance directly to this old couple, so the place can’t be traced back to me.’ A pause, followed by a sip of water. ‘In our dorm room back in Stanford, I used to have several posters on the wall by my bed. But there was a particular one. The largest of them all. The one that you also liked. . with the sunset. If you think about it, you will remember it. The county in North Carolina carries the same name as the figure in that poster.’

Hunter’s expression had turned thoughtful.

‘I’m sure you’ll also remember Professor “Hot Sauce”.’ The right edge of Lucien’s mouth had lifted in a semi-devious smile. ‘Susan’s dare? Halloween night?’ He’d waited just a second before seeing recognition dance across Hunter’s face. ‘By sheer coincidence, the city I’ve been living in shares his name.’

Hunter had said nothing.

‘After I got the first phone call asking me to make the first car delivery, something inside my head told me that this would probably end very badly. So, out of precaution, I started keeping a diary, so to speak. Actually, it was more like a notebook, and I noted down everything I could — date, time and duration of calls, conversation details, pickup times and locations, car type and license plate numbers, stops I did on the way, the name of the person at the other end of the line. . everything. I keep the notebook in the house, down in the basement.’

Hunter had caught a new glint in his old friend’s eyes. Something that wasn’t there before.

‘The house is right at the end of the wood’s edge. The keys are in my jacket pocket, which I believe was seized by the FBI. You have my authorization to use it and get into the house, Robert. You’ll find a lot in there. Things that can help you clear this mess up.’

That was all Lucien had said.

‘So,’ Newman said to Hunter. ‘Do you know the answers to all that crap he threw at you at the end?’

Hunter said nothing, but Newman seemed to read his demeanor as a positive answer.

‘Great. So if you give us the name of the county and the town in North Carolina where his house is at, your job here is all done.’ He finished drinking his water. ‘I understand that you were on your way to Hawaii for a long-overdue vacation.’ For no reason at all, Newman checked his watch. ‘You’ve only missed a day. You could be there by tomorrow morning.’

Hunter’s gaze lingered on Newman for a few seconds, before moving to Taylor, and then back to Newman.

‘That’s exactly why Lucien made the location of his house into a riddle that only I could figure out,’ he said, standing up straight and adjusting the collar on his leather jacket. ‘Because the only way any of you are getting there, is if I take you there.’

Twenty

Neither Newman nor Taylor had the authority to make that sort of decision. All they knew was that the man in their custody had refused to talk, saying he would only speak to Detective Robert Hunter of the LAPD. Hunter had been brought in, but as far as everyone was concerned, he was there simply as a listener. His job was to get Lucien Folter to talk. He wasn’t supposed to be involved in the investigation, and he certainly wasn’t part of the team. This was not a joint venture between the LAPD and the FBI.

‘I thought that you couldn’t wait to go on vacation, Robert,’ Adrian Kennedy said, staring straight into the web camera.

Hunter, Taylor and Newman had gone back up to the BSU floor and were now sitting inside an ample office, facing a very large flat-screen monitor mounted onto the west wall. The dot-sized green light at the top of the monitor indicated that the in-built camera was on.

Despite being less than an hour away, Director Adrian Kennedy’s overbooked schedule prevented him from making the trip back to Quantico. He was speaking to everyone via a video link from his office in Washington, DC.

‘Well, that plan got screwed up yesterday when you showed up in LA, Adrian,’ Hunter said, matter-of-factly.

‘I’m sure we can fix it, Robert,’ Kennedy replied. ‘If you just give Agents Taylor and Newman the information they need to proceed, I can arrange to have a jet fly you over to Hawaii tonight.’

Hunter looked impressed. ‘Wow. Is the FBI budget that loose that you can actually justify getting a jet just to take me all the way to Hawaii from Virginia? Damn, and at the LAPD we don’t even get a big enough budget to supply us with enough bulletproof vests.’

‘Robert, I’m serious. We need this information.’

‘So am I, Adrian.’ Hunter’s voice went grave all of a sudden and his stare hardened. ‘I didn’t ask for this. You came to me, remember? You threw me into this mix. Now I’m part of it, whether you like it or not. If you think I’m just going to hand over the information and walk away like an obedient little boy, then you don’t know me at all.’

‘Nobody really knows you, Robert,’ Kennedy hit back, his voice still calm. ‘You’ve always been this cryptic enigma for as long as I’ve known you. But you’re now playing a very risky game. You do understand that what you’re doing is withholding information that’s pertinent to a federal homicide investigation. I can have your ass for that.’

Hunter looked unfazed.

‘If that’s how you want to play it,’ he replied evenly. ‘I’ve never explicitly told anyone that I understood what Lucien’s little riddle meant. I can’t be withholding information if I have none, Adrian, because I don’t think I remember seeing any posters in my old dorm room, and Professor “Hot Sauce” is no professor I can recall.’ Hunter paused and, from the corner of his eye, saw frustration start to color Agent Newman’s face. ‘You’re not the only one who knows how to play hardball, Adrian, and I’m not one of your puppets.’

Kennedy didn’t look angered or offended. In fact, he wasn’t really expecting Hunter to react in any other way, not after watching the footage recorded from the interrogation room. Hunter was being asked for help, on one side by the FBI, on the other by his old best friend.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Director Kennedy,’ Newman said, leaning forward on his seat. ‘But we still have the subject in our custody. If Detective Hunter is refusing to cooperate, sorry, but fuck him. Let him go back to LA.’ He looked at Hunter. ‘No offense, pal.’

He got absolutely zero reaction from Hunter.

‘We can still extract the information directly out of the subject,’ Newman continued. ‘Just give me a few more sessions with him.’

‘Of course we can,’ Kennedy said. ‘Because that has worked brilliantly so far, hasn’t it, Special Agent Newman?’

Newman was about to say something else but Kennedy lifted a finger, indicating that he’d heard enough. The look in his eyes was a clear indication that he was running through a few possibilities in his head.

‘OK, Robert,’ Kennedy said, after several silent seconds. ‘I’ll play nice if you play nice. You and Agent Taylor go check out this property in North Carolina. Agent Newman, I need you back in Washington. . today. I’ve got something else I want you on.’

Newman looked like he’d been slapped across the face. His mouth half opened to say something but Kennedy cut him short again.

‘Today, Agent Newman. Is that understood?’

Newman took a deep breath. ‘Yes, sir.’

Kennedy addressed Hunter again. ‘Robert, no more games. You do know what this Lucien character was talking about in his riddle, right? You know the answers to those questions?’

Hunter nodded once.

‘OK.’ Kennedy consulted his watch. ‘We’re lucky. North Carolina is close enough that we can move fast. Agent Taylor, get everything organized. I want you and Robert there by tonight, at the latest. Let’s go seize this diary, or notebook, or whatever it is, and let’s start figuring this whole mess out. Call me with any news as soon as you get it, no matter the time. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Taylor replied as she peeked at Hunter.

Kennedy cut the connection.

Twenty-One

‘OK,’ Agent Taylor said, using a wireless keyboard to type a new command into a desktop computer.

Taylor and Hunter had gone back to the same conference room they were in earlier, the one with the large monitor showing a detailed map of the United States on the far wall. As she hit the ‘Enter’ key, the map changed to a county-detailed version of the entire state of North Carolina.

‘So what was this poster that Lucien Folter had on his wall?’ Taylor asked. ‘The one you liked. The one with the sunset.’

Hunter gave her a subtle shrug, stepped closer to the map, and allowed his eyes to carefully study it.

‘It was a poster of the mountains,’ he said. ‘The sun was just about to set over them. The sky had taken this striking reddish-purple color. And that was what I really liked about that poster — the sky color. And there was also a camp fire.’

‘A camp fire?’

‘That’s right,’ Hunter agreed.

‘Was that it?’ Taylor asked.

‘No, there was a lone figure sitting by the fire, watching the sunset.’

‘What figure?’

Hunter’s eyes had stopped searching the map.

‘An old man.’

Taylor frowned. ‘An old man?’ she said, joining Hunter by the map. ‘So what are we looking for here? Oldman County? Granddad County? Or did this old man have a name? Lucien Folter said that the county carried the same name as the figure in that poster.’

‘No name,’ Hunter clarified. ‘But that old man was a Native American. More precisely, a. .’ He pointed to a county on the far left-hand side of the map. The county of Cherokee.

The state of North Carolina is divided into three regions — Eastern, Piedmont and Western. Cherokee County is the westernmost county in the Western Region. It borders both Georgia and Tennessee.

‘A Cherokee Indian,’ Taylor said with a different rhythm to her voice. ‘I’ll be damned.’

Hunter paused and looked at her. The expression on his face asked the question.

Taylor tilted her head to one side. ‘My ex-husband was half-Cherokee. We just got through a tough divorce. Strange coincidence, that’s all.’

Hunter nodded.

Taylor’s attention returned to the map as she considered the county’s position in relation to their location. ‘Damn,’ she said, returning to the computer. ‘That will be a hell of a long drive.’

‘At least eight hours there, and eight hours back,’ Hunter agreed.

Taylor typed a new command in, and on the map a route was immediately traced between the FBI Academy in Quantico and the eastern border of Cherokee county. On the left-hand side, a detailed, step-by-step breakdown of the entire itinerary was displayed. According to it, and with zero stops, the 535-mile journey would take them approximately eight hours and twenty-five minutes.

Hunter checked his watch — 12:52 p.m. He sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for a seventeen-hour drive there and back.

‘Can we fly there?’ he asked.

Taylor pulled a face. ‘I don’t have the kind of clearance necessary to authorize a plane,’ she said.

‘But Adrian does,’ Hunter added.

Taylor nodded. ‘Director Kennedy can authorize anything he likes.’

‘So let’s get him to authorize one,’ Hunter said. ‘Just minutes ago he was ready to authorize a jet to take me on vacation to Hawaii, and I’m not even with the FBI.’

Taylor had no argument against that.

‘OK, I’ll call him. So where are we going?’

Hunter looked at her.

‘The second part of the riddle,’ she clarified. ‘The name of the city? Who was this Professor “Hot Sauce”? Susan’s dare? Halloween night?’

Hunter wasn’t ready to show all his cards yet, at least not while they were still at the FBI academy. He checked his watch. ‘One step at a time, Agent Taylor. Let’s get going first. I’ll tell you when we’re airborne.’

Taylor studied him for an instant. ‘What difference does it make?’

‘My point exactly. If it makes no difference, then I can either tell you now or later. I’ll do it later. We need to get going.’

Taylor lifted both hands, giving up. ‘Fine, we’ll play it your way. I’ll call Director Kennedy.’

Twenty-Two

Taylor’s telephone conversation with Director Adrian Kennedy lasted less than three minutes. He didn’t need much convincing.

Lucien Folter had been arrested six days ago. The FBI had two decapitated and mutilated female heads in their hands — no bodies — no identities. The questions were piling up like dirty dishes, and so far they had nothing. Kennedy wanted answers, and he wanted them pronto, whatever it took.

Within ninety minutes, everything was arranged and a Phenom 100 light jet was waiting for Hunter and Taylor at the Turner Field landing strip. This plane was about half the size of the one they took from Los Angeles to Quantico, but just as luxurious inside.

The cabin lights dimmed momentarily, and the plane took off swiftly. Hunter sat nursing a large cup of strong black coffee, while his brain tried to carefully revisit every word that was said that morning inside the interrogation room.

Taylor was sitting in the black-leather swivel chair directly in front of Hunter. Her laptop computer was resting on her lap; its screen displayed a detailed map of Cherokee County with all its cities and towns. ‘OK, we’re airborne, so where exactly are we heading? Who’s Professor “Hot Sauce”?’

Hunter smiled as he remembered it.

‘Lucien, Susan and I went to a Halloween party in an Irish bar in Los Altos. There we bumped into our neuropsychology professor. Nice guy, great professor, and he loved to drink. That night we’d all had a few, but then, out of the blue, he decided to challenge us to a shot-drinking competition. Lucien and I declined, but to our surprise, Susan took him up on the offer.’

‘Why were you surprised?’

‘Susan wasn’t that good a drinker,’ Hunter said, with a slight shake of the head. ‘Four, five shots, and Susan was gone. What we didn’t know was that she had a trick up her sleeve.’

Interest bathed Taylor’s face. ‘What trick?’

‘Susan’s grandparents were Latvian, and because of that, she knew a few Latvian words, including the word for water — “ūdens”. The deal was, each one took turns downing a shot of their favorite drink. Susan knew the barman, who was actually Latvian. The professor was drinking Tequila, and Susan kept on ordering a shot of “ūdens” from the barman. Fourteen shots later, the professor threw in the towel. His forfeit penalty was to drink an entire two-ounce bottle of Hot Sauce, which he did. He didn’t turn up for class for the next three days. From that day on, the three of us only referred to him as Professor Hot Sauce.’

Hunter quickly studied the map on Taylor’s screen. It took him just a second to find what he was looking for.

‘So who was your neuropsychology professor?’ Taylor asked.

Hunter pointed at the screen. ‘His name was Steward Murphy.’

The city of Murphy was the largest city in Cherokee county, situated at the confluence of the Hiwassee and Valley Rivers.

‘It doesn’t look like there’s an airport in Murphy,’ Taylor said, analyzing the map, before typing in a new command. A second later she had an answer. ‘OK, the closest airport to Murphy is Western Carolina Regional Airport. About thirteen and a half miles away.’

‘That will do,’ Hunter said. ‘You can tell the pilot that that’s where we’re heading.’

Taylor used the intercom phone on the wall to her right to give the pilot his instructions.

‘We should be there in about an hour and ten minutes, give or take a few,’ she told Hunter.

‘Much better than eight and a half of driving,’ he commented.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something, Detective Hunter?’ Taylor said after they’d been airborne for a few minutes.

Hunter peeled his eyes from the blue sky outside his window and looked at her.

‘I do if you’re going to carry on calling me Detective Hunter. Please call me Robert.’

Taylor seemed to hesitate for a moment. ‘OK, Robert, as long as you call me Courtney.’

‘Deal. So what would you like to ask me, Courtney?’

‘You felt guilty, didn’t you?’ She waited a couple of seconds and decided to clarify. ‘When Lucien told you about his drug problem and how he got involved with it all.’

Hunter stayed quiet.

‘While everyone in the observation room had all their attention focused on Lucien, I was observing you. You felt guilty. You felt like it’d been your fault.’

‘Not like it’d been my fault,’ Hunter finally said. ‘But I know I could’ve helped him. I should’ve noticed he was hooked when he came to see me in LA for the last time. I don’t even know how I missed that.’

Taylor bit her bottom lip and looked away, clearly debating if she should say what she was thinking. She decided that there was no point in being coy. ‘I know he was your friend, and I’m sorry to say this, but junkies don’t get a lot of sympathy from me. I’ve worked on too many cases where someone, high on some cheap fix, or trying to get some cash to buy some cheap fix, committed the most atrocious murder, or murders.’ She paused for breath. ‘He could be lying, you know? He could still be hooked on something, and he could’ve killed those two women while under the influence.’

Hunter picked up on something different underlying Taylor’s tone. Hidden anger, maybe.

‘Your lab tests showed that he was clean,’ he said.

‘Certain drugs exit your system in a matter of hours, you know that,’ Taylor came back. ‘Plus, those heads had been preserved in ice containers for who knows how long. Those two women could’ve been murdered months ago.’

‘That’s true.’ Hunter couldn’t counter-argue her point. ‘And certain drugs do exit your system in a matter of hours, but you’ve seen junkies before, right? They just can’t stay away from drugs for too long, and they all show typical psychological and physical signs of dependency — skin, eyes, hair, lips. . paranoia, anxiety. . you know what to look for. Lucien showed none of it.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘He isn’t hooked anymore.’

This time it was Taylor who couldn’t debate Hunter’s argument. Lucien really showed no physical or psychological signs of dependency anymore. But she wasn’t ready to let it rest quite yet.

‘OK, I agree, he does appear to be clean, but he still gets no sympathy. According to what he told you, nobody forced him to take any drugs. He decided to do so of his own free will. He could’ve just as easily walked away from it. People all over, and of all ages, are offered drugs every day. You know this better than most, Robert. Some go for it, some don’t. It’s a choice. In his case, it was his choice, no one else’s. No one but Lucien should feel guilty about him becoming a junkie.’

Hunter said nothing for a long instant. The plane hit a spot of turbulence and he waited until it was all clear before speaking again.

‘It’s not quite that simple, Courtney.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No.’ Hunter sat back in his seat.

‘I was offered drugs many times,’ Taylor said. ‘In school, in college, on the streets, around the neighborhood, at parties, on vacation, everywhere really, and I still managed to stay away from them.’

‘And that’s great, but I bet that you also know people who weren’t as strong as you, right? People who didn’t manage to stay away from them. People who got hooked?’

Something seemed to change inside Taylor’s eyes. ‘I do, yes.’ Hunter could tell that she was struggling to keep her voice calm. ‘But I don’t feel guilty because of it.’

For some reason that sounded like a lie.

‘We’re all different, Courtney, and that’s why we all react differently to any given event,’ Hunter said. ‘Our reactions directly depend on the circumstances surrounding that event, and on our psychological mood at that particular time.’

Taylor did know that. She’d seen it before — someone who’s feeling happy — things are going great at home and at the workplace — gets offered a highly addictive drug at a party or somewhere else. That person says ‘no’ because he/she sees no need for it. At that particular time, that person’s feeling naturally happy, naturally high. That same person, just a day later, gets laid off, or has a bad argument at home, or something that bumps his/her mood down a notch — gets offered the same highly addictive drug. This time the person says ‘yes’ because his/her mood has changed, the circumstances have changed, and right at that particular moment that person is psychologically, and maybe even physically, very vulnerable. Drug pushers have some sort of sixth sense when it comes to picking those people out of a crowd, and they really know how to sweet-talk a person into believing that if he/she takes whatever drug they are being offered, all their problems will be gone in a flash. Paradise awaits.

Taylor began chewing on her bottom lip.

‘You know that there are many drugs out there that all it takes is a single hit, don’t you?’ Hunter continued. ‘Like Lucien said: “instant hook stuff”. Even very strong people can’t be very strong all the time, Courtney. It’s a fact of life. All you need is to be approached when, for one reason or another, you’re not so mentally strong, you’re feeling lonely, or depressed, or neglected or something, and they’ve got you. We don’t know all the facts. And we also don’t know how many times Lucien walked away from it before he finally failed.’

‘I’ll admit,’ Taylor said. ‘You fight a good argument on behalf of junkies.’

‘I’m not trying to defend junkies, Courtney,’ Hunter said calmly. ‘I’m just saying that a very large number of addicts out there know that they’ve made a mistake, and all they want is to find the strength to kick the habit. Most of them can’t seem to find that strength on their own, they need help. . help that most of the time isn’t very forthcoming. Probably because so many out there share the same thoughts as you do.’

Taylor’s blue eyes honed in on Hunter intensely before darting away.

‘So how do you think you could’ve helped him?’ she asked. ‘What would you have done?’

‘Everything I could,’ Hunter replied without missing a beat. ‘I would’ve done everything I could. He was my friend.’

Twenty-Three

An hour and eight minutes after taking off, the Phenom 100 jet touched down at Western Carolina Regional Airport. The weather outside had started to change. Several large clouds were now lurking around in the sky, keeping the sun from properly shining through, and bringing the temperature down a few degrees. In spite of the lack of sunshine, Taylor put on her sunglasses as soon as they stepped out of the plane. It was basic FBI training — once in public, always hide your eyes.

Outside the airport, Hunter and Taylor met a representative from a local car-rental company she had spoken to on the phone. He delivered them a top-of-the-range, black Lincoln MKZ sedan.

‘OK,’ Taylor said, flipping open her laptop as she and Hunter got into the car. She took the driver’s seat. The car looked and smelled brand new, as if it had been purchased that morning just to accommodate them. ‘Let’s figure out where we need to go from here.’

Taylor used the laptop’s touchpad and quickly called up a satellite-view application. In a fraction of a second, she had a photographic bird’s-eye-view map of the city of Murphy on her screen.

‘Lucien said that the house was at the end of a wood’s edge,’ she continued, angling the laptop Hunter’s way.

They both studied the screen for a long moment and, as Taylor used the touch pad to drag the map from left to right and top to bottom, her demeanor changed.

‘Was he kidding?’ she finally said. Her voice was still calm, but it now had a sliver of annoyance to it. She lifted her sunglasses and placed them on her head before pinning Hunter down with a concerned stare. ‘This place is surrounded by woodland. It’s everywhere, inside and outside the city. Just look at this.’

Her gaze returned to her screen as she used the touchpad again to zoom out on the map. She wasn’t joking. The city of Murphy looked like it had been built slap-bang in the middle of a large, hilly forest. There seemed to be more woodland around than buildings.

‘What are we supposed to do? Find a house at the edge of every woodland we come across and go see if any of his keys fit?’

Hunter said nothing. He was still staring at the screen, trying to figure it all out.

‘He was fucking with us, wasn’t he?’ Taylor chuckled those words. ‘Even if this house does exist, which I now doubt, it could take us a couple of days to find it, maybe more. He sent us on a wild goose chase, Robert. He’s playing games.’ She took a moment to think about it. ‘I’m sure he’s been here before. Maybe even lived here for a while. He knows Murphy is surrounded by woodland. That’s why he sent us here with that crazy riddle. We could spend days here, and never come across this. . fantasy house.’

Hunter spent a few more seconds analyzing the map before shaking his head. ‘No, this is wrong. This isn’t what he meant.’

Taylor’s eyebrows arched. ‘What do you mean? That’s exactly what he said: “The house is at the end of a wood’s edge.” Unless you’ve got this riddle wrong, and we came to the wrong place.’

‘I didn’t,’ Hunter assured her. ‘We came to the right place.’

‘OK then, so Lucien is playing games. Just look at that map, Robert.’ She nodded at her laptop. ‘“The house is at the end of a wood’s edge,”’ she repeated. ‘Those were his words. I’ve got the recording here with me if you want to listen to it again.’

‘I don’t have to,’ Hunter replied, turning the laptop to face him. ‘Because that’s not exactly what he said.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘He said that the house was at the end of the wood’s edge, not a wood’s edge. And there’s a big difference. Can you get us a searchable map of Murphy? Locations, street names, things like that?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

A few keystrokes later and the bird’s-eye-view map on the screen was substituted by an up-to-date satellite street map of the city of Murphy.

‘Here we go,’ she said, passing the laptop over to Hunter, who quickly typed something into the search feature. The map panned out, rotated left, and then zoomed in on a narrow dirt road located between two woodland hills on the south side of the city. The road’s name was — Woods Edge.

Even Hunter was a little surprised. He was expecting that perhaps one of the woodlands, or maybe even a park, carried the name “Woods Edge”, but not a road.

‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ he said.

‘I’ll be damned,’ Taylor breathed out.

The road seemed to carry on for about half a mile. There was nothing on either side of it, except woodland, until the very end, where a single house stood — the house at the end of the Woods Edge.

Twenty-Four

Taylor took the wheel, and the drive from the airport to the south side of Murphy took her just under twenty-five minutes. The entire journey was punctuated by hills, fields and woodlands. As they approached the city of Murphy, a few small ranches sprang up by the side of the road, with horses and cattle moving lazily around the yard. The typical smell of farm manure coated the air, but neither Hunter nor Taylor complained. Hunter, for one, couldn’t remember ever being in a place where everywhere he looked was painted by trees and green fields. It was striking scenery, they both had to admit.

As Taylor exited Creek Road and veered right into Woods Edge, the road got bumpier by the yard, forcing Taylor to slow down to almost a snail’s crawl.

‘Jesus, there’s absolutely nothing here,’ she said, looking around. ‘Did you notice that we haven’t seen a lamppost for way over a mile?’

Hunter nodded.

‘I’m glad we still have daylight to guide us,’ Taylor commented. ‘There’s no doubt Lucien was hiding from something, or someone. Who in their sane mind would want to live down here?’

She tried her best to avoid the larger potholes and bumps, but no matter how carefully she swerved, or how slowly she drove, it still felt as if they were driving through a warzone.

‘This is like a minefield,’ she said. ‘Car companies should bring their vehicles down here for a suspension test.’

A couple of slow and very bouncy minutes later, they finally reached the house at the end of the Woods Edge.

The place looked like a single-story ranch house, but on a much smaller scale. A low wooden fence, in desperate need of repair and a new paint job, surrounded the front of the property. The grass beyond the fence looked like it hadn’t been cropped in months. Most of the cement slabs that made up the crooked pathway that led from the gates to the house were cracked, with weed growing through the cracks and all around the slabs. An old and full-of-holes Stars and Stripes fluttered from a rusty flagpole on the right. The house was once white fronted, with pale blue windows and doors, but the colors had faded drastically, and the paint was peeling off from just about everywhere. The hipped roof also looked like it could do with a few new tiles.

Hunter and Taylor stepped out of the car. A cool breeze started blowing from the west, bringing with it the smell of damp soil. Hunter looked up and saw a couple of darker clouds starting to close in.

‘He certainly didn’t take very good care of this place,’ Taylor said, closing the car door behind her. ‘Not really the best of tenants.’

Hunter checked the dirt road around him and all the way up to the wooden fence. Except for their own, there were no other tire tracks. The house had no car garage, so Hunter looked for a place where a car could park by the house. In places like this, people tend to always park in the same spot. That would’ve undoubtedly left some sort of lasting impression on the ground, maybe even some oil marks or residues. He saw none. If Lucien Folter really lived here, it didn’t look like he owned a car.

Hunter also checked the postbox by the fence. Empty.

As they both moved toward the house, Hunter paused a second, allowing Taylor to take the lead. As it had been pointed out to him more than once, this wasn’t his investigation.

The single wooden step that led up to the porch creaked liked a warning signal under Taylor’s weight. Hunter, who was right behind her, decided to skip it, stepping straight up onto the porch instead.

They checked the windows on both sides of the front door. They were all locked, with their curtains drawn shut. The heavy door on the right of the house that led to its backyard was also locked. The wall above it was high enough to dissuade anyone who might’ve been thinking about climbing over.

‘OK, let’s try these,’ Taylor said.

Lucien’s keychain could’ve belonged to a building supervisor — a single, thick metal loop, packed with similar-looking keys. There were seventeen in total.

Taylor pulled open the mesh-screen door and tried the first key. It didn’t even go into the lock. The second, third, fourth and fifth keys all slid in easily, but none of them turned. Taylor just kept on calmly going through them.

The smell of damp soil became stronger and the air cooler as the first drops of rain came down. Taylor paused a second and looked up, wondering how many holes would reveal themselves on the porch’s roof once the rain got stronger.

Keys number six and seven were a repeat of the first one — wrong fit. Key number eight, on the other hand, slid into the lock with tremendous ease, and as Taylor turned it, the lock came undone with a muffled clunk.

‘Bingo,’ she said. ‘I wonder what all these other keys are for.’

Hunter said nothing.

Taylor turned the handle and pushed the door open. Surprisingly, there was no creaking or squeaking noise, as if the hinges had been well oiled recently.

Even before stepping into the house, they were both hit by a disinfectant, mothball sort of smell that came from inside. Instinctively, Taylor brought a hand to her nose.

The smell didn’t bother Hunter.

Taylor found a light switch on the inside wall to the right of the door and flicked it on.

The front door led into a very small and completely bare, white-walled anteroom. They quickly moved past it and to the next room along — the living room.

Once again, Taylor found the light switch by the door and flicked it on, activating a single light bulb that hung from the center of the ceiling. The thick red and black shade around it dimmed its already weak strength considerably, throwing the room into a penumbra.

It wasn’t the most spacious of living rooms, but with almost no furniture to speak of, it also didn’t feel cramped. The disinfectant, mothball smell was much stronger in this room, making Taylor cringe and look like she was about to heave.

‘You OK?’ Hunter asked.

Taylor nodded unconvincingly. ‘I hate the smell of mothballs. It messes my stomach up.’

Hunter gave her a few seconds, and allowed his eyes to slowly scan the room. There was nothing to indicate that the house was home to anyone, no pictures, no paintings on the walls, no decorative items anywhere, no personal touches, nothing. It was like Lucien was hiding even from himself.

The open door on the west wall led into a dark kitchen. Across from where they’d entered the living room, a corridor led deeper into the house.

‘Do you want to check the kitchen?’ Hunter asked with a head gesture.

‘Not particularly,’ Taylor said. ‘I just want to find this diary, and go get some fresh air.’

Hunter nodded his agreement.

They crossed the living room and entered the corridor on the other side. The light here was just as weak as the one in the living room.

‘I guess he liked moody lighting,’ Taylor commented.

There were four doors down the hallway — two on the left, one on the right, and one down the far end. The two on the left and the one at the far end were wide open. Even with the lights off, Hunter and Taylor could tell that they led into two bedrooms and a bathroom. The thick and heavy door on the right side of the corridor, on the other hand, was securely locked with a large padlock.

‘This has got to be the door to the basement,’ Taylor said.

Hunter agreed, checking the padlock, which surprised him. It was a military-grade padlock, made by Sargent and Greenleaf — supposedly resistant to every form of attack, including liquid nitrogen. Lucien certainly didn’t want anyone going down into that basement uninvited.

‘And we’re back to the key roulette,’ Taylor said, retrieving Lucien’s keychain once again.

As she started going through the keys, Hunter quickly checked the first room on the left — the bathroom. It was small, tiled all in white, with a heavy musty and wet smell. There was nothing interesting in there.

Click.

Hunter heard the metal noise coming from the corridor and stepped out of the bathroom.

‘Got it,’ Taylor said, letting the padlock drop to the floor. ‘Took me twelve tries this time.’ She twisted the door handle and pushed the door open.

There was a light cord hanging from the ceiling on the inside of the door. Taylor clicked it on. A yellowish fluorescent tube flickered on and off a couple of times before finally engaging, revealing a narrow cement staircase that bent right at the bottom.

‘Do you want to go first?’ Taylor asked, taking a step back.

Hunter shrugged. ‘Sure.’

They both took the steps down slowly and carefully. At the bottom, another two yellowish fluorescent light bulbs lit a space about the same size as the living room upstairs, with a crude cement floor and tired white walls. Furniture wise, it could also be compared to the sparsely decorated living room upstairs. A tall wooden bookcase overflowing with books hugged the north wall. A large rug, together with a flowery sofa, centered the room. Directly in front of it, there was a beech-wood module with an old tube TV on it. To the left of the module was a chest of drawers and a small beer fridge. A few framed drawings adorned the walls. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust.

‘The diary must be there,’ Taylor said, nodding at the bookcase.

Hunter was still looking around the room, taking everything in.

Taylor stepped forward toward the bookcase; she paused before it, and let her eyes quickly browse through all the titles. Several of them looked to be on psychology, a few on engineering, a few on cooking, a few on mechanics, several paperback thrillers, and a few on self-motivation and how to overcome adversity. In one corner, a small collection of books looked a little different from all the others. The main difference was — they had no title. They weren’t printed books. They were hardcover notebooks, the kind easily found in any stationery store.

‘It looks like we’ve got more than one diary here,’ Taylor announced, reaching for the first book.

She got no reply from Hunter.

Without looking at him she flipped the book open, and as she started flicking through it, she frowned. There was nothing written on any of the pages. They were all covered by hand drawings and sketches.

‘Robert, come have a look at this.’

Still no reply from Hunter.

‘Robert, can you hear me?’ Taylor finally turned to face him.

Hunter was standing in the middle of the room, immobile, staring at the wall straight in front of him. The look on his face had changed to something Taylor couldn’t quite recognize.

‘Robert, what’s going on?’

Silence.

She followed his stare toward one of the framed drawings.

‘Wait a second,’ she said, squinting at it and moving a little closer. It took her several seconds to understand what she was looking at, and as she did, her whole body was suddenly covered in gooseflesh.

‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered. ‘Is that. . human skin?’

Hunter finally nodded slowly.

Taylor breathed out, took a step back, and looked around the room again.

‘Jesus Christ. .’ Her throat went completely dry and she felt as if she was being choked by a pair of invisible hands.

There were five different frames adorning the walls.

Hunter still hadn’t moved. His stare was still locked onto the frame directly in front of him. But the fact that what seemed to be framed drawings, were actually framed human skin, wasn’t what had shocked him the most. What had frozen Hunter to the spot was what was drawn onto the human skin in the frame he was staring at. A very unique tattoo. One that Hunter remembered well, because he had been there when it was done. And so was Lucien. A tattoo of a red rose, where its thorny stem wrapped itself around a bleeding heart, giving the impression that it was strangling it.

Susan’s tattoo.