Praise for the novels of J.T. Ellison

“Mystery fiction has a new name to watch.”

—John Connolly

“The Cold Room combines

The Silence of the Lambs with The Wire.”

—January Magazine

“Outstanding…potent characterization and clever plotting, and Ellison systematically cranks up the intensity all the way to the riveting ending.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Immortals [starred review]

“Flawlessly plotted, with well-defined characters and conflict…quite simply a gem.”

—RT Book Reviews [Top Pick] on The Cold Room

“A tight and powerful story.

Judas Kiss moves at a rapid-fire rate…rushing like adrenaline through the bloodstream.”

—The Strand Magazine

“Carefully orchestrated plot twists and engrossing characters… Flawed yet identifiable characters and genuinely terrifying villains populate this impressive and arresting thriller.”

—Publishers Weekly on Judas Kiss [starred review]

“A twisty, creepy and wonderful book… Ellison is relentless and grabs the reader from the first page and refuses to let go until the soul-tearing climax.”

—Crimespree on 14

“A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut.”

—Lee Child on All the Pretty Girls

“All the Pretty Girls is a spellbinding suspense novel and Tennessee has a new dark poet.

A turbocharged thrill ride of a debut.”

—Julia Spencer-Fleming

So Close the Hand of Death
J.T. Ellison

For David Achord, who gave me the tools.

And for my Randy.

By three methods may we learn wisdom: first, by reflection, which is noblest; second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third, by experience, which is the most bitter.

—Confucius

Imitation is suicide.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Contents

November 5

Chapter One

November 6

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

November 7

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

November 8

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Two Weeks Later

November 22

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Acknowledgments

November 5

One

Boston, Massachusetts

8:12 p.m.

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com

From: bostonboy@ncr.bb.com

Subject: Boston

Dear Troy,

All is well.

BB

Quiet, except for the pounding of his heart.

She was home now, the week of late nights at the office finally over. He’d been starting to wonder if she’d ever make it back and was amused at the relief he felt when he saw her trundling down the street, her heavy wool coat dragging her steps. He had been more concerned than he expected, considering the stakes. This was just a game for him, after all. A lovely game.

She’d walked right past the truck without giving him a second glance. A few feet more and she was at her building. The wrought-iron kissing gate was broken, listing slightly, ajar. She pushed it open with her left hand and plodded up the steps. He watched with his head bent, eyes slid to the side as she unlocked the door and slipped inside. She never turned her head, never thought for a moment that she wasn’t safe. Her millionth mistake this week.

He’d give it just one more minute, let her get upstairs. He busied himself with the package, the hard, plastic electronic-signature tablet, the straps on the box, all the while counting.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

Once he hit sixty, he followed her path to the door. He pushed his finger into the white button, heard the shrill bell ringing. A woman’s voice, tinny and thin, said, “Yes?”

“Delivery for June Earhart.”

She buzzed him in without saying anything else. The door unlocked with a snap and he pulled it wide, allowing enough room for the handcart to fit in, adjusting his cap lower on his head. He didn’t want his face to be seen. There were cameras in the foyer, he knew from earlier reconnaissance.

He thought about his target. He loved the way June looked. Brown hair, brown eyes, five foot six, somewhat lumpy, but that was just because she enjoyed her food and didn’t exercise. Not lazy, never lazy. Just…padded.

He’d watched her take lunch all this week: Monday was McDonald’s, Tuesday Subway, Wednesday a couple of iced crullers and a sugary juice smoothie from Dunkin’ Donuts. Thursday she’d stayed in, but this afternoon she’d gone for a grinder, thick with salami and ham and cheese, with a side of potato chips. He wondered if she would smell like onions or if she’d been considerate enough to chew some gum, or suck on a Tic-Tac. He’d wager the latter; June was a self-conscious woman.

Granted, she’d walked from her office to each of these places, but she’d passed the pita joint and the all natural juice-and-salad bar on the way. She chose the fattening food, and he knew it was because she was afraid to be alone but needed a defense mechanism to justify her single status to herself. He knew she sat in her dingy apartment, night after night, reading fitness and yoga magazines, dreaming about what it would be like to have a hard, lithe body, knowing that if she did, if she put in the effort, then she would be irresistible. And irresistible meant the paralegal from the office next door would notice her.

But she was afraid, and so dreamed only, her traitorous actions affording her a little more time. He knew she planned to join a gym at the beginning of the new year—it had been scribbled in purple ink on a list of possible New Year’s resolutions discarded in her kitchen trashcan. He bet she made that resolution every year. June was the type of woman who made New Year’s resolutions in November and never, ever saw them through. A woman who dreamed. A woman who would buzz a total stranger into her building because she never expected to be a victim.

His kind of woman.

The handcart made the trip awkward, bumping, bumping, bumping along the risers as he climbed. It would have helped if June hadn’t ordered wine—he could have carried a normal box up the stairs. But this fit the image he had of a delivery man. Safe and unassuming, too busy with his work to be a threat.

He was at the door of June’s second-story walk-up now. He straightened his cap, arranged the handcart in front of him, the heavy wooden box tied tightly to the metal. He felt in his pocket—yes, everything was there. He arranged his features into something close to a smile and knocked.

June opened the door, still a little out of breath from her climb up the stairs. She’d taken off the heavy coat but her scarf was still wound around her neck in a breathtaking knot. Face-to-face with her, he didn’t realize that he’d frozen until she said, “Kind of late for a delivery, isn’t it?”

Moving his lips even wider over his teeth, he said, “Yes, ma’am. Apologies, ma’am. Got behind today.”

“I never thought the damn stuff would get here. Put it over there,” June said, pointing to an uncluttered alcove just before the kitchen. The same alcove he’d been in last night, watching June watch television. She’d never known he was there, and he’d slipped out after she fell asleep.

He wrestled the handcart into the foyer and made for the alcove, reached into his pocket and depressed the call button on his disposable phone. June’s phone began to ring. He saw a brief flicker of debate in her eyes, then she shrugged and let the door close behind him as she started toward the living room to attend to the call. The moment her back was turned, he attacked. He whipped her scarf up into her mouth so she couldn’t scream, then picked her up and moved toward the bedroom. Might as well be comfortable about it.

She was struggling, so he clouted her over the ear, just enough to daze her. That did the trick. June’s eyes got woozy and the panic in them dulled. He stripped her down and tossed her on the bed, but took care in removing his own clothing piece by piece, folding the brown pants with the seams in, the shirt with sleeves together, then in half. He’d need to reclothe the driver, he didn’t want anything getting on the uniform. June was groggy but cognizant, and when he rolled on the condom and took her, she tried to scream and get away. But he was much bigger, much stronger, and she had no chance. All her wriggling made it go quicker than he’d prefer, but at the end, he wrapped the trailing ends of the scarf around her throat and pulled them tight…and felt another kind of release flow through his veins.

When her eyes bugged out he pulled the scarf tighter still, watching critically as her skin turned a mottled red, and the whites of her eyes began to fill with blood. After three long, excruciating, joyful minutes, she went completely limp beneath him.

He cleaned up quickly, the truck was sure to be noticed soon. When everything was in place, he unwound the scarf from her neck and tied it in a jaunty bow. He kissed June on the forehead, briefly felt sorry that she’d never make it to the gym, dressed carefully then left the apartment, locking the push button lock behind him. He was surprised at how quietly the door closed, a silent witness to the death of its owner and the stranger going gently into that good night.

The night air was brisk. Snow was coming. He turned up his collar and pushed the handcart in front of him to the delivery truck. He’d been lucky: the original driver was his size, and his uniform fit perfectly. He clambered into the truck, drove around the corner to a quiet, deserted cul-de-sac. He stripped, replaced the brown uniform with his own street clothes, struggled a bit getting the dead limbs of the driver back into the arm and leg holes, but finally had things in their proper places. He patted the empty-eyed driver on the head. Collateral damage, but necessary.

He looked out the window on either side. The street was empty, the lights off in the two houses that flanked him. He was confident he hadn’t been seen. He slid out the side of the truck and started to whistle, a tune he’d long forgotten. Strangers in the night…exchanging glances…

One down. Many, many more to go.

New York, New York

10:12 p.m.

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com

From: 44cal@ncr.ss.com

Subject: New York

Dear Troy,

Hey man. I’m on schedule.

44

The bag was rustling, damn it. He knew keeping the gun in the bag wasn’t a good idea. Every step he took, all he could hear was the crackle, crackle, crackle against his leg. How was he supposed to sneak up on anyone like this? And he couldn’t take the gun out and carry it properly—this was New York, after all. A cop on every corner, a chicken in every pot. Tourists every few steps, wide-eyed and camera happy.

The directions had been explicit, though. The paper bag was required.

The dog made me do it. The dog, the dog, the dog.

There. He was back in character.

A light snow began to fall. He knew it was dusting his body, his head, but he couldn’t feel it, he’d pulled a black watch cap over his bald scalp. He got too cold otherwise. He crossed Houston and jogged into Washington Square Park, skipping around a puddle. Crackle, crackle, crackle. Maybe if he put his hand in his pocket he could shush the noise, but no, he’d look furtive and strange walking with his hand deep in his cargo pants. He remembered the instructions. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Walk tall, shoulders back, meet the eyes of those you pass. No one remembers the ones who look at you. They only remember the ones who look away.

The dog made me do it.

He spied his quarry. Two men leaning close in to one another, one blond, one dark, oblivious on the green park bench. He felt his heart soar. Everything was going according to plan. Unbeknownst to their wives, who thought their respective spouses were at the gym—or a card game, or a movie, a late dinner, a meeting run long, terrible traffic—the men came to this bench every night. They sat and talked and dreamed together. Sometimes, if they were feeling terribly risky, a finger would softly stroke a palm, or a bit of pressure would be felt against a thigh. And on the glorious nights—the ones they both looked forward to the most—after a decent interval of time, they’d slink, one after the other, to a small, dingy apartment they borrowed for their occasional physical assignations, make hurried love, then disappear back to their lives. No one could know. No one did know.

Except one. And now two.

The dog made me do it.

He walked right up to them, the fornicators. The wretched, abnormal bastards. He stopped three feet away, reached in his pocket and pulled out an American Spirit. He lit it, took a long, hard drag and blew a plume of smoke out of his nose. He knew he looked like a dragon, did it again for his own amusement.

They hadn’t looked up. They were completely wrapped up in their conversation. He felt a moment of disgust—men weren’t supposed to feel like that about one another, it wasn’t right—but their distraction was good. He was just another guy on the street, taking a smoke break. He finished the cigarette, savoring the deep, husky burn in his lungs, then tossed the butt away into the bushes.

He glanced over his shoulder. Washington Square was strangely deserted. It must be the cold, or providence. The angel sitting on his shoulder squeaked. He ignored him, like he’d been ignoring him for the past six weeks. He was bored, and ready. Ready to have some fun.

The men leaned closer together.

He sniffed once, like he was deciding what to do, then whipped the gun out of his pants pocket. The suppressor coughed and blood burst from the wounds. Two shots, each to the head. They never knew what hit them. He crumpled the letter and tossed it at them, then fled. The sinners slumped together, gray sweats and red brains commingling on the hard cold bench, little spatters of blood dropping into the dusting of snow beneath them. He heard the drip as he left.

The dog made me do it.

He was a block away when his angel told him he wasn’t crackling anymore. Son of a bitch. He searched his pockets and found nothing but the gun, his cigarettes and the lighter. The bag had come out with the gun and dropped to the ground, he’d been too caught up in the furious noises the angel was making to notice. Shit. He wasn’t supposed to leave anything behind except the note. Shit, shit.

He snapped right out of character, panic invading his bloodstream.

The angel talked to him. Breathe. That’s good, man. Breathe. Keep walking. It’s just a brown paper bag, not like anyone can identify where it came from. He made a mental note to throw the receipt for the package of lunch bags away as soon as he got home, just in case. He didn’t want to leave anything behind that might implicate him. Orders were orders, after all.

The angel was on a roll now. Fucking dog. Who blames a dog? Some crazy ass motherfucker, that’s who. Dog made me do it, my ass.

He wasn’t a very good angel.

Behind him, sirens started. He felt the panic start in the pit of his stomach, gone watery at the noise. He needed to go. He needed to run. He started to break away, but the angel yelled in his ear.

Walk, homey. Walk away.

He stopped, and took a deep breath. Remembered the look of surprise on their faces. Turned to look at a bar window as the flashing lights cruised past, feigning interest. Just another guy on his way home, thinking about stopping in for one more drink. Smiled into his beard.

All in all, it had been a good night.

San Francisco, California

11:00 p.m.

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com

From: crypto@ncr.zk.com

Subject: San Francisco

Dear Troy,

It’s going well. Will be in touch if anything goes

wrong.

ZK

His palms were sweating.

He fought the urge to vomit, swallowed hard against the rising gorge. The gloves felt tight, itchy, claustrophobic. Defying orders, he whisked them off. Cool air made his damp skin prickle. There. Better. He tucked the gloves into the back pocket of his black jeans. His grip on the gun became surer, stronger. The metal was slick, hot in his hand. He’d imagined this moment for years. Now he had a chance, a real chance, to fulfill his fantasies and make some money at the same time. Save himself from the day-to-day grind he was living. The hateful job that laid him off. The hateful house the bank was taking. The hateful car he could barely make payments on. He was homeless, broke and hungry to try his hand at murder. The money would be a nice bonus. This opportunity had come at the perfect time.

Twenty yards away, two figures writhed in the front seat of a Toyota Tercel. A whisper of music emanated from the darkened vehicle. The windows were steamed, he couldn’t see any details. But he knew it was a couple. Teenagers, out for a late-night grope. Their names didn’t matter to him. Their lives didn’t matter. They were just props. An illusion.

He inched closer, careful not to shift the gravel. This road was neglected, full of ruts and dust. The close smell of stagnant lake water wasn’t a deterrent. The old road was commonly known as a lover’s lane, the perfect place to go for privacy. Only the moon lit his path.

Ten yards now, and the nausea was back with a vengeance. He paused and breathed deeply through his mouth, willing his heart to slow, felt the adrenaline pulsing through his body like the stinging venom of a million tiny fire ants.

It was here. The moment he’d been dreaming of for years. Finally!

He talked himself back. Remember what you’re doing here. Remember what’s at stake. Think of what can be.

That was better. The nerves were gone, he was caught up in the moment.

It was time.

He took the last few steps electrified with excitement. He pulled the Maglite from his jacket pocket, hefted it into place. He could hear moaning now, see the thin flesh of the girl as she rose and plunged onto her lover’s body. Over and over and over. He felt a tingle in his balls, like he felt when he was watching a porno. Recognized his nervous excitement for what it really was—arousal. Realized he liked that feeling a lot.

Using the blunt end of the Maglite, he tapped on the driver’s-side window.

A small shriek; he’d surprised them. Good. He placed the silver shield up against the window. Watched the boy’s eyes go white. A quick fumbling—they probably had some alcohol or drugs within easy reach—then the electronic window whirred down. Music spilled into the air. He recognized the tune, some old-school lovin’ jam. The boy’s spooked face filled the window frame. The girl retreated to the passenger seat, surreptitiously plucking at her skirt.

The boy cleared his throat. His lips were red and raw in the harsh beam of light.

“What is it, Officer? What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” he said, and squeezed the trigger. He caught the boy right under the left eye. Perfect! He hesitated for a moment, staring at the neat hole, astonished by the amount of blood that sprayed across the seat. The gun was so much louder than he expected—on the range, with ear defenders blocking the noise, it wasn’t ever this intense, his ears were ringing but he could make out another sound, someone screaming. The girl.

He was jolted back to the moment. She was fumbling with the door latch, damn, she’d gotten the door open. He moved around the front of the car swiftly. Reached her as she started to run. She was crying in panicked little grunts. When she looked over her shoulder and saw him advancing, she started running backward and fell hard on her bottom. Scrabbling crablike, her feet catching in the dry twigs and gravel, she tried to scoot away. He took the shot.

The bullet entered her chest with a whump and she fell back, arms and legs tangled up, eyes staring heavenward. It was a clean shot to the heart. It only took a minute for her to die. Her breathing labored for a moment, hitching as her body realized that it had ceased to be alive. He ignored her kittenish whimpers and stared at the blood. Fascinating: the viscosity, the color. He reached out and touched the growing pool; his hand came away shimmering with red.

He realized he had the most intense erection. For the briefest of moments, he imagined touching himself, the candy-red wrapping around the hardened flesh, and that was enough to drive him right over the edge.

Sated, trying to catch his breath, he stowed the gun inside his jacket and brought out the camera. He took fifteen shots, from various angles and distances, then returned to the boy and did the same. He glanced at his watch. Just past midnight. Time to go.

He loped off into the woods, along the well-trodden path that led to the lake, pleased with the night’s adventure, already thinking ahead to the next step. His nerves were gone now. He got to use the knife next.

Nashville, Tennessee

Midnight

Taylor Jackson started awake, heart hammering in her throat. She rarely slept soundly, but she must have been deeply under; she felt like she was swimming through the murky gray matter of her brain, trying to get the synapses to fire and open her eyes. Something had wakened her, something loud and close.

She reached her hand under the pillow, felt the cold steel of her Glock. Trying not to rustle the sheets, she drew the weapon to her chest, got a good grip on it, then bolted upright from the bed, gun sighted on the blank darkness of her room.

She heard the noise again and felt a chill move down her spine. An owl.

Shuddering, she lay back down and secreted the gun in its resting spot. She crossed her hands on her chest and willed her heart rate back to normal. The ceiling seemed closer than usual, moon spikes traversed the luminous paint.

Just this afternoon, her friend—if you could call Ariadne that—told Taylor the owl was her totem, her spirit guide. The owl would bring signs to her world. Not that Taylor really believed any of that mumbo jumbo; the Pagan priestess was full of warnings and prevarications. But hearing the owl hoot once more—that made three distinct hoots—she felt the dread begin to build. If she were to listen to Ariadne, she had to call this a sign.

She didn’t need an owl to tell her things were about to go south. It had only been forty-eight hours since she’d been forced to shoot and kill a teenage boy. Time was not healing her wounds. If anything, she was worse now than the day of the shooting.

She rolled over, trying to force the boy’s face from her mind. “Think about something else,” Ariadne had told her. “It will get better.”

That was a lie, though. It wasn’t getting better. As a matter of fact, things were devolving rather quickly. She knew what was about to happen. She could feel it in her bones. She didn’t need hooting owls or witches to tell her trouble was coming; her own gut instinct was on fire.

Her greatest enemy was finally making his move.

She stared at the ceiling. The Pretender, that psychopathic son of a bitch, had kidnapped Pete Fitzgerald, her dear friend Fitz, her sergeant and father figure. He’d held him and tortured him, but allowed him to live. A testament to the power the Pretender had, he held life and death in the palm of his hand. She understood the point loud and clear—he could take her. Anytime, anywhere.

He left behind a present for Taylor, a mockery of her abilities, and a warning, in an old Airstream trailer in the mountains of North Carolina. There was a note attached to Fitz’s detached eyeball, written in Hebrew. Ayin tahat ayin. The translation quite literal: an eye for an eye.

Fitz may be breathing, but he’d been disfigured for life. She had no idea what other damage had been inflicted, could only imagine the worst.

But she’d know soon enough. She was heading to Nags Head, North Carolina, in a few hours to bring him home.

She rolled over, the sheets tangling in her legs. She kicked at the whisper-soft fabric, let them settle around her like an obedient cloud.

The darkness filled her again, her mind still working in overdrive. The feeling that everything was falling apart, that she’d lost her edge, crept back in. The past two days had been among the worst in her life. Two days of recalling every moment in her head, the gun kicking in her palm, the sting in her wrist as she fired again, and again, the ringing in her ears deafening, the look of pure shock, and hatred, in the boy’s eyes. For the thousandth time she wondered, Could I have done differently? Of course not, he’d drawn down on her. Suicide by cop, they called the phenomenon. The disturbed suspect trying to get the officer to end it for him because he didn’t have the courage to end it himself.

Her mind shifted back to Fitz, to the pain he must be in, to visions of what it must have been like having his eye taken out. She prayed he’d been unconscious. She felt the gorge rise in her throat. Just speaking to him had dragged her out of her funk, momentarily. When he’d called, to tell her he was alive and okay, he hadn’t gone into the details of his ordeal. But he had given her a message from the Pretender, oblique and taunting. Two words, full of meaning.

“He said to tell you, ‘Let’s play.’”

She rolled back the other way, punched the pillow to get the goose down plumped up, then smashed her head into the softness. It wasn’t just the shooting and Fitz’s pain that had her disturbed.

Let’s play.

The Pretender hadn’t been terribly subtle. There had been phone calls to the house. The bullet and note left in her mailbox while she was out of the country, chasing yet another madman—always another madman out there, waiting to be found… The all-pervasive feeling that she was being watched. The lengthy silence from Fitz, his reappearance, was the real message. See what power I have, Taylor? I can touch those closest to you, anytime I want.

The Pretender wouldn’t be satisfied with hurting her friends. Not anymore.

Let’s play.

She wished Baldwin were home. His enforced return to Quantico meant he’d been away for the past two days. She didn’t realize just how much she needed him, had come to depend on his logic, and comfort, until he was gone. She’d been faced with one of her biggest challenges, had made it through just fine, but she longed to have him near. A small flash of happiness came over her. She’d see him tomorrow, if his disciplinary hearing didn’t keep him longer. If tomorrow ever came.

The clock read 12:17 a.m. now.

With a deep sigh, she got out of the bed. She pulled on a pair of black yoga pants, slid the Glock .40 into the waistband at the back. It was heavy, and dragged on the elastic, so she tightened the strings. There, that was better.

Her beloved pool table was just the length of a hallway away. Once in the bonus room, she turned on a banker’s lamp, the green cap casting an unearthly glow across the shadows. She flipped on the television. It was tuned to Fox News, and one of her favorite shows was on. Red Eye never ceased to amuse her; she especially liked the Halftime Report with Andy Levy. If she couldn’t cry tonight, maybe she could laugh.

She pulled the cover off the table and took her time chalking her stick, listening to the television with one ear. She racked, broke, pocketed the balls in turn, then did it again.

The owl affected her more than anything she’d experienced before. Maybe she’d finally bought into the witch’s insight. Ariadne had told Taylor she had no choice in the shooting, that she’d saved lives, that it was the right thing to do. She’d told Taylor Fitz would live, but be hurt. That Taylor and Baldwin were inextricably linked, and she could, and should, depend on him. Ariadne had insinuated herself into Taylor’s life, acting as a surrogate in Baldwin’s absence. So Taylor hadn’t been totally alone with her worries. Which was good, because she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was collapsing around her. The Pretender was coming for her, and this time, he wouldn’t be satisfied with passing her in the night.

She didn’t know why he’d chosen this particular moment to act, to reach out. Why he’d chosen her in the first place, truth be told. He was a threat to her very existence, that she did know. Alarms and guns and protection aside, he wanted her for something.

Let’s play.

She broke again, the balls scattering in her vehemence, the cue ball sloppily careening off the table onto the floor with a thud. She bent to retrieve it, set it gently back onto the green felt.

Am I ready for him?

First things first.

She was going to North Carolina to collect Fitz.

November 6

Two

The Outer Banks, North Carolina

The Gulfstream’s flight attendant, if asked, would have been circumspect and silent, as befitted her job. She worked for the deputy director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, and discretion was her middle name. Which meant she saw a great deal that mere mortals weren’t privy to. She saw her boss talking with other discreet and powerful men. She saw people transported who might otherwise come under scrutiny if they traveled by normal routes. She saw new widows and the now childless. She saw much, yet never spoke about it.

But the gray-eyed woman sitting midcabin in the expansive leather chair, a crystal-cut glass of Voss water untouched at her elbow, was a bit of a surprise. The flight attendant, whose name was Cici, had initially been charmed by the pleasant smile, mesmerized by the mismatched eyes, the right slightly darker than the left, like it hadn’t made up its mind to embrace gray just yet. She’d loved the smoky, Southern drawl that emanated from the woman’s mouth when she said good morning, the blond hair tied back from her face in a perfectly messy bun. Cici fingered her own limp locks and wished, for the millionth time, for some fullness, some body, so she could wind her hair up and leave it alone for the day.

She had been envious of the woman’s height, about six feet tall without heels, and her whole look: a flattering black cashmere turtleneck, black leather jacket, low-slung jeans and black Frye motorcycle boots. She’d seen the holster and badge attached to the waistband of the jeans and felt a mild shock of surprise: this woman didn’t look like a cop. But she was a cop—Cici knew from the manifest. A Homicide lieutenant from Nashville, Tennessee.

The lieutenant sat in the wide leather chair with an uncommon stillness—no fidgeting, no crossing and recrossing of legs, no drumming of fingers. Her hands were folded loosely in her lap, her head turned away slightly so she could stare out the window. This lack of motion left Cici feeling uneasy, and she tiptoed around the cabin so as not to disturb.

Cici also knew the woman was closely attached to one of Cici’s favorite men in the whole wide world: Dr. John Baldwin. Baldwin was her boss’s darling, and she understood why. His handsomeness aside—oh, those green eyes are to die for!—Baldwin was insightful, and caring. He was the glue that held her boss together, the son he’d never had. She knew that because Garrett Woods had told her so, once, when he’d been drinking something stronger than Voss water.

Baldwin had led men and women into battle, fighting the forces of evil that came across their desks, pushing back the tides of blood that swept out before their opponents’ wickedness. He was polite, so much so that she sometimes wondered if it was an act. Who could be like that all the time? So contained. So like his woman. She’d often wondered just what made Dr. John Baldwin tick. Cici was no profiler, but she’d studied psychology in school. His calm facade was a veneer, she was sure of it. He had demons, coiled and writhing in his gut. Guilt, and shame, and hate. Everyone did, right? Right?

She felt that same sort of fight going on behind the lieutenant’s gray eyes. Guilt, and shame, and hate. And if Cici wasn’t mistaken—remember, she was no expert and would be the first to tell you that—if Cici wasn’t mistaken, there was something else lurking in those loch-gray depths.

Fear.

Taylor felt the landing gear unfold and lock into place. The tarmac appeared beneath her, gray and chilly. The jet landed softly, came to a halt within minutes. Baldwin had arranged for his boss’s plane to collect her in Nashville and fly her to North Carolina. She had to admit, flying in the Gulfstream was a habit she could get used to.

The attendant opened the galley door, bid her farewell. Taylor wasn’t sad the flight was over; the woman was as twitchy as a deer in an open meadow, pale and staring from under nearly lashless lids.

She stepped down the stairs onto the tarmac, surprised to see little flakes of snow drifting swiftly from the slate sky. She could already feel it accumulating on her hair, so she shook it out and wound it back up into a ponytail.

Baldwin was waiting for her. His deep green eyes lit up when he saw her step down the stairs. He hadn’t shaved since he left her Monday morning, and he looked like he belonged on a billboard, a perfectly groomed-to-be-scruffy model. She felt that strange pull of desire deep in her gut, and the uncontrollable joy at being near him again made a huge smile break out on her face. He smiled in return, grabbed her by the waist and kissed her deeply. When they broke for air they both spoke at the same time.

“Was your flight okay?”

“Is Fitz here?”

They laughed, and Taylor said, “You first.”

“He’s not here. The North Carolina State Bureau of Investigations agents have him. They’re still doing a debrief, and he’s scheduled for surgery this afternoon. He’s going to be flown to Duke. There’s a specialist who’s been retained to help.”

“We have specialists in Nashville. Why can’t we bring him home?”

“Because the North Carolina SBI want to keep him in their jurisdiction for the time being. They have three district offices involved. This is a big case for them, a score. They want hands on him at all times. You know how it is. Besides, this guy at Duke is one of the best. They’re going to clean up the eye socket, put in an orbital spacer so the ocular muscles won’t collapse. Then they’ll transfer him to Vanderbilt for the duration of his recovery. I’ve seen Fitz, but just briefly. I know he’ll be thrilled to see you though.”

See me. That spike drove right through her. “His poor eye. Is he in much pain?”

“He was stable enough to be checked out of the emergency room and taken to the police station for questioning, so I’m sure they’ve given him everything he needs. He’s a tough old bird, too. He’s going to be just fine.

They said the damage was fixable, and he’ll be able to have a prosthetic in about a month.”

“I want to talk to him. See if he’d rather go back to Nashville. They can’t treat him like a suspect. It should be his choice.”

They started walking toward the terminal. The private airstrip in Duck was tiny, accommodating only the smallest of jets and single-engine planes.

“Any other news?” Taylor asked.

“Yes, actually. The harbormaster discovered Fitz’s boat. It’s been docked at the marina here for a week or so. He went to collect the rent and knew immediately something was wrong, pulled out and called the cops. There’s a lot of blood. The Nags Head Police found Susie’s body stuffed in the head. Multiple stab wounds.”

Taylor felt a wave of nausea pass through her. Susie McDonald was the best thing that had happened to Fitz in a long time. Taylor had liked her, Fitz had loved her. Her loss would be enormous.

“Poor Susie. Does Fitz know?”

“Just that she’s dead, not the details. He was there when Susie died, though, so he probably has some ideas. He’s in remarkably good shape, considering what he’s been through. Losing an eye isn’t life-threatening. Painful as hell, but he’s going to be just fine. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.”

“Does the marina have cameras? Did they see anyone leaving the boat?”

“They do have cameras, but nothing has been found yet. We’re early days, remember. I just got down here myself.”

Taylor watched the snow fall in graceful dances. It was gathering quickly. The forecast was for at least three inches, quite a lot this early in the season for this neck of the woods.

“The Pretender isn’t stupid, Baldwin. He’s trying to draw me out. Hurting Fitz is a guarantee. He knows I’m coming for him, and if I don’t, he’ll come for me.”

“Taylor.”

“Seriously. No more foreplay. I want to see the bastard bleed.”

He sighed deeply. “Which is why you’ve got a security detail on you 24/7 as soon as I send you home. I refuse to let him get his hands on you.”

“I know. You’ve said that before. I don’t need a detail.”

He stopped short of the terminal door and pulled her around to face him.

“You listen to me. I am not kidding. This is building to a head. I know you can feel that, too. We have to be alert.”

“I’m alert. I’m alert. Stop fretting.” She patted her waist, the Glock nestled in its holster on her hip, then reached into the front pocket of her jeans and brought out a single .40-caliber Winchester jacketed hollow point.

“See? I’m even carrying the bullet the bastard sent me. I’m saving this one for him.”

Baldwin’s mouth twitched, she could tell he was fighting a smile.

“What’s on it?” he asked finally.

She flipped the bullet into his hand. She’d used a marker to draw a lopsided hamsa, the hand of Fatima, on the casing. The eye felt like a talisman of sorts to her. It was juvenile, she knew that, but the action had given her great satisfaction.

“I have every intention of letting the Pretender know exactly how I feel about his eye-for-an-eye mentality.”

Baldwin shook his head and sighed.

She pulled on his arm. “Come on. Let’s go. What’s happened since your hearing? Have you heard anything?”

He hesitated for the briefest of moments, then said, “Yes. But not now. We’ll talk about it when we’re alone.”

Something was wrong. He was hedging. She could feel him pulling away slightly as they walked. The hearing at Quantico had been disciplinary—a case from Baldwin’s past—she knew that, but he hadn’t gone into detail. She was wrapped up enough in her own pain that she hadn’t pushed. Maybe that had been a mistake.

Biting her lip, she followed him through the tiny terminal building, through the glass double doors and into the parking lot. The State Bureau of Investigations had sent a car for them. She could see it idling, black and square, so conspicuously federal, the foggy condensed air shuttling out of the tailpipes. The driver wore shades despite the lack of sun. It was oppressively warm in the backseat. Baldwin asked the agent to turn the heat down. He acquiesced, then pulled out onto the main road slowly. It wasn’t icy yet, that would come later, but the snow was making everything slick.

The landscape was exotic and familiar at the same time. Taylor hadn’t been to the Outer Banks since she was a girl, and never during the cold months. Snow drifted down onto the sand: a mismatched postcard. Come celebrate winter at the beach. It conjured images of roaring bonfires, happy dogs running up and down the lengths of sand, people in warm woolen sweaters braving the icy shores. Of the North, not the South.

She was surprised to find it so appealing. She was a Nashvillian born and bred, which meant she both hated snow and revered it with the wonder of a child. Aside from the huge Christmas storm they had last year, snow was more of an anomaly in Nashville. Ice, sleet, yes, but these fluffy, prancing flakes were utterly foreign, and completely charming.

She didn’t know if she’d want it around all the time, to be sure. But this, the snow falling on the fine sand in silent whispers, felt right. Like forgiveness.

Baldwin took her hand and squeezed as if he knew her thoughts. He always seemed to be able to see right past her skin, past the bone, directly into her being. Granted, he was a psychiatrist, but this was more than having a clinical understanding. He felt the pain she was experiencing. He knew that every time she used her gun, another little bit of her soul stripped away into nothingness. She could only hope that if he continued to love her, maybe, just maybe, Baldwin could stop her humanity from slipping away.

“Have you been sleeping?” he asked.

She smiled. “The pool table’s been getting a workout, but I slept some last night.”

“You know I could give you something for that. Or Sam could.”

“Sam’s busy,” she said, looking away. “She has a lot on her mind. She wasn’t planning on getting pregnant again so soon. It’s a strain on both her and Simon.”

“Are you two fighting again?”

“No. She’s… I just don’t want to drug myself to sleep.”

Because if I’m out, and he comes for me, I’ll be completely defenseless.

Things between her and Sam Loughley had been tense lately, but Taylor didn’t want to share that with Baldwin. No sense in getting him more upset than he already was. It wasn’t fun to be in a spat with your best friend, especially one you had to work with almost daily because she was the chief medical examiner. She’d known Sam since kindergarten, and they’d fought many times over the years. They always made up; it would happen again.

The trouble had started when James “Memphis” Highsmythe, late of New Scotland Yard and the FBI’s new liaison back to his own group, had made a play for her. Taylor had foolishly flirted back, and Sam had called her on it. The situation was Taylor’s fault, she knew that. But the whole thing wearied her. She assiduously avoided thinking of Memphis if at all possible, confident that the little crush he had on her would go away if the feelings weren’t reciprocated. Hashing things out with Sam just meant she’d been thinking about Memphis, and the kiss they’d shared, and she just didn’t have the desire to go there. Not now. Not with everything feeling so damn precarious.

He took her hand.

“Okay, okay. How’d the session go with Dr. Willig?”

“Victoria? Fine.”

He sensed the lie, but didn’t say anything. After the shooting, all the deaths, all those blameless lives ended, Taylor’s commander, Joan Huston, had insisted she get checked out before she returned to active duty. More than the cursory checkup required by the department after a shooting. And that meant time with Willig, Metro’s department psychologist. Taylor had spent a grand total of ten minutes with the shrink. She wasn’t in the mood to hash through the details out loud.

She looked at the ocean, the roiling waves crashing on the sand, and identified a bit too much.

Recognizing that Taylor was through talking, Baldwin sank back into the deep leather seats and retreated into his own world to check his BlackBerry. She was relieved the interrogation was over. She was still learning how to share with him. She’d been alone long enough to learn true emotional self-reliance, and the fact that she had a soul mate beyond her childhood friends could be disconcerting. She still found herself holding back, not saying everything she felt. Dr. Willig would tell her that wasn’t healthy, but she’d get there. She was going to marry Baldwin, and soon, which meant allowing those last few barriers to be battered. Thankfully, he was a patient man, and knew her well enough to back off when he felt her closing down.

They were quiet for a mile or two, until the car turned into a shell-covered driveway, the entrance to the Nags Head Police Station. The building was as informal as the rest of Nags Head—weathered gray shingles, white trim, a second story as a defense against the inevitable hurricane season flooding. The car came to a halt. Their driver got out and lit a cigarette before silently disappearing around the corner of the building.

A slim man came out the main doors, waving in welcome. He had brown hair and matching eyes, was dressed for the weather in chinos and a battered tan wool sweater.

They exited the vehicle and took the short sidewalk to him. The man smiled up at Taylor in appreciation.

“Good grief, you touch the sky, don’t you?” he said.

She heard Baldwin stifle a laugh. If she had ten cents for every time someone commented on her height…

“I try not to fly too close to the sun. Nice to meet you,” she replied.

They shook hands. “Steve Nadis, I’m the chief here in Nags Head. How ya doing?”

“Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, Metro Nashville Homicide. I’m good. And you?”

“Fine, fine. Got a whole host of strange cops and a few Feds roaming the place, but we’re all good. Come on in, I just made some coffee. Colder than a witch’s teat in a brass bra out here. Snow. This early, too. Strange weather for us. Dr. Baldwin, good to see you again.”

“You, too, Chief.”

They followed him inside the station, which held all the classic cop shop paraphernalia. Taylor felt immediately at home. There was something about being with cops—she never quite trusted people who weren’t in law enforcement. Though she’d come across her fair share of jerks behind the blue wall, for the most part, she only felt like herself around people who had been there, who could relate to her permanent mind-set. It was what made her relationship with Baldwin work so well.

They passed a wooden counter and the office assistant working behind glass, then went through a rabbit warren of hallways until they reached the door that was informally marked “Chief” with a brown-and-white placard.

The comforting scent of roasted coffee beans drifted down the hallway.

Nadis gestured to two chairs facing his desk. “How do you take it, Lieutenant? I know Dr. B here likes his black.”

“Light, please. Lots of cream and sugar.” Taylor wasn’t a huge fan of coffee, it had a tendency to tear up her insides if she wasn’t careful, but she didn’t want to be rude. She was chilled, something warm would help.

Nadis disappeared, whistling, and Taylor smiled at Baldwin. The Nags Head chief was a bit like a cheerful firefly. Fitting for a beach cop. Taylor had noticed there was a certain mentality in some of the more unique law enforcement regions. It took a special personality to live at the beach full-time, and a specific kind of person to govern those free spirits. Her own chief would be an absolute disaster in a laid-back town.

Nadis returned with the two coffees, handed them out, then sat at his desk facing them. The liveliness had disappeared from his face.

“We don’t get a lot of murders out here. I have four good people in my CID, but I knew the SBI was already involved, so we gave them a shout. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Taylor said. “I would have done the same thing if I was in your position. Tell me, do you, they, have any leads?”

“I’m afraid not. Like I told the doc here, there’s a bunch of evidence that’s been collected, and the state boys are running the show now. Your friend’s been through a lot. Good fellow. I can see he’s been a fine cop.”

“He still is. I doubt this will derail Fitz at all.” Her tone was sharper than she intended, and she felt bad when Nadis declined his head in apology.

“Of course he still is. I didn’t mean that. Sorry.”

She shrugged it away. There were more important things to deal with. “How did he come to be here, in Nags Head?”

“We found him yesterday morning, early, wandering on the side of the road in his skivvies. Face was cut up. He couldn’t tell us how he’d gotten there.”

Baldwin interjected, “We assume they dropped him after they killed Susie. When the harbormaster found the boat, she’d been dead at least forty-eight hours, maybe more.”

Jesus.

Nadis rocked back in his chair. “A couple of agents from the west branch of the SBI found his eye earlier in the week, in that trailer near Asheville. It’s not a quick drive, over seven hours. His captor, or captors, would have had plenty of time to get him here. He was probably drugged.”

“Or he’s been here in Nags Head the whole time, on the boat. They found his eye four days ago. I wonder if the suspect just delivered the eye to Asheville to throw us off the trail,” Taylor said.

Nadis looked at her with new appreciation. “Now that you mention it, that does make more sense. Sergeant Fitzgerald was pretty nonsensical when we found him. We took him to the hospital, got him cleaned up. He couldn’t tell us much about what had happened, just his name and his badge number. He was in shock, of course. But we’d seen the alerts, called up to the FBI. Dr. Baldwin got on a plane down here, the SBI coots showed up first thing this morning, and Bob’s your uncle. That’s all we got right now.”

“Why didn’t y’all keep him in the hospital?”

“I figured you’d ask—our hospital is kind of small, and there was a food poisoning outbreak last night. They needed the bed, he was stable, so we brought him here.”

Taylor didn’t realize she was tapping her fingers on the side of her cup until Baldwin set his coffee down on the chief’s desk. “I know Lieutenant Jackson would like to see her sergeant. Can we make that happen?”

“I think that’s a good idea.” Nadis glanced at his watch. “Those SBI folks have been going at him for a couple of hours now. He’s probably ready for a break. But, Lieutenant, I need to warn you. He’s seen a lot the past few days, been through a lot. You may want to—”

“Chief, no offense, but Fitz is like a father to me. I won’t push him. But I would like to see him. If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Okay.” Nadis stood and gestured for them to follow him. The hallway seemed to go on forever, and led to a steel door. Nadis knocked twice as a warning, then inputted his code into a numbered lock, explaining as he did. “This is a secure area, we usually use it to let some of the local yahoos sleep off their buzz. We don’t have a jail, per se, here in the building, just holding cells, so this works for our needs. The corrections facility is a mile down the road.”

The door clicked open, and he led them through. A woman stood on the other side, staring into a window with her arms crossed on her chest. She was about five foot four, trim and athletic, with bushy brown hair tied back from her face. Her black suit was well made, and Taylor could see the bulge of a shoulder holster under her left arm.

She turned and saw the entourage, stepped away and introduced herself.

“You must be the sergeant’s lieutenant. I’m Renee Sansom, SBI. Hey, Dr. Baldwin. My boys are in with your guy right now. You want to see him?”

Taylor shook Sansom’s hand. “Yes, I would.”

“He’s been through a lot,” the woman said simply, then knocked on the window. Taylor knew it was a one-way mirror, acrylic, unbreakable, but for some reason avoided looking into the room. It seemed impolite to stare at him when he couldn’t see her. And with so many warnings on Fitz’s condition, she was starting to worry about him even more.

The door opened and two men stepped out, blue suited, wearing red-and-white striped ties. Two of a kind. They nodded professionally and the second one held the door open for her.

Taylor took a deep breath and entered.

Fitz had shrunk since she’d seen him last. He’d lost weight, his shoulders were hunched together. He seemed to be folded in on himself, protecting the kernel of pain that was driving him. Taylor knew he must be exhausted, and that hurt her as much as his obvious grief.

He turned as she entered. The left side of his face was covered with a large white pressure bandage, the skin of his cheek tinged with the yellow of Betadine, the iodine base discoloring the flesh around the dressing. But his remaining eye, round and dark blue, lit up when he saw her.

“Good to see you, little girl,” he said gruffly, and she heard the tears in his voice.

And then she had her arms around him, holding on for dear life.

Three

Nashville, Tennessee

Colleen Keck typed in the blog title, her fingers moving quickly.

No Clues in the Hunt for a Missing Nashville Teen

She looked it over for errors, saw none. Good. Catchy. She took a sip of her Diet Coke, then started the entry, her fingers flying over the keys.

Nashville is still reeling from the horrific Halloween massacre last week, when eight teenagers were viciously murdered in Green Hills on Halloween afternoon. As the burials begin, more frightening news is leaking out: a seventeen-year-old varsity athlete from Montgomery Bell Academy has gone missing. Peter Schechter, a junior defensive end for the MBA football team and the lacrosse team co-captain, did not make it to a morning practice the day after Halloween and has not been heard from since.

His vehicle, a silver 2006 BMW 5 series, was found Saturday morning in the parking lot of the McDonald’s in West End. His parents, Winifred and Peter Schechter, Sr., report that their son was responsible, hardworking and very settled in his routine. “It is completely out of character for Pete not to check in. He’s religious about it. We’re very close,” said a tearful Mrs. Schechter.

Schechter’s friends confirm that they were downtown, on Lower Broad, attending an eighteen-and-over Halloween night party at the bar Subversion, though no one remembers driving him back to his car. “We just assumed he’d left with someone,” said Brad Sandford, a friend and fellow ballplayer. “We went home without him.”

The police do not believe that Schechter left of his own volition, though they will not release details. He is not answering his cell phone, and no texts have been sent from his number. A source close to the investigation who has asked not to be identified confirms the police suspect foul play. An AMBER Alert is in effect, and a search is being organized. If you know anything about the whereabouts of Peter Schechter, please call 866-555-2010. All tips can be left anonymously.

Humbly submitted,

Felon E

Colleen read through her piece one more time, corrected a comma splice, and published the story. It automatically fed into her Twitter feed; she watched TweetDeck as the message went viral through the community, her hundreds of thousands of followers dutifully spreading the word that a new blog post had been published. She cracked her knuckles and allowed herself a small smile.

Felon E was her baby, her creation, her universe. While the world of true-crime bloggers grew exponentially, with new entrants on the scene almost daily, she was still number one, the top of the heap. Her blog echoed throughout the online world because of her accuracy, her tact and her compassion.

She utilized all the social networks to get the word out, and her fans did the rest. She’d come a long way from the crime beat at The Tennessean, though no one online had any idea who she was. Anonymity allowed her to utilize sources from multiple jurisdictions without complaint. The law enforcement folks she worked with knew they could trust her, that she’d never, ever reveal her sources. Her silence was golden.

She was admired by law enforcement, too. Many departments utilized her blog and announcements to get background out about hopeless or urgent cases, especially AMBER Alerts and Silver Alerts, work she was happy to do gratis.

To stay on top of the breaking crime news, she’d carefully cultivated contacts throughout the country, but her bread and butter came from friends in the 911 call centers. Major metropolitan areas, local county networks—she’d made deals with hundreds of folks. Those connections allowed her a jump on the competition. She had video and audio feeds live, an online police scanner running at all times, the Emergency Radio app on her iPhone, and an open policy from her contacts. They knew what calls were worth passing along to her. She accepted tips from the general public, too, but always, always confirmed with two sources before she ran her stories.

After a high-profile bank robber had written in to the blog and asked to surrender, the media had been keeping a close eye on Felon E. There had been requests from every major news outlet for her to appear on their shows to talk about how she could keep on top of the country’s crime, but she refused all interviews. She wasn’t in this for her own glory. She was in it because she wanted to help.

At least that was what she told herself, over and over again.

The blog was raking in the dough. The advertising she sold on the site, and so judiciously monitored, paid more than enough to keep her afloat, enough that she could afford to send her five-year-old son, Flynn, to the pricey Montessori school down the street. It was a luxury she never thought she’d be able to find the money for, and while the bills got paid, there wasn’t too much left for lavish possessions. No matter. Working at home meant no extraneous business expenses: fancy suits and gas and lunches out. No husband—and no desire to date—meant no need for overpriced cosmetics, and she didn’t have to fuss with her hair; the expensive highlights she used to maintain like clockwork every six weeks had grown out, and that money went to pay her grocery bill. It all balanced in the end.

She toggled her mouse and tried not to look at the picture wedged at the back of her desk. It was no use. Shifty as a sneak thief, her eyes slid over the faded photograph in its dented silver frame. A dark-haired man holding a small blue bundle, smiling broadly with paternal pride. He’d been gone a week later, leaving her to manage a newborn and a funeral. She swallowed hard and let her eyes drift away before she could make real contact, before the memories of him overwhelmed her.

Angels and death, missing fathers and harried mothers. The past clashing with the reality of her present.

She’d explained to Flynn time and again that his daddy was with the angels. It just doesn’t register when they’re so young. You can’t miss what you don’t know, and Flynn had never met the smiling young man who’d fathered him. All Flynn really cared about was Colleen paying him attention when he wanted it, and being left alone for “me” time when he desired. His newly independent streak worried her, hurt her fragile feelings when he pushed her away from the door to his room and said, “I need some time for me, Mommy.”

And pizza. He was passionate about pizza. Just like his father.

Flynn’s daddy was an on-the-rise young cop who’d been mowed down in the line of duty. One minute here, the next gone. They said it was instantaneous. That he died bravely. That he never knew what hit him. She’d been at enough crime scenes to know they were lying—gunshots didn’t kill you instantly, you lingered for several minutes while your organs got the message that they were no longer needed and shut down, one by one—but she’d nodded like she understood and hadn’t asked anything more.

She’d held her silence all this time, though his killer hadn’t been caught.

When Tommy died, Colleen was working at the paper, pulling down just about enough to cover the mortgage and little else. Though the foundation his coworkers had set up was flush, that money was earmarked for Flynn’s college fund. The day-to-day expenses of a single-parent family were astronomical, and she quickly realized that even with the hefty insurance settlement, her job at the paper wasn’t going to cut it.

She’d always been a crime buff, that was probably why she married Tommy in the first place. A cop whore, he’d called her, joking and laughing at her over dinner, his dark eyes dancing while he filled her in on his shift. After he died, some of the other brothers in blue had sat in his rightful spot across from her at the rickety kitchen table, relaying stories and keeping her spirits up while she draped a blanket across her body and nursed Flynn.

When her grief allowed her rational mind to surface, she knew she needed to find something more to raise her small family. She was a writer, after all, so she thought about writing a book. It would be fast, easy money; she could break into the market with a flashy true-crime story. Then one of her heroes, Dominick Dunne, died, and the extensive coverage of his career brought another thought to the fore. The idea of a crime blog started to germinate. She liked it. Quick and dirty. Instantaneous feedback, a running record. Like Dunne, she could be a voice for the victims, but she’d be behind the scenes, an angel of sorts. She preferred that no one knew who she was. She didn’t like to sign her real name to her work; she never aspired to fame, or attention. It was better this way. Safer.

Colleen started populating Felon E with stories, announced it was under way on a few true-crime message boards, and it took off like a shot. She was still surprised at how well it was doing; within a year of the launch, she was able to quit her job and dedicate herself to running the blog full-time. She’d underestimated the fervor civilians had toward the intimate, gory details of the crimes they were surrounded by. She had a fascination, but she was a cop’s wife, and a former crime reporter. She’d been caught up in the scene. Her readers were regular folks off the street, but bloodthirsty for all that.

She’d attracted a few nuts and the like over the years, but Tommy had taught her well. She could shoot the guns in the safe with the ease of many hours of practice, had the house wired to an elaborate alarm system. She knew self-defense techniques. She was smart and savvy and capable of disguising her whereabouts with the computer. She’d been a computer science major at MTSU before switching to journalism her junior year. That gave her two important legs up, an edge over other crime bloggers—the ability to code her site with lovely little traps for those trying to sneak in the back door, and the skill to do all her own web work, ensuring that precious anonymity.

So much for memory lane. She really should move that picture of Tommy—every time she looked at it, the whole scenario flooded into her brain. She really should. But she wouldn’t.

Colleen stood and stretched, then slipped into the kitchen, past the cabinet that needed some work—it was practically hanging off its hinges—to the refrigerator with its broken ice machine. She cracked the lid on her fourth Diet Coke of the morning and started thinking of the angle for the next installment of the story. Teenage boys from upscale Nashville neighborhoods didn’t go missing every day. But if she was going to make this story sing, she needed a scoop, something major. Something official.

Settling back at her desk, she set the soda down and opened her internet browser. She tried to post five original stories a day, with attendant follow-ups as they happened, so combing the net and working her sources took the vast majority of her time. The minute one good story was in the can, she was off to the next.

Where was Peter Schechter?

Her message icon was flashing, so she toured through her new email first. She received tons of tips from true-crime buffs across the country, so many that she could barely handle them all. To help her sort through the mass quickly, she’d coded some of her best sources in the major metropolitans so they would stand out. There were three messages blinking red and marked urgent, one each from San Francisco, Boston and New York.

She popped up San Francisco first; it had come in the earliest. All thoughts of a local boy going missing disappeared when she read the message. Her heart began to beat a bit harder. She read it through twice, then closed it and sat back in her chair. Could it be? And was she the only one who had this?

She tried not to get too excited. A diversion was in order; she opened the message from New York.

A buzz began in her ears, the rush of adrenaline sparking through her system, bringing every nerve ending alive. She opened the message from Boston and nearly passed out.

If this was for real, this was huge. This was so huge.

She flew into activity, responding to her three contacts, asking the most relevant questions she could think of. Then she went to her bookshelf, her reference material, her background. Nestled on the left-hand side of the third shelf was a book she’d opened so many times that the edges were frayed and the binding broken. The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers.

She stroked the cover reverentially, then flipped it open. The book was organized alphabetically by proper name, not the nicknames given to the men and women whose crimes were housed in these hallowed pages.

She had to take this in steps. She debated for a moment, then decided. San Francisco first. She turned to a dog-eared page at the very end, to one of the few killers who was categorized by a nom de plume, one of the all-time majors. The man who remained anonymous after all these years. The man who hadn’t been caught.

She started with the Zodiac.

Four

The Outer Banks, North Carolina

Taylor was only allowed to spend twenty minutes catching up with Fitz before Renee Sansom knocked on the door and told them it was time to transport him to Duke for his afternoon surgery.

Taylor had tried asking questions, but Fitz was surprisingly evasive about the crimes he’d endured. He kept repeating the same lines: “I was drugged, I think.” “I really don’t remember anything.” “All I know is what I told you.” “He said to tell you ‘Let’s play.’” “He said you’d know what that meant.”

She’d expected him to be forthcoming with her, but after ten minutes of trying and failing to get him to open up, hearing him reiterate his apparent memory loss, she stopped. She hoped he wasn’t suffering from full-on PTSD, that he was just overwhelmed by the situation, that he remembered more than he was saying, or would remember when the shock wore off. But that was probably wishful thinking, considering what he’d been through.

She switched tactics. She asked if he wanted to go back to Nashville for the surgery and was surprised to hear he’d rather stick to the plan they had for him, go to Duke and get the surgery there. She wondered if he wanted to stay close to Susie, lying in the morgue.

Pushing the worry and concern from her voice, she filled him in on what had been happening in Nashville. How much his fellow detectives Lincoln Ross and Marcus Wade were looking forward to getting him back to work, about the new member of the Homicide team, Renn McKenzie, and their latest boss, Commander Joan Huston. Fitz seemed to appreciate the distraction. He held her hand tightly through the time they spent together, and Taylor could feel the frisson of fear that coursed through his body on a regular loop. He was scared, and that freaked her out.

The Duke Medical Center Life Flight helicopter landed in the small parking lot in front of the police station. Fitz was loaded in, walking slowly, head down. Taylor and Baldwin waved wildly until the sophisticated chopper was out of sight. Taylor hated like hell not going with him, but promised to be by his side tonight, after he was out of surgery. She and Baldwin would take the Gulfstream up, and as soon as Fitz was cleared, they’d take him home.

The snow was whipping harder now, the storm in full gear. They trooped back inside the station, shivering. The door closed against the blustery day, they made their way to the conference room Nadis had evacuated for their purposes.

Sansom eyed Taylor and said, “Okay. It’s time for your debrief. I need to know everything you have about this creep. Your boy there didn’t want to talk to me, but I assume he told you quite a bit. Let’s have it.”

Taylor shook her head. “Fitz didn’t tell me anything, actually. He says he was drugged, that he doesn’t remember anything, and I believe him. Like you said, he’s been through a lot. I’m not inclined to push him too hard. If he starts to remember, or seems more open to discussion, I’ll be there to hear the story. In the meantime, I can give you enough background to get you started.”

Sansom looked at her for a moment. “Our initial blood work doesn’t indicate drugs in his system.”

Taylor stared her down. “You know a complete toxicology will take weeks.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps your sergeant is trying to hide something.”

That got under Taylor’s skin. “You can’t possibly think he had something to do with this. He lost his eye, for Christ’s sake. What do you think, he murdered his girlfriend, scooped his eye out with a spoon and drove it on up to Asheville?” She was breathing heavily, fists clenched, and barely felt Baldwin’s hand on her arm. Restraint. But come on. Accusing Fitz of any involvement in Susie’s murder was ridiculous.

Sansom continued to bait her. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. It’s awfully convenient. He wouldn’t be the first to have a relationship go south and blame it on the local bogeyman.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

Sansom had the audacity to smile.

“Taylor,” Baldwin said, the note of warning clear, “let’s just cover what we know so far, and take it from there.”

“Fine,” Taylor replied, biting off the comment she really wanted to make. She tried to see the case from an outsider’s perspective. While she and Baldwin knew, in their bones, that this was the work of the Pretender, people who hadn’t been privy to the earlier cases might be led astray by the crime scene. Any good investigator would look at all the possibilities. That was all Sansom was doing.

Taylor kept telling herself that, felt her blood pressure drop a notch.

Baldwin held Taylor’s chair for her, and the three of them sat at a long table that Taylor suspected doubled as a lunch spot for Nadis’s team. Spots of dried mustard coated the wooden edge of the table in front of her seat. She scooched down a hair so she wouldn’t accidentally lean into it.

Sansom’s two agents joined them, were introduced as Wally Yeager and Eliot Polakis. They each had a clean yellow pad in front of them, ready for notes.

“Baldwin, why don’t you begin?” Taylor said. She wasn’t quite ready to reengage.

“All right. I’ve been profiling the Pretender for a year now, and the profile is still in progress. It keeps changing. He’s a chameleon. He adapts, copies, mimics, then disappears. Despite your thoughts about Sergeant Fitzgerald, I’m fully convinced this is the Pretender’s work. Killing Susie McDonald, stabbing her and leaving her on the boat, taking Fitz, then removing his eye and letting him go, are only his second original series of crimes we’re aware of, which obviously changes things yet again. There are a few items I can tell you up front—I don’t think he’s had a formal education, but he’s above average in intelligence. He was raised in multiple homes, was probably a foster child.”

“A foster child,” Sansom said. “Hmm.”

“He’s also transient, just sets up base wherever he is, which makes him harder to track. He’s in his early thirties, lacks confidence in himself, takes jobs as necessary to pay for his basic needs. He’s computer savvy, knows his way around the message boards. He believes he’s a scholar, a student of serial murder. He’ll have books with him, anything and everything to do with serial killers. He considers himself as much of an expert as I am. And he has a fascination with blood that would have started at an early age. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he killed very young, a sibling, perhaps. He’s good with his hands, affable, charming, sexual. He can go unnoticed, or he can draw attention, whatever suits his purpose.”

He leaned into Sansom, making sure she was paying attention. “Don’t ever let your guard down if you do happen upon him. I’m dead serious here. He has no feelings, can’t be reasoned with. He’ll kill you without hesitating and never give it a second thought. If he’s cornered, he’ll do whatever it takes to get away. We’re going to have a hard time bringing him in alive. He has nothing to lose. He isn’t a glory seeker, trying to see himself in the news. He’s a pure sociopath who enjoys killing by any available method.”

Sansom didn’t flinch at that, and Taylor thought she should. Of course, Taylor had seen him in person, or thought she had, back in Nashville last year, in a bar called Control, at what was supposed to be her bachelorette party. She’d felt the evil emanating from his skin like sweat on a hot summer day, visible and malodorous.

“Okay then. Where do we start?” Sansom asked.

Baldwin sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “With the note you found in the trailer in Asheville. It’s handwritten. I have one of the world’s preeminent experts on sociopathic graphology ready to study that note. With any luck, she’ll be able to tell us something about him that we don’t already know.”

Sansom turned to Taylor. “That’s a start for you, then. I still have a kidnapping and murder on my books to clear. So let’s get down to it. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. What else do you know about the Pretender? How are we going to catch him? Lieutenant, I’d like to hear from you. What do you think his next move is?”

“His next move?” Taylor laughed lightly. “Me. I’m his next move.”

Five

Taylor had a flash drive with a PowerPoint presentation on it, one that had originally been given to her team when they were dealing with the Snow White Killer’s apprentice brutalizing Nashville. The Snow White had killed ten Nashville girls in the 1980s, then sent a letter to the police telling them his reign of terror was finished. He was true to his word for over twenty years. But then, the previous Christmas, the long-dormant killer resurfaced. Out of the blue four girls were viciously murdered in the Snow White style. Taylor’s team suspected a copycat, and they’d been partially correct. That was the first time the Pretender had come across their radar screens. But he’d existed long before he touched Taylor’s world.

She popped the flash drive into Sansom’s laptop computer; Yeager and Polakis got behind to watch.

Taylor narrated, trying to ignore the chill creeping up her spine. The last time she’d heard this information, FBI special agent and profiler Charlotte Douglas had been speaking. Charlotte had used the information as a weapon to make Taylor look bad. Her actions had backfired.

Taylor didn’t think she’d ever forget arriving at that crime scene, the shock of seeing Charlotte’s fire-red hair commingled with her life’s blood, the setting sun echoing the bloody sheets.

Taylor forwarded the slides, covering the original killings of the Pretender, sharing the details as they knew them. By the time he’d hit Nashville, he had eighteen confirmed kills under his belt already. He’d committed another four under the tutelage of the Snow White Killer, then he’d gone off the rails. He killed three more girls before he was shot and ran. Adding Charlotte to the mix took his total up to twenty-six homicides.

Taylor heard an echo from the past, Charlotte’s voice ringing through her head in triumph. These four murders in Nashville have been directly connected to the other eighteen. You don’t just have a copycat on your hands, you have an obscenely prolific serial killer with victims in five states. The CODIS results are definitive. His pattern is undeniable. It is quite likely that he will move on to another state, kill more young women, if you don’t stop him here in Nashville.

Despite her proselytizing, Charlotte Douglas had been right on the money. They hadn’t stopped him. And now look where they were.

Taylor played with the remote in her hand. “As you can see, Susie McDonald makes twenty-seven confirmed kills. If the evidence matches the forensics we already have, of course.”

“I thought you were certain this was tied to the Pretender. You have an eyewitness, after all, even if he says he can’t remember anything,” Sansom said.

Taylor ignored that last comment. “You know as well as I do that we have nothing yet to definitively prove it was the Pretender. We need the DNA results, the forensics, to confirm it for sure.”

Sansom opened a folder, laid out an Identi-Kit sketch. “I was under the impression that you’d seen him before. We have this picture we’re working from, and your sergeant thinks it was the same man.”

Taylor glanced at the picture, at the electronic depiction of the man he’d seen. Remembered giving the description. Cruel eyes. Square jaw. Dark blond with a military buzz cut. Generic.

“Fitz told me he thought it could be the same man but he never got a solid look at his face. Yes, he gave a description, from a moment’s glance at over four hundred yards through binoculars, of someone who might have been the same man we saw in Nashville, but we have no real proof he’s the Pretender. We need to tie the crimes together with actual evidence, and with DNA, and the only way we’re going to do that is by capturing him.”

“Okay. I see your point. Tell me more about his earlier kills. I want all the gory little details.”

Taylor clicked to the next slide. “In Los Angeles, he copied the Santa Ana Killer from the mid-fifties, the one who dismembered the bodies of the women he killed and left them in the desert. In Denver, it was the LoDo, the Lower Denver Killer, who preyed on prostitutes. He strangled them and left them posed on street corners. In Minneapolis, Minnesota, he copied the Classifieds Killer of the 1970s. Do you remember him? Old guy, placed ads in the Star Tribune for temporary secretarial work. They’d answer the ads and he’d gut them.”

Sansom’s eyes shone. “Yes, I’m aware of that case.”

“Good. In New York, he became the Prospect Lake Killer, strangling his victims and dumping their bodies into Prospect Lake Park on Long Island.”

Taylor set the remote down on the table.

“Here’s the thing. Nashville changed everything. He broke the pattern. The Snow White was the only killer he emulated who was still out there. All of the other original killers had been caught and jailed. Two had been put to death. While he was with the Snow White, he started to improvise.”

“Why?”

Baldwin joined the conversation. “An excellent question. We don’t have a good answer for that. The relationship between the two men began as some sort of…apprenticeship. The Pretender was studying under the Snow White just like a painter or sculptor would study under the tutelage of a master. Snow White had a very specific script he wanted followed, and his apprentice disagreed. He felt he was powerful enough to strike out on his own. And that’s where we lost him.”

Sansom was finally looking impressed. She stared at the computer screen for a long minute, then said, “So why has he changed his pattern?”

Taylor and Baldwin exchanged a glance.

“That’s what we want to know,” Baldwin said. “He’s self-actualizing, testing to find his preferred method of killing. His MO is blatant though—he likes to imitate. He’s been successful pretending to be other killers for years. He’s a method actor, getting into the role by imitating the originals. He’ll go back to that—I’m sure of it. But there’s another component that’s come into play, interrupted his plans. His attraction to Lieutenant Jackson. I believe that, ultimately, he’s trying to impress her.”

“Lucky you,” Sansom said.

“You have no idea,” Taylor replied.

“Has he threatened you directly?”

“Several times. It’s been more cat and mouse in the past. He wants kudos for his work. He’s reached out to me before. But this time, it got personal.”

Baldwin tapped a pencil on the sketch. “I believe he’s feeling rejected by the lieutenant. She hasn’t been willing to play his game. That’s upset him, and he’s taking it out on those closest to her.”

“Hmm,” Sansom said. “How do you sleep at night?”

Taylor shrugged. “I don’t. Not much, at least.”

They were all quiet for a moment. Sansom seemed energized by the briefing, excited. She dismissed her two agents with a curt nod, waited for them to close the door, then smiled at Taylor and Baldwin.

“It sounds like a good time to get our hands on him. And why do you think he let Sergeant Fitzgerald live? And where do you think he’ll go next?”

“A warning,” Taylor said. “Fitz is just a pawn to him, a tool to get my attention. Where he’s heading next is anyone’s guess. No predictable pattern, remember?”

“Looks like the warning worked,” Sansom said. “You’re here.”

Taylor simply nodded. Silence filled the room. Sansom watched her for a few moments, then scooted her chair closer.

“I want in on this. I want to help you track him down. Let me tell you what we have, and we can go from there.”

“I seriously doubt he’s still in North Carolina,” Baldwin said. His BlackBerry beeped; he looked at the screen. Taylor felt his posture change, saw his spine straighten just a fraction. What was that all about?

Sansom seemed to sense the shift in Baldwin, too. She leaned forward, eyes gleaming, tapping her forefinger on the file for emphasis. “Listen to me, Dr. Baldwin. We are going to act like he is still in North Carolina, at least for the time being. I’ve had crime scene techs sweep every square inch of the boat and the Airstream trailer. You want forensics? I’ve got them in spades. And I’ll trade them for a chance to be in on this.”

Baldwin broke his eyes away from his BlackBerry, cleared his throat. Taylor heard the tension in his voice.

“Agent Sansom, this isn’t a game. You don’t get to make the rules. You don’t trade the information, you give it to me, willingly, then you step aside and let my team handle this. If you do this, and we catch him, you’ll receive the credit you and your team are due. Rest assured, we want everyone to win here. For the moment, though, I’m afraid you’re going to have to excuse the lieutenant and me. We have another meeting we need to get to.”

Sansom openly bristled. “There’s nothing more important than this right now. I can hold you both as material witnesses if I want. But I don’t think that’s necessary. I just want to help. You need me on this. I’ve already gotten clearance from my superiors to join your task force.”

Taylor watched Baldwin’s eyes cool, the green becoming a stormy sea. Normally the offer of help from an obviously capable agent would feel like a good idea, but Sansom rubbed her the wrong way. And Baldwin didn’t trust Sansom either, that was clear. No, they’d be better off without her.

“We haven’t set up a task force, and I can’t say that we will. So no, Agent Sansom, I don’t need you. I already have a team in place, all the positions are filled.”

Sansom and Baldwin stared at each other for a brief moment, playing some sort of silent game of chicken. Baldwin’s phone began to ring. He ignored it, eyes locked on the SBI agent. Taylor expected him to answer it, but he let it go, on and on, until it stopped with a beep she knew meant the call had gone to voice mail. The second it stopped ringing, it began again.

Sansom smiled, and Taylor sensed something was terribly, terribly wrong. She glanced sideways at Baldwin, saw his right hand was on his gun. She hadn’t even noticed his arm moving. She went on alert. Sansom shifted, and Taylor coughed, using the noise as an opportunity to unsnap her holster strap. Despite her efforts, the click echoed in the room.

Sansom moved with a swiftness Taylor couldn’t believe. She shoved the table toward them, catching Taylor hard in the gut, then bolted for the door. Baldwin was up and out of his chair in an instant. Taylor was a couple of seconds behind, her wind just starting to come back, her weapon drawn. But Sansom had the advantage, the element of surprise. She was out the door and sprinting away, her heels slapping the linoleum as she ran down the hall. Taylor and Baldwin exploded out of the room after her.

“Where’s her team?” Taylor shouted.

“I don’t know. Keep an eye out.”

“What the hell is going on?”

Sansom darted out the heavy steel door. Taylor could see it had been propped open so the lock would be disengaged. A gunshot rang out, followed by a scream, and more shots, close together. They barreled into the hallway in time to see Captain Nadis slump over onto the floor. A bullet had caught him high in the chest, the blood pooled under him in a dark puddle.

“Stay with him,” Baldwin shouted. Taylor knelt beside him, searched frantically for a pulse, found none. He was past her help.

Baldwin had taken up a defensive position at the entrance to the reception area. Wiping Nadis’s blood on her jeans, Taylor lined up opposite him. She risked a quick look out, saw nothing but the stocking foot of the receptionist. She was down, on the floor, one leg sticking out from under her desk.

“It’s clear,” she said, low. He nodded, then eased around the corner. An engine gunned, tires spitting up seashell gravel in an effort to gain purchase. They rushed to the deck just in time to see a black sedan fishtail out onto the main road.

It was pointless to shoot at a fleeing car, dangerous, even, but they both started firing, bullets winging through the thin, chilly air. A few metallic thunks resonated back to them, but the car never stopped, it disappeared with a squeal of tires around the corner.

“We have to go after them,” Taylor yelled. Baldwin lowered his weapon and grabbed her hand, holding her back.

“What are you doing? Let’s go!”

“Taylor, it’s okay,” Baldwin said quietly. “They won’t get far.” The distinctive whump, whump, whump of a heavy helicopter sounded in the distance.

“Is that Fitz’s chopper?”

“No, it’s one of ours.”

The snow was tumbling down fast, littering flakes on Baldwin’s dark hair that melted quickly. He turned to her, his eyes hard and cold.

“The message I got while we were talking to Sansom was from Garrett. Three people were found dead about twenty minutes ago, their bodies dumped on the beach just south of here. A woman, and two men. An SBI agent is on scene and says they’re theirs.”

“I don’t understand.”

Baldwin gestured over his shoulder. “The people in there, the ones we’ve been talking to all morning? They’re plants. The real Renee Sansom, Wally Yaeger and Eliot Polakis are dead.”

Six

Nashville, Tennessee

Colleen Keck was deep into her background on the Zodiac when her computer started going wild. She looked up, saw the words Nags Head. North Carolina? She flipped her online scanner over to the appropriate channel. Her mind was instantly processing this information as if it were linked to the earlier messages she’d received—what serial killer had struck in North Carolina? Was this part of the pattern from the murders last night? Was she simply reaching? She was a crime blogger after all, prone to seeing killers in every corner of her world. An overreactor, Tommy would say.

She was instantly grateful for the new protocols in many police departments that had allowed their personnel to shift away from 10 codes and into plain speak; while she was familiar with a wide array of codes from the major metropolitan areas, the smaller jurisdictions didn’t follow the same patterns. Plain speak allowed everyone to understand. The scanner crackled.

“Officers down, officers down. We need backup, my location.”

What the hell was his location? she wondered, writing the words down in her personal journalism shorthand. The disembodied voice went on, describing the scene.

“Update, there are seven officers involved in two separate shootings. We have a total of seven down. We need extra personnel, my location. Send out a BOLO on a black Lincoln Town Car, North Carolina plate, state owned, numbers to come. Suspects are armed and dangerous, repeat, armed and dangerous. Last seen heading west on Highway 64. Put roadblocks in place all the way out to 95. Switch to channel eighteen, code three, code three. Switching channels now.” The scanner went dead. They’d switched to a private channel to avoid people like her. It wouldn’t have mattered if the voice had continued, she wasn’t hearing anything but the roaring in her own ears.

Oh, my God.

Colleen’s breath came short, and she gagged a little, unable to resist a brief glimpse into her own hell after hearing the words officers down. Seven cops hurt in the line of duty. Seven families torn apart. Seven.

The memories assailed her anew, and she barely made it to the bathroom in time. She vomited in the sink, tears mingling with sudden beads of sweat that popped up on her forehead.

Oh, Tommy. Why did you have to leave me? Why did you have to be so freaking brave?

After a few minutes, her cries died down, and she gathered herself. She rinsed her mouth out with cool water, splashed some on her face, which managed to smear her already desiccated day-old mascara even further. She swiped furiously at the dark smears with a bit of toilet paper. Weakness was not allowed. Weakness was her enemy, the taloned beast that lived in her chest and couldn’t wait to sharpen its fangs on her heart. She’d considered succumbing many times, but Flynn—her darling, sweet boy, the spitting image of Tommy—Flynn kept her strong. Strong enough to fight back the beast and its basilisk stare into her soul.

Empty. She was terribly empty. The less she had to give, the less she could get hurt.

The phone rang.

She had a moment’s irrational fear—it was a call from the police, something’s happened to Flynn—but she pushed the thought away firmly. This time of day, it was some sort of telemarketer. She allowed the answering machine to pick up, heard the long beeps of a facsimile machine.

Sniffing hard, Colleen went to the refrigerator. She poured a little orange juice in a glass, then opened the cabinet above the stove, the one locked against her child’s roving hands. The small vial of Ativan was nestled in between some old painkillers and a never-used package of birth control pills, standing ready for when she and Tommy were able to resume post-baby connubial relations. Choking back another sob, she extracted the benzodiazepines, shot two into her mouth before she could change her mind, and swallowed. Thus indulged, she brushed her hair back from her face and tried to focus.

Something major had happened in North Carolina. Combined with the reports coming in from California, Massachusetts and New York, she felt it her duty to explore the cases further. They were connected, she was sure of that. Something told her that they hadn’t seen the end, either.

Seven

The Outer Banks, North Carolina

Taylor felt the cold seeping into her stomach. No wonder Fitz had been so reluctant to talk to her. He must have sensed something wasn’t right about Sansom and her goons.

Oh, God. Was Fitz safe? Surely this was an anomaly, not some sort of reengagement. Would the Pretender let Fitz go only to take him back into his custody? She took a deep breath. No. The helicopter that took him away bore the Duke Medical Center insignia. There was no way.

She was through taking chances.

“We have to get that helicopter diverted to Nashville, just to be safe.”

Baldwin looked at her for a long moment. “I agree.”

He made a call. Taylor could hear the voice of Charlaine Shultz, one of Baldwin’s lead profilers, on the other end. She promised to take care of it immediately, and Baldwin put the phone into his pocket.

They could hear sirens wailing now, and the SBI chopper soared past overhead in a swirl of dusty snow. The cavalry had arrived.

Baldwin touched her arm. “Come on, let’s do a sweep. This place is going to be crawling in a few minutes and we’ll need to give a SITREP.”

As always, Baldwin was thinking ahead. Taylor wasn’t in any mood to stop, hand over their knowledge to another officer, calmly give a situation report. No, she wanted to go after that damn car. But she joined him back in the police station. The scene inside was worse than Taylor remembered. Nadis and his receptionist were sprawled in their own blood, and they found another Nags Head officer and their SBI driver garroted in a closed-off room. Taylor barely recognized the silent smoker who’d picked them up from the airport. The scent of death was close in her nose.

Standing over the bodies, looking at the thin necklace of bruised and bloodied flesh on the officers’ throats, Taylor felt ice sweep through her veins. The sight thrust her back in time, to more deaths on her hands. Garroting was the signature of another killer, one long since dead. She swallowed hard.

“Fake Polakis and Yeager were taking down the others while Fake Sansom talked to us,” Taylor said.

“Looks that way. See, there are drag marks,” Baldwin said, pointing to a series of black scuffs on the white linoleum that led to the small break room where the bodies of the men had been stashed.

“They must have taken them down one by one, then lugged them in here, out of the way. How did they pull this off?”

“I don’t know. They were excellent though. If I hadn’t been warned, we might still be in there. Or in there.” He pointed toward the break room.

Taylor heard the sound of a car, the wheels crunching on the gravel. Their alone time had run out. She had that queer feeling in the pit of her stomach, the aftermath of adrenaline, when her senses were oversharp and she felt like she might throw up. A few deep breaths quelled her nausea, and the rage started to bleed in.

“I assume they were meant to take me?”

Baldwin shook his head. “I don’t think so. They could have easily shot all of us and grabbed you at any time. I think fake Sansom was supposed to get on the team, go with us, and report back everything we knew. Drive us, like cattle, to a predetermined place and time so they’d have the upper hand.”

“We gave her a lot of information.”

“Nothing they didn’t already have. Charlotte’s PowerPoint wasn’t anything new.”

“The Pretender arranged for all of this. He has help.”

“Yes.” Baldwin was gritting his teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “Yes, he has help. More than we could have anticipated.”

Taylor breathed in deeply and regretted it. She slumped against the wall.

“So he arranged for Fitz to be dropped in Nags Head, where he could control the scene. Left the boat where it could be easily found, everything. He set us all up.”

“Yes.”

“He has to have people on the inside, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“And he knew I’d come rushing here, playing right into his hands.”

Baldwin turned to her, lips set in a thin line. “Yes.”

“A little less affirmation from you would be helpful, you know.”

He snorted through his nose at that, and shot her a crooked smile. “Then stop being so right all the time.”

The levity helped, and she felt herself settle. She’d spent years in training for these types of situations, and despite the personal nature of the crimes, the fact that the dance was directed at her, she felt certain they would win. It was what they did. Good triumphed over evil, even if it sometimes got trampled along the way.

She could hear shouting from the front of the station. They shared a glance. No sense taking chances. Baldwin drew his weapon; she followed suit.

“Be ready,” he whispered.

They flattened themselves against the wall.

A moment later, the shouts came closer. A strong, deep voice slightly dampened by a Southern accent called to them.

“Dr. Baldwin? Lieutenant Jackson? I’m SBI supervisory agent Roddie Hall. I know you might be a bit spooked right now. Garrett Woods told me to tell you he’s got a bottle of White Label in his bottom left drawer. I’m gonna toss my badge in there for you to look at, okay?”

Taylor felt Baldwin relax fractionally.

“Go ahead,” he said.

The credentials landed with a thud close to Taylor’s right foot. Baldwin nodded to her. She reached down and grabbed the leather case, then handed it to him. Baldwin glanced at it and signaled the go ahead. They both stepped around the edge of the door, Taylor low, Baldwin high, weapons trained on the man standing in the middle of the reception area with his hands up. It was clear that his shoulder holster was empty.

“Your boss is a little peeved with me,” Hall said. “I don’t think he’s gonna be sharing that liquor with me any time soon.”

“I can only imagine,” Baldwin replied.

“Mind if I put my hands down now?”

“Go ahead. Slowly.”

Hall looked relieved, dropped his hands to his side. He was a big man, prematurely gray, inhabiting a rumpled brown suit that was a size too large for him. There were red blotches on his white shirt. After a quick glance at Taylor’s hands, he wisely didn’t try to shake.

Temporarily appeased, Taylor and Baldwin holstered their weapons.

“What happened?” Baldwin asked. “How did they get the drop on your agents?”

“We don’t know just yet. All three of them were shot twice to the back of the head. Executed. Thrown in a shallow grave on the beach. A guy walking his dog found them. The dog went nuts and started digging. You folks okay?”

“We’re fine, but we have four officers down here. Three Nags Head and one of yours.”

Hall shut his eyes for a brief moment as if in pain. Taylor readily understood the feeling. It felt like the whole world had gone to war, that every corner of her life was under attack.

But the Pretender had miscalculated one thing. By killing seven law enforcement officers, he’d just brought the entire nation’s might down upon him. It wouldn’t just be Taylor and Baldwin looking for him; every single agency in the country would push him to the top of their lists. He had assured that the chase was on.

Taylor’s attention drifted. What the hell did the fool want? This was so much trouble to go to in order to have a showdown with her. Was he just egging them on for fun? She was so tired. She wished she could sit down, lay her head on her arms and puzzle it through. She pushed her weariness away and tuned back in.

“Agent Hall, what else do you know?” she asked.

Hall ran his hands across his forehead. “Not enough, obviously. Facts, then. Your sergeant, Pete Fitzgerald, was found yesterday morning wandering the road here. From what I’ve been told, he’d been missing for over a week. Our Western Branch agents were the ones who found his eye, they sent out an alert to all of us. We were looking everywhere in the state for him. Coming up dry, too, until he showed up. He spent a good part of the day and night in the hospital under lock and key, then the local authorities transported him here. We agreed it would be easier that way.”

“Easier for you to treat him like a suspect, you mean,” Taylor said.

That pushed Hall over the edge. His voice rose. “Easier to keep an eye on him and to keep him safe. Yes, we needed to question him. You’d do exactly the same if this happened on your turf. The BOLO’s the only reason the local cops didn’t slap him in cuffs on the spot—it had him listed as a kidnapping victim. Man covered in blood, missing an eye, talking about his dead girlfriend? They didn’t know what they were dealing with.”

“Easy, you two. No one’s to blame for this,” Baldwin interjected. He raised an eyebrow, silently admonishing her, then turned back to Hall. “Please, continue.”

Hall sighed heavily and ran his hands over his sparse hair. “There’s not much more to tell. We sent our team to meet with him first thing this morning. They must have been ambushed on the way. I just don’t know how this could happen. This whole case has been on close hold since they found the boat. What time did you meet the suspects, Dr. Baldwin? Were they already here?”

“Yes. It was early, 7:00 a.m. or so. They were here before me, had already been introduced around. The people who would have seen their credentials are dead, so we can’t ask whether they were federal-issue or copies. Hell, they might have bluffed their way in, they really did look the part. I didn’t ask to see their creds. I wish to God I had. Sansom gave me her card, though.”

He pulled it from his wallet. Hall looked it over, then motioned for an evidence tech.

“That’s the real Renee’s card, all right. Might get some prints off it if we’re lucky.”

Baldwin handed the card to his tech by the edges, watched Hall issue instructions, the tech scurry away. Hall turned back to them.

“They were well-ensconced by the time you got here?”

Baldwin nodded. “Yes. They must have been lying in wait for your agents, knowing they were coming to take Fitz into protective custody. Who arranged for him to be flown to Duke, by the way?”

“That was me. He was obviously a mess, and I know the doctor at Duke, we did our undergrad together. He’s done some really groundbreaking work on optics. I figured it was the best place for him.”

Taylor softened at that. “I appreciate that. We’ve had the flight diverted to Nashville. I hope you understand. You’re welcome to come talk to Fitz there.”

“Yeah, I get it. Can’t say I really blame you, we really screwed the pooch. I can’t imagine how this happened.”

Taylor crossed her arms on her chest. “You need to be looking closely at your staff. Someone leaked sensitive information out of the SBI. I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got a traitor.”

Eight

Taylor and Baldwin went over the details with SSA Hall for another forty minutes, but nothing else shook loose.

Taylor had to admit, Hall was a good cop. He ticked off his checklist just like she would, methodical and thorough, not rushing, moving ahead to another point only once every available detail had been squeezed out of the moment. They’d all been bamboozled by the imposters, and no one wanted to make any more mistakes. She respected that, and tried to keep her impatience to a minimum. She was worried about Fitz, just wanted to get back on her own turf. Someplace she knew she could defend herself properly.

All those agents. She didn’t envy Hall the job of informing the families, something that couldn’t happen until they had all the details of the crime scene down pat.

She had a crazy thought, one that tore through her mind like a storm. Could Sansom’s imposter be the Pretender? Could it have been a woman all along?

That would be almost too far-fetched. They had DNA from several of the crime scenes, but that was easily planted. She thought about how the woman leaned in to hear the details, her eyes shining at the descriptions of the kills.

No, that didn’t feel right. It was possible, but so unlikely that Taylor forced it from her head. This maniac was a man who used women, then disposed of them like dirty Kleenex, tossed to the floor without a second thought.

When the SBI lead was finished with them and started working the scene, she called in to her boss, Commander Joan Huston, and filled her in on the situation. Talking to Huston helped settle Taylor’s mind—her boss was as pragmatic as she was capable. Huston assured Taylor that Fitz had arrived and was scheduled for surgery with Vanderbilt’s ophthalmologic team later in the day. Lincoln Ross was with him.

Taylor finally felt as if she could breathe again. Fitz was safe.

Now she could focus on the problem at hand.

The Nags Head Police Station resembled a kicked-over anthill. Crime scene techs swarmed the scene. The bodies had yet to be moved, there was too much evidence to collect first. Despite the chill, a lone lazy fly bumbled through the hallway, drunk on blood. She swatted at it and missed, cursing as it darted into a heating vent. It would be back, and it would bring friends. She hoped they could get out of here quickly.

She and Baldwin were taken to separate rooms to do an Identi-Kit on the three suspects. She missed the days of actual artists working on sketches; while the Identi-Kits were quick and convenient, they lacked a certain level of perfection, a way of layering in the slight details that a human could seize upon with a flick of a pencil. While the officer plugged her description of the suspects’ features into the program, Taylor had a bizarre sense of déjà vu, of sitting with another artist, in another police station, giving a detailed description of the man she thought might be the Pretender.

This case. This goddamn case, with its maybes and theoreticals. She had to stop him. Nothing else existed for her now.

When they were finished with the artists, Hall debriefed them again, in the same room where they’d spent the morning talking to a killer.

“So I just got a call. A body was found out on Highway 64, out by Plymouth. Fits the description of the goon who impersonated Wally Polakis.”

“How was he killed?” Taylor asked.

“Shot in the head, tossed out of the car. He was found sprawled on the side of the road, you know how bodies do when they’re shoved out of moving cars.”

“So the car will have blood in it.”

“If we find it. There’s so many back roads in this area, bridges and trails—they could dump the car, catch another ride and it will take us a week to find it.”

“But they’re turning on each other. That’s good. Maybe they’ll eliminate themselves and do us all a favor,” Baldwin said.

Taylor gave him an unpleasant smile. “One can only hope. But it was probably prearranged. Too many cooks spoil the broth, especially when you’re taking orders from a killer who likes to be top dog.”

Hall rubbed his hands over his head wearily. “Girl, you’re starting to scare me. Are y’all ready to go over it all again?”

Baldwin went first, describing what had been discussed and the shift in personality when the fake Sansom started to show her hand.

“They were good. Very good. All three of them must have had experience in law enforcement at some point,” Baldwin finished.

“Lieutenant Jackson, break it down for me. What was your impression of the imposters?” Hall asked.

She’d had all morning to think about that. “They were completely above board. She made me uncomfortable, but only because she was implying Fitz was responsible for Susie’s death. That got my back up, and I missed everything else.” The apology was implicit, and Hall declined his head slightly, accepting.

Taylor toyed with her ponytail while she did one more mental run-through. “In hindsight, I can say she seemed a little too eager. Too excited by things she shouldn’t have been. Her body language was all wrong. She leaned in when she should have pulled back. Licked her lips when she should have flinched.”

A fine shiver ran through her body. “I’ve been up against this monster before. He scares the hell out of me. She wasn’t fazed in the least by the presentation. That should have been enough to warn us right there. I should have noticed something was wrong. My sergeant was trying to tell me something, but I wasn’t listening hard enough.”

“I think it’s safe to say they pulled a fast one on everyone, Lieutenant. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” He was trying to be kind, but Taylor didn’t have time for it.

“I hate to point this out, Agent Hall, but if I had paid more attention, four people might not be dead. We need to go. Sitting around talking about him isn’t going to fix things. We need to get back to Nashville. That’s where the Pretender will head next, I’m sure of it.”

“Why? Why are you so sure?”

She avoided looking at Baldwin, despite feeling her voice thicken. “Because everything I hold dear is in this room or in that city. I have to go home. Now.”

Hall sat back in his chair and gave her a long look. He glanced at Baldwin, who merely nodded his head in agreement.

“Okay, then. Be prepared to come back at any time, but you can get out of here for now. Thanks for your help.” He stood and shook their hands, lingering for a moment over Taylor’s, all irritation gone. “I have to go let four agents’ families know they’re never going to see them again. You be safe, ya hear?”

Taylor and Baldwin climbed into the backseat of a Nags Head patrol car. The officer was young, and openly stared at them through red-rimmed eyes. Taylor shook her head slightly to discourage any questions. She wasn’t ready to have a casual conversation about the morning’s events, especially with someone who knew the victims. Seven dead, eight including Susie, nine if you counted one of the imposters. The North Carolina soil was running red with the blood of innocents, and each murder weighed on her mind. This shouldn’t be happening. She should have been paying attention, should have felt that things were wrong. She had been so wrapped up in her own grief over shooting the teenager that she’d missed all of the warning signs. The Pretender knew her better than she knew herself, apparently.

The officer pulled out of the drive and headed back toward the airstrip. Baldwin worked his phone all the way there, allowing her a few moments with her dark thoughts.

Within fifteen minutes, she and Baldwin were safely ensconced back on the Gulfstream, under the watchful gaze of Cici the flight attendant, and the pilot was getting clearance to take off. Baldwin waved Cici away, then leaned over to Taylor.

“Pietra just sent me a text. You’re not going to believe this. All of the forensics were compromised,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean someone managed to cross-contaminate everything the SBI agents collected from the boat and the trailer. A second blood source was introduced, mixed with bleach. Even if they isolate the DNA strings, it would never hold up in court.”

Pietra Dunmore was Baldwin’s forensics expert, back in Quantico. She was legendary in the forensics community, brilliant, capable and exceptionally loyal to Baldwin. A million thoughts raced through Taylor’s mind.

“How? How does he manage this?” she finally asked. “He’s just one man.”

“How else? He charmed his way into another woman’s life, talked her into doing his dirty work for him. We’ve seen him do this before.”

Yes, they had. And watched the bodies pile up in his wake.

“You think Renee Sansom’s imposter contaminated the forensics? When would she have access?” Taylor asked.

Baldwin ran his hands through his already disheveled hair. “Remember what you said back there, about the eye being transported to Asheville rather than Fitz actually being moved around the state? They could have staged all of it, right down to the letter. If the Pretender has multiple people working for him, it might not be in his handwriting after all. And then we’re off on yet another wild-goose chase.”

“But how would the imposter get her hands on the forensics? They intercepted the SBI agents early this morning. Surely that evidence has been in safe-keeping for a few days. They found it last week.”

“Hall said the Western Branch brought everything down here for his people to process. They only have one lab for the whole state. We’ll have to see when it was logged in and who had access to it, but it’s all a waste. Nothing of use.” He slumped in his chair.

“Do you think she has a personal connection to him? A lover? Or is she just a tool, someone he met along the road? He seems to have an affinity for finding people to work with. Dial-a-Psychopath, perhaps?”

“No, this was someone close to him. Someone who wanted to impress him. I can feel it.”

Taylor took his hand. “Baldwin, are you sure? You’re not just…reacting, are you?”

The engines revved, then screamed, and they were pushed back into their seats by the force. The plane lifted off within moments, banked hard left, to the west. When it leveled out and Cici began moving about the cabin, Baldwin spoke again.

“No, Taylor, I’m not reacting. I’m being very, very careful. I’ve got Kevin Salt running a background check on the real Renee Sansom as we speak, trying to find out why she was targeted. How did she and her team come to be working on this case? Is he recruiting people? And from where? How did he arrange for the plants to be in place so quickly? This took major forethought.”

“Well, the Pretender has been off our radar for almost a year. He’s had plenty of time to lay the groundwork.”

“Yes, he did. I’ll tell you one thing. We can’t trust anyone on the outside.”

She thought about that for a moment.

“Between your team and mine, we at least have some people we can be sure of. Fitz was so evasive, I got the impression that he didn’t want to talk in front of the SBI. He must have suspected something.”

“Absolutely. He’s smart. He might have seen something, overheard something.”

“He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

“He will be. It will take some time, but he will.”

They sat quietly for a few moments.

“So we’re on our own. Again,” Taylor whispered, mostly to herself.

Baldwin put an arm around her, an awkward move considering the seats were positioned so far apart.

“That’s just the way I like it,” he said.

Nine

That wasn’t the truth though. Baldwin didn’t like being left out in the cold, and that was exactly where he felt he was at the moment.

Taylor was staring out the window, intensely quiet. He glanced over at her, worried. She was strung much too tight. Avoidance was one of the greatest attributes in her arsenal, and she was employing it to full effect now. The events of the past week were going to catch up with her soon.

He could barely keep up with the insanity himself. The Pretender had weighed heavily on both their minds for the past year. He’d made contact for the first time after the Snow White case had blown up: a letter sent to their home. The letter stood out starkly against his mind’s eye, two lines full of threatening portent.

An apprentice no more.

You may call me the Pretender.

He’d named himself: the fundamental sociopathic tool. The ones who named themselves were so narcissistic they were almost always caught. Almost always.

The Pretender had disappeared for a while, then popped back up like a possessed jack-in-the-box. That was when the intimidation began in earnest—phone calls to their home and cell phones, more letters. He began getting involved in Taylor’s cases, always on the periphery, but always there. He’d become a malevolent presence in their lives for over a year, threatening, parading, seemingly unlimited in his access and information.

There had been more to the profile that he hadn’t shared with Renee Sansom’s imposter. They hadn’t gotten into the Pretender’s vast online network of contacts, other killers, sadists, people who lived for cruelty and discord. Posing as a necrophiliac aptly named Necro90, he’d befriended the international duo of necrosadists, Il Macellaio and the Conductor. He egged them on, planted evidence at one of the Conductor’s crime scenes, and made sure Taylor knew he’d done it to help her.

He seemed to love the control he got from manipulating others. Almost as much joy as he got from killing.

They hadn’t taken the drubbing lying down. They were fighting back the only way they knew how, with justice, with their own team, their own tools. Finding the man who was threatening his woman was paramount. And Taylor hadn’t been privy to everything Baldwin knew.

Kevin Salt, Baldwin’s computer forensics expert, had found the Pretender’s online signature and had been tracking his movements throughout the web. Kevin could follow him most anywhere; the IP addresses the Pretender used had been uncommonly consistent for the past few months. Salt documented everything, drew geographical profiles, and found the key that Baldwin was most concerned about. The physical addresses came back again and again to Nashville. The bastard was close.

His influence was spreading again—the attack on the SBI agents had taken cunning, and time. He’d obviously been recruiting people to help him; whether they knew his real plans or not, they were unknown resources.

Now he was ready. Whatever whacked-out strategy he’d been putting in motion was officially in play.

How many people would have to die for the Pretender to be satisfied?

Taylor had seen another mass attack today, and he knew she would blame herself. The Pretender was putting on a bloody show for her benefit, consistently placing the wounded around her, for her to see. Add to that her obvious but misplaced guilt over the shooting of her last suspect, and he was starting to wonder just when the dam was going to break.

He could feel it building, the sense that things were moving quicker and quicker, that the world was spinning one-tenth too fast on its axis. If he didn’t grip down, hard, he might go spinning off with it, and that wouldn’t do. No, he needed to resolve this, and keep his woman settled, too. Because if Taylor were to come undone, he didn’t know if he could stand that. Seeing her in pain made his stomach throb dully, and each time the Pretender poked at her it made his eyes blacken with rage.

The phone next to his chair buzzed discreetly. There was only one person who knew they were on this plane at this moment—his boss, Garrett Woods. Taylor glanced at him; he smiled with what he hoped seemed like reassurance as he answered the phone. “Hey, Garrett.”

“Are you headed to Nashville?”

“Yeah. Thanks for getting the chopper diverted. I’ll feel better having Fitzgerald close.”

“Sure thing. What’s happening there? Where did it all go south?”

Baldwin filled him in on what they knew so far, then asked, “Anything new from Nags Head?”

“Other than the director wanting to know why in the hell a suspended FBI agent sent up a red flag for some rather expensive help after a mass shooting?”

Baldwin groaned. “He found out?”

“Baldwin, son, the whole country knows. It’s been on all the news stations. Both you and Taylor were on camera leaving the station.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Have you told her yet?”

“Well, no.”

“Baldwin, I don’t think I need to be the one to break this to you, but I’ll try, just in case you’re not thinking clearly. You need to tell her. Everything. Now.”

He knew that. But he honestly didn’t know where to start.

What would she like to hear least? That he’d been suspended while they did a deeper investigation into his biggest failure, the Harold Arlen case from 2004, when he’d made the massive mistake of not turning in his protégée, Charlotte Douglas, when he’d found out she planted evidence at a crime scene? That he’d gotten three good agents killed because he’d been stupid enough to start fooling around with Charlotte? That he’d gotten Charlotte pregnant in the middle of the biggest case of his career? That he’d only found out a year ago that she hadn’t aborted the child as she claimed, but gave birth and had seen him adopted? That he didn’t know where in the world the boy was, or even what name he’d been given?

How was he supposed to tell his fiancée, the woman who held his heart, that he shared such an intrinsic, intimate link with another woman? He hadn’t cheated on Taylor, no, but would she ever forgive him?

He looked out the window, at the stark winter landscape far below. Bleak and barren.

“Yeah, Garrett. I’m on that.”

“Seriously, Baldwin. You’ve got one hell of a woman there. You don’t want to fuck it up. So listen to me. I’ve covered your ass for the day, but that’s not going to last long. Get back to Nashville, and get your head down.”

“I will. I promise. Has there been any other…news?”

Garrett was helping him search for his son. It had been a year of fruitless starts and stops. He was still getting over the shock of the news: Garrett had found the documents in Charlotte’s desk after her death—the birth certificate, with Baldwin’s name scratched out in ballpoint pen, and a two-year-old’s posed picture. He would be five now.

All Baldwin knew was that the child was a boy. There was no question the child was his, the boy had the same set of the shoulder, the same thick hair, but red like his mother’s. He’d inherited his father’s green cat eyes.

But he had no idea what his son’s name was. Charlotte had put Baby Douglas on the birth certificate; she hadn’t even bothered to name their child. He loved the boy, though he’d never seen him. He’d do most anything to get him back.

Pain ran through Baldwin’s chest. With the kid’s pedigree, would he be a normal, loving child? Would Baldwin’s genes predominate, or Charlotte’s? Charlotte’s entire family was full of horrors: her murderous father, her deformed brother, Charlotte’s own sociopathy and eventual psychosis. Did the kid have a chance at a normal life?

Garrett sighed deeply in Baldwin’s ear. “Nothing yet. You know I’ll call the minute I have something. Now, I have your word that you’re going to be a good boy, right?”

“Of course. Thanks for the update.” He placed the phone back on its receiver.

Taylor raised an eyebrow questioningly. He just shook his head.

“Nothing new. The news has the story.”

“Great,” she said. “Everything else okay?”

He lied to her, like he’d been lying. It was becoming second nature.

“Yep, everything’s fine. Just fine.”

He felt the engines ratchet back fractionally. They were almost home. He took her hand, felt the strong fingers close around his.

Balance. He needed to find some balance.

There was only one way they were ever going to be free, and it went against everything he’d pledged when he joined the FBI. Against the very fabric of his being.

He needed to find the Pretender and stop his heart beating, so Taylor didn’t try to do it first.

Ten

The Pretender received the emails one by one, each coming at their assigned time. The pattern harkened back to the discipline ingrained in him by his old master—the Snow White had always wanted a full report as soon as a deed was done, would sit in his dank office with those disgusting cigars, smoking one after another with his bent hands, waiting like a spider in a vast web.

Wretched man. Always bellowing orders, yet too crippled to do his own dirty work. He needed a surrogate to live out his fantasies. When Charlotte had brought them together, for a time it seemed like a dream come true. But that dream quickly turned into a nightmare.

Troy. The name Charlotte had given him, thinking she was being clever. Dead bitch, dead bitch, dead bitch. He felt so much freer out on his own. Running his show himself, learning new and better ways to fulfill his own fantasies. It was like moving from sous chef to owning the whole restaurant, then a franchise chain. He was the master now, with his own acolytes.

But he kept the name. It was easier that way.

The first wave was complete. Tonight would be a second round, the second stage of his plan. It was all going so well. So perfectly.

He played the song, his iTunes set on repeat. Over and over it played, reminding him of his purpose, his goals. He was so lonely. He wanted.

He needed a distraction, so he prepared a cup of tea. The actions soothed him: setting out the thin bone china, heating the water to just below boiling, the delicate green tea measured and placed in the strainer, brewing for exactly one minute before being removed. He discarded the soggy leaves, added a tiny bit of sugar and sat at his computer. He had a new email. His heart sped up when he saw the address. Was she in?

He clicked on the subject line. The message inside was simple. “It didn’t work.”

He sighed loudly, set the tea in its saucer with a clatter. A curse formed on his tongue. It had been a long shot. That damnable FBI agent was too acute, too sensitive to those around him. He would be on an even higher alert now; penetrating the team would be more difficult. But not impossible. Not at all impossible.

He sipped his tea and debated his next move. He should send a message. Renee Sansom’s imposter had failed him, and she needed to be punished. He should put the well-rehearsed plan into action. All it would take was two clicks of his mouse, the directions would be sent, the operative engaged. She’d be dead before nightfall, her accounts scrubbed, all traces erased. No one would ever find the link to him.

There were too many variables, too many players, to allow mistakes to be indulged. If anything, eliminating part of the team would send a very clear message to the rest of them—failure was not an option.

The idea of killing her was so enticing.

He wouldn’t be able to see to the task himself, though. At least, not right now. Too bad. She would be a fun toy to play with. A ballsy broad, willing to step into the mix, to kill and impersonate a federal agent.

He really shouldn’t eliminate her just yet. She could still be an asset. She was a well-educated forensics master. With a new disguise—a change of hair, posture, contacts—he could utilize her skills again. He hated to admit it, but the truth was he needed her. She helped him play his role.

His finger hovered above the mouse, trembling with excitement.

He weighed the risks. He’d planned several demises for her. It would have been so simple to just discard her, like so many others in his past. The easiest manner of disposal, of course, was to arrange for the car she was driving with her compatriots to swerve away from oncoming traffic, go through the guardrail, land in the icy water below. There would be no time to save her from the freezing water. She’d drown before the rescue crews got on the scene.

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