

### The Feeding Path

By Michelle Ridlon

Copyright © 2014 Michelle Ridlon Mattila

All rights reserved.

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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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### Michelle Ridlon

Visit my blog at http://michelle-ridlon.blogspot.com

Visit my Facebook at www.facebook.com/michelle.Ridlon

Visit me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/michelle.ridlon

Email me at mmattila38@yahoo.com

### Dedication

To my Mom, the most peculiar and interesting woman I have ever known. I love you for teaching me to question every rule, every norm, and never to turn down an adventure. I owe my lunacy to you... thank you.

To Italian men all around the world... keep doing what you do—nobody does it better.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

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

Epilogue

# CHAPTER ONE

"Drink it all," he said as he sat on a tree stump in the secluded, quiet forest and cleaned underneath his fingernails with a knife.

This interfered with his usual method, but it was the most powerful form of communication he had. Tori needed to know he was coming, and she needed to hear it in their own, special language taught to them by a particularly sadistic man. When she saw the body of this third victim, she would hear the message loud and clear—a not so gentle reminder from days of old.

He moved the knife to the next nail and listened to the woman vomit.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked as the nameless woman continued to gag convulsively.

The mild breeze ruffled through his black hair, and he could hear the leaves whisper from their branches. It was a beautiful late August day in Minnesota, and he enjoyed the serenity of the woods as the woman continued throwing up.

If this bitch puked on him, he would stab her in the throat and have to start over with someone else. Keeping that in mind, he waited for the retching to stop, evaluating her as he waited.

"You're a distant second. Your face isn't right. It's fat, and it should be more heart shaped. How can you stand it? It's appalling. If you're going to have auburn hair like her then you need to have a heart-shaped face like her, as well. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you stupid?"

Hearing only a few lingering dry heaves, he watched as she gasped for air. She was naked and kneeling on the sparse grass and pine needles, hugging her stomach with both of her arms, rocking herself as she wept. Saying nothing, he pointed with his knife at the wooden spoon lying next to her on the ground. He had already told her what to do with it and what would happen if she didn't. Uninterested, he returned to his nails, nibbling on a cuticle as she began her task. Her feet turned magenta and swelled immediately.

A blue jay hopped on the ground near his feet and a soft smile touched his lips. It was Tori's favorite bird. He ignored the woman's slobbery, phlegm-filled crying and continued talking and informing as he calmly watched the bird move about.

"You're an inferior substitute, and you need to know that. It's important that you know you aren't taking her place. You aren't good enough, and I'm offended that you even look like her. You have her hair and her body but a horribly misshapen face. It's nothing like hers... nothing. Even if it was, no one can take her place, least of all a bar slut. That, in case you're confused, would be you. Now let's talk about her. Say her name."

A puff of wind skittered dead leaves across the ground, as he waited. He watched the blue jay take flight, his jaw clenching and his green eyes flashing with a seething warning. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the woman—the woman that was _not_ saying Tori's name.

She didn't hear him. She was busy crying and begging, asking why, as snot dripped from her nose and into her mouth. Dirty gray rivers of mascara-laden tears coursed down her cheeks, and her drooping breasts jiggled as she cried.

Striding over to her, he fisted a handful of her auburn hair and wrenched her head back. Struggling and mewling, she tried to turn away, but he cranked her head back further. Bending over until his breath was in her ear, he whispered through gritted teeth.

"The name..."

Crying harder, she gasped out the name in a high pitched, hysterical babble. He threw her head forward in disgust, releasing her hair at the same time. A subtle shudder coursed through him. She was hard to look at, let alone touch. Before he was ready for them, the waves of revulsion for these Second Placers sometimes threatened to overwhelm him.

She was saying Tori's name, albeit slobbery. It was the only reason she still breathed and her ability to say the name prolonged her life though only for a brief time. He needed to hear her name. Sometimes, they lost their minds and _couldn't_ say Tori's name. Then he would lose his temper. How hard could it be? Just say the damn name...

He stood over her and watched, resenting this additional, artificial step in his otherwise delicious hobby. This was tedious and nauseating to get through. The spoons, milk, and cigars were an irritant, and he waited impatiently for her to finish. He would only go through this disruptive bullshit for Tori—only for Tori.

"Now, the other foot and clear it up with the name. I can barely understand you for Christ's sake," he said coldly.

The name became clearer as she started on the other foot, and he returned to the tree stump. With deep breaths, he began to relax and a smile crept across his lips as he listened, blinking slowly. Her name wrapped around him like a warm mist, touching and comforting him everywhere. Fresh images of Tori flashed through his mind. He had seen her. Hiding, he'd taken pictures of her using a zoom lens and the images had turned out stunning. She hadn't changed at all. Still moving with a dancer's grace, she captivated him even more than he remembered. It had been paralyzing to be that close to her again. Her hair was still long. All of these years and she had kept her hair long. His eyes had gotten teary when he first saw it and remembered the hundreds of times he'd brushed it for her. Beautiful... she was so beautiful.

The dog had floored him. Seeing that goddamn white dog with her instantly pissed him off. He forgave her though. He understood and forgave her. She could be trying, but his patience for her knew no bounds and so, he had let it slide.

Frowning, he saw the images drifting away. He turned to the woman on the ground. She had stopped and was just sitting there, blubbering and holding her knees to her chest while she rocked. Burning rage ignited him as he glared at her. He knew he was going to end up yelling, and there were few things he hated more. His eyes blazed as he stood up for the second time.

The crying woman hugged her body into a trembling fetal ball as he approached, but he kicked her hard in the back, sending her sprawling. When she fell forward, he moved with blurry speed and stabbed her deeply in the buttock, twisting the knife the instant he felt the blade slam into the back of her pelvic bone. As he jerked the knife out, blood poured from her like uncorked wine.

Her screams were deafening in the isolated woods and all of the birds fell silent. Grabbing her long hair, he dragged her up into a sitting position and yanked her head back farther than it was ever supposed to go. He put the point of the butterfly knife directly beneath her jaw and barely pushed. The blade's needle-sharp point brought forth a flow of blood that snaked its way down her throat and between her breasts.

"... the spoon and the _name!_ " he bellowed into her ear, infuriated.

_Now_ , she remembered. Feverishly, she resumed beating her foot with the heavy wooden spoon, crying out Tori's name in a seamless mantra. Blood poured from her stabbed buttock and pooled beneath her before seeping into the ground. He glared at her and waited, incensed by the interruption and fully expecting her incompetence to reappear. After a while, he reluctantly retreated to the tree stump, still gritting his teeth.

God _damn_ , he hated stupid people.

Glowering at her, he sat down and listened to her say the name clearly, without mush-mouthing it. He tried to focus as he started from the beginning again; the images drifting into his mind, never far away to begin with. He turned away from the Second Placer and thought about how fair Tori's skin appeared in the photos. It glowed with purity.

She was clean. He had protected her and guarded her against his filth for such a long time. He had kept her clean and stayed away, allowing her to bloom in his absence while he wilted in hers.

He eyed the woman on the ground. She was as repugnant as all the others and it felt vile and blasphemous to substitute someone of her ilk for Tori. He tolerated them because they helped him get by when his burn and urgency for Tori became unbearable. One replaced the next with no trace of sentiment in him; all of them delegated to a polluted and disposable group of revolting inferiors. They were not her... ergo; they were nothing.

Bowing his head gradually, he could feel the weight of her images threatening to collapse him, the desire, and adoration excruciating to bear. He parted his lips, unable to catch his breath and his chin rested against his chest, too weak to lift it any higher.

The sensations grew and spread, catching fire inside of him, and he embraced the burn that began to explode, the images of Tori starting to change. Her long beautiful hair became clumpy and stiff with blood while sticking to her face. Her small, delicate frame transformed into a brutalized and broken corpse, the stab wounds innumerable. _She_ would wilt and suffer. _She_ would feel her purity ripped out of her. He was coming back for her. They _would_ be together again, and she needed to know that.

Adrenaline surged through him as he stood up and gripped the knife, his knuckles turning white. He scowled at the woman who had the audacity to look like Tori, and he felt the consuming, dizzying hatred overwhelm him.

The inadequate Second Placer became her as she screamed, and his ecstasy began. Blood spilled from her as his mind transformed the offensive substitute into the one he really sought, the one he had always sought... Tori.

It was over too soon; his needs barely met. They could never last as long as he wanted them to and when the frenzy started, he was unable to slow it. It consumed him and fueled everything in him into a screaming, savage bliss of kaleidoscope images.

Pushing her limp and lifeless body away from him and panting heavily, he tried to hold onto the images. He was still in that place where reality bends. In that foggy, surreal place, he could see her, feel her—the faulty surrogate _becoming_ her. He wanted to stay there and be with Tori forever. The fog stayed with him as he breathed in and smelled the blood, imagining it was how she would smell.

The dazed fogginess in his mind started to clear, and he saw a dull, disappointing reality. He didn't want it to be over; he didn't want to see that Tori had gone again and left only a useless and dead Second Placer in her wake. The emptiness and ache were waiting for him in her absence, his inability to escape them woven into the very fabric of who he was.

The last of the delicious, sensual fog had gone. Closing his knife, now slippery and wet, he tossed it on the ground and hitched up his pants. Glancing down, he saw his death-soaked body, the blood covering him from his chest to his knees turning cold and sticky. Absently buttoning his fly in the quiet woods, he whispered her name, his pain painting the word into a soft plea.

He had to find a way to make it last. To have it end when he was holding her, to hear the silence she left behind and feel her blood on him grow cold—it would be like dying.

He would take her more savagely than he had ever taken anyone before. Through it all, he would embrace and caress her as he murmured his forgiveness to her for leaving him. When her blood drained from her body, he would whisper to her how much he needed her, missed her, and loved her. He would tell her of his devotion to her and soothe her fears, so she didn't die feeling unloved and all alone.

# # #

"We have to tell him," Joe said.

They were crouched on the ground gazing at the third murder victim in a month. It could have been her twin, and Vicky turned away, nodding in agreement.

"He needs to know who Adam is," Joe persisted.

Vicky nodded again. She heard him the first time.

"You tell him. It's humiliating, and I don't want to talk about it," she said, standing up and walking away.

The three victims were a message to her and she heard it, loud and clear. So did Joe. All the victims had auburn hair, fair skin, and a slight build, their resemblance to Vicky, unnerving. The abuses the victims endured were things her father had done to her as a child. She shuddered while remembering drinking the spoiled milk until she vomited, having her feet beaten with a wooden spoon, and lit cigars being pressed into her neck. She survived other, worse, atrocities that the victims' bodies did not reflect. Perhaps she could keep the details of those humiliations to herself.

Joe pushed himself to his feet tiredly. It had been weeks since he slept through the night. His angst woke him in the dark, and he would pull Vicky closer to him, needing reassurance she was safe. He lost focus if she was out of his sight, a feeling of cold dread settling into the pit of his stomach. Her carrying a gun no longer calmed his fears.

When he saw the unusual abuse inflicted on the first victim, he turned to Vicky, but she had refused to meet his gaze. When he saw the second victim, Joe's flexibility was gone. She was a target and the murderer knew about her past. Joe had talked to her about it, and Vicky pled with him not to tell Nate, clinging to the ridiculous idea that she and the victims enduring the same abuse was a coincidence. Unable to be loyal to Vicky and Nate at the same time, he told his partner nothing.

This victim changed everything and trumped Vicky's privacy. Joe approached Nate. He would give Nate enough information to do his job and nothing more. Vicky hid her past and the secrets she had were deep and many. The less Nate knew, the better.

Nate was talking to a uniform, and the young officer looked like a child when standing next to the powerful and large black agent. Joe's partner was six-five and heavily into bodybuilding, dwarfing almost everyone he stood by. When the uniform walked away, Joe stepped into his spot. Nate read his partner's face and then reached into his pocket for a piece of gum, his eyes turning cold, and his white smile just as chilly.

"That's a serious look you've got hanging from your face, Joe. You and Vicky must have had a meeting and decided to include _me_ in your communications. Nice... I'm flattered. I was hoping it would be before the fourth body dropped, and here you are on the third. I knew you wouldn't let me down, buddy."

Nate squinted at the bright sun coming over the horizon as he peeled the wrapper off the gum and folded it into his mouth. His jaw muscles popped as he chewed, and Joe waited for Nate to voice his anger before he bothered getting into the details about the case. He had to take the hit for excluding his partner before they could move forward.

"Did you really think I didn't know? Muscle memory, my friend—it's great for learning karate, not so great for hiding past abuse. The last three bodies, as soon as Vicky sees them, she starts limping like her feet hurt. She sees the puke and touches her chest as if she has heartburn. Today she saw the burns on this one's neck, and she reached for her own neck. I'd say that's a match on a three out of three scale. I'm that good. I'm so good in fact, I'm seriously considering doing this for a living. Of course that means I'd have to find a _partner_ ," Nate said with disgust and contempt.

"And, please, don't forget to tell me how all three victims look just like her. I might not have noticed so be sure to add _that_ to your briefing that's two bodies behind schedule. Oh, and if you get a second, can you show me how to use my gun again? The trigger-thingy baffles me, and I can never remember which end goes boom. It would be tragic if I found the person hunting Vicky and shot at him, only to assassinate myself. That would leave you and Vicky to muck through this by yourselves, without my _input_ or _contributions_. How would you cope?"

Nate glared at Joe, searching for additional digs to hurl at him.

Joe asked, "Are you done?"

Nate chewed his gum and answered, "No."

Joe nodded, waiting. Nate chewed for a moment more.

"Yes."

Joe held out for the serious, heartfelt complaint that needed to be voiced before they could move on. At last, Nate sighed and spoke, sans the scorn and contempt.

"I get it. I do. It's the whole privacy-thing with her again. You two have been together for three years, and that's an investment. I get that, too. We've been partners for ten years though, and I don't appreciate being excluded from investigative details. It makes me feel shitty and unimportant. I bring valuable assets to this investigation, and you're not doing these victims any favors by excluding me," he said, still angry but trying to let it go.

Vicky headed over to join Joe and Nate, feeling embarrassed for trying to ignore the obvious. She ran scent dogs for the bureau, but also had her doctorates in forensic psychology and another in forensic science. When she wasn't teaching online classes for the university, the bureau used her for interrogations, profiles, and interpreting unusual evidence. She _knew_ how criminals thought, and what their behaviors meant. She was this killer's primary target, and she had known it from the start.

The murderer knew her and her secrets, and he wanted her to know that. He had virtually introduced himself, _wanting_ her to know who he was, and that she was his goal.

She wished she had killed him when she had the chance.

Coming to a stop in front of the two men, she cleared her throat and submitted a humble and sincere apology for having interfered with the flow of information. As she talked, Joe and Nate listened and winced while they looked at the ground and then turned to gaze at the tree line. Watching Vicky apologize was similar to observing someone getting a root canal and it made all of them squirm uncomfortably. Subtly, they all took a breath and sighed when it was over. With the dreaded apology behind her, Vicky got down to business.

"Joe thinks my brother, Adam Terrace, needs to be checked into. I took my mother's maiden name when I was in college," she said, explaining the discrepancy.

Nate asked, hopeful about the new lead, "You know where he could be?"

Vicky shook her head. "We haven't spoken in twenty-five years."

"Why?"

"Why does it matter?"

Nate and Joe said nothing. They waited for her to realize she was withholding information again. It didn't take long.

She stared at her hands for a moment and then took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. After clearing her throat, she turned to Nate with her face devoid of emotion.

"We haven't spoken because, after I killed my mother, I made it clear to Adam that if he didn't disappear, I'd put him in the ground, too."

Joe cringed. Occasionally, she delivered words in a sledgehammer style, in particular, when it was something she didn't want to discuss.

Turning on her heel, she left without another word. She delivered the information in one harsh blow, and her time of sharing had come to a whiplashing end. Nate gaped after her in disbelief. She slammed the door in his face after gagging up a partial piece of information that was akin to a hairball offering. He wasn't sure he had even heard her right. In fact, he thought that he could _not_ have heard her right. He opened his mouth to say something—demand an explanation, maybe—but she was already too far away. Empty air filled the space where she had been standing.

Nate rounded on Joe accusingly.

"How long have you known that? She killed her mother? Three bodies looking like her, the same abuse, and her brother has a twenty-five year grudge? No, that's not pertinent to the case at _all!_ What the _fuck_!" he yelled in exasperation.

Nate walked in a tight circle; his arms spread up and out, as though he were summoning rain for a drought with no end. He thought they'd only hidden her abuse, not a goddamn suspect and motive.

"I knew a couple of years ago, and you had no reason to know. Now you do. There you go; you're all caught up. The briefing's over. We've got work to do."

Joe's eyes had chilled while looking at Nate, making sure his partner knew his ferocious loyalty to Vicky was unwavering. Nate had the suspect's name and reason for the estrangement. It was all the information he needed to work the case and anything beyond that, Joe would protect. If Nate demanded more information, there was the dismal probability that Joe's eyes would progress from coolly impassive to a darker and more dangerous realm. Nate hated and avoided that realm as did most people who knew Joe. It was time to accept it and drop it. He had been to this desolate landscape before, and there would be no rain anytime soon.

Nate sighed, grinding on his gum with silent frustration as Joe turned around and walked away.

Reaching up, the huge black man ran his hand over his short hair several times in agitation, trying to calm down and focus on the pittance given to him to work with. Okay. She killed her mother, and she threatened to kill her brother. First and foremost, he knew it must have been justified or necessary for whatever reason.

Vicky had restraint and a lot of it. The times she had leveled people had been when they came at her physically. She had been hated by every kind of criminal there was, and caught off guard she had been attacked by two of them. One attack had been when Joe was in the room, and the suspect had punched Vicky square in the face. Nate winced as he remembered; that guy had been plunged by his throat into a realm of Joe that was goddamn near demonic. Vicky hadn't cowered, blinked, or raised her voice and the report she'd written was as factual and emotionless as always. Nate knew Vicky; he had worked with her for years, and she was one of his closest friends. If she had killed her mother, then her mother had needed killing.

Adam Terrace was now number one on their list of one suspect and Nate was looking forward to digging in. As he headed toward the body, his pace slowed, and he could feel his neck muscles tighten.

The medical examiner had arrived.

The examiner, Darin Lund, blew past Joe and excitedly reached for Vicky, embracing her fully and making it a point to smell her hair, which set Joe's teeth on edge. The medical examiner had a staggering number of grating habits that he brought to every crime scene like a fungal rash.

"Vicky! You promised me you wouldn't get any prettier. How am I supposed to work?" he asked, burying his face in her hair and breathing deeply as he accosted her.

The examiner turned to Joe and gave him a slow once-over.

"None for you, Valenti; sexist, I know, but... none for you."

The examiner, in his late thirties, was a good-looking man if a woman could ignore the hair gel, fake tan, and the whole personality misfortune. Viewed by Joe and Nate as the contagion at every crime scene, the examiner had the ability to annoy everyone around him simultaneously. It was, at times, awe-inspiring. Twice, in as many years, Joe had unsnapped his gun holster while looking the examiner in the eyes, wordlessly letting him know how perilously close he was to turning himself into a crime scene.

Before he approached the body, the doctor took out his stretcher, the black body bag already on it. The examiner started talking to no one in particular, another irksome habit, efficiently and predictably making the rash spread.

"We have another one that resembles my lovely Victoria O'Connell, I see. I wonder if my friends from the bureau have noticed. Perhaps, I should tell them, maybe point it out to them. They do their best but, well... they're agents."

Joe stuck his hands deep into his jeans' pockets and gazed at the sky, trying not to let the contagion burrow. He needed to stay within earshot to hear any actual, helpful bits of information. The examiner was intelligent, and he did give valuable information, which for Nate and Joe only made things worse.

The examiner inspected the victim's hands. "We still have slivers. The wounds from the wooden spoon have been self-inflicted again."

He peered closely at the cigar burns on the victim's neck. Lifting the woman's hands, he smelled them and then reached up and pried the victim's stiff mouth open and smelled that, too.

"Interesting, the cigar wounds were also self-inflicted. Her hands smell of the smoke as does her mouth. What an animal. Poor Vicky, she had to keep the cigar going herself."

That was it. Joe started walking toward the examiner, but Nate quickly cut him off, herding him over to the tree line by one arm.

Joe's ability to spare this viral piece of shit had hit an all-time low. He had been waking in the night with horrible visions of Vicky's body cold and covered in blood lying next to him. He would have his coffee with her every morning and his eyes would dart over her, trying to override the images from the nightmares. Twenty-four hours a day, he worried about when the killer would decide the time had come for Vicky to be on a slab. Every ounce of everything he had, he'd been putting into this case while simultaneously trying to protect her. He had exactly zero left over to restrain him from putting the examiner into his own body bag.

"I've got it. You wait here," Nate said.

Joe, after strenuous convincing from Nate, agreed to stay at the tree line until the wretched examiner left. It was hard for Nate not to smack the doctor; he could only imagine how Joe felt.

"God _damn_ , I hate that guy," Joe said through clenched teeth, already regretting his agreement to stay by the tree line.

Nate said again, "I got it."

Nate left him at the tree line, pacing and seething. The examiner had been calling, christening, each of the three victims Vicky. He would lean down and talk aloud as he surveyed the damage, always referring to the victim _as_ Vicky. When he would update the agents, he would insert her name, as well.

"Well, Vicky was raped but not how you might think. No, Vicky's rape took place by using one of her stab wounds as the orifice. It was particularly heinous because the stab wound ripped over two inches while her rape took place. The murderer was in a frenzied state when he raped her, and Vicky bled out from the multiple stab wounds while the rape occurred. Poor Vicky, she felt everything up until the end, and I'm telling you, she didn't go fast. She lingered and was still being raped when she died."

If this miserable tool didn't knock it off with the Vicky references, a request would have to be put in for another examiner. Nate knew this was the last time he would be able to stop Joe from bludgeoning the examiner right past rigor and on into putrefaction.

When Nate returned to the crime scene, the examiner was searching for him.

"There's nothing really new here. Vicky's got the cigar burns added to the other, more grievous insults but other than that, I won't know more until the autopsy."

Nate decided to save the man's life for him.

Stepping in, far in, to the examiner's personal space, Nate peered down from his towering height and into the M.E.'s startled eyes. He moved in closer yet until the doctor had to shuffle his feet to avoid being stepped on. The gurney was behind the increasingly nervous man, preventing any escape as Nate effectively blocked his entire view of the world, casting the alarmed doctor into a dark shadow.

Nate chewed his gum slowly, his black sunglasses covering his eyes. His face held no expression apart from a flat, unsettling calm.

"It's apparent to me, having known you for longer than one second, that you have some type of severe social retardation, Darin. I'm going to clear that up for you so concentrate, and pay attention. Do not refer to these victims as Vicky again. It is disturbing, and I am I assure you, disturbed enough already. Conjointly, if you disturb Joe one more time by calling these victims Vicky, he will come at you. He will put you down. You will not get back up. Do you understand that, Darin? After your body parts have been rearranged for you, you may feel the need to tell a supervisor, but I'll save you the time. No one here saw anything."

Nate chewed slowly, his face stony and vacant.

"No one saw anything at all."

Nate scrutinized the petrified doctor a moment longer. When he thought that even this asinine, contemptuous dink could understand what he was saying, he stepped back. The examiner scrambled his gurney into the wagon without saying another word and Nate watched, smirking, as the van sped away. Good times.

Vicky and Joe were standing together at the tree line, and he walked over to them.

Joe was six-three and weighed two-thirty, all of it brawny muscle earned from a weight machine he used daily to ward off job stress. A big man in his own right, Joe appeared even bigger when he stood next to Vicky, who was five-three and weighed a buck.

Joe stood behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist and his chin resting on her shoulder. He had been whispering something into her ear, and she smiled softly, her head leaning back against his chest.

Nate had a small, distracting itch that needed scratching. Hesitantly he approached Vicky and took his sunglasses off as he cleared his throat.

"Have you been to prison?"

"No," she said with a crooked and good-natured smile.

Nate felt relief loosen his neck muscles. With Vicky, you could never really be sure of anything unless you asked. The only one who knew a damn thing about her was Joe and he guarded and protected her privacy even more than she did. _Nobody_ pried into Vicky's life without going through him first; not strangers, not friends, not the bureau... nobody.

"Okay, then. It must've been a justifiable homicide. Okay. Good. Good to know," he said chewing his gum vigorously and putting his shades back on.

Staring at his shoes, he gathered his thoughts, still a little addled with the new and unexpected information about her.

"I think Joe's right. I think we need to locate Adam."

Joe agreed. Nate was his partner, but Joe was the senior agent and the Special Agent in Charge. He made the final decisions and directed agent traffic, assigning duties as he saw fit. Agents trying to climb the ladder sent requests to Joe's superiors, asking to work with his team, but Joe never wanted it. He wanted things tight and fast, the people with him loyal to the victim, not the bureaucracy. His goal was to catch the criminal and save the victim, nothing more and nothing less. He had no interest in helping people advance their careers.

"I'm getting Stephanie on it. Maybe she can get an address from Adam's tax forms," Joe said, flipping open his phone and stepping away from Nate and Vicky.

Nate glanced sideways at Vicky, unsure of what to say but knowing that he needed to say something. The new information about her was a hell of a big elephant to ignore and to try to gloss over it would only make things more uncomfortable than they already were.

"I don't know what to say, little leprechaun. I wish you didn't have to spew your business. I know you hate it when people know things about you, but I'm not people, okay? You're like my itty-bitty, little three-pound sister. I'm not people."

Vicky felt her tension melting away. He was right—he wasn't people and hadn't been for years.

Nate put an arm around Vicky and pulled her against his ribs, kissing the top of her head gruffly. He tried not to think about how much the dead body lying on the ground looked like her. As soon as they had hit the first body, he knew something was wrong. She wouldn't examine the vomit. She had seen bloated corpses infested with maggots; body parts sawed off and discarded, and little children burned to a crisp. Through it all, she had never turned away. When she wouldn't acknowledge the vomit, he knew there was a serious and dangerous situation at that crime scene, and somehow it involved her.

"Goddamn, you're short. How do you see anything down there?" he asked and listened to her easy but quiet laughter as he rested his chin on her head.

"You're coming for supper, right?"

"Absolutely. Italian, I suppose?"

"Chicken cacciatore..."

"My partner is coveting all of your culinary talents. It's selfish," Nate complained, distracted.

He felt a deep dread in his heart as they talked. The killer was coming for her; he'd made that point exceedingly clear. Maybe in a week, maybe in a month but he _would_ come for her, and all three of them knew it. Nate pushed the thought away for now but kept his arm protectively around her.

"Bring your grandma's Cajun recipe; the one with all the peppers and I'll copy it down for next time," Vicky said, leaning her head against his massive chest and feeling small but safe.

She sighed and closed her eyes.

This was her family. She didn't even know Adam.

# CHAPTER TWO

"The box says, 'gentle redirection.' _I_ think it's a viable option," Roxie said.

Vicky shook her head from side to side, as she nibbled on almond biscotti.

"If it's legal for dogs, why not people?" Roxie challenged.

Vicky eyed her assistant.

"We are not getting shock collars."

"Why? They're nowhere near as strong as Tasers. I'm not asking for _Tasers!_ "

"We are not getting shock collars for the cadets. You would be arrested for assault for Christ's sake."

Roxie turned to Joe, who was biting into a wine dunked piece of biscotti, having successfully talked Vicky into making it for dessert.

She asked, "Have you ever been Tasered?"

Joe nodded his head as he wiped his mouth with a napkin and reached for his glass of wine.

"Definitely," he said.

"And did it hurt?" Roxie enquired.

"—like a bitch," he said, as he brought the glass to his lips.

"And did it _deter_ you?" Roxie asked Joe but turned to Vicky.

"It pissed me off," Joe said as he tried to remember the outcome.

"Concussion..." Nate said as he thought back.

Joe nodded and turned back to Roxie.

"A concussion was awarded to that particular individual," Joe said mildly.

Roxie scowled at him sourly. It wasn't what she had expected to hear and had done nothing to help her case. She refocused on Vicky before continuing.

"Well, I'm not asking for Tasers. The _point_ I was trying to make is that even a Taser is, really, when you think about it, only a behavioral modification tool; a training aid, if you will. The collars are _way_ less harsh than a Taser. Gentle redirection," Roxie pointed out again.

Vicky sighed.

"Roxie, you are not going to strap an electric dog collar onto the cadets when they come here for training. It's not going to happen. Positive reinforcement; I keep telling you, positive reinforcement."

"Positive reinforcement," Nate mumbled, giggling quietly.

Vicky ignored him and continued to address her assistant.

"You need to do target approximation, remember? It's an excellent technique. If they get close to doing it right, compliment them. Then, after a while, withhold the compliment until they get even closer and on and on, right?"

Roxie did not budge. She knew too much from Nate, who loved talking to her about work and the side of Vicky that Roxie never saw.

"I suppose that was positive reinforcement when you bounced the guy's face off the bars in lock-up last month? A broken nose, was it? That sounds positive," Roxie commented, arching an eyebrow.

Vicky turned to Nate and narrowed her eyes. Nate dunked biscotti into his glass of wine, oblivious to the glare. He nodded enthusiastically and giggled again, remembering the lock-up incident fondly.

"That was _different._ He came _at_ me. The cadets don't come at you, Roxanne. You're their teacher. Training people and dogs are not that different. You would never hurt the dogs, right?"

"That's because I like the dogs; the dogs don't hit on me, and the dogs are smarter than the cadets," Roxie said in disgust before trying the approach of strength in numbers.

"I want a show of hands! Who thinks the cadets need gentle redirection by way of electronic _learning_ aids?"

Roxie shot her hand into the air. Nate and Joe glanced at each other, shrugged, and put their hands in the air, too.

Vicky glowered at all three of them.

"You people are mentally ill. Every goddamn one of you," she muttered as she brought her wineglass to her lips.

Roxie had been Vicky's assistant for ten years and was the only employee she ever had. The young woman had been sixteen and living in a foster home when she walked into Vicky's office in the big dog shed, uninvited, unannounced, and unsolicited. Vicky was at her desk doing paperwork, and the surly teenager flopped down in the chair next to her desk. Vicky surveyed the girl, surprised, but said nothing.

"I like dogs. I won't be late, and I won't miss work. You should hire me," Roxie had said bluntly.

Vicky took her reading glasses off and sat back in her chair. _Ballsy kid_ , she thought to herself. A smile had crept across her lips, and she had hired her on the spot. Ten years later, Roxie was an outstanding and kind dog trainer, but her people skills were questionable. For the last three years, Vicky had her teaching new cadets how to track with their canine units in hopes of rounding off the woman's razor-sharp edges. Roxie hated it but to her credit, she never gave up on a cadet. The insults she hurled at them, however, were legendary.

The telephone rang, and Vicky got up to answer it in the bedroom. It was Mark Aditsan; a friend of theirs since they'd worked his daughter's kidnapping case. After exchanging pleasantries, Mark gave his reason for calling.

"Raven's been having dreams about you... nightmares, really. She says she has to talk to you and that it's important."

Sitting on her bed, Vicky said, "Okay, put her on."

She could hear the phone moving and being tussled and then a timid voice asked, "Auntie Vicky?"

"Here I am, sweetie. What's wrong?"

The little girl started sobbing as soon as she heard Vicky's gentle voice. Vicky leaned forward on the bed, concerned.

"Please, Auntie Vicky, please don't go. It's a terrible trick, and there's blood all over you—all _over_ you," Raven whispered, adhering to the childhood wisdom that if you said something too loudly, it would happen.

Vicky whispered back, "Where shouldn't I go?"

"I don't know the place, but my grandpa says you'll know; he says you'll know right away."

Vicky felt a sliver of ice touch her spine. Raven's kidnapper had murdered her grandfather two years earlier. Peculiar and unsettling things happened throughout that case. Enough had happened that right now a deep and still part of Vicky believed the child _had_ been talking to her grandfather. _Strange little Raven..._ Vicky thought.

"It's a trap, and there's blood everywhere, especially on you; it runs from you in rivers. I _saw_ it," Raven said, her young voice laden with dread and fear.

"All right, sweetie; I believe you. I won't go—I'll stay away, okay? I'm not going to that place no matter what," she said, trying to console and comfort the child.

"You won't?"

"Uh-uh. Don't you worry about it anymore, okay? I'm not going. I'll stay right here, and Uncle Joe will make sure nothing happens, too."

Raven sighed in relief. Vicky spoke to her for a while longer, making sure she felt soothed before hanging up and returning to the hushed living room. Joe was just snapping his phone closed.

"They found another body, same condition as the others. She was killed only a few hours ago."

Vicky asked, "Where?"

"It's a town in southern Minnesota, about five hours from here," Joe said, rifling through his notes and giving her the exact address.

_My little Raven... how do you do that?_ Vicky wondered as she stared at the floor, showing no reaction.

After an hour, they all piled into Vicky's SUV. Surprised, Joe saw Vicky's big, white Great Pyrenees, Michael, in the backseat.

"Will the hotel let him stay?"

A small, sad smile touched Vicky's lips, and she turned away, refusing to meet Joe's eyes.

"It'll be fine," she assured him.

# # #

At five o'clock in the morning, Joe slowed the vehicle down. Nate was in the backseat sound asleep with his head leaning against the window, his neck at an odd angle. Roxie's head was in his lap, and his arm draped around her waist as she slept. She almost never tagged along to crime scenes, but wanted to spend the weekend with Nate, and this was the only way it would happen. They planned to rent a room poolside and have a couple of drinks in the hot tub after the crime scene was processed.

The neighborhood they drove through exuded wealth and prestige; the sprawling, tree-dotted yards resembled golf courses and created subtle, tasteful privacy barriers between the palatial estates. Thinking of Raven's phone call, Vicky wondered if she should have listened to the girl's warning. As Joe drove on, she could feel the tightness wrap around her, every minute bringing them closer.

They reached the dead end of the road where the most majestic of homes stood, similar in size to an English palace. It had no neighbors on one side, only big, beautiful trees that gradually became closer together and more numerous until they bloomed into a full and mature forest. On the other side was a meticulously manicured yard that could be measured in acres. A four-foot high stone wall stood on the far edge of the property, separating it from the neighbor's estate.

Joe turned into a long, cobblestone driveway lined with black lantern light poles that looked like they belonged on a London street in another century. Surreal in its size, the estate had early morning fog blanketing it, adding to the illusion of stepping back in time. The darkness clung to the night though twilight had passed.

"The manicured part of the yard has to be two or three acres," Joe mumbled.

"It looks like it," Vicky said.

From the back of the SUV, Roxie and Nate woke up, their eyes glassy and red. Roxie's hands poked through her hair, bringing it back to life, while Nate's hand went to his neck to work out a kink. Joe parked the Jeep in the oversized circular driveway behind a nondescript car with federal plates on it.

Grateful to be out of the vehicle after hours of riding, they all stretched their stiff legs and backs as they stood in front of the massive house, scrutinizing it. In the shape of a huge, block "C" the house had a wing jutting forward from each end of the enormous main structure. The colossal beast was twice as big as any other house on this road of wealth.

"I wouldn't even know how to live in something this big," Joe said, staring at the looming three and a half story dwelling.

Vicky turned around, squinting, as she peered into the darkness. She felt someone watching her. The cold fog clung to her, refusing to disperse or let her go as she returned her gaze to the towering house in front of her.

Roxie gaped at the house and the cobblestones and the yard, her eyes big. Vicky could hear her assistant whisper to Nate, as though the house could hear her.

"If I said I had to go to the bathroom, do you think they'd let me in there? Do you think they'd let me see the inside?"

"Someone with this kind of money, it's going to take us a year and a half to get the search warrant, guaranteed. If you have to go to the bathroom, there's the Jeep; use a gas station. Nobody's going to be seeing the inside of that house anytime soon," Nate said sourly.

Tired and trying to work out the stubborn kink in his neck, he was pissed about the size of the place. Sulking, he assumed it would take days to process a crime scene this outrageously goddamn big, which shot to hell any chance he had of seeing Roxie in her new bikini. Embracing his foul mood, he scowled as he looked around.

Vicky pulled her eyes from the overbearing house and headed toward the crime scene, far out in the yard. A shudder coursed through her as she exposed her back to the imposing house. Black shadows seemed to peek at her from behind the trunks of oak trees, skittering away when she tried to focus on them. Lifting the collar of her bomber jacket, she pulled it tightly to her, the damp fog feeling like clammy cadaver fingers grazing the back of her neck.

Joe glanced sideways at her and was startled by what he saw. In the dark, her face appeared hollowed out and ghastly, a haunted look of fear swirling in her eyes. Joe watched as she peered over her shoulder, trying to pierce through the darkness, searching for something.

Watching her peculiar behavior was beginning to unnerve him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing but blackness and the castle-like house behind them. Impulsively, he reached out and felt under the back of her coat, finding her Glock twenty right where it should be. She turned to him quizzically, and he returned her gaze, his eyes full of concern.

"Just checking," he murmured.

"You guys made good time," one of the agents guarding the body called out.

"Traffic was lite," Joe said as he approached and shook the agent's hand.

"Anything you can tell me," Joe said, taking out his notebook.

The agent was a tall but thin man with brown hair and hazel eyes. He looked tired and relieved to see them.

"She cleaned here part-time and didn't show up for a supper date. The boyfriend called around, then came here, and saw her car parked in front of the house. He made out a body through the bars on the gate, and figured it was his girlfriend. We had the car towed to forensics."

"Boyfriend got a name, a record?" Joe asked, scribbling notes as he spoke.

"No record," the agent said, handing Joe the boyfriend's business card.

While Joe questioned the agent, Vicky and Nate surveyed the body. The oval bruises on the victim's bare feet were visible, but they didn't see any vomit from the soured milk. Nate walked around the body, shining his flashlight on the ground but found nothing. Grim and perplexed, he came back to Vicky and squatted down next to her.

"We'll do a better search when the sun comes up."

This victim was not naked but had endured the same genital and pelvic mutilation through her jeans. There were over a dozen stab wounds and all of them went into the flesh until the knife hit bone. This killer never poked and jabbed. He stabbed with a phenomenal amount of force, always twisting the knife to tear and rip the muscle and elicit the maximum amount of pain from the victim. All of the autopsies showed the bones themselves were chipped and splintered. Nate and Vicky listened to the agents talk as they viewed the victim.

"Her name's Brittany Charpee. Her face and hair are dry now, but they weren't when we got here. Her head was soaked, and it smelled like urine but not strong enough for it to be pure. I think she had her head shoved in a toilet full of piss."

Joe stopped writing and Vicky stopped moving. Nate saw their reactions and hung his head low, feeling his stomach roll. He hated this case. He hated everything about this case. Reaching out, he put his hand on Vicky's back and whispered.

"You okay?"

"It was a long time ago," she said with emptiness in her voice, staring at a spot of nothing on the ground.

Joe joined Nate and Vicky at the body while the other agents left.

The victim wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt, the blood from her pelvic area staining her jeans a blackish-red down to her knees. Her flat black tennis shoes were pristine and lined up neatly next to her bare feet. Only one white ankle-length sock lie next to the shoes. Assuming there had been a pair, the other one was missing.

Not only were her clothes left on, she had short, bobbed blond hair while all the other victims had long auburn hair. Joe frowned while visually examining the body and then stood, turning toward the sound of the M.E.'s van pulling into the driveway.

"Oh, good," Nate muttered, chewing his gum harder.

Vicky's dog, Michael, tilted his twitching nose toward the sky trying to catch the first scent of the new arrival. Catching a whiff, he put his head on his paws and closed his eyes. It was only the hair gel guy.

Darin bumbled and dragged the gurney behind him across the huge yard but stopped abruptly when he reached the group of people. He had never met Roxie before, and he stared at her with keen interest. Her short, choppy platinum blond hair stuck out in chunks and the big, silver hoop earrings she wore swayed gently as she chewed her gum. Darin glimpsed her powdery blue eyes before moving over her curvaceous figure. Tall and thin, she was startling to look at, her beauty unique in its top to bottom perfection. Darin couldn't find a single visual flaw on her, and he ogled every inch. Nate watched with interest, a smirk playing on his lips causing his deep dimples to flash. This should be good.

The doctor approached Roxie with a swagger, extending his hand as his eyes raked over her, making no effort to hide it.

"I am Doctor Darin Lund. We haven't met. I would've remembered," he cooed with a saccharine smile.

Roxie glowered, as she scrutinized him up and down, chewing her gum slowly. She didn't like meeting new people, and she strongly discouraged new people from meeting her. She also hated lecherous, prolonged look-overs and greasy come-on lines. Glaring at the medical examiner with seething contempt, she got started immediately.

"How about I call you 'Ass,' for short? You look like an Ass, what with the lube in your hair and all. It would also explain your unsettling fecal breath. Locate some gum, unwrap the gum, and chew the gum before you talk to me again, shit-mouth."

Darin cocked his head back as though he were dodging a viper. His smile fell away, and he put his hand down but continued to stare at her.

Roxie snapped her gum, her eyes turning icier.

"The necrophilia section's over there, and if you want to reach it with your sack still attached, I suggest you get moving, shit-mouth," she said, keeping her piercing, hostile eyes on the medical examiner's testicles as she talked.

Both of Nate's dimples deepened into cavernous pits as he bowed his head and laughed quietly. Goddamn, he loved her. He loved everything about her.

The M.E. faltered and turned away, dragging his gurney behind him, dejected. Seeing Vicky, he perked up and veered toward her. He had seen Valenti hugging her from behind whenever the agent stood by her. He gave entire briefings that way; his arms wrapped around her small waist. He held her to him as he addressed and coordinated anywhere from one to twenty uniforms, agents, and forensic techs at any given crime scene. Darin walked faster, liking the idea—he would get a face full of her soft hair.

Vicky struggled with the memories. As she stood motionless, she remembered her screams from twenty-five years ago. She hadn't known they were her screams at the time. The hands had been around her throat, and they were like iron—a shackle for which she had no key. Scratching and kicking out, she turned her head desperately from side to side in tiny movements, panicking to breathe. The vise-like hands had been so tight that the tendons in her neck wouldn't work at all. She was alone... and he was killing her. Everything was turning black around her. In a surge of pure adrenaline, she had gouged his eye, and the iron shackle had slipped a notch. She had filled her lungs with air and screamed. She had screamed and—

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she could smell Joe's cologne and feel his arm around her waist. He was gently pressing her to him, hugging her to him from behind, and whispering to her.

"Babe... baby, let go... let go..."

He paused and kissed her softly on the neck and then continued whispering to her, his arm around her and holding her as she blinked and took a breath. The memory had gone, but Joe and the whispers remained. She looked down.

She had Darin on his knees in front of her; his arm was chicken-winged up his back, palm out and almost touching his own neck. Her other hand had the black barrel of her forty-five pushing into his skull. The hand with the Glock in it was rock steady, and her finger was on the trigger. Joe continued whispering to her.

"It's all right, baby... it's just Darin... you can let go..."

After blinking again, she exploded air out of her frozen lungs, her shoulders sagging down. Quickly lowering the gun, she released Darin's arm, and he scrambled away from her on all fours like an ape, looking frantically over his shoulder. Joe glared after him, wanting whole-heartedly to kick him in the ass and launch him.

Joe glanced at Nate, who stood, unmoving, just having witnessed the fastest takedown he had ever seen, bar none. She had been fine and then she wasn't. Boom. She went from calm to lethal in point zero seconds. Nate got the disquieting sense that she didn't know she had done it. Glancing at Joe worriedly, he went to the examiner and tried to calm him down and smooth things over. Roxie said nothing, just stared at Vicky as Joe put his arm around her and walked her away as though they were going for a romantic midnight stroll.

Joe kept his arm over Vicky's shoulder as they walked, "Feeling a little tense?"

She nodded, still breathing heavily.

"I can tell. I pick up on the little things," he said, smiling gently at her.

"I'm starting to think about assigning you a protection detail. This is the fourth body, and you're—"

She shook her head, interrupting him before he could finish.

"No. No, I have my gun. I have you. I have Nate. I'll be fine. I don't want to be around a stranger. I'm just a little... tense," she said, using his word.

He sighed and pulled her to him, hugging her, and rubbing her back as he gazed at the fading stars.

"I should have just punched him in the face last year, like I wanted to, when he first started that hugging bullshit."

"I told you I'd take care of it when he went too far."

Joe nodded sagely, still peering at the stars.

"I guess he went too far. For that, I am ecstatic."

Vicky looked up at him, saw him smirking down at her, and poked him in the stomach.

"It's not funny."

"If you say so," he said, laughing softly as he squeezed her and let her go.

Walking back to the crime scene, Joe encouraged her to pepper spray the examiner next time. He asked her to do it for him, to use the entire can, and make it a sixteen ouncer.

It took Nate some time to get Darin—who had been nearly hysterical—calmed down. Once he was calmed down, Nate used the opportunity to explain to the man how his personality was going to get him killed.

"Do you think she's a little kitty, Darin? Is that what she is to you? She carries a _gun_ , Darin. You know that because it's by her _ass._ Are you really this goddamn stupid? You think it's a good idea to walk up behind a woman in the dark and _grab_ her when she carries a _gun_ and is a serial killer's primary _target?_ Wow. You are some kind of special. You are," Nate yelled into the man's face. He kept walking forward and backing Darin up while poking at the doctor's chest when he felt a point needed to be emphasized.

"She is _not_ a little kitty that you can cuddle and pet whenever you get an itch, you stupid _shit_. She is a serious and full-fledged member of this team—" Nate said, emphasizing the words with finger pokes, "—and if you don't believe that then go latch onto her again, you fucking _degenerate_. Maybe next time, she _will_ blow your head off!" Nate bellowed, adding one final, hard finger jab to the chest of the shaking man.

Darin's eyes were glassy, and he had never felt so terrorized in his life. Everybody on this team was insane—he _hated_ this team. Valenti and the lunatic woman were walking toward him, and his eyes quickly darted from left to right, searching franticly for somewhere to run but it was too late.

Vicky walked around Nate and stood in front of Darin. Glaring at him for a long, chilly moment, she finally spoke.

"You're lucky... and stupid. Don't touch me again."

Darin swallowed hard as Vicky strode away. With an easy smile, Joe ambled up to him, his strange blue eyes glittering. He reached out and pulled Darin to him by the back of his neck, digging his fingers into the flesh while brutally pinching and piercing the tendons, instantly cramping the muscles. Darin winced and opened his mouth wide in a silent gasp; the pain was excruciating. Joe bent his head down to Darin's ear and whispered.

"Next time, it'll be my gun."

He let go of Darin and then smacked him on the forehead with the back of his hand as if he were swatting at a particularly bothersome fly that needed a solid, one-hit squashing. Darin's head rocked back, and he blinked several times, startled.

"Go process the body," Joe said, shoving him toward the corpse, disgusted.

He followed Darin the few steps to the body to catch any observations the examiner had. Joe and Nate had known the day would come when Vicky wouldn't put up with Darin's shit anymore; they just hadn't known when. Now they did. They had figured she would slap him, but her method seemed to be remarkably effective. Darin wasn't looking at her, and Joe was confident he never would again—not without Kevlar.

Darin gradually rebounded from his near-death experience with Vicky. He felt safe in deducing she was not the hugging type. No more hugs for Vicky. His chest felt sore where that mutant bodybuilder had poked him, too. This team, he had decided, was mentally unstable in its entirety, and it would behoove him to have as little contact with any one of them as possible. It would be their loss. He would miss hugging Vicky, though; her hair always smelled good, and it felt like spun silk. Sighing to himself, he shook his head, regretting the loss. Smoothly moving on, he wondered if the blond woman would respond to a different approach. She was pretty.

Nate took pictures as Darin rolled the body over and started to talk shop while Joe squinted at him in disbelief. Darin had recovered from having a weapon drawn on him, the barrel of the forty-five digging into his skull. He appeared unfazed, making Joe wonder how many women, over the years, had pulled a gun on the incorrigible medical examiner. Joe subtly shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment deciding that he didn't really want to know.

"Except for her tongue being clean and no sign that she's vomited, the signs of abuse are the same as the last three. In addition, this one's hair smells like urine, and there are loose, unattached clumps of hair. He pulled her hair hard enough to rip it out. This is not part of the pattern in the previous victims but definitely fits in with our killer's particular brand of charm.

"On the THINGS THAT ARE NEW list, this isn't the crime scene. He brought her here _after_ she was murdered," Darin said, pointing out two bloody arm prints on the back of the victim's sweatshirt, made when the murderer carried her.

"Plus, her clothes are on, and she's blond. From what I can see, he didn't sexually assault her through the jeans, either. There isn't a ripped or flared wound, and the denim hasn't been frayed from a body rubbing against it. I'll do vaginal swabs back at autopsy in case he decided to go that route, but it's highly improbable."

Darin turned on his flashlight, studying the back of her sweatshirt closely. There were small fragments of broken pine needles.

"Valenti, have the uniforms cordon off the woods by the house. The pine needles stuck to her sweatshirt might be from there. It's private and close; I doubt he wanted to carry her very far."

Joe was surprised the M.E. had addressed him directly; maybe the doctor was improving. Between Nate yesterday, and Vicky today, it could be the examiner realized his stays of execution had come to a screeching halt.

After an hour of processing and marking the scene, they all trudged with the medical examiner back to his van. There were local uniforms posted by the body, protecting the crime scene until later in the morning when they returned. The air was heavy and solemn. Nobody felt much like talking. This killer was, body after body, wearing all of them down, leaving the disheartening sense of a Godless world in his wake.

They stood in front of the van staring at the inaccessible mansion, each in their own thoughts. Vicky quietly drifted away from the group, and Nate watched as Joe stood for a moment, and then followed her. The sun wasn't up yet, but it soon would be, the sky's powdery shade of gray replacing the shadowy blackness.

Nate could see Vicky talking to Joe. She spoke softly, and Joe's head hung all the way down with his ear near her mouth. After several minutes, he lifted his head and pulled her to him, holding her for a long time. His hand was in her hair, cradling her head to his chest while his other hand encircled her waist, keeping her held tightly to him. Frequently, he bent his head down to whisper something into her ear, kiss her neck, or press his face against hers. As Nate watched, he grew concerned and then Joe signaled for him to join them.

When Nate was standing in front of them, he searched Vicky's face worriedly. Her eyes were blood shot and a startling, iridescent green. Nate dragged his gaze from her odd, near-glowing luminescent eyes and turned to Joe.

"We'll be searching the house," Joe said.

Nate opened his mouth to object vehemently, but Joe cut him off in mid-sentence.

"We don't need a warrant. It's Vicky's house," he said.

Joe's face was blank, giving away nothing, as he handed Nate the key and then returned his hand to Vicky's waist, pulling her closer to him.

# CHAPTER THREE

He truly had sacrificed. A blond... he shuddered, feeling dirty and not just because there was dirt everywhere. It was disgusting, but it needed to be done. He had washed his knife franticly with hot, soapy water afterwards. A blond... for Christ's _sake._

He didn't finish. He didn't _want_ to finish, hadn't even _tried_ to finish—not with a blond. It was a matter of convenience; she was right there, in the house. It had been easy, except she had been disturbingly, horrifically blond. He had to spend extra time with her using the cigar, spoon, and bucket of piss-water. He decided to skip the sour milk; he had to carry her disgusting blond self to the yard so the puke would've been left behind anyway. He had thought for about a second of having her throw up in a baggy and then dumping that next to her in the yard, but it had all been too overwhelming. God, he needed a shower. He wished they made a special soap that would get the blond feeling off him. He shuddered, pushing the thought of her away before he started to gag.

Now, walking around in the attic, he thought that she deserved killing just for how dirty the attic was. Clearly, she had been a horseshit maid. He looked around, blinking several times from the fine, airborne dust he was dislodging. The dust floated everywhere, coating the cobwebs that were sticking to his face. Irritated, he scrubbed at his face with his hands while he walked, cursing the maid and wishing she was there so he could stab her again.

His thoughts wandered to Tori and everything about her. He thought of her name, her hair, the pale and perfect skin, and her fierce heart. He thought about all of it. When he had seen her through the camera zoom lens, he had observed her carefully. In his heart, he knew he was not being prejudicial—she really _was_ perfect. Any fool that saw her had to know that. If someone were to look at her and say that she was not perfect, he would have no choice but to stab that person in the face. Someone whose judgment had become that severely impaired and whose thought patterns were that misaligned had no need to keep living... none at all.

His anger grew with the certainty that there _could_ be someone out there who thought she wasn't perfect. Jaw muscles flexing and popping; he ground his teeth together. He had to think of something else—because if there were someone out there who thought that then he _would_ stab that person in the face. Immediately. He definitely, right now, needed to think of something else. It was time to think of something else.

He made sure the maid knew her status as Second Place. Actually, he had deemed her a Third Placer because she was blond, and there was just no excuse for such an epic flaw, none whatsoever. She had looked at him as though he were insane. He hated stupid people. Either learn something or fucking kill yourself; that was the choice to be had. Just walking around stupid was not acceptable.

He was focusing on finding somewhere to hide but had begun walking slower. Staring vacantly at the dusty wooden floor, he was now at a full stop.

Jaw muscles working; he turned his head to the side, trying not to think about it. He was thinking about it. His right thumb and middle finger were tapping against each other, agitated. Right in the face—whoever didn't think she was perfect, right in the goddamn face.

He had been looking for a hiding place; he needed a good place of concealment. Hesitantly, he moved forward. He would be waiting up here for a while. Tori couldn't stay; it wouldn't work. Maybe if she didn't have the two grossly overdeveloped and over testosteroned agents with her, she could have stayed, but they _were_ with her and they were big and they had guns. She couldn't stay. Therefore, he would make sure she didn't. A message here, a message there—she would leave. He needed her close by but not staying in the house.

And who in the _fuck_ wouldn't think she was absolutely _perfect_? His thumb and middle finger were tapping at a manic pace. This was completely unacceptable. There were enough stupid people in the world that he knew goddamn well someone out there thought she wasn't perfect. Stupid people _bred_ for Christ's sake. It was undeniable. It was practically a fact. And they were living and breathing and walking around with _out_ a knife in their face.

He walked slowly back and forth with his head down and turned to the side, his thumb and middle finger tapping in a spastic blur while his cowboy boots made the menacing pace audible. This was unbelievable. This was a situation.

With a conscious effort, he stopped pacing. He knew when he was off point, and he was off point. Okay. A solid hideaway first and then, while he waited to send his messages to Tori, he would think of a way to identify these faulty retreads and remove them from the population. Nodding to himself and panting through his nose, he started looking harder for an area to hide. Focus.

He wanted a place where he could see her. Knowing she would be in the attic with him, there was no way he would be able to pass up the opportunity of seeing her or being by her. He was strong, but he wasn't that goddamn strong. The hiding area, then, had to be very good.

"If I take a picture of her and show it to people..."

He wished he knew for sure where she would be. She had to come up the stairs but where would she go then? The jewelry, maybe the dolls, the beaded dresses—not the furniture, she wouldn't go to the furniture.

"I'll show the picture and if they are not stunned, if they are not overwhelmed..."

He thought about the dolls. They were near the stairs, so he'd get to see her for sure, at least twice. If she stayed by the dolls, he could watch her longer.

"Right in the face... if they are not staggered by her perfection... right in the face."

Going to the dolls, he started poking around, searching for a little hidey-hole. He didn't know if she was into dolls, but he knew she didn't give a shit about jewelry. She would never go to the jewelry.

"I'll show a picture and if they aren't devastated by her, they are dead... dead, dead, dead."

He moved boxes to build himself an area of cover. It would be like an empty castle; boxes stacked all around, but he would be on the inside, peeking out at her. He wanted to take pictures of her.

"I may have to cut their heads off. If their mouths don't _water_ when they see a picture of her, I may well have to cut their goddamn heads off."

The boxes were in place, and he tried it out, a corner of his mouth curving up. He fit right in there, and he could sit on the floor, get comfortable, and peer through the small gaps between boxes. He would be able to see her without the zoom, see the gut-wrenching curve of her lips. Sighing, he closed his eyes.

"... see the picture, don't like it, head comes off... everywhere... bars and bus stations—right the fuck off. When it's on the ground, _then_ I'll stab them in the face. Grocery stores, post offices, license bureau—everywhere... I'll show it everywhere."

He sat in his hidden area and leaned his head back against the wall. Prepared for the long wait, he reached for his wallet and took out a recent picture of her. The picture would need to be replaced soon, but he had many copies of it.

It was his favorite. She was looking over her shoulder with her thick, long auburn hair blowing in the wind. She wore round, small John Lennon sunglasses, and her brown bomber jacket with matching, saggy knee-high leather boots. Her jeans... she was... they were... so treacherously beautiful on her that it made it hard for him to swallow right. Nobody should be able to wear a pair of jeans like that. Nobody. Not ever. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair.

Setting the picture on the floor between his legs, he took out his knife and jabbed his finger with the razor-sharp tip. Slow, fat drops of blood fell onto the picture and covered her image in crimson. He looked at the blood-smeared photo with deep longing and then stabbed it with his knife in hard, short strokes, leaving gouges in the wooden floor.

"I would say that's a plan. Whoever sees the picture and doesn't say she's perfect will get his fucking head cut off, and then I'll stab him in the face. They can't say she's pretty. That's not the same. That is _not_ the same," he hissed through clenched teeth as he stabbed.

"They have to say she's _perfect,_ and she is. She's always _been_ perfect, and she will always _be_ perfect," he whispered as he drove the knife into the picture ceaselessly, obliterating her face and body, piece by piece.

Reaching into his wallet, he withdrew an identical, new picture. Pricking his finger again, he sighed and leaned his head back, closing his eyes as blood dripped onto the photo.

His smile began to fade. He remembered her at the crime scenes when he had been watching her. He was escalating things, killing more frequently than he usually did, specifically for her. She needed to see and listen to his messages, but she hadn't responded as he had expected her to. She didn't seem scared, and she didn't appear concerned. The more he killed, the colder and stronger she looked, as though she knew instinctively to shore herself up and prepare for him. It bothered him. Absently, he reached up and rubbed his crinkled brow, smearing blood across his forehead. She would be afraid when the time came, he reassured himself. He was a talented guy; he had confidence in his abilities. Trying not to think about it—not liking it—he pushed the thought away.

It was tiring; all the planning and maneuvering was taxing. He still had many things to do, and there wasn't much time left. He kept telling himself it would be worth it, but it was starting to piss him off. She had better be grateful; she had better acknowledge his exhaustive amount of effort and preparation. If she didn't, he would stomp her until she did.

Looking down at the new picture with fat, spreading drops of blood on it, he resumed stabbing it in the same sewing machine style. His eyes grew foggy with longing as he thought of what their time together would be like.

"The _word_ perfect... they have to say the _word_ , or they are dead, dead, dead."

# # #

"This has got to be twenty-five thousand square feet?"

"Thirty-two," Vicky replied.

Joe said nothing.

Nate wanted to pelt Vicky with questions the second Joe gave him the key. He looked like he was ready to explode and had strangely puffed out his cheeks like a blowfish and held his breath for a brief moment. Joe gazed at him impassively, his eyes turning frigid with a silent warning. Nate exhaled the air trapped in his cheeks, nodded, and walked off with the key in his hand, saying nothing.

"I had no idea being a senator paid so well," Joe commented.

Vicky turned away. "The money's old and it's from both sides."

Joe was quiet for a minute. He would push for answers, but he wouldn't do it all at once; she would rebel.

"Who lives here?"

"No one," she said.

"You have a maid and maintenance staff and have to pay taxes on this beast by yourself, and no one lives here?"

"No one lives here," Vicky repeated.

He nodded; he would get back to that.

"When's the last time you were here?"

"About three years ago there was a break in, and the police wanted me to see if anything had been stolen. Nothing had been."

He asked, "How long before that?"

She shrugged. "Fifteen years, I suppose."

Gazing at her, he searched her face with the hope of finding answers, but it was as unreadable as always.

"Why don't you sell it?"

"I don't need to, and it would be a lot of work... a lot," she said, averting her eyes.

Joe let it go but knew he would be coming back to that question, as well.

They were sitting on one of the two grand, curving staircases in the house's huge foyer. He reached over, put his hand on her far hip, and slid her toward him with one arm, her head jerking to the side subtly with the unexpected movement. He moved her around as if she were a chess piece, and sometimes so did Nate; they thought it was hilarious. It felt peculiar but also comforting and endearing. She smirked as he kissed her neck and whispered that he loved her into her ear.

She shivered with warmth, loving being by him, even in this wretched place.

"So? What do you think?" she asked.

He thought for a moment and then tried to hedge.

"It's big—really big, and you have a lot of beautiful things," he said kindly.

The house was perfect for black tie fundraisers but not meant to meet a family's need for closeness and togetherness. Wondering how a warm and loving, tight-knit family could thrive in such a place, he felt the coldness and the formality seep into him, leaving a chill. It was an ornate mausoleum, not a home, and he didn't like it at all.

"I hate it," she said bluntly, looking down at her hands.

He leaned toward her and murmured into her neck, "I like your cabin better. I like your big wooden table and your patchwork quilt on the couch. I like how your house smells like you, like us."

Vicky smiled softly and rested her head on his chest.

He asked if she knew the maid, but she didn't. Her attorneys dealt with all the payroll, taxes, and house maintenance. He assumed as much; she wouldn't want to be reminded of this monstrosity on a daily or weekly basis. Hidden and kept secret for a reason, she didn't want it in her life.

Joe stood up and held his hands out for her. They were going to the neighbors to question them while the others continued to search the house.

His concern had developed into full-blown fear, though he was trying to hide it. Everything about their being on the property felt like a trap aimed at Vicky. His neck muscles had tightened when she had told him it was her property, and they were getting tighter by the moment. This murderer had a staggering amount of information about Vicky and knew how to use it to reel her in, steadily bringing her closer to him.

As they approached the neighbors' house, Vicky could smell the fragrance of roses from the front yard.

"I like lilacs better."

"I know you do, baby," Joe said, smiling softly.

"Gimme," he murmured and Vicky held out her hand to his as they walked.

The two-story colonial they walked toward had a bright-red door; the plantation shutters the same vibrant color of red. Although the house was a calming gray brick, the splashes of color made it stand out.

Joe reached out and pushed the oval doorbell cleverly hidden under the doorknocker, and a woman answered the door.

She had almost black skin and wore a beautiful, flamboyant headscarf wrapped around her head hiding her hair. Tall and thin, she had high, regal cheekbones and long, gold earrings that swayed when she moved. Wearing a flowing, colorful calf length dress that had slits up each side, she greeted them warmly.

"Yes?"

Joe flipped out his ID and badge.

"Ma'am, I am Special Agent Joe Valenti and this is Vicky O'Connell. We would like to ask you some questions."

The woman frowned and leaned forward, as though she didn't want eavesdroppers to overhear her.

"Is this about what happened next door?" she whispered.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said solemnly.

The exotic woman came out onto the porch and closed the door behind her.

"I'm sorry. My husband is sleeping; we'll have to talk out here," she said, gesturing toward a mosaic patio set in the corner of the porch.

"I am Fatimah Attah," she said with a slight bow and heavy African accent.

"Mrs. Attah, did you or your husband hear anything unusual last night?" Joe asked, situating himself on a small, artistic chair.

"There was a lot of traffic over there," she said, gesturing with a nod of her head in the direction of Vicky's house.

"Can you think of anything odd happening or can you remember seeing someone out of place yesterday, maybe even the day before?"

Taking her time, she thought carefully.

"It was the maid, wasn't it? She got killed, didn't she?"

Joe paused for a heartbeat.

"Why would you say that, Mrs. Attah?"

"She was too stupid to be afraid. The lawn servant, he's afraid. I can see it when he's working, the way he behaves and the look on his face. The maid was different. She went in and out of that wretched house three times a week, completely blind."

"What was she blind to?"

"The evil... the stench of evil coming from that place is almost unbearable. It's a feeding house, you know."

Joe peered at Vicky inquisitively, but Vicky shrugged.

"What does that mean? What's a feeding house?"

"A feeding house is a rare and dreadful thing. This isn't the first one I've seen, but I've not seen many," she said, moving her head from side to side, her eyes large and serious.

"A feeding house absorbs negative energy. Anger, fear, pain; any kind of negative energy it is, it absorbs. The evil grows, and it becomes stronger, meaner. It can enslave people that are weak and unaware. They don't know enough to block it. I do," she said, her voice holding a hint of arrogance.

Joe thought for a moment and looked at his notebook. He had nothing written down but the woman's name. He cleared his throat.

"Mrs. Attah..."

"Please, call me Fatimah," she said, bowing her head a fraction in a humble and gracious gesture.

"Fatimah. What do you mean it can enslave people?"

Putting a finger to her lips, she searched for the right words.

"Americans would call it possession. I believe it's from the Christian concept of such things. It is not possession, however. Possession is what happens when you are full of a foreign being, but your soul remains pure. Your body is made to do evil things though you may be a good person, and it may be against your will."

Joe nodded for her to continue.

"That is not what a feeding house does; a feeding house is much, much worse. A feeding house will turn someone into an evil person. There is no exorcism to be had. Do you see? The person has willingly agreed to become evil; they have made a choice. They are like fruit that has rotted, never again able to return to its former state. A feeding house will feed on that person's evil acts. You should search for a feeding path."

Perplexed, Joe asked, "A what?"

"A feeding path. Allow me to explain. The person that has chosen the evil of the house will want to bring evil back to the house like a monkey bringing food to its place of shelter. The house will grow stronger from the evil while the foul monkey will revel and wallow in the depths of hate and depravation. The monkey will bring its evil home, always using the same entrance and exit, creating a path. Finding the feeding path means finding the monkey; the one that makes the evil grow."

Fatimah paused and looked at them. Disbelief showed in their American eyes, and she wondered why she even bothered. She tried to help, tried to tell them—find the feeding path, and the evil will be stopped. She sighed.

Joe looked down at his notes. He would listen to and collect all the information offered to him, and then filter through every grain of information, even if it seemed faulty. The overwhelming majority of what Fatimah had told him was superstitious absurdity, but she had done so with the intent of helping him, and she had told him to do something specific and in particular. That information, he would save. He had the woman's name written down, and now he scratched a note to search for a path.

"And, to answer your question, yes, I have seen something strange."

Joe glanced up from his notebook.

"Yesterday in my garden, I tossed a dead bird over the wall and when I looked up, I saw a man. He was a rude and hostile man."

Joe sat forward.

"What did he look like?"

"He was about six feet tall and wore an expensive but outdated suit. His hair was short, dark brown, and he was white. His eyes were a dull red, and his throat was ripped out. I threw salt at him, and he left."

Joe's hand stopped taking notes while his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. He smiled kindly at the woman and stood to go, Vicky following suit. To Fatimah, he handed his card and asked her to speak with her husband when he woke up, and she assured him that she would. Joe thanked her for her time, and they started walking back to the house.

They were silent as they walked, and then Joe cleared his throat.

"What was your father wearing when the dog ripped his throat out?"

"A suit," Vicky said.

"She could have seen a picture or read an article in the newspaper. It was on every news channel, too. He was a senator," Vicky pointed out.

He said nothing as they entered the house, and his telephone started to ring. Sitting on the curving staircase, he answered it while Vicky wandered into the library and flopped down on the leather couch. Completely exhausted, she held her wristwatch up to her face and then let her arm drop back onto the couch. Joe and she had been up for forty-six hours.

Her heavy eyelids fluttered closed but snapped open an hour later with Joe sitting on the edge of the couch, caressing her face with the back of his hand. She raised her eyebrows at him, too tired to talk.

"Your brother is off the grid. Stephanie was only able to track him up to two years ago. After that, there's nothing. He had been living with a guy in Arizona and taking a few college classes but then his boyfriend came home one day, and he was gone. Adam had taken some clothes and had closed out his bank account, and the boyfriend never filed a missing person's report. The guy thinks Adam might have been having an affair behind his back, but that could just be words from a pissed off ex-boyfriend. After that, there's no trace of him. No taxes filed, no license renewal, no doctor's visits, no new bank accounts—there's nothing. He's completely off the grid. He's got a record for drug use but nothing for two years."

Joe paused, knowing that he was about to enter dangerous territory. Anything about her past, she hid with ferocious tenacity. Not looking forward to this, he was relying heavily on his track record to help stave off her anger.

"Listen, I had Stephanie go through your parents' will and then go through your accounts as well as Adam's," Joe said bluntly.

Vicky sat straight up—furious he'd gone into her private accounts. He had busted into her privacy, and she was ready to go. Sucking air into her lungs as her eyes filled with hostility, she was about to rip into him when he stopped her.

Joe held up his hand.

"Listen to me. Before you start, just listen, okay?"

Vicky glared at him, seething, but let him finish.

"You know I'd never just plow through your business like that, unless I had to. I have to. You know that. Nobody except Stephanie and I know a damn thing about your personal shit. I'm doing my best, my very best to keep your privacy intact. This is going to happen, though. Your brother is the primary suspect. Let's just do what needs doing and put this case to rest. I looked at your records and Adam's for motive purposes, plain and simple, right?" Joe asked her, not going any further until she acknowledged what he had said.

Thinking for only a moment, she knew he was right. He had pried into her privacy only one other time, and that had been just as necessary. Everything else, he waited patiently for her to tell him. The anger fell from her face, and her rigid posture relaxed.

"Okay. Your father left you thirty million, of which you've spent not much. With the interest and investments, it's now at forty-five million," he stopped and surveyed Vicky, making sure she wasn't getting pissed again. She gazed at the floor, calm and attentive as she listened, and he forged on.

"Your parents left Adam only one million. Would he try to kill you for yours? Do you think he would hate you for inheriting so much more, the house _and_ the millions? Stephanie says his bank accounts are drained with nothing but dust-bunnies growing in them."

Vicky thought for a while and then shook her head.

"I really don't know—I don't know anything about Adam. My father left me the money and the house because he hated that Adam was gay. Adam hid it from the public and the media, but my father still considered Adam's homosexuality an open rebellion against his authority. I wasn't rewarded with more of an inheritance; he just wanted to make sure that Adam got less as a punishment for being gay. I received the bulk of the inheritance by default—it had to go somewhere."

Vicky looked at her hands for a moment and thought back.

"Adam and I were both in the room when the will was read. He wasn't outraged, or spiteful—he seemed relieved my father was dead and didn't give a shit about the money. He brought his boyfriend to the funeral because he knew the press would be there—his long awaited moment to give our father the finger. I think that meant a lot more to him than the money."

Vicky and Joe were both silent, thinking.

"Besides that, Adam wouldn't inherit a cent if something happened to me. My father put a clause in his will that the money and antiques were never to be reverted to Adam, regardless of what happens to me."

"Antiques... you mean the ones around in the rooms?"

Vicky cleared her throat.

"No. Not those," she mumbled.

Joe could see her wince as she fought to keep her secrets hidden. He reached out, took her hand, and held it to his stomach as he bowed his head down to catch her downcast gaze.

"It's important," he said.

She looked up, taking a deep and full breath, as though she were facing a firing squad.

"The cash is just the overflow; pin money intended for day to day expenses and luxuries—it's the amount that my father chose to be visible. The wealth, the _real_ wealth, is hidden in antiques."

Joe was confused, not comprehending what she was saying. She closed her eyes and took another deep breath.

"Possessions increase in value and can't be taxed until they're sold. They can change hands through private collectors with no paper trail at all; it's like a Swiss bank account. The majority of my family's wealth and investments are in antiques. It's why my parents bought this house, for the attic. It has thirty-two thousand square feet of wall-to-wall antiques. There are armoires up there that are worth far, far more than my cabin. I sold one to buy my cabin and pay the tuition for eight years of college...one armoire. Generation after generation, on both of my parents' sides, have added to it, inherited more of it, hung onto it, and it all just sits up there, getting older and becoming more valuable."

"Show me," Joe said.

Vicky felt defeated; it was important, and he needed to see but oh lord—she didn't want to show him. She nodded quietly.

Joe climbed the stairs behind her up to the third floor where Vicky led him into an expansive sitting room with Victorian period antiques. Looking around the room confused, he remained silent.

Vicky bent down and rolled the Persian rug on the floor into a tube, revealing a four-inch square of wood that blended in with the surrounding floor. Underneath the removable square of wood lie an iron ring in a scooped out, iron lined part of the floor. Vicky lifted the ring straight up, turned it, and pulled it up further.

The stone fireplace behind Joe shot over twenty feet to the side, making him instinctively reach for his gun and spin around.

Vicky winced, "Sorry about that, I should have warned you. He had it specially built after we moved in; kind of embarrassing, really, but it was necessary."

Behind the fireplace, a short flight of stairs led to the attic, and Vicky flipped a light switch once they were at the top. Dusty bulbs, covered in cobwebs, dimly lighted the long, wide attic.

Joe looked from one far end of the attic to the other. Vicky had understated the situation...considerably. The attic was bursting with innumerable antiques of exquisite quality and rarity, carefully grouped into batches.

"The attic is more than what you can see from here. It follows the house in a big 'C' pattern. Both end walls aren't the end; that's just where it turns, going into the forward wings," she pointed out.

Joe was speechless. Of course, there was more. In this house, there could be nothing _but_ more. He hesitantly started walking around, examining things.

The situation in its entirety was all so far from anything he had expected. In three years of dating and living together, he had not a clue about any of this. She had never once made a slip of the tongue about antiques, wealth, chauffeurs, and a house that was the size of a hotel. She had so completely banished it from her life that it ceased to exist for her; it just wasn't there. It only slipped out in her nightmares, but even those were about things she had endured, not her parents' wealth.

There was a batch of paintings kept in a large glass sealed case. Joe saw a batch of dolls that appeared to be from the seventeen hundreds, pristine and like new, each in their own glass case and stacked one atop the other against the wall. There were civil war guns, World War I guns, World War II guns, British, German, Italian guns, swords, bayonets, knives and other weapons that were too old for Joe to know what they were. He knew only they were some sort of weapon because they were in the batch of weapons. Everything was encased and of superb quality with not a speck of dirt or rust on any antique, every item carefully tagged with a reference number. Vicky lowered her eyes and said quietly that she had the master reference book in their safe at home, next to the recipes his mother had given her before she died. Joe knew the recipes meant more to her than anything in her accounts or attic.

He reached out and took Vicky's hand, his large hand swallowing hers whole. Walking down the cleared center aisle, Joe would point to something, touch something, or ask Vicky about something. It was a rare opportunity for him to learn about a part of her that she kept so well hidden.

She didn't volunteer information about herself, but she didn't lie when asked directly, either. Joe had always needed to find the exact right questions, and she would give him truthful answers, but she never gave any clues about what to ask. It was like being on a treasure hunt for a dime and not even knowing which continent to look on. It was frustrating and intriguing—maddening, but it was also seductive and elusive, sexy as hell.

They walked past the sculptures and statues, the vases and hand-blown glass, the Roman pottery and silk Indian tapestry, the antique mahogany banquet tables and the hand-carved European jewelry boxes from the Byzantine period.

They turned the corner and continued to hold hands, Vicky pointing to some of her favorite things, and Joe pointing out some of his favorite things. They were passive about it, appreciating the beauty and old artisanship, not the staggering monetary value. Vicky noted that it never occurred to Joe to ask her how much a particular antique was worth. He truly did not give a shit, and Vicky felt her eyes go glassy with her love for him.

"Let's walk to the other wing," Vicky said, suddenly happy.

Joe checked the time. They only had about thirty minutes before they had to meet the others.

"Haven't you had enough of your obscene wealth for one day?"

Vicky punched him in the arm.

"Asshole. No, I just remembered where the Native American artifacts are, and I want to bring something home for Raven."

"You have a Native American section."

"I have a Native American section."

Joe shook his head.

"All right then," he said and they both walked a little faster.

Once there, they looked through the antiques and artifacts. Some of them were in wooden crates and steamer trunks while others were draped with cloths and still others encased in glass.

Vicky found a seventeenth century child's sled constructed from smooth, curved buffalo ribs and held together with hide laces. Durable and unique, the sled would ensure a long, comfortable ride downhill as long as the snow was packed.

She wanted Joe's opinion of the sled. Every kid she had ever seen near him was inexplicably drawn to him, trusting him, wanting to be by him, and feeling safe with him. Turning toward Joe to see what he thought, she noticed the sad expression on his face.

Vicky asked apprehensively, "What, you don't think she'll like it?"

Reaching for her hand, he asked, "Baby, what color was your brother's hair?"

She gazed at him in confusion before replying, "Black, why?"

"Because, I think that might be him hanging behind you."

# CHAPTER FOUR

Joe talked to Nate on the phone while Vicky sat on the dusty floor, leaning her head back against a crate. Her gaze returned to the skeleton, unsure of how she felt. Overwhelmed with exhaustion and emotional turmoil, nothing seemed clear anymore. She had kept her past at bay for so long that suddenly being held hostage by it had put her into a kind of unfeeling paralysis. She thought the skeleton must be her brother's, but she couldn't summon up any kind of feeling or reaction one way or another.

"They'll meet us in the sitting room."

Vicky nodded and stood up, still holding the sled, reassured by Joe that Raven would love it. They headed down the short flight of stairs, leaving the attic entrance open. The dimly lit exposed stairway looked like an ominous cave opening attached to the bright and elegant Victorian sitting room.

"Do you think he committed suicide or was killed?" she asked from the couch.

Joe turned toward her and put his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall. Exhausted and depressed, she looked small and out of place sitting on an antique and ornate silk couch. He joined her, pulling her to him. As the scent of his cologne wafted to her nose, she relaxed, the smell over the years becoming synonymous with love and passion, comfort and safety.

"I really don't know," he said, sifting his fingers through her hair.

She listened to his heartbeat and felt his warmth through his shirt. Reaching under his sweatshirt, she put her hand on his abdomen, wanting to be closer to him.

"Will you help me correct my last batch of finals when we get home?" she asked, talking into his chest, tired, her words beginning to slur.

One of his master's degrees was in forensic science, and he could easily teach her third-year class at the university. She had found that he was thorough but fast and decisive when correcting essay answers, in particular, the scientific formulas that went with analysis. He was fair unless someone tried to bullshit through the answer, and then he was merciless.

"How many do you have left?" he murmured, his voice rumbling from his chest and into her ear.

She hesitated before admitting, "All of them."

He laughed, endeared by her procrastination. "You said it was your last batch."

"It is my last batch. It's a really big batch."

She could hear the smile in his voice as he kept sifting through her hair.

"Baby, you never have to ask. You know I'll help you. And, if Boner says ANOVA is a car again I'm going to 'F' his ass, pure and simple."

She giggled into his chest, hugging him tighter.

"Bonner, his name's _Bonner_ and you know it."

Just then, the other three walked into the sitting room and stopped short. They looked at the exposed hidden ring in the floor, the relocated fireplace, and the stairs that led up to the attic. Joe gave her a tight squeeze and stood up as Vicky called Michael to her and patted the couch. The huge white dog didn't hesitate and jumped up, panting happily.

Bringing the other three into the attic, Joe left Vicky to sleep on the couch. She didn't want to be with them when they saw all the valuables, humiliated by the depth of her own deception toward her friends. Joe had held her and reassured her that no one would judge her; they all loved her, and she was entitled to her privacy without explanations or apologies.

Lying down on the couch, she sighed, pushing the thoughts from her mind, trying to relax. Tucking her arm under her head, she put her feet on Michael's rump and quickly fell asleep.

# # #

"How is she?" Roxie asked Joe.

Roxie had been quiet all morning, not understanding or liking this other side of Vicky. This was not the woman who taught her to train dogs and helped her through algebra. The woman she saw today was a stranger, a lethal and ruthless, distant woman who didn't give a _shit_ about positive reinforcement.

Joe felt like a stepfather. Roxie and Vicky's relationship had always been closer to mother and daughter than anything else. Roxie was seeing an unfamiliar side of her and Vicky holding a gun to Darin's head had not helped matters.

"She's getting through it, just a little overwhelmed. She'll be okay," he said, pulling the frightened woman to him for a one-armed hug of reassurance. Roxie did not do well with change, especially when it was fast and unexpected.

Still concerned and uncertain, she turned away, embarrassed by her display of vulnerability.

"I'm going to wander around. Look at stuff," she mumbled and walked away.

Joe watched as she walked to an antique chair and flopped down into it with no intention of leaving. His eyes softened, and he turned away. She didn't want to be far from them.

Nate cut the body down, leaving the knot intact for forensics. There was no visible skin or muscle tissue left on the skeleton, but a few pieces of the scalp stubbornly adhered to the bone. The sporadic pieces of the tissue, hair still attached, was more disturbing than if the skull had been bare.

"With the exposure and conditions in the attic it would take about a year for the body to decompose to this point," Darin said, addressing his comment to no one.

Joe and Nate squatted next to the body, listening to the examiner's observations. The clothes on the skeleton were board-stiff and discolored from body drainage. Having already cut off and bagged the blue jeans, underwear, and socks, Darin began removing the black Pink Floyd T-shirt.

Joe asked, "Can you tell yet if it was death by ligature strangulation?"

Darin looked at the skeleton and closed his eyes, reaching up to scratch his ear before opening his eyes and raising them to meet Joe's. He scratched his ear again and decided that the agent was not joking.

"That bone..." Darin began, pointing to a small, flat bone in the skeleton's neck, "... is broken. You can see that it's broken, right?" Darin asked, as though checking to make sure the agent's only handicap was stupidity and not blindness as well.

Joe refused to answer but started to glower at the examiner.

"Well, it _is_ broken. You can tell by the two pieces where there should only be one. That bone won't break from ligature strangulation. It needs a pressure point to break. That, Valenti, would indicate manual strangulation. Someone choked him to death and _then_ hung him."

Joe was preparing to smack the condescending little prick again when the examiner surprised him.

As Darin cut off the T-shirt, he said, "I want you to get O'Connell to give me a blood sample."

"Why would I do that?" Joe asked, protectively screening the doctor's intent.

Before Darin could answer, Roxie approached and interrupted, averting her gaze away from the skeleton.

"Guys, I think you better look at this," she said, holding a pink scrapbook far away from her body, trying to avoid touching it at all.

Joe leaned over the skeleton and plucked two pairs of latex gloves from Darin's box, handing a pair to Nate. Taking the scrapbook from her, he noticed that she scrubbed her hands on her jeans, repulsed.

"Where'd you find this?"

"It was lying right in the middle of the floor over there," Roxie said, pointing to a spot not far from them.

Joe's stomach tightened, and his heartbeat double-timed when he saw where she pointed. Vicky and he had walked past that spot an hour ago. There had been nothing there. He turned to Nate.

"Go get Vicky," he said, fear flashing through his eyes as the thunder outside rumbled.

Nate, unsure of what was happening but knowing that it was serious, quickly complied. Roxie turned to follow him, but Joe grabbed her hand.

"Stay here," he commanded as he calculated the distribution of guns and the people that knew how to use them. Roxie had no gun, and she didn't know how to shoot even if she had one. She was staying with him.

She knew he wasn't asking. Joe let go of her hand and stood with the scrapbook, not looking up but reaching out to rub her arm.

"Good girl," he murmured without thought.

Roxie glanced at him and felt her eyes tear up. Joe was the closest thing to a father figure she had, and she tried desperately to hide it from him. No one told her she was a good girl before, and she had to choke back her tears, embarrassed to show how much it meant to her.

Joe set the album on a glass case filled with antique coins. The album was new and a soft, baby pink, covered in elaborate and delicate lace. On the front of the scrapbook was a built-in frame with a piece of stiff, creamy paper inserted. On the paper, written in beautiful Old English calligraphy, were the words, "Past, Present, Future." Joe opened the album as Darin sidled up to him. The examiner frowned when he noticed Joe had unsnapped his gun holster making his gun easier to access.

The first eight by ten was a family picture. Vicky's father had been handsome and broad shouldered with short, dark-brown hair, his eyes a steely blue. He was in his forties, and his smile was toothy and confident. Standing next to him was a woman, a foot shorter than her husband with long, dark red and curly hair held back on both sides by elegant silver combs. Her smile was quiet, her lips curving but revealing no teeth. With pale skin and odd, light green eyes she could have passed for a woman in her twenties.

In front of the adults were two children. The boy's hair was dark, almost black, and it was wavy and shiny, looking as soft as his sister's long tresses. Thin and delicate, he had perceptible gray smudges under his eyes, and his smile was stiff and measured. He wasn't much taller than his mother was and appeared to be in his late teens. Identical to his sister's eyes, his were large and dark green with thick black lashes fringing them, making them stand out even more.

Next to him was Vicky, and she looked like she was in her early teens. She had the same wavy chestnut-auburn hair as she had now, carefully combed, and arranged. The dark circles under her eyes and the flat, mannequin smile matched her brother's face with a peculiar exactness that was disturbing. Quite thin, her eyes were a clouded, muted green that were dull and lifeless, the spark, and hope extinguished. Joe couldn't tolerate seeing Vicky's hopeless eyes. He turned the page.

The next picture was of the first victim found five weeks earlier. Taken at the crime scene, the photo focused on the victim's face. The woman had looked almost identical to Vicky. Her eyelids were taped open revealing full, round eyes, and her mouth stretched open in a silent, mock scream. Forensics found traces of citric acid on her teeth. The killer crammed an apple into her mouth when she died and removed it when rigor set in. The startling and horrific image had stayed frozen that way until the woman was found. The picture was grotesque, and Joe frowned as he glanced toward the attic opening. Nate had only been gone a minute, but he was getting agitated. He wanted Vicky next to him.

The next page showed the second victim. Her resemblance to Vicky had been uncanny though her hair had only been to her shoulders. One of her eyes had been open, and the other closed in an obscene post-mortem wink. Each side of her mouth held up by clear plastic tape; a wide, toothy smile resulted. The effect was frightening and ghastly, the tape nearly invisible until the observer looked closely. The victim's facial position reminded Joe of the old-time ventriloquist dummies—the fake, sickening, wide smile and the chalky pale coloring along with the complete opening of one eye and full closing of the other. When he had first seen her, he had turned away and shuddered.

Joe flipped to the next page and closed his eyes, turning his head away. It was too late to block out and undo what he had seen and what it meant, but his mind had tried anyway.

"Shit," Darin muttered.

Roxie said nothing but stepped closer to Joe and reached for his arm. Holding his arm, she still felt scared and small. With no real thought, he pulled his arm from her grasp and put it around her back, bringing her to him reassuringly.

This picture was of the third woman, still alive but at the place where she was murdered. Her hair, body type, and skin tone were similar to Vicky's, but her face was wider. She was kneeling in the dirt, naked with her mouth open and begging, streaks of gray mascara running down her plump cheeks.

With both of her hands just below her face, she was holding a close up photo of Vicky at a crime scene they had processed a full six months prior. In the picture, Vicky was kneeling on one knee next to Simon, one of her tracking dogs. Petting him, she was gazing off into the distance, her round aviator sunglasses hiding the color of her eyes.

Joe couldn't stop staring at the photo. His mind was in a stutter, and he couldn't make out the next move. Horror spread through him as he processed how long the murderer had been stalking Vicky and how close he had been to her. He could have taken her at any one of a dozen crime scenes when she was unguarded and alone. How long had he been stalking her—six months, a year, _two_ years? Darin saw Joe locked up, and turned the next page for him.

The next photo showed the maid when she had still been alive. Kneeling in the woods, she cried with her mouth open, her blond hair dripping. She held a picture beneath her chin, the photo depicting a man who appeared a little older than Vicky. He hung from the attic rafters by a noose, struggling with his hands clawing at the rope. His soft black hair color and his pale complexion made his green eyes stand out. It was Adam.

"There's one more," Roxie whispered.

Joe turned the page, and then snapped the book closed. Handing it to Darin, he walked away to get Vicky.

Darin opened the book and looked at the photo of a life-sized dressmaker's mannequin with an eight by ten, color photo of Vicky's face stapled to the head. The pseudo-Vicky hung from a noose in the rafters of the attic.

Roxie saw Nate come up the stairs alone, his gun holster unsnapped as well. He was frustrated and appeared as if he wanted to punch someone.

"Joe's with her," he said and quickly flipped through the photos in the scrapbook. The more pages he turned the angrier and more frustrated he became, his jaw muscles flexing while his frown deepened.

Closing the scrapbook, Nate peered at his watch. It was six-thirty. As he thought, the thunder outside grew louder, and small, pellet-like drops of rain started hitting the attic windows.

"Darin," Nate called, turning to face the medical examiner.

"Yes?" Darin asked as he analyzed the skeleton.

"Two bodies now... are you heading out?"

"Yes. I'm leaving after I get a night's sleep, the first thing in the morning. I'll be bringing the skeleton and the fourth victim back to my morgue for autopsy," he said, distracted.

"Roxie needs a ride home, and you're taking her."

"Sure," Darin mumbled, engrossed in what he was doing and forgetting to be immature and petulant.

Roxie opened her mouth to object, but Nate stepped over to her and covered her mouth as he pulled her to him by the waist.

"You're going back home. That scrapbook wasn't there when Vicky and Joe walked through here. Do you get it? He's been in the attic within the last hour, right under our noses. Somewhere in this huge house, he might _still_ be here, waiting. You're not staying. You're just not," Nate said with finality.

Looking into his face, she saw the deep concern and fear for this killer's cunning. She agreed to leave with Darin in the morning.

"Don't let anything happen to her," Roxie murmured.

"Not a chance," Nate replied, reaching to hug her.

They walked downstairs to the sitting room. Joe was gazing out the large picture window, deep in thought as he watched the cold rain roll down the glass pane. Nate gave Vicky the scrapbook and Joe turned from the window and went to her. Sitting on the coffee table in front of her, he reached out toward her. Putting his hands behind her knees, he pulled her forward and held the backs of her legs as she looked through the book. Her head subtly rocked back as he pulled her closer to him, and she sighed quietly, feeling like a chess piece again.

Taking her time, she went through the scrapbook showing no reaction. Her expressionless gaze and calculating mind were in high gear, and any privacy concerns she had been struggling with were gone. Joe felt relief when he saw the cold detachment in her eyes. He was familiar with it and valued it and just seeing it helped bring him back into focus.

Vicky closed the book but before she could say anything, Darin approached her. Squatting down on the floor next to her, he looked at her solemnly.

"O'Connell, you need to give me a vial of blood. Things aren't matching up, and I need a vial."

Watching his face, she could see that he was calm but worried and she agreed.

"All right... go get your bag; you can explain it to me when you're doing the draw."

Darin held up his bag wordlessly, having brought it with him. As he put gloves on and prepared the vial and needle, he talked to her.

"It's pretty obvious to me that for whatever reason; you don't want people to know about your preposterous amount of wealth _or_ your relationship to the deceased senator," he said. He nodded once in concession.

"Fair enough—we'll consider it doctor-client privilege along with the name on the blood sample. I want to point something out. Do you know that you didn't ask me why I wanted blood before you agreed to the draw? Your boorish boyfriend demanded I tell him," Darin said. He arched an eyebrow and eyed Joe accusingly, making sure the agent knew he was telling on him.

Joe looked at the examiner coolly but said nothing.

"I am charmed and heart-warmed that you didn't ask why I wanted the vial, O'Connell. It almost makes up for you nearly killing me earlier," he said with a smirk.

"Okay. That being said; I want the vial to see if the skeleton is related to you. There's no way it's your brother, but I want the scientific proof to substantiate it."

Vicky waited as he drew the blood from her arm, the glass vial filling with her ruby colored blood. He switched out the full vial for an empty one and filled that as well. Capping the second vial and pressing a cotton ball to her arm, he withdrew the needle and finished what he had been saying.

"That picture..." Darin said, nodding toward the scrapbook, "... the one with your brother hanging from the noose? It's bullshit."

He taped the cotton ball to her arm but stayed squatting next to her.

"That skeleton was choked to death by a pair of hands, O'Connell. Then it was noosed up like a piñata. I say again, emphatically this time; the picture is bullshit. Your brother hanging from a noose was staged for your benefit. Either your brother alone, or with an accomplice, trumped it up in hopes of convincing you that he's dead."

Darin was quiet for a moment, looking at her with compassionate concern.

"O'Connell... Vicky... if you see your brother, you need to stay the fuck away from him. I think he might have some plans for you that are not in your best interest," he said gravely.

Vicky gazed into his earnest hazel eyes. Smiling at him gently, she nodded.

"Thanks, Darin."

His eyes held worry as he scooped up the vials of blood and stood. Taking his bag with him, he went to another couch to mark and store the vials. In one day, he had come to realize that this murderer was no joke. Vicky's life was in serious danger, and he could easily be processing her body next.

Vicky glanced at the scrapbook in her lap and then turned to Roxie.

"You're leaving."

"I get it—I get it! _Yes,_ I'm leaving," Roxie said in exasperation, rolling her eyes.

" _But_ you're going to do some shopping first. Nate and Joe are going to look for the piñata version of me. When they're doing that, you're going to pick out some things to take home," Vicky said in hopes of soothing the young woman who was frightened out of her mind.

Roxie's eyes grew big, and she asked, "Really?"

"Really."

Vicky turned to Nate and Joe, and her smile fell like a stone. With only a glance, they all agreed. They were going to stick close to each other until Roxie was on her way home. The young woman was a civilian and the most vulnerable.

Roxie's smile faltered when she saw Vicky take out her Glock and check it over. She didn't put it back in its holster, either. Instead, she put it against her abdomen, in the front of her jeans. For a moment, her eyes turned flat and dangerous as she thought of what she would do to Adam if he hurt Roxie. Memories of the last person that had hurt Roxie flew through her mind. That unfortunate fellow earned himself a one-way ticket to the morgue. Vicky covered the ice in her eyes and turned to Roxie with a bright and carefree expression.

"Let's do some shopping!"

Once in the attic, Vicky and Roxie turned left while Nate and Joe followed behind them, peering up into the immense rafters. They hoped the dressmaker's dummy was on display for Vicky's benefit and would be easy to find. They wanted to locate it and get it out of there before Roxie saw it—she was already edgy and scared.

Vicky chattered on with Roxie, giving no indication that anything was wrong, trying to keep her upbeat and as far from worry and concern as she could. Roxie browsed the furniture section, the figurine section, the painting section but was drawn most of all to the doll section.

Vicky watched, as Roxie's excitement grew with each doll she saw. All of them were stacked in row after row of glassed-in cases. Roxie wanted to see every one of the hundreds of antique dolls. Her voice had lowered to a whisper when she looked, her tone one of weighty reverence. She picked up a doll in winter attire with a real white fur coat, hat, and mittens. Soaking in every detail, she stared at the porcelain faces and hands, taking in each doll's hand painted eyes and detailed eyelashes.

"There are outfits that go with them, too."

Roxie's eyes grew big, and her hand covered her mouth. Vicky showed her trunks full of doll outfits, each preserved between two thin pieces of glass. Vicky noticed the young woman's hands trembled as she picked them up.

She glimpsed over Roxie's shoulder at Joe, and he shook his head. They hadn't found it yet. Joe and Nate conferred and decided they needed to split up—the attic was just too damn big. Joe would go all the way down to the end of one wing while Nate went down the other wing. Vicky and Roxie would be left on their own. Soon, Nate and Joe were out of sight.

Vicky sat in a chair and kept the gun in her hand, feeling tense and hyper-alert. Sitting on the floor, Roxie looked through the dolls and doll clothes, her hands still shaking from excitement.

"I can't choose; they're all so beautiful. They're all perfect," Roxie whispered, in awe.

"Who said you have to choose? There's space in Darin's van, just empty out one of the trunks, and fill it with as many dolls and clothes as you can get to fit in. Break that goddamn glass off those, though—you'll be able to fit more in the trunk. Besides, how are you going to dress them if they're in glass? It's just stupid."

"What if I break one? I don't ever want to break one."

Vicky looked at her and spread her arms wide, indicating the hundreds of glassed-in dolls.

"So what if you break one? We'll just come here and get more."

Roxie started to cry.

Vicky smiled at her gently, understanding the reaction. Girls didn't get dolls when raised in foster homes or by drug addicts. When a girl spends every birthday and Christmas wishing for a doll but never getting one, it stays with her. It stays in a deep and secret place that doesn't forget.

Vicky watched her cry and laugh at the same time as she carefully broke the glass cases of the dolls and outfits she wanted to take home. She filled a trunk and never once stopped crying.

At last, Vicky thought; the dolls had value.

Then someone touched her shoulder.

In one smooth and blurred movement, Vicky spun around and was at full firing stance. Not a muscle on her face moved. Her gun was aimed, and her finger on the trigger before the chair she had been sitting on hit the floor.

Nate's hands shot up in the air, and he gulped.

"Easy..."

After a heartbeat, Vicky lowered her gun, rolling her eyes and growling at him, exasperated. What the hell was _wrong_ with people, she thought as she felt her heart race.

Nate turned to Joe, who was leaning against a glass case laughing.

"Screw you."

Joe laughed even harder, putting his head down.

"I told you not to touch her, you stupid shit," he said, still chuckling and wiping his eyes.

"Screw you, twice."

Nate went to sit at the table and see Roxie's picks, celebrating being alive. His legs still shook, and his hand placed over his chest in hopes of stopping the heart attack he felt sure he was experiencing.

Joe's smile fell away as he watched Vicky walking toward him, her smooth and fluid movement, her flat abdominals showing beneath the black gun. He took in her thick and sultry hair, her creamy skin and flushed cheeks. Her heart-shaped face perfectly framed her strange and intense green eyes. Deep inside of him, he could feel something clench.

Noticing him looking at her, she smirked. Not slowing down as she approached him, she walked, instead, in full paces until she could feel his breath on her face. She gazed at his lips and then into his light, ghostly blue eyes and back to his lips. Stepping closer yet, she lifted her head to peer up at him while he tilted his head down to look at her, their lips almost touching.

She asked quietly, "Any luck?" She could smell his cologne and breathed the scent in, her eyes drifting closed for a moment.

"We found the surrogate you, hanging from a rafter. It's down in Darin's van," he murmured, feeling her breath on his face and wanting to reach for her.

Vicky nodded, her gaze smoldering. He closed his eyes, knowing he would have to wait for what he wanted. Turning his head away, he swallowed and changed the subject.

Joe's gaze went to the table.

"I would've never guessed Roxie likes dolls."

Vicky smiled and said, "You don't know anything."

Joe nodded in agreement, markedly distracted, promising himself that tonight he would reach for her. Unquestionably, tonight he would take her. She looked at him through a thick strand of hair that had fallen over her eye, one side of her mouth curling up at him. He turned away, swallowing again, glancing at his watch and wondering, agitated, how much longer before they could leave.

An hour later, Darin and Joe carried the bagged skeleton on a body board behind Vicky while Nate lugged the large trunk of Roxie's dolls. In front of the line descending the stairs, Vicky was the first one to see it and stopped, frozen in place. While walking backwards and carrying the body board, Darin backed into her. Joe set his end of the board down and quickly walked around Vicky, who was still stunned and unmoving on the steps.

He knelt down next to the open scrapbook that was lying on the middle of the marble foyer floor. It was displayed and waiting for them.

The scrapbook held a new picture taken from earlier that afternoon. It was a Polaroid of Vicky sleeping on the leather couch in the downstairs library; her arm draped over her face and completely alone. The camera had been close enough for the photo to show the time on her wristwatch and the gloved hand touching her hair.

# CHAPTER FIVE

After seeing the picture of Vicky sleeping with the hand touching her hair, everyone had grown still and quiet. Darin had paled, and Roxie had begun to sob. Nate looked scared and angry in equal parts as he held Roxie and tried to soothe her.

Joe stayed standing and staring expressionlessly down at the open scrapbook, unable to move away as he thought about how that could have been a crime scene photo with Vicky's body in it. Alone and asleep, the murderer could've killed her without even waking her up. After the shock had worn off, Joe called over a dozen local uniforms to get on the scene and search the house and then called more uniforms to guard the scene overnight.

The murderer had wanted Vicky to know she was alive because he was allowing her to be. Joe was positive the man knew where she lived, taught, shopped, which gym she went to, and the hours she was alone in her empty fields, training her dogs. There was nowhere she had been safe, and it wasn't until that photo that Joe had realized it.

Darin and Roxie would leave first thing in the morning, and as a precaution, a guard was assigned to Roxie. The rest of them would come back to the crime scene in the morning along with innumerable others. They needed a full crew now; things were dangerously out of control, and they needed to do an all-out blitz. Neighbors had to be re-interviewed; evidence gathered; mail carriers questioned, and the grounds gone over again. Forensic techs needed to process several sites, fingerprints taken of every bathroom on the property, and they needed it all fast. The sooner they could get a positive identification on the murderer, the faster they could flood the media with the information and begin boxing him in.

The killer had made contact with Vicky, and Joe knew that meant they didn't have much time left. He was playing with her, introducing himself to her, making sure she was thinking about him. Joe recognized it as the end dance, and in his career, he had found that it always came mere days, sometimes only hours, before the abduction and murder took place.

Joe watched as Vicky paced, flaming mad the killer had slipped through their fingers again. On one of her sweeps past him, he reached out for her waist and brought her to him. Hugging her tightly, he said nothing, just held her with his eyes closed, and his face buried in her neck. He shook as he held her and when he let go of her waist, he led her by the hand outside to the Jeep.

"If he's still here, I don't want him looking at you," Joe murmured as he held her fingertips while she climbed into the SUV.

He walked around the front of the vehicle and got into the driver's seat. Staring out the windshield, he was still and silent. Vicky touched his arm, his quiet, withdrawn behavior unusual and beginning to concern her.

"Babe, are you okay?" she asked.

"No. I am not," he said simply, still looking out the windshield.

She saw his concern and got out of her seat, sitting in his lap sideways and pressing her face against his warm neck. Encircling her with one arm, he placed his other hand on her head, keeping her to him. Saying nothing, he held her close to him and continued to gaze out the windshield as they waited for the others.

Finding a comfortable hotel, they rented three rooms. Vicky flipped the night desk clerk a fifty to look the other way when she brought in Michael. The two couples went to their rooms while Darin took Michael with him to his room. Exchanging half-hearted good night wishes, they all went to their rooms and their purchased privacy.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Vicky closed their door, exhausted from coiled muscles and the tension from the last forty-eight hours. They just wanted quiet, privacy, and a safe, tight place to uncoil. Starting the water for a hot and steaming bath, Vicky wanted to let go of everything, to be calm and relaxed when she went to sleep, not irritated, and wound up.

After stripping her clothes off, she dug in her overnight bag, searching for the lilac bath oil that Joe bought her. The oil and fragrance relaxed her, and she poured a small amount into the tumultuous water, watching the oil bead on the surface. Swirling her fingertips in the water, she found the temperature to be perfect and climbed into the fragrant bath as it filled.

Scooting down and leaning her head all the way back, she wet her long hair and then sat up to scrub her face. It felt coated in filth from all the dust and cobwebs of the attic. Joe came in the bathroom, and she smiled softly when she heard the metallic clinking sound of his belt buckle coming undone.

She slid forward to make room, and he climbed in behind her, putting his arms around her waist and pulling her to him. Leaning back against his chest, she sighed while he squeezed hot water onto her shoulders and neck from the washcloth. His other arm stayed around her waist, keeping her close against him while her eyes drifted shut. At last, her body loosened and relaxed.

"Hmmm..." she hummed, placing her hand on his arm around her waist, her muscles lazy from the hot water and his touch.

He bent down and kissed first her shoulder and then her neck, breathing of her musky, earthy smell, closing his eyes.

"You should never wear perfume," he murmured into her neck as he had so many times before.

She smiled and said nothing, his words familiar to her. Letting the washcloth go, he trailed his fingers up to her ribcage and then back down to her waist, his touch soft and sensual. She sighed, reaching up and holding his head to her neck, her lips parting to breathe. Burying a hand in her hair, he pulled her head back to reach her lips and kissed her deeply. He could hear her breathing quicken, and she mewled as he pulled away. Moving to the other side of her neck, he traced the length of it with his lips and tongue.

"All I want..." she recited his familiar assurances, breathless.

He paused and then a corner of his mouth curled up, "All you want..."

Closing her eyes, she gave a quiet, cherub's smile, whispering, "As long as I want..."

Bowing his head until his lips touched her ear, he whispered, "As long as you want..."

She shivered—the words and his warm breath giving her chills, "Only ever you..."

He murmured into her neck, closing his eyes, "Only ever me..."

As he picked her up, she wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face in his neck, biting him softly. Opening his mouth to breathe, his hand cradled the back of her head as he carried her, keeping her teeth on him. Laying her down, he kissed her achingly, the warm palm of his hand sliding down her side and to her hip.

Gripping her hair as he kissed her neck passionately, he lowered his body to hers and slowly entered her. Lifting his face, he watched her as she arched her neck and parted her lips, a soft, long sigh escaping her as he pushed himself deep inside. Closing his eyes, he exhaled with pleasure as he moved his hand far under her hip. He lifted her to him and tilted her pelvis, smiling subtly when she moaned. The angle created exquisite pleasure for her, and she rolled her head to the other side.

Licking the drops of sweat from her neck, he delved deeper into her, feeling her nails on his back. Biting his shoulder softly for a long and sensual moment, pleasure flooded her as he moved within her. Finding her depth and staying there, he slowly rocked against her with gentle pressure, friction, and continuous depth. Biting him harder and moaning louder, her nails dug into his back as her pleasure increased. Groaning, he turned his neck to her, seeking the piercing sensations from her teeth as sweat beaded on his forehead. His heart raced as he watched her respond to him, her body already on fire and nearing its peak.

She arched her hips toward him, her nails clutching him, pulling him into her deeper. Biting her neck, he groaned with pleasure and pushed into her further, knowing she was ready. She clung to him as she cried out, shaking and helpless from the euphoric feeling. He pressed his face into her neck, her smell, and her sounds as he felt her beginning to tighten. Closing his eyes, he felt liquid heat pouring over him, his hand clenching into a fist in her hair as he felt her constrict around him. A low, guttural growl escaped him as he shook with the pleasure of her release. His need for her turned into a burn as he glided through the scorching liquid that surrounded him.

Shuddering, he held her tighter as she whispered her need for him, her love for him. Her words echoed in his mind, and a soft sound escaped from deep in his throat. She could hear the tremor in his voice and feel him pull her closer. Pressing his face to her neck, he whispered to her, telling her to give herself to him again, he wanted her again; he would wait for her again. Feeling the emotion pour from him, she clung to him when his passion overrode his English. He smoothly reverted to Italian, his first language.

"Ti amo cosi tanto—bisogno di te cosi tanto." _I love you so much—need you so much._

From a distance, she felt a warm, slow welling within her, and she moaned, rolling her head to the other side. She felt him shiver and lift his face to watch her again. Through the fog of pleasure, she whispered that there would never be another; she wouldn't allow anyone else, only ever him. She heard him breathe harder and clench her hair tighter, biting her neck as he panted and whispered into her ear.

"Le tue parole, vivono in me per sempre." _Your words, they live in me forever._

She felt the sweat from his face drip onto her shoulders, and her breathing grew deeper and harsher. A warm wave settled into the pit of her stomach, transforming into a knotted, unbearable tension making her whimper. Digging her nails into his hips, she tried to pull him closer and then gasped as he helped her. He lifted and tilted her hips to him, whispering for her to let go, to give to him. The tension in her released all at once, and she cried out as warmth and pleasure flooded her.

Submerged in her own sensations, she barely noticed him groaning louder and shuddering more violently. Fighting to hold back as he received her again, his need to take her was bordering on panic. Jaw muscles flexing, he pushed his forehead into the mattress, trembling as anguished and breathless sentences in Italian poured out of his mouth softly. His hair dripped with sweat as he felt her nails burn his back. His body shaking; he closed his eyes and turned away from her. If he saw her hair, her eyes, and her arched neck with streaming sweat running down it, he knew it would be over.

Pushing his neck to her mouth, he encouraged her to bite him harder, longer. Her scalding nails breathed fire into him, giving him pleasure on a feverish, disorienting scale. With the sweat rolling down his flexing back in rivers, he thrust deeper into her, reveling in her fresh fluid heat. Engulfed in her musk, he felt her need for him, her body cleaving to him, her cries for him. Her hot breath washed over him as she brought her lips to his ear and gasped, pleading with him.

"Faster..."

Tilting his head back, he groaned as sweat rolled down his neck like rain. He needed to take her, his hand digging into the skin on her hip. Shaking, his body demanded her as his fist trembled in her hair.

He gasped into her ear, "Dare a me... dimmi..." _Give to me... tell me..._

He wanted her words, carrying them throughout the day, saving them, remembering them. His need to take her had grown from a desire into a flaming, scorching inferno that engulfed him, his body screaming for her, panicking for her, frenzying for her. But he didn't want to let go until he heard more of her words.

Burning for him, she wanted the gentleness and the giving to be over. She wanted his ferocious hunger that boiled within him, barely contained. Not understanding Italian but knowing his needs, she closed her eyes and put her hands in his wet hair. Pulling his head to her and bringing his ear next to her lips, she reached for her unspoken but fierce feelings and whispered them to him.

She told him she needed and wanted him, loved him and could never love another. Feeling him hold her tighter she whispered to him always to stay with her. She wanted him to be with her, love her, and never to take that away from her.

As he shook harder, he gripped her hair and pulled her head back, burying his face in her neck. He was no longer kissing her but biting her, no longer caressing her but clutching her as he dominated her, beginning to take from her. Squeezing her to him, he moved against her more forcefully. Her pleasure soared as she felt his need and his demand, his strength and his power. She told him breathlessly of her devotion to him, her passion for him, her craving that only he could soothe. As she felt his arms around her, she told him to give to her; she wanted a part of him left in her, staying within her as she slept.

A deep and quiet whimper escaped him, her last words smashing through any restraint he had left. He fed from her fiery nails and piercing teeth as she thrilled in his unrelenting, raw demands. He held her fiercely, immobilizing her as he thrust into her with no restraint, only greed and primal demand, groaning loudly as he took her with feverish pleasure. Dominating her with a fiery passion and insatiable need, he heard her begin to cry out, and his body reacted instantly, surging to the uncontrollable, searing flash point.

"... insieme... insieme, Victori..."... _together... together, Victoria..._

His fist shook madly in her hair as he growled through clenched teeth, the crushing pleasure of release starting to overcome him. Demanding all of her, needing her to be there with him, he ruthlessly grabbed and pinned her thigh to her chest. Holding it there with one powerful hand, her hips tilted to accept all of him as he thrust deeply into her. The angle was devastating in its sensation, arc, and depth, catapulting her instantly and jarringly to where he was. She gasped and then growled as she lurched her head forward, biting into his shoulder while releasing pure fire over him. Her depth cinched around him like a molten vise, and his throaty growl grew into a resonating moan. Throbbing inside of her release, he gave himself to her as she cried out. Blinding waves of pleasure washed over them as they clung to each other, desperate to stay submersed in their joining.

Long moments passed as they held each other, sweating and panting as the waves of pleasure ebbed. He caressed and kissed her knee and thigh and then released her leg, cupping it in his hand as he lowered it to the bed. Gently, he held her, catching his breath and waiting for his shaking body to calm and the heady daze to disperse. He kissed her deeply and then pressed the side of her face to his neck. Feeling her breath on him, he sighed, saturating and showering himself with her. Bending down, he traced his nose along her neck, inhaling the smell of her musk. It was more powerful from lovemaking, and he moaned softly from the intoxicating scent. He closed his eyes as the final embers of their lovemaking faded away.

Putting his forehead on the mattress, he dripped sweat onto the sheets from his wet hair. His body began to relax though he still shook, his muscles drowning in adrenaline.

She asked, "Why do you wait so long to let go?"

He turned his head on the mattress but didn't lift it up, his voice almost gone when he spoke to her softly.

"Lo aspetto... Aspetto che le parole che ti impediscono di me il resto del tempo."

I wait... I wait for the words you keep from me the rest of the time.

"Tell me. Tell me what you just said."

His gentle smile turned crooked, and he said nothing.

She reached over and pulled his hair, declaring, "You're a shit."

She hated when he wouldn't tell her. It was maddening, like a gift that she couldn't open.

Gazing at her, he felt fulfilled and nourished by her body and her words. He refused to ask for the words; they needed to come from her heart, and she needed to find them and release them on her own. If he had to ask, he didn't want them.

Returning his crooked smile, she dragged her nails down his back leaving four long pink welts. The marks would remain there well into the next day.

He closed his eyes, the sensation making his pulse race and his hand in her hair clench. As he felt the fire on his back, his hand clutching her hair pulled, arching her neck and raising her mouth to his. Bending his head down, he kissed her hungrily and then hovered just over her mouth, his eyes remaining closed as he isolated the fresh and pure sensation. Tucking his head into the crook of her neck and kissing her shoulder gently, he was at last able to exhale. Still, he couldn't let it go, keeping his eyes closed until the very last of the burn gradually, sadly, faded away. His hand hesitantly released its grip on her hair as he shuddered subtly and then took a deep breath.

"Why are you so mean to me?" he whispered, his lips touching her ear.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. This close, he could see the true coloring of her irises, the center spokes of pure yellow blending into a ring of dark, balsam green. She gazed at him with wide and innocent, angelic eyes.

He could feel his throat tighten as innumerable memories of her flashed through his mind. There were thoughts of early-morning Christmases, her cooking and laughing with his mother, and her devastation when his mother died. He thought of her love of the blues and how sensually she danced, and the way she ran her fingers through his hair a hundred times a day. The times, more than once, when he had needed to feel her, have her, and he had taken her right where they were, outside and holding her to his waist against a tree, his hand clenching her hair as he buried his face in her neck. There were countless summer evenings when he'd held her to him in his lap on the porch as they drank wine and watched the sunset, his fingers caressing her face as she placed her head on his chest. He thought of how she never let people know her, how she didn't let them close to her. In all of her life, she had only let one person in... and he was that person.

Closing his eyes, he bowed his head, murmuring softly with an ache in his voice.

"Non posso... non posso piu` aspettare." _I can't... I can't wait anymore._

Lifting his head, he looked into her eyes and reached out, cupping her face in his hands. He traced her lips with his thumb before bending down and kissing her soulfully for long, enduring moments. Pulling himself from her lips but still cupping her face, he continued to gaze at her, searching her eyes for something, though she didn't know what. He seemed sad, his eyes pleading with her and she reached up to smooth his furrowed brow.

"What's wrong?" she whispered.

"I need to marry you. I need you to be my wife. Victoria..."

He caressed her lips with his thumb again and then reached up to trace her eyebrows and the side of her nose. His thumb brushed against her lower eyelashes before returning and touching her lips once more. Bending down, he kissed her again, and when she looked back into his eyes, they had turned glassy.

"... you don't know. There's no way you could know how much I love you, how much I need you. I can't be without you in my life, not now, not ever. You own me. You completely own me, Victoria, whether you want me or not, it doesn't even matter anymore. I have no backup plan. There's nothing I can do, but love you, want you, and wait for you forever. There will only ever be you... regardless," he said to her as his eyes pled for her to understand the depth of what he was trying to tell her.

She lifted her eyes to his thick, soft hair and reached up to run her hand slowly through it. After a moment, her gaze returned to his eyes, and she smiled softly.

"Well, then. We should get married," she whispered.

His eyes brimmed with tears that quickly fell, and he made a barely audible, soft sound as he tried to breathe, to exhale, and swallow. Looking down, he closed his eyes and then cupped her neck with both of his hands, bending to kiss it tenderly. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck and said nothing, though she could feel his tears fall on her shoulder. She curled against him as he cradled her body to his, holding her close to him, pulling, and keeping her to him.

He fell asleep clinging to her, smelling her hair and keeping her to him like a second skin, a priceless treasure that could be taken from him if he wasn't careful, if he wasn't diligent. All through the night, as he held her, he endured nightmares of finding her at the end of a noose. Pale and blue, she stared at him, unseeing with milky gray eyes, her beautiful green eyes gone forever. He could hear the rope creaking as her body swung from side to side, stiff, dead, and cold, wearing a white wedding dress. As he slept, tears rolled from his eyes and into her silken hair.

# # #

Fatimah watched through her living room window and then called her husband, Kosey, over to see, too.

"What is it?"

"Look at all the police cars over there. I hope someone else did not die. I warned them," she said, shaking her head. "It is a feeding house."

"Maybe nobody's dead; maybe they're searching for evidence or drugs, something like that," Kosey suggested.

"Maybe..." she said, frowning as she let the curtain fall back into place.

"Did you ever call them back?"

Kosey shook his head, dismissing the suggestion.

"And I'm not going to, either. I'm busy enough without this nonsense going on next door; I have a lecture in New York tomorrow at the Museum of Culture. I'll be leaving in the morning and if those fools come knocking again," he said, nodding toward the neighbors' house, "tell them I won't be back for two days. I don't want to be bothered in New York."

Fatimah gazed at her husband. Tall and thin, he had high cheekbones and dark skin, common traits of South Africa. He assimilated to the culture without a glitch and dressed in jeans and sweatshirts when he was at home and wore his American suits at work. She missed the colorful clothes he used to wear in Africa but said nothing.

"I think we should tell them about Adam," Fatimah said.

Kosey turned to her reproachfully.

"Why? What is there to tell?"

"Maybe they don't know he lived there."

"Well, he doesn't live there now. He hasn't in over a year, so why bother?"

Fatimah shrugged. She would call the FBI man when her husband left; it would be easier than arguing.

Kosey came up to his wife and kissed her on the cheek. It was after eleven o'clock, and he was going to bed, but she hung back, telling him she would be up soon.

Fatimah took a final look out the window and then turned to go to her studio but stopped when she saw her husband's coat hanging from the staircase banister. Her lips went into a tight line. How hard was it to hang a coat in the closet? Irritated, she picked up the coat, noticing a button was missing. Hanging the coat in the closet, she saw that one of the front pockets didn't appear right, either. It was lumpy.

Peeking up the staircase to make sure Kosey wasn't watching, she reached into the pocket and withdrew a white athletic sock. It was small and looked like it belonged to a woman. Peering up the stairs again, she wondered if she should ask him about it. He undoubtedly found it. Probably, he picked it up to throw it away and had then forgotten about it. It was nothing.

Turning it over in her hands, she saw it was very white. If he had found it on the side of the road or a sidewalk, it wouldn't be this clean. This was a sock that had come straight off of a woman's foot. It may be nothing—but it was a nothing she didn't like.

Walking into the kitchen, she put the sock in the garbage and looked at it. She could still see it, lying on top of the discarded remains of that evening's dinner. It bothered her. After a moment's hesitation, she nudged it down and covered it with older trash. Satisfied, she left the kitchen and went to her art studio in the back room of the house.

A good place to meditate, she reached for her granite bowl on a studio shelf and carried it to her large worktable in the brightly lighted studio. Putting some chunks of material into the bowl, she ground them up with her pestle; the resulting bits, coarse and rough. Added to her paintings, it would make excellent texture. She twisted and ground the pestle into the hard material as she thought.

Strange things were happening lately. There were dead bodies at the evil house, and she was sure there would be more to come. It was growing, just as she had told the agent it would. He didn't listen to her; he was too American, though he had seemed polite and kind, not a common trait among these people, she thought. His eyes had been distracting to look at; the light blue was so pale that she had thought she could see flecks of white, ice-like crystals in them. She could see him glow with his love for the woman who was with him. Fatimah felt bad for him; his grief would be long when the woman died.

She put another hand full of material into her bowl as she thought.

Her husband's lectures might be strange. He never used to lecture but in the last couple of years, it seemed that he lectured all the time. Her mama would have said he was a husband up to no good but Fatimah would not have agreed. He worked hard, and since his book had come out, he lectured more. That was to be expected, she decided.

To add to the strange goings-on was the man with no throat and glowing red eyes. He was persistent and continued to look over the rock wall at her. Now she was seeing a dog, a huge white dog with blood all over its chest and more blood dripping from a hole in its head. The man and the dog didn't seem to get along, though. She never saw them together, and the man always left when the dog came around.

Fatimah had started seeing the foolish maid as well, always kneeling and crying, holding something in her hands. Once, Fatimah thought it might be a picture, but she dismissed it, thinking it made no sense.

It seemed that every time she looked over that cursed wall another dead person was walking around, not wanting to be dead. She had lived in the states long enough to understand that the Americans saw nothing of what she did. They had a surface culture that only dealt with the tangible here and now, not visions and spirits and feeding houses. It was a confusing culture and hard for her to understand. She had been surprised when the agent with the captivating eyes had been attentive. He did not dismiss her, and his eyes never wavered as she tried to tell him.

She emptied out her bowl into a jar; the finished material the approximate size of oatmeal though it was denser and more like gravel. Adding more to her bowl, she resumed the grinding and crushing.

Now, the woman... Fatimah thought about her a lot. She came along with the FBI agent, and she was interesting. Fatimah knew she was going to die but enjoyed thinking about her anyway; her eyes had carried depth and knowledge though her face was unreadable. Looking into her face, Fatimah was reminded of the empty expression a cat always held. The blank expression fit many interpretations, none of them right and none of them wrong.

The woman had a frightfully strong, fierce spirit—and there was a streak of mean in her that people would do well to avoid. Fatimah saw it in her eyes and the gait of her walk. When she dreamt of the woman's death, she had wondered who could bring down such a ferocious, guarded soul. Fatimah wished her well and hoped she didn't suffer too long when she passed. Fatimah liked her.

Switching hands, her shoulder sore from grinding, she sprinkled in more material and continued.

For a feeding house supposed to be blocked off from any source of energy, this house did very well. Fear, anger, and frustration flooded the house next door, and it looked like a feeding frenzy. She shook her head sadly. The agent would be fine, but Fatimah had a dread that the fierce woman would be pulled into the feeding house and never allowed to leave. Her spirit would be bound there eternally just like all the others before her.

# # #

Joe woke up to his cell phone ringing. Reaching out for it, he blindly patted the nightstand, his hand locating and snagging it.

"Hmmm..."

"When does your workday start, Sunshine?" Nate asked him.

Joe reached for his watch on the table and squinted at it—ten o'clock.

"I got my forty in this week, asshole," Joe mumbled into the phone, covering his eyes with one hand and wondering vaguely if he was dead.

He felt like a truck had hit him. Vicky did this to him. She always did this to him. He had essentially maintained a full body, two-hour seizure for Christ's sake and his muscles forgave him for none of it.

"Are you getting another cold?"

Joe's hoarse voice would break up for the rest of the day. He always assured Nate that it wasn't contagious, but Nate would still give him the stink-eye, once-over.

"Maybe..."

Vicky rolled over and put her head on his chest, her hair fanning out on him. He could still smell the lilac, but dug through it to find her scent beneath.

"Did you hear me?"

"Hmmm...?" Joe asked, distracted, as he ran his hand through her hair.

She was going to marry him. They were going to get married. Vicky sighed and nuzzled her face into his chest as he ran his fingers through her hair, from the roots all the way to the ends. He watched, enchanted, as she smiled to herself and remembered that now they were engaged. Closing his eyes for a moment, he opened them again and lifted his head up. Nibbling and kissing, her lips worked their way down to his navel as her fingernails walked up the inside of his thigh in a leisurely, circular pattern. He put his head back down and could feel the pulse in his neck as he swallowed.

"I _said_ let's meet downstairs in half an hour."

"That's not going to happen," Joe said. He closed his eyes, feeling her nails inch by inch work their way up as her kissing and biting went slowly down. Her soft hair fell through his fingers as he tried to breathe. Nate had exactly two seconds to finish what he had to say, Joe decided.

"Well, what the f—" Nate said as Joe interrupted.

"She...," Joe began but stopped, swallowing again. Nate was down to one second.

"She what?"

"She's going to marry me."

There was a long, surprised pause on the other end of the phone.

"We'll meet in the lobby at three. That gives you five hours," Nate said and hung up.

Joe let the phone fall to the floor as he reached for Vicky. He flipped her effortlessly flat on her back with one hand, making her giggle. Oddly enough, every sore muscle he had was forgotten. She did that to him, too.

At three o'clock, they met in the hotel lobby; Darin, Roxie, and Michael already headed home.

Nate walked up to Vicky and bent down to hug her then stood up straight, bringing her with him, her feet dangling above the floor. He swung her in a slow circle, saying his congratulations into her hair. Joe grinned as he watched her legs fly out and heard her laugh softly. Nate set her down and put his hands on his hips, looking down at her.

"I, personally, think you could've done better. Maybe someone not so sickly," Nate said, eyeing Joe with suspicion.

Nate knew all about the hoarse voice, the sore muscles, and the occasional loose shirt. There were times when Nate had even seen bits of blood seep through the back of Joe's shirt. Those were the days when Joe would walk around smiling stupidly, dazed and useless. Nate would have to repeat himself throughout the day and do the driving for reasons of self-preservation. Nate suggested paperwork on those days; it was easier than dealing with his partner's temporary but all-consuming dysfunction. Nate said nothing, though. They were entitled to their privacy, and it would be incredibly bad form to bust them out.

Nate walked up to Joe and shook his hand then hugged him, congratulating him, as well. Nate stepped back and paused then leaned in toward Joe again and sniffed cautiously.

"You smell like a tulip."

"Lilac."

Nate looked at him without expression.

"Right... my mistake."

"What?"

Nate arched one eyebrow.

"Here's the 'what'—you need to _not_ smell like a goddamn tulip."

"Lilac."

Nate waited. Joe was making no move toward remedying the situation. He tried again.

"You may not give a shit about your testosterone levels, but I care greatly about mine. What if I have to _stand_ by you?"

"Then you'll smell pretty, too," Joe said, smirking and winking at him before blowing him a kiss.

Nate closed his eyes in disgust.

"Is there a reason that I am unaware of why you couldn't have slapped some cologne on?"

"I was busy," Joe said, still smiling crookedly.

Nate focused on the floor for a minute before looking back at Joe.

"Do not stand by me today."

"My friend, I'm beginning to think you need a refresher in the bureau's sensitivity training."

"Do not _walk_ by me. Do not _stand_ by me," Nate reiterated.

"I have feelings—there's no reason for you to be this judgmental. It's mean."

"If we are by _anything_ in an aerosol can today, I am spraying it on you. Disinfectant, roach killer, parts cleaner—I don't give a shit. I'm spraying it on you," Nate said, his face devoid of expression.

"Roxie's favorite flowers are roses, and she likes bubbles, not oil," Vicky said in a quiet whiskey voice that broke if she spoke any louder than a murmur.

Nate turned to Vicky, perking up.

"Really?"

Vicky smiled at him warmly.

"Do you know any good brands?"

"Enough," Joe said.

"I am assuming that you didn't get engaged last night. Therefore, I am assuming that you did not sleep in. Therefore, I am assuming you have something new about the case."

Nate looked him up and down, blatantly stink-eyeing him.

"You know, I've noticed something. When Vicky gets her colds, she doesn't move like she needs new body parts. You might want to work on that, Tulip."

Joe glowered at him as Vicky laughed quietly.

Nate raised both of his eyebrows at Joe while pointedly reached for his notebook.

"All right, here we go. First, Mrs. Attah called your cell phone. You had your ringer off, though I can't imagine why. Your ringer off, it was forwarded to my phone and I, being the _efficient_ agent, answered my phone."

Joe looked at him, saying nothing.

"She had a lot to say... ready?"

Refusing to answer, Joe waited.

"Right—okay, apparently Adam lived in Vicky's house for over a year. Mrs. Attah said she assumed he moved out last year because she stopped seeing him."

Surprised, Vicky asked, "Adam lived there?"

Nate nodded before continuing.

"According to Mrs. Attah, they used to help him out. She said he had a drug problem and sometimes needed help getting into the house or out of his car. When he was high, he would come over to their house and talk but most of what he told her made no sense. Still, it was clear to her that he had a terrible childhood. When he was sober, he stayed in the house for days on end, never going outside.

"Her husband, Kosey, used to go over and check on him every two or three days. He didn't want her to go with in case Adam got violent, or it was a bad scene. Hence, Kosey was the closest to Adam.

"Unfortunately, he left for New York this morning for a lecture at the... Museum of Culture," Nate said, referring to his notes. "He won't be back for two days, and Mrs. Attah wouldn't give out his cell phone number. She said he wouldn't answer it anyway. Some people, right?" Nate asked as he peered up from the notebook at Joe.

Joe asked, "Are you done?"

"No," he said, clearing his throat noisily a couple of times. With long, drawn out leisure, he turned to the next page in his small spiral-bound, smiling broadly, as Joe narrowed his eyes.

"Since Adam lived there, forensics searched every bedroom. You've got a lot of bedrooms," Nate added, flicking his gaze toward Vicky.

"They found one bedroom with black, Caucasian hairs on the pillows. The bed was made, but they swept the sheets with a black light and found fluids. By himself or with someone else, Adam was getting some. They collected and sent the sheets to the lab.

"Okay, last thing. I figured since Kosey was going to lecture in New York, let's call up our favorite and most efficient New Yorker, Stephanie. She called around. The Museum of Culture has never heard of Doctor Kosey Attah. We don't know where he really is."

# CHAPTER SIX

Vicky had needed to stop at the courthouse before they went to the crime scene. Joe and Nate had no idea why and they didn't ask. Trying to get answers from her about anything that didn't concern them was like trying to nail Jello to a wall. They preferred to embrace reality.

"Stephanie is going to dig a lot deeper into Dr. Attah's past. It might take a while, but she'll do it," Nate said.

"I miss her. She's so damn reliable," Joe commented as they all exited the vehicle at Vicky's house. Forensic vans and local law enforcement vehicles peppered the circular driveway.

Joe and Nate had worked most of their careers in New York, but Joe transferred to Minnesota to move in with Vicky. Nate, unwilling to lose his best friend and partner, transferred right along with him. They found that there was no real difference working out of Minnesota versus working out of New York. Federal was federal, and they still spent a disgusting amount of time in airports and airplanes, terrorized by screaming kids and sticky seats, overhead cargo hatches that wouldn't close, and snotty flight attendants that took it personally if you had to piss before the light said you could. The motel rooms all had the same feel, the same missing remote control, and the same foreign pubic hair in the bathtub. Nothing had changed.

Someone called out from a distance, "Vicky?"

Vicky cast her gaze about, locating the source of the voice before exclaiming, "Chad!"

She strode up to an officer who spread his arms out for her, smiling broadly. Tan with blond hair and a wrestler's build, he was only two or three inches taller than Vicky. Hugging him long and hard, she seemed genuinely happy to see him, and he held her back from him at arms' length to look at her.

Chad couldn't believe the changes in her. In school, she'd been quiet and conservative, a full-blown wallflower. Always studying, she'd been moved forward two full grades and had been taking college courses when she was in eleventh grade. He was sure she was still crazy-smart, but everything else about her was different... everything.

Her hair was wild and uncombed, puffing around her face like a wavy mane making her thick hair look even thicker; the auburn-chestnut color shiny and rich. She wore snug and faded jeans that only came to her hips with a light-blue shirt that didn't quite reach the top of her jeans. Her lower abdomen was bare. Her eyes that had used to be downcast and timid now darted all over him bravely and boldly, lingering wherever they chose, unabashed. Their color was a feral, bright green with yellow centers. Her leather bomber jacket creaked when he hugged her, and her full, airy hair felt like silk on his face, her scent, unique and sensual. When he hugged her, his arms encircled her tiny waist and touched her bare skin, her T-shirt lifting higher as she hugged him back.

Chad was aware of her in a new, completely different way—very aware.

Chad peered over her shoulder at two men who were standing about twenty feet away. There was a huge black man who seemed friendly enough but the other guy, not so much. It seemed like he was glaring at Chad. He was about six-three and probably weighed two-thirty—a big man. He wore loose jeans, a black sweatshirt with NYU emblazoned on the front of it, and an FBI badge hung from a lariat around his neck. Chad moved his attention back to Vicky, hugging her again, harder, and then regretfully letting her go.

He glanced over her shoulder again; the agent was still glaring at him. What had he done to piss off the FBI?

The agent was one of those men who had the perfect hair and never touched it or gave a shit. It was dark and three inches below his ears, the subtle waves going back in a loose and natural feather. He was muscular and athletic with a trim waist and broad shoulders. His hair and olive-colored skin showed that he was very obviously Italian, probably full blooded. And mean. He looked mean as hell as he started to walk toward them, still glaring. The other agent glanced around for a second, saw the Italian had left and caught up with him, a mild look of concern on his face.

The Italian agent walked straight up to Vicky and stood next to her, not introducing himself; not saying anything. From this close, Chad could see he had white teeth and piercing light blue eyes framed with heavy black eyelashes. The agent's eyes were more than a little unnerving and such a light blue that they were almost peculiar. Chad turned away with a disquieting feeling that the agent was not entirely stable or safe to be around.

Chad turned to the even larger black man. He had a square jaw with bright, intelligent brown eyes. His hair was cut close to the scalp, and he looked like a body builder who took his hobby seriously. The agent stuck out his hand and smiled at Chad, showing deep and unexpected dimples.

"How're you doing? I'm FBI Special Agent Nate Colten; nice to meet you."

"Nate, this is Chad Laurel. We went to school together. Chad, this is Special Agent in Charge, Joseph Valenti," Vicky said happily, formally introducing him to Joe.

The Italian stuck his hand out but said nothing. Chad shook it and quickly withdrew. The agent was just... _hostile._ It was distracting. Chad turned his attention back to Vicky, his gaze dancing over her hair, her mouth, and her eyes. He reached out and held her arm at the elbow. It was a casual touch, but he did not want her to step away from him yet. From this close, he could smell her—he could smell her the moment he had hugged her. The scent was part flower but part her, too. She had a musky, earthy undertone that he had never smelled before.

"Are you wearing perfume? You smell good," Chad said, smiling and tilting his head.

Nate saw Joe's jaw muscles flex, his eyes flashing as he took a step toward Chad. Nate grabbed Joe's arm and grinned at Chad innocently. He was confident there was going to be a problem, and he did not let go of Joe's arm.

Vicky glanced at Nate hanging off Joe's arm and arched an eyebrow quizzically in their direction. After a moment, she shrugged and turned back to Chad, listening intently.

"It's been crazy around here. Let me fill you in," Chad said as he put his hand on the small of Vicky's back, hoping to keep her close enough so he could smell her when they walked. He had never smelled anything like her. The undertone was captivating and sensual.

Nate kept ahold of Joe's arm until Vicky and Chad were out of earshot. At last, Nate turned to him and shoved Joe's arm away while he growled at him quietly.

"What is _wrong_ with you? Take a breath, or I'm confiscating your goddamn gun."

Joe was silent and contemplative for a moment and then nodded to himself, as though he had just made a decision.

"I will snap his spine if he does not get his fucking hand off of her right now," Joe said evenly, not hearing a word Nate said.

He was staring, unwavering, at the spot on Vicky's back where Chad had his hand. It was exactly where her low-rider jeans ended, and her T-shirt began... where her bare skin was exposed. Joe did not blink, and he started to walk with clear intent.

Nate recognized Joe's look and stance immediately. Yes, indeed, his partner was one hundred percent locked, cocked, and ready to roll, making Nate inwardly cringe. This was no kind of good. He had seen Joe fight—people went down and did not get back up.

"Okay, my psychotic friend, no problem, just give me a goddamn second," Nate said, quickly moving in front of Joe and putting his hands on Joe's chest to stop him.

Sidestepping around Nate, Joe was keeping his focus on Chad as he kept walking toward him. Nate knew he had about thirty seconds to fix this before Joe fixed it. Joe was clearly, without question, ready and willing to fix it. He was getting into position to fix it. Nate watched as Joe's eyes narrowed. Fifteen seconds, Nate amended.

"Hey, Vicky, can you come here?" Nate called to her, hoping she noticed the high-priority tone he was using.

Vicky stopped and turned around, Chad turning with her. She started walking back toward them with Chad still ambling next to her, his hand not wavering from her back. Christ. Nate jogged toward the soon-to-be victim. If the cop made it to Joe, there was going to be a quick and unfortunate solution to the problem of Chad touching Vicky. Nate ran a little faster.

"Hey! Chad! So, fill me in, what's going on?" Nate asked as he panted and smiled. He positioned himself directly in front of Chad, blocking any forward progress toward Joe.

Chad wanted to stay with Vicky. He craned his neck around Nate's huge frame, and then tried to step around him. Nate slung his arm around Chad's shoulder and walked him in a tight little circle doing a perfect dose-doe. Encouraging Chad to keep talking, Nate began walking away, dragging the officer with him. Chad looked back over his shoulder, but Nate kept him firmly moving forward. He told Chad that Vicky and Joe would meet up with them at the carriage house.

Vicky approached Joe, who had stopped walking when she reached him. She searched his eyes with concern.

"You okay, babe?" she asked.

"If he touches you again, his mobility _will_ end," Joe stated as his piercing gaze followed Chad's retreating form.

She squinted in confusion but then understood.

"You're jealous! That's so cute!" she said, and laughed, relieved it was not a real problem.

"He thinks I smell good," she whispered up at Joe as she leaned forward.

"Stop it."

"He hugged me, too. Did you see him hug me?" she asked as she stepped closer, her lips holding a feral grin.

"Stop it."

"And he had his hand on my back—the small of my back—that's almost my ass. Did you see it?" she asked, unable to let go of the provocative smirk.

"I _saw_. Now, goddamn it, _stop_ it," Joe said through clenched teeth, his voice shaking.

This guy was getting beaten into the ground... he was _smelling_ her and _touching_ her. Joe turned and looked toward Chad again, unwilling to lose sight of him... right into the goddamn ground.

Vicky stood in front of him letting her smile fall away. By now, they were alone, and she waited patiently for Joe's attention to turn back toward her. This, she knew, was only his frustration about the case and his fear for her safety. At a boil for over a month, it was beginning to blow out of him sideways, searching blindly for a target—any target would do.

Looking at her now, his gaze darted over her face and then came to rest on her eyes. Taking another step toward him, she tilted her head back and reached out to pull his face to hers. Even though he didn't want to, still angry, he met her lips and opened his mouth to hers. Kissing him sensually, she pulled away and then stretched his collar out of the way, going up on her toes and softly kissing his neck for long, slow moments. He tilted his head to the side without knowing it, his eyelids beginning to droop as he opened his mouth to breathe. Reaching under his sweatshirt, she grazed the scratches on his back, barely touching him. Joe closed his eyes, transfixed and paralyzed. She had just stopped his heart.

"Stop it," he whispered, his head falling forward, closer to hers, a thick wave of his hair sliding onto his forehead.

"Quit being stupid," she whispered back, closing her eyes while moving her lips to his again. She kissed him slower and deeper as her nails ran over the scratches he treasured, breaking some of them open.

Joe couldn't breathe. He could not breathe. Her mouth left his, but came back, a soft mewl escaping her as she kissed him slower and more sensually and then pulled herself away but just barely. She lingered there; her parted lips staying only a hair from his, and he could feel her breath quicken, the same as his. Pulling him down further, she stretched her neck, so her lips touched his ear.

"It's only ever going to be you," she whispered and then blew gently.

He shivered and stood with his eyes closed as images flashed through his mind that he couldn't stop, didn't want to stop, his abdominal muscles flexing as his pulse raced. Opening his eyes slowly, he felt dazed, every trace of anger gone. It took him long moments to let go of her waist, having no memory of reaching for it. His hand hesitantly unclenched from her hair, though he had no idea how it had gotten there. Gradually, he released her to let her step away from him. She wasn't stepping away. He peered down at her.

"Gimme," he said hoarsely, taking her hand and preparing to walk with her.

Neither of them moved. Joe closed his eyes and breathed deeply, smelling her musk and how it had grown stronger, her body already responding to him. Smelling her, still dazed, he reached for her again, his hand going to grip her hair but stopped. Almost panting, he turned his head to the side, trying not to smell her, not to look at her. He made a solemn vow that when they retired, he would never step away again...never.

He tried to sigh, but it came out as a quiet moan. The ache he felt was woefully familiar to him. It came from working by her for years, being able to reach for her, smell her, look at her. Always, he was the one to let go and step away. He had to be; she would stand there forever, watching him with smoldering eyes. Waiting, she would force him to make the call, letting him know that all he had to do was say the word. Her need for him was always there, always ready, always only a touch away. She would follow him, either back to a crime scene or somewhere else—somewhere private. And there _had_ been private places that he had sought, leading her by the hand, when he had been completely unable to walk away, unable to let her go. It was vicious. It was wonderful. It was horrible. It was always there. And she never bluffed.

"If he says how you smell again I'm going to smash his face," Joe murmured.

He couldn't remember what the cop looked like, though. All he could see were images of last night—of sweat running down her neck and onto his tongue. The cries as she clung to him... _I need you..._ his hand gripping her hair, pulling her head back to bite her neck... _faster..._ the heat, the scorching, burning heat that she poured over him... _never another..._

Vicky smiled softly as his hand tightened around hers, his gaze unfocused and far away. They walked toward the carriage house near the woods line in the back of the main residence.

When Joe and Vicky reached the carriage house, Chad glanced down at their entwined hands. His comprehension was immediate and complete. Avoiding Joe's gaze, he stayed far away from Vicky, refusing even to look at her. He was appreciative for the second chance of life and liberty that Joe had afforded him.

Nate glanced at Joe's relaxed face and noted the aggressive stance was gone. Apparently, Chad was going to live to see another day. Whatever kind of thing Vicky had over Joe, it was big—really big.

Joe was incredibly tough, brutal even, confident, and dangerously smart and calculating. When it came to Vicky, though, he simply lost his mind. He would get himself tied up in knots, and she would untie them. He'd get his head in a bad place, and she would guide him back. Joe drove himself stark raving mad fussing about her, worrying about her, forever trying to get closer to her, and always feeling compelled to protect her. Nate had never seen her use it against him, though and he thought that was very cool. At times, she came off as chilly and even a little ruthless, but she could be remarkably gentle as well. Figuratively speaking, Nate amended, seeing spots of fresh blood leaking through the back of Joe's sweatshirt.

"Okay. Vicks, this is going to be bad," Chad warned her as he swung open the carriage house door.

Vicky let go of Joe's hand and passed through the doorway first. Chad was right. It was bad.

The two-bedroom carriage house was decorated in homage to her. Vicky's eyes flicked to the covered walls, and the words between the photographs were painted neatly in red: "Clean" and "New" and "Pure." She noted there were no runs from the paint, yet it was a full, dark red. It had been painted and allowed to dry. Another coat was applied, and it had dried, another coat, and then another. This was a calculating and obsessive person, able to plan and see it through.

She looked at the papers and photos taped to the wall—none of the edges were curling, and the whites were white, not dusty. The display had been done recently, not more than two or three days old. It was created for her and given to her, as a gift and a warning. Choosing red paint was not subtle.

There was no frenzy visible in the house. This man was ahead of the curve—a serial killer with self-control. She reached inside the pocket of her jacket withdrawing a small notebook and pen.

Nate watched as Joe glanced at the walls and then closed his eyes. He looked as though he'd been sucker punched and needed time to absorb the blow. Tilting his head all the way down, he breathed deeply before cautiously lifting his eyes to the walls once again.

The living room walls were covered, almost wallpapered with photos of a dead Great Pyrenees, the same breed of dog that Vicky used. The pictures were in color and clearly crime scene photos. The dog had blood all over the front of its chest, but it was a solid, uniform color; contact blood that was not from the canine. What had killed the dog was a bullet in the forehead. In the pictures, there was a black hole in the dog's head, a thick stream of blood pouring from it and pooling on the ground.

Nate and Joe moved through the living room and into one of the bedrooms. Displayed on the walls, pictures of Vicky's father with his throat ripped out. Taped to the walls were articles from different newspapers detailing the death of the senator. Each article depicted the senator as a hero, saving his daughter, Victoria Terrace from a killer dog. A young cop was in several of the newspaper photos, always with a smile on his pudgy face. Joe squinted for the name: Officer Leon Hatch. Around five-six and doughy in the middle, he leaned into each photograph making sure he could be seen. He had been the officer who killed the savage beast who had tried to attack the senator's helpless daughter. Joe let loose a string of venomous expletives that quickly escalated into threats of violence on a felony level, all of them aimed at Leon Hatch. Confused, Nate listened to his partner's sudden display of violent hatred toward the officer.

"What?"

His voice laden with disgust, Joe answered, "It's all a spin her father's people put on it. Her father had been trying to kill her. He had her on the ground, choking the goddamn life out of her for getting a B- on a geography test."

He nodded toward the living room and the pictures of the bloody dog.

"That's Goliath, the neighbor's dog. Every day, she would spend hours with him, walking him when her feet were black from bruises. She used to talk to him, hug him, and cry into his fur; he was the first thing with a heartbeat who loved her without hurting her. He was the reason she made it through. If she gave up, who would walk him or groom him or love him like she did? She stayed alive for him; she stayed off drugs for him; she didn't run away and hit the streets because of him. When her father was trying to kill her, she screamed, and Goliath heard her and jumped the stone wall. He slammed into her father in mid-air, knocking him off her. Goliath stood between her and her father, but her father came at her again. That was when Goliath ripped out his throat. Vicky was clinging to the dog for dear life when the cops showed up. She was seventeen.

"Her mom and brother came out and went to a cover, throwing her under the bus without thinking twice. They were gutless and well trained by her father, telling the cops the dog had attacked unprovoked, and Vicky's dad had been trying to save her. This ignorant prick..." Joe said, nodding toward the picture of Officer Leon Hatch, "... ignored the bruises on her throat and dragged her away from the dog while she was screaming what had really happened. He shot Goliath in the head about two feet from her. She remembers the blood spatter hitting her."

Stunned, Nate squeezed his eyes closed and turned his head, trying to block it out as if he had just witnessed an unexpectedly violent accident. When he opened his eyes, he looked over at Vicky. She was taking her notes, showing no reaction, studying the scene and refusing to break while being surrounded by a nightmare she had already lived through once. He felt tightness in his throat and had to clear it harshly before he could speak.

"How long have you known this?"

"A couple of years... once in a while she'll still have nightmares," Joe said.

Joe looked at Vicky and swallowed hard. He knew what this was doing to her; he dreaded that night when the sun went down, and they went to sleep. They had gotten through them before; they'd get through them again he thought with grim determination. He felt a tightening in his chest—another weight added to him that threatened to buckle his knees.

They walked into the other bedroom. This room's shrine focused on a woman who looked similar in coloring and build to Vicky. She was the same woman from the family photo in the scrapbook. In these pictures, there were two large holes in her forehead about half an inch apart.

"So, what happened with her mom?"

"About three weeks after Goliath was killed, her mom was in the ground, compliments of Vicky."

Nate eyed Joe's smirk and heard the pleased tone in his voice when talking about the woman's death. Nate had never seen Joe so cold and... lethal.

"That bitch watched Vicky be beaten without mercy for seventeen years. He would piss in the toilet and goddamn near drown her in it, punch her, slap her, kick her, and burn her. He'd make her drink sour milk until she threw up and then make her eat the vomit right at the kitchen table. Her mother watched, drunk and useless, not giving a fuck. There were nights when Vicky had to crawl up that big, grand staircase in the house because her feet were so badly beaten. She got the B- on the geography test because she couldn't _focus_ —he had given her a goddamn concussion. The nuns sent her home after the test because she couldn't stop throwing up or walk in a straight fucking line.

"When the bastard was killing her, her mother didn't even come outside. She didn't have a problem with leaving Vicky out there, alone and clinging to Goliath, either. The _neighbors_ called the cops, and then she finally came outside but never even spoke to Vicky. She only came out to tell the cops the lie that got Goliath killed. She was a senator's wife and had their reputation to think about, right?

"Right after her father's funeral, as in the day _of,_ Vicky told her mother to get surveillance cameras in the house. She told her it was important for the family's safety, all the wealth upstairs and everything. Vicky pestered her until she did. It wasn't even a week after they were installed, five days actually, that Vicky put a couple of ten mills in her mother's head. It's all on film—her mother was coming at her with a knife."

Joe's smirk grew even colder.

"What?"

"I've seen the video surveillance. It works. She has exactly what she needs, but there's no audio. She and her mother stood in the kitchen for over an hour. Her mother would leave, and you can see Vicky tilting her head back and still talking, some of her veins sticking out in her neck. She was yelling at her mother in the other room, but she makes no hand gestures; her eyebrows don't curve down in anger, and she never leaves that kitchen drawer where the gun is. Her mother keeps coming back into the kitchen, yelling at her, pointing her finger at her, standing aggressively, walking toward her and then walking away. One corner of Vicky's mouth is curving up just the tiniest bit.

"In the video, you can see this little smile on her face as she talks to her mom. The more she talks, the madder her mom gets. Her mom held the knife for over twenty minutes, waving it around and pointing it at Vicky. When her mother is in the kitchen with her, the veins in Vicky's neck are gone, and she's just talking normally. Her mother's the one who's losing her goddamn mind. Her hair's coming undone; her veins are sticking out; her eyes are big. Vicky keeps right on talking with that little smile on her face the entire time, from beginning to end. Her mom finally charged her. Just like that, Vicky put her down—two tens right in the forehead. Vicky didn't even flinch."

Nate could picture every detail. That was the Vicky he knew, the only Vicky he'd _ever_ known.

"What about her brother—he lied, too."

Joe nodded with the icy smirk of approval for Vicky's vengeance still on his face.

"He thought it would be a good idea to leave town after his mother's funeral. Vicky buried her mother with Goliath's blood stained dog collar in her hand, and she stared at Adam when he saw it. She made sure he understood why their mother died. He lit out, and she never saw him again."

"Does Roxie know any of this? She's never told me any of this," Nate said, drowning in information about Vicky after so many years of drought. There was so much information, devastating and terrible information, that Nate found himself selfishly wishing he knew none of it.

"The only reason you know anything is because of this case. Roxie knows nothing about the back-story, and she's not going to, either. That's for Vicky to tell. You know because it's pasted all over the walls of this carriage house."

Nate nodded in affirmation. He understood.

They were silent, looking at articles and pictures as their minds processed what they were seeing. Joe could take no more—he had to get out. He felt contaminated by so much betrayal, steeped in it. It was everywhere he turned, and he was beginning to feel trapped. The pictures, the articles, the visual aids to Vicky's horrific past, he had to get away from it. He couldn't function in such a cesspool.

They walked back out to where Vicky was squatting down and taking notes. Chad was nowhere in sight.

Joe walked up to her and pulled her up.

Completely shut down, she gazed at him blankly and asked, "What?"

His gaze danced over her face and then came to rest on her eyes. He thought of how beautiful she was, and how much he loved her, and how much he wished he had been there to protect her, all those years ago.

She asked again, "What?"

"We're going to get married," he said.

"Yes. We are," she said, unable to stop a broad smile from spreading across her face.

"Now, piss off, I've got a lot of work to do," she said, still smiling as she stretched up on her toes, and he lowered his head to reach her mouth, cupping her neck with his hand.

Joe and Nate walked outside for a break from it and saw Chad by a tree, smoking a cigarette. Joe walked up to him, reaching out, and Chad instinctively ducked and flinched.

"Easy, little buddy," Joe murmured as he reached into the small man's shirt pocket for one of the officer's cigarettes.

He fished in his pocket a moment longer feeling for the lighter but couldn't find it. Chad patted his pants pockets hurriedly and produced it for Joe. Taking the lighter, he tilted his head and lit the cigarette from the corner of his mouth, handing the lighter back to Chad with a nod.

"Thanks," he said, the cigarette bobbing from his mouth as he spoke.

Chad looked relieved but still refused to make eye contact with the intimidating man.

Joe walked away, Nate at his side.

"I thought you quit a long time ago," Nate said.

"I did. I am," Joe said, dragging deeply from the cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs. Leaning back against the carriage house, he closed his eyes and let the smoke out.

Nate understood; it was a stressful situation.

"Your sweatshirt shifted and I saw your neck in there. Lose a fight with a Cuisinart?"

Joe smiled with his eyes still closed, the half-smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth. He pushed his hands deep into his loose pockets and pulled drags from the cigarette as needed.

"Yeah, you could say that."

"There's fresh blood on the back of your sweatshirt, too," Nate commented

"Hmmm..." Joe said neutrally, taking another long drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing red.

"You two freaks need counseling before someone gets killed."

Joe shook his head.

"My friend, you have not yet lived," he said, flicking away the butt of the cigarette and blowing the last of the smoke into the air.

"You know, you're a lot bigger than her—a _lot_ bigger. She's just little," Nate hedged, concerned.

Joe understood. Nate was a good man.

"I am so goddamn gentle and careful with her that it hurts. It hurts like you wouldn't believe," he said vaguely, nodding slowly to himself.

Nate watched Joe carefully. He was in charge of the entire investigation, all five murders, and he was afraid. Nate didn't think he had ever seen his partner show fear. It scared and concerned him.

Joe gazed up at the sky before speaking again, and when he spoke, his voice was flat and dead.

"If anything happens to her, I will rip him apart and then rip his pieces apart. No part of him will exist. I will disassemble him on the molecular level," Joe said.

Nate felt an unexpected chill cut through him, and then it was gone. Joe pushed himself away from the house but stopped and turned around. A police cruiser pulled up. Chad went to meet the car, and Joe figured it was the little guy's partner. They headed back into the house.

Vicky looked up from her notes, frowning.

"Okay, I found some interesting things going through all this crap so far. There are some..."

She stopped talking and didn't move. Joe and Nate turned around to see what she was looking at as Chad and his partner walked in. The partner was overweight and sloppy in his uniform, perspiration stains evident under his armpits. He was wheezing with the effort of his slow shuffle, and his greasy hair plastered to his head completed the eyesore. Joe and Nate, unimpressed and mildly disgusted with the new arrival, turned back to Vicky.

Joe's gaze sharpened. Vicky seemed strange. Her eyes were a different color of green, a darker and stormier color of green. Ice dripped from her gaze as she stared at the new arrival. She was calculating. Fast. Joe took a step toward her. She looked like she did just before his team had found Raven's kidnapper dead and Vicky's radio lying next to him. That was the case when Joe found out she was capable of murder. And she looked just like this.

Joe knew there was a problem. It was a big problem. And it was coming right goddamn now. He turned to warn Nate.

Vicky blew past Nate and him and strode up to the sweaty, paunchy cop. She twisted her body all the way to the left; her feet firmly planted. A split second later, she came around with a hellish, full- throttle backhand that landed smack on the officer's face and ear. It sounded like a gunshot. Blood flew from his mouth as he staggered sideways, stunned. Chad jumped back, his eyes huge as Nate and Joe simultaneously drew their weapons. They had them leveled before Chad could even comprehend what had happened.

"Don't!" they yelled at Chad in perfect stereo. He threw his hands up in the air, not moving a muscle, thoroughly terrified and confused.

Vicky moved with an astonishing blur of speed. When the cop was still staggering, she tilted her torso and lifted her leg sideways, bent at the knee, and kicked him, full force in the upper chest, her teeth bared. Leaning heavily into it, she aimed high to maximize the probability of connecting with bone and not fat. He slammed back against the wall, grabbing his chest, his eyes bulbous as he sank to the floor with a loud crash.

Nate and Joe kept their weapons trained on Chad, making sure he didn't draw on Vicky. There was no chance of it; Chad was looking at the entire display with his mouth hanging open. He gave not a single thought to saving his partner's ass. That was fine with Joe—now he could watch while keeping his gun on Chad.

Joe watched as she walked leisurely up to the fallen man wheezing on the floor. Speed was no longer necessary. He wasn't going anywhere. Nate and Joe cringed at the same time, knowing what she was going to do because it was what they would do. And, oh, was it going to hurt. She stopped in front of the gasping cop and paused for only a second before kicking straight up with everything she had, throwing her arms down to her sides for balance, her teeth bared and flashing white. The kick was hard and true, with complete follow through, the toe of her hiking boot landing squarely under the cop's chin. His head bounced off the wall, breaking it behind him, his teeth smashing together as more blood flew out of his mouth. Joe wasn't sure the cop had a tongue anymore, but he was sure that his jaw was shattered, and at least half of his teeth were gone. Joe had found that broken walls were a remarkably reliable concussion indicator as well. He nodded subtly. Good kick.

Vicky stood in front of the puddle of an officer who was still conscious but only by a thread. Chad was terrified, much more afraid of Vicky than the two agents who had guns pointed at him. He stared at Vicky horrified and could only assume she had gone insane. She had yet to say a word, and her face was like stone—her eyes focused on what remained of the cop on the floor. Joe found it nothing short of fascinating, exhilarating, and outrageously sexy to watch. One corner of his mouth had subtly curved up as his eyes danced all over her to capture every move.

She walked the three remaining feet up to the cop and Nate and Joe both flinched again, wanting to look away. Christ, don't do the nut stomp, Joe thought, knowing it was exactly what he would do. She hesitated for a moment, standing about eight inches from the guy's balls; she was definitely thinking about it but went with the full-on kick instead. He wouldn't bleed to death, but Joe doubted the nutted cop would appreciate her restraint. His ass lifted off the floor by the force of the kick to his groin, and if his scrotum remained attached to his body, Joe would have been amazed. He was confident when the tubby officer was finally able to stand that his sack would fall out of his pant leg and onto the floor.

Ignoring his screams and blinking like a bored cat, she squatted down in front of him, and Nate and Joe exhaled, relieved. At least, it wasn't a stomp, although it may have actually been worse. She surveyed the cop for a moment, her forearms resting on her thighs, and then she reached out and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back, forcing him to look at her cold, steady eyes. As she leaned way into him, he tried to turn away. This had the same effect as poking an already irritated rattlesnake. She used his fistful of hair savagely to smash his face into her bent knee with blinding, frightening speed and strength. And there goes the nose, Joe thought, adding it to his running tally.

She leaned in even further until her mouth was by his ear—the one that wasn't bleeding from the eardrum. He did not try to turn away again.

"Leon, you're fired, retroactive, as of two weeks ago. I thought you'd want to hear it from a friend," she said in a purring whiskey voice.

Vicky let go of his hair, and his head fell forward. She glanced at Chad.

"Officer Laurel, get this piece of shit off my property. He's contaminating a crime scene."

With an icy white smile, Joe turned to Chad and winked.

"We're getting married."

# CHAPTER SEVEN

"Chad, you seem a little shaken up. Why don't you make a phone call, and things will smooth right out?" Vicky asked, tossing her cell phone to the trembling cop.

There were no guns pointed at him, but he kept his hands in the air anyway and the phone landed on the floor. He looked as if he had decided never to move again.

Vicky gazed at Chad with the same bored, sleepy expression and spoke.

"Chad... focus."

Chad's eyes flicked to the phone on the floor. He cautiously bent down and retrieved the cell phone while his free hand remained empty and high in the air. His eyes never wavered off Vicky.

"Hit speed dial."

Chad did just that, slowly lowering his other hand to his side. The phone rang for a moment, and then the mayor answered. As Chad listened, he paled and looked at Vicky with naked fear. He had just learned how truly dangerous she was. Hesitantly, he clicked the phone shut and stood still for a moment. His fear of making any movement ever again was being overridden by the realization if he didn't move, then he would be trapped in the cottage with two agents and an insane woman. He produced a pair of handcuffs and walked up to the moaning, incoherent fat cop on the floor and put the jangling cuffs on him, ratcheting them closed.

"Leon Hatch, there is an active warrant for your arrest that has been issued and signed. You are under arrest for impersonating an officer, carrying a police issue firearm, being unauthorized to drive a law enforcement vehicle, and willfully and deliberately contaminating a crime scene."

Chad helped him to the back of the cruiser while reading him his rights, and left without saying another word.

Joe and Nate looked at Vicky expectantly.

"Campaign contribution... a big one," she said simply.

Nate and Joe nodded. Enough said—the courthouse stop.

Joe commented, "A little warning would've been nice. Is there anyone else that you plan on hospitalizing today?"

"No. He was the only one," she said, picking up her notebook and continuing where she had left off.

"All right, then, good to know," Joe said.

He thought, struggling to find focus and direction. After minutes of staring blankly, he shook his head.

"Listen, I'm going to get a cup of coffee. I need to think. I need somewhere to look and think," Joe said. He instructed them to meet him back at the hotel in two hours.

Joe's first stop was a gas station for strong black coffee and a pack of cigarettes. He drove around for twenty minutes until he had found a quiet park that he could pull into. Sitting at a picnic table, he lit a cigarette, pulling the smoke in deeply.

He was better than this.

When he lived in New York, he would stay awake all night at his kitchen table with files and notes, tape recordings and lab reports. He would drink coffee and think. He would review the files and think, keep in touch with his team and the labs and think.

He didn't have that anymore. He didn't have his own private space to obsess and skip meals and not sleep and get the job done. Giving that up, he had gradually given Vicky every square inch of his entire mind in this case as the victims continued to fall. He felt as if he had gotten these last two victims killed because he wasn't thinking straight. The answers had to be there... he just didn't know how to find them anymore. Nothing made sense to him. When he tried to focus, his mind would flash to the killer being in the same room alone with Vicky, touching her hair as she slept. He would think of the murderer photographing her at crime scenes and about how close he'd gotten to her—within killing distance.

Adam was nowhere. He was invisible; no paper trail, no address, not a goddamn speeding ticket. Until they heard back from Darin, Joe couldn't even be sure if Adam was alive or dead. How did the killer know so much shit about Vicky if it wasn't Adam? The dog and her father and mother were in the papers, fine. The abuse was very hush-hush though. _Stephanie_ hadn't even been able to find anything on the abuse. No one knew... except maybe someone that had been there.

Confused and distracted, he felt as though he were playing a defensive position when he had always excelled in the offensive. He couldn't be obsessed with the case when all his thoughts were about Vicky's safety. If he kept trying to lead the case _and_ protect Vicky, he would fail at both. His head was spinning, and the feelings of uncertainty were foreign to him. It frustrated and angered him in equal amounts.

Lighting another cigarette, he took a long drink of coffee. While he smoked, he looked at the empty notebook in front of him, and picked up his pen and started to write. Setting the pen down, he reached for his phone. The only thing he'd written in the notebook was, "Vicky."

There just was no other higher priority for him—ever.

"Yeah," Nate said into his phone.

"Is Vicky there?"

"Yeah, hold on," Nate said.

"No, wait; put me on speaker phone."

"Okay."

Joe could hear Nate fumbling with the phone.

"Okay, go."

"All right, here's the thing. I am unable to do my job, unless I know Vicky is safe. Vicky, you're great with your firearm, and you're a hell of a kick boxer. That's all fantastic, but I am going to be completely ineffective unless you are Nate-safe. Call me a chauvinist. I don't give a fuck. He's been a federal agent for fifteen years and over ten of them, he's been my partner. What I know, he knows. He's the meanest, most vicious fighter I've seen, and I've seen a lot. He's smart, and he can see trouble coming before it ever gets through the door. I trust him with my life, and I trust him with yours. He's the only one on this planet besides me that I trust to protect you. He's a brick wall, and he'll stand between you and anyone who might be coming for you. So here it is; you have to go with him everywhere—interviews, crime scenes, strolls through the hotel, or your house—everywhere. You need to listen to him and do whatever he tells you. If he tells you to go, you go. If he tells you to stay, you stay. If he tells you anything, you do it and don't ask why. I really need you to do this for me, Vicky. If you can't, I'm going to ask the bureau to put another agent in charge. If I have to choose between your safety and this case, you win. Every time, you win. So either you are going to be Nate-safe, or you are going to be me-safe; I can't make a move until you tell me which it is," Joe said.

The words had tumbled out of his mouth quickly, and he hoped he had made himself understood.

Vicky didn't hesitate.

"I'm Nate-safe. You do your thing. I'm covered, baby. I won't make a move without him, not a move. He says it—I do it; no questions and no doubts," Vicky said.

She was relieved that he had found a solution to take some of the weight from him. She was going to do whatever he needed her to do to make it easier for him. If he needed this, he was getting this.

Joe asked in a quiet voice, "Nate?"

"Your days of worry are over, partner. I will be on her like glue. Wherever she goes, I go. Wherever I go, she goes. I don't sleep until she's with you. I don't shit unless she stands in the shower. Everywhere, every second, she will be within two feet of me. I'll sweep public bathrooms, and I'll sweep the hotel rooms. She will not enter a room, unless I've cleared it. I give you my personal guarantee. If this fuck even thinks about coming at her, I will rip his head off and bury it in my backyard. She's taken care of, my friend. Consider her bubble-wrapped. It's done and done."

"Give me a minute," Joe said and set the phone down.

He covered his face with his trembling hands and felt his eyes well up. Tilting his head toward the sky, he tried to breathe. Never in his life did he think that Vicky would have a serial killer headed straight for her. He could always handle the cases because they didn't involve anyone close to him as a victim, but the scrapbook pictures changed all of that in an instant. Since then, he'd been in a tailspin, terrified that he'd be working an interview or talking to another agent while she was alone, being murdered. The carriage house was the final nail in the coffin. Vicky had a serial killer headed straight for her. And he was coming fast.

He had to swallow repeatedly as he wiped away tears of overwhelming emotional exhaustion. She was going to be safe—he didn't have to choose anymore. He could go back on the offensive where he was most comfortable, where he was most dangerous. Breathing deeply several times, he tried to pull himself together. Clearing his throat, he picked up the phone again.

"Thanks, buddy. You don't—" Joe had to hold the phone away from his mouth for a minute longer as his voice caught. He cleared his throat again, harsher this time.

"—you don't know what this means to me."

"Yes. I do. Now, get on with it, Tulip," Nate said.

"Right," Joe said shortly, clearing his throat one last time and giving his head a quick shake.

"Okay. Nate, your job as of now is to find out how those crime scene photos got in that house. When you're digging, get the police report for Vicky's break in. There'll be nothing there to help us I'm sure, but I want stuff to look at—options, possibilities."

"Done," Nate said.

"Okay. Next thing is to get the loitering cops around there to do something. I want all the spare uniforms hanging around there to start looking for a path. It might be in the woods leading up to the house or the carriage house. It's there. Have them find it and then mark it."

"Got it," Nate said.

"Vicky, you need to interview Fatimah Attah again. Do your headshrinker thing. Do you have a pen?"

"Go."

He talked to Nate and Vicky for another ten minutes, making sure he had everything covered and everyone was reading the same page. He left the rest up to Nate. The world was too heavy to hold up on your own. A smart man knew when to reach out, and in his career, his intelligence had proven to be his most dangerous weapon.

He took a long drink of his coffee and lit another cigarette. He was starting to feel better, shaking hands and all.

# # #

They were all in the hotel lobby at nine o'clock. Vicky and Nate waited for Joe there. They needed to show him the new rooms they rented. Nate didn't like the old ones—they were on the ground floor and made Vicky's window accessible.

They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and walked out. Nate told Joe he would stop into their room later; he needed a shower and an hour-long nap. He made sure to point out that he hadn't spent half the day in bed like some tulips he knew.

Joe was surprised when he saw that Vicky had rented a double room with a pocket door and wall that separated the two full bedroom suites. Files, pictures, and notes were scattered on one of the beds in the other room already. The main door to the other bedroom was locked with both the deadbolt and chain, plus a chair wedged under the doorknob. Joe knew the chair had been Nate's doing. It was the most effective barrier in any hotel room.

"What's this?"

She shrugged.

"I figured you needed your little ulcer area like you had in New York. That..." she said, indicating the other room, "... is the work room. We'll meet and keep all the files and notes in there, and there's a full-size coffee pot and ashtray for you, Stinky."

Joe looked at her, dumbstruck. He could not believe how well she knew him—what made him tick, how he thought, how he grooved. It was remarkable and never failed to blow him away.

Joe walked up to her and hugged her.

"We've got an hour. Let's take a shower," she said, pulling him to her by his belt buckle.

The shower was more than a shower, as they both knew it would be. Vicky relished a wall against her back and felt small and delicate when Joe held her. As he pressed against her and held her to his waist, his face buried in her neck, he controlled her hips, the pace, the depth—everything, which she seemed to enjoy most of all. Walls and showers both were one of the staples of their lovemaking since the exact moment Vicky had whispered to him how it made her feel. He only needed to be told once.

At ten-thirty, Nate knocked on their door. Joe had a towel around his waist, and his hair was dripping down his back when he let his partner in. Vicky was in the bathroom drying off.

"You need a medic?" Nate asked as he looked at Joe, who was not wearing a shirt.

"Leave me alone. You don't know shit," Joe said mildly.

Joe could walk around all day without a shirt on and not be bothered in the least. Unless it was work or Vicky related, he was open and easygoing. He didn't have secrets, and it was nearly impossible to embarrass him. Out of respect for Vicky's privacy, he grabbed a black V-neck T-shirt to put on.

Walking to the other bedroom with the T-shirt, he reached for and lit a cigarette. Nate wandered into the room, following Joe. He had never smoked, but the smell didn't bother him.

Nate looked at him and winced. Joe had several flaming red teeth marks on one side of his neck and shoulder, and his back was... lacerated.

"Doesn't that _hurt_?" Nate asked Joe.

Joe turned around with a cigarette in his mouth. His head was slightly tilted to one side and one eye squinted as smoke lazily lifted and swirled up from the cigarette. He gazed at Nate, cocked a lazy smile, and winked.

"Absolutely," he said and then ducked his head down to put his T-shirt on.

Nate shook his head. It must be an Italian thing.

"If Roxie did that to me, I'd press charges," Nate muttered.

Joe laughed heartily and slapped Nate on the back as they walked into the other room. Vicky was just coming out of the bathroom, and she was wearing not much. Jumping back into the bathroom, she slammed the door quickly.

Joe struggled not to laugh, putting his head down for a second to secure it. He retrieved Vicky's knee-length silk robe and tapped on the bathroom door.

"Nate's here," Joe murmured through the door.

"Yeah, thanks for the heads up, asshole," she muttered through the door.

Clearing his throat, he tried to put on a serious face as he opened the bathroom door just enough to stick the robe through the crack. The robe was viciously ripped from his grasp, and he heard another string of expletives.

Vicky came out of the bathroom with the robe tightly cinched around her small waist, making it a point to glower at Joe when she came out. Joe grinned at her and shrugged.

"Sorry about that."

He threw on a pair of sweat pants and joined Vicky and Nate in the makeshift office.

Joe reported and updated first.

"Doctor Kosey Attah is gone. Stephanie ran him through all known museums and universities throughout the United States. He hasn't lectured at any in over a year. The University of Minnesota, where he's a professor, said he's been on sabbatical for fourteen months.

"He's not completely off the grid like Adam because he has a wife. We know he's been disengaged from the educational community for over a year but other than that, nothing's changed. The house payments are made, and the credit cards are being used. There's just no way of knowing if he or his wife is doing the purchasing. His driver's license is still up to date, but that doesn't mean shit. It's not due for renewal for another two years.

"I would really like to know if his wife knows he's not working and is covering for him, or if he's lying to her. I also want to know where in the hell he is. Was he home when you guys went there tonight, to interview Mrs. Attah?"

Vicky and Nate both looked at each other. Joe waited as Vicky cleared her throat.

"We didn't see him. She said he was still in New York. I'm not too confident about her mental health status, though," Vicky said.

Joe glanced up from his notes, interested. Vicky continued.

"She talked about the feeding path again, but she also talked about a white dog she's seen walking around with a bullet hole in its head. The dead maid, she's been seeing, too. We knew she was superstitious, but there are some other, more concerning things that I saw."

"Habits," Nate said.

Joe was perplexed and asked, "Habits?"

"Habits," Vicky confirmed before continuing.

"People are habitual creatures. Some may think they're not predictable, but they are. Habits and routines are a tool that can be used to determine someone's mental health. Every time we asked her where her husband was, she wiped off her hands. I asked her at different times with camouflaged wording and in alternating contexts; she always reacted the same. She wiped her hands on her dress. Her subconscious knows exactly where he is but her conscious mind doesn't. She had none of the liar's tells. When I asked, her conscious mind truthfully thought he _was_ in New York. Her subconscious mind _knows_ he's not, but she's hiding it from herself. She's mentally ill, and it's severe.

"I asked to use her bathroom and looked around. People have habits. If Kosey were spending time somewhere else, his habits would remain. He would take a toothbrush, shaving kit, fresh razors, comb, deodorant, or whatever. If she were covering up something she consciously knew, she would have kept the charade going—the items would've been missing. None of Kosey's stuff was gone—none of it. All of it had a fine coating of dust on it. He's gone, and he's not coming back and her subconscious knows that. Her conscious mind doesn't."

"Where does that leave us?"

"Subconscious elements leak out. Our minds strive for balance, homeostasis. When the subconscious and conscious are not in harmony, one will begin to leak information. It's akin to leaving breadcrumbs for the clueless part of your mind to find and deal with, catch up, so to speak. It's an attempt by your mind to come together again, reach homeostasis. Hallucinations, dreams, mementos left out... these are all common leaks. I pushed for the leak."

"You've got a freakishly smart Cuisinart here, my friend. She blows me away," Nate interjected before Vicky continued.

"I asked her to describe, in detail, the dog that she sees. The vision that she's having is not three-dimensional; it's two-dimensional. She's seeing the photos in the carriage house, Goliath and my father, both. She's been in the carriage house and looked around but doesn't remember it.

"The feeding path is important. She's adamant that we find it. I think she knows who is responsible for the carriage house and possibly the murders. She has a vision of the maid kneeling down on her knees and holding something. At first, she said it was a picture but then took it back saying it wasn't a picture. She says the maid never moves—she only kneels. I think she saw the maid when she was being photographed, and I think she took a souvenir to let it leak."

Joe leaned forward, transfixed. Her intelligence and skill still surprised him. He found it almost unbearably sexy, and his respect for her expertise soared right alongside of his libido.

"Vicky brought up the sock that was missing from the maid's clothes. Nothing else was missing. Joe, no shit, when Vicky prodded her about the sock, Fatimah started to sweat."

"She exhibited classical signs of deceptive behavior. There were long pauses, clearing her throat continuously, trying to change the subject, and she kept looking down and to the left. She knew about the sock. That leaked but where the sock had come from didn't. She's the one who took it from the crime scene but her insanity is blocking it out. Her fail safe would probably be to blame Kosey for bringing it into the house since she would have no conscious memory of doing it herself. It's a big leak, and it would've scared the shit out of her. She would've gotten rid of it to soothe herself. She would have thrown it away, burned it, and buried it or whatever. The maid was found just two days ago. I think you should assign the locals to garbage detail."

"Excellent. Excellent work, baby," Joe said, making a note to call the local enforcement.

Vicky stood up and yawned. It was close to midnight. She kissed Joe's neck as she passed him.

"That's all I've got. I'm going to bed. You guys do what you do; I've already done mine," she said tiredly and reached to close the pocket door behind her as she went into the other room.

Nate stood and walked to the pocket door, opening it back up all the way. Vicky being in a room alone was not going to happen. Joe gave him a nod of thanks.

They watched as Vicky tiredly slipped out of her robe and crawled into bed. Nate looked away when Vicky took her robe off which Joe also appreciated. She closed her eyes and fell into a deep slumber in only minutes.

Joe and Nate still had work left. Joe flipped open his phone and called the locals telling them to collect the neighbor's garbage immediately. He hoped the dumpster hadn't been emptied yet—the contents dumped in a landfill somewhere.

"There's a whole dumpster out there," one of the uniforms at the house whined.

Nate couldn't hear what the cop on the other end said, but he saw and heard Joe's reaction.

"Wake up whoever the fuck you have to wake up and get the dumpster into impound. If I come there in the morning, and that dumpster hasn't been in impound since—"

Joe looked at his watch.

"—zero two hundred then consider running. Consider it very seriously," Joe said.

He listened for just a minute longer and then snapped his phone shut. Nate could hear the cop on the other end still talking. Joe had no tolerance for people who didn't want to work as hard as he did—none at all.

Joe tossed the phone on the bed, leaned back in his chair and dry-scrubbed his face with his hands. He felt good, though he was wiped out and running on fumes. Things were going in the right direction, and his focus was back. He knew exactly whom he had to thank for that.

He lit a cigarette and started a fresh pot of coffee. Nate would be leaving soon, but Joe would still be up for hours, sorting, sifting, and thinking.

"So, how did it go? Did she get fussy?"

Nate shook his head.

"She did just what she said she would do. She didn't step away from me, argue with me, or try to dodge me. She's spooky-smart with that psychology shit," Nate added.

Nate paused for a moment while Joe took a drag from his cigarette and poured coffee.

"I figured for sure she was going to nut-stomp that cop, Leon. They would've splatted everywhere. I wondered why she wore hiking boots today," he commented blandly.

They looked at each other, and both started to laugh quietly. They talked about what she had done for a few minutes and then reminisced about what she had done to one of the female agents who had a thing for Joe at the New York office. The agent provoked Vicky into going in the kick boxing ring with her. Agents had swarmed the ring to watch, and it had not ended well for the female agent who underestimated Vicky due to her size. Vicky had barely broken a sweat.

After half an hour, Nate left for his own room to get some sleep. Two hours later, Joe left the makeshift office and closed the door behind him.

Taking off all of his clothes, he climbed into bed next to Vicky and pulled her warm, soft body next to his. They were skin to skin, Vicky's tiny thong doing nothing to interrupt the feeling. This was Joe's favorite time of the night or day. He loved when she was sleeping peacefully, and he could hold her, cuddle her, and stroke her hair.

He wondered if getting to beat the holy hell out of that miserable Leon would stop the nightmares, but he didn't think it would. Thankfully, they were getting less frequent but when she did have them, it was terrible. She would wake up screaming and crying, and he would hold her as she curled into a ball on his chest and cried until he had gently rocked her back to sleep.

Joe had been fortunate with his parents. They were loving, caring, and giving people that had made his childhood happy and safe. They would read him stories, and help him build forts. Insisting on good grades, they would sit with him for hours helping him through a tough assignment. His mother, highly educated, had done so all the way through his college years.

Vicky's life had been wholly alien to him. After a nightmare, she used to push him away and not let him touch her. She would curl into a ball, far on the other side of the bed and cry softly to herself. Joe found such a thing so unacceptable that it was confusing. If she hurt, he would comfort her. What other outcome could there be? That was just the way it _was;_ the way it was _supposed_ to be. He had never known any other response to pain. If you were hurting then you reached out to receive comfort. If someone else hurt then, you reached in to give comfort. There had never been any other reality for him.

Nightmare after nightmare, he would follow her across the bed and hold her, though she didn't want to be touched. One night, she had another nightmare and pushed him away. He couldn't stand it anymore, scooped her up onto his chest, and held her there, using his arms like a straitjacket. She had fought and kicked as she cried but, eventually, she had put her sweat-soaked head on his chest, still sobbing. He started to hum to her and rock her, saying nothing, and she had stilled and stayed there, awake all night, but quiet, at last accepting his comfort. That was the beginning of her letting him in.

His parents had taught him patience and perseverance in the face of anything would eventually win out. That was what he'd done with Vicky. The only redeeming feature of her childhood had been that she had never been molested. She was open with her body and her desires and felt no shame when she was with him. She could express her sexual needs with no embarrassment and she could reach out and take something when he didn't know she had a need for it. It was the only part of her life that had not been categorically shredded. Joe was thankful for the one, small, part of her that could still trust.

Reaching up, he stroked her hair. She made a sleepy humming sound, and he smiled gently. After seeing all the pictures of Goliath and her father today, he was afraid that she would have a nightmare. Sometimes, he had found that he could head them off. When he knew she was remembering, he would soothe her when she slept. He had known from the second he had stepped into that damnable carriage house today that he was going to try to stave off the nightmares tonight.

He hummed to her and gently rocked her as she slept. Turning toward him, still asleep, she curled against his chest. Holding her, he rocked her gently while she tucked her head down; completing the ball that usually came before the nightmares. He kept humming to her, and caressing her hair and her face as he rocked her, hoping there would be no nightmare tonight.

Joe wished with his whole heart, for the rest of Leon Hatch's miserable life, he had nightmares about Vicky O'Connell beating the ever-loving shit out of him.

"I'm going to marry you," Joe whispered to Vicky as he rocked her and gently stroked her face.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

The nightmare hit around four o'clock in the morning, and it was a bad one.

Vicky sat straight up in bed piercing the night with shrieks. Joe jumped up and tried to hold her, but she was stuck in the nightmare. Bolting out of bed, almost falling, she ran and hid under the small table in a fetal position, still screaming that she had killed him. Joe heard Nate pounding on the door, demanding to be let in.

"It's nothing!" Joe yelled to Nate, trying desperately to protect Vicky's privacy.

He started crawling under the table to her but Nate pounded harder, threatening to break the door down. Looking at Vicky's round, terrified eyes and hearing her screams, he knew. This was one of the bad ones. He was going to burn that goddamn carriage house to the ground.

Running to the door, he flung it open and told Nate to shut it behind him. He ran back to Vicky, grabbing the bedspread off the bed as he ran.

Nate was standing in the doorway wearing only pajama bottoms with his gun on the level, ready to shoot anyone who didn't belong in the room. The god-awful desperation in the screams was like nothing he'd ever heard before.

Vicky was crouched under the table, screaming and crying and yelling that she'd killed him. Joe was at her side within half a second, covering her with the blanket, and picking her up in one swoop as though she were a matchstick.

"No, you didn't, no you didn't, no you didn't..." Joe said to her as he walked back and forth with her in his arms, curling her to his chest.

Her eyes were bigger than Nate had ever seen them before, complete circles. There was sweat pouring off her, and she was fighting against Joe, screaming louder.

"I KILLED HIM! I KILLED HIM! I KILLED HIM!"

"No, you didn't. No, you didn't. No, you didn't. Baby, it was a dream; it was a dream—you're okay; you're going to be all right. I got you; I got you, _shhhh-shhhh..._ I got you. It was just a dream, a really bad dream—you're safe—you're going to be okay."

Joe glanced at Nate, who was standing in the doorway, frozen.

"Shut that fucking door!" Joe barked at him.

Nate snapped out of it and quickly shut the door. He didn't know what to do. He was sure there was something he should be doing, but he had no idea what.

Vicky's eyes were seeing Joe now. She was out of the dream but far from its being over.

"I got him killed. I did it. It was my fault—my fault... I got him killed..." Vicky said, her voice only marginally quieter than the previous screaming.

"Baby, you didn't. You didn't. He loved you—he was protecting you. You didn't do it; you didn't do it. It's not your fault, _shhh-shhhh_ ; it's not your fault, baby, no, no, no... not your fault..."

Vicky could barely speak anymore, her crying desperate and consuming. Crying out with her face pointed at the ceiling, she was almost howling as she wept with grief. She was completely limp in Joe's arms, her head hanging loose, as if she was unconscious, but she was wailing.

Joe kept walking with her in his arms, back and forth, back and forth, contradicting her every word, telling her continually the same things... but she didn't seem to hear. She seemed unable to hear or comprehend.

Nate could feel tears stinging his eyes as he watched, horrified and confused. Glancing at Joe, he saw that his partner's eyes were dripping tears onto Vicky's face as he held her and walked with her. After twenty minutes had passed, Joe thought it was safe to put her down. That had been a hard lesson for him to learn, but it had only taken him one time to learn it. When it was this bad, she would bolt to hide anywhere, still trying to escape from the dream. She had bolted from the house once and had damn near broken her ankle on the steps. Since then, he held her until she was safely and completely out of the dream.

Nate went to the pocket door and opened it. He stayed sitting in there, watching but from a distance, there if Joe needed any help. What he saw was one of the most heartbreaking things he had ever witnessed, and it seared into his mind, never to be forgotten.

He watched as his partner sat on the floor with her still in his arms. She was crying heavily now, but nowhere near screaming or wailing.

"I got him killed... I got him killed... Joe, what am I going to do? I got him killed... I got him killed."

"No, you didn't, baby. Stay with me... stay with me..." Joe said to her as he cradled her in his arms.

She went from having almost no muscular control at all to curling up into a tight, tiny ball. Her head was tucked so tightly far down that Nate didn't know how she could breathe. Joe held her, pulled her hair away from her face, kissed her, and whispered to her. The entire time, he was rocking her gently, side to side, side to side, his upper body swaying continuously back and forth like a pendulum.

"Baby, it's not your fault; it's not your fault, don't go. None of it was your fault; none of it... stay here. Don't go—stay with me," Joe whispered to her with a pleading urgency in his voice. He repeatedly tucked her hair out of her face, caressed her, and rubbed her back while endlessly rocking her.

Forty-five minutes later, Vicky was silent. Her eyes had a wide, blank stare, and she was fully inert. It looked to Nate like shock or catatonia. Joe carefully reached under her chin and lifted her face up. She put it back down. Cupping her chin again, he would gently pull it up. She would put it back down. Still, he rocked her. He began to hum softly to her as well, knowing that she had drifted too far away to comprehend words anymore. He hummed to her knowing that eventually the comfort would reach her. She would begin to drift toward it, follow it vaguely out of the blackness, not really understanding it in thought but knowing that she needed to follow it—that it would lead her back to him... in time.

Joe's eyes were closed as he rocked her and hummed to her, but every minute or two, he would reach for her chin and gently pull it up. She would tuck it back down. He would hum to her, rock her with his eyes closed, and then lift her chin again.

After half an hour of consistently lifting her chin and her putting it back down, it started to take her longer to tuck it. She would rest her head on Joe's chest for a long moment, her eyes still perfectly round and blank as he rocked and hummed. After the moment had passed, she would lower her head again.

After another half an hour, she was keeping her head up and on Joe's chest. Back and forth, he swayed as he touched her, caressed her, kissed her, and hummed. Continually, he hummed. He stroked her hair with his hand, pulling it away from her face occasionally before returning to stroking it gently and without pause. He hummed, and he rocked. Her eyes were big and round, but she saw nothing.

An hour later, she was lying with her head on Joe's chest, and her eyes closed. She began to hum with him.

She had found him in the blackness.

Nate and Joe silently wiped tears from their eyes when they heard it. Haltingly, she followed Joe's tune, barely perceptible but there. With her eyes closed, she reached out blindly for him, knowing he would be there. She held onto his neck with one of her small hands.

Forty-five minutes later, she stopped humming. Her face was resting on his chest, and her hand had fallen from his neck. Looking down at her, he whispered to her. She was sleeping, but it didn't seem to matter to Joe.

"You didn't do anything wrong, baby... you never did. It wasn't your fault—it was never your fault. You're getting better, a lot better. It's going to stop soon. It will be over soon, and there will be no more nightmares, Victoria. You are so beautiful, and I love you so much... you never did anything wrong. It wasn't your fault. Victoria, none of this is your fault."

Nate looked at them from the office. He had not known a man could love someone that deeply or be that gentle. He had also not known that a nightmare could so thoroughly terrorize someone that it would put them into a catatonic state. It scared the hell out of Nate. He didn't know Vicky had nightmares let alone like this. His partner protected her privacy the same as he protected everything else about her.

Nate watched as Joe stood up and carefully placed Vicky in bed a full four hours after her nightmare woke her. He watched her for a time, making sure she was going to stay asleep. At last, satisfied, he turned and walked into the office and headed straight for the cigarettes.

Nate watched him as he lit one, his hands shaking and trembling. Taking a long drag, he held the smoke in his lungs for what seemed like minutes before gently exhaling toward the ceiling. Joe peaked at Vicky one more time, making sure she was still sleeping and then returned to the office and sat down.

"You called her Victoria."

Joe smoked his cigarette and looked at Nate for a minute before he answered.

"Vicky is everyone's. Victoria is mine," he said with a flash of something dangerous and inexplicably fierce in his eyes.

"That was the saddest thing that I've ever seen," Nate said.

"Hmmm..." Joe said vaguely. "She's had worse—not always but sometimes."

They were both quiet as they thought.

"She dreams that Goliath has been killed. She looks down, and she's holding the gun," Joe said before taking another long drag from the cigarette.

Joe peered at Nate quizzically, squinting one eye.

"You know what penance is—maybe the act of contrition?"

"It's a Catholic thing is all I know."

Joe nodded, leaning forward on his knees with his head down and looking at the floor.

"The act of contrition is when you seek forgiveness for your sins through confession. Penance is what the priest tells you to do to make up for your sins and prove that you're sorry. Penance is usually reciting Hail Mary's and Our Fathers but, not always. Sometimes a deed needs to be carried out to prove you're repenting and won't do it again. It has the tremendous potential to be, quite possibly, the biggest and most deeply imbedded mind-fuck that was ever created. I am telling you right now; Catholic guilt is like no other, _especially_ if you're raised with it—steeped and percolated in it as you grow and develop. It's the endless repetition that embeds it and buries it in your subconscious forever, always just a sin away from the kind of guilt that will fuck your mind right to the brink," Joe paused and looked at his hands.

"Did you know that her dogs are named after saints—Michael, Simon, Theresa?"

"I—I didn't know that," Nate said, surprised.

Joe's eyes were full of torment.

"We were both born and raised Catholic. We went to Catholic school all twelve years, the both of us. We grew up, every week of every month of every year asking for forgiveness and then doing penance to prove we were sorry for our sins. Every sin... not finishing supper and being wasteful, thinking a mean thought about someone else, not honoring your parents because you forgot to do your chores, being slothful by not studying as hard as you could, being envious by wishing you had a car like your friend's car. Every week for twelve years, every tiny imperfection we were held accountable for and needed to seek forgiveness for, and if you _didn't_ dig out every sin you had committed in the last week and took communion? Well... that was a sin, too."

Joe took a long drag from his cigarette and then turned it sideways in his hand, blankly watching the smoke curl ever upwards, deep in thought.

"Her nightmares will never end. It's been twenty-five years, and she's still doing her penance for the greatest sin she feels she's ever committed," Joe said, closing his eyes.

"It will never end for her. She will punish herself with nightmares, using them as a penance to prove that she's sorry. She's convinced that Goliath being killed was her fault, and she'll never stop asking for forgiveness, but the forgiveness will never come. The penance has no end... she can never prove that she's sorry enough times for it to be over."

"How could she ever think it's her fault? That's _bullshit,_ " Nate said angrily.

"She thinks she should have grabbed Leon Hatch's gun. She thinks she should have stayed in the house. She thinks she should have gotten a better grade in geography. Mostly, though, she thinks she shouldn't have screamed. She would have been killed, but Goliath would've lived. By screaming, she thinks she chose her life over his and betrayed the only one that loved or protected her in seventeen years. In her mind, it's a sin that can never _be_ forgiven, but she's been trained to seek forgiveness and to keep seeking it, without end, until she's absolved. Let the mind fuck begin."

Nate and Joe sat in silence for a while and then Joe stood up and rubbed his eyes.

"She won't remember most of it. Usually, she doesn't only bits and pieces. She won't know you were here. Keep it that way."

Nate nodded.

"Skip the wake-up call. We're going to sleep in tomorrow; she'll be exhausted in the morning," Joe said.

He looked at Nate, all humor gone.

"You have no idea how bad I wish she had nut-stomped that son of a bitch who killed Goliath."

"...with both feet," Nate said with grave sincerity.

Nate left as Joe was crawling into bed with her. He looked back once as he turned to shut the door behind him. Joe had begun smoothing her hair softly and whispering to her once again as she slept on.

# # #

Nate was working the crime scene all morning. He had no plans on calling Joe or Vicky. If they were up to it, they'd drive out; otherwise, they could just cope with the night before.

Nate struggled to fall asleep after returning to his room last night. He felt jacked up and had paced for over half an hour. Eventually, he tried to get a couple of hours sleep but wound up with only one.

When he did get up, he thought about Vicky. He had not known there was a whole other side of her that he knew nothing about. Clearly, Joe did. Nate was relieved that she had his partner. If anyone ever possessed the tenacious patience and perseverance that Joe had, Nate had never met them.

As he showered and ate breakfast, he kept thinking about Vicky and the nightmare. It had confused and terrified him, especially because it was Vicky. She was the most solid, unshakable, unmovable woman he had ever met. And smart—the woman was unbelievably intelligent in a spooky—she knows _way_ too much about psychology—kind of way. She observed Fatimah for a couple of minutes, talking casually about nothing much. That's what Nate thought at the time anyway. Soon, he started noticing that Vicky was rewording and re-asking what seemed to be harmless and pointless questions. It was subtle and well camouflaged but continuous, and Nate started to pay attention.

Vicky didn't take any notes during the hour-long interview. She didn't need to—she absorbed the answers like a sponge. What impressed him was her ability to look at all the pieces she was gathering and fit them together on the fly. Then, she would use those assembled pieces to get additional information. It was as though she were wearing night-vision goggles, and the rest of the world mucked around in the dark, seeing nothing of what was easily visible to her.

After the interview, on the car ride to the hotel, she was quiet, which was vintage Vicky. Outgoing and warm by nature, Nate always ignored her introverted tendencies. He pelted her with questions about what she saw, what she had learned, and how she had learned it. She quietly and demurely answered all of his questions. Not shy, she just didn't do much pitter-patter talking. Usually, she was thinking, analyzing, or calculating and felt no desire or obligation to abandon her thoughts and entertain someone with filler conversation.

Through his prodding, she explained to him in layman's terms what she observed and determined about Fatimah Attah. Nate was startled and a little—maybe a lot—unnerved by her powers of observation and deduction. The information she had gathered from Fatimah had truly benefited the case. He had seen her head shrink before, but Joe had always been there at the helm, so Nate's focus was usually on other things. This time Joe wasn't there, and Nate got an up close and personal view of Vicky's approach and style. It was both amazing and alarming to watch.

Then last night happened. Nate unexpectedly had witnessed a hellish, haunted side of her that he hadn't known existed. He was stunned and momentarily frozen. She was smart, stable, and independent—small but definitely able to take care of herself. Seeing her helpless and terrorized in that nightmare had... _bent_ his perception of her. It would never be the same again.

Huge pieces of the puzzle fell into place in just one night. Seeing the latest victims and knowing Vicky had endured abuse as a child had been surprising to Nate, but she showed no signs of any lasting trauma. He figured she was just that tough. She was Vicky, for Christ's sake. When she showed no reaction to the victims or the mansion she grew up in, the skeleton hanging in her attic, or the wretched carriage house, Nate had thought it was because she was unable to be dented. Nothing stopped her. Nothing slowed her down. Nothing deterred her.

Then last night happened. She was stopped—dead in her tracks—and brought right to her goddamn knees. It had careened her off into a blackness that was complete and total, and Nate feared she had lost her mind, those big, round eyes seeing nothing... nothing at all but the blackness for long hours. Her eyes and the _goneness_ of her had hit Nate with unbridled horror that he never wanted to feel again. It was as though he had watched her die, be _murdered,_ right in front of him with no target that he could aim his gun at to protect her. Nate hadn't known it was possible for someone to be so shattered. She was ripped apart—shredded really—and then blown to the four corners. She was wholly and fully broken. When he thought of the unholy and terrible howling sound she had made of pure, unrestrained pain, he shivered, and it raised the hair on his arms. She was not indestructible. He hadn't had a clue.

It explained Joe's behavior. Nate had never understood why Joe was so fiercely protective of someone who could take care of herself. Nate hadn't known why Joe looked at her sometimes as if she were glass when she was obviously steel. Even yesterday when Joe had casually mentioned that he hoped she didn't have a nightmare, Nate brushed it off as Joe being Joe. Everyone had nightmares, and Nate thought he was being petty and Vicky-obsessed to be concerned over something that trivial.

Then last night happened. Nate felt stupid, clumsy, and blind. His partner wasn't a worrier—if Joe worried, it was justified. Vicky wasn't made of Teflon... no one was. Joe treated her like glass because he had seen her like glass, shattered and in pieces with no hope. Nate was embarrassed when he remembered the day before, and his making sure that Joe wasn't hurting her in their bedroom forays. After last night, he was ashamed to have even had such a thought. The man took four long, excruciating hours to gently and consistently, one baby step at a time, pull her back to him. Thinking about it made Nate want to cry like a damn baby. Joe was right—he didn't know shit.

Nate was huddling with a gaggle of uniforms. He was ranking agent on site, hence, all of them reported to him. Assigning different duties to the officers, he was getting to know their talents and names. He gave some of the useless uniforms assignments that they couldn't screw up. The sharper uniforms, Nate instructed to continue their work in the carriage house and the evidence collection. The most reliable and intelligent officers, he told to find the feeding path. It was important; he didn't want some lazy, impotent officer coming up to him, and whining it wasn't there. It was there, and it needed to be found by people who knew enough not to trample all over new evidence.

After each officer had been assigned their duties and told when and where to meet back for a briefing, they scattered. Nate sighed and took a moment to appreciate the silence. He didn't mind being left in charge, but he didn't want a steady diet of it. The details were endless, the responsibilities daunting, and he liked to focus and dig in on one thing. Joe was freakishly adept at digging in and focusing on thirty things. Nate ran things through two or three times and then made a call whereas Joe would run it through once, at blinding speed, and make a call. It was, without fail, the right call.

Walking toward the carriage house to oversee the uniforms, he watched Joe's rental pull into the driveway. He changed directions and headed for the car, a mild sense of relief and freedom washing over him.

Joe was in his usual loose jeans and sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed part way up over developed and corded forearms. Vicky wore dark blue jeans that fit like a glove and a little white V-neck T-shirt that showed the smallest bit of her abdomen. Over the small T-shirt, she wore one of Joe's button-up shirts opened loosely, and when she walked, the sides of the oversized shirt billowed out. Surprisingly, she was wearing make-up.

Another piece fell into place. Occasionally, she would show up to a crime scene in one of Joe's shirts and wearing make-up. Looking back, Nate realized the make-up always went with Joe's shirt—never one without the other. Now he knew why. Make-up hid the dark circles under her eyes, and the shirt held her and comforted her through the day when Joe couldn't be next to her. Aside from the make-up and wearing Joe's shirt, they both acted completely normal, walking and talking the same as always. If Nate hadn't been in the room to witness last night's events, he never would have guessed anything had happened at all.

Nate nodded to them and then turned toward Vicky.

"How's the knee?"

"Better than Leon's face."

Nate grinned at her.

"What?"

"They found the sock. It was in the garbage where you said it'd be."

"I do what I can," Vicky said, bowing cordially.

Joe tilted his head and lit a cigarette, puffing out a cloud of smoke. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his hands shook. Nate knew it was from exhaustion, every single kind of exhaustion there was. When Nate left their room last night, Joe had continued to comfort Vicky, though she had gone back to sleep. Joe had not slept for close to thirty hours and the emotional toll, body count, and personal threat level of this case was staggering. Joe was living, breathing, and walking through DEFCON 1. Nate looked at him, wondering how he generated strength from thin air.

"Are you on the warrant?"

"Are you picking a fight with me?"

"Are you on the warrant?"

"Yes, I'm on the goddamn warrant. It's here already, signed and impressively vague, just the way I like them."

Joe nodded and asked, "What about the trail?"

"They're working it now."

"The carriage house?"

"It's being processed."

"Have you called Darin for results?"

"No answer—I left him a message, and I'll try again this afternoon."

"Any information about the crime scene photos from the carriage house walls?"

"They weren't in the police file; the ones in the carriage house are the originals. Someone bought them from a retired cop who had a habit of selling evidence. The cop's prints were lifted from a couple of the photos, but he died last year from a heart attack. No lead on who bought them, and no suspicious prints on the photos. It's a dead end."

Joe sighed. He had figured it would be.

"Find anything on the break in three years ago?"

"Copies of the reports are being delivered to the hotel. It'll be waiting at the front desk."

"Excellent."

They started walking toward the neighbor's house. As a rule, they didn't trust anyone to do the job as well as they could. That rule became a law when the people were borrowed. They were going to oversee the evidence collection of the house next door.

Joe was exhausted but sharp and focused with a clear course. For pure, raw, and unquestionable power as a leader, there was no one better, tougher, or more thorough and demanding than Joe. He was on the scene, and everything went through him now. Joe looked at Nate and then at Vicky. He spoke to Nate.

"Same thing today—no mistakes; it's been three days since his last victim, and he's going to be headed straight for her," he said. Taking a final drag from his cigarette, he flicked the butt away, blowing out the last of the smoke.

They were quiet as they walked, a subtle tension blanketing them. The killer was about to make his move, and they all knew it.

"Gimme," Joe murmured softly and Nate saw Vicky slip her hand into his. Joe held it to his stomach.

Nate smiled subtly. He loved his family.

# # #

There were half a dozen forensic techs collecting evidence at the Attah house. The search warrant had been loose, and they were able to gather a lot of potential evidence.

The house was full of vibrant color. The walls had brightly colored paintings on them, and the couch held vivid, multi-colored pillows, the walls painted in reds and yellows. The rooms were tastefully invigorating and unique, Fatimah's artistic talents evident.

Vicky started to wander off, and Nate stepped to her side. Joe noted that his holster was unsnapped, and he subtly checked every room before he allowed Vicky to enter. Everything about the investigation was blocked out for Nate. Right now, he was on protection detail, and that was exactly what he was doing. Joe turned away, satisfied.

Fatimah was in custody, and awaiting her embassy representative in lock-up. She would not be interviewed about the victim's sock in her garbage until she was represented. The prosecutors were beginning to prepare in case Fatimah had, in fact, killed the maid though Vicky knew she had not. The killer was still out there.

Walking around, Joe watched the techs collect evidence. They didn't like it. He didn't care. They seemed to be a competent group, but he did see one or two procedural mistakes that were minor. He pointed them out though, wanting everyone in the house to know that he knew exactly how a scene should be processed, and there would be no shortcuts or walks on a technicality.

After observing and irritating the techs for over an hour, Joe wandered over to the art studio where Nate and Vicky were. He leaned against the doorway quietly and watched.

Nate's head was on the swivel watching all of the people coming and going, repeatedly looking out the windows as well. Vicky, true to her word, did whatever Nate asked of her. Joe watched as Vicky turned to Nate and said something, pointing at several paintings that were on the floor, leaning against the wall. Nate followed as she started walking toward them.

The twenty or so paintings she was going through were incomplete and of varying sizes and shapes. From the doorway, Joe glanced around the room. There were dozens of shelves holding paints, jars, brushes, and innumerable other art supplies. Large rolls of canvases were in an opened metal storage cabinet. The big, square table in the center of the room had scratches and paint stains on it as well as dried clay. Vicky saw none of that.

Wandering over to an unfinished painting, she ran her hands over the painted part of the canvas several times. Picking through the paintings, she did the same thing to each one. She glanced up and around at the shelves, drawn to the jars. Still and quiet, she looked at them for a long time.

Joe's eyes narrowed as he watched her move. She had a light, feathery touch. It appeared as if she was just wandering around, bored, doing nothing but Joe knew her, and he knew that wasn't what she was doing. She was thinking... hard. Walking slowly, she went to the window, and gazed at the many flowers that were planted outside. She stayed there, unmoving, for several minutes as she thought.

Turning from the window, she walked to a shelf that was waist high and picked up a large, thick stone bowl that looked like it was made of black granite. Resting in the bowl was a matching granite pestle. Joe watched Nate carefully, but his partner did not offer to lift the heavy bowl and Joe nodded to himself in approval. His hands needed to be available and ready every second—no mistakes.

Joe kept watching her from the doorway. Two other, smaller, bowls were on the shelf, but she had chosen the largest. She carried the stone bowl that had to have weighed over thirty pounds to the worktable in the center of the room. He was surprised when she broke protocol and took off one of her gloves, touching the inside of the bowl. She rubbed the dusty grit from the bowl between her thumb and forefinger. Pausing, she then bent from the waist, stuck her whole face into it, and smelled. Looking up from the bowl, she shot a glance toward the window and all the flowers outside again.

She didn't move for a couple of minutes. Joe watched her stillness with silence and patience. Still leaning against the doorway, he put his hands into his deep jeans' pockets and waited. After a few minutes, Vicky put her glove back on and walked directly to the thick and long shelf with many jars on it, all in varying sizes. She went straight to the biggest one first and picked it up—a clear gallon jar that was half-full. Holding it right up to her face, she squinted through the dusty, cloudy glass at the contents, rotating the jar as she watched the material move. Setting the jar on the table, she returned to the other jars, peering at each one of them closely but picking up none of them.

Joe walked toward her, relaxed, hands still in his pockets. He came up behind her and reached around with one hand, putting it on her flat stomach and holding her to him. He dragged his other hand across the back of her neck, scooping all of her hair up and over one shoulder as he lowered his mouth to her ear.

"What do you see, Victoria?" he whispered.

She turned her head to the side to answer him but didn't turn around to face him.

"I think she's grinding up the bones of her husband and using them to add texture to her paintings," Vicky said.

# CHAPTER NINE

The room's air conditioner set on arctic; Joe was glad he wore a heavy sweatshirt. Nate and he chatted as they waited for Fatimah and her representative to show up in the room on the other side of the glass. Vicky sat patiently at the table in the observation room.

Joe winced as he took another drink of the swampy coffee a uniform had given him. Cop coffee was the same no matter what state you were in he thought dismally. He watched as someone walked into the interview room and offered Vicky a cup of the sludge. She turned it down and asked for tea. The young uniform returned shortly with a Styrofoam cup that had a small tag hanging over the rim. Vicky dunked the teabag up and down as she waited.

The door on the other side of the glass opened and Fatimah—along with her representative—walked in. The African woman was in an orange jumpsuit, and her headscarf was gone revealing very short black hair. As the woman walked, she still gave the impression of quiet royalty and elegance.

Vicky stood up to shake her hand and then they both took a seat, Fatimah's representative sitting beside her.

"I was happy to grant your request. I enjoyed talking to you before, Miss O'Connell," Fatimah said, nodding slightly toward Vicky.

"Fatimah, just call me Vicky," she said, smiling openly.

There were several short exchanges concerning each other's welfare and Fatimah expressed confusion about why she was in jail. Vicky offered an appropriate amount of sympathy and then began to steer her gently.

Vicky pushed a drawing pad of paper and package of charcoal pencils across the table to Fatimah.

"I found these in your studio and thought it might help pass your time and relax you."

Fatimah smiled, pleased with the offering. She pulled the pad and pencils to her but did not open the case of pencils.

"I would be truly honored if you would sketch me something, Fatimah. Your talent is extraordinary."

Fatimah raised her eyebrows, surprised by the bold request. Her paintings and drawings were quite expensive. She did like this woman though. Walking as though she were a warrior, she took long strides with her back straight and tall. Fatimah paused and then smiled gently, and withdrew a pencil.

Vicky talked to her loosely as the woman drew. Fatimah seemed relaxed as she sketched, and her tone sounded subdued and tranquil.

Vicky said she would be utilizing a short cut today, and Joe understood. Drawing and doodling were a direct and powerful link into the subconscious. Vicky would be able to see the leaks as she talked.

"I am so envious of you. You and Kosey have seen and experienced many different kinds of cultures. What part of Africa did you grow up in?"

"Namibia, on the coast of the south Atlantic... it was a small town and quite beautiful," she said wistfully as she sketched.

Vicky asked enjoyable questions about the ocean's smells and the feel of sand on Fatimah's feet as a child. Joe watched as Vicky completely surrounded and manipulated Fatimah into a safe and secure place that she was familiar and happy with. Fatimah's guard needed to be brought down.

Vicky talked about the separate cultures of America and Africa and asked Fatimah about the differences she liked and didn't like. She asked if Fatimah thought Americans were as spiritual as the people in her homeland were.

Vicky's questions were carefully crafted to elevate Fatimah's status; she wanted her to feel regal, arrogant next to the fumbling and buffoonish Americans. She needed to strip away any assimilation that Fatimah had experienced in America. It was important that Fatimah be reminded of and encouraged to embrace her culture's superstitions and beliefs. Vicky needed them to be bright and pure, not washed out and questioned.

Fatimah finished her sketch and set it aside. Without thinking, she started a new sketch. Vicky knew she would. Fatimah talked of the differences she saw in the cultures, elaborating on it and then falling silent. Vicky gently prodded her and the woman began talking again, longer and more in depth.

Nate answered his ringing telephone and left the observation room, closing the door behind him. Joe pulled a chair up to the one-way observation glass and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest and putting his feet against the wall. He watched and listened intently.

Vicky talked about Christianity and the culture that went with it. She talked about angels and demons, catechism and demons, mass and demons, Easter and demons. Vicky talked and talked, asking Fatimah vague questions to keep her participating. With every turn of the conversation, Vicky brought up demons. Vicky expressed a bogus fear of demons and asked Fatimah if she feared them. She told stories about demons and asked if Fatimah believed in the stories. Vicky told her how she feared the vision Fatimah had with the man who had his throat ripped out was really a demon and did Fatimah think it was a demon?

It was important to establish to Fatimah that Vicky was deeply superstitious and spiritual. Fatimah needed to feel as though Vicky were a sister-believer, not a shallow and brash American. It didn't matter that the belief systems were different; what mattered was that they were both believers of the unseen. Fatimah needed to believe that Vicky thought the supernatural was natural and a matter of course.

Fatimah was manipulated into keeping and magnifying her separation from the Americans. She was also manipulated into bringing Vicky along with her. Fatimah started to refer to Vicky and herself as "we" while speaking of the Americans as "they."

Then Vicky did her first dive, and it was perfect with nary a splash.

"We found the feeding path, Fatimah. You were right. It was there all along. We found it deep in the woods behind the carriage house. There was a button on the trail, too. It looks like it came off a man's sports jacket."

Vicky had officially bridged over. Fatimah would talk to her freely, without censor about her visions, superstitions, and beliefs. Vicky brought up the button to irritate the leaking process from Fatimah's subconscious. Vicky prodded and poked at the itch in Fatimah's mind—her husband. Now, Vicky was allowed to walk into the area of Fatimah's mind where her insanity hid, where the leaks happened—where the frightening knowledge was stored, separate from all the rest.

Fatimah finished her fourth sketch. Signing it, she reached for another piece of paper.

"I told you there would be a feeding path. There's always a feeding path," she said her brow furrowing as she sketched on.

"I think someone's using the feeding path. I think you're right about that, too, Fatimah," Vicky said softly.

Fatimah said nothing and did not look up from her sketch. Vicky waited.

From the other room, Joe observed Fatimah's reactions and Vicky's subtle steering and nurturing of Fatimah's leak. Through all of it, she sketched directly from her subconscious without knowing it.

At first, Nate was frustrated and irritated with the approach that Vicky chose. He wanted a direct, baseball bat to the head type of approach.

"Bring the damn jar with her husband's bones in it and force her to see them. Shove it in her face. Tell her the lab already confirmed the stuff is human remains. Just tell her. We know she saw who killed the maid. It wasn't a damn vision—she _saw_ it. Just push her for Christ's sake, threaten her with being charged as an accessory," he had said.

"You can't bully someone into sanity in an hour or two, Nate. It takes months and years, and sometimes it _never_ happens. She can stay crazy, and I can still get everything I need. I will _not_ confront her delusions about her husband or her hallucinations about the carriage house photos and the maid. It's not going to happen. It would completely shut her down and push her further away.

"I'm going to be going in through the back door. She's going to be relaxed, and her mind will roam while there's a pencil in her hand. When she listens to me, she's barely going to be thinking about what she's drawing. She killed her husband. That's done. She's bat shit crazy. That's done, too, but I don't need her sanity. She's going to draw a sketch of the person she saw taking that picture for the scrapbook. I'm going to trick her and back door her into doing it. Bullying her will get us exactly dick."

Nate had been silent for several minutes and thought about what she had said and then apologized. Joe was glad he did. He should have.

Joe took another sip of the scummy and oily coffee and set the cup down. Nate came back into the room, and Joe glanced up at him but did an immediate double take.

Bracing for the bad news written all over Nate's face, Joe asked, "What?"

"That was the morgue. It was an ass-chewing call. They said the next time we keep the examiner this long to call them; they need notice to cover for him."

Confused, Joe asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Looking grim, Nate said, "I called Darin's office, and there's still no answer. I rang the switch desk, and they patched me through to the examiner's assistant. He said that Darin was with us. I asked him what the fuck he was talking about, and he said Darin hasn't been back since he left for the crime scene down here."

After two slow and grueling hours of talking with Fatimah, the interview was over. Vicky solidified their roles by thanking her profusely for her time and insight. Vicky opened the door for Fatimah to leave the room and gave a slight but noticeable bow to the African woman as she left. Fatimah nodded to Vicky, as though she were a good servant and then left the room with her head elevated, and her manner relaxed but slightly arrogant.

Vicky collected the sketches and looked at each one closely. Some were not relevant to what she sought while others were extremely informative and helpful.

Exhausted but with sketches in hand, she went into the observation room where Nate and Joe waited. Entering the room, she was surprised by their urgent activity. They talked into their phones that were pinned to their ears with lifted shoulders as they wrote the information on legal pads. Watching and listening curiously, she sat down.

After ten more minutes, both men were off the phone at the same time. They exchanged information as Vicky listened.

"They said the GPS signal isn't showing up. It probably got ripped out or maybe the van was burned," Nate reported to Joe.

"The uniform guarding Roxie hasn't noticed anything unusual. We know he made it far enough to bring Roxie home. The intervention had to be somewhere between Roxie's house and the morgue. After that, the guy could've driven the van anywhere," Joe said.

"I put a call in to the Minneapolis bureau, and they're going to take care of every law enforcement impound. The private junk yards are going to be harder, but they're on it. It's going to take a while," Nate said.

"They're sending a uniform over to his house to see if he's there, and if anything was tampered with," Nate added.

Joe looked down at his legal pad, quickly reading through all of his notes.

"BOLO?"

Nate nodded, "First thing."

They both peered at their legal pads and were silent.

Reluctantly, Joe asked, "Morgues?"

Nate nodded, "Second thing."

Joe thought for a minute longer before setting his pen down and turning to Vicky.

"Darin is missing. The last time we can confirm any kind of a visual was when he left Roxie's house."

"With the skeleton," Vicky added.

Joe looked at her silently and waited. He waited for her to talk. He waited for Nate's phone to ring. He waited for his own phone to ring. He waited for any kind of information at all, from anyone. He knew Nate was empty. He knew Vicky wasn't. He waited.

Vicky glanced down at the several sketches that Fatimah had drawn. Joe and Nate leaned over to see as she laid out three sketches that were different, but oddly similar in feeling.

"She drew this one when we were talking about demons," she said, placing a fingertip on the first drawing.

It was surprisingly detailed and a beautiful sketch of a devil's face. It had the traditional horns, and its teeth were bared; the nose wrinkled to show its ferocity. The eyes were piercing and squinted with menace while wafts of smoke curled out of its nose, the face elongated.

"She drew this one when we talked about the feeding path and the beast that walks it," Vicky said, pointing to the second sketch.

It was a stunning sketch though it had an incredibly sinister feel emanating from it. It was a sketch of a man-thing walking at night. The shadows and smoky fog she drew surrounding the man-thing added to the disturbing image. It had a long monkey-like tail trailing behind it, and it walked hunched over adding to the appearance of it being inhuman and beastly. It was a side profile sketch, and the single ear showing came to a point. The profile showed bared teeth and dripping saliva that reflected moonlight off the canine tooth convincingly.

"This is what she drew when I talked about her visions of seeing the maid. This one took the longest to draw. She stopped frequently and put her pencil down. She didn't want to draw it, but we kept talking, and she leaked it out."

It was a remarkable sketch but by far the most disturbing of the three. It was a large drawing of a camera. The camera border and shape were firm and precise, beautifully drawn with highlights and lowlights perfectly placed. In the center of the glass lens of the camera was a man's face slightly blurred and distorted in a strange convex shape. It looked like the face was being viewed through a peephole in a door. The nose was perfectly oversized, and the ears convincingly undersized, emphasizing the funhouse distortion. His eyes poured evil out from them, and the small smile on his face dripped with hate and menace.

Vicky was silent and let both men scrutinize each picture closely, thinking.

"They're all the same face," Nate said.

Vicky silently agreed.

Joe asked, "Why does it look so familiar?"

"Because it's my brother," Vicky said.

# # #

Joe was open when it came to different avenues of information, and it was one of the reasons why he was as formidable as he was. He took information from everyone and everything, and discarded none of it. Methodically, he would evaluate all of it, piece by piece with equal potential before eliminating anything.

Nate was an excellent partner and similar to Joe in his approach to his job and life in general. Nate was not, however, as willing to accept information that could not be proven with tangible evidence. For him to believe in something, he wanted proof. Someone saying it just wasn't good enough. Ergo, psychology was a real obstacle for Nate, and he was usually the one who wound up questioning Vicky's input out of a sheer distrust for the soft science.

This time it took him longer to question and challenge Vicky than it usually did. Surprised by the time lag, she wondered if he was becoming more receptive to psychology and other, softer, forms of information.

She was wrong. He had only been practicing restraint.

"Adam most likely was having an affair with her husband, right? It messed her up so bad that she uber-killed him, crushing his bones into fragments that she could paint with. I can see why she drew a picture of Adam in all of her sketches. She must hate the guy, right? In her mind, after he had an affair with her husband, she probably thinks he _is_ the devil."

Joe sighed. Nate was never going to learn. He refilled his sewer-coffee and sat back down saying nothing, familiar with the exchanges between Nate and Vicky.

"First off, she didn't crush his bones to 'uber-kill' him. She wanted to keep him with her. She wanted to be with him, do for him, make him beautiful, and keep him as the biggest part of her life. She's holding him to her, keeping him with her, not punishing him. Her regret for killing him has literally driven her insane," Vicky said.

Nate said nothing. Looking at his legal pad, he resisted the urge to argue with her and ask her where the proof was. There was no proof saying that Fatimah thought and felt that way when she was pulverizing her husband's bones.

Vicky saw the tension of restraint in his face and pointed to the legal pad in front of him.

"Draw me a picture, Nate."

Caught off guard, he blinked and asked, "Why—of what?"

"Draw a house, a tree, and a person."

He shook his head. "I'm a terrible drawer. It's embarrassing."

Vicky smiled and told him it was okay. He wasn't going to be graded on it.

He shrugged and cautiously began to draw on his legal pad.

Joe used the opportunity to thank Vicky for doing the interview. He knew it was mentally exhausting and took exacting precision with a delicate touch. He felt drained just from watching and was hoping they could go to a drive-through for some garbage food, and then back to the hotel. He had a vague hope of getting some sleep if Vicky had no nightmares.

"All right, don't laugh. I told you I can't draw," Nate said, sliding the drawing to Vicky.

Flicking her eyes down at the drawing, she didn't even bother to pick it up. After an impossibly brief moment, she returned her gaze to Nate with unwavering eyes and spoke with no hesitation, pauses, or breaks.

"You have a tremendous, distorted amount of respect for your dad, but you only know him from the surface as an icon and someone to be looked up to; a distant superhero on T.V. You feel jealous of his friends because they know more about him than you do. You feel protected by him but also think you will never be able to fill his shoes or become even a quarter of the man you think he is. You have bypassed the love and gone straight to worshiping him. You don't talk to him about yourself. You feel your accomplishments are far too trivial to bother him with, and your obstacles would only bring him shame. He never went to your sporting games, but you never once got angry. You feel that your biggest accomplishment in life to date is being his son. He does not disagree. The conversations are about him, never you, but you embrace that because you think he's so much more important than you. He has never talked to you about mistakes that he's made in his life or shared even the smallest of his failures or doubts with you. Your respect and awe for him as a man make you feel that you're not entitled to get close to such a spectacular person. You don't invite him to go fishing, hunting, or bowling with you. You assume he has much more important things to do, but you will look through photos of his fishing trips with friends for hours with a quiet yearning in your heart. You maintain a child's god-like view of him, frequently keeping in contact with him, talking to him, visiting him but never getting to know him any better. You don't feel _entitled_ to know him any better. Still, just being in his glow pleases you tremendously. You have a history of fighting and breaking up with past girlfriends when they point out his arrogance and how he treats you.

"Your mother was in your life consistently but was not warm or approachable, even vaguely. Emotionally, she was a dry well for you though you saw her every day. Your father would give you advice, not she. Your father talked to you about himself while your mother didn't talk to you at all. You received no comfort or consoling from her, regardless of the level of pain you were in. If you skinned your knee, you were expected to get your own bandage and not bother her. She has always been there but has always made it clear that she would give you nothing to meet your emotional and developmental needs, nothing at all. You have a formal relationship with her, and the only reason there is any relationship of any sort is that you have frequent contact with your father. When your father dies, your empty and meaningless association with her will end before the funeral is over. You will not look back. You will also have an extremely difficult time accepting your father's death. It will not seem possible to you."

Vicky slid the legal pad back across the table to him and gazed at him blankly. He was stunned—the tablet skidded right past him and took his phone with it, both landing on the floor.

The clock above the doorway ticked as long moments of silence drew out.

Nate's face showed amazement and anger then thoughtfulness and suspicion.

Nate looked at Joe accusingly.

"What, like I knew any of that shit?"

Vicky said, "You have just been shrunk—this one's on the house."

She gathered the charcoal drawings, stood up and walked to the door.

"Are you guys coming?"

Joe wanted to go back to the hotel, but Nate, still agitated and mystified, talked them into going out for burgers and a beer. They went to a small bar and grill that had big booths and wasn't too noisy.

"That was just a quick sketch, you know? I can draw it better."

Vicky looked at him steadily with a soft expression on her face.

"Do you really want to give me more detail?"

"No," Nate said immediately.

Joe laughed and drank from his bottled beer as they talked.

"How did you do that? That's impossible to know without someone telling you."

"Someone did tell me—your subconscious," she said.

"Tell me."

"I just did."

"Tell me."

"Why does it matter how I know?"

"Because, that's some seriously private shit and if I'm walking around with it on my face, I want to know. Tell me."

Vicky sighed as Joe put his arm along the back of the booth, his fingers brushing her shoulder.

"Alright... it's psych 101—the most basic interpretation of the subconscious. The tree subconsciously represents the father figure. The house is the mother figure. The person will always subconsciously represent the individual doing the drawing.

"The tree: you drew it oversized with a thick trunk and a whole big blob on top for the leaves. There isn't any fruit on the tree. There are no symbolic showings of many separate leaves. There is no bark or roots showing. The tree has no detail at all, except for the grossly disproportionate size. There's that.

"The house: you drew one side of a house shape. There are no sidewalks or paths leading up to the house. There are no windows on the house. There are no doors on the house. There is absolutely no way to enter the house at all, not even a path to approach the house. There is no chimney, no source of heat or warmth, no curtains or flowers to represent delicacy or compassion. It is completely and utterly just there and impossible to enter. There's that.

"The stick man figure: he is standing much closer to the tree than he is to the house. There is no detail of the figure. The most prominent feature of the stick figure is how small he looks next to the tree. There are no markings on the face—no individual identity. There is only a round, empty circle to represent the head. There's that," Vicky said.

She picked up her bottle of beer and took a long, grateful drink. She set it down and then looked at Nate and raised an eyebrow.

"That's _it_?" he asked incredulously.

"Mostly, yes, that's it—although I _have_ taken a couple of classes since psych 101," Vicky said wryly, leaning back into the crook of Joe's arm.

Joe was suddenly inspired, though nervous, "Do me."

Vicky turned to him, "Why?"

"I want to see, too," Joe said.

Vicky dug out of her purse two pieces of paper and handed one to Joe. Reaching for the menus, she handed one to Joe and kept one for herself.

"You draw the person, house, and tree. Hide it from me."

He looked at her curiously, as Nate leaned forward to watch.

Joe sketched with the menu hiding his drawing while Vicky did the same thing, hiding her drawing.

She let Joe decide when to stop. After only a couple of minutes, he set his pen down, and she set hers down and waited.

He put his sketch on the table for them to see. Vicky placed hers next to his. They were veritably identical and looked to be a reflection from a mirror.

Joe and Nate looked from one sketch to the other and back again, growing more and more surprised.

Joe began, "Did you—"

Nate cut in, "I watched her. She couldn't see a damn thing you were drawing."

Vicky watched Joe and gave an easy smile. Her eyes were warm and kind.

"How did you know I'd draw the pond?"

"Because your needs were more than met by both of your parents. There was an overflow—a reservoir—of love and strength that you could draw from. As you grew, you were taught how to find your own strength, fill your own reservoir through their example. It's why you're so unstoppable."

Joe was silent for a long moment, picking up his cold bottle of beer. Everything she had said was so perfectly true that it felt strange and a little surreal.

The conversation grew lighter as the food was served. They ate and talked, officially off duty. They didn't talk about Adam or Darin, but they had their phones on. After an hour at the bar and grill, they headed back to the hotel. The elevator ride was quiet as they all thought their own separate thoughts.

Joe was approaching the hotel door when he wordlessly flung Vicky behind him and drew his weapon. Nate dove for the opposite side of the door with his gun in hand. The door was standing open several inches. Vicky reached behind her and withdrew her firearm, not taking her eyes off the door. She was out to apprehend no one; she just didn't want to be killed.

Joe jerked his head sideways at Nate to indicate Vicky. Nate nodded and stealthily took Joe's place in front of her. The wall was flat against her back, and Nate was flat against her front. She felt entombed.

Joe quietly entered the room alone with his finger on the trigger. After securing every corner and crevice of the room and office, he came out.

"Clear," he said gravely.

"Don't touch anything, not even with gloves," he said.

There was a lot not to touch. Stapled to the walls were dozens of pictures of Vicky, all of them slashed and dripping with red paint. The bathroom tub was filled with water, and paint had been thrown into it. It looked like a bathtub full of blood with torn pictures of Vicky floating all over the surface. The word "Tori" was carved into the wall in half a dozen places, the knife going deep enough into the wall to leave bits of plaster on the floor underneath every etching. All of her clothes were shredded, the pieces thrown around the room; her panties drenched in red paint before the shredding. Most upsetting was the bed. Vicky's silk robe lay on the bed with red paint poured over where her abdomen would have been. The robe had been stabbed with such ferocity that there was paint cast-off on the walls and ceilings, the knife repeatedly having been plunged deep into the robe and the mattress beneath. Tucked into the neck opening of the robe was a close-up photo of Vicky's face. The red paint pooled around the stabbed areas of the robe making it seem like a real killing in all of its grisly detail.

Joe never left Vicky's side as she wandered, stunned, through the destruction. She looked into the office. It was as if the whole room had been put into a blender. Pages, files, and pictures were torn to shreds and strewn all over the floor and bed.

In stark contrast, one of the beds remained pristine and free of debris. Placed in the center of the bed was a pillow with a creamy satin pillowcase.

"Is that..." Vicky began before faltering, unable to complete her thoughts.

"I think so," Joe murmured.

Vicky's bed in her cabin had creamy satin sheets and pillowcases.

The pillow had a big, flowing pink satin bow wrapped around it. Under the bow, there was a manila envelope with the words "Victoria Terrace" written in Old English calligraphy without flaw.

"You have to wait. The techs will be here soon," Joe said in a subdued, funereal tone.

He reached down for her hand and pulled her from the room. Stopping, he spoke with Nate, who was already making phone calls.

"Get the techs here first thing. We'll be back in a few minutes."

Joe, refusing to let go of Vicky's hand for even a moment, led her outside to a bench in front of the hotel. The well-lit area had a glorious absence of any red paint. He lit a cigarette and said nothing as he held her hand tightly to his stomach, looking blankly in front of him as he smoked and waited for the techs to arrive.

Ten minutes later, the Minneapolis FBI techs parked in front of the entrance to the hotel. They shook Joe's left hand because he wouldn't let go of Vicky's with his right. They followed Joe and Vicky up to the room, and as they walked, Joe kept Vicky's hand pressed tightly to his stomach. Outside of the open door, Joe reached for the arm of one of the forensic technicians.

"With me," he said.

The tech followed him through the carnage, and into the office where Joe indicated the pillow.

"Open it."

The tech slid the envelope out from under the pink ribbon and opened the envelope upside down, leaving the gummed seal intact. Withdrawing an eight by ten photo, he set it on the bed for Joe and Vicky to look at.

It was a close up picture of Darin with his throat cut ear to ear and to the spine. His eyes were fully open, and the corners of his mouth had been taped up to create a wide, mask-like smile. Vicky could feel her stomach roll, and she struggled to suppress her gag reflex.

The tech reached back into the envelope and withdrew a thick, creamy piece of stationary. Written in the same elaborate and perfect Old English calligraphy was a simple, strange question.

" _What is wrong with you?"_

Joe saw Vicky sway and lunged for her, catching her just before she hit the floor.

# CHAPTER TEN

Joe sat on the bed propped up against the headboard while Vicky leaned back against him between his parted knees. He held her with both arms, his chin resting over her shoulder. As he talked, his five o'clock shadow whispered against her shirt.

"I'm thinking Italy," he said in a low, soft voice.

Vicky could feel his voice vibrate in his chest through her back. It was a comforting sensation, soothing and strong.

She had no idea what he was talking about but listened, her head leaning back on his shoulder and her eyes closed. She could listen to him talk for hours; his low voice and the way he worded things; she loved to hear him talk.

"I don't want to wait long, and Italy is stunning in the fall. We could have it at one of the old cathedrals that are hundreds of years old. They're made of solid stone and breathtaking."

He paused and thought.

"I'm inviting Nate. My folks are dead, so you and Nate are the only ones I want for my part... Roxie, of course but that about completes my side of the guest list."

Vicky waited as Joe thought.

"We could get married in jeans and button-ups, or we could do the tux and dress thing; whatever you want. I have zero qualms with either scenario."

Vicky sighed contentedly as she felt the vibrations coming from his chest. His arms made her feel especially warm, and she could smell his cologne. It was sharp and clean but subtle, and it reminded her of the mellow but distinctive scent of cedar. She loved it.

"I do not, under any circumstances, want there to be pudding with rice in it. It's gross, and it's wrong and whoever doesn't know that should not be trusted as a cook or as a person."

Vicky's lazy smile grew as she kept her eyes closed and listened.

"I also do not want doves. I don't trust them to not shit on me the second they're released," he mumbled, his tone serious and contemplative.

Vicky laughed, and he pulled her tighter to him.

"Italy?"

"Italy," she confirmed.

"... dress or jeans?"

"... dress... but a sexy, short little thing with a low back and stilettos."

"Hmmm..." he said approvingly as he kissed her neck.

Joe reached out to the nightstand and got the glass of water. Holding it in front of her, she took it and drank. He put it back and then put his arm around her again, giving her an extra tight squeeze.

"Do I get an engagement ring?"

"Certainly," he said nodding slowly, "I already bought it."

"You bought it? We've been at the hip for a week."

"Hmmm..." he hummed, kissing her neck, his whiskers lightly scraping her skin.

She closed her eyes again and relished the chills it sent down her back. When she spoke, it was as if from a dream, relaxed, warm, and safe.

"When did you buy it?"

"Two years ago."

"You've had an engagement ring for two years?"

"Mmm-hmmm..." he said, kissing the other side of her neck.

"That's... peculiar," Vicky said.

Joe laughed gently and handed her the glass of water again. She drank the rest of it, and he put it back.

They were silent as minutes ticked by. Joe had his chin back over her shoulder, and he started to sway her subtly and hum a Stevie Ray Vaughn tune that they particularly liked. She listened and could feel her muscles loosen, her body absorbing him. They knew the crime scene was right next door but for now, they needed to place it second. They needed to be together and draw strength from each other, assuring each other they would get through this.

"Why would you wait two years?"

Joe took his time, still humming Stevie, as he assembled the answer in his mind.

"I was waiting for you to be ready. It's like with Stevie; you can't rush the solo. I wanted you to hear each note of our solo together before we moved along. Sometimes people rush through something to get to what they think is the best part."

Vicky listened intently with her eyes closed and her head on his shoulder. When he spoke from his heart, each word was a carefully crafted gift. It fascinated and intrigued her, how descriptive his analogies were, how beautifully he could paint understanding with his words.

"The whole thing is the best part; the crying, the laughing, the arguing, the making love—all of it and I wanted you to hear every note. I bought the ring, waited, and watched you enjoy the music, our music, every single note. The wait was like your nails on my back. It burned me, thrilled me, and made me weak... but only a fool would skip all of that and go straight to the end. The beginning and middle are way too important, too majestic, full, and worthy of the effort and restraint."

They fell into silence again, and Joe resumed humming.

"You are... extraordinary," Vicky said quietly, her throat threatening to close.

He squeezed her and said nothing. A heavy silence started to fill the room, and he could feel it build in the air. He felt the fraction of a tightening in her neck muscles, the way she subtly pushed back against him, as though she were trying to back away from something. She had stopped sighing and had opened her eyes, cautiously exploring and touching the memories, seeing if they still burned. Waiting patiently, he felt her preparing herself, bracing herself against the memories that she had to revisit. He wished longingly that she didn't have to.

"It's what my father used to say when he beat us," Vicky said and then fell silent, remembering.

"He would say it like it was a mantra the whole time; what is _wrong_ with you, what is _wrong_ with you, what is _wrong_ with you? They were his last words when he was choking me, and Goliath crashed into him."

She was still as the memories came.

"You know I believed him for my whole childhood. I was sure that I was faulty; that there was something profoundly and terribly wrong with me. Something horrible must have been in me—my personality, my behavior, my character—to be beaten so many times. I didn't want to live my whole life in such a defective state.

"When I was eighteen and graduated and lived in that huge house alone. I decided I needed answers, and I chose psychology. I had already been taking college courses for two years, so I went for two more and got my Bachelors. I studied to see what was wrong with me. I decided I would educate myself and find my own diagnosis. I'd find my defects, and fix them on my own without anyone having to learn how abnormal and grotesque I was. My goal was to hide myself from people until I could be a presentable human being.

"By the time I got my Bachelors, I realized there was nothing wrong with me. The beatings weren't my fault. I decided to study for another two years in criminal psychology to find out what was wrong with him. I thought if I could understand it or label it or diagnose it, maybe the memories would hurt less. That's not how it works though. It really isn't.

"I dug in and studied more, figuring if I couldn't undo it for myself, then maybe I could prevent it from happening. I got my second master's in forensic psychology with the firm intent of putting assholes like my father away. After I had worked in the field for a while, I realized I was tethering my future to my past. I finished with the doctorates but became more and more comfortable using the dogs and training them."

Joe listened to her and absorbed. She was sidling up to it cautiously, and in her own time, thinking it through from beginning to end. She was trying to analyze the sting out of it.

"When I saw those words that Adam wrote, 'What is wrong with you,' it fused the past and the present. Those words don't belong in my present. They're terrible, terrible words that I put far behind me."

Joe waited. He knew exactly what was coming, and he could feel his stomach twist.

"I'm going to re-look at everything tomorrow. Maybe I can find enough pieces to figure out where he's hiding or what his next move will be."

Joe was silent but closed his eyes. He had known from the start that she would end up here. After the second body, when he had known it was Adam, he had dreaded this moment. By submerging herself in Adam's past, she had to submerge herself in her own. She would have to relive everything she had endured in the hopes of gleaning information that they could use to apprehend Adam.

"Do you really want to swim in that sewer and remember the things you've worked so hard to put behind you? Tracking a killer is one thing but tracking your brother, looking at his demons when they're the same as yours—baby, we can get a different shrink. You don't have to do this; someone else can. This is going to rip you to shreds," he said in a thick voice.

"I'll be careful. I won't push. I'll take my time, and if I need breaks, I'll take them. If I get a little banged up, I'll heal. I dealt with my past long ago. I grew up in that sewer, and nobody will know it better than me. I treaded water in that cesspool for seventeen years."

Joe's heart sank, but he squeezed her. He hadn't been expecting any other answer.

Nate knocked on the door a few minutes later and cautiously poked his head in. They had been holed up in his room for an hour. He told them the new hotel was ready, and the cop that would be guarding their door would be waiting for them there. Joe nodded, and they headed out to a different hotel while the techs continued to process the crime scene.

# # #

The rearview mirror of his car was his favorite place to look, especially at night. If he sat up close, all he could see were his eyes, which were exactly like hers—the broad, bright yellow band blending into the outer, darker band of balsam green. He liked to pretend they were her eyes peering back at him. He addressed the eyes in the mirror.

"Tori, I've got to say, I've overlooked a few details that I wish I hadn't."

He glimpsed through the front windshield and confirmed that there was still no movement and then lifted a joint to his lips and took a deep drag. Holding his breath for a long moment, he slowly exhaled and turned his attention back to the eyes.

"The first detail is your boyfriend who is turning into a boil on my ass. I knew you were dating a guy from the FBI. I'm not a total idiot. I got a part of it right... not the important part, though. Therefore, I am a moron which is not as bad as an idiot, but still painfully embarrassing," he said, nodding gravely into the mirror, watching the eyes nod back at him in agreement.

"He lives in _Minnesota,_ for Christ's sake. Why would I ever think he had juice on this big of a goddamn scale? It was misleading and sneaky on his part. He should have stayed in New York where his surroundings matched his status. Imagine my dismay to learn that he has the power to put goddamn near an entire fucking police force at the house, effectively choking off my access to the attic and the antiques therein. Dismay, Tori... dismay every-fucking-where," he said to the reflection.

"He's way too aggressive for you. Dump him, Tori."

A few hours earlier, he found the streets being commandeered by cops. They were like an organized band of cockroaches, crawling all over the goddamn place. He had looked Valenti up on the internet, curious as to what in the _fuck_ he had missed. He went from being dismayed to appalled and horrified.

Joseph Dante Valenti had the highest clear rate for serial killings and child abductions in the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation... ever. He had a master's degree in criminal justice and a second master's degree in forensic science, and if he arrested you, you were going to prison. Period. He did not make procedural errors; he did not make a collar that couldn't be prosecuted; he did not make mistakes testifying, and he did not give up. The bureau put him in charge of the highest priority cases in the country. He had received the Guardian of Justice Award for a case in Detroit, the Meritorious Achievement Award for a case in Arizona, and had twice received the Medal of Valor for heroism, one for a case in Oregon, the other for a case in Chicago. California had him in the newspapers almost as frequently as New York. Alabama loved him, too. He was welcome in Florida any time. His reach and potency were nationwide, and he was completely and alarmingly unpredictable and cutthroat in his offensive tactics. If the suspect resisted arrest, said suspect would be hospitalized and if the suspect ran then he would be shot... twice. In the morgue or jail, Valenti didn't seem to have a preference where the suspects landed. His partner, it appeared, was just as mental.

And he was working these murders.

And he lived with Tori.

Fucking perfect.

He narrowed his eyes and looked away from the mirror and out the windshield. His fingers were tapping on the steering wheel, picking up speed as he thought.

"Why would he be that protective of you, Tori? Are you that vulnerable? Are you that good in bed? Is he that needy? It makes no sense. He doesn't even _know_ you. He doesn't—not like I do. Why would he have such a _deluge_ of cops at the house? All because I touched your hair when you were sleeping? He's swinging his dick around, showing off for you, is what it is. There's no doubt about it. Dump him, Tori. You don't need someone who's that fucking insecure in your life..." he trailed off, still tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and trying to figure things out.

"I touched your _hair_ for Christ's sake. That's it. He has gone past overreacting and smack into losing his goddamn mind. I touched your hair—your _hair._ I think he has stability issues, Tori. I'm pretty goddamn certain about it. You should dump him."

He threw the butt of his joint out the window and kept staring through the windshield, fingers tapping as he waited and thought. He had about five more minutes to wait if the fencer was on time. He sighed heavily.

"I didn't hurt you for fuck's sake. I haven't even stabbed you yet. This is all totally fucking premature, goddamn it.

"Okay, okay, I can see the hotel room vandalism may have given him some extra incentive that I didn't want him to have. All right. There. _Maybe_ I shouldn't have used the red paint. It was pretty dramatic. Still, it's paint. It's fucking paint. So far, all I've really done is put up a dressmaker's dummy of you, touch your hair and take a picture, and trash your hotel room. And the cabin. And kill the M.E.—but that's not you so, don't fucking worry about it. The _point_ is that I've hardly done _anything,_ yet. He's a lunatic—a lunatic. I touched your hair and threw around some paint. Doesn't the FBI have something better to do? If he gets this jealous because your brother touches your hair, what do you think that says about him, Tori? Dump him. He's a fucking psycho."

Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the seat. He needed to move his thoughts out of this area; it was an additional irritation that he didn't need right now. The access to the attic was taken care of. His plan for snatching her was still valid and workable. Nobody at his motel saw his face. Everything would be fine. He did _not_ appreciate the added stress of her unhinged boyfriend, however. Still, how could he expect her to choose wisely? She was a product of abuse... she probably had some issues.

He sighed and let it drift away, looking back into the rearview mirror at her eyes.

"The second miscalculation was my underestimation for the greed of the bottom-feeders of the world. They are called fences, Tori, and they are evil. Every one of them needs a knife planted in their face, without exception—no exceptions at all," he whispered conversationally to the eyes.

"You better appreciate the full extent of the pressure that I'm under trying to make everything come together. You better. When you're gone, so is my income from the attic. Do you get it? I have to plan my goddamn _retirement_ before I can kill you. Now, that's pressure. You don't even know the pressure.

"These miserable asshole fences are giving me pennies on the dollar, Tori, pennies on the dollar. It's infuriating, and you have no idea how much I want every one of them dead... dead, dead, dead _._ "

He saw the tall, lanky man come out of the back of the store and look around in the alley. Adam grabbed his duffel bag full of antique coins that weighed close to sixty pounds and quickly exited the car.

Ninety minutes later, he walked back out to his car, infuriated. Three hundred—he had gotten three hundred grand for a collection worth over a million. If the fence hadn't had a bodyguard, there was no chance that bastard would still be alive. How in the hell was he going to stock up for the rest of his life with fences like this? _And_ , he couldn't kill the ones that irritated him because he would kill every single one that he met. Word would get out probably and dry up the number of people that were willing to fence for him. The whole thing sucked on a monumental scale. He had to let them live, and he had to take the pennies on the dollar. It was a bleak situation all the way around, and he would be happy when this whole thing was over.

He got into the car and slammed the door shut, hurling the empty duffel bag into the passenger seat.

Still enraged and breathing heavily, he thought. There was the jewelry. That would be considerable, providing he could find the proper fence. The problem was that this was high-end shit in the most extreme sense of the word, and a common fence didn't know a thing about it. Hence, he needed smarter, more knowledgeable and refined fences that were also shrewder and more ruthless. They knew and exploited that he was in no position to barter. He needed a fence with a heart, which was like finding a hooker that took checks. Some things you just knew did not fucking exist.

He wanted to get out of the alley and away from the coin collector. He didn't trust anyone right now. Thanks to Tori's psychotic boyfriend, his driver's license picture had been flashed over the late night news. His picture was being circulated everywhere in the state. He'd seen _meter_ maids hanging it up in the bus stop shelters. Valenti's reach and speed of execution were insane... phenomenal. The cops were _swarming_ for Christ's sake. He'd had to meet the fence in the middle of the night, not daring to be seen during the day anymore. The guy was out of control is what he was. God _damn._

He took a deep breath and started the car. He needed to get back to the motel where he felt mildly safe and free from the swarm.

Sleeping fitfully in his modest hotel room, he had only been asleep for an hour when he rolled over in bed and threw up violently all over the floor. His stomach clenched and retched, clenched and retched. He felt like he was suffocating; he couldn't breathe through all the retching. Keeping the panic at bay, he waited it out as he continued to vomit violently, repeatedly. He had never suffocated all the other times, and he wasn't going to this time either.

As he waited out the vomiting, he thought of candy bars, all different kinds of candy bars. Over the years, he had found it a safe subject that in no way could lead back to thoughts of the nightmare. As long as his mind was steadily thinking about and naming candy bars, there was no longer room for the nightmare. Time crawled by, and he cautiously pulled himself to a sitting position and leaned back against the headboard—more waiting, more candy bars.

The sheets were soaked. He'd have to get another room again.

He stood up cautiously and waited. So far, so good, he thought as his legs gradually stopped shaking enough for him to walk without stumbling. Stripping off his urine soaked pajama bottoms he thought for the hundredth time that he should just stop buying the fucking things. What could he do? He was an optimist. He threw them in the garbage and walked, naked, into the bathroom. Once in the small bathroom, he looked in the mirror.

"Hello, you gorgeous piece of ass, you," he muttered to his reflection in a flawless British accent. He reached for his toothbrush with a trembling hand.

His face was pale, almost translucent, and his black hair was plastered to his head in loose, damp waves. Like his sister's eyes, his turned an eerie luminescent green when they were bloodshot. They appeared radioactive. At five-six, he was unusually attractive and seemed to attract every woman in every bar. It was a bizarre, unwanted effect, and he had it consistently since high school. He didn't get it and didn't care about it, just acknowledged it and dreaded it. Some of the pushier women he flat-ass told to get the fuck away from him already—he was gay. At times that seemed to turn them on more. There were appallingly frequent instances when some drunk and stupid bitch would try to drag him to the bathroom or walk right up to him and start unzipping his jeans. More than once, he left a bar in disgust to end the harassment. He had never cared about how he looked; he was indifferent to it except for the annoyance it brought him of having women hit on him. Drunk women, as a rule, he stayed far away from. If there was a bridal shower, he was fucking gone.

Brushing his teeth after throwing up always made him gag, and the physical act of having something in his mouth would bring the nightmare back into screaming, vivid clarity. No amount of candy bar thinking, he had found, would stop it, so he rode it through and did his best to utilize some damage control. He would veer his thoughts toward the least violent times, avoiding through force of will, the times that there had been blood involved. He didn't have any other option. He had no heroin.

Retching into the cold porcelain bowl occasionally, he brushed his teeth vigorously over the toilet. He kept scrubbing and adding new gobs of toothpaste to the brush trying to get the taste of that miserable bastard out of his mouth. Otherwise, he'd keep throwing up all night.

After brushing his teeth, he rinsed out his mouth many times. The water ran out pink, having brushed until his gums bled. He splashed cold, refreshing water on his drawn and pale face, reveling in the feeling of being clean. Adjusting the shower temperature to scalding, he stepped in. He scrubbed himself violently and repeatedly, making sure the smell of urine was off him but mostly trying to scrub away the remembered touches from his nightmares. After half an hour of rigorous washing and rewashing, he got out of the shower and dried off, his skin bright pink and looking severely sunburned.

He walked back out to the bedroom and sat at the desk, expertly rolling a joint and licking the seal. He liked to think he used it medicinally, a sleeping aid, if you will. After hot boxing and smoking the joint in a few long, hard drags, he sighed and rolled another one. This one was considerably thinner; a nightcap after the main course, so to speak. He lit the thin joint and smoked it slower, with a little more leisure and a little less panic. In only a couple of minutes, his muscles loosened and the nightmare didn't seem as threatening. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as he smoked and thought of Tori. There had never been a day when he hadn't thought of her.

He thought of how she had endured nothing for everything she inherited. He had endured—he had endured blood running from his asshole and the taste of his own shit in his mouth. Enduring, he had felt his urine running down his leg, mixing with the blood, the pain had been so great, the fear so complete. He had endured, not her. He was still enduring. Every single night, he endured unless he had heroin, and then he would endure every three or four nights.

Oddly, he had no ill will toward her for the inheritance. When he thought about it, it was in a passive, observational way. He hated his _father_ for the inheritance situation, but he had never hated her for it.

He'd been pissed at her when he'd seen her cabin, though. All the clothes in her closet were department store clothes. There was not a single antique or custom-made piece of furniture in her house. Even her dishes were from a department store, and mass-produced. Then he'd seen the art prints, _prints,_ on the wall and lost his fucking mind. He had gone through the house and ripped every nasty, deplorable, horrific print off the wall, thrown them all in a pile and pissed on the whole lot of them. He felt a raging, flaming need to take a cast-iron frying pan full of hot grease and smack her boyfriend full on in the face with it. He couldn't believe the guy let Tori live that way. One of two things: he was trash and didn't know enough to be appalled, or he knew enough but was just neglectful. Either way, the solution was the same. He needed a frying pan in the face.

It had taken him time to clear away the confusion of how Tori lived. Following her around for months, he learned her university schedule, her gym schedule, when she was at home and when she wasn't. She drove a Jeep, and he thought that maybe she was being demure and modest, which would have been very Tori-like. Then he saw her drive to and park at a grocery store. He had been utterly baffled as to what in the fuck she was doing there so, he waited. Sure enough, half an hour later, she came out of the store pushing a grocery cart full of groceries leaving him stunned and speechless. He had never been inside of a grocery store until he was thirty, and he knew damn well she had not set foot inside of one while he still lived at the house—what the fuck for? The cooks did the grocery shopping; it was their _job_ for Christ's sake.

Then, he had been following her during her lunch break, and she had pulled into a car wash—a car wash. She pulled into... a car wash. He had squinted in suspicion. She could not be this fucked up. She could not be. He had thought maybe she had seen him and was screwing with him. She hadn't seen him, and she wasn't screwing with him. She washed her goddamn Jeep.

The longer he followed her, the more he saw until it was undeniable. She had no driver, no cook, and no house cleaner. She did her own banking, worked a job _,_ and went to a _public_ gym. The strangeness of it all eventually came together into an epiphany for him. Nobody in her life knew who in the fuck she really was—nobody. She had created this whole middle-class persona for herself completely devoid of anything from their childhood. He had been flabbergasted, amazed, and extremely annoyed—pissed is what he was.

Being thumped on wasn't enjoyable, granted. He, too, would have preferred not to be beaten. That was understood. Nevertheless, for her to strip herself of every luxury, every convenience, and every advantage that wealth had was just asinine. It made no sense, not even a little. He decided one of the bodies needed to drop at the family estate. She clearly thought her friends and co-workers didn't need to know who she was or the extent of her wealth. He disagreed. He thought they should know... and now they did.

He was ready to try to go back to sleep and walked over to the dresser, withdrawing a small, pink T-shirt that he had stolen from Tori's cabin along with a dozen others that were now his most valuable possessions. He stored them in a plastic bag in the hopes of keeping her smell on them longer, the smell of her almost identical to his own scent. Walking to the other bed, he pulled back the fresh, clean covers and sat on the edge as he pulled the small T-shirt over the motel room pillow. Climbing into the bed naked, he lay on his side and pulled the pillow with the T-shirt on it to his chest and abdomen. He cuddled it under his chin while one arm stayed wrapped tightly around it, keeping it close to him, pressed up against him. His eyes drifted closed as he bent his head down to smell the T-shirt pillow and squeeze it tighter to him.

He had made it through another night and had not suffocated while vomiting and had not gone insane reliving his rapes. Now, as a reward, he would be able to sleep for five or six hours. Foggy from the pot, he chuckled softly into the pillow when he remembered his naïve innocence at his father's funeral. He had thought the torment was over because the bastard was dead. Too funny, it was just too funny not to laugh.

# # #

Vicky would be awake soon, and Joe was preparing for her slow and painful ascent into the land of the living. Pouring into the glass coffee pot was fresh, toxically strong coffee that would help the situation. As the coffee maker gurgled and choked on its tarry liquid, he took his cup of normal coffee and visited the armed guard outside the room.

Joe asked casually, "Anything interesting?"

The guard shook his head and drank the brew from his metal thermos cup. Loosening the plastic cork, he poured the last few drops of dreg-laden coffee into the cup.

"Get your breaks?"

"Yeah, a patrol stopped twice to cover for me."

The guard was in his mid-thirties and average height. Yawning and waiting for his relief to show up, his eyes were red from a long night. Joe didn't feel bad for him; he had pulled many guard duties himself. It didn't matter how high up or how low down you were; it was part of the job, and there was going to be a midnight guard duty at some point. He glanced at the officer's chair. There were three hunting magazines lying on it. Joe used to bring crossword puzzles.

Joe and the guard watched as a woman from the cleaning staff went in and out of the room two doors down. Bringing in fresh linen, she would take out the old and then carry in toiletries, glasses, and coffee. She had shoulder length curly hair that was perfect and wore makeup that was not perfect. Joe had never liked a lot of makeup on women. It got on his clothes, and he didn't like how it made women seem plastic or how it tasted or how unreasonably long it took to put on. Vicky rarely wore any at all. This housekeeper was definitely not going for the natural look. The make-up-applied-with-a-slingshot look seemed to be her preference. Joe turned away. Why would anyone think that electric blue eyelids were pretty?

Joe asked the guard, "On tonight?"

"Not until Thursday, another guy's coming tonight."

Joe leaned against the doorframe with one hand in his jeans' pocket. The housekeeper was back out, and he turned away again. It was just too nasty.

He shook the cop's hand and told him thanks, pushed off from the doorframe, and went back into the room.

Vicky was sitting up in bed, her hair all flipped to one side, staring blankly. She yawned and continued to stare. Joe smiled as he watched her. He was quick about waking up; his eyes would pop open, and he would stretch and then he was out of bed and making coffee, showering while it brewed. He was awake, or he wasn't; there was no half-mast.

Vicky did not fare well in the morning... at all. It was a process for her unless the circumstances were dire. He had noticed that if the circumstances _were_ dire, she would bump into things a lot, which would be followed by cursing a lot. He watched her as she smacked her lips softly and then yawned again. His smile broadened.

She turned her head toward him, her hair covering half of her face. Looking at him with one half-closed eye, she talked through the hair.

She mumbled, "What?"

"You're funny."

She looked away blankly, the movement making her wobble slightly. This was almost a conversation, and it was way too soon for that. She stared a moment longer and rubbed one of her eyes before slowly side scooting to the edge of the bed and turning so that her legs hung over the side. That would be it for a while. She sat and stared at the carpet while Joe got her a cup of coffee and held it out to her, smiling.

Not breaking her dazed observation of the carpet, she blindly reached for the coffee. Missing it the first time and pawing at empty air, she connected the second time and brought the cup wordlessly to her mouth. Taking a long drink, she smacked her lips softly and turned her vacant stare to the lamp.

After a slow half an hour and two cups of coffee, she became ambulatory but had not yet embraced the morning; her hostility levels dangerously high.

"I have to wear the same goddamn clothes today," she muttered angrily, remembering that all of her clothes had been destroyed the night before.

Joe watched, trying not to laugh. He was not invited into this conversation; she was talking to herself. For about half an hour after the ambulatory period had begun, she would hold conversations with herself. If Joe couldn't hold his laughter in, she would glower at him until he stopped. Then she would continue the conversation with herself where she had left off. It only lasted half an hour, but she managed to get a lot of swearing done every morning in that half an hour. Sometimes defense attorneys were the target or cadets who didn't want to put in the effort, or occasionally it was an elusive criminal. There was always a target. Thankfully, her love for Joe seemed to afford him immunity. For that, he was immeasurably relieved.

"Now, I have to go to the goddamn store," she mumbled, as she snatched her clothes up one garment at a time, gathering them all and bringing them into the bathroom. Joe covered his mouth with one hand as she fell smoothly into her morning tirade.

Joe watched her from the desk as she brushed her teeth, still talking.

"As if I have time for this shit (spit) well, I'm in and out. I'm not trying anything on. I know my size, and I'm not trying anything on, damn it (spit) socks and panties and bras and jeans (rinse, spit) everything. I have to get everything. Yes, really... (rinse, spit)... God _damn,_ I hate shopping. He's getting kicked right in the balls... right in the goddamn balls."

He watched as she started adjusting the hot water for her shower.

"Minding my own... just minding my own and my clothes get shredded—what the _fuck?_ Do I deserve this bullshit—do I? I do not. I do not deserve this bullshit. Son of a _bitch,_ I hate shopping. I am _not_ trying anything on. I'm not. Can I help you? Can I help you? _No_ , you can't help me! Get the _fuck_ away from me! Goddamn, I hate shopping."

She had the water adjusted to her liking and stepped into the shower, still talking, sometimes not even in sentences, just long strings of expletives aimed at Adam and clothing store attendants. Joe cautiously approached the shower and peeked in. She looked at him and glowered.

"Babe, there's a mall just down the street. There's a cop at the door. I can run down to the mall, grab you some stuff, and be back in twenty minutes. I know your sizes."

She glowered, chugging her mind into the thinking state. Finding no flaw in his plan, she brightened.

"Will you?" she asked.

"Back in twenty," he said as he replaced the shower curtain.

He was back in half an hour with a large and full clothing store bag. She was sitting in a towel at the desk, drinking coffee and waiting.

When she saw the bag, she immediately beamed and ran to him, thanking him, and kissing him. She was up and running and fully functioning, the early-morning malevolence but a memory. Going to the bed, she took each thing out of the bag and was surprised how much she liked the clothes he had picked out. She selected jeans and a shirt, panties, socks, and a bra from the collection and got dressed. Very pleased, she hugged him again.

He sighed, happy and contented. She had made it through another morning of waking up, and he didn't have a single piece of shrapnel sticking out of him.

Nate met them at the carriage house and showed Joe the feeding path the uniforms had found and marked. It went from a set of tire tracks in the woods all the way to a subtle footpath that ended at the carriage house's back door facing the woods.

After traversing the path, Vicky looked closely at the carriage house; she had almost never been in it. Their employees didn't live on the grounds when she was a child, and the house hadn't served a purpose, as far as she knew. It was always locked, too.

Since Joe had first given her the address of the house, she had been braced against memories. She was using all of her skills of self-manipulation to block out any scrap of memory from this wretched place. It had been no surprise, then, why she had gotten nowhere.

Standing in the carriage house, she cautiously tried to find memories. She tried to remember everything she could about Adam and who he had been growing up.

He was a timid child, the same as she. When their father wasn't around, Adam would entertain her; he would give her rides on his back or tickle her. Sometimes, he would tell her jokes or let her play with his toys but would then unexpectedly shut down. Going away by himself, he wouldn't talk to her, instead going into his bedroom to stare out his window for hours. She would approach him, and he would forcefully push her away... he would yell at her to get away.

Her eyes took on a far-off look as she dug deeper into dusty, old, and tattered memories. They used to play in the woods together. They would play tag and hide-and-go-seek; he would find her, no matter what. She would hide behind trees or behind a bush, but he knew where she was hiding—he always knew. She had wanted to win sometimes, too. It wasn't fair that he always won; he was only ever it once, and then she had to be it all the time because she could never find him. She was going to hide behind a tree again. The carriage house was close to where they were playing though. Maybe she could hide behind the carriage house. Going to the carriage house, she tried the door just in case.

She couldn't believe it! The door was unlocked. Scooting right in, she covered her mouth as she giggled; everyone knew the carriage house was always locked. He wouldn't for a second think to look in here. He would _never_ look in here; she was going to win! She forgot to close the door in her excitement. For sure, she was going to win this time and then that meant that he still had to be it. She would get to hide for a second time; she was never able to hide for a second time. She was so very happy and excited.

Adam must have seen the open door when he had been searching for her.

Vicky winced from the old and vague memory. He beat her up. He _really_ beat her up. Grabbing her by her long hair, he had dragged her out from under the bed, where she had been hiding. Dragging her outside, he punched her in the stomach, screaming at her. When she fell, he kicked her viciously and relentlessly, still screaming.

Vicky frowned.

She cast about for other old memories. He would yell at her, and he pushed her lots of times. Taking her toys, he would hold them high over his head so she couldn't reach them... but he had never beaten or hurt her until the carriage house.

Vicky's eyebrows furrowed together as she thought hard about that day. She remembered him beating her up, but there was something else there. He had been screaming at her. He had been screaming.

Never. He had said, "Never." He had _screamed_ , "Never."

" _Never, never, never go in there, Tori! Never, ever go in there! Don't you ever go in there again! Don't you ever even look in there again, Tori!_ "

Vicky's vague memory dusted itself off, revealing sharper, forgotten details. He had been crying when he had been screaming at her. He had been crying hysterically.

Vicky felt a catch in her throat, and Joe watched at her with growing concern.

"Never go in there," she whispered, barely audible.

There were tears creeping their way down her cheeks. Joe started to walk toward her, but she walked away before he could get to her.

She remembered Adam falling down next to her and grabbing her shoulders so tightly that she cried harder. He shook her roughly and then shook her again, her neck stinging from the brutal snapping motion. There was blood running out of his nose from crying so hard.

" _NEVER go in there; NEVER, EVER go in there! No matter what, Tori, promise, Tori, promise! No matter WHAT..."_

He had screamed at her and begged her, shaking her by the shoulders until she had promised. Vicky remembered the wild-eyed terror in his eyes. The terror was for her.

"I promise," Vicky whispered, sobbing.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

Joe sat with Vicky outside, holding her closely and listening as she talked and wept.

She talked about the carriage house and Adam's mood swings and isolation; the times he would stare out his bedroom window at the carriage house and push her away, turning back to the window silently. Adam frequently wet the bed and threw his sheets in the garbage, but once she had seen blood on them and wanted to know what happened. He got mad at her and pushed her, telling her to mind her own business and leave him alone. At times, her father and Adam would disappear. She would look everywhere for them, even in the attic, feeling angry for being left out. Then she would see Adam walk to his room and close the door. He wouldn't answer it when she knocked, and he wouldn't eat when it was mealtime.

She remembered he hated the weekends and would go to the nurse's office on Fridays with stomachaches and throwing up. After school, he always told her he had been faking... only faking.

When their father found out Adam had a boyfriend, he beat him severely, and then they disappeared. She couldn't find either one of them for hours. Her mother had been skied out of her mind on Valium and wine and was unconcerned, pushing Vicky away. Only ten years old, she still knew it was a bad and scary thing if her father was angry and her brother disappeared. Adam had missed two days of school after that. He didn't eat for those two days and kept throwing up, refusing to see her, saying he would get her sick. His first day back to school, she searched in his pack for pencils and saw a sanitary napkin tucked way down by his books. He turned from the window and saw her holding it, wondering what it was, and he had slapped her hard across the face. The chauffeur pulled over and told Adam if he hit her again, he was going to tell their father. Adam had said nothing, only turned to look out the window, holding his pack safely in his lap.

She didn't put anything together; she was just hanging on herself. She and Adam grew apart. They didn't play together anymore; they didn't talk or tell secrets to each other anymore, and they didn't seek comfort from each other anymore. The secrets were too deep and the lies too many for any kind of a real relationship to exist.

By the time Vicky was twelve, she had done everything she could not to be at home. Staying after school, she would help tutor students, raise money for school trips, clean off the chalk boards, and correct second and third grade papers. She would volunteer for anything, anywhere. When teachers started questioning her about too much time away from home, she started to wait out the hours in the public library. She did extra credit homework, regular homework, read to the younger children, and tutored public high school kids in Latin. Always home in time for supper, she would eat and then hide in the kitchen and help the cooks clean-up and do the prep work for the next day's meals. Sneaking quietly to her bedroom, she would study more and by seventh grade, all of her classes were advanced by two years. The nuns thought it was refreshing how much she put into her studies and never forgot to compliment her parents on the excellent job they were doing.

By the time she was fifteen, and Adam was twenty, they would go days without speaking, he in his world, and she in hers. Both of them were just trying to make it through and dodge the abuse when possible. Vicky started walking the neighbor's dog that summer. Silently, Adam would watch her walk, pet, and brush out the dog. He would say nothing, just watch, mesmerized and stilled by his younger sister's actions. Eventually, he would turn and walk away with his head down and his hands in his pockets. That same summer, he started acting strangely. Vicky walked into his room one afternoon to borrow his calculator, and he had a needle in his arm with a wide rubber band around his bicep. They had looked at each other for a long and still moment and then Adam had bent his head down to finish the injection. She wordlessly left the room, closing the door behind her.

Vicky understood the hatred now, the feelings of betrayal and abandonment that Adam had for her. The rage he felt toward her for not being sexually abused and remaining pristine while he was being slaughtered must burn like an inferno. There was no confusion at all about how he had developed into a serial killer and how she had become his biggest target.

She talked to Joe about all of it and wept for Adam's pain when she talked. They were strangers now, but there had been a time, a long time ago, when it had been Adam and she against the world. He had been her big brother, and she had ridden on his back. He showed her how to whistle with her fingers. When she was beaten, he would sneak into her room to see if she was okay and rub her feet. He braided her hair, and would wake up with her hogging his pillow because she had a bad dream and had sought him out during the night. There was a time when they had been close and loved each other, when he had been her primary caretaker, confidant, and protector.

In Adam's mind, she had traded all of that off for a dog, wordlessly kicking him away from her because he had lied about Goliath. Vicky knew the rage Adam was feeling had to be consuming him like acid, eroding his sanity, and leaving nothing but obsession and hate.

"He's coming for me. He's coming for me and being this close to me must be driving him right to the very edge. Still, he won't kill me right away," she said shaking her head with conviction.

"He'll need to talk to me. There's no way he's going to put me down and not tell me why he's doing it. He'll want to prove to me that the abandonment and feelings of betrayal don't hurt him anymore—that _I_ don't hurt him anymore. As soon as he establishes that, he's going to kill me," Vicky said, staring at the ground blankly.

Joe felt like he was going to throw up. She was so calm, talking like her death was imminent, her future already determined. She was talking as if her brother was right in his desires. It made Joe's stomach clench and prepare to vomit.

He could see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice when she talked. This was going to be her new sin—the sin of not knowing about and stopping Adam's abuse... the sin of abandoning him. Joe could see it as true and bold as he could see his own hands. He couldn't do this; this was not do-able. He had nothing left to give and couldn't watch this happen before his eyes, this birth of another unforgivable sin, another eternal penance.

For the first time ever, his gentleness and patience with Vicky had ended. He virtually exploded at her meek and subdued manner.

"Listen—he's a fucking serial killer. He wants to _murder_ you. Do you even understand that? I swear to Christ Vicky; I swear to _Christ_ if you don't stop blaming yourself for shit that you had no control of, I will bring you to a fucking priest and lock you in the goddamn confessional until you hear the words as many times as it takes. You are absolved. Do you even hear me? You are _absolved_ of your sins—your _imaginary_ sins. Don't you get it? Why won't you get it? Why won't you _let_ yourself get it? Stop it. Just... stop it! You're blaming yourself now for not being sexually abused? You think you're guilty because you didn't suffer equally, because you didn't stop it, because you didn't _know_ about it? That's fucking _insane!"_

Vicky opened her mouth to say something, stunned by Joe's anger, but he cut her off.

"I'm glad, overjoyed, that you weren't molested! You have one tiny sliver in your life where you can express yourself and not be afraid, embrace someone and not flinch! You didn't betray Adam, and you didn't abandon him. You chose _strength_ over madness. He chose madness, and he had chosen it long before Goliath died. You think you turned him into a killer? You survived your childhood by living at the library, taking care of Goliath and isolating from everyone in that house. You understand his reaction to your hiding in the carriage house, but do you? Do you really understand it on a neutral, unbiased scale? You empathize, but he beat the holy hell out of you; he absolutely beat the fuck right out of you! That's not a loving brother—that's a psychopath. You _know_ that! You know that in your mind, in your intelligence, in your degrees, in your logic, goddamn it; you _know_ that but you're not applying it. It's _easier_ and feels better for you to pick up the switch right where your father left it lie. It feels familiar and right to dig out your penance, flogging and punishing yourself into eternity for shit that other people have done. Stop it... _stop_ it!"

"I—"

Joe cut her off, still horrified into anger with her distorted sense of guilt and blame.

"You call up Raven—you call her up right goddamn now—and tell her that she got her grandfather killed. You tell her that if she hadn't been kidnapped, he'd still be alive. Call her! Tell her! Tonight, you call her again. Remind her that she got her grandfather killed, and she should have known better than to be kidnapped, and how if she'd never been born, her grandfather would still be alive. You call and tell that little seven-year-old girl that. Then call her tomorrow, the day after, and the week after. You keep calling her two, three times a day for twenty-five fucking years, Victoria! How insane does that sound—how cruel and brutal and abusive does that sound?"

"Joe—" Vicky said, crying before he cut her off again.

"You would _never_ torment and torture and lie to that little girl like that. You know it's not true, and it's not her fault. She's a fucking _kid._ She had no say in what that demented fuck did. She needs love and compassion, not blame, not a life sentence of penance and torment. So, how do you know that Raven is not responsible for what adults did to her, but you _don't_ know that you are not responsible for Goliath or your goddamn brother? Why are the rules magically different for you? What kind of fucked up double-standard is that? You don't think you deserve the comfort, the compassion, the love? It's okay for you to blame yourself, terrorize yourself, but it's not okay if Raven does? How the fuck does _that_ work, Victoria? It doesn't! You go ahead—you miss Goliath until the moon falls black—fine. You go on and feel bad for what Adam endured forever more. Okay, but _stop blaming yourself!_ Grief and empathy are expected but for Christ's sake, stop _hurting_ yourself! You can miss someone without ripping your soul to shreds you know. You can feel bad for someone and know it's not your fault."

"Joe, please—" Vicky began again, still crying.

"No. No, enough already, you can't stop blaming yourself for Goliath, and now you're going to feel guilty about Adam? I am not going to let you do this to yourself—I won't! I love you so much, goddamn it my guts hurt when I think about it. If anyone ever tried to hurt you, I'd kill him right where he stood but Victoria; _you're_ the one hurting yourself, abusing yourself. Stop it—if not for the love of yourself, then for the love of _me_."

Joe openly wept as he kneeled at her feet and hugged her bent knees to him. She cried harder as he climbed up next to her, and they held each other and rocked each other.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, sobbing.

"Shhhh," he said, still rocking her and holding her tightly.

"You're right, everything you said is true," she whispered, wiping tears from her eyes.

"I love you so much, Victoria; don't—" he faltered and swallowed the taste of acidic bile in his mouth.

"—don't keep doing this to yourself. It's ripping me to shreds."

"I'm going to find a way to let go," she whispered, reaching out and wiping away one of his tears.

He held her tighter for a moment longer, and then he couldn't fight it anymore.

Standing up, he walked down the steps and around the corner. She could hear him retching, and her lips trembled for what she was putting him through, putting both of them through. She would find a way out of this; the nightmares, the guilt, the secrets of her past; she would find a way out. He eventually finished and came back to where she was; holding her tightly to him though his body shook.

Nate could hear Joe yelling from inside the cottage. Holy hell, he had never heard him this mad at Vicky before. He hadn't heard him so pissed at _anyone._ Joe wasn't a yeller. If people pissed him off, they'd be stomped, not yelled at. Nate could hear the anger and the pleading at the same time in his partner's voice. He was not going outside unless the house started on fire. Uh-uh. He was just going to stay right where he was and wait for them to get it worked out.

He had an itch on his mind, something to pass the time while Joe continued with his stroke. Two things kept bouncing off each other in his thoughts. One was Vicky saying she had almost never been in the carriage house—she was unfamiliar with it. The other thought was that the feeding path led to the carriage house and not the big house. It was an irritant. There was nothing to steal in the carriage house, and it didn't make sense. The carriage house was about forty yards from the main house, not too far at all. Nate started looking around.

Most of the walls were bare now; the displays had been tagged, bagged, and were forensic-bound. He started in the kitchen. Searching in every cupboard and drawer, he moved on to the light and fan switches then the floor and the ceiling tiles—nothing.

He went to one of the bedrooms and moved the bed, peering at the floor closely—nothing. He inspected the light switches, ceiling tiles, light fixtures, dresser, behind the dresser—nothing.

Going to the second bedroom, he moved the bed, ceiling tiles, light switches, fan fixture, dresser, and found nothing. He looked in the closet and stopped. Walking into the closet, he narrowed his eyes.

There was a small button about the size of a pea. It had a back plate the size of a dime, and it was high up near the ceiling in the corner of the closet... hidden. He pulled the cord to the bare bulb, and the dusty, grime-covered bulb lit up. The light was dim and yellow but better than a poke in the eye.

The closet was four feet by ten feet. Bending down, he touched the floor and felt thick, gritty dust on his fingers. He peered at the corners of the ceiling and around the floor where there were plainly visible cobwebs. Walking up to the button that was positioned about a foot below the ceiling, he stepped to the side, allowing the meager light of the bulb to reach the button. Light reflected off the shiny, dust-free metal. He pushed the button.

The back of the closet moved into the wall about four feet. It was a seamless, spring-activated pocket door with a tunnel on the other side. Nate felt a slight breeze on his face from the released musty, basement-smelling air of the tunnel. The air was cool and damp, making him shiver unexpectedly. The feeding path did not end at the carriage house. This, he knew instinctively, was the _real_ feeding path.

Okay. It was time for them two to break it up.

Nate walked out onto the step and saw the two of them calmly talking and holding hands. The storm had passed—good to know.

Joe glanced up at him and stood to get out of the way. He was pale and shaky. She was going to be his salvation and ruination.

Joe tapped a cigarette from his pack and cocked his head. He looked like he needed a break from life. Nate conceded that the man had unquestionably had his nuts in a vise for over a month. Overall, he was doing pretty well, considering. He was still ambulating, and he wasn't drooling yet, either. Nate took Joe's place next to Vicky as Joe stood and smoked.

"What?" Joe asked after scanning Nate's face for a moment.

"I am amazing. You're going to buy me a beer."

"Is that so? My beers are expensive. It would be vastly easier for you to buy your own."

"You owe me two."

Joe surveyed him closely. He liked the sound of that.

"What?"

"Two."

" _What?_ "

Nate eyed him levelly, not backing down. Joe knew that look. He loved that look. That was his favorite look. Joe nodded.

"Okay... two. Now, give."

"I found a secret passageway in the carriage house, and I think it goes up to the main. I think it's how Adam's been getting around the cops on guard. They've been outside, sentry-style, guarding the house's entrances while this tunnel traverses between the house proper and the carriage house. He could be using it to smuggle shit out of the house. All he'd have to do is slip out the back door of the carriage house and go along the feeding path in the woods to where we saw tire tracks. No sign of him but he gets his haul and gets out clean with the posted guards having no inkling he's come and gone."

Joe gazed at him with his head tilted, hands in pockets, and squinting one eye as smoke wafted up from his lit cigarette. Slowly, he started to smile.

That evening, they went to the same bar and grill they had the night before. The burgers were good, and the beer was cold. Joe bought Nate three beers.

Joe's arm was around Vicky, his hand hanging down from her shoulder. Even Nate could tell that Vicky felt bad for the ordeal with Joe that afternoon. Wiggling her body closer to him, she didn't stop until she was in the crook of his arm, the back of her head tilted to rest on his chest. Joe kept talking to Nate and didn't even pause. He picked Vicky up and put her fully in his lap, so she was sitting sideways. She wanted close—she got close. He tucked his hand under her far hip and slid her up his lap until she was pressed snug against his chest. Rubbing her back for a couple of minutes, he gave her wordless and gentle reassurance of his love and then wrapped his arm back around her. He kept her to him as he continued talking and drinking beer with his other hand. She looked happy. He had never blinked or looked at her or lost his train of thought; providing what she needed was as natural and instinctive as breathing for him.

Nate didn't notice. Joe was incredibly expressive and outgoing and perfectly fine with any kind of body contact at all. He was more apt to hug a man than shake his hand, and if you were a woman, you'd get a kiss on the cheek, as well. He always guided women walking next to him with his hand on their back, and he frequently reached out to touch someone when he was talking to them. It didn't matter if it were a man or woman. Many times in the New York office, Nate had seen women walk next to him deliberately so he would put his hand on their backs. It seemed to make them feel special or fragile or something. Nate wasn't sure about the whole female mental thought process thing; he just knew that women followed Joe around even if it meant going out of their way.

The "no touch" policy dweebs at the bureau gave up hope of Joe ever changing. He had never had a complaint but sometimes the little trolls would see him walking with his hand on a woman's back and immediately go up to him and barf the no-touch policy all over him. He had told them enough times to go fuck themselves that now it was just a given; the no touching rule would not be strictly enforced when it came to him. It was too goddamn much paperwork for somebody who would never be suspended and whose write-ups always seemed to get lost by his superiors before they ever hit his employee file.

"My friend, you were brilliant today."

"Yes. I was."

"Spectacular."

"I am forced to agree."

Nate took another of Vicky's fries. She never ate her fries, and he coveted them freely and habitually.

"What? That's it?" Nate asked talking around a mouthful of fries.

"Three beers; that was a three beer find."

"It was," Nate said, nodding.

"I want to be like you."

"Someday..."

"You should teach a Nate-class. You'd make millions."

Nate kept at the fries and talked around them.

"I certainly would."

"Hmmm..." Joe said, lifting his bottle of beer for a cold drink.

"What? That's it?" Nate asked.

Joe sighed heavily.

"You are the Buddha-agent."

"It's true—so very true," Nate agreed.

"Mind like a steel trap."

"Steel trap..." Nate said in agreement, shoving fries in his mouth.

"They will patent your morning breath and sell it as cologne."

"It's the right thing to do."

Joe stopped and looked at him.

"What? That's it?"

"Yes, it is. You have ketchup all over the left side of your face."

Nate took a swipe with a napkin.

"So, tell me what you think," Joe said seriously.

Nate took a long drink of his beer. The fries were gone sans the bits on his shirt. He set his beer down and thought a moment, absently brushing the crumbs off his shirt.

"A guy on each end of the tunnel; smoke him when he's pilfering before he ever gets near Vicky."

Joe thought. The tunnel came out in Adam's old bedroom closet. It nauseated Joe to think that his father chose that room, especially for him so that he could drag Adam down to the carriage house whenever he wanted. He had carefully premeditated how he was going to molest and rape his son from the time they bought the house. Adam had been only seven and Vicky had been two. Joe tried not to think about it. It made his stomach roll.

Joe said, "That's a plan, any others?"

All of them thought hard about how to use the tunnel to their best advantage.

"We're sure he uses it?" Vicky asked.

"The button was shiny; not a speck of dust on it. He uses it."

Nate fell silent and then perked up, "What about surveillance cameras? We could plant one on each end of the tunnel, one of those super-tiny new ones. We can record and monitor his movements without apprehending him at that point. We could make sure nobody did anything different at all; tell all the uniforms to keep doing what they've been doing. We could take him down at his car in a nice, tight punch with nowhere for him to run. We'll have him on grand larceny charges, trespassing, and breaking and entering. It would take him off the street while giving the prosecutors time to build the cases for the murders."

They thought, turning it over in their minds, poking it this way and that. Joe spoke first.

"Give me the worst case scenario."

Nate thought about it for a minute, taking another drink of beer.

"Worst case scenario is he sees the camera and ditches everything; he bolts and somehow we lose him. Vicky had better be in a shark cage if that happens because he's going to make a bee-line dead ahead for her," Nate said.

Joe was quiet as he thought and waited for Nate to conjure up another problem.

"He bought all those crime scene photos. Vicky stomped the shit out of Leon Hatch and thanks to a campaign contribution; the problem went away. Adam's from money. He knows what it can do and what it can buy. Maybe one of the locals covering the house at night or even during the day is bought and paid for. Who knows how long he's been skimming, maybe he can afford a cop. If he gets a nod or a whiff about the cameras, it's over. He'll be gone, and we'll be back to guessing where he is and when he's going to swoop in," Nate said.

This scenario bothered Joe a lot. It was all too possible, bordering on probable. His brow furrowed.

"Adam cannot disappear again. That can't happen. We can _not_ let that happen. If he waits and the resources dry up, Vicky's going to be at her cabin alone, turn around, and walk right into him," Joe said. He pulled her closer to him and shut his eyes, struggling to refocus and push the images from his nightmares away.

They were all quiet for several minutes, waiting to hear Joe's decision.

"I like the camera idea. I don't like the rent-a-cop idea. We'll have headquarters run financials on every cop and tech that has worked the scene. Anybody that could hear or see anything about what's going on and what we're doing is being checked. I want Stephanie doing it; she's the only one I trust to do it right. I do not want him in the wind. That is not going to happen," Joe said gravely.

"We'll wait to hear Stephanie's results before we make any decisions. Even then, I'm not going to be happy. He could've paid a cop off in dishes or antique crockery pots for Christ's sake. It may not show up in financial records at all; the cop could just sell the shit on the Internet and take the cash," Joe said.

Joe had taken his other arm and put that one around Vicky, too. He thought for a moment longer before nodding to himself.

"We'll get Stephanie started on the financials in the morning. If they come through clean, we'll get the crew around the house to an absolute minimum; two, three uniforms at the most and we'll tell them nothing."

"Who's going to install the cameras and sensors?"

"We'll get a private contractor outside of law enforcement. That'll leave the only potential leaks to two or three uniforms. Keep the ideas and the worst-case scenarios flowing to me. Be overly cautious and paranoid. Let me know the second you have a potential problem or something doesn't add up. I don't care if it's two in the morning—call me. Tell me. The only thing for sure right now is financials on everyone as soon as Stephanie sets foot into her office."

Joe looked at his watch; it was nine o'clock and time to go.

He was quiet back at the hotel room, the fear, and tension emanating from him like a heavy scent. His gut was telling him this was coming to a head. Any second, any minute had the potential to explode. He paced the room and kept his gun holster on and unsnapped. His head was tilted down, internally focused as he obsessively went over potential holes that Adam could get through to get to Vicky.

"I'd like to move out of the cabin," Vicky said.

Joe stopped and looked at her. He wasn't sure he had heard her right.

"You want to... move out of the cabin."

"I'd like to, yes," she said.

"What—why would you do that?"

"I'm also giving my notice at the university. I'm going to stop teaching my classes there."

Joe searched her face, shocked. She gazed down at her hands for a long time and said nothing.

"I can't wait to see my engagement ring," she whispered more to herself than to Joe.

She was sitting on the bed, and Joe walked up to her, picked her up, and put her in his lap. He was searching her face, waiting.

"You saw the videos of what he did to the cabin," she said.

"Listen, we can fix—"

Gently, she cupped her hand over his mouth, her eyes silencing him more than her hand. She took her hand off his mouth and put it back in her lap, looking at her left ring finger as she spoke.

"When you're on the case, you work eighty hours a week, minimum. Most of the time, it's out of state, and I don't see you at all unless it's between cases. That's not enough for me anymore; I really do need you, you know? I want to put Roxie as manager of the dogs—promote her, increase her salary, and fix up the cabin to give to her. I don't want to be surrounded by white dogs anymore, baby. I'm tired of the penance. I can still track with the dogs when the bureau needs it, but I don't want to train them anymore. I don't want them to be the focus of my life anymore. I want you to be my focus... us. I want us to buy a house that both of us shop for, decorate, and move into married. I don't want to be tied to the university for four months out of the year; I want to be with you those four months. The bureau has asked me to work for them for ten years now, and they don't care how. Teaching profiling workshops, in the field as a forensics' coordinator, in the field as an agent, in the field as a psychological consultant—they've offered me all of those positions and I've turned them all down.

"I don't want to be away from you eighty hours a week. I want to be able to go with you. I'm tired of ghosts and nightmares—you were right today. It's time to move on, and I want to move on with you.

"When this case is over, I want to get married. We've worked dozens of cases together; we work well together. Roxie can do the dogs. I don't want to be lying in bed waiting for the weekend to see you and sometimes, not even then. I want to be working on the cases you're working on, coming back to the hotels you're staying at, eating at the same stupid bar and grills sitting right next to you. And so, those are the changes I'm going to make."

She didn't want to look up from her hand, afraid that he wouldn't want that much of her. Maybe the weekends were just fine with him. Maybe he needed the separations from her—the breaks from her.

"I'm scared you don't want the same things," she whispered, her eyes turning glassy with vulnerable fear.

Joe didn't say anything. He held her tightly so she wouldn't fall off his lap while he leaned forward and reached into his back pocket. Opening his wallet in front of her downcast eyes, he pulled out a small plastic baggie with a puffy white piece of tissue in it folded over several times. She watched his hands work carefully and deliberately as though they had something to say to her, and he was making sure she was listening closely. Taking the tissue out of the baggie, he unfolded it slowly and picked up her hand to place the ring on her finger. Her stomach knotted, and she started to cry as he held her closely to him and kissed her neck gently.

"No rice pudding..." he whispered.

# # #

Vicky woke up in her usual state of dysfunction, staring straight forward for long minutes, blinking and yawning. After a while, she scooted to the edge of the bed, still in her stupor with her hair covering half of her face as she yawned again and smacked her lips. The room was quiet.

Her eyes softened as she saw Joe leaning back in the desk chair, sleeping soundly with his morning coffee beside him. She smiled gently.

Still dazed, she reached out to the cup of coffee that was on the nightstand, steam curling up from the wax paper cup. She took it and drank deeply before remembering and looking down at her beautiful engagement ring. It was a breathtaking princess cut diamond, perfectly square and quite large. It must have cost him a fortune she thought and smiled. It was stunning.

She took another deep and satisfying drink of hot coffee and observed Joe again, sleeping in the chair. It was unusual. When he was tired, he went to bed, and she had never seen him nap in the morning. She finished her coffee and got up to refill her cup but hit the floor halfway to the pot.

A hushed and dreadful silence filled the room.

# CHAPTER TWELVE

Adam got out of the maid's uniform as soon as he was back at the motel. He scrubbed the garish makeup off his face with pleasure; it itched and smelled like greasy perfume. It was a lot of makeup, but he wanted the agent to be staring at the atrocious makeup, not his face. Valenti made him nervous. The man saw everything around him, and when something wasn't visible, it seemed to trip some kind of radar, stopping him dead. Adam had seen him turn around and walk directly to an object that was hidden from his view at more than one crime scene. Valenti was the most dangerous threat to him out of everyone, and he wanted no fucking part of the spooky and hellishly smart agent.

With the makeup, he felt like he'd been walking around with a cobweb on his face for the last three hours, and he'd kept itching at his nose as if he was coked out of his mind. He didn't know how women could stand to wear the shit on their face. The wig had been maddening as well, the net creating an unbearable need to scratch. His brief and nauseating career as a cross dresser was over. He'd thrown the shit, all of it, in a dumpster. Good riddance.

Getting back into his loose jeans and a T-shirt, he started to feel a little less hyperactive and amped up. Things had gone off without a hitch, and now he could relax and enjoy himself. His only real wild card was the huge black agent.

If the agent woke up too early and saw the door guard down while Adam was still in the room, he would've been screwed. He did knives, not guns. Agents did guns. It would have been a short fight, and he would not have reflected back on it. He would have been in the morgue. He was confident that Valenti and his partner would not hold his civil rights of due process close to their hearts if either of them saw him bag Tori. It absolutely would have ended in a morgue type situation.

He had thought about drugging the man but noticed his coffee cup was still wrapped two mornings in a row. He didn't drink coffee. He thought of dosing his water but was afraid it would be cloudy and blow everything to hell. In the end, he decided to risk it and bank on the big guy not coming out of his room until around eight, like usual. Valenti had coffee with the guard in the morning before seven. If everyone behaved and acted in their proper fashion, things would go well. Everyone behaved—and things went well. The riskiest part was over, and he'd gotten out clean. He was not shot full of holes; Tori was with him, and he was safely back in his motel room. Life was good.

Taking a seat at the desk, he rolled a joint, taking his time, though he felt like rushing. He was shaking and still in disbelief that he had gotten her without getting killed. For the last three days, she hadn't been alone at any time, regardless of where she was. If her boyfriend wasn't with her, then the black guy was; she was under guard by one of the two men twenty-four hours a day without exception. His original plan had been to swipe her when she was alone, but that plan had been nullified when he saw her, from his hidey-hole, pull a gun on Valenti's partner in the attic. He couldn't believe it; she was one hundred percent ready to blow his fucking head off. Completely unnerved by what he had seen, he had modified his plans immediately and decided he was not going anywhere near her unless she was fucking unconscious.

So, he made her unconscious... no big thing.

Hearing a subtle movement, he glanced up. She had been coming around for a while but was beginning to look coherent now. The stupor may be from the drugs, but he wasn't entirely sure. When they'd been kids, she had woken up as though she were half-retarded and barely functioning. Getting her going in time for school had been a fucking nightmare. He would get her staggering ass ready and keep her from falling down the goddamn stairs before the old man decided they were running late and beat them both. She had been into the third grade before she stopped having a tantrum every morning, trying to put her head into the armhole of her shirt, pissed because it wouldn't fit. He would get dressed and go straight to her room to redress her. Her clothes on backwards, her head stuck in the armhole, she would be sitting on the floor with the one foot kicking in and out to complete the tantrum. He would lay her clothes out for her the night before, but it didn't matter. She was completely non-functioning on an epic scale every morning. It could be that things hadn't changed much, and she was only now becoming coherent because it was later in the morning.

And pissed. She looked pissed. Adam wasn't convinced that was due to the situation, either. Her morning behavior had been severely lacking in any joviality of any sort—at all—ever. When they were kids, if she dropped her backpack in the morning, she'd give it a hefty kick before picking it up and more than once her charming self would kick it all the way out to the car. When he would do her hair for school and have to get out a snarl, she'd wave her hand behind her head, trying to connect with his face or kick her foot backwards like a goddamn horse, hoping to dent his shins. God protected the world as a whole when she was old enough to get her period; Christ, he didn't even want to ride to school in the same car as her, she was so fucking toxic. At least, that's how she used to be, his little morning glory. Maybe she'd changed. It didn't really matter. She was coming around, and she was pissed. For some reason, it made him want to smile. It was good to know he could still piss her off. Maybe some things didn't change.

Looking back down, he kept rolling, unperturbed. He liked his joints packed hard, irritated when he had to pick flecks of the plant out of his mouth. And he hated seeds. You never knew when the little bastards were going to pop. When he had been low-down broke, he had been reduced to seedy pot. He cringed with every drag, waiting for it to pop and land on his face or hands. Goddamn, he hated seedy pot. It was like smoking a tiny hand grenade. He was back on the buds now, though. The exploding joints were behind him, and he could relax.

"Et ne nos inducas in tentationem..." _Lead us not into temptation..._ He murmured in Latin, holding up the joint for her to see as he shook his head with disappointment in himself.

He was such a bad egg.

"Sed libera nos a malo..." _But, deliver us from evil..._ Vicky said back to him, glaring.

Adam peered up at her as he licked his joint and smiled with genuine warmth.

"Goddamn, it's good to see you, Tori. How have you been?" he asked as he lit the joint, gazing at her expectantly.

She didn't respond. He was trying not to take her lack of a response personally. It could still be a morning thing or it could be the being drugged and tied up thing. It was a toss-up. He wasn't a mind reader.

Strapped to a chair, her hands were handcuffed behind her back. She hoped he had procured the cuffs on his own; if he lifted them off Joe, she was screwed. Bureau cuffs were no joke.

She looked Adam over, up and down. He looked good. A little too thin but he had always been thin; a little too pale, but he had always been pale. He would be in his forties now, but he appeared to be in his early thirties. As good looking as he had ever been, she wondered if women still followed him around as they did in high school and during his twenties. His pale skin and green eyes were identical to hers, and they had the same body build. His hair was very dark, almost black, and wavy. Black Irish, their mother used to say he was. He calmly smoked as he watched her looking him over. There was no hurry.

"You're very welcome for dressing you, by the way. You were buck-ass naked when I came in the room. Under your clothes, you're currently wearing black panties with a matching bra, in case you were wondering. A good Catholic girl like you shouldn't have your taste in panties, though. Thongs, Tori? The nuns would've banished you from the school yard, and our father would've put you in a coma," he said, arching an eyebrow.

"Good for you," he said, nodding in approval, smiling.

Her head was angled down the same as his, and she smoldered at him silently.

"I'm thinking I'm going to kill you tonight after one last sweep of the attic. I'll do the sweep, come back here, kill you about a hundred times, and then leave.

"I know what you're thinking," he said.

"You're concerned that I won't get any sleep if I leave here in the middle of the night after I kill you. Don't worry. I'll leave here but catch another hotel a few hours down the road. No problem," he said, smirking at her.

Their unusual and unique mannerisms were identical and always had been. A strange combination of bold, simmering sensuality and icy standoffishness attracted but confused and intimidated people. Their quiet voices almost never louder than a murmur, their smiles lazy with only one side of their mouth curling up, their heads were always tilted down when they looked at someone. Sitting across from each other, they gave off a peculiar image, similar to identical twins.

"It was the coffee. I did the whole maid-bit thing and dosed your coffee. The big guy, Joe? He was a viable concern, but the guard at the door was fluff. The idiot took coffee from me every time I offered it to him," Adam said, shaking his head in disgust.

Adam was beginning to enjoy the effects of the marijuana becoming calmer and mellower. He lumbered on, passing the time as he took several more drags from the sizable joint he had rolled, enjoying and embracing his mellow, his mind far from the blood lust that would come later.

"Your guy—Joe—he didn't have a shirt on. Either he's been in a car accident, or you need to invest in a pair of nail clippers," he said as he leaned forward and put the joint out, a slow smile touching his lips.

"Kind of hostile for my taste but you go right ahead and get your freak on, Tori. I have a suspicion that he doesn't mind."

Being called Tori felt strange, he was the only one who called her that. It felt surreal to hear it again after so many years.

He expected a little sister reaction, a crying temper-tantrum with the kicking and screaming thing in full swing. Prepared for that event, he had purchased duct tape and gloves—she used to bite like a goddamn shark, especially in the mornings. Surprised but pleased, he didn't see that reaction. Interesting.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Adam asked looking at her curiously with his head tilted to the side.

"Like what?"

Adam shrugged.

"Like anything."

"There's nothing to say," Vicky said.

Adam sighed and thought as one of his eyebrows arched up, another mannerism they shared.

"I understand. You're pissed. Okay, I can work with that. I'll give you some time to loosen up and embrace your situation. Perhaps move out of your early-morning retardation. If you still don't talk, then I'll start cutting you until you do. I'm a firm believer in having a plan. There's the plan," he said calmly.

"We have some things to talk about before I kill you, and we are going to talk about them. Embrace the family therapy, Tori. It's healthy and will do you good," he said quietly, his eyes flashing a warning.

He stood up and retrieved the television remote control, turning the channel to a blues music station. Returning to his chair, he put his feet up on the desk and grinned at her, his teeth white and perfect like hers.

"I noticed you have quite the blues collection in your little cabin up in the woods. I would have never guessed. I would have made you for the eighties' bubble-gum music," he nodded, pleased.

"Blues are good; a fine choice for your listening entertainment. Myself? I embrace the older rock—Floyd, Doors, Eagles—good and mellow stuff. But, the blues would have been my second choice if I had a second choice, which I don't."

He stood up and walked toward her.

"I almost forgot," he said and then twisted his waist and backhanded her hard on the cheek.

It snapped her head to the side, and the stinging burn was immediate as was the taste of blood in her mouth. She said nothing. He said nothing, just looked at her. After a moment, he turned around and walked backed to his chair.

"You hit like a girl," Vicky commented, one corner of her mouth curving up in a provocative but icy smile.

Adam returned the lazy half smile, and his head tilted down as he looked at her.

"Tori, are you trying to _bait_ me? That's so cute," he said as he continued to smile at her.

Vicky knew she would be making many attempts to aggravate and disrupt him. Gentle but perpetual resistance was how to survive a hostage situation. It will guarantee slaps, punches, and hair pulling and sometimes, much worse, but it will keep a hostage alive longer and the captor in a continuous state of agitation. With the aggravation and frustration comes loss of control and fatigue, and that's when mistakes are made, and opportunities are born. She would get the shit kicked out of her, but she was in it for the long haul. Surviving was her goal, not avoiding pain.

"Congratulations on your doctorates, by the way; forensic psychology, even... good for you. I saw the degree in the bottom of your file cabinet. Interesting that it means so little to you. I've wondered why that is," Adam said, his eyes a dark and stormy green, a perfect reflection of her own eyes.

"I think it's because you're interested in answers and not accomplishments. That's apparent by the shack you live in. Abhorrent living conditions—I'm not sure how you cope. I think you'll enjoy the new look, though. You've probably already seen it. Your masochist—Joe—has access to the video I'm sure. Did you see me wave, Tori?"

He paused, observing her, appearing genuinely curious.

"What's with the surveillance cameras? Are you concerned about a break in or do you plan to kill someone again? Does Joe know about your disturbing homicidal tendencies toward matriarchs?"

Vicky said nothing, and his smile broadened. He put his feet back up on the desk, folded his arms across his chest, and sighed as he closed his eyes.

Looking at him closely, she took inventory. There were no fresh needle tracks, though he had a record for heroin. His chest wasn't sunken and he wasn't malnourished nor were his cheeks hollowed. Clean and appropriately dressed, it was clear he wasn't on heroin now and hadn't been for a while. Maybe he kicked.

He was organized and able to communicate clearly, overall very high functioning. There were no surprises; that was the basic serial killer format. He had to be organized, calculating, and smart or he would have been caught long before he had a string of bodies behind him. So far, he was what she expected him to be.

An hour later, Adam stood up and walked into the bathroom, filling a glass with water. He brought it to her and held it to her lips. She turned away.

"Don't be dumb. If you're thirsty, drink it," he said calmly, a tolerant older brother talking to his little sister.

She turned her head back and drank the whole glass. He returned the glass to the bathroom and stood in front of her, one hand in his front jeans' pocket.

"Do you have to go to the bathroom?" he asked, his face serious and showing no mockery.

"Do you have to go to the bathroom?" he asked again; the ever-patient older brother tone evident in his voice.

"Going once... going twice..."

She remained silent, and he nodded, returning to his chair.

He was reverting to where they had left off, and he had no conscious awareness of doing it. In his mind, she was still the little sister who needed water and reminding to go to the bathroom. He was going to kill her but until that time; he didn't know how to walk away from the ingrained habits of being her big brother.

"Why do you choose to live in squalor? It doesn't make any sense. You don't have to be as extreme as our parents were but a three-bedroom cabin? That's just fucked up," he said with his eyebrows furrowed and looking at her curiously.

"Are you that determined to erase the past? Are you that stupid that you think you can? Do you really think by not spending the money it will somehow undo your bloodline? Seriously, Tori, you need counseling. You're not well."

She said nothing.

"And about a thousand of those white goddamn dogs. Tori, you need to move on. I can't figure out why you haven't. You were knocked around some. Get over it. Buy a house with some dignity to it. Go to Jamaica a few times a year. Quit your _job_ for Christ's sake, at least get a different breed of dog. You have your doctorates, your own business, and you teach at the university. I saw the pay stubs. You should ask for a raise, by the way—it's just insulting. But why are you still running—from what? Everybody's fucking dead. You were not this abysmally fucked up when I left. What the hell happened to you?" Adam asked as he leaned forward, put his arms on his thighs, and looked at her perplexed.

When she kept her silence, he shrugged his shoulders and sat back. He kept talking though, and Vicky listened carefully to every word.

# # #

Joe sat on a bench in front of the hotel; Nate was taking care of the crime scene upstairs now that most of the mayhem had passed. The cop that had been guarding the room had been taken to the hospital to be checked over and to get him out of Nate's considerable reach. The paramedics had to pull Nate off the man when the cop said he'd accepted coffee from the housekeeper, and that's how he'd been dosed. Nate had not been playing and had hung on tenaciously to the cop's throat, squeezing with fury as paramedics swarmed him, trying with little success to disengage Nate's death grip. Joe, still foggy and confused, had to call him off repeatedly, finally yelling at him to knock it the fuck off. Nate reluctantly let go; his teeth bared as he shoved the cop by the throat into the wall, bouncing him off it. They had hurried the man out to the ambulance and had tried to take Joe as well but that was not going to happen, and they gave up quickly, the ambulance leaving without him.

Joe lit a cigarette with only a subtle tremor in his hands. His face looked made out of stone as he inhaled and then let the smoke float away.

Nate had come out of his room and seen the cop laying on the floor, unconscious, a spilled cup of coffee by his hand on the floor. He had broken into Joe and Vicky's hotel room, and Joe had woken up to the ghastly, horrid smell of a paramedic waving smelling salts under his nose. Gagging, he had turned his head away. Nate started firing questions at him while the paramedics fussed, taking his blood pressure, shining lights into his eyes, grabbing his wrist to check his pulse, throwing an oxygen mask on him. He had shoved one of them away and followed that with vehement cussing as he ripped the oxygen mask off. Grabbing the arms of the chair, he had stood up but quickly gone straight to his knees—hard. He had been half out when he went down, clicking his teeth together as he hit the floor and nipping his tongue, a thin, unremarkable dot of blood dripping out of his mouth, which the paramedics latched onto with fervor. Nate had kept him down, subtly but forcefully, until the paramedics had finished their annoying and lengthy evaluation.

Joe looked at his watch. That had been just over an hour ago, at seven-thirty. Nate had come to his room early and had missed Adam by only minutes. Joe's coffee was still hot in the cup when his partner had busted in the door.

Joe flicked away his cigarette butt and continued to sit quietly, lacing his fingers loosely together as he sat forward with his elbows on his knees. Glancing at the parking lot, he saw a couple of cop cars parked right at the entrance with their multicolor lights silently flashing and rotating. He saw nothing else of interest and looked down at his hands laced together.

He felt unlike he had ever felt before. It was a strange feeling, and it wasn't separate from him. He was the feeling, through and through, top to bottom. There was nothing else, no tiny little corner or hidden crevice. With complete and absolute clarity, he had... shifted. He knew what it was. He knew precisely what it was. Adam was going to die, and Joe was going to kill him.

Oddly, he felt no worries, no overwhelming concerns, no terror, or panic. It just wasn't there. It did not exist. There were no tears, no woes, and no blame—there was nothing at all like that in him. He stared at his hands absently. Now he knew why Vicky had smiled all of those tiny little smiles on the video surveillance tapes of when she killed her mother. She had felt like this. She had known beyond any level of doubt exactly what she was going to do, and how it was going to end. It was a smile-worthy feeling though Joe was not smiling. He wasn't frowning, either.

For many years, he had been an agent. He knew about the adrenaline rush of busting in a door, not sure of what was on the other side; what it felt like to hood-slam a suspect's head when they were resisting; what it felt like to be shot at as well as to shoot back. He knew the feeling of just moments before it was going to break loose, and his mind started working like a computer, assessing data, reacting to it instantly; taking in information from every source around him and in a split second dealing with the most viable threat, _expunging_ the most viable threat. He knew the fury of losing—of watching a murderer walk away because a rookie had botched the chain of evidence or a lab tech had tried to take a shortcut and the evidence had been thrown out of court. Every aspect of the job he had known back to front, front to back, the feelings, each slightly different in every situation but still the same.

He had never known this.

This was a place, not a feeling. It was a solid structure. Feelings moved in and out, flared, and ebbed, sometimes running into each other to create a completely new feeling. Feelings were fluid... and eventually went away. This was not fluid. It would not be going away.

This was a place with no alternatives, no options, and no other potential scenarios. There was only one road. There was only one line of sight. There would be exactly one outcome. Adam was going to die, and Joe was going to kill him. That was the simple yet perfect and immobile structure. There it stood. It simply was.

Icy calm, he felt relaxed. He knew with a calm serenity that he was going to find Vicky, and then he was going to remove Adam from the face of the earth. Deep in his bone marrow, he knew it, as if it had already happened, and he was just waiting on the memory. It was already done. It was already over. The structure was complete.

If Adam raised his hands to surrender, Joe was going to blow his head off. If Adam ran away from him, Joe was going to blow his head off. If Adam tried to hold Vicky hostage, Joe was going to blow his head off. The common denominator would never come out differently. There would be no other outcome. Not this time... not now.

Adam was going to die.

# # #

Adam had been quiet for a while. Vicky needed to shake his control, challenge it; she needed him to be upset and enraged, raw and pure. That was the first step, to put him in a place where he most easily lost control, the freshest wound that would walk her into all the others. She needed to shake his control and endure the consequences though she dreaded them.

"Tell me about Kosey."

Adam turned to look at her dangerously, his eyes turning reptilian cold.

"You do not want to go there, Tori."

"Really? I think I want to go there. Did you love him? Unrequited love is so... sad. Don't you think? I wonder why he never left his wife for you. Have you ever wondered that? You followed him across the country but... well, maybe he did sacrifice something for you, and I just don't see it. It could be. After all, I wasn't there. "

Adam's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"Didn't it bother you that you were only his side order? Take out that he got once or twice a week. Still, maybe he would sneak you with him on road trips. Tell me, Adam. Did he at least give you road trips? Full weekends in a hotel where you could pretend—"

Adam flew off the chair, knocking it over and charged her, his lips peeled back from his teeth. He had his hand on her throat, choking her tightly for several seconds before he regained control. He kept a tight grip on her throat, entirely cutting off her air supply as he bent down and whispered into her ear.

"Do not... go there."

Instead of just letting go, he pushed himself away, using her throat as the anchor. She coughed and gasped but laughed as well, quickly recovering and holding a crooked, amused smile on her lips. With a taunting, belittling tone, she continued.

"Was he bisexual? I'm just wondering, do you think his marriage was real, and he loved her more than he loved you? Or, do you think the marriage was a sham—just a cover for his real preferences?" she asked with her voice full of wonder and mock intrigue, the crooked smile being replaced with a full grin.

He spun back around to face her, his eyes glittering like hard, green gems. He glared at her but said nothing.

"It seems that if he cared about you, he would have divorced Fatimah, right? It just doesn't make any sense—unless, of course, he loved her more."

Adam walked up to her and then grabbed a fist full of her hair. He cranked her head back until she could feel her vertebrae pinch and crunch in her neck. Slowly, he brought his head down until his lips were touching her ear. He began in a whisper but ended in a loud bellow of fury.

"He was _in the closet,_ you stupid bitch!"

Adam threw her head forward violently, making her chair rock with the momentum. She laughed at him again, the laughter sounding pure and true, full of amused glee.

"Are you sure? He could have stayed in the closet and still divorced her, right? Adam? Adam?"

Adam crossed his arms tightly over his chest, trying to regain control. He started to feverishly think through his plans and weigh if he had to wait to kill her. He should just kill her now. He should. He should just kill her now; there was no reason he couldn't just kill this bitch right now.

She smiled at him.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to wait until tonight. Poor Adam, you always did have impulse control issues. Go ahead. Do it. Just take the knife, don't be scared," she pushed, continuing to taunt him, goad him.

Adam's face was flushed red, and his hands were shaking. No. No, he was going to follow his plan. Sweep the attic and then come back here to partake of her untimely death and then leave. She was supposed to be near hysterical with fear when he finally killed her. It took time and intimidation to build that kind of fear—he knew that well. She needed to sit there, stewing in her own fear and desperation until he decided, _calmly_ decided, to kill her. He was not going to satisfy decades of yearning and aching with a two-minute frenzy because she had pissed him off. No. That was not going to happen.

He sat down at the desk and breathed through his mouth; panted, really. My god, I want to kill her so bad, he thought as he reached for his bag of pot again, his hands shaking. When he spoke, it was quietly but there was a tremor in his voice, and it came through clenched teeth.

"You know, Tori, I don't remember your being quite this mouthy or suicidal."

She sneered at him openly.

"Then, you don't remember shit. _I_ was the one who had the balls to do something, not you. You just quivered behind some skirts and followed the rules like a good little boy," she said, lacing her voice heavily with disgust.

Adam's neck muscles flexed as he turned his head toward her. He looked at her for a minute and then turned back to the pot.

"Yes, I'll give you that, my little ray of sunshine. You win on that. You were the _first_ one to be a murderer in the family. However—rest assured—I will be the last," he said quietly.

"Over a fucking dog," he added in a mutter, shaking his head in contempt and disgust.

"Over a dog," she confirmed.

"I guess I wasn't willing to put up with nearly what you were. Not nearly," she murmured. Her voice was heavy with innuendo as she braced herself to be hit.

He froze in his chair and did not move a muscle. He stayed, unmoving, as the seconds ticked by.

"You know nothing," he whispered.

"I know nothing? Are you sure?" she cooed, the smirk returning to her lips.

"Pater noster..." _Our father,_ she said airily as she sighed the words in Latin.

Adam slowly stood up from his chair.

"—que es NOS in coelis." W _ho_ _art NOT_ _in heaven,_ she continued.

She watched him turn around and walk into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

She was surprised he hadn't hit her again, and she took a deep, shaky breath. It was a fine line she was walking—keeping him agitated and out of control but keeping herself alive—a very fine line.

She tried to contort her fingers and feel what kind of cuffs were on her. Her fingers blindly went to where the chain connected to the cuff and felt the flat metal. There would be a single hole for the actual cuff key but the newer cuffs had an additional tiny slot. In the tiny slot was a small, firm metal bar that could be slid over to double lock the cuffs. If these cuffs had the double lock on them, it was going to be painfully difficult to get out of them, and she may not be able to at all. The old style cuffs were comparatively easy to pop.

She felt the metal carefully. So far, she could only feel the one hole of the old-style cuff. Oh, what a glorious day it would be if, later, she found they really were the old style. She wouldn't know for sure until she tried to pop them when Adam was gone. If she tried now, he would only tie her up tighter, more securely. Right now, she was just gathering information as she contemplated how she was going to shrink Adam without getting herself killed.

She was doing everything she could to recreate the past by reenacting all of the complications of normal sibling rivalry. Fight and make up, fight and make up, all in rapid succession, just like siblings who were still children. With the emotional reenactments would come the emotional ties—he would hate her and love her, beat her and protect her. She needed to magnify and make come true for him a very old relationship, the one that went all the way back to the carriage house, when he fought to protect her.

Adam came out of the bathroom.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she stated.

He glared at her. His bangs were wet, and so was the hair along the side of his face. He had been splashing water on his face.

She knew that Adam would have some very deep lines drawn that he wouldn't cross; people worked that way. He would stab her to death until she was unrecognizable because that was his own. Forcing her to urinate on herself, he would never do; that's something his father would do. He would never be like his father—he would be _nothing_ like his father—he would murder but he would never humiliate. Also to her benefit, he was actively living in the emotional past. She was his little sister and no matter how mad he got at her, he still had to take care of her. Even though he was sorely pissed, she would force him to take care of her—force him to role-play and act out his deeply ingrained habits, embracing them once again. No matter how mad he got, he still had to be a big brother and take responsibility for her.

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"I heard you," he said, still glaring at her but approaching the chair.

She watched as he undid the straps, not moving her head, only her eyes. He helped her to the bathroom and then spoke to her.

"Listen. I'm going to close my eyes and unbutton your pants and pull them down. When you're done, I'll do the same thing and pull them back up. You can drip-dry. I'm not going to wipe my sister's ass. It's fucking creepy," he said to her.

He did exactly as he said he would, forgetting that he had been the one to dress her in the first place and had been raping women that looked almost identical to her. When he had dressed her, she had been a victim but now, in the bathroom with him, she was his little sister. His behavior, and how he thought of her, had transitioned smoothly without him being aware of it. Staying in the small bathroom with her, he wouldn't look at her until her pants were up. He poured another glass of water and held it to her lips. She drank it, and he set it back down and brought her back out to the chair to tie her up.

He sat down in the chair and crossed his arms, ignoring her. He was sulking.

"How long were you with Kosey?" she asked calling an end to the fight and switching into the one he could talk to when there was no one else, the built-in best friend; the little sister.

He turned to throw a glare at her and then turned away again, saying nothing.

"Did you meet him in Arizona, when you were taking classes? He was a professor there," she nudged.

Adam turned to scowl at her again, suspicious of her tone. Looking her up and down, he was still glaring. She had an understanding lilt that he didn't trust; it was a shrink tone. It caught his attention though—it was the same tone she used in the distant past when she was worried about him if he was sick or hurt when they were kids. It was a small, apprehensive voice... a familiar voice. He swallowed and turned away.

"Yeah, we met at the state 'U'," he said shortly and then went silent.

She waited. She was very good at waiting. It was important to know when to push and when to have them come to you. It was vital to disguising the manipulation. She would sit and ask few questions, and he would begin to feel in control again. He wouldn't feel manipulated because he wasn't being pried open; he was being allowed to open on his own. She watched him think and remember.

"He was smart—made the class interesting. It was about other cultures and things. He was really an intelligent guy," Adam eventually added on his own accord.

"From Africa," Vicky added, prodding and steering, subtly encouraging.

Adam glanced at her again, his glare less piercing. He looked away.

"Yeah, Africa; we were going to go there someday together, when he finally came out."

Vicky said nothing and more time crawled by as she patiently waited.

"I was an idiot," Adam said more to himself than to her.

As she listened, she forced a bogus concern for him to pour from her eyes.

"He was never going to come out—never. I just couldn't seem to walk away, though," he said with a note of longing in his voice.

He tightened his arms around himself and pursed his lips together. He would talk no more, he told himself. Vicky watched all of these things together and calmly waited.

"You know, it's not as easy when you're gay," Adam said, shooting her a glare of hostility, wanting to talk but still being angry.

"There are more complications when you're gay. It's harder, way harder than being straight," he said with an edge to his voice as he glared at her.

Painting her face with concern and empathy, she looked back at him. He fell silent, and she waited.

"If that bat shit crazy wife of his hadn't caught us and lost her mind, we'd still be together," Adam said.

"Fatimah," Vicky gently prompted with a subtle hint of sadness detectable in her tone.

Adam nodded as pain and yearning flashed through his eyes for a brief moment.

"She's in lockup now," Vicky said.

Adam mumbled, "I read it in the papers. She's insane."

"Yes. She is," Vicky agreed.

They were both quiet.

"Do you still go to church?"

"So they can tell me I'm sinning every time I find a boyfriend? I don't need that shit. Twelve years of nuns and Latin was enough," he paused and then glanced at her curiously out of the corner of his eye.

"You?"

Vicky shook her head.

"I can still recite the Latin mass word for word though; the entire mass, beginning to end."

"I share the same affliction," Adam said, giving a slight nod as he looked at one of his nails.

They fell into an easy silence—a safe silence. Vicky was beginning to build.

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Joe was talking to several officers, telling them to bug out and giving them the excuse that they had received a tip Adam was further north. Nate watched as Joe fed them the bogus information and gave many handshakes.

At first, Nate had thought that Joe might be in shock; he was acting so strangely, almost as if this were a regular case. He was calm, one hand in his jeans' pocket, his sunglasses on, and smoking a cigarette. He was in charge, and he wasn't worried. Nate thought that maybe Joe should go in to the doctor; he was acting so alarmingly normal. He was a little sharper; his movements were a little more determined, but only if someone observed closely. Nate was completely bewildered. Joe loved Vicky in a way that was nearly mythical, but he was acting calm and focused with no panic, no rage, and no fear.

He had gone right on being confused by his partner's behavior until Joe came up to tell him something. Joe took his sunglasses off for just a minute to clean them on his sweatshirt and had looked at him while doing so. Nate was suddenly a wide-eyed eight year old again.

Nate's great-grandmother had lived into her late nineties, and he used to listen to her tell stories, old school and scary stories. The stories were religious but with a heavy dose of Louisiana Cajun mixed in; superstition that was so sharp and refined it bordered on voodoo. She told him stories of demons that walked the earth and how to fix doorways with salt and dirt from a graveyard, stories of creatures that came out at night to hunt children and possess them. She would nod, her milky brown eyes big and serious, and warn him. She would tell him to throw the salt over his shoulder; she would demand that he turn in a circle three times after he sneezed. She was very old and believed in the old ways through and through.

Nate remembered, in particular, she talked about Death, about how He was a figure that walked the earth and when He selected you, you couldn't hide. He could smell you. Nate had listened, terrified, his young mind believing every word she said. When Death had selected you, He would never lose your scent; there was nowhere to hide. He would never stop until He scented you down and took you, his icy fingers reaching in to scoop out your soul... to collect you, ferrying you across the river Styx to the other side. His grandmother had told him the moans and screams from the other side of the river could be heard in the bayous at night, through the fog, if Death was near. She had said there was no power, no talisman, and no magic in heaven or hell that would stop Him from collecting. He was a deity unto Himself, his power his and his alone, untouchable, unstoppable, and merciless.

When Nate had casually glanced into Joe's eyes, time had suddenly whirled backwards thirty years. He swallowed hard. He could feel his great-grandmother's bony finger on his neck. He could hear her whispering softly to him in her raspy, papery old voice.

" _I told you, boy... Death."_

Nate instinctively shuddered and raised his shoulders up to protect his neck. He stopped talking and stared, frozen, into Joe's strange, swirling blue eyes with the insane thought _, I hope He can't smell me..._

Nate had seen more than his share of serial killers, mass murderers, and child murderers. He had seen the absolute dregs of society in all of their stinking filth and atrocities. He had been appalled and disgusted; he had been amazed and horrified. The depths that some people would delve into, wallow in, and rejoice about being a part of had repulsed and confused him. He had seen all of that. Yet until this day and in that second, he had never seen Death. He had never believed the stories.

Now he did.

There He stood, full and proud, brash and real, peering directly into Nate's soul with pure, concentrated, and all-consuming presence. There was no question or doubt. Nate could hear the screech owls; he could see the full blue moon; he could actually _smell_ the scent of the bayou swamps and hear the soft and paralyzing _whoosh_ of the long black cloak as He stood before him. He was Death... and He was looking at him through Joe's eyes.

Nate had stumbled back a step, one hand out in front of him, instinctively trying to ward Him off. Joe had continued to stare at him, unmoving; Death had continued to stare at him, unsurprised by his fear; acknowledging by his silence that Nate was wise to be afraid... wise, indeed. Joe stared at Nate with a steady, knowing gaze. He didn't ask why Nate had stepped back. He saw Nate shudder, and that didn't surprise Him either. He gazed into Nate's eyes steadily for one long, pure, and terrible moment. Nate could feel the icy finger reach out and touch his heart. Nod to him. Let him know, He was real... and He was here to collect. Joe said nothing. He put his sunglasses back on and stood there a moment longer before He turned and walked away.

The second Joe had turned away Nate expelled his breath in a stark huff, the screams from the other side of the river fading away as the sun began to shine again.

I told you, boy... he ain't never gonna die 'cause he ain't never been born. It's best you tuck and scat afore he smells YOU. Tuck and scat now... go on. Death's bidness ain't none o' yo's.

Nate had stayed where he was, stunned and afraid, wishing for all the world that he could tuck and scat, but he couldn't. This was his business, too. He loved Vicky like a sister, and he loved Joe like a brother. The light, light blue of Joe's eyes flashed in front of him again, and it was all there, in his memory, as real as anything Nate had ever experienced in his life. Death Himself, in person, had come to collect Adam Terrace. Nate shuddered again. He was thirty-six years old, and he believed.

Nate's phone had rung, and it startled him. He breathed out heavily and turned his back in Joe's direction. He didn't want to see those eyes again. Not even from forty yards away. Nate hoped Joe kept his sunglasses on all day.

"Nate."

"Special Agent Colten?"

"Yes."

"Valenti is the SAC over there, correct?"

"Who the hell is this?" Nate asked, irritated.

"This is the Division Chief, James Tanner. I've been trying to get through to Valenti all morning. What the fuck is going on over there?"

Wonderful.

"Sir, I'm not sure what you mean," Nate said vaguely as he closed his eyes and prepared for evasive maneuvers.

"I mean, Valenti is burning through our resources like he's planning on capturing Satan. You're on a serial killer, fine. We've had them before, and we'll have them again. The amount of financial resources he's authorizing is absolutely unacceptable," the Division Chief fumed.

"Sir, this is a tough one. We're six bodies deep, and those are only the ones we know of; there are probably dozens more. In addition, he's abducted Vicky O'Connell. We believe the expenditures are warranted."

"Vicky O'Connell? Who in the hell is Vicky O'Connell?"

Nate sighed perceptibly. This guy was such an asshole.

"Sir, Doctor Victoria O'Connell has worked with the agency for over a decade. She has a doctorate in forensic analysis _and_ forensic psychology; she's an integral part of CAMIRC investigations. She's also been an expert witness on call for the bureau for the last five years, and she's the _only_ tracker the bureau uses in CAMIRC cases. She was successful in multiple interviews in some extremely high-profile cases, all of which ended with her acquiring written confessions. She's pretty important," Nate said.

She was. Child Abduction Serial Murder Investigative Resources Center was on a first name basis with her, constantly calling her for telephone consults and sending her files to work up profiles on. She was the go-to-gal in half a dozen areas.

He hated this guy. He was a bean counter who saw dollar signs all day and hadn't gotten his shoes dirty or fired a weapon in over a decade. Nate seriously hoped that Joe just kept right on being busy on the phone because if Joe heard this man challenging his decisions then Nate was going to turn around and not look—plausible deniability and all that.

"I don't care. These expenditures are outrageous. You tell Valenti they're over. As of now, he's on a coupon budget. You got that, Colten?"

"You bet," Nate said neutrally and hung up the phone before the miserable douche could say another word.

He sighed and headed toward Joe to catch up on things. The phone call would never be mentioned.

Nate was standing by Joe, waiting for him to get off the phone.

"Well?"

"They should be here in an hour or so; they'll call when they're ten minutes out, and I want the uniforms out of here by then. They're coming in pick-ups, not vans, and they're not going to have any company logos on their clothes. The two or three cops that are still here won't be sure who the camera techs are let alone what they're doing. They'll park out back on the path; they won't screw with the path itself, but they'll be right by it and use the back way in, going straight into the attic. I don't even think the uniforms will see them. If, on the impossible possibility, Stephanie missed something and one of them is dirty, they'll still have nothing to report to Adam. You'll take them away from the house to Fatimah's crime scene for some bullshit show and tell thing. I'll be with the camera techs in the attic."

Nate agreed.

Stephanie had selected a couple of the local cops that stuck out to her as straight arrows. The two cops she had chosen to stay on the premises were scrutinized on a microscopic level. She dug through everything from their financials to the square footage of their houses and where they could afford to vacation; she looked to see if they donated to charities on their taxes and if their kids went to public schools or private. She checked to see if they were single or married and if there was any alimony being paid out or if anyone's mother was in an expensive nursing home that needed to be paid for.

When the chips were down, and perfection was needed, it came down to Stephanie. She was that good. She was also that flexible. She would dig where it was categorically illegal to search, she would shuffle paperwork in a way where things were buried or lost, and she could buy time indefinitely or speed things up to a near-supersonic velocity.

She only answered to Joe.

Smiling at her superiors and calling them sir or ma'am, she had not a blemish in her employee jacket; she attended all staff meetings and always brought cookies and flavored creamer and everyone in the office wanted her for their Secret Santa. She got the picture, though. She saw the real picture, the big picture. Anything that Joe asked her to do would supersede all rules and regulations. She was one hundred percent about the bottom line: saving the victim; catching the offender, and she knew Joe was, too. She was their largest asset in the background and research area. There simply was no better.

When Joe had told her over the phone that he and Vicky were getting married, she had been overjoyed. Then, Joe had cut her off and told her that Adam Terrace had abducted her and was holding her. Nate watched as Joe held the phone away from his ear several inches, wincing and waiting. Nate could easily hear the string of expletives that Stephanie was hurling at him because he didn't call her instantly, at home, the second he was conscious. He had waited an hour. She could adjust the degrees of the world's axis point in an hour.

She had gone straight to work, hard and fast. Within thirty-five minutes, she had called him back telling him which two cops to keep at the crime scene as well as which was the best, most reliable, up to date, fastest, and efficient private sector surveillance installers. She had run deep background checks on every one of the crewmembers that would be coming out to the house, too. She sent a picture of each crewmember along with a name to Joe's cell phone to cross-reference the people and make sure who was there was supposed to be there. She was on standby for anything else they may need.

As she was on standby, she went through some files. Losing a few things, she was also making clerical errors on a few others. Mistakes happen—snafus will appear.

Stephanie was the one that Joe called early the year before when Raven had been kidnapped, and he had considered taking Vicky off the case, convinced she was going to murder the man. Joe had asked Stephanie for Vicky's deep background and any previous questionable or criminal activity that Vicky might have hidden. Stephanie's ability to achieve depth in finding out about someone's past was almost—not quite but almost—limitless. Joe had told Stephanie to erase her search engines. It had been a private and confidential favor to him. They had never even discussed the results until she had gotten to a phone outside of the office.

She was the one who had told Joe about Vicky's real last name, and her father having been a senator. She had also forwarded the video surveillance, still kept in evidence, of Vicky killing her mother. Stephanie knew all about who Vicky was, with the exception of the financials, by the time she was done. After giving Joe the information, she had buried all of it at his request. After Joe's phone call today, she knew he was trying to keep the family connection between Adam and Vicky severed. Vicky was still a senator's daughter and fodder for the press; he didn't want the media finding out anything and disrupting her life. Reporters had hounded her for six months after she had shot her mother; following her to school, calling her at home, zeroing in on her at her high school graduation. It had been the biggest reason she had changed her name.

Stephanie was, at the very moment Joe and Nate were talking, hacking into records that would indicate Adam and Vicky's relationship. She was deleting and misappropriating any photos that she could find in records that showed a picture of Vicky with the name Victoria Terrace. School photos, old driver's licenses, passports—all of them were renamed Vicky O'Connell. People would certainly know that Adam was Vicky Terrace's sister. That was a given. They did not need to know that Vicky O'Connell _was_ Vicky Terrace. As far as the media knew, they were two separate people; one was newsworthy, and the other one wasn't. Stephanie was working diligently to sever any records of the cord tying the two. Beginning with the court records of Vicky changing her name, she worked backwards from there as she waited by the phone for Joe to call in case she could do more to help.

At quarter after ten, Joe's phone rang.

"Yeah." It was the crew leader for the installation of the cameras.

"We're ten minutes out."

"Right," Joe said and snapped his phone shut, giving Nate a nod.

Nate collared the two remaining uniforms, and Joe watched as he herded them away. Joe turned and walked in long strides toward the back of the house. His blue eyes swirled with white ice crystals as he thought of how he was going to rip the life out of Adam, one agonizing, treacherous breath at a time.

# # #

Vicky glanced at the small digital clock on the nightstand. Its numbers glowed red. It was ten-thirty.

"So, how many?"

Adam shrugged, disinterested.

"I think it's in poor taste to keep track," he said, still sitting in the desk chair that was tilted onto its back legs, his feet up on the desk.

He was inspecting his cuticles, occasionally putting a finger up to his mouth and nibbling on it and then looking at the cuticle again.

"What's your point? What are you trying to say?"

"I have to be saying something? What's wrong with just killing people?" Adam asked.

Peering up from his cuticles, he glanced at Vicky. She said nothing.

"And now the look. Why with the look? All right, Tori. You seek answers. I understand," he said and sighed heavily.

"Clearly, I'm maladjusted. Our mother was useless and purely ornamental; I've never recovered and just went mental over it and that, doctor, is why I kill women."

"You're an idiot," Vicky said, calmly making an observation.

"Do you really think so?" Adam asked, glancing at her.

"No," she said.

He nodded, turning back to his cuticles.

"It usually starts in the early twenties. When did you start?"

Adam had grown bored with his hands and placed them, one over the other, on his stomach as he leaned his head back, exhaling quietly.

"Why is any of this important to you? Seriously, Tori, why do you even care? It's never affected you until I threw it in your face. I like it—I do it. There you go. What the fuck else do you want to hear?" Adam asked, clearly confused about why she cared or wanted to know.

"How do you get them?"

"I'm a good looking guy," he said with a shrug.

Vicky agreed—he was. Women would eagerly follow him; they always had.

"Why do you stab them so many times in the pelvic area?"

He glared at her, irritated that she wouldn't drop it.

"Call it a form of self-expression... avant-garde if you like. I am _expressing_ what it felt like to be raped for fifteen years by a demon the likes to which you, my clean and pure Tori, were never properly introduced. Now, if you don't fucking mind, you're becoming tedious and severely killing my buzz. Change the subject—this one's over."

Vicky was silent as Adam subtly withdrew. He was growing distant, isolating.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Adam asked as he closed his eyes.

"Pull away like that. We used to be close and then you threw me away."

Fire up the sibling rivalry and accuse him of what he felt she had done; it was the equivalent of pouring gasoline over dynamite and then lighting the fuse. It was incredibly dangerous but if he didn't kill her immediately, it would go a long way toward saving her life later. It would make him doubt himself, defend himself, and want to reassure her that he cared which was in direct opposition to what he was trying to accomplish. Joe and Nate would have called it a mind fuck and she supposed that was as good of a term as any other she'd come across.

He slowly lifted his head, his lateral muscles flexing and turned to look at her.

"You're kidding, right? You are absolutely fucking joking, right?" he asked, narrowing his eyes down to slits.

"You would go in your room and not let me in. You would push me away when I reached out for you, and leave me by myself while you went off somewhere alone. You cut me out of your life; threw me away like you didn't even know me," she accused.

He sat up quickly and spun around in his chair to face her, his eyes hard and dangerous.

"You are delirious. You must've hit your fucking head when you fell. You can _not_ be serious! I was there for you every goddamn day! I was _always_ there for you! I wiped your snotty nose; I kept you away from the old man; I took care of you when the old lady was wasted out of her mind; I did nothing _but_ take care of you, Tori!" he said, his face beginning to flush with anger, pure and clean, at her accusation.

"No, you didn't," she said, stubbornly and childishly.

"What the f—you're crazy! I took care of your scrawny miserable ass when there was blood dripping out of my own! I had blood in my fucking _underwear,_ and I would play hide and seek with you, you ungrateful brat! I gave you your baths, and let you sleep with me after your nightmares with your fucking hair in my face all night, keeping me awake. That bitch was so useless; _I_ took you shopping for your first training bra, your first box of _pads,_ goddamn it! I didn't take care of you? I _left_ you?" he asked in disbelief, his face fully flushed now and completely reverted to where she wanted him... their childhood.

He was out of his chair and pacing, his hands on his hips, shaking his head and looking at her and then shaking his head and glaring at her again.

"You pushed me away! All I had left was a damn DOG! You took _everything_ away! Everything!"

He charged her, and bent down in front of her face, one hand on each arm of the chair and leaned in until his eyes were only inches from hers. He was yelling full force with veins bulging from his neck.

" _I DID NOT LEAVE YOU—EVER!_ " he roared and then backhanded her hard across the face.

Before she could recover from the backhand, he hit her again with a forward hand.

"I _LOVED_ you! I didn't want you to get _DIRTY_ , so I stayed away, you stupid, stupid bitch! I didn't want you to _SEE_! I was _PROTECTING_ you like I _ALWAYS_ protected you!" he yelled, panting with sweat running down his face.

"You pushed me _away_ ," Vicky hissed.

He slapped her again.

"You cut me out of your life and _left_ me," she accused, leaning her head forward so that her face was as much in his as the other way around.

He growled with rage with his lips pulled back from his teeth and reached into his back pocket.

She saw a whirling windmill butterfly knife being opened with amazing speed as he brought it up over his head and then down, stabbing her savagely in the upper thigh, still growling.

" _I DID NOT LEAVE YOU!_ " he bellowed, twisting the knife, and then jerking it out.

Vicky flung her head back with the pain but clamped her mouth tightly shut. Only a low but loud growl was able to escape. He was panting in her face, and her hair was being puffed out to the side with every pant.

He moved to the side of the chair she was strapped to and grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back with a jolt. Putting the point of the butterfly against her throat, he bent down to her ear, his whisper savage and definitive.

"I did _not_ leave you. You were my little sister. You were the _only_ clean and pure thing in my entire miserable life. I pushed you away to _protect_ you... but I never _left_ you," he whispered and then threw her head forward by the hair.

He walked in front of her, his hand only slightly held out to the side as she saw the blur of the six-inch long blade expertly windmilled back into place by the butterfly sides of the knife. He put it roughly back in his pocket, still panting.

Pushing his hands deep into his front pockets, he waited out the adrenaline. God _damn_ , she could piss him off. He slowly began to breathe less raggedly. He waited another minute, his back still to her.

The blues played from the television set as they both absorbed the explosive interaction.

"I did _not_ leave you," he said softly through his teeth, still panting, his eyes closed.

Minutes ticked by. He finally turned around to look at her. She was slumped over in the chair, passed out and sitting in a pool of blood.

Vicky heard him as she let her head sag to the side, her mouth hanging open. She listened to him go into the bathroom and run the water, wetting down towels. He brought the wet towels back to the bed, sitting close to her, and then started cutting the towels into strips as he muttered to himself.

"I left you? Crazy bitch... how could you ever even _think_ that? _You_ were the one who left. Petting that damn dog all the time... always concerned for that dog... always with the dog," he muttered as he continued to shred strips of toweling.

"I use to _wish_ I was that dog. All I wanted in the world was to _be_ that fucking dog. If you had known, you'd be dirty, too, you stupid bitch. How was I going to do that to you? I was done— _ruined_. I was over with forever, and I knew it even back then... but I could still keep _you_ clean. I could keep _you_ safe and clean... stupid bitch... stupid, stupid bitch," he muttered.

"I left you... you're fucking crazy," he said.

"Then the funeral—you fucking _glared_ at me. You _hated_ me—pushed _me_ away. When they were both dead, you pushed _me_ away. It was finally going to be safe for us, and you pushed _me_ away.

"Supposed to stay in the house _together—_ be together—find my way to being _clean_ again—back to _you_ again. I could finally come back to you—and you pushed me away. You sat right there and fucking glared at me, and everything I ever wanted was _gone._ And I _still_ protected you—I took Second Placers—always only Second Placers. The ache, Tori... you don't even _know._ My whole life _,_ I've loved you my whole _life._ You were the _only one_ who knew me before I was ruined... the only one I loved when I still knew _how_ to love.

"I left you? _I_ left _you..._ never. I wouldn't _ever_ leave you. _All I ever wanted was to be that fucking dog._ Then they were both _dead,_ and it could _happen._ The only fucking family I ever _had_ and we could've stayed in the house together _—together._ I would have nieces and nephews. I could be _clean_ again... and then _you pushed me away._ You didn't want me there _._ And still, I protected you—all these years, protecting you—pretending they _were_ you... to keep you safe and clean."

He was silent for long minutes. The towels were ripped up.

"I would never have pushed you away," he said in a whisper.

Silent once again, he was staring, remembering. He could feel his guts tighten. He could feel the pain descend, the most terrible pain, above all. The hate she had glared at him—it had felt as if his life had been taken away. It had felt as though every dream and hope he ever had—all at once—was carved out of him, ripped out of him, leaving him bloody, empty, and eviscerated _._ He had been completely gutted and had gone on a heroin bender that had lasted for years, entirely unequipped to deal with the pain of her not wanting him, of having the only person he knew how to love push him away—leave him adrift. In five years, he had gone through his million dollars, almost all of it on heroin. He had been desperate, _frantic_ to find a way to live without the only person that could make him clean again. She had been the only person he knew how to love, his only tie to when he had been clean, his only chance for finding his way out of the darkness. She could teach him to love again, to be clean again, and not to ache... but she left him in the darkness and never looked back.

"The worst pain of all..." he whispered.

Minutes ticked by.

He could hear her start to moan. Gathering the supplies, he kneeled down in front of her, and started to pack towels onto her wound and then tied them tightly, keeping heavy pressure on.

She gasped and let herself cry softly. He could see the tears drip down into her lap as she was slouched forward. His jaw muscles flexed as he gritted his teeth. This bitch was going to die. He had left this pain _behind._ What the fuck was he _doing_? He was confused and angry—enraged—because he felt bad that he had hurt her. He needed, _needed,_ to have First Place, to be clean. He needed one day, _one day_ without the ache. Hearing her snivel like a baby, he felt like a piece of shit. He had gone to such lengths, such extremes, to make this happen. Risking his freedom, he had risked his _life_ to make this happen, and hearing her cry still ripped his fucking heart out. He thought he might be losing his mind. He didn't think he'd ever been this confused.

He wordlessly finished with her leg and then went into the bathroom and got a glass of water. She was still sobbing, goddamn it. He held the water to her mouth.

"Drink it," he murmured; his hand shaking as he held the glass for her.

# # #

The big agent was watching them install the motion detectors in the attic. He was watching very closely, pointing and instructing where he wanted them to be placed. Otherwise, he didn't say much.

The crew leader didn't like this man at all. He was off, somehow, his voice cold and frightening, as though he had no pulse. The crew leader had made the mistake of looking into the agent's eyes in the dim attic. The light blue orbs were the creepiest, most lethal thing he had ever seen. The crew leader had averted his gaze immediately, concerned that the guy was allowed to carry a gun.

The big agent wasn't doing anything wrong; he wasn't being an asshole or anything. He was just freezing cold in his execution and manner. He had shark eyes; those flat, emotionless orbs that told you not to be in his way when he walked, never to interrupt him if he was talking, and not to stand too close to him. The crew leader had firmly decided to have as little contact with the agent as possible.

And there were no pauses—no contemplation of any sort. It was as if the man were reading instructions off a blueprint in his mind. He knew exactly where he wanted the motion sensors, how many he wanted, as well as how many monitors it would take to support that kind of input. The icy agent even knew which frequency he wanted everything to work on. There was no hesitation, as though he had done it a hundred times before. The experienced crew leader knew that was not possible. He had never seen a set up this unique and elaborate in his life. It was actually brilliant—beautiful, even—in its extreme and exact efficiency and effectiveness. It was a perfectly smooth net of coverage. Nothing... nothing, anywhere was going to get through the sensors without the agent knowing it. There was not one square inch that wasn't covered, but there was also not an inch of overlapping double coverage. It was just... _perfect_. A thirty-two thousand square foot house, plus a tunnel, plus a carriage house, plus the grounds, and the man never paused once.

It wasn't normal. The crew leader had seen people with a tight focus before, but this was _laser_ focused. Between the agent's precision, his savant-like intelligence, and his arctic cold, lethal calm, the crew leader got a very strong vibe that whomever this net was intended for did not have a lengthy future. This type of elaborate, square foot grid work was not being done to make an arrest. This was predatory.

The big agent's even bigger partner was coming up the stairs.

Joe glanced in the direction of the attic staircase and saw that Nate had a face full of irritation and concern. Following Nate up the stairs was the Division Chief, James Tanner.

Joe had never cared for the man; he didn't respect him, but their paths didn't cross often, so it had never been an issue. If Joe had to ask for something in order to get it, he went to the Section Chief, Tanner's boss. The Section Chief was focused on the outcome of the case; the bottom line and there was mutual respect. Even going to the Section Chief was rare, though. Usually, if Joe wanted something, he took it, plain and simple. Suits left him alone; it was in their best interest. He was an exceedingly valuable asset, and they knew it; he knew what needed to be done, when it needed to be done, and how it needed to be done. And, he would do it, consistently, methodically, efficiently; every time with ruthless and predictable precision. The suits catered to him in hopes of his accepting one of the many promotions offered to him at some point, but everyone knew, deep down, he never would. He was right where he wanted to be and where he felt he was most effective.

Joe watched the Division Chief ascended the stairs, huffing. He was overweight, and the exertion made his face look greasy. Joe eyed him flatly, understanding with complete clarity why Nate had come up with him.

"Tanner," Joe said, not extending his hand.

"Valenti, what in the hell do you think you're doing?" Tanner spread his arms wide to indicate the installation crew, his face flushed pink from exertion and anger.

"Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost? Do you?" he asked loudly.

Joe stared at him blankly.

"The goddamn private sector? Who the fuck do you think you are? You have no authority to authorize this kind of expenditure! What the hell's the matter with you?" Tanner yelled.

Nate noticed the installation crew leader was instinctively backing away. Nate understood completely. He wished he could back away, too.

"You think you're qualified for this decision? You're not! You're a goddamn SAC! That qualifies you to run the investigation, not authorize expenditures! Do you have any clue what budget cuts are? Do you?" he asked Joe, still yelling, still waving his arms around.

Joe looked at him. He was thinking the trees lining the path out back would be an excellent place to put the set of path sensors. He would tell the crew to counter-sink them right into the branches; they would be invisible yet have uninterrupted ground coverage in a perfect cone.

"Valenti! You insolent son of a bitch, I want this crew out of here right _now_!"

Nate had carefully walked around Joe to his backside. He was just going to make sure that things didn't go too far. They would go. There was no doubt about that—no doubt at all. Things were most definitely going to go. Nate just didn't want them to go too far. A dead body would be too far. Anything shy of that, Nate didn't figure he'd really be able to stop and so, he wouldn't even try.

The crew leader was still backing away. He backed into an antique table and felt his way around it using his hands, never taking his eyes off Joe.

"If you don't get this crew out of here right now, you are officially on suspension leave, goddamn it!"

Joe looked at him blankly. He was going to have the bank of monitors put into the carriage house. The bedrooms were big enough; one of those would work. He would have to have the windows blacked out otherwise the glow from the monitors would be seen through the bedroom window...

"... O'Connell? You don't think other agents have been in trouble before? It's part of the job! She knew what she was getting into, damn it! This amount of expenditure is outrageous for Christ's sake! This is unsanctioned and unauthorized. You get them out of here right now!

"Do you hear me?" Tanner yelled, enraged by Joe's lack of response.

He took a step forward and slammed his palms flat against Joe's chest, trying to shove him.

Joe didn't move.

He blinked—once.

Refocusing, he brought Tanner into his sights.

"Jesus wept," Nate said quietly as he closed his eyes.

Joe's hand snapped out and grabbed Tanner by the throat. He dragged the man over by one of the attic windows, Tanner's face beet red as he clawed at Joe's hand. Hoisting him up by the throat, Joe threw him the remaining five feet into the attic wall. Tanner bounced off the wall hard, the floor itself shaking from the impact on the wall, the window next to the wall cracking from the pressure absorption of the hit. Falling to his knees, Tanner looked up just in time to see Joe reaching for his throat again and lift him to his feet by it, his hand like a piece of iron that had been steel coated. Joe threw him into the wall again and stopped the bounce back with a hard elbow directly to Tanner's windpipe. Nate winced. Putting his forearm across Tanner's throat, he leaned hard while lifting, grabbing his own fist and pushing his forearm down even harder, Joe's body weight and force pushing behind it creating a relentless and crushing pressure on the Division Chief's throat. Tanner's feet were not touching the ground. Nate knew Joe had about ninety seconds to hold that position and Tanner would be dead; his brain's blood source stopped cold by Joe's concrete forearm. Tanner went from red to a magenta-purplish color.

"Tell me some more of what you think, Tanner," Joe said.

Tanner was now, officially, blue. Joe didn't let up; he leaned harder, applying more pressure to make sure the lines of communication were open—loud and clear.

He eased his forearm pressure just enough to slam Tanner's head against the wall with a fist smash to the forehead, Tanner still not touching the ground.

The crack in the window grew.

Joe waited for several long, agonizing seconds and then gave his forearm a final, heavy push against Tanner's throat and stepped back. Falling into a heap on the floor, Tanner was gasping and retching, holding his throat. Joe had cut it close—the Division Chief's feet had begun to twitch from lack of oxygen. Joe loomed over the trembling man who was nearly unconscious on the floor. Nate looked at Tanner's pants. He had pissed himself.

Joe gazed down at Tanner and then squatted next to him, his eyes narrowing. He wasn't even breathing hard as he reached down and took a fistful of Tanner's shirt and lifted the man's entire upper body to him, curling him like a dumbbell, until Tanner's face was two inches from Joe's.

"You listen to me, you fat, useless fuck. Your choice is to leave here by the stairs of your own volition or the window of my volition. Either way, you are leaving and you are leaving now."

Joe threw his upper body forcefully back onto the floor, Tanner's head bouncing as it hit with a sickening and surprisingly loud thud.

"My volition in three... two..." Joe began.

Tanner grabbed the wall to stand, his knees buckling the first time. Clawing at the wall desperately again, he was able to get himself marginally upright. Covering his throat instinctively, he ran around Joe, bouncing off furniture and down the stairs, ricocheting off the walls as he went. The entire back of his pants were soaked, too.

"Nate," Joe said with his back still to him.

"On it," Nate said as he dialed the number to the Section Chief, Tanner's boss and the one that Joe did go to if he needed something.

He needed something—immediately. That something was a full skate for assaulting a federal officer and goddamn near killing him. Thank God, for favors owed, Nate thought to himself as he dialed. Joe had many, many favors that were owed to him.

Closing his eyes, Joe tilted his head sharply to the right and cracked his neck. He angled it again, this time sharply to the left, and it cracked again. Rolling his shoulders once, he breathed out slowly and then cast his eyes around the dim attic for the crew leader and saw him cowering behind an antique table, his frightened eyes big and round. Joe strode up to him, one hand in his pocket.

"For the path out back, I want your guys to counter-sink the sensors," he said, curling his finger toward the crew leader to come out of his hiding spot.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Adam had been sitting down at the desk, quiet, his forearms on his thighs, his fingers laced together. He looked at his hands in deep concentration, thinking about things... thinking very hard.

He stood up and put his hand in his back pocket, withdrawing his knife. Whirling it open, he walked up to Vicky and plunged it deep into her shoulder at a downward angle, the six inch blade slicing cleanly through muscle before it rammed into bone.

She flung her head back and screamed. The knife still in her shoulder, he twisted it savagely, ripping and tearing the muscle and then jerked it down three inches, dragging it over her bone and twisting it again, more muscle ripping, more muscle tearing. It left a huge, gaping, and ragged tear in her flesh that exposed muscle, tendon, and bone. His teeth were showing, and he was growling with maniacal fury.

Vicky clamped her mouth shut, cutting off her own scream, knowing it would escalate him.

He pushed the knife harder into her shoulder, digging for the bone, the hilt already angled into the gaping chasm the blade had left. Sweat was pouring from her in streams, and she slammed herself into the chair in her efforts not to scream; the pain was overwhelming, and the sheer force of it made her pass out before the blood loss could even be factored in.

When she regained consciousness half an hour later, her shoulder had towels wadded up on it, and they were tied with the remainder of the towel strips he had made earlier. Unable to think clearly, she could barely hold her head up. She had already lost a considerable amount of blood, and the pain was so excruciating and consuming that coherent, linear thought was not possible. Sweating and panting but shivering, she hung her head forward.

As soon as Adam saw she was awake, he walked up to her wordlessly and punched her in the stomach, doubling her over. Struggling to breathe, she was sucking in air, sucking in air, but nothing would enter her lungs. After several tries, she was able to get a full, gasping breath of air into her. She coughed loudly and bent over, throwing up.

Adam stood in front of her. His knife was still open, no longer gleaming, her blood beginning to congeal on it. His face was blank, and he stared at her for a long time, not moving. Momentarily satisfied, he returned to his chair and sat back down at the desk. He threw his knife, still open, onto the desk, refusing to fold it or put it away.

His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat as he observed her from his chair; she was very pale, cadaverous almost. She had lost a lot of blood. Good. She was in a lot of pain. Good. He looked at her impassively and stony faced; her blood covered the whole of the front of her shirt, a glorious red bloom that kept growing. It was a start.

He reached for the pot and started making a heavy, big joint—a cigar, really. He could hear her gasping for air and occasionally leaning forward to spit on the floor. Comforted, he lit the joint.

Silence filled the room, and the clock read two-thirty in the afternoon. She could do this. She just had to hold on until he left, just until he left she thought foggily as her vision grew dark around the edges.

Closing her eyes, she put all of her focus into breathing, struggling to save every tiny ounce of energy she had. There was blood everywhere.

There were only small sounds in the room; her ragged and labored breathing, his occasional movement as he shifted in the chair. The television was off. No more blues. She said nothing and just breathed; focusing inward; encouraging herself, soothing herself, thinking of the next second, the next minute. She could do it. She could make it.

By three o'clock, her hair was plastered and stuck to her face with sweat but she was no longer panting. In tremendous, agonizing pain, she refused to focus on it and instead focused on her thoughts, her survival. The endorphins had kicked in, and the pain had gotten a fraction, a pitiful fraction less.

An inch at a time, she brought her head level; the effort and expenditure of energy were considerable, but the psychological payoff was worth it; she would keep her head bowed for _no_ one. She concentrated harder, keeping her head level as she closed her mouth, breathing through her nose.

Adam had finished his joint; his knife still open and on the desk, blood all over it down to the base of the handle; it would not be put away again. He turned to look at her.

She had the tiniest smile on her face.

"You know, I have to admit, you had me going there, Tori of mine. You really did," Adam said, his eyes glittering.

"I haven't been that fucked up in a long time... a long time," he said as he narrowed his eyes.

"And then I started thinking. I was never that confused before; I was never that confused until you opened your fucking mouth and started talking."

He stood up and put his hands in the small of his back, leisurely stretching his lower back muscles. He stayed standing but tilted his head.

"And then, I remembered; little Tori has some _education_ in forensic psychology."

Adam picked up his knife and walked toward her. She kept her head level; the small smile stayed on her face as her eyes tracked his movement.

Reaching out, he took a fistful of her hair in his hand and pulled her head back, putting the tip of the blade to her throat. Slowly applying pressure, he easily popped through her skin with the razor sharp blade, watching as the blood dripped down her neck. Her smile never wavered as he took his time drawing the blade across her throat leaving a red and flowing trail behind it. Compared to her shoulder, she had a hard time even feeling it.

He bent down to her face.

"If you try to shrink me again, I _will_ kill you now," he said before bending closer to her ear and whispering.

"Right fucking now..." He gently released her hair and walked back to his chair, sitting down comfortably.

Without looking at her, he added, in a dangerous tone, "Wipe that smile off your face before I cut it off."

Something within her flared brightly and then caught fire, her eyes growing cold and fierce, the pain in her body, suddenly not as bad as it had been a minute ago.

"Do you really think your threats will work on me, you piece of shit?" she asked as her smile grew wide and cold.

He turned to look at her, his neck muscles and tendons standing out like cords.

"We've swum in the same cesspool for years; do you really think I'm _afraid_ of you?

"You're going to do what you're going to do, but you will never get the thing you want most—I can guaran-fucking-tee you that," she said with a flat, icy tone.

His jaw muscles flexed and clenched as his eyes glared death at her.

"And what might that be, Tori?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, mocking him, her smile returning as she shook her head side to side, her eyes never leaving him.

"Ah-ah-ah... I believe you requested the no shrinking section."

He picked up his knife, never taking his eyes off her.

"Yes?" she asked, prodding him, her smile growing.

He scrutinized her as he held the knife. A flash, the tiniest flash, of self-doubt blew through his eyes and then was gone.

She laughed at him quietly as he carefully set the knife down.

"Maybe next time...?" She sighed contentedly.

"Poor Adam, the one he saved for last will be his greatest failure."

He was quiet, looking at his knife. He leaned forward to reach it but then leaned back again, completely unsure if his actions were his own or a calculated manipulation on her part.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"No shrinking, remember? You are on your own, Adam of mine," she said with a chuckle, pointing out how easy, how dreadfully easy, it was for her to make him doubt his actions.

He walked to her quickly and punched her in the stomach again, putting his shoulder into it. She bent over, waiting for the nausea to pass, spitting on the carpet and panting softly for several minutes with her eyes closed and jaw clenched.

He felt a little better but not as much as he had hoped. As he watched, she raised her head again, leveling it out, and smirked at him. His feelings of remorse and regret for hurting her were long out the door. He'd love nothing better than to cut her fucking head off right now.

He had planned for Joe and the door guard; he had planned for the big black guy; he had duct tape, gloves, his knife, a little food. He'd even applied the stupid makeup in a way that he thought would be advantageous to him. Carefully, he'd planned which phrase to use when he left her the card with the picture in the hotel room he'd trashed.

This, he had not planned on. Forensic psychology; it had been a passing fluff of knowledge that he'd gathered, like the name of her boyfriend and where she worked. It was nothing... _nothing_.

It was turning into something, though. That was becoming crystal fucking clear. He had pretty much decided to kill her now, but he wasn't sure if that's what she wanted him to do just to get it over with quickly. Maybe he only wanted to kill her now because she was _making_ him want to kill her now. No matter what, _he_ wanted to be the one in control and to make the decisions, but he wasn't sure he was. This was definitely turning into something—something he had not planned for.

He turned and looked at her, glaring. She calmly returned his gaze, raising her eyebrows.

"Yes?"

He turned away and folded his arms tightly over his chest.

He couldn't _believe_ how thoroughly and completely she had mind fucked him in such a short amount of time. How could she do that? She barely knew him—but she knew enough. They had the same childhood.

Christ, his eyes had started tearing up when she was sobbing after he'd stabbed her in the leg. He'd felt so fucking bad for her, and he felt bad that she thought he'd left her. He'd felt everything she had wanted him to feel, and he had been completely and totally fucking clueless. He'd been one tear away from letting her go, for Christ's sake.

When he had finally realized, peripherally, what was going on, he had been stunned. It had been so goddamn stealthy he was blown away. Then he got pissed. He'd tried to force things back to where they were supposed to be. She was supposed to be scared and plead, and he was going to kill her because she tremendously deserved it. It wasn't working that way, and he didn't know why. Now he was afraid that she was secretly crafting every move he was making, and he had been reduced to a marionette by forensic psychology.

He eyed her again. She still had that snotty little smirk and just sat there... waiting. He knew she was waiting for him to do or say something so she could flip it around, add a twist, and then make him do or think something that she wanted. He knew it. She knew it, too.

This was not something he had planned for at all, not even a little bit, and that was the dismal truth. What did he know about this shit? Exactly zero. Moreover, he had decided to take down someone with over fifteen years of experience in the field of criminal and forensic psychology. He had also thought it was a good idea to keep her alive long enough to _talk_ to her all day. He had no idea how he had made such a tremendous oversight. Son of a _bitch,_ he hated her.

He was starting to think the only safe plan was to keep his trap shut and not listen to anything out of her mouth. Block her out completely. He'd go sweep the attic and then come back here and kill her and leave. That had been the plan before she had gotten into his head so, he knew it was really his idea. There was not a goddamn thing else he was sure about.

Vicky sighed. He didn't turn; he wasn't going to look at her. It was safer to have absolutely no fucking interaction with her at all, of any sort, until he was actually killing her. Even then, he was thinking he might swing into a drug store on his way back here to get earplugs. He was very seriously considering it. Goddamn, he couldn't believe he had overlooked something that was so amazingly obvious. He felt like a retard. But maybe she was making him feel that way.

He glared at her suspiciously and then turned away.

The pain was making it incredibly hard for her to think, to reason, and plan. She knew she needed to talk; she had to make him leave earlier than he had planned. He needed to be so enraged that he couldn't trust himself not to kill her, and then he would leave if he didn't beat her to death first. There was no choice; her body was losing blood, even with the towels and the pressure. There was no way she would still be conscious if he stayed for another four or five hours. She would be unconscious and stay unconscious until he came back to kill her. Her only hope was to get him to leave early and pray like hell that he had the self-control not to kill her before he left. He would probably beat her to death. His restraint was already stretched to the very edges of his limit, but it was her only small chance of surviving. If he stayed, she would go unconscious and then die when he returned. Period.

She knew with full certainty that she did not have the ability to maneuver around any dangerous subject at all right now. Fearful that she would let something slip about the investigation, or what she was doing, she thought fuzzily and decided to stick to a safe subject that would also irritate him. Trying to focus and push the black out of her vision, she spoke in little more than a whisper.

"The scratches you saw and were crass enough to mention," she began.

He glared at her and then looked away, saying nothing; he wasn't going to listen. Maybe he should duct tape her mouth. That may be a very good idea; just take her weapon away from her. That would be making him admit defeat, though. He would be openly admitting that she was woefully better at this and that _he_ was afraid of _her._ He couldn't duct tape her mouth shut.

She kept talking, not caring in the least that he was ignoring her. She was talking to herself. He didn't give a shit as long as she didn't talk to him.

"I'm not terribly expressive during the working and socializing hours; I'm introverted and stand-offish. I'm not a homicidal degenerate, welching off the pain of others or anything—just stand-offish."

As she talked, she watched Adam to see if he would say anything. He didn't; he wouldn't even look at her though his gaze pierced into the wall in front of him, and his jaw muscles flexed. She smiled; she was getting through. More endorphins, please, she thought to herself, the pain acting like a blinding flare in front of her eyes, distracting and making it hard for her to focus. She kept her cardboard smile stiffly stuck in place as she spoke, her vision going black around the edges.

"He is not introverted; he's quite outgoing and giving. Very affectionate and open, Joe is. You're thinking it's an odd match. It is, but it works beautifully.

"Anyway, the scratches; he likes them because it's a physical, aggressive way of showing him that I want him. He's physically and emotionally expressive; it's how he relates, how he communicates. Therefore, when there's very little verbal or emotional reinforcement from me during the day, he begins to crave it and question my feelings for him. The scratches feel reassuring to him—physical proof that I do want and need him. It's pretty simple and innocent, in all reality."

She paused for a long moment, seeing if he would reply. He most certainly would not. She sighed sweetly.

"We're getting married, and I'm looking forward to it."

Adam moved his cold and flinty eyes full of hate in her direction.

"You will be dead tonight. Don't order the fucking cake."

She blinked slowly, groggily and notched up her smile.

"We're getting married in Italy; I think he's always wanted to. His parents immigrated here just before he was born," she said, beginning to feel a shortness of breath from blood loss.

"It'll be the best wedding in the whole cemetery, I'm sure," Adam said tightly, glowering at the wall in front of him.

Why was he talking at all? He wasn't going to talk. He had _decided_ not to talk, goddamn it. Grinding his teeth together, he reaffirmed his resolution of silence. He could feel her smiling at him. One hundred times—he was going to kill her one hundred times.

She was mercifully silent as she took many quick, shallow breaths. He could relax. Then she started again.

"I'm giving my notice at the university."

"Yeah, you are," Adam muttered, peeking at her just long enough to narrow his eyes before turning away.

Vicky gazed at him warmly.

"That's it. Jump right in. I hate to hold up the entire conversation by myself."

He had talked again, and she had pointed it out again. He was beginning to wonder if he should duct tape his own mouth shut. Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried to reassert control over his mouth as he folded his arms tighter around himself in a kind of self-imposed straightjacket.

She waited a while, smiling loosely and feeling drunk.

"Yes, the bureau's been offering me permanent and full time positions for ages. I've decided that I'm going to take them up on it. That way Joe and I will have more time together," she said, pausing to catch her breath.

Adam tightly pursed his lips together like a child refusing a vegetable. She wasn't going to be spending time with anybody, but Adam didn't say it.

Vicky laughed aloud and continued talking slowly, so her words didn't slur.

"I've decided to move on but I do enjoy working... contributing, you know? The solution occurred to me that I would just work with Joe. It's going to be nice spending time together.

"We're going to buy a new house, too. That will be interesting. My cabin was nothing at all like his apartment in New York. I wonder what we'll end up with," she mused.

Adam's growing rage was nearing its flashpoint. She was talking as if her imminent _death_ were a pit stop in the road. He was just starting to stand up to punch her in the goddamn gut again, when a soft laughter of merriment emanated from her.

"I'm sorry, Adam. Am I irritating you? I'll stop playing. I know, I know—people are not toys. It's a vile habit that I indulge when I'm bored. So many years, so many years—it's a hard habit to break. It's just so _easy_ to do and always so very entertaining," she said as she struggled to catch her breath but her drunken smile broadened.

He spun in his chair, his upper lip peeling away from his teeth. He was shaking; she had been trying to piss him off. She had been shrinking him again, making him feel what she wanted him to feel, and then gloating about it.

_That is it,_ he thought. He glimpsed the clock; it was after four. He could start getting ready a little earlier than he had planned. But first—

Walking up to Vicky, he slapped her face viciously, and then punched her in the stomach. He beat her ferociously until he was panting and out of breath, his shirt stuck to his back from sweat. After resting for a moment, he went back to kicking her, punching her, _clawing_ her so he could see the blood pour from her.

She was unconscious again, and he was incredibly relieved but kept beating her, feeling her ribs break under his fists, her nose gushing more blood onto her shirt. He reveled in the blood pouring from her ear, her neck, her mouth as he hit her repeatedly. He wanted her to feel every single stab, cut, hit, and kick to her body; he wanted to rip the pureness right out of her by the screaming fists-full. All of it, he wanted her to feel all of it and he had wanted it since they were kids.

# # #

Nate glanced out of the house window. The crew had finished all of their installations, and now checks and test-runs were being performed, adjusted, and then re-performed. Joe was standing in the back yard, leaning against a tree alone. Nate went outside and approached him cautiously, with deep and heart-felt respect for what he must be going through.

He sidled up to him, but Joe didn't acknowledge him or turn around; he was staring at a far off spot on the ground.

"I'll be fine when it's time for me to be," he said, subdued.

Nate had no doubt about that at all.

"If anyone at all has a chance of getting through this, it's her," Nate said.

Joe said nothing, the look on his face blank and unreadable.

"Adam doesn't know what he's gotten into; he has no idea," Nate said.

Joe listened but didn't react, still staring at the same unseen spot on the ground.

"I've seen her shrink guys so bad, screw them up so thoroughly that they've tried to stab themselves in the eye, just to get out of the room and away from her," Nate said.

Joe smiled sadly, remembering as he stared.

"Poor Wagner," Nate added.

"If anyone can do this, it's her," Nate said again.

Joe's sad smile faded away.

"Remember Sunsdall?" Nate asked, elbowing Joe.

Joe smiled half-heartedly. She had screwed with him so bad, twisted him up with no mercy. When it finally occurred to the man, he had lunged for her, but she had seen it coming and hadn't even stood up, just corked him in the face while she was still sitting. The guards grabbed him a split second later, and he had been dragged from the room with a bloody nose, bellowing and swearing the whole time. Joe had iced her hand that night; it had been a good hit.

"God was he pissed," Joe muttered, shaking his head.

Nate started to laugh openly.

"Remember when you guys first _met?"_

"Yeah," Joe said, smiling gently though it hurt terribly to remember.

"Listen, asshole," Nate recited.

Joe laughed aloud, shaking his head slightly.

It had been a high-profile case; a serial killer that had seven kids in the bag and Joe was in charge of the investigation. He had been working the suspect, pushing him and pulling him, threatening him and trying to be his friend. Nate and he had tag-teamed him for three days. The man never lawyered up but never gave them shit; not a single viable lead that they could use against him. He would just agree to everything they said, whatever they said. He was a soggy noodle with no backbone, but the little bastard wouldn't offer up _anything_ on his own. They would say he was a killer; he would nod. They would say he killed those seven kids; he would nod. They would ask how he did it, and he would say nothing. They would ask if he strangled them and he would nod; they would ask if he shot them and he would nod. It had been infuriating, maddening, like trying to tow a truck with taffy.

Nate and Joe had walked into the observation room for sewer-coffee refills. They were frustrated, irritated, and exhausted.

Joe had glanced at this little woman standing in front of the one-way glass with her arms crossed over her chest; she didn't acknowledge them as they walked in. Joe glanced at her and the one-way glass; she had been observing them. There was an open file on the table behind her; she had been reading about their case.

He had squinted; she looked like the woman who used dogs. On a couple of cases, he had seen her from a distance, talking to forensics. She would point out to the techs where she wanted them to flag. Nonplussed, he had always turned away and thought she was arrogant in assuming she knew more than a forensic tech. She was a dog handler and needed to stick to her specialty.

Joe had surveyed her in the observation room. Up close, he had never seen her, and he had never really cared to. He didn't like arrogant women, and he really didn't like it when people over stepped their boundaries. Therefore, he didn't like her, regardless of how she looked which had been distracting.

Wearing faded jeans, she had on a pink t-shirt that was un-tucked and the jeans had fit her as though custom-cut exactly for her. The pink t-shirt had come to just the top of her hip-hugger jeans, and there was a narrow band of her pink string panties that had barely, accidently, been peeking out over the rim of her jeans. It had caught Joe's attention immediately. Her wavy, thick hair had hung halfway down her back, and it was a deep and shiny chestnut-auburn color. Wearing almost no makeup, she was a full foot shorter than Joe was and weighed less than half of what he did.

"You're done," she said simply, her voice not much above a whisper, still staring through the glass at the suspect on the other side.

Caught off guard, Joe had cocked his head. The pink string peeking out of her jeans—it matched her shirt exactly. And it was narrow... _really_ narrow. Tiny is what it was.

"Pardon me?" Joe asked, trying to focus on what she had said.

"You're done. Talk to your boss," she had said again, the words barely audible.

Joe had blinked and glanced up from the distraction, running her words through his mind again and reminding himself that he didn't like her.

"Lady, I'm not talking to anybody," he said, taken aback by her audacity, quiet though it was.

Just then, his phone had started to ring. He ignored it. She had shrugged, unconcerned and continued to stand there, looking through the glass at the suspect.

Joe glanced at Nate with his eyes wide, silently communicating. Can you believe this shit?

Nate had shrugged as he answered his own ringing phone.

She spoke in a murmur, intently focused on the suspect in the other room.

"You can't go at him like that. He's not just a killer—he's a pedophile. It's totally different."

"Lady—" Joe began, truly getting pissed now and remembering why he didn't like her.

"Vicky."

"Whatever... don't you have some _dogs_ to take care of?"

She had turned her head to survey him, meticulously looking him up and down before turning back to the glass.

"Special Agent in Charge Joseph Valenti, my dogs are being well taken care of."

Joe was even more pissed that she knew his name and that he was the SAC. He opened his mouth, stepping closer to her when his phone started ringing again.

"You should answer that," she said with a note of gentleness that Joe ignored.

Joe could hear Nate snap his phone shut. He turned to Nate, and his partner was nodding, indicating Joe's phone. He answered it, still pissed.

"What?" he barked into the phone.

It was his boss. His boss explained that Doctor Victoria O'Connell, a professor at the University of Minnesota in evidence collection and analysis and doctor of forensic psychology would be taking over the interviews with the suspect. His New York office had flown her all the way in from Minnesota, and it hadn't been the first time. Joe was told to step aside. He shut his phone and stared at it blankly for a moment, his jaw muscles flexing.

"Like I said," Vicky murmured and then fully turned to face him.

"We're going to be on this together. You're still SAC. Special Agent Nate Colten is still the assistant SAC. I'll conduct the interviews; I'm only here for the interviews; everything else is yours."

"Well, what the fuck else _is_ there?" Joe had asked.

Vicky squinted up at him.

"Do you have a problem with women, Special Agent Valenti?"

"No, I've got a problem with _you,"_ Joe had said, exasperated.

She nodded, apparently fine with the answer, and started to walk away. He reached out and grabbed her arm. It wasn't hard—he wasn't being mean he just still had shit to say to her. He did it all the time to everyone, for Christ's sake.

All he saw was a blur of shiny long hair, and then he felt an excruciating pain in his solar plexus where she had shot her flat, small hand clear the way to his fucking spine.

She had stepped back out of his reach when he had let go of her arm and grabbed his gut, slightly bent over, looking up at her as if she were insane.

"Listen, asshole..." she had begun evenly.

"We're going to work together but it will be brief. I don't know about New York, but in Minnesota, you don't grab women. Therefore, don't grab me. I'll be here a short while and then I'll be gone. Don't grab me again," she said calmly and quietly, as though she were giving directions to a tourist.

She had only been in New York the one day; she had not only broken the suspect she had gotten him to write a full confession in his own words. She hadn't taken a single note, hadn't even taken a notebook _or_ the suspect's file into the room with her. Joe had watched the entire thing through the one-way mirror. He had been deeply impressed... and irritated.

He made it a point to look at her report. Her evidentiary paperwork had been precise, exact, brief, and flawless. It had surprised and irritated him even more.

They had worked a couple more cases together without saying much. He either saw her in the field with her dogs, in court when she gave expert testimony, or in interrogations when she was called in to get a confession that no one else could get.

Six months later, there was a case where a small child had been murdered and burned to a crisp. Her dogs had found the body. Joe had been squatting, looking at what remained of the child sadly. Nothing seemed sufficient to say, but he had wanted, needed, to say something to the child. Thinking he was alone, he had spoken.

"Pax tecum." _Peace be with you_ he had whispered in Latin, a throw back from his years of Latin mass in the church.

"Et cum spiritu tuo." _And with thy spirit_ she had whispered back, standing quietly behind him, taking in the child's remains with sadness in her eyes.

He had glanced up at her, surprised. He had taken years of Latin classes in his Catholic school, and it was clear she had received the same education. Her accent was perfect; the congregational response to the Latin mass had been instant, and flawless... ingrained.

Intrigued, he had asked her out for a drink that same day and it had been amazing. She had been earthy and had a captivating, sensual habit of looking down and drawing on the table leisurely, lazily with a fingernail while she talked, her eyes flicking up at his only occasionally. It had been gently mesmerizing, like watching fish swimming peacefully in an aquarium. He couldn't believe he had ever thought she was arrogant. Everything, absolutely everything about herself, she understated, brushed off, or didn't even talk about. He had asked her out again, even more intrigued. He had been intrigued ever since.

Nate watched Joe as he remembered. Joe's smile had come and gone through the memory, and now it was fading away, his gaze returning to the same spot on the ground. Nate reached out, rubbed his back, and then patted it a couple of times before stopping.

"She can do this. She has all the ammunition she needs—she grew up with him."

"She said that he would take her and keep her alive for a while because he would want to talk to her. So, what does a serial killer do to his next victim when he has hours and hours alone with her, Nate? What does he do?"

Nate wouldn't answer.

"Do you really think that Adam is any different than any of the others? You and I both know what a serial killer does to his victim when the victim is kept alive. Don't we?" Joe asked.

Nate again refused to answer.

"Psychology can steer people, but it's not a bullet proof vest and it's not a gun. It's not going to stop a charging bull; I don't care how good someone is. Tell me, Nate. What does a serial killer do to his victim when he's got time to burn?" Joe asked.

"Stop it. You don't know anything for a fact. You're guessing; that's all," Nate said.

They both knew the chances of Vicky still being alive were slim; statistically speaking, she was already dead. Joe watched as Nate walked away with his chin almost touching his chest.

He dug in his back pocket and took out his wallet. Sliding down the tree to the ground, he stretched his long legs out, crossing his ankles; sighing heavily as he opened the billfold.

Tucked into one of the slots, he withdrew the ring. A forensic technician had found it in the bottom of his coffee cup when they had emptied it out to bag it for evidence. Adam had taken it off her. He wished achingly that Adam had allowed her to keep it on. If she still had it on he could pretend that a part of him was still with her... pretend that she only had to look down to know how much he loved her... pretend that she wasn't so alone.

He put the small ring on his pinky and slowly twisted it around and around with his thumb as he leaned his head back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes and remembering. He had bought the ring for her after they had taken their first vacation together in Puerto Rico, two years before.

Sitting on the beach watching the ocean waves roll in a beautiful turquoise color, he had been sitting under a tree, leaning on the trunk with his legs stretched out, just as he was now. He watched her pick seashells and put them into a little crocheted bag that she bought as a souvenir. Her hair was whipping about her face madly. Wearing a little black bikini underneath, she had on a knee length, white gauzy shirt to help keep the sun from barbecuing her... she was so pale.

Joe kept his eyes closed, ignoring the tears on his cheeks as he continued to spin the ring around, remembering.

She had looked up on the beach at him through her whirling hair and smiled broadly, laughing and beckoning to him, but he had shaken his head no. It had been so goddamn hot. He wanted the shade.

She had run up to him, grabbed his hand in both of hers, and tried to pull him.

"Come be with me! Come be with me! The water's beautiful—come and be with me!" she had said, still laughing.

He had grinned at her and gotten up, together going into the water where she had wrapped herself around him with her legs at his waist. She put her head on his chest as he walked around with her in the water, like an appendage. Leaning way back, she kept her legs wrapped around him while he supported her with a hand on her back as she bobbed up and down in the water, her hair swirling lazily around her face, her eyes closed as she smiled softly.

Joe reached up and swiped at his tears, his eyes still closed as he remembered, and the ring went around.

She wouldn't release him and after an hour in the water, he had walked up to where he had been under the tree, her legs still wrapped around him. Bending over, he had grabbed one of the towels and still, she hung onto him with her legs around his waist and her hands around his neck as he towel-dried her hair for her. He had sat down under the tree, and she was still attached to him, now lying on his chest. She had whispered that she didn't want to let him go.

That was when he knew he was going to marry her; that was the exact moment—the exact second—he knew he was going to marry her. He knew he never wanted to be without her, and he knew that it was never going to change. Within two weeks of their return from vacation, he had bought the ring. It had been in his wallet ever since, just waiting for her to catch up and realize that she was supposed to be with him, only him, and it was going to be forever.

He sniffed and wiped away the tears, opening his eyes to look at his watch. It was five-thirty in the early evening. If Adam didn't come to the house tonight, Vicky would be lost. He would never be able to wait another day to kill her—it would be tonight. If Adam didn't show up for one final grab at run money, it was over. He would kill her before they were able to find where he had been keeping her. Only Joe's instinct told him Adam would come for one last haul, one triumphant haul and then kill Vicky. He would save her for last so he could take his time. He had waited twenty-five years; he would want to allot the whole night to killing her. The attic sweep would come first.

Joe carefully tucked the ring back into the slot in his wallet. There was a picture of Vicky and him in Puerto Rico in his wallet as well, but he couldn't bear to see it. Carefully, he folded his billfold and put it back in his pocket.

All of the statistics and probabilities said that Vicky was already dead, but Joe was convinced that this would be an exception to the norm. If they could neutralize Adam during his final haul of the attic, then they may have time to save Vicky's life.

Joe wasn't naïve; he knew that Vicky would be in bad shape— _very_ bad shape. There was no way in hell or heaven that Adam would be able to be that close to Vicky and not cut her a few times, stab her, hurt her substantially and take a taste before the real thing—the rape and murder. There was no chance she was fine right now and Joe knew that with certainty. The hope was to neutralize Adam during the sweep and buy them enough time to find her before she bled to death. It was, sadly, the best-case scenario.

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Adam was securing Vicky to the headboard with two sets of handcuffs he had gotten over a month ago. When he came back, he wanted her ready. He wanted her arms spread wide, so he didn't have to do anything at all except butcher her from head to toe and then take with brutal force the pureness from her as she died. It was important that she know she would never be clean again, and that he had ruined her, eternally and irrevocably ruined her beyond any form of redemption before she died. It was the most important thing there was.

She was still unconscious and had been for over an hour, and he was glad, ecstatic even. Now he didn't have to listen to her goddamn mouth before he left. He had almost not been able to stop beating her. His whole body had started to tremble when he pulled himself away from her; he had wanted so badly to keep pulverizing her, the smell of her blood, somehow different from everyone before her. His control all but gone, he had reached for her again but stopped himself and looked at her, actually _looked_ at her for a minute and realized he needed to backtrack immediately... fucking _instantaneously._ All of her wounds had begun to bleed again, and if he didn't knock it off and get a grip, she would bleed to death before he was able to get back to her. That would suck so monumentally that Adam didn't even want to think about it; _could not_ think about it. It had become a very real possibility, though. Swallowing hard, he had closed his eyes, every part of him shaking he wanted her so goddamn bad.

Eyes still closed; he had backed away.

Retrieving the first aid kit from his car, he had spent a lot of time patching her up, even going to the gas station next door and buying some other shit that might help, too. He had gotten busy; the idea of her dying while he was gone was so catastrophic that he was on the verge of panic.

He had sewn closed the stab wound in her shoulder, joint after joint hanging out of his mouth as he sewed in the desperate hope that the pot would calm his unbearable desires as her head lay in his lap, her blood flowing, his fingers sticky with it. His desperation for her kept bringing him to the point of hyperventilation, and he needed to get up and get away from her for long minutes at a time. He had never wanted something so bad in his life. Sewing her wounds shut with tiny, tight stitches and making sure the bleeding had stopped, he proceeded to apply butterfly bandages atop the stitches. Over that, he added gauze and tape in a final effort to undo what he had done so she would be alive upon his return.

Next, he had pulled her pants down to her knees to sew her thigh wound closed. That one wasn't remotely as bad as her shoulder, but it was still bleeding freely as soon as there was no pressure. He had sewn it up just as carefully as her shoulder, using butterfly strips on top of the stitches. Pulling her pants back up, he had been unable to swallow as he looked at her lower abdomen, the exact place he was going to put his knife when he got back. Closing his eyes, he had needed to step away again, gasping for breath through his tightening windpipe, turning his back to her as he shook.

He had done everything he could think of to do to stop any major bleeding. He didn't give a shit about the cuts, scrapes, and broken bones. Why would he? His concern was keeping her from bleeding to death while he was away. She had to be _alive_ when he ruined her; she had to know she was being ruined, and she had to be screaming.

He glanced around the room as he cinched the handcuffs closed. It looked like a blood bomb had gone off.

There were towels all over the floor, saturated in blood, pools of blood on the carpet, the bedspread was now permanently magenta, and a puddle of blood remained in the chair where she had sat. She was covered from head to toe in blood; her clothes, face, hair, arms... she resembled a red crayon, not one single part of her creamy pale skin showing.

"If you fucking bleed to death before I can kill you properly, you bitch, I will dismember you, and your boyfriend will never find the parts," he said through clenched teeth.

She still had not moved, and he knew he would need to get smelling salts. That was apparent. Getting off the bed, he stood back, fidgety and antsy, struggling to control himself. Right now, he wanted to kill her; he was burning with wanting to kill her. This was not his thing. He was an open-minded guy but this was definitive. This was not an approach to be used again; he would not keep someone alive like this again.

He had never kept his victims alive. What the hell for? Once he started he kept on and on, until long after they were dead, and he was just stabbing lifeless, unrewarding meat. He had never stopped in the middle; he had never even tried. If it works then don't fucking fix it. That was his motto.

This was severely messing with his motto. Looking at her was like looking at a needle full of heroin and not shooting up. How is that even possible? Even the smell in the room was rolling him over. The coppery smell, he loved it. He loved everything about it... and it was _Tori_ for fuck's sake.

He sat down at his desk. Not daring to look at her any longer, he sat with his head in his hands and gently started rocking; trying to will it away like a withdrawal symptom. There was a plan, and he was going to follow the plan. It was hard. It took self-discipline, but he could do it. If he just tried not to think about the smells and the blood everywhere and how her arms were spread wide, waiting for him... _waiting_ for him.

Reaching for the pot, his hands were sweating and his heart was racing. He shook as he desperately rolled a joint and then took it to the bathroom, the least bloody part of the motel room. After closing the bathroom door and leaning his forehead against it for several minutes with his eyes closed, shaking, he climbed into the white bathtub and smoked the joint, trying to get a hold of himself. There was almost no blood in here; he could do this he thought to himself. He could do this. He talked to himself as he smoked, hoping the pot would bring him down a little, give him just that little extra puff of control but so far it had been painfully inefficient to override this level of ache, this degree of need and burn.

"It's going to be fast. I won't be gone long at all; I won't have to wait long at all. In and out; then, I can be here all night if I want to. I can do as much as I want—like never before. I'll keep bringing her around. It'll last longer than it's ever lasted. The salts will help; I'll get the salts and I'll sit right on top of her so I can see her eyes,"

Starting to veer off, he was getting too close again. He couldn't allow himself to think about it, or it was over; he would attack her, and he wouldn't be able to stop. He needed to refocus right goddamn now.

He thought of the sweep. There should be almost no cops there; they should be out checking hotels for Tori. Adam was banking on Valenti turning the town upside down with manpower trying to find her. They would have no reason at all for anyone to be at the house, and it should be easy pickings. Maybe one or two flunkies would be there to guard what little evidence remained but that should be it. He'd be coming in from the woods, taking the tunnel and his face wouldn't be outside until he was almost at the edge of the tree line. He glanced at his watch—it was nearly seven, and he didn't want to be there until around nine, when it was dark. He didn't think he could stay in this room with her that long, though, that was the thing. That was a very significant thing.

Needing smelling salts, now he wanted garbage bags, too. He had thought that he might like to take her with him, after he killed her. Put her in the trunk and take her out so he could kill her some more. He had a strong feeling that one night would not be enough for him to last the rest of his life, so he was going to take her body with him.

A smile played across his lips. He liked the idea.

He started to think. One option was to leave now; do some shopping, pick up the stuff he needed and get the hell out of this room with her on the bed and all the blood everywhere. Leave, shop, and then drive the half hour to the house and be only a few minutes early. He thought for a moment and decided he liked it; it would help lead him not into temptation.

Leaving the bathroom, he tossed the butt of the joint in the toilet and started to get ready. He didn't look at her; he didn't dare. Getting his big duffel bag, he set it in front of the door along with his flashlight, knife, and dope, putting all of it in the duffel bag, too. Pausing, he looked at the knife, mesmerized, transfixed. He saw her blood that was on it and how it had dried; he was never going to wash this knife again. Never. If he were ever in the sorry situation again where he had to kill a blond then, he would use another knife. In fact, he would use another knife, no matter what. He was going to save this knife with her blood on it and never use it on anyone else again. He would have a part of her forever. A dreamy, unfocused daze clouded his eyes; he was so goddamn sentimental when it came to her. Shaking his head quickly, he tried to clear it and refocus.

That was it; his duffel bag was packed. He had to do one more thing, one more very important thing. He huffed a couple of times, like someone who was about to lift a particularly heavy set of weights. Huffing a few more times, he shook his hands out; an extremely difficult lift was this. Picking up the duct tape, he took off several pieces, his back still to her. He got the pieces assembled just how he wanted them, overlapping and long so that she couldn't get them off and start screaming for help when he was gone. It was important to do this, and he had to look at her and stand over her when he did it. The tape was ready; all he had to do was take four of five steps toward her, slap it on her mouth, grab the duffel bag, and get the fuck out of there.

He could smell the blood all around him, though. That was the problem. He could _smell_ it. Breathing through his mouth, he huffed one more time then turned around, walked quickly over to her and slapped on the duct tape, desperately avoiding seeing the spread eagle form but he could feel his adrenaline surge through his veins like fire anyway.

Spinning away as though he were dodging a blow, he grabbed the duffel bag and quickly left the room. When he was outside, it took him a long time and some convincing before he was willing to let go of the doorknob. All he had to do was go back in there. That was it. What was the big deal? It was no big deal. Before or after, who cares? Why not now—what was wrong with now?

He closed his eyes, his hand still on the doorknob and leaned his head back against the door. He was sweating and trembling. Waiting was truly never going to be a part of his thing again—not ever again.

He got into his car. Quick—he would be quick, and then he could come back. She would be right there. It was going to be okay; he could do this... he could do this. His hands shook as he started the car and drove away feeling a fresh onset of panic, as he got further away from her, again vowing to himself never to wait for the kill again.

Vicky opened her eyes. She had been convincingly still when he'd been in the room. He was a serial killer who did not wait or save—all of his kills had been immediate. There wasn't a lot that Vicky could do besides lay still; if she had moved, she would have been dead. Once the frenzy was there, nothing in the world was going to roll it back. She was surprised that he'd been able to even partially roll it back; she had been sure she was going to die when he had been shaking so badly while stitching her up. Technically, he'd been _in_ the frenzy—panting, shaking, sweating, and pacing. She had never seen a serial killer who could stop the frenzy once it started. There was a high likelihood that he wouldn't be able to hang onto the control and would turn the car around and come right back.

She needed to haul ass.

_Okay, here we go_ , she thought, as she pulled herself up into a sitting position, her arms still spread wide.

She inserted the groove of one bracelet of the handcuff into the groove of the connecting bracelet and used her wrist as leverage, forcing the cuff to pry against itself. Closing her eyes from the pain, she twisted the two bracelets harder against each other, her wrist starting to bleed. Relaxing her arm, she rested for only a minute. She did _not_ have time to screw around and decided quickly that if her wrist cracked, it cracked. The cuffs were shitty enough that she didn't think her wrist would break. There were worse things than a cracked wrist and she closed her eyes for a moment, gritted her teeth, and then savagely reefed her wrist against the metal of the cuff, using all of the strength in her arm as a lever. Her wrist screamed in protest and a quiet whimper escaped her lips as her arm shook.

The cuffs popped apart.

Panting through her nose, she closed her eyes as the blood ran from her wrist. Keeping her celebration brief, she quickly jiggled herself out of the broken cuff and then clawed at the tape covering her mouth, ripping it off and greedily sucking air into her lungs. She had been nearly suffocating from trying to breathe through the dried and clotted blood embedded deeply in her broken nose.

She got back to work, fearing any second Adam would step through the door, unable to control his frenzy and longer. Trying to hurry, she struggled with the amount of blood loss and lack of oxygen. Her ribs, severely broken, wouldn't allow her to draw a deep breath and her eyesight swam in and out of blackness. Her thought processes were fuzzy and taking much longer than they should. She was no longer bleeding from her major wounds, thanks to Adam, but her injuries were severe and if she weren't cautious and watchful, she would pass out again and that would be her death sentence.

Shaking terribly, making her work that much harder, she was able to use her free hand to help lever the remaining cuff against itself, so the pain to her wrist was only marginal. Using her shoulder muscle to pry at the cuff was almost blinding her with pain but she gritted her teeth again, closed her eyes and told herself there were worse things and to suck it up.

"Slow and steady," she mumbled, her words coming out slurred.

She breathed shallowly through her mouth, struggling to get her oxygen levels higher in the hope of attaining better focus, but she knew it was a pipedream. Her body was at where it was at, and it wasn't going to get any better without a hospital. She waited out the overwhelming dizziness and deafening ringing in her ears that overcame her and in a few minutes, it ebbed. Bellowing thoughts ran through her mind to quit screwing around, get on with it, move, _move._ She bared her teeth and put all of her strength into leveraging the cuff against itself. Her body shook for long, agonizing moments as tears slid from her tightly closed eyes. With a sob, she pushed harder, her shoulder pain canceling out all thought.

She heard a pop as the cuff broke loose.

Leaning her head back against the headboard and panting as sweat dripped down her face; she could feel a weak smile slowly touch her lips.

"You are one dead son of a bitch," she said as she opened her eyes.

Scooting to the edge of the bed, she waited out the ringing dizziness and the blackness in her vision that canceled out what she could see. Taking shallow, painful breaths, she tried to think as she waited for her vision to clear.

He was going to the attic. She was going there to kill his miserable, sorry ass like she should have done twenty-five years ago. She didn't have her gun, a knife, or a weapon of any sort, but the attic was full of them. The guns were useless, but the bayonets weren't. She was going to shish kabob him to the wall like a fucking bug on display.

She slid down the side of the bed knowing that walking was out of the question; she needed to conserve every tiny bit of energy that she could and she couldn't afford to fall. Butt scooting carefully across the carpet to the closet, she started to talk to Adam as her fear and desperation transformed cleanly into rage. Her rage quickly grew into a deafening, all-consuming inferno of fury, the adrenaline overriding the majority of her pain and giving her strength that she would never have otherwise.

"What a useless piece of shit you are... didn't research a fucking thing you lazy, incompetent bastard. I worked in a _prison_ for six years in college, dipshit. Didn't you wonder how I learned how to train dogs you ignorant piece of shit?"

She was up to the closet now and opened it, withdrawing a pair of his pants and one of his t-shirts. There was no phone in the room, and she would have to go find one. If people saw her in the blood-covered clothes, they'd call the cops for sure and then she'd never get to kill him. She _would_ kill him; he was going to be one dead piece of shit. She'd call the cops when he was in the fucking morgue. Putting the clothes in her lap, she started to butt scoot to the bathroom, the room with the least amount of blood, to get dressed.

"I learned about guns there, Adam. And pressure points, take-down techniques, self-defense, dogs, and _handcuffs,_ you fucking _moron,_ " she hissed, panting, as she kept scooting across the floor, sweat pouring down her face, turning red from the blood.

She had made it into the bathroom but had to rest. There was no choice. Her adrenaline raced through her, and she had the fury to keep going but her vision had turned completely black. She had to stop and rest or she would pass out, pissed off or not. She leaned against the cool tub; the coolness feeling like heaven on her flaming body as her vision slowly began to clear again, the blackness being pushed to the edges. Glancing down, she had a strange and startling thought zip through her mind.

"There's blood everywhere. It runs from you in rivers, Auntie Vicky," she muttered as she looked down at her blood soaked clothes.

Shuddering briefly, she felt an icy chill run down her spine, but then pushed the unwanted fear harshly to the side. She reached, instead, for the burning, consuming rage that would fuel her through the pain.

# # #

Joe peered at his watch; it was eight fifteen. Nate was right beside him, watching the bank of monitors in the carriage house bedroom. They had chosen the bedroom with the passageway and with a little luck, Adam would walk right to them.

Joe felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and frowned, taking it out. Not recognizing the number, he did not intend to call it back and focused once again on the monitors.

They had three other agents placed strategically throughout the house and earwigs made communication and updates clear. Unless somebody had a visual on Adam, Joe had instructed radio silence; he wanted no sounds and no distractions. His eyes continually scanned the monitors, back and forth, the soft glow in the dark room making him squint.

He sipped from his cup of hot coffee as he looked at the monitors and waited, his Glock twenty-one loaded with a thirteen round clip of .45 caliber bullets. Joe planned to use every one of them.

Nate took out his phone, squinted at the number lit up, and Joe glanced at him questioningly. Nate shrugged and put it back in his pocket.

Nate thought about Vicky. He tried not to, but he did anyway, especially now, in the dark and the quiet when they were just waiting. There was no way he was going to go along with Joe's factual safari today, no way in hell. Nate kept hoping, and he wished Joe would keep hoping, too.

They saw a red flash from one of their monitors and they both looked but then sat back; it was only a coyote. The installation crew had loosened up the sensitivity, so they weren't alerted to every mouse and squirrel that crossed the path behind the house. They knew when the monitor flashed that something big had walked in front of the sensor. Joe took another drink of coffee. Just that little blip and he was ready to go; he wondered if this was what being on meth felt like. They could have it. He could feel his heart pound in his chest.

He breathed and tried to calm himself; it could be now, or it could be six hours from now and he needed to pace himself. That's what he kept telling himself, but he had a strong feeling it would be much sooner than later. Joe thought they'd have a local medical examiner there by two in the morning. He tried desperately not to think of anything else as the night wore on.

He was at that frantic, terrorizing point where he didn't want to know. Right now, right here, Vicky was still alive. He hadn't seen her body yet, he hadn't been notified yet; he had not been forced to take that terrible step yet. Right now, right here, she was alive. He kept hanging onto that with both hands. After tonight, life would stop. Joe couldn't think about anything, anything at all past tonight. He didn't want to know the weather forecast; he didn't want to know what team played when and where... nothing. He wanted no knowledge, no hint that the world may well keep turning without her. It didn't seem possible, and he refused to believe it could be true; he could be forced to be without her forever.

He had never needed or loved anyone else, never lived with anyone else, never planned his life with anyone else. He had known the others weren't right, and he had always walked away, choosing to be alone rather than with the wrong one. Then he met her, and he knew he would never walk away again. He knew she was going to be the only woman he would ever make love to for the rest of his life; he knew that she was the only woman he would ever hold for the rest of his life, and he knew that he would spend the rest of his life loving her no matter what the future brought. There was her, and there was emptiness. Those were the only two futures he had. And he knew that, too.

Time dripped by, and the pain in him grew with every hour, with every minute.

He lurched forward suddenly and tried to cover for himself but Nate had seen and had been seeing all day. Quietly, Nate walked over to the corner of the room and retrieved a small garbage can. He set it on the floor next to Joe. Joe put his head briefly between his knees and tried to breathe as he spit raw bile into the garbage can.

Time seemed to stand still but simultaneously rushed by with horrifying speed into a future that Joe was afraid to see. He just wanted to embrace this moment, when she was still alive to him, forever. He was willing to sit here, with his head in a garbage can forever if it meant that he could still think that she was alive—that she would come back to him. Covering his eyes with a trembling hand, he felt his stomach tighten again.

Nate jabbed him in the side lightly with an elbow. He stayed leaning over the can but turned his head in Nate's direction.

"Are we expecting company?" he whispered to Joe.

Joe leaned over and squinted at the monitor.

What in the hell—

A taxicab had just pulled into the driveway and had stopped at the front door of the house. The cab idled there for a while as Joe and Nate leaned closer, watching, Joe unsnapping his holster as he peered at the bright screen.

The passenger door opened and then swung back closed on itself. Joe and Nate watched and waited, the door, at last, opening again. Joe stood up, reaching for his gun to hold firmly in his hand but still peering intensely at the screen.

Someone who looked very drunk and disoriented got out of the cab.

"Zoom that," Joe whispered to Nate.

Nate's fingers expertly flew over the keyboard.

The drunk went down once but then grabbed the door handle of the cab and stood back up, weaving heavily. The person was walking, staggering away from the cab and right up to the front door of the house, pant legs dragging on the ground.

"Nate, goddamn it!"

"Got it," he said with his final keystroke.

And there was Vicky. A fully zoomed in, blurry face shot of Vicky... and God Almighty, she looked like she had already died.

Joe ran for the tunnel. As he ran, he talked to Nate and gave him commands via the wig.

"You stay on her and tell me where she's going," Joe said.

"All units stand down, repeat, stand down, woman entering the building is not a target, repeat; woman entering the building is not a target. All units confirm!"

All three units, in turn, repeated and confirmed what Joe had said.

"Radio silence," Joe commanded.

"Nate, tell me."

"She headed up the stairs in the foyer. She's dragging herself up the stairs. Christ, I hope she doesn't roll down them," Nate said.

He could not believe this; flat-ass could not believe this.

"Oh, my lord in heaven, she looks bad," Nate whispered.

"Nate!" Joe barked.

Nate shook his head vigorously, not realizing he had said it aloud. Concentrating, he zoomed in closer on her progress up the stairs. She had made it up four of five stairs, taking one stair and falling back two and then starting to crawl up them, hanging from the hand railing and then collapsing. Her head was wobbling with a sickening lack of control.

Nate couldn't watch her face; his stomach clenched and rolled in response to how she looked. He knew he had never seen a face like that on someone who was not a corpse.

Adam's room, where the tunnel came out, was on the second floor and only a few yards from the top of the stairs. She looked so bad; he didn't want to keep watching her struggle, sure, _positive_ , she was going to fall down the stairs and break her loose and wobbling neck before Joe could get to her.

"She's still on the bottom few stairs, sitting up, hanging onto the railing. She's still conscious, but you better hurry."

"What a _dumbass_ thing to say," Joe snapped.

Nate blinked in surprise. He flashed back to what he had just said, and Joe was right; that had been Grade A Dumbass.

"I'm at the closet now," Joe said, his voice tight and sharp.

Nate scrutinized the surveillance footage. She still hadn't moved.

From the monitors, he saw Joe run down the stairs, scoop her up like a piece of tissue and run, full boar, back up the steps, taking three at a time.

"I'm in the tunnel."

"Gotcha," Nate responded, following Joe's progress through the videoed tunnel. In only a moment, he came crashing through the door with Vicky, unconscious and limp, in his arms.

"Nate," he said, ripping out his earwig.

"Got it," Nate said, keeping his eyes glued to the monitors as he took over and spoke to the other three agents.

"Units one, two, and three; the woman is now at base camp, repeat; the woman is now at base camp, resume positions, continuing radio silence."

Joe set Vicky down on the floor. She was unconscious, and the real question was how she could have ever been conscious in the first place.

"Mio Dio..." Joe whispered, afraid to touch her.

He felt for a pulse, rapidly muttering the same sentence in Italian, repeatedly, unaware he was speaking: "Mio Dio, che cosa ha fatto... bambino, mio Dio, che cosa ha fatto... che cosa ha fatto?" _My God, what has he done to you?_

Her pulse was there, weak but steady. He put his ear down to her chest and listened to her strong heartbeat and her shallow breathing. His fingertips flew over her body, trembling as he touched her everywhere, his eyes darting all over her as his tears fell, "Che cosa ha fatto?"

Nate heard soft moaning and glanced in her direction before quickly returning his attention back to the monitors.

She moaned again and started to mumble, slurring her words. Joe put his ear down by her mouth.

"Goddamn idiot used shitty cuffs. Shitty cheap cuffs—thank God," she whispered and then panted softly.

Her eyelids fluttered open; one of her eyes flooded red with blood. She struggled to focus on Joe's face, blinking several times. Finally, she was able to make it out and smiled weakly.

"Gimme my damn ring," she said.

That's all there was of Joe. All he could do was hug her, touch her, babble incoherently in Italian, and cry. Nate had never heard a man cry so hard before in his life. Joe's hands were shaking so hard they vibrated as he touched every inch of her face with his fingertips, cupped her neck in his hands, and then returned to her face, touching every part of it again. He was sobbing, tears running down his cheeks like rain as he lowered his face into her neck, weeping harder.

Nate watched the monitors but could barely see them through his tears. Unbelievable; this was the most unbelievable thing he'd seen in his life. She looked like she'd been hit by a train and then dragged a hundred yards but here she was. It was unreal, and he was still confused as he wiped at his tears, his throat constricting and choking him.

"Ring..." she whispered.

Joe fumbled out his wallet, his hands shaking so badly that he dropped it. He picked it back up and dug out the ring, putting it on her finger. Kissing her finger, and then touching her whole face again then returning to kiss her finger a second time, he held her hand to his chest as he again buried his face into her neck, still weeping. She smiled weakly through blood that was seeping out of her gums.

As he sobbed into her neck, he felt her go limp in his arms again, her head lolling to the side as blood dripped from her mouth and nose onto his hand.

Sitting on the floor, he carefully, gently lifted her into his lap, cradling her as he closed his eyes and hunched far over her, holding her close with both arms, his face pressed against her neck. She was alive but had endured a level of depravity that he had never seen someone live through. He had no idea how she had done it, and he didn't care. She was alive.

Her eyes popped open after only a minute, and she struggled to sit up. Joe tried to calm and hush her.

"No!" she whispered adamantly, still struggling to sit up, fighting against something though he wasn't sure what.

"No hospital! I have earned—I have _earned_ to see him die. No hospital, not yet," she said adamantly as she struggled to focus her eyes on Joe.

"Don't you _dare_ take that from me," she whispered breathlessly but her eyes were now focused and locked onto Joe's, sparking with ferocious fight.

Joe couldn't breathe, and he couldn't talk, only nod. When she saw that he was going to let her stay, she relaxed and closed her eyes once again, leaning into him. Joe held her for a moment longer and then gently laid her back on the floor.

"Nate, give me just a couple of minutes, just a couple more minutes."

"I got it," Nate said, his eyes moving from monitor to monitor.

He quickly went out to the living room and picked up one of the upholstered chairs, grabbing blankets and pillows from the other bedroom, as well. Coming back into the monitor room, he roughly pushed his chair away from Nate's, setting the upholstered, padded chair in front of the monitors and then returned to Vicky, carefully picking her up and placing her in the armchair sideways, propping her up with pillows, tucking them all around her so she wouldn't roll or move if she passed out. Taking the blanket, he tucked that in all around her as well, giving her more support and warmth. Leaving the room again, he came back with more pillows, blankets, and water, fully cocooning her so that she could watch the monitors next to Nate as long as she was able to stay conscious.

She needed a hospital desperately, but she was right; she had earned this and Joe wasn't going to take it away from her. She had single-handedly fought her way out of the grave, and this was her decision to make. Nobody was going to take it away from her, not after what she'd endured. If she wanted to see this through to the very end, that's what was going to happen.

"Nate, you are off this assignment as of now, and you are back on protection detail. You won't leave these monitors, and you won't leave her."

Nate nodded firmly.

"And if he comes through that door..." Joe said.

Nate slid his cold, hard eyes toward Joe, his voice low and dangerous, "All thirteen. Every fucking one of them will be in his forehead. Bet on it."

Nate looked at Vicky, his eyes softening as his throat muscles again constricted. Bending over, he kissed the top of her head for a long moment, his eyes closed while he swallowed hard.

"I knew you could do it, little leprechaun," he choked out before his voice broke.

He turned back to the monitor, struggling to breathe, and hoped with a deep and true hope that Adam would come through the door. He could not fucking wait.

Joe squatted next to the monitors and helped Nate watch, his hands never leaving Vicky. His eyes were moving over the glowing screens, but his focus was on her. He kept telling himself to concentrate; he was drastically addled, and his level of emotion was clouding his thoughts. Adam was not going to be in the wind, able to come after her again; he had to be unalterably expunged.

"He's going to do a final sweep in the attic. He left the motel at seven. It should be soon," she murmured into Joe's arm, keeping her eyes closed.

She told him which motel she had been kept at and the room number though she didn't know the address. Instead, she gave him the name of the gas station next to the motel where she had tried to call him and had then called a cab.

Joe spoke into the wig and redirected two of the agents to the motel in case Adam returned to it. The two units were in the car and on the road within minutes of Joe's command.

"That's good, baby—that's some good intel," he whispered, his eyes glassy as he looked at her.

"Nate, wake me when he's here... when it's time," Vicky whispered.

Nate reached out and caressed her hair gently, smoothing it away from her face.

"Anything you want, little girl."

Joe glanced down at Vicky as she slept, reaching to take her pulse every few minutes, amazed that it remained steady and true. When he looked at her, all he could see was blood; her hair, face, arms, and neck were covered in it. When she slept, she appeared dead, like a crime scene photo, and he just couldn't stand it. Nate took over the monitoring again.

Joe carefully, delicately took her shirt off. He hadn't known that anything could be worse than her face but now he did.

Her whole body was covered in blood. Cautiously, he took off her shoulder bandage and looked; Adam had stabbed her savagely, twisting the knife and bringing it down, and then twisting it again. By the appearance of the wound, Joe could tell he had cut right into the bone. He went to the sink and wet down the t-shirt she'd been wearing; it was Adam's and Joe would rather she be naked than wear his shirt.

While Nate wordlessly watched the monitors, Joe began to wipe the blood off. It was everywhere... everywhere. Some of it came from cuts, bruises, and being beaten, some of it had been free flowing from her sliced neck, broken nose, and stabbed shoulder. Carefully, he felt the back of her neck and then gently, gingerly felt her collarbone but neither appeared to be broken though only x-rays would show if Adam fractured them. Joe inspected her chest by the light of the glowing screens. He didn't think she had a single rib that _hadn't_ been broken; distorting points and bumps prevalent across her ribcage in its entirety. There was dried blood in her ears that had developed into more small rivers that ran down her neck, mingling with the blood from her slit throat. The whole trunk of her body was one big bruise, bruises on top of bruises and many shallow, long and short cuts where he had slashed her with his knife for the sole purpose of making her bleed more.

Nate took quick glances at her occasionally when Joe was trying to clean her up and make her look like less of a corpse. The amount she had endured was unbelievable, staggering. When she breathed, he could hear her lungs gurgling and blood bubbled and foamed out of the corner of her mouth with every breath.

She was sleeping but would moan occasionally and open her eyes. Joe would look at her gently, and her eyes would flutter closed again. Nate continued to monitor but would keep glancing back at her, unable to accept the amount of torture and brutality she had endured and survived. Every time he surveyed her, he expected it not to be as bad as he remembered only to find it was worse. Joe cleaning her up did exactly nothing to improve the image she cast.

Joe covered up her top half, tucking the blanket all around her. Pulling the blanket up from her bottom half, he took the pants that he knew were Adam's off her. They slid right off of her small frame with no need to unbutton them.

From the glowing monitors, Joe could see that the bottom half was about one percent better than the top half. Taking off the bandage, he inspected the stab wound; this one, too, had been sadistically twisted and was the size of a fifty-cent piece. A gunshot would have hurt far, far less. There was no doubt that this one had gone all the way down to the bone, too. She was bloody from her waist to her feet; she was all one solid red blood splotch as though someone had poured it onto her. Rewetting the t-shirt, he started to clean her off.

She whimpered, and her eyes opened again. Joe moved up to her face so she could see him.

"It's just me, baby... just me," he whispered and she closed her eyes again.

He kept wiping the blood off, but there were many places the blood wouldn't stop seeping. None of them was to the point of needing pressure applied, but there were so many, she was like a sieve, just _leaking_ blood from every goddamn where. Joe repeatedly and tenderly kept wiping until all of the bruising could be seen. He was incredibly relieved to see there was no sexual trauma, but Adam had not been finished, either. The rape would have occurred last, as she was dying. Her legs had been beaten as thoroughly as he had beaten her torso, and Joe assumed both legs were fractured and possibly broken though no bone jutted through her skin.

When the old blood had been wiped away, he left Adam's pants off her and covered her up with the blanket. She was completely naked under the covers now, and Joe tucked her in carefully, snugly, making sure that she felt swaddled, warm, and safe.

Nate looked down at her again. Even though she was right here to prove it, he still couldn't believe she had busted out of two pairs of handcuffs, changed her clothes, called a fucking _cab,_ and came here. It was not possible—not with those kinds of injuries. He shook his head as he observed the monitors, trying to wrap his head around it and believe what his eyes were telling him.

She mumbled something, and Joe leaned down to hear her. Still watching the monitors closely, Nate leaned down, too.

"I came here to bayonet the son of a bitch but I'm starting to think that might not happen," she said with a hint of a smile and a little gasping noise that Joe thought might be a laugh.

He cupped her face in his hands and touched his forehead to hers as he closed his eyes.

"He's going to be just as dead, baby... just as dead," he said softly.

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Adam had turned the car around after ten minutes of driving. He couldn't do it. He didn't care anymore what the plan had been. He did not care. He could smell her blood in his nose and see her handcuffed to the bed, waiting for him. He didn't care about the attic. He didn't care about anything. He had to get back to her before he lost his fucking mind.

With his last bit of control, he pulled into a drug store. He had to get the smelling salts. He would not have her safely and blissfully unconscious when he killed her. He positively would not allow it. It would be like dry humping someone for Christ's sake. What the fuck was the point? He couldn't ruin it for himself like that; he had to get the smelling salts. It was non-negotiable.

As he was walking toward the entrance, he saw a few people in the alley. Now that was what he needed more than anything on this planet. If he were going to make it last more than two seconds, he was going to need some serious stopping power, something to slow him down. The weed compared to heroin was an unfunny joke. It was the difference between a .22 caliber handgun and a fully equipped and operational Sherman tank with a nuclear warhead strapped to it. This was _Tori_. Anything short of the tank's stopping power and he would roll right the fuck over it, and that was an indisputable fact.

He went into the alley and scored. Not having any of his gear with him, he had needed to purchase that, as well. He didn't care, not even a little. The price was insane, but he didn't care about that, either. If he could just get some _maintenance_ into his veins, he could stay on track. He wanted it to be perfect. Unlike any of the rest, she was bigger than all the rest combined, her _toe_ was bigger than all the rest combined, and he wanted her more than anything he had ever wanted before. It was worth the splurge; he only had one shot at this, and he was not going to screw it up because he had completely lost his mind and his control and have it all be over before it even began. That just couldn't happen. It couldn't. Therefore, the heroin was purchased though he had never needed to be grogged with any of the others. This was wholly and purely different. She was not the others. Fact.

Taking the dose straight back to his car to shoot up, he had not even stopped to take a piss and within moments, he was sighing contentedly. Mellow and smoothed out, he knew he would stay that way for long, delicious hours. It would be like nothing before. He could stab her, wait a while, hit her or carve on her face, and then stab her again. Using the smelling salts, he could dig with his fingers all the way down into her muscle tissue with his nails and rip her flesh right off. She would scream and scream, and it would last forever. He would live the rest of his life in that motel room with Tori, ripping her apart, and her blood would never stop gushing, never grow cold. It would always be crimson, always boiling hot.

He took a nod in the front seat of the car and then got out an hour later to get the smelling salts and drove toward the house and the attic for the last sweep. It had always been a part of the plan, and now he had the sanity and restraint to do it. Heroin was expensive, goddamn, was it expensive, but it was worth it; it was so incredibly worth it, like buying a six hour ticket to heaven itself. Now he could sweep the attic and then he could have her, all of her, with no interruptions and no need to worry. Tori and heroin at the same time... he wondered dreamily if he would spontaneously combust. He was looking forward to finding out.

Driving the half an hour to the house, he took his time, calm and unperturbed. He watched the houses as he drove by and smiled lazily to himself, enjoying his deep and thorough sense of euphoric wellbeing. After pulling into the back of the wooded lot, where the trees were everywhere, and it was like a regular forest, he sighed blissfully and turned the car off. He started to collect his things, in no hurry at all; everything was going to be fine—better than fine. Everything about tonight would be nothing short of perfect, and it was never going to end. He could tell.

# # #

Joe knelt down to Vicky and looked at her, saying nothing. Reaching out, he touched her hair, stroking it softly and tucking it away from her face; still not quite believing that she was here, that she had done it. She had made it.

She coughed and opened her eyes to him. Peering at him sleepily, she seemed more focused, more alert, and she kept her eyes open.

"You did it," he whispered.

"Hold me," she said, her lips starting to tremble and her eyes turning glassy. His gentle touch and soft eyes brought her to the breaking point as nothing else had.

Reaching under her carefully, he winced, afraid of hurting her more as he curled her to him and then smoothly picked her up, sitting in the chair with her in his lap. She put her head on his chest and softly started to cry.

"I was so scared... it hurt so much," she whispered through her tears.

"I know, baby," he murmured, his eyes filling with pain, her words stabbing into his heart.

"I thought I wasn't coming back—I thought I wouldn't get out," she sobbed, pressing her face into Joe's neck as he bent over her, hugging her to him, enveloping her.

"It's over... it's over, bambino, e` finita," he murmured into her hair, rocking her.

He could feel her blood running down his neck as she whispered to him weakly and coughed, struggling to tell him, needing to tell him.

He wept silently into her hair as he listened to her voice the fear, the pain, and the panic when she realized Adam wasn't going to stop beating her, and she may be too broken to escape. Closing his eyes, his heart being ripped from his chest, he listened as she cried and told him. Holding her, he caressed her, giving his love and reassurances to her, wishing there was some way that he could bear the pain for her. He wanted so badly to bear the pain for her.

After her tears had fallen, and she had given voice, at last, to her fears, her words began to slur, and she took longer pauses between sentences. Soon, her head rolled limply over his arm, her lips parting as she fell back into exhausted sleep. After touching her bloody and stiff hair, he caressed her neck and then wiped away the last of his tears, his hand trembling as he then wiped away hers. He could hear Nate sniffing next to him as he studied the monitors.

"I fucking hate her family, man. They are some deviant sons of bitches," Nate muttered to no one in particular, nodding to himself with conviction as he sniffled.

Joe raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Nate. Nate looked back at him.

"What? I do—and they are."

She was exhausted but only stayed out a few minutes, opening her eyes briefly and then closing them again but refusing to sleep.

"Talk to me. Bambino, talk to me," she whispered, smiling foggily with her eyes closed as she used one of the very few Italian words she knew.

Joe gazed down at her with an adoring smile touching his lips and eyes.

"Il mio angelo, la mia molto personale angelo. Ti amo cosi tanto. Sempre. Per sempre," he said softly to her as he held her.

"Tell me," she whispered, the fear beginning to melt away as he held her and talked to her, touched her and comforted her.

"I said, 'My angel, my very own angel. I love you so much. Always. Forever,'" he translated the Italian for her in a whisper, kissing her hand and holding it to his neck.

"More..."

Joe spoke to her for long, gentle minutes in Italian. He translated everything for her when she asked but, sometimes, she didn't ask. Sometimes, just hearing the words and knowing the feeling behind them was enough.

He only spoke it to her. She knew it was the very closest thing that he held to his heart. It was full of sacred and beloved memories of his parents and their endless love and compassion. Fluent in the language; it was the daily language of his childhood home. English had only been spoken in school and was abandoned entirely during the summers, weekends, evenings, and holidays. It had been his first language, his only language until he began school and when he was tired or passionate, whether out of anger or love, he would subtly roll his "r's," the language still apparent, even in his English. Although he spoke English almost all the time, it was still his second language, and she knew he preferred the language of his childhood... but he only spoke it to her.

"Il mio angelo. Per sempre, il mio angelo," he whispered into her ear.

Joe watched her, relieved, when she fell back to sleep. He knew she had a strong pulse and her heart beat steadily in her chest, but she looked like she was dying. One whole side of her face was uniformly purple; her blood red eye now swollen closed. Deep, oozing red gouges were covering both sides of her face, Adam's class ring ripping through her skin as he hit her time and again. When she breathed, blood foamed in her mouth, and when she coughed, Joe wiped the blood from her face as it ran down her chin and onto her neck.

He held her and struggled to show her softness and love, to reach within and find his love for her through the seething and black rage he felt for Adam. As he watched her sleep, he no longer had to struggle. He could let the pure, untethered hate pour out from him; the deadly but silent promises that he was making to Adam swirled in his eyes as they went from cold to glacial.

He was going to make Adam beg—not for his life—for his death.

He had been planning on killing Adam, neutralizing him, expunging the threat. That was before he saw what Adam had done to her. The hate in Joe was complete, wall-to-wall, top to bottom, diluted by nothing. She was safe; she had come back, and that terror in him was gone. Adam was coming to the attic; she had confirmed it; that concern was gone, too. The only thing left in him, the only thing to focus on, was what Adam had done to her.

The hate was like nothing he had ever known, the hot, burning rage instantly funneling down an icy, arctic tunnel, saving it—storing it, plunging the temperature into the impossible realm of absolute zero. The hotter he burned, the colder it felt, his eyes such a light and purely lethal blue they didn't look familiar anymore. As he held Vicky's broken body in his arms and felt her blood drying on his neck, he waited. Patiently, calmly, he waited for Adam.

# # #

Adam was going to go in through the back door kitchen entrance. He had planned on going to the carriage house and take the tunnel but had modified his plan at the last minute. There weren't any uniforms anywhere so, why inconvenience himself?

He was mellowed out and feeling good and decided, on the spot that he and heroin were going to get much better acquainted. With the exception of the five years following Tori's exiling him, he'd always been conservative with the shit, knowing it made people brave and stupid. Enough of his activities were of the illegal variety that he couldn't afford to be stupid. He completely avoided it when he was looking for a woman; he wanted the rush and the thrill and everything that went with it; why would he go for a mellow? That would be stupid. He also didn't want to be caught as that, too was located within the domain of stupid.

This, however, was an extreme situation; like no other. He wanted to be able to slow the frenzy, draw it out, languish in it and make it last. He didn't want the blur of images; he wanted the sharp, focused memories of her blood on him, the feel of his knife smoothly going into her abdomen where there were no jarring bones and nothing to stop it. He had about lost his mind when he'd been pulling her pants up and realized she was small enough that his knife would go clean through her, all of her, and come out her back. The thought had paralyzed him, and he had been sure it was over; he didn't think there would be any way he'd be able to wait. But he had closed his eyes and looked away and gritted his teeth, and he'd done it. Maintaining control, he'd forced himself to wait, muttering every expletive he had ever learned throughout his life, even the Latin ones, _especially_ the Latin ones. Latin expletives were more descriptive, _much_ more, and that was why he loved them so.

He went into the dark kitchen using the house cleaner's key. It was pitch black, and he listened closely, standing by the door, making sure there were no funky noises of any sort. His adrenaline was just starting to peek through the clouds of the heroin.

His soft-soled shoes made no sound on the granite floors as he passed over them like a ghost, walking expertly through the blackness, knowing the layout instinctively. Carefully, he crept to the front entrance and the double stairways, pausing a moment to listen again but he heard nothing.

He knew he was being overly cautious; nobody was here for fuck's sake; the place was desolate, as he knew it would be. The boyfriend would have everyone out looking for Tori; they'd be hitting every hotel and motel within driving distance.

He'd called in his reservation at the motel using a stolen credit card and driver's license number, planning for Valenti's reaction and tactic. Over the phone, he'd told the desk guy that he would arrive late from a business trip and to leave the room unlocked with the key on the bed. He had added a substantial tip for the desk clerk on the stolen credit card. Successful with his plan, the desk worked had never seen his face. The cops had probably checked his motel already and found no Adam Terrace there, just some Jewish dude on a business trip.

He was going to use a flashlight in the attic, but he was starting to change his mind; the lights in the attic were so incredibly dusty and dim that he didn't think they'd be noticed unless someone was watching for them to be on. He thought he could flip the switch and make his life a little easier. Moreover, he could look around as he headed for the jewelry.

The jewelry was on one of the wings of the attic. It would take him fifteen minutes to walk there once he was in the attic; he'd timed it. There were generations and generations of their ancestors' stuff up there; maybe he'd see something spectacular that he could just zip right up into his duffel bag, making his haul even flusher.

He was getting firm on the idea of using the lights now; it was a good, last opportunity move. He nodded to himself. Decision made; the lights it would be. He started to climb the stairway.

He had told Tori that she was living in squalor, which had been depressingly true, but even he had to admit that his parents' house, now Tori's, was ostentatious and extreme by anyone's standards. Who the fuck needed a house this goddamn big? Adam was sure the only reason his parents had bought it was for the massive attic storage.

Beginning to climb to the third floor, he wondered to whom Tori had left everything in her will. His father's will was blocking her from leaving him so much as a dust bunny and Tori had no kids or husband. Where was all this shit going to go? He had never really thought about it and never really cared; he knew it was positively not going to him. Goddamn, his father had been a miserable bastard.

Third floor. He headed for the sitting room that no one had ever sat in and the fireplace that, in his whole memory, there had never been a fire in. Rolling up the Persian rug, he pulled the secret handle and popped the fireplace. Now he thought it was stupid but when he was a kid, he used to think it was very James Bond. He understood the need to hide the entrance, though. There had been many servants around, servants for everything; cooking, cleaning, driving, babysitting, even decorating the house for the holiday parties. His mother's job was to be pretty, smile, and not fall down the stairs in front of guests. With so many servants, maybe they'd been right to hide the entrance lever so well. He shrugged to himself; it didn't matter anyway; after tonight, Tori would be dead, and the house would go to someone else.

The fireplace zipped to the side, and he climbed the final, last half of the staircase. Sticking with his thinking, he flipped the light switch and looked around. Nope, still nobody home. Swiveling his head and surveying the antiques, he began walking toward the jewelry. If he saw something he liked, he was going to grab it. It was a blue light special kind of night.

" _Nobody_ needs a house this damn big," he muttered to himself.

As he walked, he thought about Tori and the heavy hit he'd given her shoulder. That had been a close one, so close. When he had stabbed her, twisted the knife, and then dragged it down, twisting it again it was as if he had been _engulfed_ in erotica— _submerged_ in pleasure. Thinking about it now made his knees weak, and his mouth go dry.

He moaned softly as he walked, briefly closing his eyes.

"I am going to rip the flesh right from your bones," he said, swallowing hard and finding his throat had tightened, and he had broken out in a thin sheen of sweat.

He was thinking that there was really no need to linger—no need at all. He could just grab the jewelry and go back to her. His pace quickened.

His mild concern that the heroin would dull things too much was quickly dissipating. By the weakness in his knees and his difficulty breathing, he knew he would not be able to make it last with Tori; the heroin would not be able to override his frenzied need for her. He had to accept that nothing would; he knew he was going to rip her apart in a maniacal frenzy, completely overriding his will _and_ the heroin and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep her alive through much of it. She had almost died already. With everything he was, he wished, _yearned,_ for her to stay alive through it all. He wanted to hear her scream through it all; he wanted to see her keep _gushing_ blood out, forcefully, from the beat of her heart, and then he would be ready to be in her; in the blood; in a place that no one had been before. He would be the first, her first. He imagined that white would flare and explode in front of his eyes. The cleanness would be everywhere, and it really would be as though she were giving her purity to him. He would know it, and his body would know it; he would be able to feel it—if only it could last forever.

It was such an unworthy and sad conclusion when the blood pooled because of gravity and nothing more; when the body was dead, and there was no longer any fuel as the life force sputtered and then petered out. It was such a lame ass, dull, and flat feeling when it was over. He hated it. Pushing the thought away, trying to will it away; he kept telling himself it would be different with Tori; she would be able to keep him and hold him in a sensual fog forever.

He reached the jewelry and looked at it, dazed and unfocused. He should never have started thinking about Tori. Thank the lord she wasn't here now; it would be over the second it started.

It had always been her—always. He had been twenty-three, and it was a year after she had kicked him out of the house wordlessly. In a gay bar, he had been out to pick up a date that was a catcher, not the pitcher, and there had been this waitress. He had frozen with his drink in midair; he had thought it was her, he could've sworn it was her. She had the same hair, same tiny figure, and the same porcelain skin. Then she turned to him and smiled. She wasn't Tori. Devastated, he had started shaking with rage that it wasn't her, his adrenaline drowning him, flooding him, exploding out of him. Buying her a drink, he had picked her up and severely punished her for not being Tori. It was the first time he had been with a woman, and it had been through blood, and he found that he liked it. He found that he was _elevated_ by it, suspended, the feeling was sharp and clean, and the intensity was parallel to nothing. It had made normal sex in comparison feel distant and hollow, as though it was in black and white with no sound, covered in layers of static snow.

The next time, he hadn't killed the woman because she wasn't Tori; he had killed her because he pretended she _was_ Tori. The second had been infinitely better than the first. He had waited until the blood had been gushing to be with her. The blood had poured onto him, blazing hot; the whole time, memories of his father had flashed through his mind right beside memories of Tori's porcelain skin, her hair, and her crooked smile.

His whole childhood he had loathed her purity with a burning hatred but fiercely loved her purity, wanting to shield her from any kind of soil or soot that might touch it. Wanting to protect it, he had also wanted to take it. He would sneak into her bedroom at night and look at her; he would stare at her lips and know that they'd never been forced to be on their father; her lips were pure and clean. Reaching out, he would feel her hair; it was never dirty, never. He would think of her crying after being beaten and think how innocent she was to think that the beatings were the worst that could happen. Everything in him hated her with such a deep and pure rage that he would stand next to her bed and shake. At the exact same time, his love for her was all consuming—worship, she was too clean for him to be worthy of her company, and he needed to protect her from his filth. The deep and desperate love and the fire from the rage had fused. They melded, mated, and became inseparable forever more.

Now, the time was here at last. It was monumental, almost biblical, and so much bigger than he was. He couldn't think clearly, when he was close to her. She was everything; everything he loved, everything he hated, everything he wanted to be, and everything he wanted to destroy. She was everything.

Looking at the jewelry a while longer, he felt dazed, transported. Reaching out, he listlessly opened the drawers and the boxes. He felt like he was in slow motion, as if he were wrapped in gauze and everything outside of his mind was far away. She hadn't screamed when he had stabbed her leg, but she had when he'd stabbed her shoulder. It had made him shudder, quiver, he had breathed through his nose, trying to breathe in the scream, consume it, have it be a part of him that he could save.

"Fuck _this._ This is fucking _insane._ She's right there, right there, _waiting_ for me," he muttered as he hurriedly dumped drawers of jewelry into his open duffel bag.

The faster he worked, the faster he wanted to work. He started ripping out drawers, emptying them, and then throwing them onto the floor around him, making a hellish racket in the process. Throwing tissue paper everywhere, he dumped jewelry into his bag. He was irritated and frustrated that most of the jewelry was in its own, little individual jewelry box. He had to take each piece out, toss it in the bag, and then throw the small jewelry box over his shoulder. If he kept them all in the stupid goddamn boxes, he wouldn't be able to fit nearly as many into his bag. Working feverishly, he thought of Tori, tried not to, but then thought of her even more. He worked as fast as he could, muttering and complaining to himself.

"Bullshit, absolute bullshit, all these boxes... I mean what the _fuck._ It's just insane.

"Fuck the silver, it's not worth shit, and it'll only take up room, I'm not taking it, fuck it.

"... not when I stabbed her in the leg but the shoulder, she screamed when I stabbed her in the shoulder.

"Seriously, how many _fucking_ little boxes are there?

"... never any other time, though. Never any other time—little Tori can take a goddamn punch. Just the shoulder and, only the once—

"—god _damn_ these boxes! There are a thousand boxes here!

"And with the tissue paper... don't forget the _goddamn_ tissue paper over every fucking thing—the boxes aren't nearly enough of a pain in my ass.

"What if she only screams if it's as deep as the shoulder—what then? One or two more like the shoulder and she's done, but she only screamed with the shoulder.

"Another box of boxes... wonderful... wonder-fucking-ful—and with the tissue paper," he said getting angrier and louder.

He was panting and trying to hurry; working himself into an agitated frenzy. He wanted to go. He wanted to go right now. She was there _, waiting_ for him, spread-eagled, her hair and skin wet with blood.

"Where else, where else would make her scream?

"... maybe her feet, stabbing the bottoms of her feet, maybe that...

"Maybe not—she didn't scream with the leg, and it hit her bone.

"Where... and why didn't she? Where so that she will?

"One more goddamn box of boxes and I am leaving—one single more goddamn it.

"And with the tissue paper—thanks for the tissue paper. Like I didn't have enough _fucking tissue paper?_ God _damn_ it..."

He had abandoned any whispering whatsoever. Babbling to himself, he was swearing loudly and getting even louder as his concern about how he was going to make her react escalated. The more he thought about it, the more worried he became. She had s _miled,_ when he had hit her. The only time she had shed a tear was when she was shrinking him. The second that ended, if it ever really had, she had stopped crying, just like that. This could be a real situation. This was becoming a concern. The concern was growing exponentially with his frustration of the boxed jewelry.

He opened another box and saw it filled to the top with smaller boxes of individual pieces of jewelry. Enraged, he picked up the box and flung it against the wall, small boxes exploding out of it in all directions as he bellowed with frustration. He walked around and kicked other boxes, yelling with fury.

"Why? When someone stabs you through your fucking leg, _you're supposed to scream!_ Why?" he yelled and kicked another box, growling with his lips pulled back from his teeth.

Throwing himself to the floor, he leaned against a stack of boxes that he positively was not going to open. Panting heavily with streams of sweat running down his face, his bangs had become wet from sweat. For several minutes, he panted, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the stack of boxes, thinking.

This could be a situation. This could really put a cap on the amount he would be getting out of this. He needed to think for just a minute. Thinking back through all the other women, he had heard a symphony of screams from every one of them. They had screamed before he'd even _done_ anything; they'd screamed from just seeing the knife. They had been such cheap and inadequate substitutes for her— _nothing_ like her.

He kept his eyes closed, waiting for his panting to slow. He had come to within a _hair_ of killing her, and she had only screamed once. It had been brief and then she had clamped her little mouth shut and not opened it again. Just the one, short scream as he hit, kicked, and stabbed her goddamn near to death... one scream.

He dry scrubbed his face with his hands. He needed something to break her will; that was obvious. He didn't really know if he could find what that was, though. That was the problem—that was the thing. He had a growing dread that was becoming alarmingly close to a certainty that she had the ability to give him the finger right up until she died. Right up until she died _silently,_ withholding all of her screams from him, taking them all with her when she died. He did _not_ know how to break her. It was a situation.

"The only one _ever_ who refuses to scream when she's stabbed. Only my Tori... pain in my _fucking_ ass since the day she was born," he mumbled to himself, sulking.

"You are one uncooperative, miserable bitch," he added.

He sat still, staring at a box of boxes. He picked up his partly full duffel bag and started to walk, moping, back toward the staircase as he thought, looking down in deep, concerned concentration.

"It is what it is," he mumbled.

"I stay far away from her lungs and her throat; maybe she'll scream but not if her lungs are popped or her throat is cut.

"I can only do what I can do. I know she'll scream—she did with her shoulder.

"If she only gives me one or two screams before it's over, I'm going to bring her with me everywhere so I can kill her one hundred times every night until she fucking rots."

He spoke to himself, feeling his worry cement itself into certainty, and not knowing what to do about it. He had never seen anything like this, and there had been many.

Suddenly, he froze, stopped right in his tracks, dropping his duffel bag. His eyes darted from one side to the other, quickly looking for holes or problems in his theory. A smile spread across his face.

"The dogs," he whispered, in awe of himself that the answer had come.

"If I bring her to the cabin and start carving on her beloved _dogs,_ she'll scream. She'll scream her goddamn head off. I'll keep carving, and I'll tell her if she doesn't scream I'll disembowel another mutt," he said to himself.

He felt joy, but it was short lived. It would be her screaming to try to save her dogs, on purpose, as a negotiation tactic, not because he had broken her. She would be _giving;_ he wouldn't be taking. It was a distant and shameful second, but it's all he had. If his choice was her dying and taking her silent screams with her or him cheating and getting to hear her scream, he'd take it—he's be remiss not to take it.

He picked up his duffel bag and started walking again. He felt sad and defeated.

"It's cheating; like buying a prostitute. It's not going to be real—it's not going to be because I broke her," he said to himself morosely.

"I just don't see another way... I don't. God _damn_ , she's miserable... just fucking miserable," he said, dejected.

He reached the front of the staircase and stopped.

The fireplace door was closed.

He had not closed it.

Dropping his duffel bag, he grabbed for his knife, adrenaline pouring into his veins as he stared at the closed panel at the bottom of the stairway.

Hearing a chair move behind him, he whirled around.

And there stood Tori.

She was wearing a sweatshirt that came down to her knees; she looked like a Chihuahua wrapped in a St. Bernard. He stared at her small but defiant frame, her legs bare and bloody, one eye swollen closed but the other one glaring at him as she stood to her full and unimpressive height, the sweatshirt emphasizing her smallness. His adrenalized mind flashed to his need only a split second before the confusion sunk in. For that split second, everything in him, everything that he was sighed at the sight of her, mesmerized by the blood on her face and how tiny and delicate she appeared in the sweatshirt. His heart leapt; she was here, and he would wait no longer.

Then in the remaining half of the same second, he locked up. She was here? She was here but... she was here? How could she be here? How could—the heroin? Was he hallucinating?

Adam could feel his eyes getting bigger as he realized she was not a hallucination. She was here, and she was smiling at him and standing up.

"How... how in the _fuck—_ " Adam breathed out, unable to finish.

He couldn't look away from her, couldn't _breathe_ for Christ's sake.

He gripped his knife and took a step toward her. She was here; she had come to him. Knowing he would be here, she had come to him to be with him in the house. In the house together at last, just like he had always wanted. It was poetic, and he could feel one corner of his mouth curve as he closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. He thought of the times he had snuck into her room at night and had then walked away, all the years of Second Placers when he had left her alone, and all the crime scenes he'd been at and only taken pictures. He took another step toward her, his eyes narrowing as his heart beat fiercely in his chest. The wait was over; it was finally over, and he _would_ make her scream.

"She popped both sets of cuffs and took a cab."

Adam had been so stunned by Tori that he didn't see the man sitting behind her. He was the huge, black bodybuilder agent and clearly the St. Bernard from whom Tori had gotten the sweatshirt. The agent had a smirk on his face as he chewed his gum, his white teeth flashing while he leaned back in a chair, his feet up on an antique table. He was wearing a white muscle undershirt that exposed his ridiculously over-developed arms along with a healed and scarred bullet wound, his hands lying one atop the other on his abdomen. The top hand, Adam noticed, held a gun.

Now, here was a problem. Adam turned his attention back to Tori, gripping his knife harder.

Tori kept that insufferable, tiny smile on her face and spoke.

"I told you. You hit like a girl," she said quietly.

Adam stared at her and calculated with blurry speed. It couldn't be over. It couldn't be this way. Not now, not after he had already been so close with her once, done things to make her bleed once, he couldn't let go. How was he going to let go? He felt an ache deep within him; the pain was beyond devastation and well into the realm of destruction. He couldn't believe he might not be able to finish; there was a growing possibility that he wouldn't be able to finish. She could be taken _away_ from him.

He looked at the black agent again, his eyes flicking to the gun. He would not be able to finish, not here, not tonight—he needed to go. It was definitive. Right now, he needed to go. He could find her again; he found her once; he could find her again. The pain in his guts grew sharper with the acceptance of his staggering loss. He knew he had lost her again.

He bolted for the switch that opened the fireplace door but before he could complete a full step, a shot went whizzing by his face. He could _smell_ the heated lead as it passed by his face.

His eyes moved back to the agent who now had the gun aimed dead center at Adam's head, smiling broadly, as he chewed his gum.

"Where in the _fuck_ do you think you're going?" he asked, laughing at Adam's optimistic naivety.

His brown eyes were flashing with deep menace as the smile fell from his face. Bringing his feet down from the table, he leaned forward, his massive forearms on his thighs and gun in hand. His face and voice had grown as deadly as his eyes.

"My partner would like to have a word with you, Adam..." he said and then nodded once in admission, his eyes searing, "... and I'm not going to lie to you. The conversation might sting a little bit."

Adam heard the sound of a cigarette lighter being lit and spun to the right, where the sound had come from.

And there was Joe, in the shadows of the attic.

He was separate from Tori and the bodybuilder. About thirty feet away from them, he was leaning against a support post and wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. There was a lot of blood on his clothes, his sweatshirt covered in it.

His head tilted to the side as he lit the cigarette, puffing it to life leisurely and then breathing it in deeply and holding it. For a moment, he closed his eyes, and a strange half-smile came to his lips as he thought about what his partner had said.

The smile scared Adam. It was _wrong._ It was dreadfully wrong. The smile was that of a man that was truly amused. It fell slowly away but then returned, as though he had thought of the joke again and just couldn't help himself.

There was something indescribable about how the agent was acting. Adam could see a coiled strength in him that could stay coiled for eternity, never tiring from the wait; never losing the coil. The lethal potential that he so clearly had and the inhuman control that contained it terrified Adam like nothing else ever had. This was a person that could calmly, indefinitely spoon-feed someone death, one tiny bit at a time, the fire never diminishing, but never flaming out of his control. Adam looked at him with growing terror and dread as the seconds ticked on. He knew this man truly did have the ability to make dying last forever.

Adam felt an insane and foreign instinct to kill himself immediately before Joe could get to him. There was an instinctive part of him that knew, _knew_ it would be better if he died right now, right this second. There was something that Adam saw and felt coming off the agent that convinced him that death at his own hand would be much preferred to what the agent had in mind.

Adam watched, transfixed, as Joe turned the cigarette sideways in his hand and gazed at the smoke lazily rise up from it. He exhaled. He took his time; he didn't seem to be in any kind of a hurry. That scared Adam most of all.

Seconds that took hours ticked by. Adam was completely still—nowhere to go—his only option was to kill himself now.

Joe at last lifted his eyes from the cigarette and looked at Adam, his light blue eyes emanating something that Adam had never seen before in his life. Joe looked demonic, ethereal, infinitely patient, and infinitely inescapable. Adam suddenly shuddered as he peered into the unwavering, unblinking, and merciless eyes, feeling the icy cold, iron-fisted control drip from the man, sending the chill his way. It oozed from his every pore, a control and power that Adam had never seen or even known existed. Adam stared into the light blue orbs of Death—in his instinctive terror, he felt that he didn't have permission to look away.

He spoke to Adam while returning his gaze to the cigarette smoke he cupped in his hand.

"Tenebrae et mortis erit merces vestra..." Joe said conversationally in Latin, his low voice rumbling with elegance and knowledge, timeless, predatory knowledge.

He lifted the cigarette to his lips, cupping it and squinting, taking another long drag.

Adam's mind, steeped by years of Latin classes translated instantly: " _Darkness and death will be your reward..."_

Joe dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. Slowly, with frightening, paralyzing control, he looked back up at Adam. He wanted to make sure that Adam saw what was coming for him and how it would be like nothing he had ever known before.

Joe's eyes did not waver from Adam's again as he started walking toward him.

"... sed donee tunc, sis meus _,_ " he said with a flat, knowing finality.

"... _but until then, you are mine."_

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"No more. There will be no more," Fatimah said to herself as she took a taxicab home.

Her embassy representative had gotten her released until after her pretrial motions were heard, but he had forewarned her that she would be going back to the jail soon.

That was fine with her. She didn't care if she went to prison or not; Kosey worked so much, she barely ever saw him. When she did see him, he seemed flat and unexpressive, not at all like himself. She may as well go to prison; her marriage was failing.

She had little hope for marital counseling; that was an American thing, and she didn't think it would be successful for Kosey and her. Maybe her upcoming time in jail would help; sometimes, a separation would bring people closer she thought as she gazed out the cab window at the houses rolling by.

"It must end," she whispered to herself.

The driver looked in his rearview mirror at the woman mumbling to herself. He wasn't concerned and continued to drive, saying nothing. There was a cage separating them; she wasn't his first crazy and wouldn't be his last. He drove to make money, not friends, and as long as she paid, he didn't give a shit that she was crazy.

Fatimah knew the feeding house had gotten through; it was on her land now, in her life now. Its tentacles had reached out and put her marriage in jeopardy. It had caused the police to arrest her and take her even further away from Kosey. The police would never see; the feeding house would never let them see. Its powers could reach anywhere, and do anything. She knew. She had seen it.

Her only bit of air had been when Miss O'Connell had come to visit her. She had been a delightful woman, respectful and courteous without the American blinders. She knew; Miss O'Connell knew.

It hadn't bothered Fatimah that the woman had been of a different faith; it was all the same thing anyway. A person could refer to water as a dozen different things, and it was still water; it was still wet; it didn't change what it was. Miss O'Connell had called them demons, and Fatimah supposed it was close enough. The labels didn't matter; only a shallow, foolish person would think they did. Fatimah was not foolish, and she had been pleasantly surprised that Miss O'Connell had not been, either.

Fatimah knew the feeding house was to blame for the unending woe that was being foisted upon Kosey and herself; the feeding house was destroying her life, their life. She had fought mightily to stop it; she had. Still, it had gotten through.

The cab pulled up to Fatimah's dark house and let her out. She paid the man, and he drove away without thanking her. She looked after him, still irritated by the rudeness Americans exhibited; it was without reason or cause and hurtfully disrespectful. Fatimah had learned not to take it personally. They were rude to everyone, even to each other—especially to each other.

She turned and walked to the house, letting herself in. Kosey's jacket was hanging from the hand railing again. Surely, how hard _was_ it to hang up a coat? Grimly, she picked it up and returned it to the closet where it belonged. She would say nothing to him about it; it would only lead to an argument.

"Fatimah?" Kosey called out.

"It is," she called back.

He walked out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a dishtowel, and looking at her sternly.

"Do you know what time it is?" he demanded.

She sighed heavily, not wanting to fight. She was tired, and things needed to be done.

"I know. I'm sorry, Kosey. It's the feeding house, that damnable feeding house. The police _arrested_ me, Kosey."

Kosey heard her but didn't ask her why. Instead, he turned around and walked back to the kitchen. Hearing dishes moved about; she thought he was emptying the dishwasher. She smiled softly; he was trying; he really was. Maybe they would be able to get through this after all. They had been through rough times before. If they both tried, she knew, she just _knew_ they would get through this rough patch.

"But not as long as the feeding house is alive," she muttered grimly to herself.

Walking into the kitchen, she told Kosey that she must tend to the studio; there was unfinished work that needed to be completed. Nodding to her absently, he bent down and kissed her cheek in yet another effort to close the gap between them. He really was trying.

Fatimah went outside and walked straight to the flower shed, determined to put an end to the house's insidious appetite. Things needed to be taken care of before Kosey and she wound up divorced, ruining their lives, and forever shaming both of their families.

She pulled the string that hung from the light bulb in the building and a soft, incandescent glow shone inside of the small shed. Locating the gas cans, she was pleased that she was being proactive in her marital efforts; she was trying, too.

The plastic jugs were heavy, but she lugged them on top of the fence anyway. She felt ungraceful and undignified as she shimmied over the stone wall and brought down the gas cans on the neighbor's side. Before she would pick up the containers, she patted her hair and smoothed out her dress, and was glad no one had seen such a vulgar, lowly display.

Bending down, she picked up the gas and walked toward the carriage house where she had seen most of the activity. The bloody white dog looked right at her as she walked to the small house, turning his head to follow her progress. The dog had never bothered her before; in fact, it seemed quite friendly, wagging its white plume of a tail lazily. The monstrously huge beast followed her, curious, across the yard, blood dripping from the bullet wound in his head.

She could see the hateful man with the red eyes and no throat glaring at her from around the tree closest to the small house. He was always closest to the carriage house, guarding it, but tonight he stayed behind the tree, not wanting to come near the huge white dog. Fatimah could hear a low rumbling warning coming from the dog's massive chest, aimed at the man behind the tree. Glowering at Fatimah with his red eyes, the man waited for a bit longer before tucking his head behind a tree, cowered by the bloody dog's warning.

The maid, too, was kneeling, silently pleading with her as she approached. The spirit was a pitiful figure, small and tormented, forever on her knees with no socks or shoes on, blood pouring from her abdomen like a gushing waterfall, never running dry, her silent screaming face eternal.

"You will be released," Fatimah murmured to her calmly, reaching out to hold the young maid's chin in her hand, trying to reassure her.

It didn't help. The woman kept screaming and crying silently, her eyes wild with fear as she held a photo to her chest and her hand over her abdomen, the blood pouring through her fingers. The blond hair that hung in her face was wet; forever wet, never to dry as long as the house continued to feed.

Fatimah was determined. Enough people had suffered, and enough blood had been shed. This wasn't only about Kosey and she anymore; the evil and all of its detriment needed to be stopped. This house had eaten enough.

She set the jugs down in front of the small house and opened the unlocked door. Entering the building fearlessly, she carried only one container of gas inside. The inside of the carriage house seemed strangely familiar, but she knew she had never been inside of it before. She would have remembered.

A thin, small woman with fiery red, curly hair was standing at the kitchen sink, gazing out the window at nothing. Drinking wine from a glass, she turned to peer at Fatimah. There were two large bullet holes in her forehead close together that acted like a double spigot for the blood that flowed from them. The woman was stunningly beautiful, but the look in her eyes was flat and arrogant. She arched an eyebrow lazily and scrutinized Fatimah for a moment. Nonplussed, she turned back to the window and drank her wine, silently dismissing Fatimah as uninteresting and unimportant.

Fatimah traveled deeper into the house, ignoring the woman. She always drank from her wine glass; her small pinky slightly extended with every sip, the glass never emptying. Fatimah had seen her wandering about in the yard at night, drifting here and there, as she drank. She didn't concern Fatimah; she was arrogant and dismissive but harmless.

When Fatimah opened one of the bedrooms, she was surprised to see a dozen glowing monitors on two long tables in the center of the room. Three of the monitors were dark; the small red recording light was off and she wondered what was being recorded and what was not. She stepped closer.

In front of the monitors was an oddly placed living room chair along with many pillows and blankets, all of them bloody, the blood smeared on several areas of the floor, as well. Fatimah's mouth went into a hard and straight line as she bent down and touched the fabric of the chair and pillows. They were still wet with blood.

"The feeding will never stop unless something is done," she said fiercely as she looked at the blood and wondered who had died now, and what the house had done with the body.

She walked back into the living room, lifted the heavy jug, and started sprinkling the gasoline conservatively throughout the small house. She made sure the heavy pieces like the beds and cupboards had enough to burn them but not a drop more. The large house would need the majority of all the fuel.

She felt driven to light the match now, to burn this house with its bloody chair to the ground, but she hesitated. She knew Americans. They would blindly intervene and not allow her to burn the big house, the feeding house, and it needed to be done, all of it. It needed to be burned and destroyed not only for public service but to save her marriage. She didn't want to lose Kosey.

She had decided; she would push on, and after the big house was burning, hurry back to this one and light it, as well. The Americans would be too late and unable to stop the fires.

She felt her hand being nuzzled and glanced down. It was the large, bloody white dog, and her hard, straight mouth softened as she smiled at him kindly and reassured him.

"You, too, shall be released. Your cage that keeps you here will be opened, and your burden lifted. You will be free," she said to the dog, patting him on the head.

She stopped at the stoop and picked up her other jug that was still quite heavy.

"There will be plenty for my task," she said to herself and walked toward the huge, looming, dark house.

# # #

Nate glanced down at Vicky. She was still conscious, completely cocooned in an armchair once again, only now it was in the attic. He had nurtured a small hope that Adam would come through the carriage house door so he could massacre him. As soon as Nate learned the rendezvous would be in the attic, he knew his chance of killing Adam was gone. Adam's fate was sealed, and Joe would be doing the sealing.

After Vicky had stood in front of Adam, Joe gained his complete and undivided attention while Nate scooped her up before she fell down. He carried her to the nest they had made for her in an upholstered high back wing chair. The chair was up the attic stairs and in position before Adam had even reached the jewelry section. They had gotten the chair, blankets, and pillows from the fireplace sitting room only a few short steps away.

It was not physically possible for Nate to be any closer to Vicky without being in the chair with her. He had his gun in his hand. She had Joe's gun in her lap. Joe had... Joe.

Although Nate was as close as he could possibly get to her, she still sat in the chair alone. She was safe but sitting alone, and it itched at his brain like poison ivy. His poor, fierce little leprechaun had been alone enough. Arranging the pillows slightly differently, he slung one of his legs over the arm of the chair. She rested her head on his leg, holding onto it with one of her small hands as blood from her mouth and face ran onto his jeans making a crimson bloom. Putting his hand gently on her hair, he brushed it back, as he had seen Joe do a thousand times. He wanted her to know that no one on the planet was as safe as she was right at that moment, and she was not alone.

Joe had been adamantly against it. He had been appalled that she had even suggested it. And really, she hadn't. She had demanded it.

He had wanted her to stay in the carriage house with Nate and watch from the monitors as long as she could stay conscious. Aside from not wanting her moved at all until they could get her into an ambulance, he also didn't want her in the same building as Adam ever again. He had flat-assed, no-negotiations, vetoed it right from the gate.

Her will was still just as unbreakable as Joe's had ever been, regardless of her physical condition. She was just as stubborn and pig-headed as he was, and it had been an argument, a quiet, gasping battle of wills.

"He will see... me stand... in front of him," she had gasped and then coughed, blood running from her mouth.

Joe had shaken his head decisively and said, "The monitors."

"No."

"The monitors."

"No."

"Goddamn it, the _monitors_ where I know you're far away!"

She had glared at him with her one eye, panting from the exertion of talking, of being awake, of breathing.

"Look at me. Look... at what he did... to me," she had said.

"His last memory of me... will _not_ be me handcuffed to the bed... waiting for execution!"

She had needed time to recuperate from the long sentence, and Joe had quickly knelt down in front of her so that he could touch her. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes with exhaustion and pain while Joe wordlessly held a damp towel to her mouth as she spat out blood.

"No. Absolutely not," he had said; his eyes full of concern and apprehension.

"You're almost in a coma for Christ's sake. You need a blood transfusion, surgeries, stitches every goddamn where. _No._ You undoubtedly have more than one concussion, at least four of five broken ribs; what if one of them pops your lung? You have a broken nose. No. There is no way in hell. _No_. The vertebrae in your _neck_ might be broken, Victoria," he had whispered firmly, giving reasons and logic as though he were dealing with a child who needed only to see the reasonableness of his argument to comply.

It would have worked, too had she been a child or anyone at all except who she was. Being who she was, she decided she didn't like his vote and so, she revoked it. Boom. Gone.

She started to move. Her arm, bruised from shoulder to wrist and still seeping blood, struggled to pull at the cover. She tugged and then rested. She tugged some more and rested. Getting the cover off, she turned away from Joe when he tried to wipe the blood from her mouth that was pooling onto her neck.

"Nate," she had gasped.

"What, baby? What do you need?" Nate had asked her anxiously, praying Joe could get through to her, and knowing with conviction that he wouldn't.

"Stand... help me stand up."

Joe snapped his head toward Nate and glared at him in an I-fucking- _dare-_ you look.

"Baby, I can't," Nate said.

"Fine," she said, glaring at Joe and then Nate and then Joe again, her lips trembling as a tear slid from her eye.

"I'll do it myself," she said, her voice breaking as a sob escaped and she began to struggle harder, with more determination.

Joe tried to plead with her and even made a brief attempt to hold her down. Breaking away from him, she ripped open the stitches on her shoulder wound, and blood started to flow from it in a slow, thick stream. She didn't seem to notice, but Joe was horrified and let go of her immediately.

"Fuck you _both,"_ she had gasped and hissed.

She was sitting up now on her own. Naked, the blanket pushed to the floor and her arms shaking maniacally on the arms of the chair. Through the pain, she summoned all of her strength and used everything, absolutely everything that she had to push herself to her feet.

" _Stop_ it!" Joe had whispered fiercely, trying gently and carefully to hold her down.

"I will stand... in front... of him," she said through clenched teeth.

She had been pushing away Joe's towel and the foaming, bubbling blood that came from her mouth was now nearly to her navel. Her slit throat had begun to bleed again, and it flowed past her collarbone while the blood from her shoulder reached her fingertips and dripped dime-sized drops of crimson onto the floor.

"Victoria, please... _please,_ baby, my god, stop it... _stop it!"_ Joe said, beginning to panic, not knowing how to hold her down without hurting her or how to stop her struggle to stand.

"I... will... _stand!_ " she growled the words ferociously and gave one hellish, final push.

And there she stood. Naked, broken, bruised and stabbed, blood flowing from her wounds forming a puddle around her feet on the floor as she shook from the effort of standing.

Joe caved instantly, grabbing her to him, terrified that she was going to fall.

"Okay, okay, _okay, goddamn it!"_ he said with desperate and wild-eyed panic.

She collapsed against him, and that was when the motion sensors went off. Adam was on the path. Joe informed the last remaining unit to allow the suspect to pass, wait ten minutes, and then cover the suspect's car and path, removing Adam's escape route.

Nate had helped her put his shirt on as Joe watched the monitors closely, following Adam's progress on the long path through the woods. They quickly factored in the new and outrageous demand of Vicky's while she lost consciousness in Joe's arms. Joe hung onto her tightly, desperately as they planned.

Up in the attic, Nate looked down at her again, caressing her hair as he monitored the bloodstain on his jeans. It was growing, for sure, but it was gradual.

She had made it—through sheer force of will, she had done it. She had been standing to face that evil fuck when he heard the chair and spun around. Her legs had been trembling, but her voice was granite. She had made sure that he would die knowing she would never beg. Escaping, she had not run. She had come after him with fury.

Nate thought of her injuries. He didn't think it would be medically possible for her to face Adam on her feet in a standoff. It probably wasn't either. She just didn't give a flying shit about probabilities or possibilities.

Nate smiled to himself as he continued to stroke her hair and monitor the bloodstain. He would reach over occasionally and make sure she was tucked and supported. Joe's gun was never more than a fingernail away from her hand, and she had a front row seat to Adam's restitution.

Adam had made many mistakes, right out of the gate; the first having been to take Vicky, the second of which had been to hold a knife on Joe. Joe didn't hesitate or break his stride once. After he had put his cigarette out, he had not stopped. Walking straight up to Adam, calm as could be he grabbed his wrist that had been holding the lunging blade and snapped it like a twig. Tossing the knife onto the floor, he had grabbed Adam's shirt with both hands and threw him like a Frisbee through the air. He walked up to him and lifted him by the throat up the side of the wall until Adam was standing, looking up into Joe's eyes.

"You know a _true_ connoisseur uses an ice pick. It gives all the stabbing pleasure without the inconvenience of killing the person so quickly," he said quietly to Adam as he held him by the throat.

He smiled coolly as he reached into his back pocket and produced an ice pick, holding it in front of Adam's eyes.

"Observe," Joe said conversationally and then stabbed Adam's hand through the center of the palm, pinning it to the wall.

Adam struggled desperately to get the ice pick out, but Joe might as well have used a hammer. It wasn't coming out, and Adam's other hand hung uselessly at the end of a broken wrist. He was ice-picked to the wall no more than thirty seconds after Joe had put out his cigarette. Then Joe started getting mean.

After half an hour, Joe walked over to drink from a bottle of water. He had a cigarette and checked on Vicky as Adam hung from the wall by the palm of his hand. There wasn't a whole lot left of him that was still recognizable except for his face and the one arm that was pinned to the wall. Nate knew Joe was saving the face for last so that Adam could clearly see and truly appreciate what was happening to the rest of his body. Joe made sure to explain to Adam what he was going to do, in detail, before he did it and why, the information and explanation delivered via a whisper. Leaning way in, he had one arm on each side of Adam's head and put his mouth next to Adam's ear. Joe looked like he was whispering to a lover, the tone of his voice deep and strangely sensual, lulling, and obscenely comforting while his eyes remained glacial, ruthless, and unwavering. The overall effect made Nate shiver; he had never seen anything like it before and hoped never to see anything like it again.

"Adam. Hear me. I am going to break your leg backwards for you. Your kneecap will go through the back of your leg. Because of what you did to her," he whispered into Adam's ear.

Adam had screamed terribly, but the breaking bone had been loud enough to hear over the screams. Steadily, Joe continued, each time bringing his mouth to Adam's ear and murmuring what was going to happen to him. When Adam would try to turn away, terrified, Joe's hand would, viper-fast, clamp like a steel vise around the top of his throat, holding Adam's head in place as he continued murmuring to him, seamlessly and unperturbed.

"Your other leg, Adam; your other leg is now mine as well because you took her from me."

When he had broken Adam's other leg, Adam had screamed but was beginning to get foggy from the pain. Joe was right there to give him an incentive.

"The moment you close your eyes, Adam, I will be there. I will reach down and rip your scrotum off you. You will endure. I am going to make sure of it. Because she has endured," Joe said softly into his ear, making Adam shudder.

Joe's face never changed. It was stony, cold, and deadly on a level all its own, unparalleled by anything that Nate had ever seen. It was all ice, arctic, bone-chilling ice. Joe was systematically and bone by bone, disassembling the man that had taken Vicky away from him.

"Your collarbone, Adam, is now mine. I own it, and I want to see it broken. Because you touched her," he said into Adam's ear.

He reached up to Adam's collarbone, put his fingers inside of it, and viciously pulled out. The bone came right through the skin. It was a ghastly sight, and Joe looked straight into his eyes when he did it.

Joe's pace never changed. It was methodical and devastatingly reliable. Never stepping away from Adam, he didn't get out of his space for a second. He was either bending his head far down, whispering to him or crowding up against him, nose to nose, as he broke one bone after another. Adam's only view, ever, was of Joe.

"I am taking your ribs, Adam. They are now mine. Did you know that you broke her ribs? Hmmm... well, you did. You have no idea, Adam, no idea at all how much that pisses me off. I am going to pull your ribs out of your chest. It's true. I'm going to reach up to the _inside_ of your ribcage and pull them out until they break."

One hand tightly on Adam's throat, Joe cupped the bottom of his face with steel fingers so he couldn't turn his head away. Joe's nose was only a hair away from Adam's as he felt for each rib and pulled savagely, ignoring the screams, while looking calmly down into Adam's eyes, making sure that Adam saw him, felt him, and smelled him. Six of Adam's ribs Joe snapped that way, one after the other, each rib pulled out through the skin with jagged, bloody precision.

Joe broke his arm in two separate places, pulled his elbow apart; pulled his arm from its socket, broke all of his fingers on one hand, backwards and at once, and revisited both of his legs by breaking his ankles, one at a time. Adam also closed his eyes for a little too long and Joe, true to his word, ripped Adam's scrotum off his body. The arm that was ice picked to the wall remained untouched.

Joe continued to whisper to him, crowd him, and explain to him why it had been such a grievous error on Adam's part to come after Vicky. After half an hour, Joe stood in front of him, and then leaned far in, his lips right up against his ear.

"I am going to go check on my fiancé. You stay here and bleed. When I come back, I'll pick up where I left off. Count on it."

When Joe came over to check on Vicky, he talked to Nate. They could talk now; Adam was well beyond screaming anymore.

"How is she doing?" Joe asked Nate as he knelt before Vicky and gently reached for both of her hands, bringing them to his mouth. He kissed one and then the other before bending over to kiss her neck, and lingering there, his eyes closed.

"I'd say no more than half an hour and she'll have to be in an ambulance. She's spending more and more time out but sometimes she doesn't come around when I talk to her, and she's getting a bluish hue in her fingernails and lips. She needs oxygen and blood soon. No more than half an hour."

"Got it," Joe said, taking a drink of water before he continued, "I'll finish right now."

He leaned toward her and kissed her gently, holding her face in his hands. He kissed her eyelids and her lips and whispered things into her ear in Italian. Her eyelids fluttered open.

"How you doing, baby?"

"Hmmm. Good... I'm good."

Joe smiled at her sadly, softly, his eyes full of concern for her. He stood to go, but she reached for him and pulled him closer to her.

"I don't want it—any of it. Burn it. Burn it all," she said to him, panting, unable to draw a deep breath, her eyes pleading for him to understand without her explaining.

Joe gazed at her, his eyes soft, and kissed her hand and then held it in both of his as he looked down at the ring on her finger. He touched the ring quietly while he spoke.

"Victoria. I may not know everything in your past, and I don't need to. I know everything in your heart. And that, my beautiful fiancé, is why I love you, and why this house will be a thirty-two thousand square foot fireball due to an unfortunate main line gas leak that I reported this morning."

She closed her eyes as her lips trembled, and she tried to swallow, overwhelmed by the depth of her love for him. Opening her eyes, she reached out for him, and he brought his face down to her neck where he heard her sob and then whisper, barely audible, into his ear.

"Only ever you."

He closed his eyes and cupped her neck in his hand.

"Only ever me," he murmured into her neck, his "r" rolling subtly like a purr.

He stood up and glanced at Nate.

"Start getting her ready."

After five minutes of giving Adam eternity, Joe walked over to the discarded knife that was still lying on the floor. He had not touched the arm with the ice pick through the hand; he had needed it to stay in working condition.

He jerked the ice pick out of Adam's hand and watched as he collapsed into a heap on the floor. Now his face was unrecognizable, totally and irrevocably.

Joe squatted on the floor next to him and lifted Adam by his throat until his face was in front of Joe's. He let Adam look into his eyes for a moment before he spoke.

"I feel it's only fair to tell you that I could never tire of breaking your bones for what you did to her—never. Unfortunately, there will come a point in time, Adam, when I will run out of bones to break in your body. At that point, I will move on to your organs with the ice pick. I will never tire of destroying your organs, either, for what you did to her. After every bone in your body is broken, and every organ is aerated, I will start removing your skin. That, too, I will never tire of because of what you did to her. You need to look into my eyes, Adam, and see that I am telling you the truth. As long as you are alive, I will continue to disassemble you. I will never tire. I will never stop. It will never end. I promise you."

Joe's light blue, swirling eyes stared into Adam's soul. He handed Adam back his knife without another word.

Joe walked toward Nate; it had been thirty-five minutes since he had first put his cigarette out on the floor.

"Ready?"

Nate nodded and took a glimpse over at Adam's body. Adam had put the knife through his own heart three times before he died.

# # #

Joe was carrying Vicky down the third floor hallway when Nate and he smelled strong, choking fumes of gasoline; it was everywhere, permeating the air and making it difficult to breathe. Vicky started to blink her eyes and woke up, coughing blood onto Joe's chest as he carried her. Unsure of what was happening; they quickly descended the steps to the first floor and hurried to the front doors when Vicky whispered.

"Wait. Look."

Joe stopped and glanced around briefly but wanted to get Vicky outside before she coughed again. He had planned on fire balling the house by carefully inspecting the natural gas line going into the kitchen and finding an area weakened by rust and neglect. He had utilized it to mask the small hole he created, turning off the gas feed until it was time.

This was gasoline, someone else, someone unknown, was involved, and he wanted Vicky out of the house immediately. Agitated, he turned around and walked straight into Fatimah. The exotic, insane woman was carrying two empty gas jugs. Setting one of the containers down, she reached out, appalled, and touched Vicky's face.

"Miss O'Connell, oh no, Miss O'Connell, what happened to you? It was the house. It was this feeding house, was it not? I knew it—more blood of the innocent."

Joe glanced down at Vicky and did a double take, looking at her tiny smile and the sudden, sharpened focus in her eyes.

"It was terrible, Fatimah. I was almost trapped here forever like the dog, like the maid, like the red headed woman, and the man with no throat. I think it's growing stronger, Fatimah. I hope it doesn't reach over the wall and hurt you or Kosey. I hope you can protect your marriage from this evil, Fatimah; I really do. I wish I was strong enough to stop it, but it almost killed me," Vicky whispered as though afraid the house might hear.

Fatimah nodded sharply.

"You go now, Miss O'Connell. You go see the doctors. I am ending this. You go."

Vicky smiled weakly at her and then put her head back on Joe's chest.

Joe carried Vicky toward the door, murmuring to her.

"You need to go to confession, Victoria."

"You first, Joseph," she muttered back.

He looked down at her, saw her smirk, and he smiled, his heart soaring.

Joe walked out the front door carrying Vicky as the flames burned, licking hungrily up the curtains, and spreading to the furniture while following a clear trail up the stairs. Fatimah had poured gasoline on all three floors. The natural gas would not be turned back on; Fatimah had done Joe's work for him, and he was grateful and relieved.

Vicky wanted the paramedics to park in the yard with the back doors of the ambulance opened. They ignored her, and she promptly started to swear and struggle to get out of the ambulance.

Joe intervened and told the paramedics to do it, flipping his credentials for them to see. They hesitantly agreed but told him it would only be for a couple of minutes, and he nodded.

"That's fine; she just wants to watch it burn for a while before she goes."

Sitting in the back of the ambulance with her, Joe held her hand as the paramedics started running IV's on her. They gave her morphine, oxygen, and blood, efficiently bandaging every wound, big and small, that was bleeding. She watched the house and the carriage house become engulfed in flames. The house, in particular, was burning fiercely. The flames were licking up high into the sky, and when the windows exploded from the heat, the fire _whooshed_ and exploded into a raging, unstoppable inferno. In her unfocused mind, she thought it finally looked like the hell it had always been.

Bringing her hand to his lips, Joe watched her smile, her green eyes blazing hotter than the flames. The fire department told Joe there was no way they would be able to save it. The gas and the wooden antiques covered in varnish were too much of an accelerant, and all the broken windows were acting as wind tunnels to fuel the flames even more.

Vicky watched the combusting, scorching blaze and listened to the fire's roar for ten minutes, her eyes starting to droop and dilate from the morphine. With her last bit of effort, she gazed at the burning house, and a corner of her mouth curled just the tiniest bit. Her words came out slurred and in a whisper.

"I win."

In the next heartbeat, she was out, and she was going to stay out. Joe looked at the paramedics, and they closed the doors and drove her to the hospital as he held her hand and Nate followed in the rental. Vicky was taken into emergency surgery, and Joe put Nate in charge of the remainder of the case so he could focus on Vicky, talk to doctors, fill out forms, and make decisions for her medical care.

Fatimah was arrested at her house by the other agent that had been left to oversee the scene. Nate had given him detailed instructions before he left for the hospital. The agent called Nate at the hospital and informed him that all of the video surveillance had been destroyed by the fire. Nate told him that it was okay; the attic surveillance hadn't been working right anyway. He thanked the agent and told him not to worry; it wasn't really a problem. There wasn't going to be a trial. The suspect had committed suicide.

# EPILOGUE

Vicky was in the hospital for exactly nine days.

The doctors refused to release her and tried to reason with her, their voices getting louder as they reasoned. They gaped at her, horrified, as she took out her own IV so she could get dressed.

Their votes were revoked.

Joe selected the right hotel for them. The hotel was close enough for Roxie and Nate to visit yet near a good hospital. He rented a poolside room on the ground floor that also had a weight room a few doors down. For the first week out of the hospital, they had a nurse spend eight hours a day at Vicky's side, changing her dressings, medicating her, making her cough and taking copious notes for the agitated but compassionate doctors. Vicky went to appointments with the surly doctors several times a week, but they were all outpatient and if she spent more than ten minutes waiting, she would leave. The doctors quickly learned to take her promptly at the time of the appointment, or they wouldn't see her at all.

Joe took an extended leave of absence from work to stay with her all day, every day. He bathed her, washed her hair, and dressed her. He did her range of motion exercises with her twice a day and went clothes, book, and computer shopping for both of them, most of their belongings in the cabin having been destroyed. Vicky would encourage him to leave when the nurse was there, suggesting he go for a walk or to go to a movie and take a break from her. She was insistent that he not stay cooped up just because she had to. Expletives were involved during the exchange of views.

Vicky's vote was revoked.

Roxie needed sedation when she saw Vicky in the hospital the first time. Vicky was everything to her; she was the mother she never had. Nate held Roxie and rocked her, trying to console her, but it wasn't enough and so, the sedation.

Nate skipped over the details of what Adam had done to her but magnified how Vicky had popped two pairs of handcuffs and caught a cab with the firm intent of running the bastard down and bayonetting him to the wall. Roxie smiled through her tears. Nate told her how Joe and he had tried to hold her down in the carriage house and how goddamn stubborn she had been. He told her how Vicky had, true to her words, stood in front of Adam, and told him he hit like a girl. Roxie laughed while she sobbed and put her head on Nate's chest. When Vicky was conscious, Roxie asked her about it but she shrugged and said the guys were being dramatic and then asked how Roxie was doing with the cadets. It was vintage Vicky.

Vicky, through several visits, told Roxie how the young woman was going to be the manager of the business now. Roxie was upset, hurt, and accused Vicky of leaving her, abandoning her for Joe. Vicky would shrink her, turn it around; give it a twist and a new direction until Roxie felt better. Each visit, Vicky gently delved deeper into the subject, and Roxie would become agitated. Vicky would go to work, soothing her, comforting her, and reassuring her that she would never leave or abandon her. Eventually, through tweaks and adjustments, Roxie would tolerate the idea. Vicky kept gradually, delicately working it and then Roxie started to like the idea. Soon, she was flattered and excited, flushed with pride that Vicky would give her so much responsibility and control. Roxie's confidence grew, and the bridge was crossed.

Vicky delegated the cabin remodeling and damage repair to Roxie to oversee. Vicky assured her that anything she wanted to do with the cabin was fine; it was now hers. The first thing Roxie told the carpenters to build was a long shelf for her dolls. The entire shelf was encased in glass, but the front opened so she could take any of them out whenever she wanted. Nate gave notice on his apartment; he would be moving in with her when the remodeling was complete.

Joe teased Vicky that now she would be a true working woman, right at the poverty level, with only her forty-five million in reserve; the house and antiques gone. Vicky smiled and said nothing but did have him open the insurance statement containing the reimbursement amount she would be receiving.

He couldn't talk. For a long time, he couldn't talk.

Vicky told him that she was small but still a grown up and the house as well as all of the antiques had been fully insured. Once the insurance company received the police reports with the written arson confession by Fatimah, they released the funds and Vicky asked Joe to take care of it. He turned to her, appalled, and asked how in the hell he was supposed to do that. She gave him the numbers of her lawyers, accountants, and investment managers.

He dropped his gaze for a moment, and then looked up at her and told her not to change her will or any of her accounts when they got married. It was her money, and he didn't want anything to do with it—nothing at all. She glanced up at his sincere blue eyes before turning the page of her magazine and smiling gently. She told him tough shit and to find a way to deal with it because he was her sole beneficiary and was already listed as her joint account holder on _all_ of her accounts. He had been since a week after their vacation in Puerto Rico.

"You've been ridiculously wealthy for over two years, baby," she said to him, not looking up from her magazine.

Eyes glassy, he had turned away and swallowed hard, speechless and humbled by the depth of her trust in him and the faith she had two years prior of their future together. He paused hesitantly, and then went with the numbers and names in hand and took care of it, bravely entering into a world that he knew nothing about, wanted nothing to do with, and didn't like. The compound interest alone would never be spent. It hadn't been discussed again. It was there, if they or Roxie or Nate ever needed it.

Vicky was relieved the house was gone, and her last tie to Vicky Terrace had been burned to the ground along with Adam's remains. Vicky sent Stephanie airplane tickets to Hawaii as a thank-you for her creative filing techniques. Stephanie told Vicky she didn't know what she was talking about but did thank her for the tickets. She thoroughly enjoyed Hawaii and sent them a postcard.

The nurse's schedule was reduced and changed to four hours in the evenings. Joe had gotten the poolside room so that Vicky and he could go into the water every night when the pool was closed. A cash incentive was given to the hotel staff to look the other way. The nurse clucked and scolded, but her vote had been soundly revoked by Joe and Vicky. Every night, after the swim, the nurse would change all the dressings, disinfect all the healing wounds, and give Vicky mild painkillers and muscle relaxers, nagging and harping on both of them the entire time.

For two hours every night, Joe would hold Vicky suspended in the water as she weakly kicked her legs and pushed her arms against the slight resistance of the water. He would stay beside her as she walked, back and forth in the shallow end of the pool, using the water as a gentle support when she staggered. The last half hour was always just for them. Joe would swim full laps in the pool, dozens of them, every night while she hung onto his back. He did the breaststroke fully and smoothly, his long body and powerful stroke moving him like a torpedo through the water. Joe would go as fast and as hard as he could, or he would start sinking with her extra body weight on his back. By the end of the evening, he was as exhausted as she was. It was quiet and serene.

The nurse would sit at a poolside table and peer up from her magazine, scowling, and then go back to reading. In time, they noticed her scowl was replaced with a gentle smile. The nurse wordlessly brought paddleboards from the hospital's physical therapy unit for Vicky to use when she began to kick and swim widths of the pool. Later, water weights had appeared just as wordlessly to begin increasing the resistance.

A month into their stay at the hotel, Joe and Vicky were making love gently and passionately. Joe whispered to her with deep longing in Italian and she had whispered back... in Italian. Everything stopped, and he stared at her as she smiled crookedly and told him she had been seeing a tutor for Italian lessons when he went to the weight room every morning. The passion, the need, had reached unprecedented levels for both of them. Joe had worn a t-shirt into the pool the following night to avoid any unusual looks from the nurse. He had needed to wear it all week, though nothing would hide the stupid, dazed smile that stayed with him.

When Joe learned Vicky was taking Italian lessons he made it a point to be there when the tutor showed up. He would begin by sitting quietly in the chair, but his hand would soon inch its way up to cover one ear, as if it hurt to hear. Vicky would see him out of the corner of her vision, and his hand would move from his ear to his eyes, covering them, as the tutor continued. His foot would start tapping. Crossing his arms over his chest, he would lean back, closing his eyes and tightly pursing his lips. Almost imperceptibly, he would start shaking his head. Finally, he would stand up and go hide in the bathroom. He couldn't stand it; he would come back out into the room and listen as he started to pace.

" _What?"_ Vicky would ask him, exasperated.

"The accent!" he would blurt.

He would tell the tutors that they weren't doing the accent right, they weren't rolling their "r's" right, and that was not, that was _not_ what that particular word meant. Two of Vicky's tutors had quit, and Vicky had glowered at Joe. He couldn't help it; he absolutely couldn't help it, he told her, exasperated, saying repeatedly that the tutor needed to _learn_ how to speak Italian before teaching someone else to do it. Vicky had glowered wordlessly.

When the second tutor had quit, throwing a glare over her shoulder at Joe as she walked out, Vicky had sighed. Joe shrugged. What? Vicky told him that she was going to hire a third tutor and ban him from the premises when the tutor showed up, or he was going to teach her himself. He had agreed, appearing phenomenally relieved. Their two hours in the pool at night doubled as two hours of Italian lessons. Joe's patience had no limits at all, ever. He would talk, and she would talk; he would gently correct her, and she would try it again as she kicked, walked, and lifted water weights.

She would make it a point to slaughter the words when she rode on his back, and he was doing laps. Struggling to correct her, his mouth would fill with water, and he would have to flail, with her in tow, to the edge of the pool. She would try not to laugh as he vehemently accused her of trying to drown him. That was when she would learn her favorite words; the words that weren't in the books and Joe seemed to know a disturbing number of them. She would practice them ceaselessly, smiling at him as he cringed while she peppered them into all of her Italian sentences for days, ridiculously gleeful about her newly acquired Italian obscenities.

After she had gotten one particularly long and difficult sentence in Italian right, she had told Joe that now he needed to do an Irish accent for her. He had tried; he truly had tried. She had winced and told him never to do it again—no matter what—ever.

Every morning, after Vicky smacked her lips, and stared vacantly, they would sit at the room's small table and have coffee together in front of the laptop looking at houses. Surprisingly, there were no debates or pushes and pulls. They had remarkably similar and compatible desires.

They wanted an indoor pool in the basement so they could swim together in the evenings, even in the frigid, ferocious Minnesota winters. They had always enjoyed cooking together, sharing a bottle of wine as they prepared their meal leisurely and talked about what had happened that day, so a large kitchen was mandatory, as well. They, of course, needed a sizable shower that they could both fit in, as well as a sizable bathtub; that was non-negotiable and absolute. Joe needed an office for his ulcers to develop properly, and the office needed to be large; Vicky would be sharing it with him while they worked cases together. Joe had complete say on everything about the office; Vicky didn't care in the least what it looked like or how it was arranged. Joe was specific and needed it exact for the ulcers to percolate in a satisfactory fashion and so, the office was left entirely to his discretion.

The wedding in Italy was three months, almost to the day, after Adam had repeatedly stabbed and nearly killed Vicky. It was held at night and lit by hundreds of beautifully glowing, flickering white candles in one of the old, stone cathedrals. The service was performed in Italian, and Vicky said all of her vows in Italian. When Joe was able to see her in her dress, he had been struck into silence, the flickering, soft candlelight making her seem like an angel and ethereal. Her dress was mid-thigh and fluid but hugged her every curve with the back open all the way down to her waist, strings of pearls loosely draped across her back, her ivory colored stilettos clicking on the stone floor as she walked while carrying her bouquet of lilacs.

They passed on the tuxedos and, instead, Nate and Joe wore formal black suits tailored to perfection with light lavender ties, making them both look devastatingly handsome. Roxie's bridesmaid dress was short and snug as well, but it was black with a long necklace that had a large lavender colored oval pendant.

There was a glorious absence of any rice pudding of any kind.

However, there were doves released. Roxie had been adamant about it, refusing to budge an inch. Joe had tried to negotiate and offered the release of white rabbits, but Roxie had glared at him and told him if he was going to be such a candy-ass, he could hold an umbrella when the doves flew. The doves were in. Joe and Nate had watched the birds with suspicion and visible apprehension as they flew off into the night. The birds had flown safely away without incident, leaving both of the men's suits pristine and the men relieved. It was a beautiful, small wedding with only the four of them there and all of them cried.

Vicky and Joe took one more month off to move into their new house. For a week or so, they fussed over furniture and having a sound system installed in the poolroom and throughout the house. The remaining three weeks were used to christen every room, shower, bathtub, sauna, and pool in the house to the deep and sultry sounds of blues legends that they both loved. They cooked together, speaking entirely in Italian when they were alone. Unless the phone rang, or they had company, every word was in Italian, sometimes for days. Vicky still made mistakes or couldn't find the right word, but Joe would correct her in Italian or provide her with the word without missing a beat. Diligent and tenacious, she found the language comforting. She learned amazingly fast, steeped in it every day, throughout the day. Joe felt a warm and full completeness that he had not known since his childhood. They were thoroughly contented and reveled in the remaining three weeks of their honeymoon at home.

Darin's body was found, and all four of them attended the funeral to pay their respects. The skeleton that had been hung to make them think that Adam was dead had been found alongside of Darin's body. Identified through forensic analysis, the skeleton was that of a male prostitute that had been missing for over a year from the Minneapolis area. A mug shot of the victim appeared remarkably similar to Adam. Joe and Vicky knew he had carefully selected the young man specifically for that purpose. Searches and comparisons using computer analysis found twenty-one additional unsolved murder cases that perfectly matched Adam's modus operandi. All of the victims bore a disturbing resemblance to Vicky. They knew that more bodies would be found and those, too, would look like her.

Four months after Vicky had almost died, and Adam had wisely chosen suicide over Joe's continued and unending wrath, they were back to work. Vicky accepted a position that didn't really have a title; they had made it especially for her. She was an interrogation specialist and forensic analyst working in the field with Nate and Joe on whatever case they were working.

Division Chief James Tanner avoided the three of them at all cost.

Michelle Ridlon was born and raised in Minnesota and began writing poetry and short stories when she was eleven years old. A voracious reader as a child, she could always be found at the library or a nearby lake reading a book. Michelle graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree from Bemidji State University of Minnesota in the field of psychology with a minor in criminal justice. She worked many years in a drug offender's early release program and then worked as an in-home counselor for people with serious and long-term mental illnesses as well as teaching cognitive restructuring classes in the partial hospitalization unit.

She is the author of the Valenti series novels. Her first in the series, "The Feeding Path," will be available on Amazon in March 2014. She is currently writing her second novel of the series, "Scent of Death."

