 
Going Urban

LS Sygnet

Other books by LS Sygnet

Eriksson (Darkwater Bay) Series

Daddy's Little Killer

Beneath the Cracks

Forgotten Place

The Chilling Spree

Always Watching

Sins of the Father

Cloaked in Blood

Sweet Gruesome Dreams

The Last Mile

Patron Saint of Demons

Winter's Harvest

Come Out and Play

Gift Wrap Killer

Hindsight

TinkerBrain

I Am the Monster

Stand Alone Novels

The Quiet Ones

From Darkness to Death

Dedication

In memory of my best friend. You missed all the fun this time, buddy.

© 2015 LS Sygnet, Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental or referenced as a matter of public record. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or paper print, or offered for sale or free download outside Smashwords distributorship without written authorization from LS Sygnet.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 1

Castillo

I could see the silhouette through the screen, the slight build shrouded behind the mystical barrier that separates God and man. It separated me from the priest tonight. My swallow felt painful, jagged and hard in the back of my throat.

It had been longer than I could distinctly remember since I stepped into a confessional. I made the sign of the cross. "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. My last confession was fifteen years ago...I think. I was seventeen years old."

The head nodded, recited something about forgiveness being granted to the faithful who confess. That most certainly didn't apply to me. My conscience grappled for the reason going to confession seemed like a good idea. I couldn't find it, other than the fact that I was in a backwater town where the bars closed at ten o'clock on school nights—not that I wanted to be remembered or recognized after the fact.

"My child, what has brought you to God tonight?"

"Boredom," the word fell automatically from my lips. Great, another sin to confess.

The priest chuckled. "God appreciates honesty, and contrary to popular belief even within our faith as Catholics, he possesses a sense of humor as well." He paused and gave me time to speak.

I was busy biting my tongue.

"Seventeen years is a long time. We could be here for years getting to everything."

"I'll hit the big ones," I said. "Let's skip how many times I lusted sexually or took the name of God in vain. Those are givens in our society, aren't they Father?"

His soft voice murmured through the screen, "It grieves me to agree, but yes."

"I have a partner, Father. We have committed unspeakable crimes."

"Against God or man?"

"Both, I suppose." I clasped my damp palms together and heaved a sigh. "Didn't God command us not to kill? Doesn't the state punish such an act?"

"It would depend on the circumstances. That you are here in confession tells me that the spirit of God dwells within you and compels you to confess your sins. That is the first step in the path of contrition."

"I can't turn myself in to the police."

"Perhaps you should tell me what you did specifically?"

My mind flashed back to the most recent job O'Banion and I had pulled. It had gone to hell almost before it started. "I thought I mentioned that it's pretty unspeakable."

"God already knows what you've done, child."

Yeah, I supposed that was true enough—if a person chose to believe in heaven and hell. I couldn't conceive of hell without O'Banion's twisted version of punishment. Maybe that was where I should begin. My partner...he was probably the devil incarnate. Catechism lessons began free flowing through my memory. Lucifer, the beautiful angel with free will—fallen from grace, roaming the earth and tempting Eve with forbidden fruit—it sure sounded like O'Banion to me.

I cleared my throat. What came out was still sub-whisper. "You're not gonna rat me out, are you Padre? Because O'Banion really wouldn't like that. I promise you. O'Banion is the last person you want gunning for you."

"The seal of the confessional applies to all sins, great and small."

Had the priest's voice trembled? Brave guy, opening the door to hear my confession. On a good day I tried to forget what I knew. On nights like this one, I couldn't erase the truth from my brain no matter how hard I tried.

"It started about four and a half years ago," I said, "not that far from here, incidentally."

"That doesn't tell me what you've done, child."

I laughed. Three times he called me a child. I knew it was the metaphoric child of God thing, but I was about as far from the innocence of childhood as a person could stray.

"Hold onto your rosary, Padre. If it's the unadulterated truth you want, I'll give it to you."

Chapter 2

Castillo: Four Years, Six Months Ago

It wasn't too hot, more like warm dog piss, a humid stench that rotted the nostrils with each breath drawn. My partner O'Banion was sitting beside me in the front seat of the dirty Buick sedan, circa 1975. Underneath coats of dust, and probably a lot of road kill DNA was the faded black paint. I liked to imagine her as an old beauty that some previous owner had babied the hell out of in her prime.

Those days were long since gone. My old man had been a gear head, and pounded respect for the wheels into my brain from birth. He'd make me wax his piece of shit car until my fingers were numb, knuckles bleeding from contact with chemicals that dried out my skin and cracked canyons into the fleshy grooves.

"That's him," O'Banion said.

"Where?" I didn't look up from the newspaper.

"That cantina across the street, you stupid shit. I don't know why I put up with your bullshit, Castillo. Maybe I should take your cut of this job too, huh?"

I shrugged. Who am I kidding? I'm in this gig for the booze. O'Banion knows my weakness is rotgut tequila, and keeps a warm case of it in the trunk for me. God only knows what he does to me after I've had a few. It's not something I'd prefer to spend a lot of time pondering. This particular job is our third together, and it seems like it takes more of the bottle to obliterate the memories after every job.

"He's going into the motel, just like the boss said he would. What's a guy like that doing in a shithole like this one-dog town?"

O'Banion talked too much in my opinion. He fancied himself a philosopher of human behavior or some such. He was a gifted stalker, and after the first hit, I was pretty sure I never wanted to get on the dude's bad side.

A dossier was slapped through my two-day-old edition of the Science and Technology section of the New York Times. "Fuck you, O'Banion." I peered at him through the tear in my coveted newspaper. "Have you forgotten how long it took me to find this damned paper?"

He grinned a toothy, caffeine-tobacco stained rot at me. "Faggoty paper boy. Read that fucking dossier to me again."

O'Banion knew at least a hundred ways to torture a man before he died, but the fool couldn't read for shit. I imagined it was dyslexia, a severe form, because he was only able to read road signs by number and shape. Then again, he might've just been an idiot savant—his gift being 101 ways to wring agony out of the human body before death.

I flipped open the folder. "Robert Markinson the third, age 50, president and CEO of Bayliss Community Hospital."

"Fuckin' uppity shit," O'Banion snorted so hard, the blast from his nose extinguished his cigarette lighter before he could ignite his cancer stick. "Like I said, it don't make no sense for this guy to be out here at this motel."

"Maybe he made us."

It drew a nasty guffaw from my partner. "Ya think, Einstein? Hell, if he knew we been on his tail for the last 70 miles, why the fuck would he stop out in the middle of nowhere?"

"More chance for someone to hear his screams."

"That ain't gonna happen. Keep reading."

"The rest is photographic," I shoved the folder back into his lap. The manila was already stained from O'Banion's oily jeans. I wondered if the guy bathed in 10W-30 motor oil. He kind of smelled like it, and the perpetual black scum beneath fingernails too god-awful long for a guy helped foster the notion.

"Pornographic," he cast a leering glance in my direction. "Gotta admit—the dude looks hot gettin' his knob polished like that. Poor old boss-man must've popped a vein when he got a look at this shit. Seems like such a waste, doin' a beauty like this gal when we take out Markinson. I been thinkin', Castillo."

That was never a good sign. O'Banion thinking was akin to Satan feeling bored and wanting to mix it up a little bit. It was safer for me to play along with his twisted fantasies than protest. "Oh?"

"Wouldn't it be better to frame the bitch for this?"

"I don't know, O'Banion. What if she demands that her husband pay for her defense? We could end up owing boss-man more money than the contract is worth."

"Hell, you got no sense of humor. Why would he bail her out for offing her lover, when she's been fuckin' around on boss-man like this?"

I'd heard that belligerent tone too often. O'Banion had already made up his mind. "And just how do you propose that we frame her for this murder?"

"That's the easy part, dumb shit."

He didn't elaborate, and for that, I felt marginally grateful. The less I knew about the inner workings of O'Banion's mind, the happier I was. Not happier, really, it's just that his twisted mind tends to make me sicker than hell most of the time.

"It's almost dark. Markinson's in room eight. If they follow tradition, she'll be here in less than an hour. Let's move. You know what to do."

I folded my tattered newspaper and stuffed it in the glove compartment. "Yeah, I know what to do."

In opposite motion of my New York Times, I unfolded my legs from the front seat of the car and tipped my hat low over my eyes. Dust puffed from beneath my shiny black boots when I walked across what was once probably a heavily graveled parking lot. Like everything else in this tiny town, the gravel was more distant memory than anything else.

My knuckles slammed against the Plexiglas window—sort of like a drive-thru job. The metal badge I held to it made a chalky grating sound. The attendant's eyes widened.

"What can I do ya for, sir?"

I held up a photograph. It was the single pose from the dossier that wasn't pornographic. "Have you seen this woman?"

Pimple-man shook his head, sending a cascade of greasy blonde curls over his pocked forehead. "Hell no. What'd she do?"

"Ongoing investigation," I said. "Would you mind if I stepped inside your office and took a look at your registry?"

"Uh..."

"Or I can call and get a warrant," my mouth twisted into a menacing snarl. "But in that case, your boss will have to come down here and personally be served the paperwork. I can't imagine that would make him too happy, son."

He pushed a button and the electric lock on the door hummed like a swarm of insane mosquitoes ready to gorge on human blood. I stepped inside. He was reaching for the radio behind him. "Leave it up," I said. "Great song."

His Adam's apple grew three sizes and bobbed in his throat, as if a lure on a fishing line dangled down his gullet.

"You got coffee or soda around here?"

He nodded. "I got some Cokes in the mini fridge." His thumb hiked over his shoulder.

"Ice?"

"I'll go get some from the back room. There are glasses—"

"I see them."

His drink was spiked with rohypnol before he was back with a bucket of ice. I grabbed a handful and dropped it into his glass before adding a single cube to mine. I sipped and mumbled over the rim of the glass, "You're sure you never saw this lady?"

Sure enough, more questions prompted him to drink—guzzle really—to avoid talking much. It wasn't more than five minutes before his breathing slowed. He grabbed the edge of the desk a second before his head slammed into the wood.

I stepped out the door and squinted west into the dirty sunset. I pulled off the patrolman hat and held it in my hands and waited for O'Banion. He was trotting in my direction, the gleam in his eyes brighter than the glint of sunlight on the enormous bowie knife that dangled from his hip.

"That's some wicked good shit, huh, Castillo? Hell, he was out in under five. Good job."

Unfortunately, I realized after the first job that any praise he doled out wasn't because I had done my part well. All he cared about were time statistics. If he could draw out his sick cat and mouse game for another five minutes, he was a happy man.

"Get your ass down to number eight and knock on the door. Did you remember to wipe the office down?"

"My prints are on a glass and a Coke can. I'll clean up while you do your thing with Markinson."

He growled at me. "Fuckin' pussy. What do you care if this bastard suffers a little before he dies?"

"I don't," my spine stiffened. "I don't know this guy, and I could give a shit less what you do to him. That eyeball thing caught me off guard."

"Bet you didn't know they'd ooze all that goop when they get popped, did you? I wouldn't know personally how it feels, but it sure makes 'em scream."

"You like this shit too much."

"Yeah, well if I'm gonna make this look like something a chick would do, I've got to be far less whatchacallit."

"Imaginative."

O'Banion's breath reeked of cigarettes, garlic and onion all the time. When he laughed hard like he did when I contributed something that tickled his fancy, the blast of fetid air from his face was enough to gag me.

"Get me inside, go clean up your mess, and get back here. I'm gonna need your help before the missus shows up for her weekend pounding."

I knocked on the door with an eight painted on it in a darker shade of green than the rest of the faded door.

"Mindy?" The door cracked a fraction of an inch.

O'Banion flattened his body against the wall out of Markinson's sight.

"Officer, is there a problem?"

"I was in the cantina across the street a few minutes ago. Somebody left a wallet. The gal running the place thought it might be yours, asked me if I'd come check with you."

He patted his hip automatically, fingers brushing over boxer shorts. Markinson cursed. "Hang on a minute—I'll have to check."

Stupid move, stepping away from the door like that. Even though Markinson left the chain attached, it wasn't enough to stop O'Banion from shoving his way into the room. I turned away and returned to the motel manager's office, trying my best to block out the first of Markinson's startled shrieks.

I won't lie. O'Banion is a sick fuck. Curiosity propelled me faster through the task of cleaning up after myself in the manager's office for no other reason than to see what he thought was mild enough for a crime of passion perpetuated by a woman.

The muffled screams penetrated the door before I opened it. O'Banion must've had a mother with a head as twisted as his. I slipped on a pair of gloves and stepped inside the room.

Markinson's mouth was plastered shut with duct tape. O'Banion delivered a stinging slap to the man's cheek. "Hold still you son of a bitch. If I end up with glue all over my fingers, I'm gonna fuck you up the ass before I kill you."

One eye was shut, the lashes clumped with gorilla glue. Didn't I say he was sick? What was it with this guy's eyeball obsession?

"Gluing them shut?"

"Hell yes. I want that bitch to come in here and think he's just sleeping."

"It might be easier to glue them shut if you wait until he's dead," I suggested. I'm not sure why I thought O'Banion needed any help carrying out his diabolical deeds. He grinned over his shoulder.

"Then I guess he'll get to see with one eye how he's gonna die."

The bowie knife appeared before Markinson's wide eye. He whimpered from behind the duct tape.

"You're lucky I had a change of heart at the last minute, Bob," O'Banion said. "I originally planned to make you watch me dissect your married girlfriend before I fucked you up with my beautiful knife. Do you like it?"

A single tear rolled from the corner of Markinson's eye into the graying hair at his temple.

"You really are a fucking pussy," O'Banion snorted his disgust. "Chicks cry. Guys are supposed to fight tooth and nail, not just lay there bawling like a little girl."

"You'd better get on with it, O'Banion," I said. "She's bound to show up any second."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right. All right, Bob. This is gonna hurt like a motherfucker, but if you're lucky, you'll bleed to death fast."

O'Banion straddled Markinson's thighs and gripped his flaccid dick. "Remember the Bobbitts?"

The whimpering increased.

"I see you do," the creepy smile spread wide, peeling O'Banion's lips away from his teeth. "This is gonna be a full Bobbitt. She just took the first inch or so, and your lovely lady is gonna take the whole damn thing."

My eyes clenched shut, shoulders tightened as I braced for his muffled scream. It never came. The muted sobs transformed into something different. I cracked one eye open and watched O'Banion jerking Markinson to full arousal.

"You a faggot, Markinson? Lucky for you, I never cared either way. I think you should at least come before you go."

Fear, adrenalin, impending death, hope that the whole thing was some kind of elaborate joke—I watched the spectrum of human emotion flicker through Markinson's open eye. His spine stiffened, arched off the bed. The groan of completion was muffled by O'Banion's nasty laughter. He ripped the duct tape from Markinson's mouth, wringing out a little more agony. A second later, the bowie knife flashed in the yellow light from the cheap lamp before it plunged through Markinson's heart.

Blood flooded Markinson's lungs and spattered in wet bubbles up his throat and out of his mouth. The open eye dimmed quickly before glazing over in death.

"No fun playing like a girl," O'Banion muttered. He flipped the sheet over Markinson's face and smeared the wet blood spots into the dingy threadbare fabric. He glued the open eye closed, held it and cursed again when his latex glove stuck for a second. "Didn't think about the fact that I'll have to leave my knife."

"So don't leave it."

"Oh no. That's part of the plan. I've got a bottle of chloroform out in the trunk. Grab it and a rag and get back over here. I don't want a mark on the merry whore. We'll knock her out, get her prints on the hilt, make sure the semen is on her clothes and let her figure out how to explain it to the cops. That kid'll wake up just in time to tell the real cops that some state trooper was lookin' for Markinson's girlfriend—"

"He said he never saw her."

"You think this rich prick didn't pay a pretty penny for people out here in Bumfuck to look the other way? Believe me. In a shithole speck on the map, people remember two things—strangers and money."

"Then you shouldn't have gone into the cantina."

O'Banion chuckled and crawled off the bed. "Who the fuck says I don't pay better than Markinson?"

"You don't look like a respectable businessman."

"Exactly my point. These chicken-shit motherfuckers are terrified of guys like me. A dirty scumbag with a wad of cash strolls into a mom and pop store, and good people think one thing. Drug dealer. That's a piece of trouble nobody wants. Get your ass out to the car before I decide to kill you too."

The Markinson hit was the first time O'Banion came right out with an overt threat. It wasn't that I hadn't sensed it before, because I think anybody who enjoys killing that much is a danger to anyone in his path. Hearing the words sent a chill down my spine, and made me wonder if I shouldn't consider setting a few things right while I still had the chance.

Chapter 3

Father Ryan

Never had the confession of a stranger stirred so many emotions in my heart. Of course I was horrified by the words spoken, the human suffering inflicted at the hands of O'Banion. At the same time, my heart cracked with an undeniable ache for the killer Castillo. Such fear—mingled at the same time with incredible courage—moved me.

"Child, are you asking God to absolve your sins?"

The voice that had whispered so urgently a confession to one crime hissed a laugh. "Not even God can forgive me, Padre. I fear that I am damned no matter what I do."

"Even the worst sinner can be forgiven through the blood of Christ," I urged him to truly repent.

"Nothing in the real world, that place outside the safety of these walls, is that simple. Would you believe that I was raised in the church, Father?"

"Yes."

"Then you must know that I realize confession is only a small part of redemption."

"You took that step tonight, child. God loves you. He will forgive you."

"Even if I'm killing time while O'Banion restocks his supply of bowie knives so we can move on to the next job?"

I wanted to beg this soul to reconsider the next course of action, but hadn't the plan already been outlined? They were on their way to do another job—another murder for hire. "It doesn't have to be that way. Stay here—in the church. We'll provide sanctuary."

"O'Banion is a cold son of a bitch. He'd just as soon burn your town to the ground, as he would leave without me. Somehow, our relationship has changed over the past few years. I think he believes he needs me to do the work."

"Because he's illiterate?"

"No, Father. I give him something far more valuable than words. O'Banion likes having more time to spend with his victims. I'm the one who facilitates that. Believe me—he might be the one butchering our victims, but I've got as much blood on my hands as he does. O'Banion looks like the monster he is. I..." Castillo's voice dipped almost too low to hear.

"You what?"

"I look normal."

"Do you? Or is your sin the first thing the world notices about you?" I doubted this lost soul had considered the probability that our sins are a cloak that shrouds us. The more we try to hide it, the more visible it becomes to the world.

"I don't follow, Padre."

"Do you think that people see this dark side of your psyche when they meet you?"

"Can't say I meet a whole lot of people who live long enough to share the experience with the rest of the world. I suppose you'd like to reach through this screen and clobber me for putting your life at risk."

"Excuse me?" I hadn't considered what might happen to me if this O'Banion character discovered that Castillo had unburdened his sins to a priest. My hands trembled. I clutched my prayer book, steadying my faith. If this was my time to go, perhaps it was God's will.

"Did you miss the part about O'Banion being a cold hearted bastard? He'd probably get off big time on doing a Catholic priest."

"Don't be ridiculous. Surely he must know that no matter the sin confessed to me, I am bound by God to hold in confidence everything said to me within the confessional. I don't know your names." I frowned. "Honestly, I'm not even certain of your gender. Last names don't tell me much, and your voice is..."

"Gender neutral. Yeah, I get that a lot, Padre. Maybe O'Banion's taunts are starting to take a toll after years of his abuse."

"His taunts?"

"That I'm a pussy," Castillo said. "He doesn't seem to think there's much manly spine running through my backbone. It doesn't matter to me what he thinks. What I want is for God to forgive me."

"Then you regret this murder you helped O'Banion commit?"

"The one I told you about? No, I really don't regret it. What I know is that O'Banion is getting fed up with me. He'll kill me soon, and I don't want to take a chance."

"Like Pascal's Wager." I'd seen the phenomenon much in my years in the priesthood. People lived lives without worry of consequences in the afterlife, but something would remind them of mortality, and suddenly they weren't so sure that dead was dead.

"Yeah, I suppose it is."

My curiosity piqued. Castillo was obviously educated. What could turn someone's heart so cold toward his or her fellow man? Castillo ignored philosophy, but understood it. "This is ridiculous," I said. "Tell me your name, child."

"Name? Castillo."

"That's your given name?"

"Surname."

"That doesn't tell me who you are. What name did your parents give you?"

"You'd run screaming from this church if I told you the truth."

"Has all of this confession been a deception, Castillo?"

"No, but I glossed over the really bad parts."

"I see."

"When Markinson's girl showed up, we used the chloroform before she had a chance to see either one of us—or realize what happened to Markinson."

"Did O'Banion violate her?"

"No...he's too paranoid about leaving his DNA behind at the scenes. But he made sure there'd be no question about who killed Markinson when she woke up."

"How did he do that?"

"It's not easy for a woman to drive a blade through the breastbone into the heart. O'Banion thinks of everything. He shot her up with a shitload of PCP before we left. O'Banion says it's like giving steroids to the Incredible Hulk. The police wouldn't doubt for a second that she was fucked up when she killed Markinson."

"Except you know that she is innocent, Castillo."

"Yeah, I guess she's innocent of murder. How can you, as a priest, condone her sin of adultery as less than killing someone? The way I see it, a sin is a sin. You lie; you may as well kill, because you're still a bad person. If those commandments are listed in order of importance, people who take God's name in vain or dishonor their parents or ignore the Sabbath are more fucked than murderers anyway."

"No, no, Castillo. In a sense, you're correct. Sin is sin. But to take another human being's life is something that cannot be undone with an apology. Even man's laws that enforce punishment on killers... prison, not even death can undo that crime. Do you see the difference?"

"Yeah, but we didn't kill Markinson's lover."

"No, you left her set up to be punished for the rest of her life for something she absolutely didn't do."

"Isn't she responsible anyway?"

I watched the shadow of Castillo's shoulder roll. He was rationalizing what he had done. The lack of empathy made me decide that name or no, gender neutrality issues aside, Castillo was certainly a man.

"In what way is she responsible for the death of someone she loved?"

"The way I see it, she knew damn well that she was married to somebody else, and that her husband doesn't exactly have the most temperate reputation in the world. She could've divorced him first. She could've been faithful, or given this Markinson dude the opportunity to decide if her cunt was worth the risk to his longevity."

His matter of fact vulgarity and apparent disrespect for others, the woman he helped O'Banion frame for murder ate at my resolve to remain compassionate. God's job is hard, after all. I'm not sure I could forgive someone like Castillo without my bias pushing me into feeling his atonement could only be attained through a single act of contrition—turning himself in to the authorities.

"Castillo, you know that God will only forgive the penitent man."

"Yeah. What's your point?"

"You told me that you're not really sorry for what you've helped O'Banion do."

"That's a problem, huh?"

"I'm not sure what prompted you to seek confession beyond fear that God will punish you."

"I guess that sums it up. This won't fly with the big guy, will it?"

His sigh puffed through the screen. If I could've curled into a tight ball out of sight in the far corner of my side of the confessional, I would've done it. The man—or whatever he was—unsettled me for some reason. Perhaps it was the knowledge that of the pair, Castillo possessed a scrap more humanity than his partner.

"I would like you to pray about what you're doing, Castillo. I don't know the circumstances that put you in this... profession. Redemption is more than confession, my child. Without abstaining from committing the sin again, I'm not sure that redemption is possible."

"Even if I haven't actually killed anybody?"

"You're helping O'Banion, facilitating his ability to kill without getting caught. From what you've explained, I doubt that this man would have the cunning to kill without getting caught."

"He's paranoid about DNA. Don't doubt for a second that he's very good at what he does, Padre. If I think about what I'm doing and am completely honest, I'm actually saving lives."

"Because O'Banion would kill anyone who got in the way? That young man you drugged..."

"He'd have his throat slashed if I hadn't drugged him."

"But you're still helping him kill others."

"Look, I get what you're saying. I don't need to pray about jack shit, Padre. Some of us don't have the luxury of choice regarding a chosen profession. I do as I'm told. I accept the fact that I exist for one purpose."

"Tell me what you think God would say if you stood before him right now and posed that as a justification for what you've done, Castillo."

"He'd probably tell me to go straight to hell. Do not pass go. Do not get through the pearly gates for eternal bliss. I don't deny that I deserve it. Maybe I figured he'd cut me some slack on how I die if I owned up to the shit I've done in my life."

"I'm not sure it works that way, Castillo. The best any of us can hope for is the eternal reward when God removes all memory of our earthly suffering and wipes away our tears. Please consider what you're doing with your life, how much those who miss your victims continue to suffer. Something beyond fear prompted you to seek the confessional tonight."

"So you're not gonna give me a bunch of Hail Mary's or anything, huh?"

"If you're not sorry for what you've done, I can't offer peace or forgiveness. I will implore you to resist this calling you claim to have."

"You want me to let O'Banion kill anybody that gets in his way?"

"No, I want you to stop facilitating his murders. I'll pray for you, my child, that God will give you strength to choose a different path for your life."

"I suppose that's more than I deserve. But who prays for you, Padre?" he asked.

"I confess my sins to another confessor, child. I'm not exempt."

"You confess all of them?" he pressed a bit further. What was he insinuating? Surely my confessor hadn't broken the seal.

"Of course I do, and God has given me absolution for all of them, just as he does to any penitent man seeking forgiveness. He requires that we go and sin no more. After all, how do we show contrition if we continue to commit the same sins again and again?"

"That's a very good question," he mused. "Huh. If God cured the padre, maybe he can cure me too, though the statistics of recidivism don't exactly support your claim. You're telling me that you received absolution by never committing the same sins again."

I swallowed the knot in my throat and uttered a silent prayer that this not-so-remorseful man would leave. "Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. We are still sinners at heart, child. We slip; we fall; God picks us up and gives forgiveness and another chance to do right."

"You've given me much tonight, Padre. 'Preciate it."

I sensed the movement on the other side of the screen before I heard the door close softly. I'm not in the habit of lying—even to myself. The urge was strong to step outside the confessional and catch a better glimpse of the troubled stranger who thought he could strike a bargain with God for a merciful death.

With a shiver that was half fear, half excitement, I pushed the door open and watched the slight man as he slipped out of the church. The shock of jet-black hair and his small stature were the only remarkable things about the man. I was certain that I'd never stop looking for him to darken my doorway again.

Chapter 4

Castillo

O'Banion puffed on a cigarette, burning half the damn thing in one drag. He eyed me warily. "Well?"

"He's in the confessional."

He grinned. "Good. You get him good and primed?"

"I told him what he needed to hear."

"The whole Markinson bullshit story?"

I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the crunchy remnants of the Santa Fe New Mexican that O'Banion lifted from someone's front yard three days ago. Good thing about New Mexico was the dry heat had made short order of the water that drenched the newspaper before he snatched it for me. The ink bled a little, but not enough to blur the words.

O'Banion snorted. "Well, it wasn't exactly bullshit, was it? And didn't I tell you her old man wouldn't bail her out after that? No, that little cunt ain't gonna be gettin' any cock where it's headed. Maybe a fist from her cell mate," he chuckled.

I rolled my eyes and readjusted the newspaper spread in my lap. "You gonna get this over with the priest or what?"

"Ah hell, I ain't had enough whiskey for this one yet. You got the Viagra?"

Two fingers dug into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out the baggie with the little blue pills in it. "You heard the guy. Don't overdose on the damn things. They could kill you."

O'Banion grinned, snatched the plastic bag and shook out a handful of pills. He tossed them back and washed them down with a swig from the warm bottle of Jack Daniel's nestled in his crotch. "This shit is nothin' to me, Castillo. 'Sides, the money we're gettin' on this one," he whistled softly through his teeth. "It's supposed to go long and painful for the padre."

Hopefully without eyeball involvement this time. "Well, the church is empty. I left him in his confessional. And I'd suggest that you avoid names."

O'Banion's chuckle sent a cold chill rippling down my spine. He leaned over and nipped at my earlobe with his teeth. "Don't worry, little pussy. I'll wait 'til I'm almost through before I tell him who I am. And maybe then, I'll pop out an eye and fuck him there too. Wanna come watch, or would it make you feel like a little girl? Again."

"Knock it off, O'Banion. Get in there and do the job."

He jerked his head toward the back of the Olds while he stuffed a strip of condoms in the breast pocket of his crunchy denim jacket. "I got some good shit in there for tonight. The guy at the liquor store said the tequila's got real flecks of gold in it. I figure you earned a splurge after diggin' up this job for us."

O'Banion didn't burst into flames when he entered the church, but given the padre's predilection for young boys, I figured that was one of those urban legends anyway. I liked the idea of being an urban legend. I'd never been anything important in my life. O'Banion needed me if he wanted to stay out of prison. His mind was sharp as the bowie knife he favored as a weapon, and he could come up with some of the sickest ways to torture and mutilate the human body, but he'd be caught without me.

After all, an indiscriminate killer would stick out like a saguaro cactus in the Arctic Circle. At least I kept him focused on specific jobs, people who often earned what we doled out. No. That's not right.

Nobody deserves O'Banion.

The guy will snap one day and come after me. I know this as well as I know he's going to make the padre curse the day he was born.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number of the burner our client used to contact me. "It's Castillo," I said. "It's happening now."

"Are you sure?" the man asked. "I'll need proof."

"What, you want my partner to send a vital organ in the mail? Believe me, when O'Banion's through, it'll be in the paper for weeks. I gave you my word. It's done. Or rather, it's being done right now."

"I need something," the pitch of his voice changed, the tone low, the quality with the rasp of sandpaper on metal. "I need to hear that bastard suffer."

I rolled my eyes. How typical. Nobody warned me that revenge killing would make me take such an active role—even as the lowly middleman—that I'd be forced to bear witness to O'Banion's sick sense of bloodlust.

"I hope you're near a toilet," I muttered as I crawled out of the car. "Because I promise you, what you're about to hear might make you physically ill."

Padre's shrieks bounced off the cathedral ceiling and penetrated the heavy carved oak doors at the entrance.

"You're sure you want to hear this?"

"Yes," the single word spiked my sense of unease to unbearable levels. Our master was as sick as O'Banion, or so it seemed when that eager word so rife with anticipation floated into my ear.

I swung the door open to the blast of a symphony of pain, drum-shattering decibels of it. "Jesus," the urge to cross myself grew.

"Tell me what you see. Is that Ryan screaming?" boss-man asked.

"Yeah, it's Ryan." The chimichanga and tequila shooters—something called el Vocho— threatened with a wave that sloshed in my belly and washed half way up the back of my throat.

Ryan's priestly garb lay in a shredded heap in front of the altar, and O'Banion had the priest hog-tied on the ornate table with nothing more than sturdy duct tape. Something was burning in the thurible, waving the thick smoke up to his nostrils. No doubt, it was for his benefit, not the padre's.

"What's he doing to him?" my impatient employer asked. "Tell me what you see."

"He's got him draped over the altar—."

"Excellent. Very good. And you're certain he won't be satisfied leaving him for dead?"

Another blood-curdling scream rent the air. O'Banion replaced his bowie knife with another, something called a sawback blade that had him salivating to use it. I watched the roughened edge of steel saw back and forth between padre's legs and turned away. "O'Banion doesn't leave witnesses, and if he thinks an employer is getting squeamish after the job, you should know he doesn't react much differently," I warned.

"I will never regret what the two of you have done at my behest," the man said. "I'd pay any amount to see this done. I only wish you would've allowed me to witness the event personally."

"I suppose it wouldn't matter to you that Ryan seemed affable enough when I spoke to him earlier."

"Oh, without a doubt he was," he said. "He's always been very good at eliciting trust and good will. How do you think he's hidden his predilection from so many parents for so many years?"

I frowned. "The guy doesn't look a day over forty," I said. "Are you sure we've got the right Father Ryan?"

"It's him," he said. "Believe me, it's him. He had a partner, an older priest."

"Not interested," I cut it off before the offer was made. "We're getting out of the Southwest after this job. O'Banion's been a bit too creative and far too visible. Besides, I've got another job far from this area, and we're heading out as soon as he's...done here."

"I see. Well, Ryan is enough. I'm satisfied that O'Banion is making this as excruciating as you promised he would. It's a great comfort to me, knowing that he'll never touch another boy, never plant his nightmarish version of redemption into the mind of another child."

"Forty Hail Dicks, huh?" I said coldly.

"That's not funny," he snarled. "I love God and that man destroyed my faith. He took away the comfort of my religion."

Whatever. His glee over O'Banion's techniques told me more about his faith than anything else. The sixth commandment couldn't have been clearer. Thou shalt not kill.

Idly, I picked up one of the lighting sticks from the bye altar. It had been used to light at least one of the votive candles flickering in glass bowls. I knew enough to know that patrons of the church came in and lighted these candles and made prayers.

The charcoal nub grazed along the surface of the white altar cloth and left a stain. I began sketching, without thought really, while my latest solicitor continued to rant at me about my disrespect for the Holy Mother, blah, blah, blah, while O'Banion raped and tortured a priest at his behest a few yards away.

A crescent moon above...the cereus—or its more recognizable name, Queen of the Night—below. The lighter shade of the charcoal against the white background appeared almost blue in the golden candlelight.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Uh-huh," I muttered. Of course I hadn't been, but who cared beside the bozo with more issues than I had for certain, but probably in the ballpark of O'Banion's.

"Well then, is he?"

"Is he what?" I asked impatiently.

"Is Ryan dead? It's very quiet now."

I glanced over my shoulder down the aisle where my partner was using the strip of prophylactics he brought with him. "Passed out. Don't worry. O'Banion doesn't leave witnesses."

The simple truth I spoke haunted me. O'Banion didn't leave witnesses, and one of these days, the dumb bastard would begin to see me not as a curiosity, or a source of unlimited funds, or even the pimp to his twisted fantasies. He'd look at me and realize I was a witness, and he would respond accordingly.

"Look, I need to make some other calls. Watch your local news broadcast tonight. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised by some very glad tidings. Wire the rest of the money after confirmation. We won't speak again, unless of course, you fail to keep your end of this business transaction."

I clicked off before he could reply and strode out of the church with purpose. O'Banion was a problem. We were successful as a team because that's what I do—I solve problems. O'Banion's just the freak I employed to prevent me from being the one to take lives.

If I mixed things up a bit, gave my demented partner a new kink, some unvisited perversion, perhaps he'd fixate on that for a while instead of realizing that our association would come to an abrupt and violent end.

I knew O'Banion. When the chips were down, he wouldn't be taken. They used to call people like him berserkers. O'Banion's knife wielding skills guaranteed much bloodshed before an arrest, and I doubted it could even be done. His arrest wouldn't happen because a corpse couldn't be incarcerated.

"My way out," I whispered. I grabbed that solution, the answer to the O'Banion problem and clung to it.

All I needed was a few more jobs, that new twist that distracted someone like my companion and kept his focus elsewhere...instead of where it settled with disturbing attention of late—on me.

Another shriek snapped me out of plots of ridding my albatross from his stranglehold. I turned and stared, as the first spike fastened Ryan's wrist to a cross O'Banion had removed from the wall of the cathedral.

Jesus on one side, dying for the sins of the world, and the padre on the other, dying for the sins he committed against one very pissed off little boy who grew up with an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

Chapter 5

Jamison "Jay" Raver: Present Day

Myrtle Saing approached the corner booth wagging her head back and forth. "Jay, Jay, Jay. I thought you had a good head on your shoulders. If Chief Sorenson finds out you're in town, I can't vouchsafe that you'll leave outside a pine box."

I winced. "Still mad at me, huh? It's been weeks, Myrtle. I never guessed he'd hold a grudge this long."

She snapped her gum between her molars and gave me the giant nicotine-caffeine stained smile of Myrtle Saing infamy. "You ripped up that poor girl's heart. How long do you think a father might hold a grudge for that sort of thing?"

I grinned. "Believe me, our break-up was one hundred percent mutual. Gracie wasn't torn over it. She knew we were headed in different directions in life."

"She wanted you on her daddy's payroll, not working for the Staties."

So that was the story Taggart Sorenson pedaled. Or maybe Gracie lied to the overbearing fart. Our conversation didn't include any such discussion. Gracie wanted me out of police work completely for valid reasons in her opinion: too dangerous; crazy hours; travel between the capital and Whisper Cove for almost an hour in each direction; the politics of a bureaucracy; poor pay; little chance for advancement—even though I snagged the rank of detective with the Major Crimes Unit.

She wanted a banker.

I prefer making the world a safer place.

"It's not safer, sweetheart. You're like the janitors of the criminal justice system. This isn't crime prevention. It's cleaning up a bloody mess after the fact."

Gracie wouldn't budge, and I was the mountain. Impasses like that do not make for happy marriages. So we called off the engagement.

"More coffee, hon, or shall I just do you a favor and pour you a great big to-go cup?" Myrtle asked.

I opened my mouth, thinking for a split second to refute whatever nonsense Taggart was spewing far and wide, but thought better of it. "I'll have the pancakes, two fried eggs—no slime—and two slices of wheat toast. Oh, and some sausage if you've got patties. I can't stand the skin on the links."

"Living dangerously," she warned with a wink, turned on her heel and hollered my order across the small diner to her husband, Dick, or Richard, as he preferred. They named the place Dick's Diner for God's sake. Why the man took umbrage when folks called him Dick was a real mystery.

"Richard's Diner didn't have the right ring to it," Myrtle once confided to me. "Alliteration. We're fond of it."

"And keep the coffee coming, Myrtle," I said. "It's so cold out there tonight, I had to stop someplace with thicker walls and better heating than my car."

She laughed. "Well, I can't say this place is all that sturdy, but with all the ovens and grills going, we're toasty." Myrtle poured my coffee. "You out working a case tonight, Jay?"

I shook my head. "More cream?"

"I'll get you a pitcher," she said. "Since you were so honest about why you showed up in Whisper Cove, the cream's on the house."

When she returned with both cream and my order, I beckoned to the empty seat across from me. "I didn't come to see Gracie," I said. "And I'm not working an official case tonight. I got a tip about something I planned to follow up on, but felt like my feet were too numb to feel the pedals in the car."

"Where's this tip?" she poured a cup of coffee for herself.

"Plymouth," I said.

"Glory be, Jay. You came pretty far out of your way for warmth."

"Scoot over, woman," Richard nudged his wife into the corner of the booth. "Since neither of you is about to accept my sagacious advice, I figured it'd be best to force it upon the both of you."

I grinned. Richard's thick Cape Cod drawl amused me even more than the local resonance of Maine's dialect. It bore a hint of upper-crust education and wealth, belied by his humble business in a converted doublewide modular home.

"Quite simply put, the man isn't here to get out of the cold or because he has some aching compulsion to reignite the dying embers of lost love, Myrtle. He knew we'd be open in the middle of the night, and the diner would be deserted. Sometimes, a man requires both familiarity and solitude."

I lifted my coffee cup in silent toast.

"Bah," Myrtle scoffed. "What do you know, old man? Get back to your napping. Can't you see the boy and I are having a discussion?"

"Were we?" I asked, unable to hide my amusement, and not concerned that she saw it.

"You were about to tell me about your unofficial investigation," she said.

My head moved from side to side. "I don't think that was my intention at all, Myrtle. A certain degree of confidentiality is required during any investigation, official or not. I can't discuss it with you."

She harrumphed, and gave Richard a harsh shove so she could get out of the booth. "Then I'm through wasting my time with the both of you," she said. "Let me up."

Headlights flashed through the front window of the diner anyway, and she turned a victorious smile on Richard. "Looks like the haven of familiarity and solitude has another customer. Best you get back to the kitchen, Dick."

They were gone, and soon my plate was empty. I felt no rush to return to the bitter cold outside. I lugged my heavy carryall onto the tabletop and tossed the flap open with a bit too much enthusiasm. The metal clasp hit the table with a loud thwack.

The other patron in the diner turned and noticed my presence, for the first time judging by the slight and brief widening of his eyes. I recognized him. Hornwort, I thought.

"Here's your to-go thermos. Be careful out there, Charlie," Myrtle said.

The door had barely shut when she turned on her heel. "We lose money because you give coffee away to that boy like there's no tomorrow, Dick. Every time Tag puts him on night rotation, he's either in here getting his thermos refilled or using the john. I don't know what you were thinking."

I tuned out the incessant bickering, always featured when Myrtle and Dick didn't have enough customers to serve, and pulled out my laptop. Free Wi-Fi, as unexpected as one might imagine in a diner like this one, lured me off the interstate tonight just as much as warmth and hunger.

Chrome opened automatically when the system booted, and loaded the page that drew me back multiple times over the past months. The fluke email led me here. I think everybody has the crazy cousin. That bizarre and lone pecan on the nut branch of the family tree—she believes everything on the Internet is true, and everything she receives in email is the Gospel according to Saint Internet.

My first stop, after cringing when I see email from Jeannie—or bootie_scootie, her preferred account—is always the website that debunks whatever nonsense she's found like a hog seeking wild truffles. It's the same old story every time. I research her ludicrous claims and reply with the truth. I've probably saved Medicaid a million dollars or more in psychiatric admissions, because without my intervention, I'm sure Jeannie would've lurched off the rails at a screaming rate of speed long ago.

Last month, she sent something that pinged my radar. True, it had been debunked, but I recalled reading about a case in ViCAP—the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program database that had all sorts of information police use to compare notes and link otherwise disparate cases that aren't geographically kindred.

It was the damned reference to the drawing, a crescent moon and what police reports described as a lotus-like flower.

Someone must've seen the clue at a crime scene and blabbed about it. An urban legend was born.

Layered with the backdrop of Dick and Myrtle's banter, I stared at the screen and absorbed the information again. I drew from my not-so-deep well of knowledge regarding serial killers. Didn't they like this kind of thing?

My heartbeat slowed, pumping sluggishly as I considered that there may be another source for this particular legend. I imagined the killer, hunched over a keyboard composing the legend of his misdeeds. Such killers were reputed for loving the attention of a cat-and-mouse game with law enforcement. What better way to play chess with the cops than to leak certain details via urban legend online?

My supervisor laughed her ass off—for all of five minutes before forbidding me to waste a moment of the unit's time on such a trivial theory.

"Cobwebs are built of sturdier stuff, Jay. Trust me. You don't want to become the laughingstock of the major crimes unit," she said.

Yesterday. She warned me that all of my careful documentation of this odd flower under a moon that cropped up at crime scenes all over the United States for the past several years was whimsy. "I will not let you bring scorn to my squad. I don't need Fox Mulder on this team, so go chase your aliens, boogeymen and monsters elsewhere, thank-you-very-much."

Kelsey Maclaren's derision swirled around me like buzzing gnats. My argument swatted away her scorn. This isn't about my ego, or culling low-standard tabloids for cases. The people who died weren't just murder victims. Torture first, slaughter later: that's this guy's modus operandi. Does he draw his little pictogram first?

I fixated on the drawing. What did it mean to the killer? The first crime scene where it was documented in New Mexico made me shudder. A priest—beloved by his community—was sodomized, burned with embers from his censer, and finally crucified on the back of the iconic cross that had graced the church years before New Mexico became a state.

As outrage and bloodlust for the soul of the killer grew, investigators stood on the sidelines scratching their heads... until the entire church and rectory fell under the auspices of a search warrant.

The priest's private chamber was discovered, something the diocese tried in vain to suppress, but since a living victim of Father Ryan's debauchery was discovered, silencing the truth didn't happen. Suddenly, our sketching killer transformed into the stuff of legend, a righteous avenger who told a dark tale of an Angel of Death rather than the sadistic freak who delighted in his unspeakable crimes.

That's what made for a fantastical urban legend. They couldn't simply kill randomly. A moral for the story was an absolute requirement.

I opened a file on the desktop of my computer. Twenty-three cases in four and a half years linked a crisscross pattern of terror across the country. Adulterers, child abusers, pedophiles, gold-diggers, alcoholics who got away with vehicular manslaughter, perpetrators of road rage resulting in fatal "accidents," CEOs with golden parachutes, accused killers who lucked out with dumb juries: a diverse list comprised the victims.

The perp probably started his legend, but it exploded online after that. He was a boogeyman for adults, someone the downtrodden could point to and warn their tormenters. He'll come for you if you're not careful. We're collecting money, a fund for justice. Straighten up and fly right.

The darkness of reality weighed heavily on my mind. A superhero slaying discriminately under cover of night was no expression of justice. Real heroes chased creeps like this guy and made sure that the courts dispensed justice. He was no flaming sword sent by God's angels to right wrongs.

Coward. Criminal. Cold-blooded killer.

Myrtle poured another cup of coffee. "You're going to go blind if you stare at that contraption much longer," she said. "Is this part of your super-secret case?"

"I never meant to offend you, Myrtle. My mother was a nurse. I grew up in a household where grisly topics were regularly discussed over meals. I didn't like it then, and I refuse to inflict that kind of conversation on others—even if they're not eating. Believe me; there are things in life you'd rather not learn."

She sat down again. "I know how depraved the world is, Jay. Look at me. Do I look like some innocent young thing who'd be shocked by the horrors out there?" she jerked one thumb toward the frosted front window of the diner. "You looked like you wanted to unburden is all. My mistake."

"Or maybe I've been scorned one too many times lately to ever want to share my burden again," I said, sort of a bitter mumble under my breath.

"Dick's the one who can't hear," she said. "I take it you got a theory the boss didn't appreciate. Been there, young man. Don't think this life of mine locked up in a diner is all sunshine, crystal champagne flutes and long-stemmed roses."

I chuckled softly, "From where I sit, it seems a hell of a lot better than what I'm doing."

"Tell me one thing, Jay. Do you believe you're on the right track about whatever it is that caught your notice?"

I nodded slowly. "I'm certain of it."

"Then ignore the boss and follow your heart."

"There isn't any heart involved in police work, Myrtle. Instinct, yes, but this isn't the place for emotion. It's too easy to take things into our own hands if we get the heart involved."

"Then why care at all?" she asked.

"The law must be upheld or we descend into anarchy. Public safety has to trump personal agendas. If we step away from that truth, we're no different than killers and thieves and rapists. Good cops recognize we're not above the law; we're tasked with upholding it and making sure everyone else follows the rules."

"So tell me this. You come upon a murder where someone say...gets their head chopped off. You don't feel anything for what that poor soul suffered?"

I drew in a sharp breath and shook my head. "I can't let emotion disable me, Myrtle. It's tempting, sure. Thank God I haven't ever encountered anything that gruesome. Someday, though," I shrugged. "You never know what's waiting around the corner."

My cellphone vibrated against my chest. I reached into my breast pocket and dug it out. "Raver," I said.

"What are you doing in Whisper Cove?"

I rolled my eyes and verified the hour on my watch. "Why are you calling me at midnight, Kelsey? I'm not on duty tonight."

"Yet you're in your state issued vehicle, and the GPS pings your location at Dick's Diner. Please tell me you're not ignoring my order to let this crazy theory of yours go."

I sighed and spanned my eyes with one hand, a thumb and my middle finger rubbing away the tension that spiked at the sound of Captain Maclaren's voice. "I'm off duty. I couldn't sleep. Dick's has the best all night fare in the state. Plus, I know Dick and Myrtle personally and can vouch for their suitability for polite conversation. Is there some rule in our code of conduct that I've managed to overlook forbidding friendships beyond the blue wall?"

"Don't get smart with me, Jay. I recognized the spark of defiance in your eyes yesterday afternoon when I shut you down. While I'm happy you're not in Portland tonight, I still suspect you could easily wander in the wrong direction. If this is truly on your personal time, you shouldn't be in the state's vehicle."

"The heater on the Prius can't handle Maine's wind chill," I lied. "Besides, I paid for the gas on my own dime, as I did the last three service appointments to my assigned car. That idiot at the police garage doesn't know what he's doing."

"You're putting your position with the unit in jeopardy," she warned. "I told you this afternoon. I will not have my branch of Major Crimes turned into a running joke, Jay. Get your ass home. Now."

"We both know you can't dictate what I do on my own time, Kelsey. If you're pissed that I took my state issued vehicle tonight, go through the proper channels and discipline me, but be certain, there will be a counter complaint and an investigation to make sure my fellow detectives never use their vehicles on their personal time either."

"Jay, this is serious. I'm only trying to look out for you, and there are things you don't know. Whisper Cove is the last city in the state where you should be tonight."

I frowned. "Is that what this latest forensic examination of my behavior is about? Let me guess. Taggart Sorenson called you and warned he'd make trouble if I showed up in his town again."

"You're not his favorite person."

"And this isn't a police state," I felt the growl in my gut push its way past my terse comment. "Who does he think he is? You can't order me out of a town, Kelsey. This isn't the wild west."

She laughed softly. "I know, and I defended you, but please don't tweak the man's nose. Come back home where you belong. If your past is behind you, there's no reason to revisit it, even for great food."

"Don't forget my friends in Whisper Cove," I said. "Or is it Tag's intention that I turn my back on all of them too?"

"I wasn't aware—"

"No, nor should you be," I interrupted. "It's my personal business, Captain. So let's not dance across that very stark line between personal and professional. If I'm late for my shift tomorrow, then you can grill me about why. Otherwise, I'm ending this call and enjoying the best coffee on the Eastern seaboard. Talk to you later, bye."

I slipped the phone back into my pocket. Myrtle was clucking and shaking her head. "Boss got you on a short leash, Jay. You don't suppose she's thinking she should pick up where Gracie left off, do you?"

"No," I chuckled. "But now that she's got me feeling my heels dug in but good, I could really go for a slice of your peach cobbler with another cup of hot coffee."

"You bet, Sunshine," she grinned.

My focus returned to the screen on my laptop. Nobody knew what to call this guy. Lotus Killer. Night Bloom.

Eyes drifted to the comments on the site dedicated to debunking urban legends but couldn't quite do it in the case of this particular story. One comment in particular leapt out at me—made by someone with the Disqus ID DocBot_1961. His or her comment stated something I wouldn't have otherwise known.

You morons. This is not a lotus. It's a night-blooming flower in the ceroid cacti, or Cactaceae family. As in, they bloom at night on cacti. Common names include princess of the night, Honolulu queen, Christ in the Manger, Dama de Noche and queen of the night. Think before you spout nonsense. Lotus flowers require water and aren't nocturnal blooms. Idiots!

As the thought registered in my head—how odd it was for someone to have a meltdown over what some flower was called and how he came to determine that a pictorial which had never been published was indeed this cereus whatever—a patron burst into the diner.

Chapter 6

Castillo

O'Banion got over his strict policy of never leaving DNA at crime scenes. Though he'd never leave his, others he liked to snatch some from the condoms he recycled from trashcans in cheap hotel rooms he frequented with whores.

"Better than sloppy seconds," he shot that sour blast of breath in my direction along with the smile that was just as disgusting. I didn't even want to ask why he came from his latest binge to relieve what he called—tension a real man feels, not that you'd know it—with a dozen tied off condoms in his fists. "Now open that goddamn trunk so I can get these bad-boys on ice, Prissy Cassie."

That was six months ago, and another one of my scrambling defenses to keep him engaged in the game rather than deciding he'd rather torture and kill me than work another job.

The past four years or so of my life had been a seemingly endless attempt at devising a murder scenario that would keep O'Banion off-kilter, titillated, and focused on killing the people we were hired to hit. It was getting harder and harder.

His new nicknames for me instilled a sense of urgency that I devise the perfect means to rid him of my life once and for all, and you know, not die in some gruesome manner when we parted ways.

I think he realized that something was different, or had been changing over the years. He watched me carefully, almost to the point of following me into the john to make sure I didn't climb out a window to escape. At one point in what felt like the distant past, I made an assumption that I was the brains of our operation.

O'Banion eroded that delusion bit by bit over the years. His imaginative means of torture continued to frighten me.

He munched on pork rinds, staring through the windshield of that same old 1975 Buick we'd been using for years. The body bore pockmarks from a ferocious hailstorm we'd driven through in Colorado last summer. After convincing O'Banion that the shattered glass would have to be replaced, he finally relented. O'Banion hated one group of human beings more than his victims, more than he loathed me: cops. It was all I had to say.

"We'll get pulled over and ticketed if the windshield is cracked like this. We've got to replace it."

I watched nervously as some mom-and-pop mechanic swapped out the old windshield for a new one. O'Banion was paying far too much attention to the guy's kid, a girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen, but had the curves of an older woman.

"Hot damn," he kept muttering. "I can smell 'er, Cassie."

"Don't use my name," I barely hissed in warning.

"Ah, hell, you ain't no fun, pussy. I don't see you buildin' up any pressure," he muttered. "Ain't normal."

That made me laugh. How O'Banion could equate normalcy to himself or any part of our life was a mystery to me.

We worked our way east after Colorado. A hit in Iowa... another in Kentucky, a third just outside Washington D.C., where I realized I couldn't put off the inevitable for much longer.

"I think you should let me kill the next one," I said.

O'Banion's eyes jerked open wider. "Why? That's where all the fun's at."

"We're getting predictable, O'Banion."

"And I say we ain't."

"Well, then you talk to the next client who wants to hire us, and you do the job and see how far you get—"

"Don't you get uppity with me," O'Banion warned. His voice grated like those filthy fingernails of his against a chalkboard. "You know I can't do the job without a partner who can make sense of a file full of nothin' but words and numbers."

I yanked open my car door, ready to roll out at high speed if necessary.

"Okay, okay!" O'Banion pedaled backward quickly. "I'll do somethin' else while you kill the next one, but I get five... no, ten of 'em after that."

Suit yourself, you dumb bastard, I thought bitterly. All I needed was a single job to make my plan fall perfectly into place. The boss would get what he paid for, and I'd finally be free. Plus, it would make a perfect test case for my ability to deal with the aftermath of being the one who actually wielded the knife.

Guns, after all, are too noisy. They rile the public sentiment too hotly. You go to a store and buy a gun; you've left a paper trail. You hit the local Walmart for a hunting knife, and nobody bats an eye. They're not tracked and regulated like guns are. Well, unless you've got a switchblade. But even a legal switchblade makes an effective murder weapon. God knows, I've learned more than I imagined possible from O'Banion about sharp points and soft tissue.

If the edge is sharp enough, thin enough, under the right conditions, a man can bleed out before he realizes he's been cut.

I watched O'Banion pull that little stunt on a quick job we pulled in northern Michigan a couple of winters back. A little jostle, a little prick through some sap's uniform, and the bastard walked off, too cold to feel more than the bite of the wind chill against his flesh.

So I fantasized about it a little, and I started amassing my own collection of things I could use. There were a couple of times where I thought O'Banion would make the perfect practice victim.

But no, I still needed him for a little while. I needed to make sure that the legend of the Night Lotus ended.

What a stupid name. Night Lotus. Yet my compulsion to leave my mark behind at every crime scene had only grown after the padre was crucified. It had become the flame to my moth. I couldn't resist searching for the wildly exaggerated stories about who could do such things and why leave behind any signature at all.

Why was the reason I suspected some were so curious about me. What kind of grotesque monster signs the crime scene with moonlight and flowers?

The answer will disappoint them, no doubt, provided I'm ever caught. The key to freedom lies in the next job.

I flipped open the folder. "Her name is Felicia Cunningham," I said. "She's been carrying on with her step-son behind hubby's back."

O'Banion shot a lascivious grin in my general direction. "You're shittin' me. The broad's humping her kid?"

I sighed. Was it really worth it explaining to the idiot that a stepchild bears no genetic link to a parent that didn't actually contribute to his gene pool? I suspected that O'Banion wouldn't understand DNA more than he could recognize the letters on a page.

"Day-um!" he drawled. "I think you should do the next one, Castillo. I wanna play with this bitch for a long time."

"Step-mother means she's not his biological parent, O'Banion. You know? Mommy and Daddy got a divorce. Daddy married somebody else—instant new Mommy."

"Ah," came the dejected but still thoroughly fetid comment that I'd destroyed his fantasy. "Well, in that case, she don't seem so special after all. But still. Doin' father and son. Pretty gross. Makes you wonder if she's comparin' the two of 'em, don't it?"

"More likely, she wants the son, but the benefits of the father's bank account mean more to her than lust."

"Hmm, lust. Yeah. It's one of them whatchacallems. Deadly sins. Seems we deal with those an awful lot, the lust ones I mean."

"There's a twist this time, O'Banion," I muttered. "Remember Markinson?"

He grinned happily and shoved another handful of pork rinds into his mouth. I watched the puff of dust cloud from his lips with a little spittle when he choked. Disgusting.

"That was fun," he mumbled and crunched through the statement.

"I meant the details, what you decided to do at the last minute, O'Banion. Not the repulsive joy you seem to find mutilating people before you kill them."

"Oh, you mean makin' sure the bitch took the wrap for what happened?" he asked.

I nodded. As much as I'd have loved to add that particularly smooth hit to my list of Night Lotus murders, I couldn't. The padre came later, before I got bored enough to sign O'Banion's work.

"So which one we gonna kill?" he belched loudly post-question.

"Felicia."

He slowed the car as we approached a stretch of road construction on the interstate highway. "Good. Always wanted to legitimately use that line. You know. Or wasn't bye Felicia in a book?"

"No clue. I've never heard the expression before."

"Pussy," he muttered. "Don't watch TV. Don't go to movies. Don't fuck nobody. You're a real interesting dude, Prissy Cassie."

"I realize that this is going to tax that micro-brain rolling around your skull, but Mr. Cunningham wants his wife dead and his son the only suspect. Think you can manage that?"

"I thought you was killin' the bitch," he muttered.

"Yes, that's the plan, but your particular creative streak is exactly what Mr. Cunningham wants, O'Banion. He wants his son to pay for this crime, since it wouldn't have happened if he he'd left his father's wife alone. Got it?"

"So where's the kid?" O'Banion asked.

"Portland, Maine," I said. "His father and step-mother live in New York City, but apparently, Mama bought a mansion in some quaint little town about an hour outside Portland. The place is called Whisper Cove. Mr. Cunningham says she goes on some sort of retreat up there just about every weekend. He had video cameras installed and that's how he found out the two of them were carrying on behind his back."

"Hell, what's to stop him from using his little private porno-cam to prove his boy ain't the killer?"

I grinned. "They found the cameras and removed them. The wife and son, I mean."

O'Banion scrubbed one hand over the lower quarter of his face. "Well, don't that mean they probably called things off then? Surely they gotta know the cat's outta the bag."

"Doubtful. I think this could be one of those rare instances where both guilty parties believe that the cuckold is too old to avail himself of modern technology. Mr. Cunningham is in his eighties. His wife isn't even forty yet."

"Day-um," O'Banion echoed his earlier sentiment. "And he never suspected that this child married him for his money until he caught her havin' sex with his kid?"

I shrugged. "Denial, I don't know. What I do know is that he's paying us a tremendous amount of money to take care of this problem for him, and he wants absolutely no question about his son's guilt. So how will you do it?" I asked.

"Me? Hell, honey, this is your gig. You figure it out. I ain't doin' the heavy lifting on this one. You wanna kill her, you figure out how to make the boy look guilty."

It was hard not to smirk. O'Banion was nothing if not predictable. His mind worked in a twisted, but very linear way. Hell, it was a wonder we hadn't been caught yet based upon that fact alone.

There was an infamous serial killer, dubbed BTK—because he favored a specific kink in his crimes—bind, torture, kill. O'Banion was a lot like that guy. And while he might come up with some inventive ways of torturing his victims, even I understood why he chose the weapon he favored.

Stabbing his victims was as close as he could get to sex unless he brought condoms. Condoms made him cranky—not because he disliked using them, but because he was paranoid that he'd still manage to leave some kind of DNA evidence behind. I think that was what prompted him to start dumping random DNA into his victims.

O'Banion kept heading south from the city.

"Do you plan on heading toward Maine anytime soon?" I asked.

"Where exactly is Maine?"

Amazing. The man probably wouldn't be able to function without me. I fancied the notion that what was set into motion was akin to a mercy killing rather than any other label that could be applied.

I pointed behind us.

"Shit. More snow."

"Probably," I said. "It is winter after all."

"I figured this Cunningham guy was a rich bastard if he hired us."

"He is," I said, rolling around the thought of how or if O'Banion would manage money without me to do it for him. Over the past few years, we've accumulated quite a substantial nest egg.

"So why can't these idiots live some place warm, like southern California or Miami Beach?" he grumbled. "Hell no, they gotta live in Aspen or freakin' Maine. Is that even a state? I ain't ever heard of the place before. And if we're goin' to Canada, you ought to know I don't have a passport."

"It's a state, O'Banion. Calm down. I don't think we're quite ready to take this operation international anyway. God knows, outside rough neighborhoods, you draw far more attention than necessary."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The snarl parted his lips like Elvis having a very bad day.

"Bathing should never be simply optional, man. You stink, and I don't know how you manage to have any teeth left in your head. I've never seen you with a toothbrush or dental floss in all the time I've known you."

He grinned. "Aw, that's sweet, Cassie. You sayin' you'd like to join me in the john the next time I go?" His eyebrows wiggled suggestively.

I struggled not to vomit at the thought. Believe me, I'm well aware of how sexually ambiguous O'Banion is. Sometimes, the prostitutes he picks up are of the questionably legal aged male variety.

"So how we gonna get the son in this mess?" he asked.

"Isn't that your specialty? I mean, you had no problem making it look like Markinson's girlfriend was a killer."

"Bah, it's different with a guy. Now if the father wanted her lover dead, that'd be easy as pie. I'd do the same thing to this Cunningham whelp that I did to Markinson."

"You wouldn't be worried that the cops might look twice at two identical crime scenes?"

"Why should they?" he growled. "That business out in the desert was a long time ago, and they caught their killer. She's sittin' her bubble-butt on death row. Ain't that what you told me?"

"Life without parole. New Mexico doesn't have a death penalty."

And if I couldn't control my compulsion to sign O'Banion's art, she might not be in prison for long, especially if the crime scene had too many links to what happened with Markinson.

Maybe I should let O'Banion handle this one.

"We could hang out, watch to catch 'em after one of their fuck-fests, wait 'til he leaves and go in and ice the bitch."

I shook my head. "I don't know. It'd sure solve the DNA problem, but Whisper Cove is a small town, O'Banion. If we hung out, you'd be bound to get noticed, as well as me. Places like that... they don't have many people passing through like the Southwest. It's too damn cold."

He snorted, balled his fist and jammed it into my left shoulder. "Glad to know you can see things my way once in awhile."

"Well, it'll give you something solid to think about," I said. "Maybe we could do the thing where we watch the guy in Portland, and when he heads up to the house to see his step-mom, we wait until he leaves, I go in and kill her, you come in and do whatever it is you'd like to do with a dead body, and I follow the step-son. I mean, if they're trying to keep the affair quiet, he probably won't want the whole town to know when he's there, for how long, so forth."

"How's that gonna make him look guilty?"

I watched O'Banion sit there, scratching his crotch while he tried to work it out for himself. I sighed when the obvious didn't occur instantly, or even after a couple of minutes.

"His DNA will be in her body. I'll follow him and plant the knife. Even if his prints aren't on the weapon, I can plant bloody gloves."

"Yeah, but I heard that show you was watchin' a while back. You'll leave your DNA inside the gloves."

"Not if I'm wearing another pair inside the bloody gloves," I said. "They'll never figure that somebody planted evidence on this guy. Uh... you should know, that his father has changed his will—cut the both of them out of it. It'll give him plenty of motive, and I doubt the cops will balk over no skin cells being shed inside the gloves soaked in her blood."

O'Banion grunted. "Sounds like you got it pretty well figured all on your own. But what if this guy don't go straight back to his place?"

"It won't matter," I said. "We have his address. I can plant the evidence, and believe me, once they find his DNA inside her body, they won't look much further beyond when they recover the rest of the evidence."

To my delight, O'Banion relaxed. He licked his lips. "So I can play with one of 'em after she's dead. Ain't never done it that way before."

"Be careful with the DNA," I said. "Remember. The son has to go down for this crime, O'Banion. You fuck it up, and Mr. Cunningham won't hesitate to make sure you pay for it."

My partner snorted, "Oh yeah? What's he gonna do, tell the cops he hired us to kill his whore of a wife? I tell you one thing, Castillo. I don't like the part of this plan where I don't get to make the bitch pay for her sins before I kill her, so don't get any ideas about who's gonna handle the knife the next time we strike."

I grinned, another plan formulating quickly. "How about a compromise, O'Banion? How about I just cut her a little bit, you know, blood for the knife and the gloves...and then you finish up?"

Something in the twinkling eyes frightened me, like our partnership finally cemented in O'Banion's mind and he would never let me go.

Seemed like Mr. Cunningham's idea of revenge wasn't going to meet his exacting standards after all.

Chapter 7

Castillo

For two days we staked out Felicia Cunningham's young buck—Dudley Cunningham. Hell, if my parents saddled me with a name like Dudley, I'd probably grow up a defiant cuss too. Then again, I was hardly the shining star of the family.

Finally, on Friday night, the lad packed an overnight bag into the trunk of his car, and with a rather jaunty spring in his step, began the short drive northeast from Portland to Whisper Cove.

"If he's taking a bag, that ain't a good sign for us," O'Banion complained. "Jesus, how long do we gotta wait for our shot at this job?"

"In all this time, you've never acquired a speck of patience."

"Well you're the one keeps tellin' me I gotta stay out of sight in this snotty little town. Why the hell would anybody wanna live in a place with so few people?"

Whisper Cove was small, about eighteen hundred in total year-round population, but during the summer months, that number exploded to ten times the local head-count. Tourism was the primary industry. The icy blast of winter air wasn't all that enticing in cold-weather months. The Labrador Current kept the water off the coast frigid year round, but when the tilt of the earth brought winter climes, the quaint and picturesque Whisper Cove lost much of her charm.

"Don't worry about his plans, O'Banion. We got it covered. All I have to do is send a text to sugar daddy when we're ready to move in, and he'll make sure that Dudley rushes home to Portland where we want him."

O'Banion whistled low under his breath when we drove past the Cunningham estate—and really, I couldn't think of another word that did it justice. Set far back from the road, the house abutted right up to the shoreline of the cove itself. Lush trees during summertime probably hid the house completely from view of anyone passing by. They'd only see the stone turrets standing like sentries on either side of the driveway with their polished brass letters and numbers.

On the left read "Yorkshire" and the right, the number 2990.

"Some digs the old guy's got," he said. "Hell, that ain't a house, it's a mansion."

"The owner of Cunningham Global could afford much more than this property," I said. I'd done my homework on the laptop while O'Banion bitched about watching Dudley for two days. Felicia probably bought the place with the fun-money that actual hubby supplied into her bank account. The place was over 200 years old, and sold for just under $2.5 million when she bought it three years ago.

"What's a guy like that worth?" O'Banion rumbled. He opted for some sort of over-salted, spicy chips instead of his trademark pork rinds tonight. I listened to the crunch of garbage between his teeth as he pondered God only knew what. Maybe some way to extort more money out of the boss for this job.

"Cunningham Global. Ain't they the ones who made that whatchacallit? Vaccine for some kinda somethin' nobody wants gettin' out of Africa."

"I wouldn't know," I said. I had a pair of binoculars pressed to my eyes anyway, and found the shadows against the flimsy gauze over the second story bedroom window fascinating.

"What's goin' on up there?" O'Banion asked. His tone took on the quality of a six year old confined for too long on a road trip. "Man, can't they just hurry up so we can get this over with?"

My gaze shifted from the second story window to the vehicle just barely discernible on the service road that led away from the backside of the property.

I don't always sit around waiting for O'Banion to finish with his whores. If I supply a little bit of cocaine for him, it keeps him busy for hours at a time with some poor woman who surely didn't sign up for his brand of service.

"Whoa," O'Banion cut into my internal musing.

"What?" I asked.

"Look at the window, idiot," he muttered. "Hell, I ain't even usin' binoculars and I can see he's doin' her right up against the window."

My eyes returned to the house, to the pornographic view causing O'Banion to pant heavily.

"Hell, man, let me go in now. You do her, and I'll do him."

"You know the boss wants his son left alone. Apparently blood actually means something to this guy."

O'Banion snorted, "Yeah, so much that life in prison is his preferred punishment. I say fuck it. Let's do this our way. C'mon."

"And maybe it'd be worth it to the boss to make sure we get captured for disobeying his order. You never know with a guy like that. He might figure he's so old, the courts wouldn't send him to prison for solicitation of murder."

"Huh?"

Yet O'Banion liked calling me an idiot.

"He's paying us to kill his wife. If we piss him off, maybe he'd rather do time for hiring us, O'Banion, which is why we're doing this his way. Don't worry. You'll get plenty of time to deal with the woman after I do my thing. You'll have a couple of hours, since I'll have to leave and follow Junior back to Portland to plant the evidence."

"Oh yeah," he grinned. "In that case, maybe you just maim her a bit and leave the actual killin' part to me, huh? I mean, hell, all you need is a little blood, right?"

"After what I can only imagine will be a complete mutilation by you? No, O'Banion. The gloves need to be convincingly bloody. Don't tell me you've never wanted to play with the dead. A guy like you?"

He chuckled. "Well, they're more fun with the fear and a whole lotta fight in 'em, Prissy Cassie, not that you'd know. Maybe it's you who got the fantasy of humping the dead."

"They're away from the window," I said. "I'm gonna send the message now. Park at the end of the road. When his car leaves, we'll go up to the house."

I pulled out my burner cell, and used some handy spoofing tech to make the call look like it came from Cunningham's father.

Urgent. Need you in NYC right away. The plane is being sent to pick you up in Portland.

Five minutes passed... still no sign of lover boy.

"What the hell is taking so long?"

"Be patient," I said. "Maybe he called his father to see what the emergency is, though I doubt he'd want his father to have any idea he's not sitting in Portland right now."

We waited another ten minutes. My burner cell rang and practically startled O'Banion out of his stinky, smelly skin.

"Yes?" I answered.

"It's me. Dudley phoned, just as you predicted he would. I told him that I wouldn't discuss the problem over the phone, but that it's urgent and financial in nature. He said he'd leave right away. I take it he's with Felicia now?"

"He hasn't left yet, sir. But I'll let you know when the job is finished."

"Excellent. I hope to speak with you shortly. We have a time line established now, if I understand how these cell phones can be tracked. Her death needs to be swift."

"I understand, sir. I'll see to it personally."

Headlights bounced over the asphalt on the road as Cunningham's car exited the estate.

"He's leaving now. Expect my call in a few minutes," I said. With the phone stuffed into my pocket, I turned to O'Banion. "Let's go."

"'Bout fuckin' time," he grumbled.

She was only wearing a robe when I rang the doorbell, hunched from the cold into the oversized coat I wore.

"I can't help you," she said brusquely before I had the chance to ask for anything.

"You don't understand, Felicia," I said quietly. "Duke sent me. I believe he just contacted Dudley and requested that he return to the city immediately. That was him I watched leave your property a few minutes ago, wasn't it?"

She paled and clutched her fingers around the collar of the robe. "Who are you?"

I smiled, "I'll be coming in now so we can discuss exactly what Duke knows and what he plans to do about it, ma'am."

I pushed past her and stepped into the opulent foyer. "Nice place. Not quite as well apportioned as the penthouse in New York, but it's nice. Rustic. It's gonna be a bitch to sell it, I suppose. Pity."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "If Duke thinks he can send one of his thugs up here to intimidate me, the least he could do is send one capable of frightening or intimidating me."

"I think I'd like to see the room where Dudley made his weekly deposit now," I said.

"Weekly deposit? What the hell are you talking—" she ended her question on a gasp when I pulled out one of O'Banion's most wicked looking knives, the sawback bowie knife.

"You're Dudley's sperm bank, aren't you, Felicia?" I said blandly. "Though I can't imagine the way the two of you just made his deposit is being aided much by gravity. Bet you're a real mess under the robe."

"How dare you!"

"I'd rather not hurt you, so if you don't mind, I'll see that room now, Felicia. Or I can call Duke and tell him you refused his request."

"For what?" she demanded.

I shrugged. "Proof, I suppose. Something about your prenup?"

"Oh Jesus, it's always about the money, isn't it?" she turned in a fit of pique and stomped toward the stairs. "Well, come on then. If he wants proof that his son is far more virile than he ever dreamed of being, let's get it over with."

I turned around and quickly opened the front door a crack before following her upstairs.

To say she didn't see it coming was an understatement. I didn't expect O'Banion to follow us so quickly, or for her to still be astoundingly alive while blood gushed from the severed femoral artery onto my glove-clad hands.

She tried to staunch the flow of blood, but quickly fell to the floor, eyes wide and growing glassier by the second. She stared up at O'Banion and asked, "Who...?"

He grinned and said something more terrifying than what I'd done to her.

"Your husband might hate your guts, Felicia, but I love 'em, and just as soon as you're done bleedin' all over the floor, I'm gonna split you wide open and play in 'em for the rest of the night."

She passed out, while I bagged the gloves and knife. "I'll be back in two hours," I said. "Don't leave your DNA, and don't make too much of a mess. Her time of death will be pretty easy to determine, and this can't look like Dudley wasn't the killer. You get me?"

"Hell, I ain't that sick," O'Banion said. "I just figured if I scared her enough to make her heart race, she'd bleed out faster. I ain't gonna do nothin' but look at her."

I heard his belt hit the floor with a thud before I was far enough from the room not to notice it. It didn't matter. Making sure Dudley was guilty wasn't part of the real plan at all, though his weekend love nest would be empty from now on. That was enough for dear old dad—that sonny realized he hadn't sullied the family name or successfully defied his own father after all.

I made my way outside and quickly stashed the evidence in the trunk of O'Banion's car before I made my way to the second vehicle hidden at the back of the property.

The headlights remained off until I was at least a mile away from the place. I pulled over to the side of the road and peeled off the nitrile gloves and stuffed them into the ashtray of the '72 Ford Maverick and lit a match. The fumes were horrendous, so I rolled down the window on the car before I pulled out my cell phone.

"Yes?" he answered. In that moment, I understood why he sounded suddenly tired and weak.

"It's done," I said. "She won't cause any further problems for your family, sir."

"And there will be no question who killed her?" he asked.

"The psychopath is still with her right now. You understand there was nothing I could do about the evidence Dudley left behind, sir."

"Yes, I know, but this will be a valuable lesson to him, Castillo. I cannot thank you enough for coming up with a way to save my son from that woman's clutches."

"O'Banion thinks she's your wife, sir. I'm... I'm sorry, but I had to tell a very lurid lie to get him jazzed for this."

"It seems oddly fitting somehow," the old man sighed. "A lurid woman met her demise at the hands of a kindred spirit. Have you contacted the authorities yet?"

"They're my next call, though O'Banion thinks he has two hours alone with her now. The evidence, the weapon, the bloody gloves, they're in a bag in the trunk of his car. But I promise you. The police won't take him alive, sir."

"All the better," Cunningham sighed. "I may die in peace now, knowing that my son is free of that wretched woman. I've stipulated in my will that should he marry again without a prenuptial agreement that actually preserves the family's good fortune, that he will not be permitted to retain his shares in the company or his seat on the board of directors. I shall never rest in peace unless I am assured that he is truly protected."

"We won't speak again," I said. "But I wish you the best, sir."

I drove slowly into Whisper Cove and spotted a relic from the past—an operating pay phone. I pulled the collar of my coat high on my neck, donned a pair of winter gloves, and stepped into the biting wind as I made my way for it.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

"There's been a murder I think... it sounded like it. A woman screaming. It was at 2990 Yorkshire Road." I placed the receiver back into the cradle and dashed to the car. Within moments, I was parked in front of an all night diner. It couldn't hurt to stop in for a hot cup of coffee and a bite to eat. The place was deserted at this hour.

I glanced at my watch. Twelve forty-five. Perfect.

I pulled off the black, shortly cropped wig and fluffed my hair. Good. The bed-head effect would lend credence to my lie.

The bell over the front door jangled with all the frostiness of winter when I stepped through the front door, bleary-eyed as I'd ever felt. Freedom was closer than it had ever been before, but I had to make sure. Until all doubt was removed, until I had word that O'Banion was really excised from this world once and for all, I'd never be free.

An old woman appeared from the kitchen, a lop-sided grin on her gnarled face. "Best you light up the stove again, Dick. Look's like tonight's the night for insomniacs seeking shelter from the wind chill."

I smiled, or at least I thought that's what it was. It had been so long since I'd genuinely felt like doing so, for all I knew it could've been a grimace.

"What can I get for ya, hon?" she asked.

I shuddered. Hon. How I hated that word. "The name's Francis, ma'am. Or Frankie if you prefer."

"So what brings you in on such a cold, wintry night, Frankie?" she asked.

"My old jalopy out there," I replied. "The heat can't keep up with the cold wind. I could smell the coffee in here from a mile away."

"You look familiar," a tiny frown bunched her eyebrows a little closer together. "Have you been in here before?"

This time, I knew it was a grin. "Once," I said. "A few days ago. You were busy, ma'am. Lunch crowd if memory serves."

"Ah," she said. "That's right. Well, I've always said if all else of my mind flies away, I'll always be able to recognize a familiar face."

Too bad for you, Myrtle. Dammit.

Chapter 8

Jay Raver

Now this was interesting. There were new cases in ViCAP with stabbing listed as cause of death where definitive evidence of a sex component existed. All the cases, including the new ones, were unsolved and happened within the time frame of Night Lotus' first documented activities over eight years ago. They crisscrossed the country, the most recent however, just outside Washington D.C. I wondered about what might've happened earlier than the known cases.

"Were you drawing pictures then and the cops just missed them, or...?"

It made more sense if the killer grew frustrated. Frustration: I had a strong sense of it in those cases where the flower/moon drawings played a prominent part in the crime scene examination. Hell, at one such murder, the perp drew his little pictorial on the victim's kitchen counter, in ketchup of all things.

But if our guy was so frustrated, why the obvious glee in the killing itself? Whoever wielded that knife took a great degree of pleasure in the act. Some of the crime scenes couldn't be described by any other word than frenzied—as in the sexual variety.

Initially, no DNA had been left on the victim's bodies. But as time passed, an unusual array of semen was left behind. No two samples ever matched. None of the contributors were in any law enforcement database, like CODIS.

The sounds of sirens in the distance snapped my attention back to the world around me. I couldn't see anything yet, but the sound grew louder, the closer they came.

That was when I remembered that Myrtle and Richard were here—and apparently, a new customer.

The newcomer sat on the stool, back facing me, and I was stricken with an odd sense of ambiguity. Frankie, the part of my brain that constantly pays attention murmured. Came in here and ordered coffee, steak and eggs and a side of extra-large hash browns about five minutes ago.

Frankie didn't turn around, but Myrtle and Richard rushed to the front door and watched three police cars, the pumper truck from the fire department and an ambulance streak by the diner down Main Street.

"Oh, Lordy," Myrtle fretted. "What a rotten night for a house fire."

"Bah, woman, don't you know anything?" Richard's grumble boomed low through the room. "I'll find out what's going on."

"Now Dick, I don't like you spying on the police with that emergency radio of yours," Myrtle said. I saw the jerk of the head in my direction, like some sort of silent code that he shouldn't be doing what there was no law against doing in the first place, because I was there.

"Jay would be the first to tell you, if it wasn't legal, you couldn't buy the radios."

In the meantime, my cell phone buzzed on the table. I snatched it and peered at the caller ID.

The boss. Again.

"Raver," I answered tersely.

"Please tell me you haven't left Whisper Cove yet," Kelsey said.

"My, aren't we schizophrenic tonight? You want me out of town; you're hoping I haven't left yet. Surely you've already peeked at my vehicle's location and know that I'm still sitting inside Dick's Diner. Why are you now hoping I disobeyed your order?"

"There's been a murder in town. Well, on the outskirts, Jay. Taggart Sorenson wants to know if you can go over—"

"Wait," incredulity spiked the volume of my voice and sharpened my irritation to a razor's edge. "Two hours ago, you told me Sheriff Sorenson didn't want me in his stupid little town, and now you expect me to believe that he wants me helping him investigate a murder?"

"Calm down and keep quiet, Jay," she hissed.

"Why? I'm in the diner in a very small town where Myrtle and Dick probably know more about the case from their police scanner than you do."

"Will you at least go somewhere no one can possibly overhear our conversation?" exasperation bled over the phone connection.

I sighed, got up and stalked out the front door of the diner. I didn't even bother to put on my coat, an act that resulted in instant regret. The biting wind sliced through flesh and chilled my bones. My teeth chattered when I said, "I'm outside, freezing my ass off, so please be considerate enough to get to the point quickly, Kelsey."

"The perp was at the scene," she said. "There's really not much to investigate, Jay, because they caught the guy red-handed. He was in the master bedroom with her."

"Who's the victim?"

Her pause was telling.

"Oh Jesus. You're sending me on this errand because some important family is involved, right?"

"The victim is Felicia Cunningham."

"I'm not from around these parts, remember, Kelsey? Who the hell is she and why is her murder more important than any other?"

"Her husband is the heir to the Cunningham Global fortune," she said. "Surely you've heard of Cunningham Global."

I pinched my eyes shut before tears froze them open. "Yes, I understand now. But if they caught the guy, why does Taggart need our help? And don't presume that I'm stupid enough to believe that he requested me specifically."

"There was an officer involved shooting," she said. "Sorenson himself pulled the trigger, Jay. The perp is dead. The state has to investigate. It's out of his hands now."

I froze—beyond the literal sensation that my limbs were about to fall off. "What do you mean—he shot the perp? Why?"

"Apparently, the guy made a run for it, Jay."

"Back up and tell me what happened from the beginning," I said.

She sighed heavily. "They got an emergency call, some anonymous citizen called from a payphone—who knew they still existed? So Tag's officer on duty went over to investigate. There was a suspicious car in the Cunningham driveway, blood on the trunk of the car, and he could see a shadow in the window of a second story room. He called for backup. Taggart went personally, along with the other three cops on the police force in a town of eighteen hundred souls. They entered the residence and heard noises coming from upstairs... this guy, whoever he was, bled her out and then...he was sodomizing the corpse."

"Jesus," air fogged from my frozen lips.

"So naked as a jaybird, this guy jumps the balcony on the second floor, lands in the snow, and tries to make a break for the woods. Tag said his keys were in the ignition of the car, so his officers figured he'd make a run for the vehicle. Tag was the only one who went over the balcony after him. He ordered the man to halt, but he wouldn't. He took one shot, and hit the guy in the back. He was dead before Taggart got to the body."

"Shit," I said. "All right. Let me go back inside and get my stuff. What's the address?"

Kelsey rattled it off as I reached for the front door of the diner. The door popped open before I could touch it, and the unknown Frankie pushed past me. It felt like my bones were going to shatter, he shoved so hard.

I struggled to maintain my balance and stepped inside the diner.

"Who the hell was that?" I asked.

"Who? Frankie?" Myrtle asked.

I felt dizzy, suddenly, as the heat from Dick's kitchen warmed my cold skin to pins and needles.

"Oh dear lord, Jay! What did you do to yourself? You're bleeding all over the floor! Richard, quick! Call the ambulance!"

I crumpled to my knees and tried in vain to pat myself down to find the source of the blood Myrtle thought she saw. Through some odd sort of instinct, I grasped the inside of my left thigh right near the groin. My numb fingers retained enough sensation to distinguish that my pants quickly soaked with blood. I pinched with as much strength as I possessed.

Dick dropped down to one side of me with a roll of paper towels. "Here!" He shoved my hand away and crammed the whole roll of towels between my legs. "Saw a guy take a bayonet to the thigh like this back in 'Nam," he explained. "Nicked some sort of artery and he bled to death. We gotta stop the bleeding, Myrtle. Get my belt undone."

It felt like an hour before his belt cinched around my thigh and kept the roll of paper towels imbedded tight against my sopping pants.

"Ambulance will be here quick, Jay. Don't you worry, son. We won't let you die," Richard said.

He looked like he had an aura around him, a halo effect of some kind as I stared up at him.

"He's dying, Myrtle. Where's that damned ambulance?"

I sensed rather than actually felt movement. Something clunked against the top of my head.

"Dammit, Myrt! Hold the doors open. I've got to get him back here so I can get his legs up on the cot."

"You could've done that on a booth," her voice was faint and weak. The light around Dick was starting to fade.

"Hang in there, buddy," he said. "Help will be here fast."

I heard the sound of a ringing bell. This was it. I was dying, and somehow I knew that I couldn't stop it, couldn't fight the darkness, or the bells on the gates of Heaven from welcoming me inside. I stopped fighting and let my eyes flutter shut.

My Sunday school lessons never said anything about excruciating pain after passing through the Pearly Gates. In fact, I was taught the exact opposite, that Heaven was paradise and all of my suffering would end.

I was still cold, painfully so, and every few seconds an ice pick pierced my brain through one of my eyes. At least that was the sensation, or as close as I could describe it.

After the third bout of stabbing pain, I moaned.

"He's regaining consciousness. Get his boss in here. I told her she could question him the moment he woke up."

Blurred faces gained sharper focus with each blink of my eyes. "I'm not dead."

"No, detective, you were very lucky that poor Mr. Saing helped you before—"

"Doctor!" a voice I recognized interrupted him sharply. "I'd like to hear Detective Raver's recollection of events without you tainting them with your own perceptions."

What the hell happened? How did Kelsey get here so fast? Hadn't we spoken on the phone only a few minutes ago?

"Where am I?" I asked. "Tell me what happened, Kelsey."

"You know the rules, Jay. You tell me what you recall first; then I can tell you what happened last night."

"Last night? What time is it?"

"It's about five o'clock in the afternoon, Saturday afternoon, Jay," she said as she stepped close enough to fill my visual field. "You recall talking on the phone to me?"

"Yes," I tried to clear my throat so the rest of what I had to say didn't sound quite so frog croaking hoarse.

"What happened after that?"

If I could've told her, I would've, but it was a blank, or maybe disjointed fragments of confusion. "I thought I went to Heaven."

"You almost died. Somehow, your left femoral artery was nicked. Had there been another millimeter of pressure, you would've bled to death before Mr. Saing and his wife tried to help you."

"Myrtle and Richard...are they...what did they tell you?"

I watched Kelsey bite into her upper lip for a moment. She did that upside-down lip-chewing thing a lot, usually when she was contemplating a tactful way to say something that would create objections.

"I need the room, doctor. I'll call for help if his condition deteriorates."

"You're not trained to know what the early symptoms look like," the doctor argued. "I insist that someone stay, someone with medical training."

"I was a medic in Desert Storm," she lied. "Believe me, I know the signs of destabilization, probably better than you do. Now get out."

The doctor disappeared, and I heard the soft snick of something, maybe a door closing. "Kelsey, what happened to me?"

"As far as the rest of the world is concerned, it was a random attack, Jay, but when I tell you what actually happened, I suspect you'll see it for what it is, just like I did. Before I tell you, I want you to look at something."

She pulled out her cell phone and opened an app. "Look at this."

"Jesus," I whispered. There was blood everywhere. On the floor, on the counter, splattered on the walls. "Is all that mine?"

"There's a little puddle here," she enlarged the photo on the screen. "That was where you started bleeding before the Saings saved your life."

"Oh no. Please don't tell me that someone... that guy, Frankie. He...he must've stabbed me when he left the diner as I was coming back inside!"

"So you do remember what happened?" she asked carefully.

Why was she tiptoeing around the facts? It made no sense to me.

I nodded, ever so slightly, because everything in my body was screaming in pain.

"From what we could determine through a forensic examination of the crime scene was that the Saings rendered aid where you fell. I presume, based on Mrs. Saing's small stature, that Mr. Saing was the one who pulled you back through the kitchen to a small office where he had a cot. That's where you were found. We know Mrs. Saing called for an ambulance. It was probably five minutes from the time of her call until the first responders arrived, Jay. Mr. and Mrs. Saing had been mutilated."

I tried to sit up.

"Don't," she said. "There was nothing that could've been done to save them, Jay. They were dead within seconds of the attack. The blood you saw sprayed all over that diner in the picture I just showed you was arterial spray. You called this unknown attacker Frankie."

"Yeah," I said, though I wasn't sure how. An incredible pressure filled my chest and made breathing difficult, so much that pushing out enough air to form words was difficult. "He introduced himself as Frankie. I wasn't really paying much attention... I was..."

"Using your laptop?" she asked.

I nodded again. "I was reading about the Night Lotus, Kelsey, cases in ViCAP that were absolutely linked by that little drawing he leaves at his crime scenes. But before you yell at me for disobeying orders again, tell me if this attack on Myrtle and Richard could've been linked to the scene where Taggart shot the perp. Are you certain the guy was acting alone?"

She stepped away from the bed and began to pace. I watched her violate the law when she pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Kelsey puffed heavily, consuming the entire thing in what couldn't have been more than three minutes. She dropped the butt into a pitcher on a rolling table in the room and coughed.

"You shouldn't smoke. You really shouldn't do it in a hospital."

"Or the ICU," she concurred with a curt nod. "I don't know how you stumbled into this mess, Jay, but you did. You fell right into a steaming pile of crap."

"Then the two cases were related?" I asked.

"I don't know, but if your gut is saying yes, I'm disinclined to argue with you. What I can tell you is that you've been right about this Night Lotus thing all along. I'm sorry I belittled you for chasing urban legends."

"What changed your mind?" I asked.

She stood next to my bed again, phone out. "This," she said. "Goddamned sickest thing I've ever seen. Your little artist signed his work again."

Kelsey held the phone in front of my face, and I stared at the bloody drawing on the wall—this time, a crescent moon over the odd flower that one commentator insisted was a night-blooming cereus, not a lotus flower.

"What do you make of this, Jay?" she asked.

"I think maybe someone realized I was getting too good at asking the right questions," I replied. "I lied to you tonight, Kelsey."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I was on my way back from Portland when I stopped in for coffee at Dick's Diner. I'd already talked to the person who claimed to have knowledge that the Night Lotus was in Portland over the past few days."

"Why would you lie about something like that, Jay? My God, you should've had backup!"

"Have you forgotten about your true feelings toward my investigation?" I asked. "I haven't. I don't think I'll ever forget being accused of turning your office into a laughingstock, or comparing me to some crappy old TV show about hunting aliens from other planets. I'm not a proponent of massive government conspiracies, Kelsey, nor did I ever indicate that I believed this killer is some sort of black-ops agent gone rogue. He's a rather ordinary person, if you must know."

"Then you saw him."

"Of course I did! The man tried to bleed me like a stuck pig. Granted, I didn't spend any time actually looking at him beyond a glance, but..."

"Myrtle and Dick Saing did, didn't they, Jay?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah. And so he came back and slaughtered them. But why didn't he make sure I was really dead?"

"Maybe he didn't think he had enough time before EMS showed up. Or maybe he did look," she said. "You didn't look like you were alive when the paramedics arrived, Jay. In fact, they intubated you in the field and called for the Life Flight service here in Portland to come pick you up, because they knew you wouldn't last long enough to get to a hospital by ambulance. That urgent care clinic in Whisper Cove wouldn't have done you a bit of good."

"Myrtle and Richard." Pain lanced through me again. "They didn't do anything wrong, Kelsey."

"Tell me what you know about them," she said. "Other than getting a good look at this perpetrator, can you think of any reason why somebody would want them dead?"

"What makes you think they were the targets, Kelsey? Doesn't it make more sense that this guy found out I'd been asking too many questions and followed me back to Whisper Cove? Myrtle and Richard were just collateral damage."

"We can't make that assumption. You know we have to look at every victim, Jay. You were the person who shouldn't have been there last night, not Mr. and Mrs. Saing. If this Night Lotus is really some kind of avenging angel for hire, doesn't it make more sense that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time? In that context, taking you out first was a very smart move."

I experienced a surreal moment of incredulity. "Myrtle and Richard were some of the nicest people I met in Whisper Cove. Nobody hated them. I can't imagine why anybody would want either one of them dead."

"So you think this guy came back and killed them because they were witnesses to what he did to you?"

"That's the only scenario that makes sense at all, Kelsey." A memory floated back too quickly, and I groaned at the realization of how right I was about why Myrtle and Richard died. "There was an exchange. I only overheard bits and pieces. Myrtle said something about her memory, that if it was sketchy, the one thing she hadn't lost was the ability to remember faces. This Frankie character had been in the diner before and Myrtle recognized him."

"Then perhaps you were the collateral damage," she agreed. "Maybe Frankie thought you left the diner for good, but when you came back inside, he decided to distract them by taking you out first."

"Then why didn't he kill them right away? Why leave long enough for Richard to try to save my life? He did it, you know. I'd have bled out right by the front door, but he did something to slow the bleeding."

"Apparently he picked up a few tricks in Vietnam," Kelsey said.

"Did you get my stuff from the diner or is it all impounded with everything else from the crime scene?"

Kelsey frowned. "Your coat?"

"And my bag," I said. "My laptop, my identification, my badge, it was all inside the leather satchel where I store the laptop."

She paled.

"That's just fantastic. Now the psycho not only knows who I am, but he knows what I was researching when he walked into that diner."

"Jay, this is bad," Kelsey's voice was barely a whisper. "If he knows you were looking for him, he knows that you didn't die last night too."

"And he can't know how much I remember—or don't as the case may be—about his face, his appearance."

"He'll try again," she said.

"Not if you act quickly," I said. "You've got to make another announcement, Kelsey. You have to tell the press that I succumbed to my wounds and died. Otherwise, I really will be dead."

Chapter 9

Kelsey Maclaren

I wasted only ten seconds getting our division chief to understand the precarious position Jay enjoyed after our relieved announcement that he survived the attack, but was still in serious condition.

"I'll make the announcement right away and pedal this thing back. What're we talking about here, Kelsey? Do we want the perp to believe that Detective Raver is in more serious condition than he is?"

"No," I said quickly. "Something like that might just draw this guy to the hospital to finish the job and be sure. Chief, he's got to believe that Jay didn't survive at all."

The silence made my heart hammer hard against my breastbone.

"Surely you're not suggesting that we use Jay as bait to catch this guy, sir," I said. "Do you realize how many murders are tacked to his total? A dozen at least. He's smart and...and well, for lack of a better description, sir, he's like a chameleon. He could be standing right next to me and I probably wouldn't realize it."

"Then let's hope you've chosen a very secure location for this conversation," he said.

"I'm in my car, sir. I didn't want to risk... Jay still has armed police guarding his room in ICU. The world needs to believe he's dead. If you want to draw out the killer, then do it at Jay's funeral. I wouldn't put it past this bastard to pretend to know him and show up for the memorial."

"Can Jay give us a good enough description at this point?" he asked. "I was under the impression that he'd barely regained consciousness, Kelsey."

"He became more lucid as we talked, but to answer your question, no, he wasn't expecting a serial killer to attack him at a diner in Whisper Cove, and he wasn't exactly paying attention to the man. Ironically, he was doing a ViCAP search for murders with the drawing this nut job left on the diner wall when I called to have him go over to the Cunningham estate."

"I doubt there's any irony involved at all, Captain Maclaren. I suspect this killer had some idea that Jay was getting too close for comfort, so he sent a strong message to law enforcement."

"But sir, I'm not certain that was the motive in these murders or Jay's assault at all. Sometimes it's merely a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jay said that Mrs. Saing said something about her ability to recall people's faces."

"Meaning that Jay wasn't the real target in the murders."

"He could've simply been collateral damage, or the distraction that the perp used so he could...well, do what he did to the Saings. We can't know that at this point, but we'll never have the chance to find out of Jay ends up dead. He's been following this thing for a while now, Chief. I think he could be an integral part of the team that will catch this guy, but even if he isn't, we owe him the protection he'll need. I'm not exactly a psychologist, but I don't think I'm far off the mark when I say that a killer who draws in his victim's blood has to be at least six different kinds of crazy."

"Give me ten minutes, and then I'll call you back," the Chief said. "This is going to take some coordination. Get back inside Jay's room, Kelsey. I don't want this guy creeping past our people, and if you're there, the likelihood of that happening decreases significantly."

I hurried back to Jay's bedside. No one had come into his room while I was gone, other than his surgeon and assigned nurse for the day. Jay was still awake, but struggling against the dose of pain medication the nurse just finished administering as I walked into the room.

"No more of that," Jay said. "I need to keep my wits about me, and I wasn't in that much pain anyway."

The nurse scolded, "If we don't control your pain, it will slow your recovery."

Paranoia stabbed my heart. "What did you give him, and why wasn't I consulted before you administered it?"

"Dr. Jones was just in here, ma'am," her retort was crisp and defensive. "He ordered it."

"Give him something to counteract it," I said. "And no more medications unless it comes from an unopened vial and there's a witness to verify you're giving him what you say you are."

"Ma'am—"

"Captain Maclaren," I corrected. "This man's life is in danger. Frankly, I don't know you well enough to trust that you're giving him what you say you are. For all I know, you could've been hired to make sure Jay doesn't survive."

"You're being a little dramatic, Kelsey," Jay said weakly.

"It's called Narcan, isn't it? I've seen it used before. Give it to him now, and so help me, he'd better wake up, or you're in for a world of hurt, little girl."

She bristled, but moved to a box on the wall at the head of Jay's bed. She offered the vial to me for examination before administering the dose of medication that would block the effects of the opiate she'd flushed into Jay's IV tubing.

"Happy now?" she snarled. "I'll have you know, I intend to document everything you said to—"

"Christine," the surgeon appeared at the doorway. "You won't be able to document anything else. Detective Raver's chart has been closed. He's transferring to a more secure facility in about ten minutes. Please leave so I have privacy to talk to my patient and his commanding officer."

Nurse Christine opened her mouth, and I heard the objection coming. Hell, it was telegraphed plainly in the look in her eyes. Little green sparks, lids that narrowed tightly enough to cause tiny wrinkles, and whoa, her pursed lips communicated everything without a single word. "Dr. Jones, this man isn't stable enough for transfer!"

"Out! Now!" he barked.

She went, but not before casting a roving glare from Dr. Jones to me.

"She'll be a problem," I said.

"Which is exactly why this transfer has to take place now, while she and every other nurse in the ICU thinks he's too unstable for transport."

"Am I?" Jay barely eked out the tiny words.

"No, I believe you'll make the journey well enough, Detective Raver. If I didn't, I wouldn't agree to participate in this madness. I do think it'll slow your recovery, but I understand that you're still in grave danger, which means you put everyone else in this hospital, in this ICU in grave danger as well.

"Your chief already made arrangements to have you picked up, and I believe that while you're en route to another facility, he plans to make another announcement to the news media. Since you'll no longer be in our care, we can only vouch for your condition at the time of your transfer. I'm sure Christine will be itching to go on record that she opposed having you moved at all."

"Who is coming and when will they arrive?" I asked.

Jones glanced at his watch. "They should be here within the hour. Your chief said they're people he knows and can vouch for their identities. He said he'd be calling you soon to fill you in on the details, Captain Maclaren."

I nodded. "Thank you, doctor."

He pulled a thumb drive out of his pocket. "This is the chart. The only thing left in the system for the nursing staff to document is a discharge checklist. Don't worry about the nurse writing anything that would be of concern."

"What about you?" Jay asked. "If someone tried to torture the truth out of you, would you crack?"

"I see no reason that this would be an issue, Detective Raver. I don't know anything. You're being transferred to a more secure facility because your department fears there may be another attempt on your life. I don't know where they're taking you, nor will I be privy to your medical condition the moment you leave this hospital." He paused and frowned. "That is what's going on here, isn't it? You're going somewhere that the police can control security more tightly."

"Yes, Dr. Jones, that's all that's going on here," I said quickly. "Jay is understandably cautious and concerned for the safety of everyone here. You realize of course, that two people died last night in order to assure there were no witnesses to what happened to our detective, right?"

Jones nodded. "Of course. As I said, I do believe you're stable enough for transfer, detective, and I appreciate the fact that your bureau chief intends to make sure the public is aware that you've moved to a more secure location that is being kept confidential—even from us. I presume it was his intent to protect the staff and other patients in this hospital."

I sensed the relief washing through Jay.

"Yes, that is our intention, doctor. The last thing we want is to put anyone else at risk. Thank you for supplying me with Detective Raver's medical record. I'm sure the physician at his next location will appreciate having it."

My cell phone rang, and Jones frowned at me. "Those are prohibited in this area of the hospital, captain."

"Right," I pulled it out of my pocket and pretended to shut it off, when in reality, I'd only answered it and engaged the speaker function so Chief Hogan could hear what I was dealing with. "Sorry I forgot to shut the phone off, Dr. Jones. I'll call my boss back on a land line but I will require privacy," I said.

The door to Jay's intensive care bay slid shut.

"Oh my, he's giving you grief about cell phones in the hospital?" Hogan asked. "I bet if we made the nurses empty their pockets we'd find all kinds of active but prohibited electronics devices, wouldn't we?"

"Cut to the chase, Chief Hogan. What's the plan?" I asked.

"Some old Seals buddies of mine are picking Detective Raver up in about half an hour, Kelsey. Well, they're transporting who we want the world to believe is my trouble-finding detective."

"You're on speaker," Jay said quietly.

"I'd say it to your face, detective. What the devil were you thinking, tracking this man alone?"

"I was thinking he was in Portland, sir, which was where the tip came from, and where my witness said he'd seen the Night Lotus hanging around for more than a few days."

"What else did he tell you, Jay?" Hogan asked. "Tell me more about your source."

"He was a sketchy enough character," Jay said. "Filthy guy, if you want the truth. He was fit, somewhat muscular, about five feet nine inches tall, dark hair, brown eyes, age possibly mid to late thirties. I couldn't see any scars or distinguishing marks on him, but he did have one unusual characteristic. His fingernails, sir."

"Fingernails?" Hogan echoed.

"How were they distinctive, Jay?" I asked, fully expecting that we'd find another corpse in Portland somewhere that matched the description perfectly.

"They were longer than any man's I've ever noticed, Kelsey, and they were disgustingly dirty. The guy looked like he must be a mechanic or something. You know, motor oil stains and grime."

My eyelids felt determined to shutter the disappointment I felt. Jay reached out and gripped my wrist. "What's wrong? You've got that funny look again."

"Did he have any facial hair?"

Jay shook his head. "Five o'clock shadow at best. But at the same time, he had this air about him...bathing and hygiene weren't high priority. I also remember smelling him before I actually saw him. His breath was noxious."

"Chief Hogan, have you read my report yet on Chief Sorenson's shooting last night?" I asked.

"Yeah, Kelsey, and I think I see where you're going with this. He was the vic shot escaping the Cunningham estate last night."

"No!" Jay protested. "That's not possible!"

"Isn't it?" I asked. "Did you hypothesize to me that you felt the Night Lotus had to have a partner?"

"If I did, I don't remember why I thought so," he said, arms crossed over his chest and a moue of petulance tugging at his lips.

"You do remember. You figured that they tag teamed their victims. That's how they were always so slick getting in and out of the places where they committed the crimes. You even postulated that the Night Lotus was the brains behind the operation, Jay, that the crime scenes were on one hand highly organized, but on the other, incredibly disorganized. You said you figured it was information the FBI probably knew and held back to preserve the integrity of their investigation."

"I know what I said," he complained. "I can't believe... Jesus, why would one of them try to rat out the other? How does that make sense?"

"Let's get back to the plan," Hogan said. "One of my buddies is going to swap out your clothes and spot on the gurney, and you're taking his identity, Jay. You're going to ride with Kelsey to the safe house, and my guys are going to make it look like you're being delivered to the VA hospital where a team of armed military police will not only be guarding you, but checking the identification of anyone who even attempts to step foot on the floor where you'll be housed."

"But I won't be there."

"No," Hogan said. "Sorry, Jay, you're going to die in the ambulance, but that's the story I'm giving to the media about five seconds after you leave the hospital. You'll be pronounced dead in the ambulance and delivered to the state crime lab's facility for an autopsy, and I think we all know how difficult it would be for our perpetrator to breech that security, not that he'd need to, since you'll be dead."

"And we think this will fool this man? Chief, he's stayed far outside law enforcement's reach for nearly nine years that we know of. How can you be certain that he'll fall for this scheme?" Jay asked.

"I doubt he believes we think you might still be in danger, Jay," Chief Hogan said.

"You're wrong," his eyes darted to the wall of glass that separated his bay in the ICU from the nursing staff. "He signed his work, and he could already be in this hospital for all we know. He won't want to leave a potential witness living, Chief."

"Which is exactly why we're moving you now. We'll keep you safe, son," he said.

I rolled my eyes at Jay and told the chief to text me the location of the safe house where he wanted me to store Jay while he recovered.

When the phone was stuffed back in my pocket, I looked at Jay. "I agree with you."

"That I'm in danger right now, that he's probably already inside this hospital just waiting for the opportunity to strike? Kelsey, I didn't even realize he'd stabbed me," he said. "I was cold from standing outside talking to you, and I didn't even feel the blade slice into my skin."

"I get it," I said. "The guy knows his business, Jay. I think Chief Hogan's intentions are good, but flawed at the same time."

"I'm certain of one thing," Jay's eyes kept darting back to the staff coming and going at will outside his room. "He got a far better look at me than I did him. And Kelsey, if he took my bag, he's got my laptop. That's going to be even more incentive for him to get me out of the way. All my notes, everything, it's all there. He knows what I thought, how the best way to capture him would work in my opinion, the stuff from ViCAP, it's all there."

"I know."

"He could tap into any police database now that he's got my computer. Hell, if Chief Hogan has emailed anyone or done any kind of computer communication, I know this guy has the brains to plug in and know exactly what the plan is."

"Then let's change it," I said. "If that's what it takes to keep you alive and get you well enough for us to go on the offensive with this son of a bitch, let's do it. We'll cut Hogan out of the loop until we can find a way to communicate that we're sure is secure."

"But how will I get out of here without anyone noticing that I'm the one leaving? If he's here, if he's watching, waiting for that opportunity to slip in and finish what he started, I'm pretty much at his mercy."

I started to pace again, and considered breaking another rule of the hospital by smoking a second cigarette. It helped me focus and solve problems—or so I told myself.

"Kelsey, if I had clothes, something that would reasonably disguise me, I could walk right out of here."

"Your clothes were toast, Jay. The doctors or nurses...whoever, in the emergency department had to cut them off you while they were saving your life last night."

"There's a gift shop downstairs, isn't there?" he asked.

"You want to skin a stuffed animal and wear that?"

He grinned broadly. "I'm pretty sure that you can buy stuff like sweats down there."

"I'm pretty sure if you're larger than a newborn, no, you won't find anything to wear home in the gift shop. I have another idea." I started digging through the voluminous supply cupboard in his room until a pile of gauze grew—rolls and rolls of the stuff."

"I'm going out as a mummy?" he asked.

"It'll hide your face until I can get you to my car."

"And what about the nursing staff? How will you get me past them without notice?" he asked. "I get the concept here, I really do, but I don't think we'll get out of here so easily, Kelsey. We should probably wait until Chief Hogan's guys arrive and I can leave in paramedic garb. It shouldn't be too hard to ditch them if we're only following them away from the hospital."

Before I could argue with him, the chief's pals arrived with a bonafide paramedic gurney, an impressive array of gear including oxygen and a defibrillator, and attire common to every paramedic in the city. One of them pulled the curtain to provide privacy, while the other began stripping out of his uniform.

"Did Hogan tell you the plan? Your guy here goes out as one of us, and rides with you to the safe house. We take Joe here in the role of detective Raver, and draw away anybody that might think to follow to the next location."

I nodded. "But one look at him, and the Night Lotus will know that it isn't really Jay. Jay's blonde for God's sake."

"It's wicked cold outside, ma'am," the man said. "The wind chill was twenty below when we arrived. He'll be blanketed and bundled so well, not even the nurses will recognize the difference. Plus, we're wearing hooded coats. Scott will go get report from the nurse," the man who had yet to identify himself jerked his head toward the door, and his cohort Scott slipped outside the curtain. "I think your detective would appreciate a little privacy, Captain Maclaren."

I looked at Jay again. His eyes were wide and sober, skin pale and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

"Are you in pain, Jay? Maybe I shouldn't have—"

"We've got it covered, ma'am," the lead Seal said. He thrust a prescription bottle into my hand. "One to two tablets every four to six hours for pain. You're not allergic to anything, are you detective?"

"No," Jay said. His glow advanced to droplets that beaded on his upper lip.

I stepped closer to the bed and gripped his hand. "Jay, are you in pain?"

"No."

Nerves. He was on edge about leaving the relative safety of the ICU to go out into the world where it would be far more difficult to see the threat advancing on him, or us now, since there was no way I would leave his side for a second. I stuffed the pill bottle into my pocket.

"Do you want me to step outside the curtain while you change clothes?"

He glanced at the strangers with frank suspicion.

"I'm staying," I said. "Not like you've got some strange anatomy I've never seen before anyway."

"You don't know that," a sickly grin cracked his lips. "I could have some very alien anatomy compared to what you're used to seeing."

Joe, the dark-haired man who planned to play the role of Jay guffawed. "He got you there, Captain Maclaren. That was pretty good."

I could tell that his humor and personable approach with Jay put him at ease—at least a tiny bit. He still looked clammy and uncomfortable, and I suspected he wasn't telling the truth about his discomfort.

"Bob, he's not looking so good," Joe said. "Maybe we'd better get that doctor back in here. His lips are blue."

The guy was right. "Jay, are you having trouble breathing?" I asked.

"No, I really feel fine."

"His oxygen saturation is good," Bob—my unidentified leader of the group—said. "You don't have to worry about this, detective. You're really going to be safe. Or is this because you don't think she can protect you without backup?"

I bit back the irritation Bob's question sparked.

"I'm just anxious about getting out of here," Jay said, while his eyes telegraphed something else to me entirely. He remembered something, something he hadn't yet shared with me.

"Jay, whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. I promise."

He nodded, and the transfer proceeded.

When the large group of paramedic-dressed transporters wheeled Joe off the elevator, there was enough curiosity and burgeoning gossip from the media gathered in the hospital lobby that Jay and I slipped away literally unnoticed.

"You remembered something, didn't you?" I asked.

"It just occurred to me how much danger these guys have put themselves in by pretending to transport me, Kelsey. He's here. I can feel it."

"What, like some kind of psychic connection?"

He tossed a glare in my direction and climbed into the front seat of my car. That was all he spared me though. His attention quickly focused on the ambulance several yards away from us, and the gathered crowd. Even from our distance, we could hear questions being shouted by the press to Joe. The reporters wanted to know if he could identify the man who attacked him, if the police were close to catching the Night Lotus.

"How in the hell did the press find out about the Night Lotus? Surely Hogan wasn't dumb enough to release too many details to them," Jay said.

"We didn't release details of the crime," I said, my own unease growing incrementally.

"That's how I know he's here and watching," Jay said. "Signing his work isn't good enough for this guy anymore, Kelsey. The police aren't making a spectacle of his crimes. I think he's the one who started this Night Lotus urban legend in the first place. But he didn't realize that by turning himself into a caricature, that rational people would have a hard time believing he's real."

"So he tries to kill a cop, and a couple of old people running a diner," I theorized.

"No, that wasn't why he was in Whisper Cove at all," he said. "We need to get to Mr. Cunningham, wherever he is. He's the one who can explain why a hired killer showed up in our sleepy little cove, Kelsey."

"Of course," I said. I saw the ambulance slowly drive away from the hospital and started the car.

"You're going to go ahead and follow them?" he asked.

"For a couple of blocks. I'll hang back far enough that it won't be obvious that we're watching, Jay. We'll head in the opposite direction just as soon as we hit the freeway."

"They'll call the chief if they notice we're not following them," he said.

"Unlike you, I'm conducting business from my personal vehicle, Jay. This thing doesn't have any means of being tracked."

"What about your cell phone?" he asked.

"I shut it off after we spoke to the chief in ICU," I said.

"Do you plan to tell me where we're going, Captain?"

"You said we need to track down the Cunningham family. We'll start there and see what they have to say about the one thing we know for sure brought this Night Lotus to Whisper Cove. The dead daughter-in-law is our lead here, Jay. I agree with you.

"Now that we're finally alone without danger of being overheard, I want you to tell me everything you've learned—oh shit!" I swerved through traffic and abruptly turned the corner before I slammed on the brakes.

"What? What's wrong?"

I pointed to the plume of black smoke that rose above the building line on the busy street.

"What the hell was that?"

"The ambulance," I said. "Jesus, Raver, who the hell is this guy?"

Chapter 10

Castillo

I savored the charred remains, from my vantage point at the top of an office building that was high enough to keep my interest from being noticed, but not so high that I couldn't watch the carnage that my hands created.

The pack of chalk I bought at the local Walmart this morning had already been put to good use. It was my most colorful drawing yet—right above the point where my last loose end was tied off permanently.

I smiled. O'Banion was gone, and so was the cop he'd sneaked off to talk to about me. Bastard really did think he could do the job without me. "And who had the last laugh, O'Banion? It sure as hell wasn't you," I murmured.

For the first time in years, I was free. His stench would no longer plague me. Yet I'd come away with knowledge I didn't possess before I knew him, and for that, I spared only a moment of gratitude. He wasn't worth a speck more.

The cop was a surprise. Sure, I've been making my little drawings and following the ludicrous stories about why I do what I do for a few years now. How anybody found out, or started such crazy stories is something I'll probably never know. Night Lotus. What a retarded name. I couldn't resist replying once, to a bunch of amateur psychologists and profilers on some stupid website that debunks stories like mine. The lotus doesn't bloom at night. The cereus—the thing of beauty that comes from the cactus—does bloom at night. She's the queen of the night, and so am I.

Poor toasted Detective Jameson Raver. The Bluetooth earpiece connected to my stereo hadn't stopped humming with news since the moment of the explosion three hours ago. This was the first time I grasped why O'Banion enjoyed spending so much time with his victims.

Everyone was in a state of abject horror that whoever (me) tried to kill poor Detective Raver came back and got the job done, but with a great deal of collateral damage.

"You'd be almost proud of me, O'Banion," I murmured. "My first forty-eight hours without you, and I've already racked up a body count in double digits. Didn't take long for me to catch up, did it you foul-smelling son of a bitch."

They were picking through the debris to find the parts that had been separated from the bulk of the bodies now, the bags being lined up in a neat little row at the side of the street. Poor saps would be cleaning up the mess for days, no doubt.

As much as I might've loved to stay and watch the whole thing, doing so would be dangerous. Sooner or later, someone would find my little signature. I'd rather not be around when it happened. Besides, I had another job to do.

My eyes drifted over the rooftop one last time. On impulse, I pulled out my actual cell phone and clicked a couple of pictures of the drawing. This time, there would be no question. It was more than the initial scribbled drawing on an altar cloth made with the charred end of a stick.

It was a mural, of home, of the warm, arid climes where I evolved. The crescent moon illuminated my flower, this time, blooming on the cactus surrounded by rippling sand and craggy rock. I'd outdone myself on this one, and when they found it, they'd know that I spent hours up here, freezing my fingers to numb nubs as I watched my handiwork investigated below and created another masterpiece above.

Yes, being alone was already making me bloom, much like the queen of the night did by darkness of desert night.

The specifics of this job would fade away, like all that came before it. What I would remember was the artwork, the beauty of something so warm coming to life in a cold world that couldn't appreciate such beauty—simply because it was too damn frozen to ever truly enjoy such a thing.

Gloves donned, I opened the door on the roof to the stairwell that would lead me down to my new mode of transportation. It was a luxury that would make O'Banion roll over in his grave. All of his money belonged solely to me now. I could afford the brand new sleek, black Ford Mustang GT. I paid cash for it in Portland just a few days ago. The temporary tags were replaced with plates I stole off a Lexus parked behind this very office building.

I'd steal something else in Massachusetts. It's where the next client waited.

So bozo detective didn't die right away. Even if he had given his cop pals a description of me, I doubted that he got a very good look at me at all, even when I ran right into him and cut him open. It was a stroke of luck, taking him out first. The witness who worried me was Myrtle. Old people shouldn't have good memories, and assuming that they did was a mistake I wouldn't make twice.

Still, it was a worthy exercise and answered one of the questions nagging in the back of my brain for years: did I have what it took to be an indiscriminate killer? Yes. I am more than that now. I'm calculating, lethal and smarter than O'Banion ever could've been without me, that's for sure. No way could he have pulled off the Hail Mary I executed.

Five paramedics and a witness, all with a little well placed homemade plastic explosive and a timed blasting cap. I must've drove the distance between the hospital and the freeway ramp ten times after I intercepted Chief Dumb-Dumb's email to the troops. Seven minutes, adjusted for traffic, would put them on the freeway. I set the timer for six and waited on the roof. Of course, if the bozo hadn't told me they were going north to Augusta, following the ambulance would've been necessary if I wanted to see the fruits of my labor.

Time is my friend. Or at least, it was when O'Banion was still alive. Speaking of morons, I knew he'd make a run for it. How I wished I could've stayed to watch him jump a balcony in the dead of night, naked save for his rubber, and try to escape. He didn't even know the car was still parked where he left it. To me, it was the ultimate symbol of how stupid O'Banion really was. If he thought to betray me, why wouldn't he at least consider that I might do the same to him?

The thought hit me. Maybe the cop in the diner was only waiting to see O'Banion's car drive through town before giving chase to capture me...with a bloody knife and gloves in tow.

Son of a bitch! What luck, that I escaped in a different vehicle, that I stopped at that diner and got rid of the cop who was onto me.

Had he told the pretty cop keeping vigil what he learned?

I hadn't had much time to really dig through the computer I lifted after Myrtle and Richard were out of the way. I knew that O'Banion ratted me out to this Raver guy in Portland. He'd taken an awful lot of notes, but his description of O'Banion stuck in my mind.

News radio couldn't stop talking about the alleged act of terrorism committed in Portland a few hours ago. They kept playing the same grief-stricken statement from the state police, over and over until I had it committed to memory.

"Detective Jameson Raver was an outstanding officer, a man dedicated to upholding the law and seeing that violent criminals were brought to justice without passion or prejudice. His loss is one the department, his unit specifically, will feel for years to come. While there are few details regarding his death that I am able to share with you at this time, I do want to reassure the public that the state police are now working in conjunction with the FBI, ATF and Department of Homeland Security to find the person or persons responsible for this act of cowardice that took the lives of a police detective and five dedicated medical professionals. Thank you."

Questions that were shouted from the throng of reporters were cut from later broadcasts, but I couldn't forget those either. Who did this? Does the federal government have the resources to track down a criminal who would do such a thing? Will Portland endure a lockdown like Boston did several years ago when terrorists attacked the Boston Marathon participants and spectators?

That was when some Agent Who-Gives-A-Fuck stepped up to speak about how the bureau would leave no stone unturned.

That specific cliché was like the menacing older sibling of No Child Left Behind. Look how that one turned out. I wasn't worried. I sat on the rooftop drawing and watching for hours and nobody paid any attention to me at all. I drove away from the barricades that kept spectators away from their active crime scene. Nobody stopped me. Nobody thought I looked suspicious.

If Raver really did give them a description of me, it likely included that shock of bleached blonde hair. True, it was naturally white-blonde, but given my love of wigs and disguises, there isn't a natural hair to be found anywhere on my body—at least not where my razor and I can reach.

I pushed thoughts of it away consciously. Even if Raver gave them a good description, he was dead now. He couldn't identify me in a police lineup. And they'd have to catch me first. They truly don't know who to look for now.

Boston's a little over an hour by car from Portland. I exited I-95 before I got to the city and found a cheap motel. My tattered suitcases were stuffed so full, zippers barely contained the clothing, wigs and other means I used to disguise my appearance. I experienced a strange moment, almost like cognitive dissonance, when I realized that the only disguise O'Banion had ever seen me use were wigs that changed my hair color and style when I had to go in and make the path clear for him to do his dirty work. O'Banion was a memorable guy.

I'm not. It's probably why Myrtle's declaration of recognition bothered me so much. I couldn't be memorable. I glanced behind me at the Mustang. It was memorable. Yet not. Somehow, I couldn't shake the feeling that O'Banion's old collection of 1970s cars garnered more attention than he realized.

I dropped my bags and went back to the car. Knowing how much O'Banion told the cop about me seemed the most urgent task of the night, superseding the chat my new client expected to have with me. The detective's bag weighed a ton to my weary shoulder. Too much large-scale drawing.

It tugged another grin to my lips. Had they found my masterpiece yet?

I kicked the motel room door shut and aimed the remote device at the car to engage the locks and security alarm. It took a couple of minutes to get the detective's computer online—unbelievable that the state didn't require him to password protect his login—and I was in. He hadn't bothered to close any of the apps he had running.

I salivated at the sight of the information he had from ViCAP, but that would have to wait. His email, which I had checked previously, was unremarkably silent. The guy was burnt to a crisp after all. Unless they thought he had access to his email in the great beyond, nobody in their right minds would send him email.

He had two open documents in Word. The first was a profile he was writing about me (how flattering!) and the second was notes he took after talking to O'Banion.

Informant has probably the worst hygiene I've ever endured during an interview. Clothes are filthy, and if I'm not mistaken, he actually has semen stains on his shirt. His fingernails are long, unkempt and filthy. His hair isn't short, but not noticeably long either. At the same time, it has a very rustic quality to it, like he cuts it himself. He's not clean-shaven, more shadow than beard. And his oral hygiene! My God, I've never smelled anything quite that foul that wasn't a dead body.

I burst out laughing. Yeah, that was definitely O'Banion. "Imagine sitting beside that pig, day after day, year after year, detective. Maybe that'll help explain why O'Banion outlived his welcome."

Informant specifically responded to my ad on Craigslist where I published that I was seeking information on any potential sightings of the Night Lotus. I was inundated with thousands of responses, nearly 100% not credible. Incredibly not credible. This guy, who would only give me his first name—Steve—

I snorted. "Steve O'Banion? I don't think so, Henry."

Stated that he knew the Night Lotus, that he'd seen him before in New Mexico. He described details from a town where the first documented instance of the unusual drawing of a flower in some stage of moonlight was left behind. I'll have to double check ViCAP, but I think the priest's murder took place during the first quarter, so the moon wouldn't have been full in that drawing.

Informant states that the unsub is male, slight build, around thirty to thirty-five years of age, Caucasian, and approximately five-seven to five-nine in height. He has dark brown hair, is clean shaven (though Steve implied it's because the Night Lotus can't grow a beard) and looks like—I quote—"one of them preppy fuckers from 'bout 30 years ago, he's so squeaky clean-like."

The informant confirms, if he's telling me the truth, that the Night Lotus is not one perpetrator, but a pair of them. Steve's knowledge of the first documented scene tells me that he likely knows the real identity of the unsub either because he knows this partner or is the partner himself. If his description of the Night Lotus is accurate, I can see this guy contributing the disorganized aspects of the crime scene versus the organized elements left behind by the groomed partner. He has described a man who meets the meticulous and exacting criteria required of anyone working with someone like Steve, or whoever the disorganized partner is. No way could Steve walk out of a crime scene without leaving behind either a ton of physical evidence or, in the alternative, a shitload of people who would remember him. I'm convinced this man is the real deal. I asked him if he knew why the Night Lotus would be in Portland. He denied knowledge, but it was pretty clear he was lying to me. I'm going to head back up toward Augusta for the night. He agreed to contact me on Craigslist if he sees this guy again.

The date the file was created was Friday night, just a couple of hours before O'Banion and I hit the Cunningham woman. I couldn't believe that the detective hunting for me just happened to walk into a diner where I would later stop for coffee and to watch O'Banion meet the devil.

I stared at how much this cop discerned with a shiver I hadn't felt since the first time I saw O'Banion pop some poor sap's eyeball with the tip of his bowie knife. "Good thing you're dead, motherfucker, and even better that I was smart enough to grab your digital files before anybody else had the chance to see what you thought of me and my little adventure."

Uncanny. That was the only word I could think of to describe how easily the detective had O'Banion pegged.

He'd been in the diner long enough Friday night for the engine in his car to grow as ice cold as the wind, and as absorbed as he was in work for the few minutes I visited the diner that night, it made sense that he'd created his notes while he sat inside. But why? What attracted him to me, to my work? It wasn't like O'Banion and I left a pile of bodies strewn about the state of Maine. The Cunningham job was the first time either one of us had been that far north.

Mostly, we worked the coastal south over the past couple of years: Texas, Alabama, a pair of losers in Charleston, and another in Washington D.C. Before that, it was the Southwest—New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, one job in Utah (that one really helped cement me as the boogeyman bad guys should fear. O'Banion was particularly inventive when he tortured and killed a polygamist who wanted to marry his wife's ten-year-old daughter). There were three in Colorado, though not contiguous.

There were more maybe. Kentucky? Some place with more hicks where O'Banion didn't stick out quite as much as he did in Colorado.

I think O'Banion killed fifteen people. Our sixteenth job was my first kill, followed quickly by seventeen more: Raver, his five paramedics and eight poor bastards with the misfortune of being too close to the ambulance at the moment of kaboom.

Son of a bitch. O'Banion. I kept coming back to him with more than a few pangs of worry. I wondered how often he'd tried to take me out of the partnership over the years while I thought he was out banging his street treats.

"I should've killed you myself, you sick fuck," I muttered before delving into the rest of Raver's computer files and online research.

His notes on O'Banion were just a terrifying glimpse at the tip of the iceberg.

Chapter 11

Jay Raver

My mouth sagged southward. "Oh sweet Jesus. Did you see what happened, captain?"

Her mouth was a slash of pale flesh, the lips drained of color by horror or compression, I wasn't sure which or if it was both. The nod was barely perceptible.

"I told you he was here. I could... I don't want to tell you that I sensed it because you'll start throwing more sci-fi sneers."

"My God, Jay, this bastard just blew up Chief's old Navy Seals buddies, the ambulance, and probably anybody in the close vicinity of the blast. You honestly think I'm going to doubt your senses after what we just witnessed? Guess again."

"We've got to get to Augusta—"

"Like hell," she said. "That's the last place we're going, Raver. You're on this guy's radar, and if he had even a shred of doubt whether or not you were in that ambulance, Augusta is where he'll go to make sure he really got to you."

Her head shook vehemently. "No way, buddy. We're sticking to the plan. We're getting out of Maine, heading to New York City and talking to the Cunninghams. You said it. This lotus lout is connected to that murder, and I aim to find out how."

"We already know what this guy is, Captain."

"Stop using my title. I think we've moved past commanding officer-detective, Raver."

"Fine, Maclaren."

She grinned. "Better, and acceptable. Now tell me what you know that you think I already do but clearly don't."

I shifted slightly in my seat and winced at the pressure on the incision inside of my left thigh.

"First, take some of that Percocet or Vicodin or whatever magic narc our dearly departed savior gave me. It's in my purse."

I rifled through no-man's land while I started to explain what was clear to me about the Night Lotus and his partner.

"These aren't just murders, Maclaren. Every single case, with the exception I presume, of Mrs. Cunningham, involved some pretty sick torture prior to the victim's death. I think the urban legend rose from the first scene where the police found this sick fuck's artwork. Pardon my French."

"Pardoned. Tell me about the first case."

"Everybody in the community was appalled by the murder. For all most of them knew, Father Ryan was a beloved member of the priesthood. And then our psychos went into the church one night, sexually abused him—repeatedly—before carving him up and then crucifying him on the back of an antique, life-sized depiction of the crucifixion of Christ."

"You mean...they put him on the back side of the cross?"

"Yeah," I said. "Then one of them blinded the guy."

"You're sure it wasn't just this Night Lotus acting alone?"

"According to my informant, you'd think that was true, but I had a very strong clue that this guy was part of the whole thing. I didn't get that far in my notes before you called me in the wee hours Saturday morning. You know damn well why I didn't get to finish writing what I thought about the guy."

"So tell me now. What made you suspect he was part of it?"

"When he was telling me about what he knew, where he saw this guy allegedly in New Mexico about four years ago and change, he got an erection."

"Oh, hell no," Maclaren groaned. "Don't tell me that."

"You asked!"

"I know, but... ugh. You know that Sorenson told me they caught the guy you think is your informant having sex with Cunningham's corpse, right?"

"I assumed as much, though you couched the subject like you were explaining sex to an eight year old. Believe me, Maclaren. I know exactly how depraved this guy really was. Many of the victims were sexually assaulted. A lot of them were guilty of sex crimes."

"And the priest, Father Ryan, was he one of those?"

I nodded. "Like I said, the community was outraged over his murder until the cops found some little boy chained in the basement of the rectory. He'd been missing from Albuquerque for a few weeks, I think. Father Ryan apparently abducted him. I suppose kids are easy prey for a priest in a heavily Catholic area."

"You realize that not all priests are pedophiles, right?" she asked, rather rhetorically. "I mean, they aren't all using the church to hide out."

"You religious, Maclaren?"

She snorted softly, one that belied her continued anxiety. "We live in Maine, Raver. Only twenty-five percent of the state's population is regularly religious."

"So there's a one in four chance that you're one of them. Which is it?"

"Not, which doesn't mean I don't believe there isn't something out there greater than we are. How about you?"

"I was born and raised in Tennessee until I was thirteen years old, Nashville no less. What do you think?"

"Ah, Southern Baptist?"

"From which there is no escape. But like seventy-five percent of my fellow Mainers, I don't attend church more than Christmas and Easter. I do believe, without question."

"Your mother would've killed you if you answered otherwise, wouldn't she?"

"Yes, uh, rather, no comment."

Maclaren grinned. "We needed to calm down and laugh, Raver. This thing suddenly got way more intense than it already was."

"Chief Hogan is probably out of his mind trying to find us. I'll be surprise if a BOLO hasn't been issued in every single state and Canada by now. Maybe you should call him and tell him we're safe."

"No," she said before I'd finished making my suggestion. "No, Jay. No, because he'll insist that we turn around and follow his plan. Obviously, our perp has used your laptop to good effect and knew the plan well enough to kill a whole bunch of innocent people in another attempt on your life. We keep this thing small; we stay under the radar and find the bastard before he figures out you're not dead."

"And how will that work? I'm not exactly operating at a hundred percent here you know. My luck, I'll throw a clot and end up a vegetable in a nursing home somewhere. I don't even know for sure what that surgeon did to save my life."

"He put some kind of patch on your femoral artery. I think the instructions the angry nurse gave you tell us what to watch for in case of complications. She seemed more worried about infection or leaking from the patch site."

"Dammit, Maclaren, she was right. I had no business leaving the hospital so soon, unless I really was checking into another ICU."

"Then let's get you into one—in New York. I'll have you admitted as a John Doe. I doubt your perp would think to look for you there. It'd be like finding a needle in a haystack anyway."

"Or a specific sliver of hay in a haystack," I said, mollified only slightly. "I'm not sure I can tolerate sitting in a car for six hours, Maclaren. Seriously, that's a long time to ride when a person just about bled to death eighteen hours ago."

"I'll make a deal with you, Jay," she said soberly. "We'll stop and rest for the day in Boston, and then if you feel up to it, first thing in the morning, we'll fly from Logan to LaGuardia. It'll cut the travel time by a third, and we can pick up a car in the city."

"It'll give Hogan an easier way to trace us, Captain," I said. "You have to pay for both of those modes of transportation by credit card. You should just dump me off here and—"

"Out of the question, Raver. I'm not leaving you for a single unguarded moment. Either we do this thing together, or we stop right now. We can always let other investigators pick up where we left off with the case. We already know the feds are crawling all over the bombing of the ambulance. One call links it all together for them. Hell, they probably know who this guy is, by reputation, I mean. I doubt you're the only cop in the country smart enough to link all the cases of his sick little crime scene graffiti together."

I arched one brow at her. "Gee, thanks, Maclaren. That makes me feel so much better."

"Jay, I know for a fact you're the only cop that got close enough to the bastard to make him try to kill you, okay? I'm just not sure calling that smart or good police work is such a good idea considering that you almost died because of it."

I pointed to a motel off the interstate. "There," I said. "Pull over there, I have to rest. I'm sorry, Kelsey. I can't make the trip in one day."

"It's all right," she said. "I have an idea anyway. I've got weapons in the trunk, including your sidearm, Jay. We're going to get your strength up for the next leg of the journey, and I'm going to make it damn near impossible for Hogan to track us down. Doing anything that might put you back on this psycho's radar again is the last thing in the world that we can afford to do right now. Trust me."

She wasn't asking, she was commanding—sort of her thing, I supposed. I answered just the same. "I guess I don't have much choice, do I? You're the only one I've got to help me out here, Captain Maclaren."

I felt her eyes pierce the darkness. "Thanks. You sound so grateful to be alive, detective. You know, I wasn't always a police captain. I do know a thing or two about investigations."

"Maybe if you'd believed me for five seconds in the first place instead of mocking me, I could've followed my lead with proper backup, and none of this would've happened."

"I'm aware of my culpability in this, Detective Raver. I don't need more guilt. Enough blood is on my hands right now."

"I didn't mean it that way. I'm frustrated and in more than a little bit of pain here. In case you've forgotten, I had major surgery to keep me from bleeding to death."

"Take the medication, Jay. Jesus."

"I'd prefer to keep my wits about me," I said as Maclaren pulled into the parking lot of the interstate motel.

A puff of breath escaped her lips, betraying her dubious regard for my choice in accommodations. "We can do better than this dump, Jay. Christ, you'll probably get some kind of hideous infection from using the toilet or sleeping on the linens."

I popped open the bottle of medication I'd been holding throughout our discussion, shook out two tablets and downed them with a gulp from a bottle of water. "Stop. At least let me crawl in the back seat where I can lay down and relieve some of the pressure on this incision. Then you can drive me straight to a hospital in New York where I can have a doctor check me out and make sure I'm not going to keel over dead."

"Don't go to sleep if you're going to be out of my sight in the back seat," she said. "I won't have any way of knowing something's wrong if you don't keep talking to me, Jay. The last thing I want is for the plan to keep you safe from a madman to kill you."

I tossed a grin over my shoulder as I popped the door open and started to get out of the car. "Now that would truly be ironic. Police kill their only living witness while trying to protect him."

"It's what would've happened earlier tonight if we'd tried a straight ambulance transport, Raver. This is no joking matter."

I settled into the backseat, my head resting on the passenger side of the car so it would be easier for Maclaren to glance over her shoulder and see that I was still alive.

"This is driving you nuts, isn't it? The not knowing."

"I don't understand," she said.

"You're itching to find out what's happening back home, but you know that contacting Hogan just makes everything worse for us. You want to know if all of this is in vain. Maybe they caught the bastard that killed Hogan's buddies."

"They didn't," she said. "It'd be all over the news if they captured him."

"True. I think that they probably had a pretty big window of opportunity to do so, though. This guy's history...every other crime scene indicated that the perps took their sweet time with the victims."

"Yeah, but that nine-one-one call prevented the partner from having his playtime, Jay."

"We don't know that he was the only one in the duo that liked taking thing slow. In fact," I postulated accurately, "it would appear that the Night Lotus wanted to stick around and see what happened to his partner in the end. He set him up to be captured, just like I suspect my informant was trying to do to the Night Lotus by tipping me off earlier Friday night. They both expected they'd be leaving the Cunningham crime scene light one partner."

"Hmm," I could see her frown in profile as Maclaren considered my deductive reasoning. "The stop at the diner does seem to give credence to your theory. So this guy stops, calls the cops, and then stops in the diner to see what happens."

"Right. What I don't understand is if he suspected that his partner had already tried to set him up with me earlier that night, why not slaughter all of us immediately? Why wait?"

"I have no idea, Jay," she said. "It makes me wonder if he bothered to sign the Cunningham crime scene before he left. He signed the one where the Saings were murdered, where you nearly died."

"The Cunningham case will never make its way into ViCAP."

"I'd say if one of the partners escaped, it's still a very open, active investigation, Jay. It can't be closed until the Night Lotus is caught."

"You don't know Taggart Sorenson," I said. "He'll make sure that the state police butt out of his solved case, you mark my words. The man is the template for stubbornness. The rest of us pale in comparison."

"I doubt he'll have much choice in the matter, honestly," Maclaren said. "The feds aren't going to let him do anything with that case. In fact, I'd be surprised if he's got investigators working anything that happened in Whisper Cove Saturday. I don't think this Night Lotus character realizes how hunted he's going to be—or already is."

"I think he's finally getting the attention he wants, Kelsey. I believe this guy perpetuated his own legend online in the first place, and I think that his little drawings are becoming more and more prominent because he's screaming at the world to look at him, to acknowledge what he's done, and how long he's gotten away with it."

"A narcissist," she said.

"Want me to bore you with the rest of my theory?" I asked. "Because there's one other thing that links every single one of his murders together."

"What's that?"

"Somebody hated every single victim enough to want them dead."

"Ah hell," Maclaren groaned. "You think he's an assassin."

"I think he's a shrewd killer who found out quickly that getting his kicks for hire was a great way to finance what he loves most in the world," I said.

She nodded, and then Maclaren nailed it, "Attention."

Exactly.

Chapter 12

Chief Eugene Hogan

I slammed the receiver down on the telephone. "Can't find her car. How goddamn possible is that in this day and age? Son of a bitch! We've got this crazy super-killer running hither and yon all over my damn jurisdiction, stabbing innocent victims, painting wallflowers with their spilled blood, slicing open my detective and blowing up my friends! Is it any wonder when I can't even employ people competent enough to track down one little captain of some Podunk detective squad?"

"Augusta is hardly what I'd call—"

"Shut up, Courtland. The last thing I need is your smart mouth comments right now. Maclaren's obviously in the wind with Raver, and Jesus Christ, who can blame her? She saw what that asshole did to the brave men who stepped up to the plate to try to distract a psychopath and died for their trouble. If I were her, I'd run too. Shit."

"Sir, the FBI have been waiting for ten minutes now. They're getting impatient to talk to you."

I waved one hand, half defeat, half frustration. "Well God forbid the sons of bitches from the government be put off for two little minutes. Hell, if they were doing their jobs, you'd think they'd have caught this bastard years ago. What next? Is he gonna paint a billboard to get our attention? Fuck."

My visitors stepped into my office in time to hear the invective, probably a bit more than that. At this point, I didn't care. They were negligent.

"Special Agent Briarwood," the shorter, stocky and unfortunately balding agent spoke first. He thrust out a hand rather than his credentials.

"Special Agent Newburgh," his taller, younger and hairier companion said, foregoing the handshake with a flip of his little leather billfold that contained his badge and identification. "I understand your frustration, Chief Hogan. We're not any happier than you are that this perp sat on a freakin' rooftop drawing his little pictogram while we sorted through body parts all night. If I could turn back time, I'd make sure our team actually secured the crime scene rather than counting on anyone unfamiliar with this man's methods."

My eyes tightened. That had to be the reason the room grew darker all of a sudden. Fury burned the inside of my veins. Pompous asshole. Who did he think he was—?

"Pardon my partner, Chief Hogan," Briarwood said. "It's just that we've been hunting this man for a very long time now, and learning that he was yards away watching us was frustrating. The local police in Portland had no idea the kind of monster we're looking for, and believe me when I tell you this, the fact that he went off script this time threw us for a loop too. He's never used homemade plastic explosives before."

"Well, perhaps that has something to do with the fact that he seems to have shed a partner in the process of his latest killing spree," I said, letting more anger seep into my words than I intended. "And don't blame the locals. Maybe if you assholes weren't so tight-lipped about everything, we might've realized what we were dealing with after the Cunningham murder."

Newburgh sat in front of my desk and tented his fingers against his lips. "Fair enough. We've had some issues trying to profile this unknown subject and predict where he might strike again. There is no rhyme or reason to the crimes he's committed, but unfortunately, the public has bought into a ridiculous urban legend about him, that he's some sort of avenging angel. It's made tracking him, following any scant leads we've unearthed...difficult at best."

"No rhyme or reason?" I echoed. "Exactly how many prior cases have you bozos officially linked to this guy?"

Briarwood glanced at Newburgh, perhaps for permission.

Newburgh sighed. "This is an ongoing investigation, Chief Hogan."

"No shit," I spat. "I've got six dead friends, eight dead civilians, a slaughtered woman and married couple and a damn near dead detective in the space of what, twenty hours? How. Many. Crimes?"

"A lot," Briarwood said. "Those definitively linked by this drawing the Night Lotus loves to leave behind, now over a dozen."

"How many over a dozen? Leave out the ones I know about."

"Thirteen," Newburgh said. "He's a serial killer, sir."

I snorted. "Gee, ya think? Though I think by the means you guys classify these psychos, what he did in Portland last night qualifies as spree, not serial."

"We have to look at the overarching behavior, sir," Briarwood said. "Which is why it's imperative that you tell us where your detective is. He's the first living witness to ever encounter this man. He could have valuable information that would help us finally put an end to the killer's activities."

"If I knew where he was, do you think I wouldn't tell you? Christ!"

"Listen, we know already that Raver wasn't in that ambulance last night," Newburgh said. "It's fine that you're letting the public believe he was killed. It's probably what's keeping him safe for the moment, but if somebody leaks the truth—"

"Are you threatening me?" I interrupted. "Tell you where he is or you'll leak the information that he didn't die last night? What the hell is wrong with you people? This is a man's life we're talking about here, and a cop too."

"You misunderstand," Briarwood said. "We'd never divulge that information. Believe me, we want him in protective custody where we know the killer won't be able to track him and finish what he started. Frankly, letting him believe he was successful in killing Detective Raver was the best move you've made, sir. But we need to speak to him."

I sighed. "I don't know where he is. My people have been searching all night. On the quiet, before you presume that my search methods are so primitive that I'd inadvertently tip the world of law enforcement off to what I'm doing."

"May we ask how you did lose him?" Newburgh asked.

I rubbed my temples; let my fingers gouge so hard it hurt. The pain distracted me from the sick, sinking feeling in my gut. "He was in a vehicle with his captain, Kelsey Maclaren. They were supposed to be following the ambulance. I presume they were far enough behind it to see what happened, but avoid getting caught up in the crime scene with the other witnesses who were detained. Kelsey's a bit old-school, so finding them has proved...challenging."

"What does that mean, old-school?" Newburgh asked.

Briarwood's lips set in a grim line for a moment before he spoke. "It means she's not in a vehicle belonging to the state police, so you can't track her that way."

"Nor can we track her in any other way," I said. "Her cell phone is off. Her car is old enough that it doesn't have any kind of GPS tracking, no LoJack or OnStar. We've been watching tollbooths for her plates. She probably swapped them out with someone else's long ago."

"Don't your tollbooths have video surveillance when people pay?" Newburgh asked.

Briarwood, who was clearly the more experienced of the two, replied, "Not if you've got an easy pass or some other electronic means of paying. She'd blow by the booths, and the plate would be the only thing recorded."

"Exactly," I said. "I have no idea where they might be hiding, but I'd bet my soul that they're pretty freaked out by what they saw last night. I think everybody was horrified—and that's an understatement. Jay Raver could've easily been transported in the ambulance that exploded, gentlemen. I'm sure Kelsey isn't taking any chances with this one. They're in the wind just as much as our perp."

Briarwood shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Newburgh showed no such compunction. "Do you think they've decided to go after him themselves?"

I snorted. "Captain Maclaren doesn't have the balls to go after this guy on her own. No offense to any of the fairer sex on your teams, gentlemen, but the department wanted a female captain. Maclaren got the highest scores. Forget that I had more seasoned men with command experience who were better qualified than she is... the brass wanted a woman leading one of the satellite divisions."

Briarwood didn't flinch. Newburgh bristled instantly. "Perhaps they should consider aging out some of the personnel with outdated, sexist views, Chief Hogan."

"I said no offense."

"That doesn't excuse attitudes like yours," he said. "If you had to preface the statement with no offense, you damn well knew it was offensive. I'm more interested in hearing what kind of detective this Raver character is, because he's the one who actually managed to come face to face with the Night Lotus. Is he a minority that you'd like to disparage? Maybe gay?"

I chuckled. "Kelsey Maclaren would probably have been a fine detective, but she skipped most of the actual police work and worked her way up as an administrator, Agent Newburgh. As for Jay Raver, he's a good kid. Good instincts, hard-working, focused, dedicated to following the law."

"So you're saying that if he feels physically capable, he'd be inclined to go after the Night Lotus himself."

I nodded curtly. "But he's got no business doing any such thing in his current condition. Jay needs to be in a hospital, monitored by physicians and nurses so he has a chance to recover properly."

"And you think he'd ignore his own health?" Newburgh asked, brow arched dubiously.

"Well, you tell me, Mr. Hot-Shot FBI. You know you got some psychopath gunning for you, what's your priority bound to be? A hospital bed where he might sneak in and pump you full of poison before you can call for help, or on the run tryin' to figure out how to get him first?"

"Shit," Briarwood muttered.

"I'd put my health first," Newburgh said.

This time, Briarwood didn't hide his disgust for his partner at all. "You stupid shit. You probably would, just lay yourself out like a sacrificial lamb. This Detective Raver sounds like he's got more brains than you could hope to..." he clamped his lips together tightly, but only for a moment before he shifted his focus back to me. "Perhaps you have a vague understanding now why this Night Lotus is such a problem, Chief Hogan. The bureau didn't allocate proper resources until this thing got out of hand. Junior here fancies himself to be a crack profiler. I'm the third senior agent in eighteen months to try to temper his theories and show him how a profile should mesh with real police work.

"My number one priority right now is finding your detective. He's the witness. Whether he remembers what he saw the night he was attacked or not matters very little at this point. The killer will assume that Raver got a good look at him. If he figures out that Raver didn't die last night, his focus will shift from assassinations to getting rid of anybody that Raver might've talked to. Unfortunately, that seems to be a growing number of people."

"Like who?" I frowned.

"Are you telling me you didn't speak to him? And if you didn't, do you really think this butcher will believe he didn't?" Briarwood asked. "Come on, sir. You're smarter than that. He'll be after you, every cop working this case from the Podunk sheriff in Whisper Cove to this Captain Maclaren who's absconded with the witness.

"This won't be a game of cat and mouse. This killer isn't a mouse. He's a rat, a very large, fearless rat. He won't play fair. He won't strike when you're expecting it. He's already proven that he's capable of improvising beyond his usual method of killing."

"Which is?" I asked. A knot tightened in the pit of my stomach. Exactly what the hell had Jay stumbled into anyway?

"He favors knives," Briarwood said. "Any blade will do, but we've been examining every case of murder where torture with bowie knives was involved, solved and cold cases, over the past five years. As far as I can tell from the data I've reviewed, this guy has a tally of at least fifteen kills, including those that took place before he made it obvious that we were dealing with a very mobile killer."

"This lotus flower."

"Under a moon at some stage, usually matching what's in the night sky at the time of the killings," Newburgh piped up again.

Briarwood sucked breath heavily through his nose. "Technically, a lotus doesn't bloom at night. Since the first killings took place in the US Southwest, it would be a logical conclusion that the perp is drawing a flower he's accustomed to seeing, a desert bloom."

"Like one of those night-blooming cacti," I said.

"Yes," Briarwood nodded. "I suspect that he's local to that area. We don't see a lot of night-blooming cereus on the Eastern seaboard, sir."

"Or he may not know the difference," Newburgh said. "We can't presume that this killer has the intellect to know that the lotus doesn't bloom at night."

"Newburgh, why don't you go out and rustle up some coffee," Briarwood said. "I'd like a word with the chief in private."

"But—"

"Go," he said firmly. "I'll be out in five minutes. If you can find to-go cups for the coffee, that'd be great."

The door snicked shut behind Newburgh and I couldn't seem to hide my apprehension.

Briarwood leaned forward. "I feel you, chief, what with the brass forcing you to promote somebody who wasn't maybe the most qualified for the job. They've saddled me with Captain America out there as punishment for...for something that isn't even important. Until that ambulance blew up last night, the bureau didn't even buy into this Night Lotus bullshit. And do you know why they didn't?"

I shook my head.

"Because that wet-behind-the-ears asshole, the over-educated idiot who looks good on paper couldn't properly communicate to anybody above him that this guy is a very real threat. With the exception of one, his other partners have been washed up... drunks in rehab to be frank. And now that everybody knows how bad this thing really is, they're sending me in to clean up the mess, hoping to hell that I fail and they can get rid of me."

"But why? I mean, this is a serious problem. The guy killed seventeen people yesterday and made two attempts on a cop's life. The FBI might not find that serious enough to warrant their best and brightest, but I sure as hell do!"

"They want golden boy to get the credit. They know I'll catch this son of a bitch or die trying. But no matter what I do, that stupid freak's going to get the glory. Oh, he'll tell them he's the one who solved the case. But I promise you this: if this guy leads the investigation the way he thinks he ought to, your officers will be dead by week's end. I haven't slept since news of that diner and your mostly dead detective came across my desk. I've done nothing but study the cases, the information in ViCAP, all of it. He's gonna figure it out on his own that you pulled a fast one with the ambulance transfer, and he'll be back."

I swallowed hard. "You're saying he'll come looking for me."

"If he thinks you have the answers he wants, yeah, he'll come looking for you."

"Shit."

"I want you in protective custody. I want men guarding you around the clock until we catch this guy, Chief Hogan. Junior's not bright enough to figure out how dangerous this man really is, but think about how ballsy it was to plant homemade C-4 on an ambulance outside a busy hospital. The killer is ruthless and determined. He's a shadow. I bet he could walk right up to either one of us and be so normal, so average, neither one of us would feel threatened or remember much about him. He's a ghost."

"One who I think wants a whole lot of attention," I said. "See, I did talk to Jay yesterday. He told me what he thinks about the perp, what he's doing, why he's doing it. Hell, Jay thinks he created his urban legend himself. Jay said there were too many details from ViCAP that would've never been released to the public for that legend to have come from anybody but someone involved in the crime."

"Your detective sounds a hell of a lot more savvy than my partner, that's for sure," Briarwood said. "Any idea you have about which direction they headed...I need to find him, chief."

"I honestly have no idea. The only thing..."

Briarwood leaned even closer. "Yes?"

"Jay probably figures some little burg like Whisper Cove couldn't have two separate crimes committed with knives that weren't related. He's probably going to find out why someone might've wanted Felicia Cunningham dead. He thinks the perp is some sort of assassin."

Briarwood smiled coldly. "And he'd probably be right."

Chapter 13

Castillo

The burner cell rang once. "You're a day late, Mr. Castillo."

"Yes, well, in case you missed the national news in the past twenty-four hours, I had an unexpected complication."

I listened to the gasp on the other end of the phone and went for the kill the second it sounded.

"So you'll understand that this may not be the ideal time for us to cement our business relationship, Mrs. Farnsworth. This isn't a prudent move on my part or yours to act now in your...situation."

"Bullshit!" she thundered. "This is precisely the time to strike. That bitch will never see it coming, and—"

"And the police will see it coming. They're looking for me."

She snorted indelicately. "So close to the scene of your last crimes? I don't think so, Mr. Castillo."

"It's just Castillo," I said. "No mister, please."

"Like Cher and Madonna," she said with a tone as dry as leaves in the dead of winter. "Fine, Castillo. I've paid a lot of money exactly the way you directed, nice an slow over the past few months so I don't look like the guilty party—and as I see this, you're already bought and paid for. I want that witch out of my life once and for all."

"Have you simply considered filing for divorce?" I asked drily. "You had a prenup. Take her to court, end it legally and walk away. I'll refund your money."

"So you'll kill for men with cheating wives, but not for a woman?"

"I never said that. I'm looking out for both of us, whether you see it that way or not. It's just too risky."

"This may be a novel idea. How about you do your job but stop signing it, huh? Then this looks like what it needs to look like. A simple mugging. Michelle goes away; I can grieve publicly, my legislation from long ago doesn't have the stain of divorce on it—"

The grin was wicked in a gotcha sort of way. "It's an awful lot to ask on the heels of my recent activity, Senator. And wouldn't your divorce merely validate the idea that same sex marriages are no different than any other? You fall in and out of love the same as everyone else. Just because it was your driving force that made it—"

"I know what my role in the legislation was, thank you very much, and I'm also savvy enough to know that my failed marriage would be scrutinized in ways that other marriages aren't. But if I'm a grieving widow, someone simply lost and devastated by the death of her beloved spouse, it gives me power, power that I need right now."

"Yet the risk for me is significantly higher."

"That's not my problem," she said coldly. "Or do you prefer that I have an attack of conscience and go to—"

"Think very carefully before you complete that sentence, Senator. Recall if you will what happened to the most recent people who I believed were a threat to my continued freedom. I wasn't refusing the job." Stupid bitch. "I was informing you that the risk to me is unbelievably higher. As such, my compensation needs to be adjusted accordingly."

"You're trying to extort more money?"

I disconnected the call quickly. Two seconds later, the phone rang.

"Do we have an understanding, Senator?" I answered tersely. "You hired me for a job. I set the rules. I hold the cards. Or are you so foolish to think any of this is traceable, that my name is Mr. Castillo? I could make this very public and very painful for you, decimating any fantasies you might hold about becoming the grieving widow. Say the word, and I'll decide right now how to proceed. Either we do this the way you originally contracted, and there is no question left in the minds of the police who did this and where to look for the person who paid to have it done, or you find a way to get me another fifty thousand—quickly, before I do the job—and it looks like that random act of violence you so dearly crave. I'll even steal her wallet just for good measure."

"Are you threatening me?" she gasped.

"I'm going to give you what you paid for. How it's done is now in your hands, since you refuse to wait for this thing in Portland to blow over. Your choice."

"I can... fifty thousand is a lot for on demand payment, Castillo." Farnsworth grumbled.

"Then we wait until I feel like the heat has died down."

"I can't..." I could hear Farnsworth's teeth grinding in the pause. "You don't understand. She's flaunting...I can deal with infidelity. What I cannot deal with is indiscretion. It's going to blow up in my face. Do you understand that? Surely you can understand having a partner that becomes too burdensome to keep!"

Touché, Mrs. Farnsworth. Touché.

"A compromise then. How much can you come up with by tomorrow night?"

"I need this done today," she said. "Please!"

"It'll cost you. I'm not a charitable foundation, Senator."

"I understand that. I can scrape up twenty-five right now."

"Twenty-five means half the discretion of fifty," I said. "This isn't a game, Senator. If I'm going to continue to provide services to people just like you, I need to remain outside of prison."

"Nobody forces you to leave that pedestrian drawing," her exasperation bled through, along with a little condemnation.

"Very well. I'll take the additional money you can pay today. Take it to this address."

I rattled off the name of an upscale hotel in downtown Boston. "Put it in an undecorated brown box, sealed securely with tape addressed to Mr. Jameson Raver. Give it to the receptionist at the front desk. They'll know what to do with it."

She drew in another sharp breath. "Are you trying to get caught? That man's name has been on the news—"

"Put a note inside the box. Print it from the plainest printer you have access to. The note should read—for the detective's family, and collateral damage. It was nothing personal."

"You're insane," she whispered.

"No. I told you the price of this hit would be high because I need them to be looking over there while over here..."

"Jesus," she muttered. "It's cold, but brilliant. All right. I'll do it."

"Wear gloves. If you leave prints on anything, you'll be answering lots of questions, Senator. And one other thing. I don't expect it's a good idea for you to entrust this task to one of your many lackeys. We both know they don't have the stomach to withstand questions should they be asked."

"I'm not an idiot. I hired you, didn't I?"

"You have two hours. When I see you've made the drop, I'll do my job. Keep the phone with you. I'll call as soon as it's done. Then you can destroy it and we'll never speak again."

I stuffed the disposable phone into my pocket and watched Gloria Hayes Farnsworth canoodle with her latest indiscretion. The Senator was right about her wife's lack of covert cheating. Flaunting it? Hell, to my way of seeing things, she did everything but rent a billboard to advertise her appetite for other sex partners.

She reminded me a little bit of O'Banion. He didn't care about who got him off just like this woman didn't care. Her lunch partner was a very attractive man, one who had probably left more than a sufficient amount of DNA on the other Mrs. Farnsworth. I doubted the medical examiner would care too awfully much though, since it was going to be an obvious mugging. Maybe the cops would cut the Senator some slack, spare her the embarrassment of making her wife's marital transgressions public knowledge.

I didn't give a shit either way. I was more interested in taunting the cops in Maine with my little token donation to the cause of Detective Raver's family. They'd shit bricks and chase their tails for days trying to figure out who would leave twenty-five grand in a cardboard box for the Maine detective in a Boston hotel.

Gloria was as good as dead already. The Senator thought she knew what she was paying for, but some things...for some things in life, no amount of money is ever enough.

The woman rose from her table in the café and let her friend help her into her winter coat while he groped and copped more than an indiscrete feel. She kissed him, and then quickly strode out of the restaurant.

It was midday in Boston, plenty of people here and there. I watched from my vantage point across the street just inside an alleyway as the little tart made her way to the crosswalk where she punched the button for the walk signal with an entitled sense of impatience.

"You're going to be sorry you didn't wait," I whispered softly. "So very sorry, Gloria."

Her car was inside the parking garage, fourth level, wedged between two SUVs. I hastened inside and crawled under the SUV parked adjacent to the driver's side of the soon-to-be late Gloria Farnsworth. Her heels clacked over the pavement, clop, clop, clop, clop, drawing ever closer.

My fingers itched. My mouth filled with eager saliva for what would come next.

Nice shoes. Expensive. Strappy six-inch stilettos. Sexy.

With a single lightning swipe, the glint of my razor caught the light gleaming into the cold garage as it sliced through air and severed both Achilles' tendons.

Farnsworth shrieked. And predictably fell. People don't realize how utterly crucial the Achilles is to being upright.

I rolled out from under the SUV right over her shrieking, writhing body and let the droplets of blood from my straight razor drip onto her cheek.

"Shh," I whispered. "Let's not draw a crowd, Gloria. It won't save you at this point anyway, though you're so selfish, you probably wouldn't mind if I had to kill a bunch of people just to finish you off."

She screamed louder, so I cut her throat cleanly and deeply, right over her voice box. Blood bubbled from the hole as she hissed and gurgled in horror.

I smiled. "You look as beautiful as you've ever looked, Gloria." My leather-clad finger slid down one of her cheeks. I leaned close and whispered in her ear, "This is from your wife, you cheating whore. I just thought you'd want to know why...you know, before you die."

I grabbed her wedding and engagement rings, tore the gaudy jewels from her ears and stuffed them into her purse. It was promptly nestled against my chest, inside my coat.

I couldn't do the rest of it though. I couldn't walk away without signing her.

But Senator Farnsworth paid for a quiet job. So I pulled the gag marker I picked up from some novelty shop from my pocket and began to draw with one hand while I used an ultraviolet flashlight to illuminate the dead woman's skin.

Right there on her forehead, I drew my night-bloom. Only this time, instead of moonlight above, I drew a blazing sun.

They'd have to really look hard to find my signature this time, the sons of bitches. But it was there, and I knew it. She was one more to my tally.

"This case would've never worked with O'Banion. You'd have never given him the time of day."

Above Gloria's cheek, right across her forehead, I scrawled a new message: You'll never catch me.

Raver got close, but in the end, he only got close enough to get burned.

I chuckled at my clever thoughts, capped the pen and moved far enough from the body to prevent picking up more blood on my shoes. I peeled off both shoes and socks, and walked briskly to the next level above where Gloria's body would be kept on ice by weather.

Inside the trunk of my car were fresh clothes and shoes—ones not tainted with blood spatter. I bagged the old and donned the new before stuffing all of the evidence of a crime into a black trash bag. I tucked it into the deepest corner of the trunk and drove out of the parking garage. It was half a mile to the hotel where Mrs. Farnsworth should be leaving her little package for the Maine police within the next hour or so. I was a little surprised to see her rush out of the hotel just as I drove into the parking garage.

"Eager, eager, eager," I grinned.

This should be fun.

I parked and strode confidently into the hotel, right to the front desk where a flurry of activity was taking place.

"What do you mean you don't know who dropped it off? Does this look like a post office to you, Jane? No. Because it's a hotel."

"I'm sorry. She looked like a messenger, you know? She had a bike helmet on for God's sake!"

"And you didn't question why she'd be dropping off a package for a cop who died yesterday at our hotel? Died in a different state, mind you."

"I'm sorry! She just said it was a package for a registered guest, had me sign for it, and left. I didn't even look at the name on it until she was gone. I'm—"

"Go to the employee lounge and wait there," the man said sternly.

"What're you going to do?" meekness bled from her lips.

"I'm calling the FBI. We have a field office right here in Boston, in case you're too stupid to realize it. Nobody's touching this box until we know what the hell it is."

"I already touched it, sir."

He rolled his eyes and reached for the telephone, which I suppose was the first time he noticed he had an audience—far more eyes than just mine.

"Excuse me," he huffed. "I need you all to step away from the desk. I'll deal with you later."

"And I believe I'll check in elsewhere," I said to the couple standing just to the side and slightly behind me.

"Good idea," they agreed.

Chapter 14

Raver

I reclined against the uncomfortable gurney in the emergency department at Bellevue Hospital and winced when the nurse ripped the bandage off my left thigh without regard for my general level of discomfort.

"Well, John Doe, your incision looks like it's about what we'd expect for about a day post-op."

"In English please," Maclaren glared at her.

"No signs of infection. All of the staples are intact. There's no redness, warmth, swelling or drainage. Those are good signs. For the life of me, I can't imagine what danger would be so great in a hospital that you had to check out immediately."

"He never said he was in danger."

"Hey," I intervened. "I can speak for myself. It was a family emergency, nurse. I wanted to see my mother before she passed away, which I've done, and she insisted I come here to get checked out. Forgive my sister. Her disposition isn't usually so...aggressive."

The nurse grinned at me. "Well, in that case, it makes perfect sense. I don't suppose they gave you any supplies to change the dressing before you left."

Maclaren procured a duffle bag brimming with the supplies she'd stolen from ICU in Portland. "We've got supplies. Nobody gave very good instructions on how to use them."

It took about forty-five minutes for the nurse to sort through stuff we didn't actually need and show me how to take care of my wound. "In case you can't make it in to see a doctor in ten days, I'm going to show you how to use one of these," she said.

"It's a staple removal kit. You just—" she tore open one package. "Take these little snippy looking things, slide this part under the staple and close, like scissors or pliers, and it'll pull the staple right out of your skin. If you've got any drainage, redness, swelling or unusual pain at the incision, I want you to promise me you'll come back right away. Okay?"

I nodded. "Got it. How much risk is there of a blood clot?" I laughed nervously. "I don't want to end up with a heart attack or a stroke just because my mom needs me."

"We ran some blood tests when you got here. One of those was to determine how your blood is clotting. Everything looks perfectly normal. It's a matter of paying attention to pain, John. Any unusual pain, and you've got to come back in here. I will tell you that a clot will cause a sort of dull, throbbing pain. But if you have any pain in your lungs, or it hurts to breathe or becomes difficult breathing, that's a bad sign. Call nine-one-one if that happens. Got it?"

"Yep. Got it. Thanks."

"I'll get your discharge instructions and we'll get you out of here."

I looked at Kelsey. "How far are we from Cunningham's penthouse, and have you figured out a way to make the man see us?" I asked.

"They've moved out to the summer place in the Hamptons, and yes, I've figured out a way for us to see both father and son."

I frowned. "I'm pretty sure the son had no reason to want his wife killed, Maclaren."

"Keep your voice down," she warned. "I'd just as soon not have my name draw attention to you-know-what."

"I think we're far enough not to worry about that," I said as I pulled myself up to sit on the side of the gurney. "We need to get to our suspects right away, captain. We can't afford to waste time."

"Jesus, Jay... you think I don't know this?"

My nurse reappeared with a handful of pages and pulled a stool on wheels up to the gurney.

"He can read, for God's sake," Maclaren snarled. "Can we just take the paperwork and go?"

She looked at me. "Are you comfortable with going through all of this on your own, sir?"

I nodded. "Sorry. I guess we're just concerned about leaving Mom alone for any length of time."

"Our number is at the top of every page of these instructions. Call if you have any questions. Don't hesitate. You're fine now, but if you try to do too much, too soon, that could change quickly."

Kelsey practically dragged me to the car. "We've wasted hours, Jay. We knew before noon that you were fine."

"I'm convinced now; the pain I have at the moment is ordinary. Let's get out to the Hamptons and talk to the Cunningham men. I have an idea of what might make whichever one was responsible more amenable to answering our questions."

She nodded, a grimness setting her face into a stony mask. "I'm not particularly interested in which one of them set this into motion either, not when a serial killer is running loose in the disguise of an assassin."

"I wonder what he'd do if we figured out how he finds his clients and shut him down that way," I mused.

"He'd keep killing. Maybe he'd resort to robbing his victims instead if murder for hire. I just know this guy isn't gonna stop until we catch him."

"And so recently, you scoffed at my theory," I said.

"Rather dramatic proof shoved in my face."

We rode in silence until we reached the estate in the Hamptons—and it couldn't be described in any other way. It was probably the largest mansion I'd ever seen in my life. The sprawling three-story home abutted the beach, with probably the most breathtaking views of the Atlantic in the entire neighborhood.

"Exactly how do you plan to gain entrance?" I asked.

Maclaren snorted, "Did you honestly believe these people would elude a conversation with the Maine State Police? The woman they're mourning died in my jurisdiction. I have every right in the world to talk to them in person, and they know it."

"You're assuming Hogan hasn't already sent anybody."

She grinned. "No, I'm not assuming that. I know it for a fact. Hogan's not really a complicated guy, Jay. He's up to his eyeballs with the feds and the murder of all those people in Portland yesterday. He hasn't even had a moment of pause to think about the Cunningham murder. I guarantee Taggart Sorenson is sitting on his hands waiting for the state police to determine that the shooting was clean. Especially now when there's so much national scrutiny associated with police shootings."

"Not in Maine, there isn't," I said. "And our perp was caught having sex with a corpse, tried to run when the cops told him to halt."

Maclaren's head waved back and forth. "No dice, Raver. He was unarmed. They could've taken him down with stun guns. He was stark naked, no weapon, running in the dead of winter with a sixty below wind chill. I'm surprised the media hasn't crawled up Sorenson's ass over it all ready."

"It wasn't in a poor black neighborhood," I said. "Maybe that's why."

"Is that the southerner in you speaking?" she asked.

"Of course not. But I don't have a very high opinion of how the news media inflames the public at every hint of something that might be racially motivated. This wasn't. Believe me, the last thing they give a shit about is a white killer being gunned down by cops. Maybe it's because it's disproportionate to what happens in poor, non-white neighborhoods. I'm not saying there isn't a problem, but if they want to go for our jugular, apply it to all cases, not just the ones that get lots of clicks, views and score high with Nielson's ratings."

"You're jaded," she said, rolling down the window and pressing the intercom at the gate.

"May I help you?" came a stuffy in that upper-crust tone reply.

"Captain Kelsey Maclaren, Maine State Police. Open the gate."

"The Cunninghams are in mourning."

"Yes, and I'm trying to solve the murder that caused their grief. Open the gate, or so help me God, I'll knock it down. Now."

The gate rolled open slowly, and she drove up to the monstrous house. "The summer place," with great disdain. "Can you imagine being this disgustingly rich?"

"I wouldn't want it," I said.

She looked at me sharply. "Seriously? I thought this was the American Dream."

"Not mine." I popped open my door and dragged my aching body out of the car. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

"Are you questioning them or am I?"

"You can take one; I think interviewing them separately is a good idea. I'll talk to the father. You take the recently-on-the-market son, since you're so enthralled by all of this."

"Right, because this looks like an ideal type of marital situation," she said. "Either the son had his wife bumped off or the father did it."

"We don't know that for certain. She might've had other enemies, or perhaps a jealous ex-lover."

"Or a jealous current one," she muttered.

The front door swung open before we reached for the bell. A butler. Jesus.

I quelled the urge to roll my eyes while Maclaren pulled her badge. "I'd like to speak to Mr. Cunningham, the son. My partner needs to speak to his father, Duke Cunningham."

"I've informed the gentlemen of your arrival. We're waiting until legal counsel arrives before they will consent to speak to you."

"This isn't a custodial conversation. They don't have the right to an attorney. Yet. I could change all of that if you'd like to continue to obstruct my investigation, Jeeves."

"The name is Wilford, madam. And Master Duke presumed you would assume such a stance with his wishes. His son, unfortunately, isn't here at the moment. He's en route with his wife's remains on a private flight due to land at the East Hampton Airport in approximately two hours.

"Follow me. Master Duke will see you directly."

Maclaren made a face behind Wilford as we followed him through the cavernous foyer into another room—dark wood, walls lined with very expensive looking books, and plush furniture.

"Be seated. If you would like a refreshment, Master Duke has instructed me to have whatever you like prepared."

"We're good, Wilford. Thanks," I said. "Where's Mr. Cunningham?"

A panel on the wall slid noiselessly open, and the old man rolled into the room with only the fanfare of the soft hum of the motor on his electric wheelchair. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw me.

"You know who I am," I said softly. "Almost as good as a confession, Mr. Cunningham."

His stoic expression shuttered his guilty eyes. "Please be seated, detectives."

Maclaren sat.

"I prefer to stand, if you don't mind," I said. "The leg, you understand. I am extremely curious to know if I was part of the price you paid for the events of early Saturday morning, sir."

Cunningham sighed. "I'm an old man, Mr. Raver. Do your worst to me. I haven't long to live anyway."

"Was that an admission?" I asked.

"Not exactly, but to clarify, I believe that Castillo described you as collateral damage. He's convinced you're dead, you know."

My voice felt like it was trembling. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't disabuse him of that notion, sir."

He chuckled. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it. Our means of communication was severed the moment he ended his call informing me that it was over and Felicia was gone. He never actually communicated to me after you were attacked or all of those other people died."

"And you find that humorous?" I asked.

"Not in the least little bit. I was just thinking that for all the times this man has done his job, I'm certain he's assured all of his clients like he did when I hired him, that collateral damage was a possibility, one that we'd have to learn to live with should the need arise to cover his tracks effectively. I am very curious what he might've done to cause so many people to...meet his criteria for elimination."

"You're responsible for all of those deaths, sir," Maclaren said. "You unleashed a psychopath on an unsuspecting community."

"And I go willingly into your custody. Do your worst, detective. Or captain, isn't it? Does your commanding officer know you're here? Did he sanction this visit, part of the ruse perpetrated on the public so they'd believe your young detective here died in Portland yesterday?"

"We're asking the questions, Cunningham," she bounced to her feet. "I'll thank you to keep that in mind."

"Captain, why don't you wait outside? I'd like to have a few minutes alone with Mr. Cunningham."

His brow lifted, but he withheld comment until Maclaren left the room. "She's angry about all of this, I take it."

"Seventeen people died on her watch over the weekend, all killed by your little friend. I doubt you'd live long enough to make it to trial, sir. That's not my primary concern. This man you hired, Castillo, he's the one I'm after."

"It's personal for you now," he said with a slow nod of the head. "It was not my intention that anyone else die, detective. Whether you believe that or not does not diminish the truth of the statement."

"You just wanted your daughter-in-law out of the way," I said. "Is it because of the rumors that she was a gold-digger, unfaithful to your son at every opportunity? And before you answer that, please be aware of how much time I spent in Whisper Cove over the past couple of years. My own fiancée is the daughter of the sheriff in Whisper Cove."

"That was part of it, yes. You see, Dudley has no sense where women are concerned. I knew before they were wed what that woman really was. She wasn't good enough for him, wasn't our kind of people." His eyes roved over me critically. "You hide what you really are, but I see it Mr. Raver. I see it just as clearly as I saw her true self. No amount of fine clothing and expensive jewels or perfect makeup could hide what she was, just like your cheap suits and tacky haircut can't hide—"

"This isn't about me. You hated her. Why not insist on a prenup?"

"They had one, a very iron-clad prenuptial agreement, but in order for it to be enforced, Dudley would be required to end the marriage, something he was vehemently opposed to doing. Don't you see? That woman, that albatross was just hanging around, waiting for me to die so she could sink her claws into what my family has spent generations amassing. If I have erred in my life, it is in the softness I permitted in my son."

"Softness?"

"Compassion, I suppose some would call it. It's his curse, but I've devised a way to prevent him from rushing out and making the same mistake again. I will not have my legacy tarnished because of his weak character."

"I'm more interested in how you contacted this man...Castillo, you called him. That's his name, Castillo?"

"I have no idea what his true identity is, sir. What I will tell you is that I acted alone. Dudley, nor any of my employees, has any idea that I am responsible for that vile woman's death. It is no great loss to the world, I assure you."

"How did you find him? Or do you invite assassins to your soirees?"

Cunningham barked out a laugh. "Where else does one find the lowest common denominator, Mr. Raver? The place is full of psychopaths and ne'er-do-wells. And I could find him by simply searching with a few choice phrases."

"Where did you find him?" I shouted.

He flinched. "The Internet. I found my hired gun online."

"But how did you know he was...?"

"The Night Lotus? Oh, he scarcely advertised it, Mr. Raver. There are words he favors, in his advertisements on Craigslist. He is a handyman and problem solver. He can right the wrongs in the world with simple tools, so that no one is aware the problem existed. There is no issue too big or too small for his skilled approach. His team produces results, satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.

"Among the wealthy, those he targets because we can afford him, those words mean that he will discreetly put an end to whatever plagues us."

"There's got to be more to it than that," I said, stunned that this man would so openly offer his services as a serial killer. "They screen for those kinds of ads."

"You will find one in virtually every city's listings," Cunningham said.

"How much did he charge? How did you pay him?"

"Fifty thousand, through a series of small transfers to an offshore account over an eight week period. For a man of my wealth, the entire amount wasn't anything that would've raised red flags. I told him as much."

"You spoke to him?"

"Naturally," Cunningham said. "I contacted him through his ad, said I was interested in a solution to a delicate issue. A cellular phone came by mail the next day—I'd given him my telephone number, you see, so he was able to find out who I was. About five minutes after the box came to my penthouse, it rang. It was Castillo. He asked about my problem. I explained it. He gave me a list of articles to review online, his résumé if you will. I was satisfied with his work."

"So he confessed his crimes to you to convince you he was the man for the job?"

Cunningham nodded. "He gave me a password to a website that outlined everything he'd ever done, details that weren't in the press, even photographs of some of his victims. I tried to go back to the website and print some of it out...after what happened over the weekend, to you and the other people who died that were not part of what I paid for. The website was gone. I even tried to look up the owner of the domain. There was nothing listed."

"He probably hijacked someone else's domain and parked something temporarily. He's obviously capable of hiding his deeds and making sure nothing will ever trace back to him," I said. A sense of bleak defeat settled over me. Finding Castillo wasn't going to be done easily or quickly.

"He believes you're dead, Mr. Raver. If he didn't, you wouldn't be sitting here right now, I assure you. Some of the things this man has done, they are beyond disturbing. I...I made a stipulation with Felicia. I didn't want her tortured, just killed."

"Yeah," I muttered. "He made his partner wait until she was dead before he allowed the ugly stuff to happen."

Cunningham bristled. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," I said. "Or didn't he let you know that he had a partner, one he left behind to sodomize your former daughter-in-law after he killed her?"

The old man gasped and clutched his chest. His last words: "God forgive me."

Chapter 15

Raver

I did CPR until Maclaren pulled me off and reminded me that strenuous activity was bad for my life expectancy at the moment. The house filled up with paramedics and local cops from East Hampton faster than the blink of an eye.

Wilford the butler had a serious attack of the vapors.

And suddenly, it seemed like all of Long Island knew about our ruse to make a serial killer believe I was dead.

Maclaren was actually shouting at another police bureaucrat.

"You mean to tell me, this harmless old man hired some sort of sick, psycho serial killer assassin to murder his daughter-in-law, and that he just accidentally had a fatal heart attack while you were questioning him?"

"Call my chief up in Maine," she said. "Eugene Hogan. Call him."

"Kelsey," I warned.

She stared at me for half a second. "It's over, Jay. These assholes couldn't keep their mouths shut if their lives depended on it. They don't give a damn about some nobody cop from some nowhere state, that's for sure. We may as well call Hogan and tell him where we are and why we came here. At least somebody had the sense to talk to the terminal patient before he finally keeled over dead!"

"Whoa, now, hold on just a minute," the local said. "We're not about to do or say anything that would put someone's life in danger, ma'am, especially not another cop. And what makes you think Mr. Cunningham had a terminal illness?"

A new voice joined the chorus in Cunningham's library. "Because I'm telling you that my father's physician told him he'd be dead in six months if he didn't have a heart transplant. I'm Dudley Cunningham, and I'd like to know what the hell all of you are doing in my father's home."

I stepped forward.

"Oh, hell no, Raver. You're not doing this notification. You're several hundred miles outside your jurisdiction," the local asshole piped up.

"I can see that he's dead," Cunningham said quietly. "It's not unexpected, nor was I able to ignore the coroner's van parked out front. You said his name is Raver?"

"Sir, please, if we could speak privately," I spoke again.

He looked at me soberly and nodded. "I guess the parlor would be a good place. I could use a stiff drink."

"Maclaren, could you resolve the other issue about notifying Chief Hogan?" I asked.

"I'll take care of it, Jay."

I trailed far enough behind Cunningham into the parlor that he guzzled booze from a glass by the time I broke the threshold.

"Sir..."

He glanced up at me, looked away, and cursed. "He did it, didn't he?"

"I'm sorry."

"My father, he had Felicia killed, didn't he?"

"I was apologizing," I said, "but since it seems unclear, yes, he hired a serial killer to murder your wife. He confessed to us just prior to his heart attack."

"I suspected as much. He sent a text to me early Saturday morning. I'd been home with Felicia, in the house she preferred, because it was far away from Dad, in a small community, isolated away from the people in his world who judged her so harshly. He thought she was a whore, you see, just after my money...his money."

"Sir—"

"Call me Dudley," he said softly. "This whole thing is my fault, you know. His death, Felicia's..."

I frowned. "I thought your father was dying because of some sort of heart disease."

Cunningham sighed. "He wanted to buy his way to the top of a transplant list. We argued bitterly over it. I told him that I loved him, and I wanted him to live, but he was very old. He lived his life, and taking a heart from someone who had a lifetime left to live was obscene. He heard me. At least that time."

"Dudley, I spent more than a fair amount of my time in Whisper Cove over the past two years," I said.

He looked up at me sharply. "I'm sorry. I missed your name."

"Jay Raver."

Wide eyes impaled me. "As in the Detective Raver in the news?"

"That would be me."

"Weren't you engaged to the sheriff's daughter or some such?" Cunningham asked.

"Yeah, we were engaged until just a few weeks ago." I chuckled at the irony. "Gracie and I split because she thought my job was too dangerous. She decided she didn't want to live the life her mother had, always worried about whether or not her husband would make it home alive."

"The man who tried to kill you, are you certain he's the one who killed my wife?"

"I am," I said. "This man has put his services out for hire for a very long time. I'm not certain we can begin to estimate how many people he's killed for certain. Until your wife's murder, it's possible that his partner was responsible for many of the murders they committed together. I know for certain that Castillo killed your wife, my friends in the diner, tried to kill me, and did successfully kill fourteen other completely innocent victims in Portland."

Cunningham bristled. "Are you implying that my wife wasn't innocent?"

I shrugged. "She didn't deserve to be murdered, Mr. Cunningham, but I spent a lot of time in Whisper Cove. I saw her with a lot of different men around town."

"And so you instantly presumed that those associations had to be prurient in nature," he sneered.

"No, actually, but her behavior with them publicly did. But again, that's none of the world's business. Maybe you had an arrangement. I don't know, and I'm not here to judge it. She could've been the most unfaithful wife in the world. She still didn't deserve to die for it."

"What's the point of this conversation, detective? Are you trying to insinuate that because my wife had needs that perhaps I couldn't meet every moment of every day that I was involved in arranging for someone to take her life?"

"Were you?" I asked.

"No," he nearly choked on the short word. "I loved Felicia. My father was wrong about her. Apparently all of Whisper Cove misinterpreted her behavior as well. She was...affectionate toward people she loved, and most of those male friends that she loved were not her lovers, no matter what it looked like."

"How can you be so certain of that?" I asked.

"Because I was more to her friends' liking than she was, detective. For obvious reasons, I didn't prefer to be around when they were. And if the truth were truly uncovered in all of this, that's the real reason my father loathed Felicia so much. She preferred to retain her very real friendships with those she knew, loved and worked alongside in the theater. My wife was an actress, a dancer. Does that help explain why she wasn't our kind of people? He told you that; I can tell by the look on your face."

"So your father's conviction that she married you for money, that she cheated on you constantly, that you were too weak to admit the truth, he was wrong on all counts?"

"Sickening, isn't it? He objected to her because she refused to leave her people behind. Have you seen the house Felicia chose to live in? The books in my father's library cost ten times what Felicia's dream house cost. He was wrong about her, but he killed her anyway." More amber fluid filled the fine crystal glass and sloshed over the rim onto no-longer-pristine carpet. "I'm glad he's dead."

"Mr. Cunningham, I am sorry for your losses. I apologize in advance for asking this question, but did you have any idea what your father was about to do, or that he had contacted this man he called Castillo?"

"If I'd known, I'd have hidden Felicia away somewhere, gone with her, given up all of...this," more liquor sloshed to the floor when he waved his arm. "It means nothing without love. My father didn't understand that, probably because he never loved anything or anyone more than his money, his legacy of filthy lucre."

"Do you find it odd that a man of his age could find a hired killer on the Internet? It's been my experience that older generations don't seem to know all the dark corners online where such people could be found."

Incredulity washed over Cunningham's face. "Cunningham Global has been a pioneer in both neutrality and open source projects, Mr. Raver. My father could've ferreted out the leprechaun with his pot of gold at the end of the rainbow if he put his mind to it. You shouldn't presume that he was ignorant just because he was old."

"I think he'd be an exception to the rule."

"Cops," he scoffed. "No wonder the bad guys are winning. You're light years behind them in terms of using technology and communications. Perhaps you should do a little research and find out to whom you're speaking before you initiate a conversation. Duke Cunningham was a true innovator."

"My understanding of open source is that there isn't much money to be made if nothing is proprietary."

Cunningham snorted. "The code grows and improves because anybody can modify it, tweak it, make it more functional. The money is in the value of the company, and the functionality of what it produces. It attracts investors."

"But...never mind. This is way off track. Did you ever hear your father talking to this man Castillo?"

"Never," he said.

"You never observed him making suspicious phone calls?" I asked.

"I was rarely around the man over the past four years. After I married Felicia...well, let's just say my relationship with my father became unbearably rocky. I knew he was ill. When he sent the text Saturday morning, I figured he was on his deathbed and wanted to see me. Felicia wanted to come," his hands began to shake as he clutched his glass of liquor. "I told her she should stay home, that if he was dying, I didn't want to rub his face in the fact that he hadn't been able to split us apart. If only I'd brought her...if only I'd realized how low he'd stoop to win, to get his own way in the end. Now the son of a bitch is dead, and I'm completely alone."

"I'd like your permission to examine your father's personal computer," I said. "He seemed to think Castillo left no clues for us to follow. Mr. Cunningham, I don't believe such a thing as a perfect crime exists. If your father communicated with this man, there's a record of it. It cannot just be a dead end."

"Of course. Take whatever you like. He used a laptop for his personal communications. I can't imagine he'd be foolish enough to communicate with someone via Cunningham Global. If it ever came back to his doorstep, he wouldn't want the company tainted by it in any way."

Before I could comment further, or even collect Cunningham's phone and computer, Maclaren rushed into the parlor. "It leaked, Jay. It leaked this morning. The cops knew before they got here."

"What're you talking about?" I asked.

"Your identity. Somebody at the goddamned hospital called Hogan. The FBI is on their way. We've got to go now. Right now. If they know—"

Shit. Castillo knew it too.

Chapter 16

Special Agent Briarwood

Before we left Maine, I wanted to strangle Eugene Hogan with my bare hands. No way could any chief of detectives be such a buffoon. He was dragging his feet, buying time for his detective and captain to do whatever the hell they thought they were doing while keeping me in the dark. Obstructing justice.

Our flight was just about ready for wheels up when my cell phone rang.

My idiot partner patted his pocket, like he expected calls to all be routed through him since technically, he'd been on the case longer than I had.

I recognized the tone as mine. "Briarwood," I said as I gave Newburgh a smug grin.

It melted quickly, that sense of superiority shrouding me. I started snapping my fingers rapidly. To Newburgh, "Stop the flight," I mouthed.

He rose and rushed to the forward compartment with his shiny badge waving like a white flag on a battlefield.

"Boston?" I asked.

"The medical examiner's office found it essentially by accident, Gage. Some of the blood looked like it had been washed away, so she used a black light to see if blood had been present elsewhere, and that's when she saw it."

"By she you mean...?"

"The tech at the crime scene, of course. This night blooming whatever it is under a glowing sun on one of the vic's cheeks, and right across her forehead was another message. This is the first time this guy's done something like this on the body."

"That you know of. How many times have we checked?" I asked.

"None that I'm aware, but all the same, I need you on the ground in Boston. If this son of a bitch is there picking up his next paycheck, forget about chasing the cop."

"Ordinarily," I said as I unfastened my seatbelt and rose, "I'd agree with you, sir, but this time? Word is out on the street that Hogan pulled a fast one."

"Where are you going?" Newburgh demanded.

I shoved past him and opened the cockpit door. "Change of plans, gentlemen. How long will it take you to alter the flight plan from New York to Boston?"

"Fifteen minutes?" one said after a quick glance at the other.

"Do it. We're needed in Boston first, but I still plan to head to New York as planned. We'll just be running a tad behind schedule."

Newburgh was like a puppy nipping at my heels.

"We'll be on the ground in Boston within the hour, sir," I said before disconnecting the call.

"What happened? How could anything be more important than getting the witness into protective custody?" Newburgh asked.

Sadly, I agreed with his sense of priority. I sighed. "Another victim of our unsub was found in Boston. It's a big deal because of who the woman is."

"Who? What possible urgency could there be for us to take our eyes off a living, breathing witness to what Night Lotus does, who he really is?"

I shrugged, "Apparently, the powers believe that Raver might just have the good instincts to stay in front of this guy for a few more hours while we look into the death of Mrs. Gloria Hayes Farnsworth, wife of Senator Diane Farnsworth."

"Some politician's wife gets whacked and suddenly we're pulled off Night Lotus? Unbelievable! This guy is responsible for almost three-dozen deaths, Gage. What makes them so sure—"

"A tech from the medical examiner's office unwittingly discovered a message on the woman's face under ultraviolet light," I said. "They're sure it was this Night Lotus asshole."

Newburgh snorted in derision. "Why would he conceal his message now when he's been getting bigger and bolder with it in every case? Sure, he killed a lot of people in Portland, but caution from this guy? He loves the game, Briarwood. He lives to taunt us."

"There's something else," I said. "Somebody left a package at an upscale hotel in downtown Boston. It was addressed to Detective Raver."

"Ah Christ."

"The police found twenty-five thousand dollars in cash inside the box, and hotel security cameras show that the delivery person was a female, one whose dimensions match Senator Farnsworth."

Newburgh leaned forward in his seat. "It really was him. The package, it's the taunt to law enforcement. You see that, right?"

"Yeah, kid, I see it for what it is. Though at this point, I doubt anything we can do in Boston will advance the investigation. The locals in Boston can figure this one out."

"Get off the flight," Newburgh said. "I'll go to Boston, you take a commercial flight to New York. We've got to get Raver into protective custody, Gage. I know you agree with me."

"We were ordered to go to Boston first," I said, though Newburgh's logic appealed to me.

"You were ordered to go to Boston," he replied, ripping off his seatbelt again. "He said nothing to me, and I'm not gonna let this bastard kill an innocent cop, Gage. I can't do it."

"Hogan talked to this Captain Maclaren. Maybe he appealed to her sense of logic."

Newburgh snorted, "You don't believe that anymore than I do. Raver wasn't even presumed dead a full twenty-four hours before someone spotted him. How long do you think it'll take the Night Lotus to find them? And we'll be talking about two more cops dead instead of one."

Screw it. I nodded. "I'll go to New York. You head to Boston and see if this case fits our assassin's MO. I'll get Raver and Maclaren into federal custody and meet up with you in Boston by the end of the day."

He hesitated for a moment.

"Brick, you're the psychology guru. You're gonna know based on this guy's history if the drawing matches what he's left behind in the past. It's not entirely your fault nobody took this thing seriously in the past. Seems like you and Raver have been right about him all along. Go do your thing in Boston, and I'll persuade Raver to come with me back to Boston."

"When this guy finds out we've got Raver, he'll come after us too," Newburgh said.

I patted my gun concealed in its holster beneath my coat. "We're expecting him. Until I hear it from Raver's lips that he doesn't know what this guy looks like, he's our best shot at finding your Night Lotus fast."

I watched the small jet taxi down the runway and lift off before flashing my badge inside the airport. "I need the next flight to New York, LaGuardia preferably, and I'll need to make arrangements for heliport transfer to a private address on Long Island. I'll contact the local police, if you can just get me on a flight fast." At the agent's dubious gaze, I added, "It's a matter of life and death, sir. That cop everybody thought died who didn't? His life is in a great deal of danger now that the world—including the killer who slaughtered a bunch of innocent people—knows he's still alive."

"I'm on it, sir," he said after an audible click when he swallowed. "We have a flight...it just started boarding at gate five right now. If you hurry, you can make it. I'll call and tell them you're coming."

"There's room on the flight?" I asked.

"We'll make room if we have to. Go. I'll get the information regarding your transfer from LaGuardia to you in flight if I have to."

I dashed for gate five and made it before the final call. The flight wasn't even close to full capacity, and within fifteen minutes we were in the air.

"We'll land in about ninety minutes, agent," one of the flight crew informed me. "Transit Authority will be waiting for you at the gate. They'll get you to the helicopter that will deliver you to your final destination."

"I need to make a call right now," I said.

She nodded. "We have the ability for you to do that in the forward compartment. If you'll follow me, sir."

Two minutes later, I was on the phone with the police in East Hampton. "I suspect that Detective Raver and Captain Maclaren left Bellevue this morning with the intent of talking to Duke Cunningham. As you know, his daughter-in-law was murdered in Maine over the weekend."

"I'm aware," the police commander informed me. "What this has to do with us—"

"There is a world outside your corner of it, sir," I said. "This killer is at large. He's already made two attempts on Detective Raver's life. Now that it's common knowledge that Raver didn't die as the Maine State Police led the world to believe, Detective Raver's life is in grave danger once again. I need your help. I'll be on the ground at the Cunningham estate in your jurisdiction in less than two hours. I want—"

Our conversation was interrupted by the urgent sounds of someone shouting at this police commander.

"Seems that we've been called to the Cunningham residence anyway, agent," he said. "The old guy's had a coronary, and lo and behold, a couple of Maine cops were there when it happened."

I wanted to feel relief, but instead, the sense of urgency consumed me. "Don't tell them I'm coming, and for God's sake, if they don't know that some fool at the hospital recognized them and made it known that Jay Raver isn't dead, please don't tell them! It's imperative that you do everything you can to simply detain them without raising any suspicion, sir. I'll be there as quickly as possible, but I've got to get these two cops into protective custody for their own safety."

He sighed. "Well, I guess I can try, but we don't have cause to hold them, sir. They haven't committed any crimes that I can see."

"I'm not asking you to arrest them. Buy me time so I can explain the urgency of protective custody to both of them."

The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach roiled and churned non-stop until the flight landed. By then, it had hardened into a lead-like lump, painful and rooted deeply. This wasn't going to go the way I wanted. I felt it in my bones.

I only bothered to check my cell phone once after we landed. Apparently, my supervisory agent wasn't too pleased that I sent young Newburgh off to Boston alone. Hogan called once. That message I heard.

"She knows, Briarwood. That idiot cop in the Hamptons told Kelsey Maclaren that I know where they are. I still can't reach her by phone, but the East Hampton police just called and told me. They're still at the residence. It's one fifteen right now. I surely hope you get this message soon."

I glanced at my watch. One-eighteen. Shit.

"Let's go!" I said to the pilot of the helicopter the second I boarded.

We lifted off and less than ten minutes later, we were on the lawn of the Cunningham estate. I jumped out of the helicopter, ducked and ran for the house.

"Special Agent Briarwood?" one of the uniformed officers asked at the front door.

I nodded and pulled a Newburgh, flashed my badge in his face. "Where are they?"

"In the parlor talking to Dudley Cunningham."

"How long have they been in there, and is one of the local cops with them?"

He shrugged. "You'd have to ask the chief about that sir."

"Where's the parlor?" I asked.

He pointed down a long corridor that looked less like something I'd see in a house and more like the architecture one would expect in the Sistine Chapel. "It's the double doors on the right," he added.

I stalked down the hallway and flung open the doors without warning to the occupants inside.

I recognized Cunningham immediately. His eyes rose slowly from his perch in a wingback chair. He held a glass of brandy in one hand. There was no one else in the room.

"Where are they?" I demanded.

One eyebrow rose archly. "Whom, exactly, did you expect to find?"

"Detective Raver and Captain Maclaren. Dammit, their lives are in danger, man. This is no time for reticence. Where are they?"

Cunningham jerked his head toward the French doors on the opposite side of the room. "I suspect they lack faith in their brothers in blue to protect them from a madman. Can't exactly fault them there, can you?"

"How long ago did they leave?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Fifteen, twenty minutes ago. I'm not entirely certain." Cunningham sighed and lifted his expensive drink to his lips. "It's been a rather exhausting day, you see. Nightmarish, I'd say, so it has fucked up my internal clock, through no fault of my own."

I stalked into the room and yanked the liquor from his hand. "They're going to be killed if I can't get them into FBI custody. Do you want more blood on your hands?"

His eyes tightened to slits. "I am not responsible for my father's crimes."

"Do you want this assassin to find these cops and finish what he started when he murdered your wife? Is that the kind of legacy you want attached to the Cunningham name?"

"The Cunningham name dies with me. My father made sure our legacy would be one the world ought to forget, not revere or admire. As for your detectives, I think they can manage. They've eluded you twice now, haven't they? That can't sit too well with the FBI."

"You're stinking drunk," I muttered.

I left him to his vice and found the police commander. "Special Agent Briarwood. I thought I asked you to detain Detective Raver and Captain Maclaren."

"I did. They're in the parlor talking to—"

"They left. He's not sure but thinks it was fifteen, twenty minutes ago. I don't suppose you happened to pay any attention to what they were driving."

Another officer stepped forward. "It was a black sedan, four doors, New York tags, I'd say a mid to late 1990s Ford Taurus. I didn't take down the tag number, sir, but I did notice it was gone about fifteen minutes ago."

"Did you see them leave?" I asked.

"No, sir, but they can't have gotten too far. The island's not so big, but traffic tends to be dense, and without any means of identification as an emergency vehicle—"

"We've got a shot at finding them. Chief, does your department have a traffic helicopter?"

"No," he said, "but we've got news organizations that can be summoned."

"No! No news media! The last thing I need is the press hunting for Raver and Maclaren, or did I not make it clear to you that I've got a serial murderer hunting for them as well?"

"We could contact the state police," he shrugged. "They've got the kind of tools you're looking for."

"Give me the number, and I'll do it myself."

Chapter 17

Raver

She drove as quickly as possible away from the Cunningham estate without drawing attention to us by speeding.

"Look," Maclaren pointed as we approached the small airport. A black charter helicopter flew in the direction we'd just left. "I'd bet my favorite shoes that's the FBI. Jesus, I can't believe how stupid it was to think New York was far enough to remain anonymous even as a John Doe."

"Thanks for considering my life hanging in the balance, Kelsey. I thought you wanted to save my life, not hasten my demise."

"I didn't mean it that way," she said. "Dammit, do you think we'd be better off in FBI custody, Jay? This guy is out there, and he wants you dead. Do you see him being intimidated by federal agents, because I really can't fathom any scenario at this point that would put him off doing what he's apparently set his mind to accomplish."

"I don't disagree, but Kelsey, there's no way we're getting off this island fast enough to evade the FBI. At this point, maybe we'd be better off giving them a shot at solving the case."

"No," she whipped the car into the entrance at the airport. "We'll fly out of here and ditch my car. I...I don't know how to do this without leaving a fucking breadcrumb trail for them to follow, but it's the only way I can imagine getting off the island in a hurry."

"We need cash, and as much of it as we can get," I agreed.

"You think Hogan hasn't notified our financial institutions to put holds on our finances to keep us from hiding? He wants us back in his control and custody, Jay. Believe me. If he thinks for one second that the feds have us, he'll fight tooth and nail to get us back. It's personal for him now, catching this Castillo or whatever his name is. Those were his old buddies from the Navy Seals who died trying to keep you safe the other night."

"I'm well aware, Kelsey, which is why I think it'd be better if we went to the FBI on our own."

"No," she said. "They'll be looking for my car. My foray into theft notwithstanding, fraudulent plates aren't going to keep us off the grid. We need a different car."

"Maclaren—"

"Exigent circumstances," she said. "We could take a vehicle from this airport."

"It's not exactly a bastion of commercial flights. You think it's a good plan to commandeer somebody's Bentley?"

She grinned at the absurdity of my question. "I doubt the employees drive Bentleys. If worse comes to worse, we could rent a car."

"Which again, puts us on Hogan's radar. Kelsey, admit it. We're done running. We don't have the means to run any further than we already have. No cash to speak of. I don't have any identification at all, thanks to Castillo. Even if I wanted to board a flight, I couldn't do it. Let's just go back and take our chances with the FBI. Hogan can deal with it. I'm too tired to keep running. Besides, they have better access to resources to track this Castillo character than we do anyway."

"So just like that," she snapped her fingers. "You're ready to turn over your case to the FBI."

"I'm not exactly in any condition to fight for it. Besides, we found out his name, or at least the one he used with this particular client. I can't run anymore."

"I'm scared," Maclaren admitted. "We're in this thing deep, Jay. Castillo wants you dead, and probably me by proxy now. You know he's going to believe you identified him to me."

"So now he's going to try to kill everyone I describe him to? That might've made sense when he had the ability to silence me in Portland, Kelsey, but it doesn't make sense now."

She made a U-turn and began driving slowly back toward the Cunningham estate. "I'm going on record now. I disagree with the notion that the FBI can keep us safe."

"We're no better off on our own, Kelsey," I said. "Wouldn't it be better if I made a public statement about what happened at Dick's Diner Friday night and Saturday morning? For God's sake, I was sitting there researching a case I was working. It's not like I expected the killer to stroll into the diner that night. I didn't even get a good look at him beyond having blonde hair and medium build. It's a blank. I was freezing cold, rushing to get back inside to get my coat and hurry off to a crime scene."

"I'm going back," she muttered. "I just disagree that the FBI is a good plan. What if they promptly plant our asses front and center with Hogan?"

"So that's what's got you scared? I thought it was Castillo who made your palms sweat and your mouth dry."

"Hogan doesn't like me," she said. "He was basically forced to give a woman rank in a political move high above him. It's the truth. He's never exactly hid it from me. He thinks that I don't have enough hands-on, bureaucracy-free experience to be a good captain over even a handful of his detectives."

"So you figure we're the ones to catch Castillo and you've proven him wrong," I said. "Kelsey, I don't dislike you as a captain, but that's a really dumb reason for doing any of this."

"I don't want you dead," she retorted with a snort. "Jesus, I'm not a monster."

"I don't think going to the FBI is a bad idea, all things considered. They have resources. They have jurisdiction everywhere since we know Castillo has crossed state lines in the commission of his crimes. This is the smart move."

"We'll see," she said as she signaled and turned back into the driveway at the Cunningham estate.

I could tell by his carriage that the man in the dark trench coat was our FBI agent sent to bring us back home. He pointed at officers, barked out orders, evidenced by the blasts of warm air fogging the bitter cold in front of his face. "Tap the horn. Get his attention," I said.

Maclaren did it, and the agent turned slowly. Our eyes met, and for half a second, I thought I saw relief in the depths of those hawk-like orbs. He stalked toward Maclaren's car. I got out to meet him halfway.

"Detective Raver, it's good to see you upright and walking," he extended his hand. "Special Agent Gage Briarwood."

"Agent," I nodded. "This is my captain, Kelsey Maclaren."

"Are you here to drag us back to Maine where Detective Raver will be a sitting duck for a psychopathic assassin?" she asked.

He stopped in motion, dropping the half-extended hand in introduction to Kelsey. Briarwood's short legs spread wide and he rested his hands on his hips. "Ma'am, what in God's name would make you think we'd endanger the only witness we've ever found to the Night Lotus' identity?"

"She hasn't slept much in the past couple of days, Agent Briarwood. She's not thinking as clearly as she normally would."

"You don't need to speak in my defense, Jay. It's just that the last time I listened to someone who outranked me, I realized what a bad idea he put forth when the ambulance that might've carried you exploded right before our eyes."

Briarwood pulled out his phone and made a call. He rattled off his name and badge number before saying, "I need that chopper back out at the Cunningham residence. And I need our jet to come to LaGuardia to pick us up."

"To take us where?" Kelsey demanded.

"Boston," he said when his Blackberry was stuffed back in his pocket. "There's been another murder, one that fits the MO of the Night Lotus. Our ride will be here soon. Let's at least get out of the cold."

We followed Briarwood back inside. The coroner's office had taken away Duke Cunningham, so we entered the library. "Talk to me," Briarwood said.

"You're not going to like what I have to say," I replied. "I didn't get a good look at the killer."

"Yeah, Eugene Hogan already gave the physical description you recalled at the diner, Jay. I want to know what you learned from Cunningham before he died. Did he confess that he hired this psycho to kill his daughter-in-law?"

Maclaren didn't conceal her surprise. "Exactly how much do you know about this man?" she asked.

"Which one, Cunningham or the Night Lotus?" he replied.

"Both," her arms crossed over her chest. If Briarwood thought he'd win the testosterone contest with Maclaren, I suspected he was mistaken.

"Cunningham was a pretty high profile billionaire as they go. What I know about him anybody could discover with a decent Google search. This Night Lotus character is a different story. My partner's really the expert on him—but if you tell him I called him an expert, I may have to shoot you on general principle. Brick Newburgh's head is big enough as it is.

"But in my particular field of expertise, I should explain to you that the Night Lotus isn't a serial killer in the classical sense. He's a type two assassin—in the business for the recognition. My partner thinks someone with knowledge of the crimes started this Internet lore, made of the stuff of urban legends."

"I disagree," I breathed the words on a gust of frustration. "Whoever started these rumors has more knowledge than a family member should. I think the killer might've... well, I think he's probably suffering from narcissistic personality disorder."

Briarwood rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sounds like you and Newburgh are sort of on the same page, Raver. But there's a problem with your theory. There are well-defined elements of his crimes that place him decidedly in the classification of type three assassins."

I shook my head and waved his theory aside. "That psychopathic bent for torture and such was his partner. It's how the crimes could appear simultaneously organized and disorganized. Has anybody identified the partner yet? The one Taggart shot Saturday at the Cunningham house in Whisper Cove," I clarified.

Briarwood's eyes darted toward the open door.

Maclaren nodded before she walked over and shut off the pipeline to any listening ears.

"His name was Henry O'Banion, though he apparently went by Hank. He was born and raised in the Las Cruces area in '79, though he looked older than his thirties in my opinion. The guy had a sealed juvenile record that we finally convinced a judge to open since the guy was dead. Sick shit. Tortured and killed neighborhood pets, dropped out of school at fifteen—even though it wasn't legal for him to do so. Apparently the school was relieved that he wouldn't be back. The guy was suspended or expelled numerous times from many schools between the ages of eight and fifteen."

"Let me guess," I said. "He brought knives to school."

Briarwood nodded. "He dropped off the radar after he quit school. I mean there was nothing. No further arrests, no tax returns, no mailing address, nothing."

I started pacing, despite the throbbing in my injured thigh. "I wonder if that's when he hooked up with Castillo."

"Castillo?" Briarwood asked.

"It's the name your Night Lotus used when he was hired to kill Felicia Cunningham," I explained. "It's one of the things that Duke told me before his massive coronary. He told me how he found Castillo, how they were in contact, how he paid the man. All of it. His son offered to turn over his laptop and cell phone for examination, but we didn't have time to actually collect them before..."

"Before you ran," Briarwood said. "About that. Why would you run from the people in the best position to protect you?"

"I'm not sure you are," Kelsey spoke again. "Those men, the ones who died in the ambulance the other night, they were former Navy Seals. I'd say Seals are better trained than FBI agents, wouldn't you?"

"This isn't a covert op," Briarwood said.

"But it was, and Castillo walked right up to the ambulance and managed to plant a bomb that nobody discovered. My detective could've died that night."

Briarwood cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, other than this instance, the Night Lotus hasn't stuck around his crime scenes for long. After he was sure he'd killed Detective Raver, he went straight to Boston—we suspect—and did another job."

"Who this time?" I asked.

"The wife of a state senator."

"Jesus," I muttered. "You realize that he doesn't work gratis."

"We know. I want you to come to Boston with me, Detective Raver. I think you could contribute more than what you saw Saturday in the wee hours of the morning. We'll protect you, believe me. But in the meantime, word is out that you survived. This guy would be a fool to come after you again, particularly if you're under the protection of the FBI."

I glanced at Kelsey. "You're not shipping us back to Hogan in Maine?"

"Absolutely not," he said. "I will succeed where my predecessors have failed, detective. I'm going to catch this guy. I don't care how long it takes or who I have to recruit to get the job done."

"I won't be stashed away in some government safe house," I said. "This guy's smart, Agent Briarwood. I don't share your confidence that Castillo or the Night Lotus or whatever you want to call him wouldn't come after me just as hard if I'm with the FBI than he would if I'm on my own."

"Tell me why," Briarwood said.

"It increases his worth. I don't know how better to explain his narcissism. It's the legend that compels him. This guy cannot resist showing everyone how much smarter he is than the rest of the world."

"He screwed up in Boston," Briarwood began, even as the sound of a helicopter overhead indicated our transportation's imminent arrival. "He wrote his message in ink that could only be seen under ultraviolet light—or at least that's what we think."

"That's not a smoking gun," I argued. "He's in the wind again, and if there's a problem left behind in his wake, just like what happened to Mr. Cunningham, the person who contracted the job is the one left holding the bag. It does nothing to get us closer to Castillo."

"He must contact them somehow. We can reverse the process, get to him through the Senator if need be. Or we can work back from the other cases, figure out who hired him and force them to help us track this guy down. Cunningham's death was a stroke of luck for this man, but there are plenty of others who've used his services."

I shook my head and explained why I wanted Cunningham's computer and cell phone. "Though according to Duke, he destroyed the phone Castillo sent him after the job was done. If the senator hired Castillo to kill his wife—"

"Her wife, but regardless, you think she's already destroyed her means of contacting Castillo," Briarwood said.

"Yeah, that's exactly what Duke told me. I'd like to question her, just the same," I replied. "I think she needs to understand what I already learned from one of Castillo's other clients."

Chapter 18

Special Agent Newburgh

I stood over the body of Senator Farnsworth's wife while the medical examiner shined a UV light over her skin from head to toe. The message on the forehead was something new, right along with the amateurish vanishing ink. You'll never catch me—seemed too obvious a taunt, even for the Night Lotus.

The convincing aspect was the flower drawn on the victim's right cheek. This was an element of crime that we'd managed to conceal, even in the case reports on ViCAP. Our Night Lotus was an obvious lefty. It was clear in the cuts made on the body too; the deep slashes that severed Gloria Farnsworth's Achilles tendons sliced right to left evidenced by the depth being greatest on the right side as he slashed through the flesh and sinew.

Her throat gash was less obvious, more like a stabbing puncture than a cut.

"Well, is this your guy?" the ME asked.

"We'll wrap her up to go and send her to our people in Quantico."

"And are you going to explain to the Senator why her wife is being whisked away?"

I frowned. "Is she here?"

"Yeah. She's been driving us all friggin' crazy wanting to get in here for some alone time with her wife. She was a pioneer back in the day when marriage became legal for all people in Massachusetts. Well, she was an activist back then. Her senator's seat is relatively recent."

"I'd prefer that she not see her until we've completed our examination." I glanced at my watch. "My partner should be here soon. I'm certain he'd prefer to inform her of the bureau's actions in this matter."

"But you're essentially telling me that the FBI believes this woman was killed by the Night Lotus, the same guy that slaughtered all those people up in Maine this past weekend."

"I can't confirm or deny that."

"But she's got the drawing on her face," the ME said.

"It's inconclusive, but warrants additional examination. I can't share more with you than that."

"We have a right to know if this madman is lurking in Boston."

"Ma'am, I'm sure if it turns out to be the Night Lotus, that he's as far away from Boston right now as you could possibly imagine. He's not known for sticking around after he commits his crimes."

"If it's someone else—"

"It could be a mugging. Maybe she tried to fight off her attacker."

"So he got down on the ground and slashed her tendons so she couldn't stand anymore?"

"I'm not going to debate the active theories or what evidence we may have that would indicate this murder belongs with others under the bureau's active investigation, ma'am, and I'm not going to authorize any viewing for identification purposes, grieving or anything else until the rest of my team arrives and we're able to conference on the case, the evidence and the cause of death for this victim. I'd suggest you send the senator home and tell her that we'll be in touch."

"Bastard," she muttered under her breath. Her stomp out of the room was aborted by Gage Briarwood's arrival.

"Excuse me?" he had the bristling fed attitude perfected to a science in my opinion.

"I was just about to send Senator Farnsworth home without granting her the courtesy of viewing her wife."

"You can't do that until we've authorized it," he said, flashing his badge. "Special Agent Briarwood. Thanks for telling the widow to go home. We'll contact her as soon as arrangements can be made for her to have the body transferred to a mortuary. In the meantime, I have a court order that one of the agents in our field office obtained. This woman is being transported to Quantico for her postmortem examination. Thanks for your assistance, doctor, but the FBI will be taking things from here."

She resumed the petulant exit and slammed the door behind her.

"Nice gal," Briarwood said. "Hang on."

He opened the door and beckoned with one hand. To my surprise, the very people we wanted to find walked into the room. "I'll be damned," I said. "You got to them in time."

"Detective Raver, Captain Maclaren, this is my partner on this case, Special Agent Newburgh."

"Brick," I said, stepping around the covered remains of the senator's wife and extending a hand.

"Jay," Raver offered in kind.

"Captain Maclaren," his commanding officer said stiffly. "Why are we moving closer to Castillo instead of far away from him, Briarwood? Again, I renew my objection to—"

"Give it a rest, Kelsey," Raver sighed. "Briarwood told me that you came to determine if this case is related to the other Night Lotus murders. What have you decided?"

I shrugged. "I've been on this case for a while, Jay. Yet in all this time, I never managed to get as close to him as you have. I'm curious to know why we're calling him Castillo now. I take it that even half dead, you've managed to push your investigation forward."

Raver explained the events of the day quickly and succinctly. "It seems that was the name he used with Duke Cunningham. I'd be very interested to see how Senator Farnsworth might react to the name."

My head tilted slightly as I felt myself silently measuring Raver. How the hell had this guy picked up on the Night Lotus so quickly? I'd been studying his crime scenes for nearly two years. Hell, Briarwood and I had been fighting for three weeks about if this was one killer or two. He couldn't conceive how a single perpetrator could demonstrate both organized and disorganized behavior during the commission of a crime. Most people don't understand that psychosis isn't always a longstanding state of mind. Jeffrey Dahmer was a good example of someone who slid between the membrane between mentally ill and actively psychotic to someone who understood what he'd done and that it was wrong after the fact.

"Take a look at what I've seen," I said. I pulled the drape back from Farnsworth's face and shined the ultraviolet light over the message and the drawing. "What do you think, Detective Raver?"

He peered at the message on her forehead first. "Unless other messages like this were held back from reports in ViCAP, this is new. But then, Castillo isn't the same killer he was a few days ago, is he?"

"What do you mean?" Briarwood asked.

"Let him finish his impressions first, Gage. What else, Jay? Any other striking observations?"

"It's a sun and not the moon in some stage of the lunar cycle. When I read the other reports in ViCAP, the first two took place during the full moon, so I questioned whether he might be on some specific cycle, but dismissed that because of subsequent evidence."

"Tell me why," I said.

"The moon matched the stages of the actual moon at the time of the murders," he said. "I think the guy is just drawing what he sees outside the crime scene. It was one of the first things—beyond the disorganization of the murders themselves—that made me wonder if he was working with a partner."

"Why?" Briarwood stepped closer and stared at Raver with genuine interest.

Raver shrugged. "It struck me as something he started doing while he waited. That's the other thing about the drawing this time that strikes me as odd. It lacks his usual detail in the flower. Like it or not, our guy has some artistic talent. Some of the other flowers drawn at his crime scenes were too detailed to be done quickly."

Briarwood muttered a curse under his breath, no doubt recalling the chalk drawing, larger than life and rife with incredible detail that the Night Lotus had left behind in Portland while he watched us work.

"Did I say something wrong?" Raver asked.

"Take a look at this, Jay," I said, pulling out my phone and showing him one of the pictures I'd taken on the rooftop after the artwork was discovered.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. It's highly detailed and likely took hours to draw. Some of the torture scenarios in previous cases weren't quick, agents. So if his partner, this Hank O'Banion was the one torturing their victims, Castillo was the organized guy. Maybe his role wasn't to kill, but to set the scene and buy time for O'Banion to do the dirty work."

"But he ditched his partner," Maclaren said. Her nose wrinkled, eyes squinted. "Why would he do that?"

"You didn't meet O'Banion," Raver said.

Briarwood and I both stood stock-still.

My partner broke the silence. "You didn't mention that you met O'Banion, Jay."

"Sorry," he said. "I'm tired and just a widget overwhelmed here. I've never had anybody try to kill me twice."

"How in the hell did you meet the guy?" Briarwood spluttered. "And just exactly how long have you been following this investigation?"

"Two months," Maclaren said, "and against my direct orders that he cease and desist. But no...you just had to butt into cases so far outside our jurisdiction, didn't you? Now this psycho's probably after me too!"

"Kelsey," he said. "I'm sorry. It just seemed so obvious to me that this was more than Internet folklore."

"We'll save that for another discussion," Briarwood said. "How did you meet O'Banion?"

"I put out feelers on every place online where he's discussed, well, the Night Lotus, to be specific. I was looking for information, tips from anyone who thought they'd seen someone suspicious or unknown to them at or around the time of any of the murders. I got a tip last Friday, some anonymous guy told me he'd seen the Night Lotus in Portland."

"Portland Maine?" Briarwood clarified.

"Yes. I wasn't about to fly to Oregon to see some snitch."

"Wait. You suspected that you were meeting with the Night Lotus' partner and didn't take backup?" I asked.

"It didn't occur to me that he might've been the partner until I actually met him. This guy was seriously sketchy."

"Meaning?" I asked.

Raver glanced from Briarwood to me and then back to Briarwood. "He was filthy. I mean that in a literal sense. Smelly, greasy hair, filth under his long-ass fingernails and breath that would've made the dead try to get away. He told me he'd seen this guy, that he overheard something, that he was sure he was the Night Lotus."

"To which you replied?" Briarwood asked.

"I wondered if the guy knew why he was in Portland. He denied knowing why, but said he was following somebody, but he didn't know the man's identity."

"I've often thought that the unsub stalks his victims before he kills," I said. "But why would O'Banion try to rat out his own partner?"

"Maybe they were both sick of each other. Someone called nine-one-one in Whisper Cove and got the cops to the Cunningham place before O'Banion barely got started," Jay said. "Maybe Castillo wanted to rid himself of O'Banion as much as O'Banion wanted to rid himself of Castillo. The thing about O'Banion was this. When I talked to him Friday night, he didn't strike me as particularly bright. It was like he wanted to tell me something, but he couldn't figure out how to do it."

"It fits with O'Banion's history of poor academics," Briarwood said. "He dropped out of school at fifteen after all. God knows his attendance all along was spotty at best. I'd be surprised if the guy knew how to read."

I watched Detective Raver pace. Every other pass by the victim, he'd pause for a moment and shake his head.

"What the hell," Briarwood muttered.

"Quiet, Gage. He's trying to work something out."

He glanced at me briefly. "Yeah. I think...I'm positive that he killed this woman, but I need the autopsy report on Felicia Cunningham to be sure."

"I'd like a little more information," I said.

"It's this woman's throat," he explained.

"Something about her wound, you want to compare it to Felicia Cunningham's?" I asked.

Raver nodded. "The guy who tried to kill me ran into me as I was coming back in the diner. He ran into me with his left shoulder. He cut me with his left hand."

I uncovered the victim's feet and revealed the wounds on her heels. "These were cut left handed, from behind her as she was standing in that parking garage," I said. "Tell me how you see that scenario play out, Jay."

"She'd scream like a banshee," he said. "When I was in college in Tennessee—"

Maclaren interrupted. "You went back to Tennessee for college?"

He grinned. "Yeah. Family alma mater for a couple of generations. Anyway, I was at a basketball game one night, and the star player tore his Achilles tendon. He screamed like a five year-old girl with scraped hands and knees. I figured he was...well, flopping. Turns out, it was pretty serious. He never played ball in college again. Everybody was sure he had a shot at the pros. I know it's a painful injury."

"So Castillo cuts her. She starts screaming. Then what?" Briarwood asked.

"She falls. She can't run away or even walk with a completely severed Achilles tendon, let alone two. She falls to the ground. She keeps screaming."

I followed Raver's train of thought. "He straddles her and pops her throat open to shut her up."

He nodded. "That's not a normal cut. In fact, from what my surgeon told me, it's an awful lot like what he described happened to my thigh. They had to cut me open a lot further to patch my femoral artery, and it was just nicked." He lifted the drape again and pointed to the bloody hole in the woman's throat. "It's slightly off-center, just a tad to her right side of midline."

"Done left-handed if he's straddling her," Briarwood concurred.

"He didn't take much time at this crime scene. Why bother to stop and write a message on her face?" Maclaren asked.

I looked at Raver again. "What do you think?"

He shrugged. "I could be wrong. You guys are the experts. What do you think?"

"I'd rather hear your take first," Briarwood said. "You seem to be tuned into this guy somehow I suspect."

"She made too much noise. He didn't want to hang around and get caught, so he left a hasty message."

"That still doesn't explain why, Jay," Maclaren huffed, irritation evident in her tone, fists perched defiantly on her hips.

"He has to do it," Raver said. "It's a compulsion. I can only imagine why he tried to obscure it at all. He could've been concerned about the close proximity between Boston and Portland." Raver's fingers curled around his chin.

"Or?" Briarwood prompted.

"This woman is the wife of a state senator. Maybe Senator Farnsworth hired Castillo just like Cunningham did, only she couldn't afford for this to look like an assassination," Raver replied. "Was anything missing?"

Son of a bitch. He nailed it. "Yeah, Jay. She was missing her purse and a pair of very expensive earrings."

"So if the tech from the ME's office hadn't by some freak chance seen her face under ultraviolet light..." Briarwood didn't need to draw the rest of the conclusion.

I did it anyway. "We'd have never known that this was another victim of the Night Lotus. Jay, I want you on this team. I think you have a lot to contribute to the investigation. You've seen things beyond coming face-to-face with this guy. If we're providing protective custody, I see no reason why you can't help us close—"

The building shook with concussion, and lights in the room flickered and went out.

Chapter 19

Castillo

I was screaming down the Interstate only a mile an hour or two above the posted speed limit, still feeling a little high from the kill. Somehow, watching air and blood mingle into a pinkish foam fascinated me.

O'Banion always went for some violent torture before inflicting a quick form of death. I'm not sure anymore what he got out of the whole thing. I supposed it was seeing the fear in his victim's eyes, but I noticed something today when the senator's wife was dying. There's a smell. Her eyes were full of fear and panic, but there was something else too. Perhaps some would call it a spark of life. I could feel every fiber of her spirit beneath me as she died. Adrenalin made her pulse throb hard and fast in her throat.

Beyond the fear, beyond the panic in that moment of realization when Gloria Farnsworth knew she was going to die, there was resentment. That was her spark. How dare you kill me?

I couldn't help but smile at the memory of it. No wonder O'Banion got so addicted to killing. There was nothing like it in the world.

Satellite radio blared over the speakers in the Mustang, and I smiled, feeling just grand. On top of the world. I could listen to anything, not just from whatever station was in range, but radio all over the country. Sadly, it didn't matter much.

I was about an hour outside of Boston when the station in New York announced that the feds were up to their deceptive tactics again.

"Yeah, that cop they've been bellyaching about for the past few days who died up in Maine, turns out he didn't die at all—which isn't to say that the poor sap impersonating him wasn't killed by some psycho chunk of dick cheese, because he was. But the FBI and the state police conspired to lie to the public and elicit all kinds of sympathy for the guys in blue over this dead cop when that wasn't what happened at all," the radio personality said. "We've got someone on the phone right now, who for obvious reasons, has only agreed to speak to us anonymously since he or she could get kicked out of the hospital club for being a whistleblower. So uh, we need a good unisex name to call this person, Janey."

The female counterpart on the show chuckled wryly. "Let's call our whistleblower Justice."

"Oh, I like that! Okay, so we've got Justice on the phone with us from somewhere inside the dark and shadowy underbelly of Gotham this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Justice, you're live. We've disguised your voice so you don't get into hot water with the masters. Tell us what happened. How did you discover that this Jameson Raver dude is still alive?"

"I was at work this morning when a John Doe walked in off the street. It was him; it was Detective Raver."

"Can you tell us why he came strolling into your hospital?"

"Yeah," the voice said. "He wanted to get his wound checked, you know, from the surgery that he survived before he was allegedly blown to bits by that nut job serial killer."

"And you're sure it was him?" the male host asked.

I swerved across three lanes of traffic to hit the exit before I'd have to wait another mile on the I-95. My hands shook. Those sneaky bastards!

"His face has been on the news for days, even down here," the tattler—who I seriously wanted to find and shower with money at the moment—said. "What I don't get is if the feds thought he needed to be protected, why not pay some doctor to come see him in seclusion? If this guy really is being hunted by some kind of deranged killer—"

Scratch the notion of paying this fool for information.

"Then why not just have a doctor see him outside the hospital? Why put all of our actually innocent patients at risk by bringing Detective Raver to a hospital? Doesn't this guy have enough blood on his hands already?"

"Well, Justice, our government doesn't really care about the welfare of the little guy," Janey said. "They've got their witness against this guy. I pulled up some information on the Internet while you two were chatting, and the Night Lotus is a seriously scary dude. I can understand why they'd want to protect the only person who ever faced the guy and survived. He's gotta be like the worlds most protected witness at this point."

My fist slammed down against the control panel and shut the radio off. "Fuck!" the word bounced around the interior of the car like the ricochet of a bullet.

He's alive. He's alive and they knew it when they mopped up my ineffective attempt to get rid of him.

I heard the snort next to me. "You're one dumb son of a bitch, Castillo. You thought you didn't need me, but none of this would've happened if you hadn't decided to dump me. So smart, ain't ya? You went to all that bother, cookin' up your little plastic explosives like some fuckin' nerd in science class, and for what? Killin' a bunch of people sure, but missin' the target. You're nothin' without me."

I jumped, startled by the voice, terrified to look to my right. No. No. O'Banion was dead. I made sure of it.

Slowly my eyes darted to the empty seat beside me. "You bastard," I whispered. "I won't let you haunt me. I don't need you to do the job. I'll get this cop on my own and I'll do it my way."

"Well, then, Miss Prissy Cassie, you know what you gotta do next. You gotta find that boy and put a knife in him. Do him good, like I would."

Where would they be? I eased the Mustang from the shoulder of the exit back into the lane and drove to a truck stop and parked. My fingers revived the radio and I searched for a news station rather than entertainment. It took about two minutes to realize that Jameson Raver was all anybody in the Northeast wanted to discuss.

"Sources say that Detective Raver is now in FBI protective custody. He is reported to have been sighted in a New York City hospital early this morning. In related news, local police in Boston have announced that the killer nicknamed the Night Lotus is wanted in connection with a murder that happened early this afternoon.

"Gloria Hayes Farnsworth, wife of Massachusetts Senator Diane Farnsworth was found dead in a parking garage downtown shortly after leaving lunch at Gioia Senza Fine where according to the senator, she was meeting with her literary agent for lunch to discuss her latest manuscript, a political thriller set to be released next summer. Ms. Hayes-Farnsworth received a reported seven-figure advance for her debut novel.

"Initial reports indicated that Hayes-Farnsworth was the victim of a brutal mugging, but sources inside the medical examiner's office told our affiliate station in Boston that the FBI is on scene, and that this killing may indeed be the work of the Night Lotus.

"The killer, who was given his nickname through Internet lore, has never left a living victim who could identify him, until Detective Raver of the Maine State Police survived the attempt on his life in the early hours Saturday morning, and again after plastic explosives were used to destroy the ambulance purportedly transferring the detective to a secure safe house to recover from his injury.

"Police in Maine have not yet released a formal statement regarding the identities of the victims killed inside the ambulance after Saturday night's attack. Presumably, they were acting as agents of the police in the role of decoy so that Detective Raver could quietly be moved to safety."

I lowered the volume on the radio. Even if they stashed Raver somewhere, my money was on following the FBI and letting them lead me straight to him. Even if I was caught, a dead witness couldn't testify against me. If he told somebody else what I looked like, the same would apply. It would be hearsay in court.

A wicked grin broke over my face. "You think I'm gonna act like a frightened mouse and run from you, cat? Think again."

I drove back to Boston, not concerned in the least that I'd be walking right into their hands. Nobody had seen me earlier today, and Farnsworth would keep her damn, lying mouth shut if she knew what was good for her.

I was the one paying attention in Dick's Diner the other night. Raver barely glimpsed me. It wasn't uncommon for victims of trauma to have sketchy memory in the first place, but on the off chance that he could recognize me, I wanted him dead, just like Myrtle and Dick.

The news broadcast interrupted my thoughts.

"Sources in National News Network's New York affiliate station have reported that police in East Hampton confirmed that Detective Raver and his commanding officer, Captain Kelsey Maclaren were joined by the FBI at the residence of Duke Cunningham to discuss the murder of Mr. Cunningham's daughter-in-law Felicia Cunningham.

"Duke Cunningham was the CEO of Cunningham Global. National News confirmed that Mr. Cunningham was pronounced dead in his home earlier this afternoon. We have not confirmed that police from Maine spoke to him prior to his death. It has been common knowledge in the business world for several months that Mr. Cunningham's health was declining due to longstanding cardiac disease. Police in East Hampton issued a statement that Mr. Cunningham's death was determined to be of natural causes, and no foul play was apparent. Resuscitation efforts were made for approximately thirty minutes before Mr. Cunningham was pronounced dead in his home in East Hampton."

Shit. If Raver got to Cunningham... My foot grew heavy as a sense of urgency prickled the hair on my arms. I had a phone. Nobody knew about this one. It was registered to me, something I wouldn't throw away like the others. It was connected to the Bluetooth in the car. My thumb caressed the button on the steering wheel that would activate it.

"Call the medical examiner's office in Boston."

The screen showed the status of the call a moment before someone answered the telephone. "Office of the Medical Examiner, Commonwealth of Massachusetts. How may I direct your call?"

"Bernie Taylor from National News Network. Do you have a press officer that I could speak to please?"

"One moment."

Jazzy hold music filled the car.

"Caruthers here."

"Bernie Taylor from National News Network. I'm following up on a story we're covering in New York, about Senator Farnsworth's wife's death possibly being related to the Cunningham murder in Maine. Can I get confirmation that the FBI is taking the case from the Commonwealth?"

"I'm not authorized to comment, sir, but we'll be holding a press conference at six this evening at the ME's office on Albion Street. All members of the press with valid passes will be admitted to the building."

"I'm in New York, sir, and just looking for another source to confirm what the police in East Hampton said this afternoon, that the FBI is taking over the primary responsibility for investigation in your murder. Chief Eugene Hogan in Maine has already confirmed that this Night Lotus investigation is out of their hands now. Any confirmation of that from Boston is all I'm looking for at the moment."

"To my knowledge, that hasn't happened here, but we're expecting the FBI to make their decision prior to the press conference at six tonight."

"Thanks for the information. You'll release a written statement from tonight as well, I presume."

"It'll go out on the wire just as soon as it's concluded," Caruthers said.

I disconnected the call and sped up incrementally with the swelling panic in my chest. What the hell! How could they link the cases so quickly? Maybe somebody found my message—which wasn't my intent.

The phone had many handy functions. It quickly displayed the location of the ME's office on the larger panel in the car. Right out in front of the dated building was some sort of metered box. Could it be that simple? I had enough of the plastic explosive left to take out a box of that size with little collateral damage. There was no way I could get inside. I had no credentials, and if that's where the FBI was hanging out this afternoon, I might just get lucky if I got them on the run. They could lead me straight to wherever it was I was certain they'd stashed Raver already.

Across the street, same side as the ME's office was a parking building. I could park, stroll down, plant my little mini-charge, and go back to the garage to wait for the FBI. If they really linked my activity in Maine to the Boston job, I might even be able to recognize a face or two. God knows, I'd spent enough time watching them pick through the rubble Saturday night into the small hours of Sunday morning.

People don't realize how far a little plastic explosive goes. A pound and a quarter will blow up a truck—or an ambulance. I'd need far less to take out a little electrical box, maybe a quarter of a pound. The small volume would make it easier to disguise as something else. A ten-pack of bubble gum ought to be an approximate size.

This plan had too many unknowns, too many presumptions for my liking. What if I got to Boston and the FBI had already left the medical examiner's office? I didn't have time to do proper surveillance.

The clock in my brain ticked loudly in an endless series of echoes. I had to get there faster. My planned decoy hadn't done a damn bit of good. How did they link the Farnsworth bitch to me? It wasn't as if I'd left any obvious clues.

Raver's laptop was still in my possession, but out on the highway, I had no means of tapping into his police account to see what was going on with his chief.

"Prissy Cassie, you're gonna have to roll the dice now. If you hadn't fucked me over, none of this would've happened. We'd have been in and out before the cops ever knew what for."

"Shut up," I growled at myself. "O'Banion would've eventually screwed up and you'd have been left holding the bag for everything. Don't forget, the bastard tried to double-cross you. His plan was stupid. Yours equated freedom."

"You call this free?" the voice of O'Banion guffawed in my head. "Hell, I'm freer than you and I'm dead."

I was certain nobody would still be hanging around by the time I navigated through Boston during rush hour. The slow drive through the parking garage allayed my worst fears when I noticed the government tags on two vehicles—one a van that might conceivably carry human remains.

They were taking Farnsworth out of state to examine her. Were they playing a hunch or had they found my message?

I popped the trunk on the Mustang and used my old but trusty pocketknife to pare off enough C4 to fill the package that was recently vacated of ten pieces of bubblegum and carefully poked it inside. The detonator was simple, if bulky for the small package. Two nine-volt batteries soldered to my wires for the blasting cap were routed through a simple and small alarm clock timer. It'd give me roughly five minutes to set the timer, drop the device and get across the street out of harm's way. Sure, I could set the timer for longer, like I had with the ambulance, but I didn't need to this time. Just a quick, small blast would take out the electrical box, and voila. Blackout in the building. I anticipated the FBI running out of the building, either to investigate or whisk Raver away if he was with them. And then all I'd have to do is follow the vehicle they took him in. I wished I had access to the interior of the vehicles. I could plant my mini-GPS tracking device inside the cars and actually hear their conversations.

Absent that, I dug two of the devices out of my box of electronic gear and powered them up. I'd follow whichever vehicle had occupants I recognized. And if the FBI wasn't driving one of them, it would be simple to find the vehicles and retrieve my devices.

As I dug through the box, I heard another engine revving as it drove the inclines in the parking building. I threw the hood on my jacket up and pretended to be busy inside the trunk.

Son of a bitch. It was the old bald guy from Portland. FBI.

Game on, G-men, game on.

Chapter 20

Castillo

I grabbed the lock blocker out of the trunk and used it to prevent the old guy from locking the car. What a stroke of luck! And son of a bitch, but the guy wasn't alone. Two cops crawled out of the SUV with him.

I'd recognize Raver anywhere. Who the broad was...well, she must've been the police captain who successfully got him away from the hospital without my notice. They wouldn't slip through my fingers again this time.

It was a risk, because I had no idea what the structural integrity of the medical examiner's building was like, but to my way of seeing things, this could be my golden opportunity to make sure Raver didn't come out alive. Neither he nor his cohorts in law enforcement would've been my preference.

I popped the pack of gum open and stuffed as much C4 as it would hold inside. A little would go a long way. Maybe far enough to crumble the mortar and brick of that damned building and bury them once and for all.

Just in case though, I removed the back of one of my mini-GPS devices and loaded up another pre-paid SIM card. Hell, I had dozens of them that I bought from Walmart on a fairly regular basis. It was cheaper than destroying my cell phone over and over. Pop in a new SIM, and it was like having a brand new phone. Plus, the little cards were a hell of a lot easier to destroy after I was done with them than trashing and replacing phones after every hit. It was bad enough that I had to supply one to the boss on each job.

"They're not the boss of you, Cassie. Be honest. You got 'em by the 'nads and you love it." O'Banion kept whispering in my head. I hated it. One of the benefits of getting rid of him was that I wouldn't have to listen to his blather anymore.

I called the small GPS device from my cell phone—the smart phone that would connect to the screen inside my car—and once I received the text confirming the devices were linked, I walked casually over to the SUV my fibbie drove. Sure enough, the doors were unlocked.

My gloved hand slipped under the handle of the front passenger door and popped it open. Where to hide the device so I could hear what was happening in the car but wouldn't betray that I was spying?

I tore off a strip of duct tape from the roll in my pocket and secured the device under the passenger seat in the front.

Back at the car, I finished attaching my makeshift timer to the pack of gum stuffed full of C4. It had to work. It just had to work.

A pang of doubt loomed large all of a sudden. Last time I used C4, the cops were so distracted that I just leisurely strolled away. I doubted they'd make that mistake a second time. And really, now that I could track that FBI vehicle, it wouldn't be difficult at all to learn if my plan was successful or not. I didn't have to stay at the scene to do so either.

Instead of taking the stairs to the ground floor, I drove back out of the garage and circled the neighborhood for several minutes until I found a place to park that would give me enough time to drop the package at the electrical box and make my way back to the car without need of giving myself away by virtue of a dead run.

I strolled around the hospital and crossed the street to get to the metered electrical box in front of two buildings, one of which was the ME's office. Casually, I stepped on one of my shoelaces before I reached the curb on the opposite side of the street and waited until the box almost blocked me from street view before I knelt down and quickly retied the shoe. It gave me the precious moment I needed to surreptitiously prop my little device into the shadow next to the electrical box, gum wrapper facing outward. I got up and walked away as quickly as I'd stopped to tie my shoe.

At the end of the block, I crossed again and hurried in the cold night air to where I'd left the Mustang parked. I drove half a block, up to the stoplight on Albion, and waited for the signal to change. I turned right, eyes darting to the rearview mirror until an enormous light flashed behind me. I was two blocks away and still felt the concussion from the blast.

I burst out laughing. "Okay, well, I used a little too much C4, it seems. Maybe I won't have to worry about Raver walking out of that building alive."

Temptation screamed like a siren's song in my head. Nobody will know it was you. That was beautiful! Are you really going to walk away from this and let them assume maybe it was some crazed jihadist? You can't. Don't do it. Stop. Draw somewhere, even if it's on the side of a wall. Don't pass up this opportunity to make sure these assholes know you mean business, and that they'd better not try to come after you. This is what happens to people who pay too much attention.

Northeast traffic was at a standstill, and southwest wasn't doing much better. I turned right onto a side street another block southwest of the hospital and parked. I had some chalk left from my excursion in Portland, but decided to be far less conspicuous this time. They'd be looking on rooftops immediately, I imagined. Now was not the time to get caught.

I ducked between two buildings, not big enough to be considered a true alley, with just enough space for fire escapes running along side each building. Chalk in hand, the beautiful drawing came to life: my night-bloom, the cereus that I'd watched open so many times in the desert while huddled in a ratty old blanket praying that I wouldn't die of exposure during the night.

The moon over Boston was full and colored like winter, frosty white and icy blues gleaming despite the city lights. It was beautiful.

Before I realized what I'd done or how much time had passed, my drawing had taken on an eerie sense of realism. I clutched the chalk in my gloved hand and stumbled back to the car, numb with cold. The symphony I'd heard in my head was the sounds of sirens—police, fire, ambulance, it didn't really matter. It was the cue that should've jolted me back to what needed to happen next.

I pinged the GPS I planted under the seat of the FBI man's SUV. It was still parked at the corner of Albany and East Concord. Oh could I be so lucky! The blast had been larger than anticipated. I wanted to sit and indulge in the fantasy of Raver buried under tons of rebar, maybe not enough to crush him to death quickly, but slowly squeezing the breath from his lungs.

It would surely spike his survival instinct and flood his veins with adrenalin. I could smell it. What delicious scents, the combination of fear, adrenalin and the will to live.

I started the Mustang, but only drove another two blocks from my drawing. At Tremont and Massachusetts Avenue were several eateries and coffee shops. I parked the car and ran inside the coffee shop and ordered two large cups to go. Nobody looked at me twice, so I added a couple of pastries to the order.

It would give me a great excuse if anybody called the cops and said I looked suspicious. I was waiting out the traffic and stopped for a bite to eat.

But nobody bothered me. I got a couple of looks and started fiddling with the radio. I wasn't sure if they were taking notice of me or checking out the car. Probably the latter. She was a sweet ride, and the blast of heat was a warm reminder of my roots, why I hated O'Banion's shitty cars, and why I could afford a little luxury in my life right now.

All O'Banion ever wanted to spend his money on was bowie knives—not that he didn't have an impressive collection. I'd purchased a few for myself, but left all of his in the trunk of the car with the other evidence against him.

Killing one way lacked imagination, the way I saw it. I liked the danger, cooking up my own C4 (not a risk-free proposition) and using straight razors so sharp they could peel back a single layer of skin without causing more than the appearance of a sunburn. It took some skill to wield one at the proper angle with just enough pressure not to leave a bloody mess.

I found a local radio station and listened to the report advising everyone—including people who had need to be in the area around Albany and East Concord to stay away. The hospital, a mere four blocks or so east of me, was on lockdown. Part of the building next to the medical examiner's building had collapsed. They were running around chasing their tails, worried about gas leaks and such.

The smile was smug and filled with great satisfaction. Even though I hadn't probably taken out that bastard detective, I was certain he got the message.

A text message pinged my phone. Coordinates.

"Ah, you're on the move. Excellent," I said.

I kicked the Mustang into gear and carefully navigated out of my parking space. After thirty seconds, another text came from the GPS device. I activated the audio after seeing how much space they'd managed to cover in a mere thirty seconds.

"...Telling you, it was him," one of the voices said.

I maintained my position a few blocks west of theirs, heading northeast.

"We don't know that, Newburgh," another rougher voice spoke.

"I know it," female, must've been Maclaren.

"She's right, Agent Briarwood. He's here. I...I know it."

"Is that something you sense?" the one named Newburgh asked.

"After the guy detonated another hunk of C4, I don't think much intuition is required, Newburgh," Briarwood said drily. "Let's just get him to the safe house, and then we can oversee the transfer of Mrs. Farnsworth's remains out to Logan."

"We don't need to do that together, Gage," Newburgh said. "I'm not comfortable leaving Jay and Kelsey alone, not even for a couple of hours while we make arrangements to head to Quantico."

"Fine," the word sounded terse to my eavesdropping ears. "You stay with them, and I'll oversee the transfer of the remains."

"I think you're better equipped to deal with any threats to their safety, Gage," Newburgh spoke quietly, almost so softly that I couldn't be certain I heard him correctly. I adjusted the volume up on the stereo in the car.

"Why's that, Brick?" Briarwood almost laughed.

"I've seen your scores on the shooting range. Plus, you're the more experienced agent. I just think it's better if you protect them, and I'll make sure Gloria Farnsworth is moved to Logan."

"We should've waited and brought her with us," Maclaren piped up. "I don't understand why you were in such a God-awful blazing rush to get us out of there."

"Are you serious?" Briarwood barked. "Jesus, woman! What if he happened to plant more C4 around that building? We had to wait long enough to get out as it was."

"Exactly my point. You had plenty of time to prepare the evidence for transfer while we waited."

"We were preparing it," Newburgh said. "You realize that there's a fair amount of paperwork involved when we assume jurisdiction like that, compounded when we ship a body to Quantico to have our medical examiners do the autopsy, right?"

"Paperwork," she snorted. "Meanwhile, even under the cloak of the mighty FBI, Jay and I are sitting ducks. This psycho could be following us right now for all you know."

Indeed he could, and was, I smirked to myself.

But Newburgh and Briarwood fell silent.

I checked the GPS again. Tricky, tricky. They were on I-90, headed straight for Logan Airport. I hurried to catch up, and without the normal amount of police presence on the Interstate, it wasn't that difficult to do. Hell, all the cops were crawling all over Albany Street trying to figure out what the hell happened.

The SUV came into my sight, and I couldn't miss the black van following closely behind it.

"Why the ruse, gentlemen. It seems like your murder victim is with you after all."

The sound of tape tearing echoed in the car.

"Shit, you were right," Newburgh said.

Wind all but decimated my ability to hear what might've been said after that, and a second later, I saw my little GPS tracker fly out the window of the SUV.

Score one for the paranoid FBI agent. But it was too late. I was already following closely enough to see where they were going—along with several hundred other vehicles headed to Logan.

Shit. I forgot to lock the SUV after I planted the device. No wonder super-agent got paranoid and figured they needed to enact a ruse. I hoped like hell that they didn't think to pull the SIM card out of the device.

A grin spread over my face as the thought occurred to me. I got another text from the device that showed its location as in the Boston Main Channel. It wouldn't be long before water seeped in and destroyed everything.

"Perfect, you dumb cop. Guess you didn't see the on-off switch on the side of the motherfucker, did ya?" I laughed and pounded the steering wheel with a fist.

So they were taking Gloria to Quantico for an autopsy. I was certain that they felt their law enforcement training facility was an impenetrable fortress. We'd see about that. After all, I knew who I was looking for now, and even if Raver got a good look at me, I didn't look like he remembered anymore.

Besides, it was like O'Banion used to say. "Prissy Cassie, you're like one of them whatchacallems...the lizard that can change colors."

"Chameleon," I replied, disgust brimming over his unfettered stupidity and apparent pride over it.

"Yeah... yeah... I like it though. It gives me more time to play with my little toys 'fore I finish the job."

I followed the van and SUV as far as I could before realizing that any further might tip them off to the fact that they were indeed being followed. Their destination looked like it was a private hangar anyway.

"Feds and their toys," I muttered. "Ladies and gentlemen, your tax dollars at work."

Not that I had much right to complain on that count. I'd never paid income taxes in my life. How would one define my occupation on a tax return anyway?

Assassin.

Problem solver.

Vengeful Knight of Retribution.

No, not any of those things.

I laughed softly, tempted beyond all measure to send in some bogus return in care of the FBI. Maybe I'd use O'Banion's name just to dick with them so they'd know it was me.

Occupation: Night Lotus.

Chapter 21

Briarwood

The ground shook. Lights flickered and died. Seconds later, a back-up generator kicked in and I realized I'd pulled my weapon and somehow managed to put myself between Raver and the door out of the room where our dead body was still half covered by a drape.

"Newburgh, get somebody in here to wrap her up and get her ready to go. Is the team still here from the local field office?"

He nodded. "Surely you don't think this guy would be stupid enough to attack the ME's office."

"I don't know what the hell just happened, but I don't plan on sticking around long enough to see this part of the investigation through to the end. We've got an eyewitness to protect, remains to preserve for transport to Quantico, and a serial killer to catch. I'd say our plate is plenty full."

"Briarwood, where are you going?" Raver asked—and not some timid, scared-ass witness sort of question.

"Out there. I'm gonna find out what happened."

"I'm coming with you," he said with resolve.

"Like hell you are. This psycho is still gunning for you, Detective Raver. I'm not about to parade you around out there, especially if Castillo has the cajones to come after the goddamned FBI, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and a hospital full of patients across the street just on the off chance that he might take you out in another blast. Stay put or I swear to Christ, I'll cuff you to that dead body. Are we clear?"

"I can come with you," Maclaren said.

I arched one brow. "No thanks. This is so far outside your jurisdiction you'd probably be arrested for wielding a weapon. If you're even armed that is."

Her cheeks pinked noticeably even in the dim light of an emergency generator. I was starting to empathize with Chief Hogan, even though his general demeanor irritated the hell out of me initially.

"That's what I thought. If you were carrying, we'd have had a hell of a time getting onboard that flight from LaGuardia. Stay put. Newburgh, keep them in this room. Nobody but bureau in or out until I get back. Got it?"

He nodded, and for the first time since I'd met him, I saw a spark of something there, something not quite so ridiculous and...well, green. He was a baby agent. Maybe this case heating up the way it had in the past forty-eight hours had made him wise up a bit.

I opened the door cautiously and peeked out into the dim corridor. The sound of footsteps above became audible overhead and intensified when I opened the door to the stairwell. I could hear the distant sound of a fire alarm going off, and the faintly acrid smell of smoke.

"Son of a bitch. What did you do, Castillo?" I muttered, taking the stairs two at a time until I finally caught a glimpse of another person running past the door to the stairwell. I yanked the door open, gun still poised and ready to open fire if need be.

"Hey!" I barked. "Briarwood, FBI. What the hell happened?"

"We're not sure," the panicked staff member shrieked. "There was some kind of explosion. The building next door is on fire and partially collapsed. Power's out down the whole block."

"Shit. Is this building on fire?"

She shook her head adamantly, before another wave of smoke assailed her and brought with it more doubt and panic. "I don't know. I...I've got to get out!"

"Go," I said. Good Christ, the ninny wasn't of any use to anyone in her current state. Still, I noted that she headed toward the back of the building and not the front.

Our team from the Boston field office came charging from the direction of her retreat. "Agent Briarwood, are you all right?" the lead asked.

"I'm fine. We're all fine. We felt the concussion in the basement, but everything down there is structurally intact. I'm not sure how long it'll stay that way if the adjacent building is compromised to the degree that lab assistant indicated."

"It's in bad shape. As near as I can tell, the explosion took place directly in front of it. This building has some shattered windows in the front, same for the hospital across the street. We think the building next door was empty at the time of the blast."

"Did Newburgh call you?"

He nodded, snapped two fingers and three of his companions headed for the stairwell to prep Farnsworth for transfer to the airport.

"You think this was the same guy?" the agent in charge at the scene asked.

"I wouldn't bet against it. The son of a bitch has some balls doing something like this. I figured if he found out Raver was in our custody he'd have no choice but to back off."

"Or maybe he doesn't care. You gotta figure a guy like that has been living life like he's got nothing to lose anyway. He's killed a whole lot of people, Briarwood. You wouldn't be the first cop he tried to kill."

A fact that I absolutely couldn't argue against or ignore. "If you can take care of getting our vic prepped and transported to the jet at Logan, I'd appreciate it."

"Are you guys sticking around to help investigate this...whatever it was?"

"No," I spoke decisively. "My priority has to be the murders and keeping my eyewitness alive. Talk to the guys doing the chemical analysis on the explosion in Maine Saturday night. Our unsub seems to like blowing shit up."

"Don't even try to exit the front of the building," my cohort said. "It's a cluster fuck out there."

I took off for the rear exit from the building and had to show my ID to the cops guarding the scene. "I've got people inside that I need to get out, federally protected witnesses, officer. I want no grief when I come back."

Around the corner from the back of the building, I got my first glimpse of how bad the damage really was. "Holy shit," I muttered. The front quarter of the building next to the ME's office had crumbled from the force of a close proximity detonation. Smoke billowed into the clear night sky. The neighborhood was eerily dark, without adequate streetlights to illuminate anything.

I shuddered and recalled the last time this little pissant decided to blow something up. My eyes scanned the tops of the buildings. Was he up there leaving another of his creepy signatures? I couldn't wait to get everyone as far away from this scene as possible.

Who the hell was this guy? Did he have a death wish? Attempted murder of federal agents could very well land him in a Supermax for the rest of his life at best. If he succeeded, he'd get a needle in his arm faster than he could blink. Especially here. I felt the anxiety level in the city spiking. I knew they had to wonder if they'd go into lockdown mode again, like the last time someone unleashed a homemade IED on the city.

"Please God, no more victims. Boston doesn't deserve this," I muttered under my breath.

Two cops stood guard where one had been a few moments ago when I left the building. As I approached, I overheard them speculating on the source of the explosion.

"Gas line. You ask me, that's what this is. If it was a terrorist attack again, how come there's no casualties? What, do the feds think we got us a moron terrorist? They go for body count. If that was the intent, why not do the deed over in the hospital? No way, man. This has to be something like a gas leak."

"You're wrong," I said softly. "Detective Jameson Raver is in the basement of the ME's office."

The cop's eyes widened. "Dead?"

"No, very much alive and still the target of a determined killer. We're leaving, officers, but you need to make sure command combs the scene and the vicinity around this neighborhood for some sort of sign that the Night Lotus was here. The son of a bitch can't seem to resist signing his little love notes to Detective Raver or anybody else that he's slaughtered over the past few years." I pointed back toward the parking building. "I need spotlights on that building, gentlemen. Get them here fast. We need to make sure our murderous pal isn't up there watching like he did in Portland over the weekend."

The whites of their eyes gleamed in the moonlight. "Shit," one of them muttered. He drew his weapon immediately and began scanning just like I'd done only moments ago.

"The moon is full tonight," I mused. "I'd wager if you find his artwork somewhere, that you'll find a full moon shining down on a very distinctive-looking flower. I'm not sure who nicknamed him Night Lotus, but they were wrong."

"They were?" the other officer asked.

I nodded. "Lotuses don't bloom at night."

The team from Boston was ready to take Farnsworth's body by the time I got back down to the basement. "Load her first, but wait for us when you leave. I want to escort you to Logan," I said. "I'm gonna make sure this woman gets a thorough examination when she gets to Quantico."

"You're not going with her?" the lead agent asked.

I gnawed on a sliver of my left thumbnail. We really needed to talk to Senator Farnsworth before we left town, and I was sure that she'd probably missed the blast by about fifteen minutes. "Not sure yet, Agent West. I'll let you know when we're en route."

Newburgh waited until they'd wheeled the body out of the morgue before asking, "Why would we hesitate to get out of Boston with Raver as soon as humanly possible, Gage? He's got to be placed in a secure location where this guy can't get to him."

"Actually, I think he's the one that needs to question Diane Farnsworth," I said. "He's had this guy pegged all along, with only one major miscalculation that I think all of us but Maclaren made. We figured that Castillo wouldn't—"

"Attack again if we had him in protective custody," Newburgh agreed with a sigh. "You're right of course. About Farnsworth. The problem I see with any potential interrogation is that this woman isn't practically on her deathbed like Cunningham was. She has a hell of a lot to lose, whereas he'd lost it all already."

"Let's get out of here," I said. "Somebody from the local office can take care of picking up your vehicle, Newburgh."

We made our way up and out the back of the building. The officers guarding the area followed orders. A spotlight illuminated the parking garage.

"Any sign of mischief up there?" I asked.

"Nothing," one of them said. "But I did inform command that we should probably put out feelers for unusual graffiti in the area."

I pulled out one of my business cards and handed it to him. "Do me a favor and call me directly if you find anything, officer. I think his little signature will be the fastest way of determining if he was responsible for the explosion tonight."

"Will do. Be safe, sir," he said.

I led my group across the street. I was too paranoid to take the stairs.

When we got to the SUV, another thought, one that didn't quite seem so paranoid, struck me. Both Newburgh and I were using vehicles from the local field office's auto pool. Our perp liked explosives, had already used them once to take out a vehicle.

"You think he recognized your cars from the government-issue tags, don't you?" Raver asked.

"Smart kid," I muttered.

I whipped out my phone and called Agent West again. "It's Briarwood. Who's got the bombing investigation? Does Boston PD have a bomb squad on scene yet?"

"Yeah, they do. We've got somebody down there working with them, but their ordinance people were onsite as second responders. What do you need?"

"It occurs to me that any vehicle with government-issue tags might've presented an irresistible lure to this asshole. Think you can get somebody up here right away to check out the SUV? One of your guys will have to take Newburgh's sedan back to your garage, so that one isn't first priority getting us out of here."

"I'll send somebody up with a dog right away."

It still amazed me that dogs could be trained to sniff for all manner of incendiary devices. The dog ignored our vehicles completely, instead heading directly to an empty parking stall at the end of the line of vehicles. It sniffed, barked once and then laid down at the end of the stall where a trunk would be.

"I'll be damned," the canine officer breathed.

"What does that mean?" Newburgh asked.

"It means the dog smelled plastic explosive residue on the concrete in that spot. I'd say that's where our guy prepped his bomb."

"Some of the officers guarding the ME's office seemed pretty convinced that the explosion was caused by a gas leak," I said.

"No way. You can clearly see where the center of the explosion ignited. Whoever did this planned to take out that power hub in front of the building that got demolished. I suspect that he used a little too much plastic and got more than he bargained for."

I wasn't so sure. Maybe he got less than he wanted, since we were all still alive. "If you don't mind, I'd like you to make sure the dog doesn't sniff anything suspicious on the vehicle we're using to leave."

"Nah," the guy said. "Skip's the best of the best. I think he smelled what he found about one floor below us. He started leading me rather vigorously at that point. If there were more explosives up here, he'd have found them. He's very good at what he does. I think you're good to go."

I stepped toward the driver's door, and an instant before hitting the fob to unlock, I saw the doors were already unlocked.

"My ass is he good at his job," I snarled at the bomb tech. "These doors are unlocked. You think I don't remember engaging the lock when I got out of the car?"

He sighed. "Then open the door and let me get Skip to take a sniff."

I took an aggressive step toward him and the dog. "You fuck this up and I die, just know that I'll come back and haunt you until you wish you'd been the one to go up in—"

"Gage," Newburgh spoke with warning in his tone. "Let him check out the interior. I'd like to have a word with the three of you."

We stomped a dozen feet away from the SUV. "What?"

He looked at me with unbridled disgust, though he spoke to Raver. "Did you notice a car in that empty space when you got here?"

"No," he said quickly.

"Gage?"

I shook my head.

"So it could've been there. Or at least he might've seen the none of you after you got here. If what I suspect happened, he had to have been here when you tried to lock the vehicle, Gage, and don't argue, just hear me out. He had to be close to use a lock jammer."

"Why would he want to do that if he didn't plant another bomb?" Maclaren asked.

"Ah hell. I know why. He wouldn't need to be inside the vehicle to plant a bomb in the first place," I said.

"Precisely," Brick concurred.

"Then what's the big deal? Maybe you hit unlock instead of lock," Maclaren said.

"I locked it," I said. "But I think I know why he wanted inside. Brick, you look for it while we go, and everybody, follow my cues and play along while we drive. As soon as I'm convinced we've led the merry chase to Logan, we'll double back and visit Senator Farnsworth."

Chapter 22

Raver

I was stunned when Brick found some sort of GPS tracking device taped under his seat in the SUV. He tossed it out the window a second before it occurred to me. "Wait!" I shouted.

He turned in his seat and looked at me. "The point is, we don't want him following us, Jay."

I waved it aside. "I know, dammit, but the device probably had a power button on it, and likely had some kind of SIM card inside. How else could he have tracked us with it? You just tossed evidence that might've let us turn the tables on him!"

Briarwood glanced to his right as he sped down the Interstate. "You see now what I mean? The guy's half dead and still thinking at pace with this asshole."

"Shit," he muttered. "We could go back and get it."

"Because we happen to be wearing diving gear," Maclaren's sarcasm reared its surly head. "The damn thing flew into the river or whatever the hell this water is. Good job, Agent Doofus. Really good job. We could've wrapped this up, caught the guy and gone home by the end of the day if not for your sheer brilliance."

"How do you know it went in the water? It's pitch black out there," Brick argued.

"Because it's not so dark that I couldn't see something the size of a pager flying by the headlights of the van behind us, dumbass."

"Kelsey, that's enough. Briarwood, do you think maybe it would be possible to send her along with the body? I wasn't joking when I said she hasn't slept since before Friday. Let's get her to wherever we're going in Virginia."

"Done," he muttered softly before adding the softer version for her ears I suspected. "I'd feel a lot better if you did go with the body, Captain Maclaren. We'll have one of the guys from Boston fly down with you, since the plane has to come back for us anyway, but you're far more up to speed on all of this than someone from the local field office. You've been privy to every discussion we've had about this case. I trust you to make sure our medical examiner knows what we need from the autopsy."

I held my breath, waiting for her to fly off about being excluded from the meat of the investigation. She surprised me.

"That sounds like a good plan, actually," she said. "I'd like to make sure the autopsy supports the supposition offered earlier."

I winced, fully expecting Briarwood to lay into her. It was just a vibe that grew since meeting him hours ago at the Cunningham estate in East Hampton, but I was pretty sure he didn't think much of my captain.

"Then when we get to the hanger, you head to Quantico on the jet with West," Briarwood said with a curt nod. His eyes met mine for a moment in the rearview mirror. I telegraphed the relief that she didn't fight his proposal.

Ten minutes later, Kelsey was reminding me to check the dressing on my leg and make sure that there were no signs of infection.

"You heard the doctor yesterday, Jay. Don't overdo it. I know you want to catch this guy, but you're no good to anyone dead."

With that cheery reminder, she strode away to the FBI's jet and boarded.

"She's about as warm as an iceberg, son," Briarwood said. "There for a minute, I thought we might have to hogtie her and put her on that flight."

I smiled faintly. "She's more comfortable in administrative roles than she is beating the streets chasing psychopaths."

"What she said about your wound," Brick said carefully. "Should we be sharing her concern?"

"What, you think I'm of some value dead?" I chuckled.

He frowned. "I meant about your active participation in the case, Detective Raver. We're not trying to finish what Castillo started."

"I'm fine for now. At some point though, I'm going to have to follow her advice and check on things...down there."

"Hell, son, where'd he stab you?" Briarwood grinned.

I made an air drawing over the top of my thigh, a triangle shape that outlined the juncture of groin and upper leg where the femoral artery and vein are most vulnerable. "He stabbed right inside that area," I explained. "Barely nicked the femoral artery."

"Jesus," Briarwood hissed as he exhaled a blast of smoke into the night air. "You didn't feel that when it happened?"

"You stand out in sixty below wind without a coat, wearing khakis and see how long it takes for your extremities to grow completely numb," I said. "My own fault for not taking her damned call inside the diner, but Myrtle grilled me earlier about what I was working on, and I didn't want her eavesdropping."

"Shit," Briarwood shook his head. "Rough night, huh, Jay? Well, you let me know if you want to stop at any time, and I'll make sure you've got some down time to rest in a place where you don't have to be afraid to close your eyes."

"I'd like to get the interview with Farnsworth done. Then maybe we can talk about what happens next."

Briarwood and Newburgh shared a look, one I wasn't quite sure I understood, but they didn't explain it. I wasn't in the mood to ask. Truth was, I felt pretty tired and weak after so much travel a day after I nearly died.

Briarwood was laughing, not with humor, but incredulity when we pulled up in front of Senator Farnsworth's address. "You've gotta be kidding me," he said.

She was in a brownstone within walking distance of the explosion. I noticed something down the street while he looked for a place to park.

"Uh, guys, did you notice the police lights down the block?"

"You think we should butt in again?" Briarwood asked. "We can't really—"

His cell phone interrupted. He answered it via Bluetooth in the SUV. "Briarwood."

"Hey, Agent, it's Officer Downs. I met you about an hour and a half ago outside the ME's office. You asked me to call if we found anything that looked like your perp's handiwork. I'm just east of the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Tremont. We got some kind of strange chalk drawing on the wall in the alley between two buildings. If you want, I can snap a couple of pics and text them to you."

"Ah hell. We're down the street from you right now, Downs. See you in two minutes."

We joined the other law enforcement vehicles.

"C'mon Raver," Briarwood said. "You're up, son."

"I've never actually seen one of his signatures, agent. I'm not sure—"

"You've seen the pictures. I know you reviewed the cases in ViCAP, and I know that you seem tapped into how this guy's mind works. Let's go get some impressions, and then we can have our chat with the senator."

I stared at the drawing for a good five minutes, noting the detail in the colored contours of his full moon, the precision in the cereus flower. I was convinced it was no lotus.

"It's just not," I murmured.

"It's not his?" Newburgh's frown was visible without looking to see it.

"Oh, it's his, but that flower isn't a lotus. The petals are different. The stamens of the lotus are more compact and orderly. The cereus flowers have longer stamens. Their petals are smaller, narrower, exactly like he's drawn here."

"How is that important?" Briarwood asked.

I glanced at him to gauge his demeanor. He sounded terse and irritated. His genuine expression of interest surprised me.

"I'd rather discuss it in private, after we talk to the senator," I said.

"I'm gonna hang back and get some pictures of this for our file," Briarwood said. "You two go talk to Diane Farnsworth. No kid gloves. Got it?"

I nodded, but Newburgh stalked off in the direction of Massachusetts Avenue. I trotted to catch up with him. "You all right?" I asked.

"Fine."

"Okay," I drawled. "So how do you want to handle this conversation with Farnsworth."

"Apparently I'm too soft, so I guess that was Briarwood's way of telling me to let you take the lead."

"I doubt he meant it that way."

"You would," Brick muttered. "He blames me. Hell, I blame me. If I hadn't been so cowed by the brass and my senior agents for the past eighteen months, we might've actually found this guy and saved some lives."

"Or, the guilty parties who contracted murder for hire would've simply found someone else to do the job," I said. "You can't blame yourself. Ultimately, whoever hired the perp and paid the fee is responsible for these specific deaths. I doubt Castillo would be some kind of choirboy if he wasn't getting paid to do his thing. You know that. Briarwood told me you're some kind of psychology guru."

"I'm not. I majored in psychology, took it to grad school. How old are you, Jay?"

"Twenty-nine," I said. "Is that a problem?"

"No. I take it you're fairly new to the detective squad back home."

"A little over a year now," I said. "But I'm nobody, Agent Newburgh. I'm just a regular cop."

He laughed softly. "Somehow I think you're anything but ordinary or regular, Jay. You've got good instincts. For the life of me, I can't seem to grasp how you've tapped into this Castillo guy's character so well just from reading ViCAP, but I can't deny that you've got a better grasp after what, a couple of months?"

"Well," I hesitated. "Technically, I've been following his work a lot longer than I've been a detective. It's all over the Internet. You just have to know the right places to look. I'll explain it all later. We're here," I pointed to the ornately carved door at the top of the stairs leading to Farnsworth's brownstone.

I rang the bell. We waited. And waited.

Newburgh uttered a mild curse and pressed the bell repeatedly. Finally, the door opened.

The appearance probably aimed for grief but landed somewhere between sloppy drunk and debauched. Senator Farnsworth stared up at us with an unfocused gaze, torso weaving back and forth lightly, and the stem of a wine glass fisted in one hand.

"You reporters?"

"FBI, Senator Farnsworth," Brick showed his ID, practically shoved it in her face and held it there for several unnecessarily long moments—for someone who wasn't drunk, that is. "And this is—"

I cut him off. "Detective Jay Raver, Maine State Police."

Those bleary eyes widened, and her hand clutched at her chest. In my book, it was as good as an admission of guilt, though I doubted a jury in Massachusetts would agree with me. "I uh...I thought you died in that unfortunate tragedy..."

"I'm sure you had too much going on this afternoon to hear the news broadcasts announcing to all and sundry that I am in fact, still alive," I said coldly.

"You speak with some anger, detective. If I were a paranoid woman, I'd say it sounds like you think I hoped you had died."

"Not you," I said softly. "Now are you going to invite us inside so we can talk about what really happened to Gloria today, or shall I just presume that your shock at finding me alive on your doorstep was an admission of knowledge of another felony?"

Farnsworth gasped this time, and backed away from the front door. It wasn't an invitation inside per se, but I followed her, matched her gait like the predator who killed her wife and tried to kill me too.

"You seem unsettled again, Senator," I said. "Like a woman who has something she needs to get off her chest."

She stumbled. Newburgh's hand snaked out and gripped her upper arm, preventing a fall. "Ma'am, this would probably be easier if you took a seat. Your living room perhaps?"

Farnsworth nodded and tilted her head toward the room on the left of the entry hall. The double oak doors were closed.

I opened them swiftly. "After you, Senator Farnsworth," I said.

"Why...why are you questioning me?" she stammered.

"Because your wife was murdered today, and we have questions about what she was doing, who might've wanted her dead, that sort of thing," Newburgh replied.

"Actually," I said, "I have a few questions beyond those things as well, Senator."

"I don't understand this. The police said it was probably a mugging. Her purse and earrings were missing."

Newburgh frowned, but I pounced.

"I was at the morgue this evening when you were sent away," I said. "You likely don't recall seeing me, but I saw you, Senator. Agent Newburgh told you that you wouldn't be allowed to see your wife yet and sent you home. So if you didn't see her, how do you know that her earrings were missing?"

She set her wine glass on the coffee table with a trembling hand. Her voice cracked and quaked as she spoke. "I asked because they said her purse was missing and she'd worn a pair of earrings this morning that I'd...they were an anniversary gift, for our tenth in 2014. They were expensive and distinctive. The setting was platinum, and clusters of white diamonds dripped from the studs to large tear-shaped yellow diamonds. Harry Winston, very precious and rare. I had them custom designed for her."

"Where was she going today that she wanted to wear something best suited to an evening of political hobnobbing with you, Senator?" I asked.

"She was writing a book, ironically, a political thriller based on my life."

"Why is that ironic?" Newburgh asked.

"Because she was meeting with her literary agent for lunch to discuss her progress on some suggested revisions today. They were...I think they met at Gioia Senza Fine. It's an Italian restaurant near where she was killed."

"Guess the joy they served wasn't so endless, was it?" I asked.

"I beg your pardon!" she bristled.

"The name, in Italian it roughly translates into endless joy."

Farnsworth glared at me. "You drawl your words like some backwater hick. Am I supposed to believe you speak Italian?"

"Tell me how you found Castillo," I said as I leaned forward on my perch toward where she sat across from me on a mirror sofa.

She gasped. Breath dragged noisily in and out of her lungs.

"Better yet," I murmured, "I'm really curious why you'd hire someone to murder your wife after being such an advocate for same sex marriage in Massachusetts. Or is this part of the plan, to prove that there really is no difference in human behavior? You'd kill your spouse just as quickly as a heterosexual partner would. Was that the plan, Diane? Did you think you'd get away with it?"

"Get out of my house this instant!" her physical presence expanded in her faux outrage. I knew it just as well as Newburgh. Her gasp and hyperventilation at the mere mention of Castillo's name told me the truth.

"Did you know that he left his signature on her body?" I asked. "And after he blew up the medical examiner's office this evening, he traveled right down the street and left some very lovely graffiti on one of your neighbor's walls."

"Oh sweet Jesus," she started to sound like a paper bag would be necessary in the immediate future. "He promised he'd do this one straight. He promised!"

Chapter 23

Agent Newburgh

Unbelievable. Just like that, the senator confessed. I regarded Raver with a mixture of awe and disbelief. Who was this guy? How in the hell did he manage to weasel such a quick confession out of the senator?

He glanced at me. "It won't hold up you know."

"What won't?" the Boston PD had already come and arrested her. We sat on her front steps waiting for Briarwood to finish smoking so we could leave.

"Her confession. I didn't read her rights. She's drunk. There's little evidence to corroborate what we witnessed to validate that she did hire Castillo."

I snorted. "I'd swear it was spontaneous."

"It wouldn't fly," Raver said. He sighed heavily. "I fucked it up. I should've read Miranda before I asked a single question. Besides, her lawyer could easily convince a jury that with all the press Night Lotus has received this weekend, she probably responded out of some sort of fear mingled with grief that her wife's murder wasn't an accident."

"It's a technicality, Jay. Why would you think a jury would disbelieve us and take the word of some shyster who claims his innocent client was out of her mind with booze, grief and fear?"

"Oh, I don't know," he replied blandly. "Ferguson comes to mind. And Staten Island, and Detroit..."

"Those were cases where the police were zealously pursuing suspects, or someone resisted arrest. It's not the same at all."

"It's the reason why the public trusts us less and less all the time," Raver said. "If we bend the laws we're sworn to uphold, we're no better than the criminals we try to bring to justice. This is my mistake. I own it. I'll accept the consequences for not advising her of her right to counsel. I guess I was just..."

"Just what?" I asked.

"I wanted to know that she did it. For me, for what happened to me, and Felicia Cunningham, the Saings, Chief Hogan's buddies from his Navy days, for all of the victims of this completely soulless monster," he said. Raver shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe the idea that Castillo could find out she admitted their association will make her more inclined to make a deal so she can get protection rather than spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder for a man I know she's never actually seen.

"It's his insurance policy, I think. They never know who he is, but you can be damned sure he knows who they are, where they are, and every other detail of their lives he can find to potentially exploit for his own benefit. All the while, he could be anybody, and strike before they saw him coming. She'll need protection whether she wants it or not. To do less would be...inhumane."

I couldn't believe this guy. "Who the hell are you, Raver?" I asked. "You're talking about someone who committed murder for hire, and you want to protect her? Do a deal? That's more obscene than fudging about the spontaneous nature of her statement."

"Is it? Tell that to the families of the people he's murdered. Say it to Dudley Cunningham's face as he spends the rest of his life without a woman that his father misjudged. This guy doesn't give a crap about why someone is hiring him. He only cares about getting the kill and the payday.

"Look at me, Brick. Tell me that getting this bastard off the streets and onto a gurney with a fucking needle in his arm is less important than incarcerating the people who hired him. If you can do that, your priorities are screwed up so bad, you've got no business in law enforcement."

"I didn't mean it that way," I said. "But I still don't think people who hire someone to kill another human being should get a free pass just because they had the good luck to find a serial killer to do the job."

Briarwood came upon us without me realizing it for sure. I wasn't so sure about Raver. He broke the stark silence that settled between Raver and me.

"I think the kid has a point, Brick. Look at that case in Georgia in 2015. They executed the woman who hired a man to kill her husband, but the killer got life without parole. You ask me, they should've gotten the same punishment. This guy isn't...hell, there's no way to say this without sounding foolish. He's not a normal assassin. He's not a bumbling idiot who is easily captured. For Christ's sake, it took over four years before this urban legend of his gained any kind of traction with law enforcement. That's a long time to do your thing without leaving any kind of evidence that would identify the killer."

"He's very smart," Raver spoke low and soft. "Shrewd. He'll do anything to stay free, to keep feeding this obsessive need of his to kill. I'm sure that Senator Farnsworth didn't pay for Castillo to blow up the medical examiner's office. I know for a fact that Cunningham didn't pay for the collateral damage in Maine. Castillo warns these people that it could happen.

"It makes me wonder if he always issued such warnings."

"What do you mean?" Briarwood asked.

"I mean that there is a new element to his jobs. These last two involved events that could've resulted in mass casualties. This guy...he plants C4 right across the street from a hospital. A hospital. He has zero regard for any life but his own. He ratted out his partner. I bet he knew that Hank O'Banion would rather die than be taken alive. He used Tag Sorenson to murder his partner so he didn't have to."

"I'm freezing my ass off out here," Briarwood said. "Let's go. I still want to hear what you refused to divulge when you looked at his drawing, Jay."

Briarwood held the front passenger door of the SUV for Raver and jerked his head in the direction of the back to me. "Settle in. We need warmth, food and rest. I suspect you need to tend to that wound too."

Raver flinched when Briarwood slammed the door.

"You okay?" I asked him.

"Not sure yet," he said.

Briarwood climbed behind the wheel, signaled, turned on the police lights and blasted the sirens to get traffic to yield. He sped off in the direction of downtown.

"Where are we going?" Raver asked.

"The hotel where someone dropped off a rather large sum of money addressed in care of you at the state police in Maine," he said. "The staff on duty at the time won't be there now, but I figured it's as good a place as any to spend the night. First thing in the morning, we'll question staff about the drop. The jet will be back from Virginia by then too. Damn pilot's bitching about flying too many hours today as it is, so he's not coming back until morning."

"Do you want to talk about Castillo's artwork?" I asked.

"Later," Briarwood said. His eyes darted in Raver's direction. "I think we've been far too cavalier about this wound of the detective's, Brick. He's not looking so great."

"I'm tired, that's all," Raver said. "It feels like three days have passed since I saw a doctor. It's only been a little over twelve hours since that nurse treated me this morning at Bellevue."

"Have you eaten anything?" Briarwood asked.

He shook his head. "Water on the plane."

"Christ," Briarwood muttered. He swung into a right turn lane and made a U-turn. A few yards behind us was a takeout place. Thai and Chinese. "You like oriental food, Raver?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

"Good. Brick, run in and order a bunch of stuff. He needs some protein. Jay, I hope you're not a vegan."

"No, but I'm particularly fond of pad Thai and orange chicken."

"Get a bunch of those crab meat wontons if they've got 'em too," Briarwood said.

I had the distinct impression that he had an ulterior motive for sending me away, not unlike his motive with Captain Maclaren earlier. Ten minutes later, I crawled into the back seat of the SUV with our bags of dinner.

"So they actually had to make about a six inch cut in your leg to get to the vein—"

"Artery," Raver interrupted, nodding, "Yeah, my little puncture that they said was about three quarters of an inch long and about as deep ended up being a six inch incision so they could get in there and patch some tiny nick in the artery. It's weird, Gage. I remember bleeding. At first, I just felt cold and numb, and then the room went kind of hazy. That was about when Myrtle noticed I was bleeding. Dick made some kind of tourniquet or pressure dressing. He said something about Vietnam. I don't remember much else about it until I came to in the hospital after it was all over. The doctor said Dick Saing saved my life, that people can bleed to death very quickly even from a small puncture to the femoral artery."

"Your chief said Saing pulled you back to a cot in his office and had your legs propped up on it with your torso and head on the floor. It was quick thinking on his part."

"What I can't figure is how Castillo thought I was dead. Why didn't he check after he slaughtered Myrtle and Dick?"

"No time," Briarwood replied. "Damn, that food smells good, Brick."

"We could've just ordered room service," I grumbled. He and Raver seemed very chummy after my ten-minute absence.

"Well, I'm gonna eat, take two of those pain pills Maclaren got for me, and then I'm going to bed," Raver said. "I don't remember feeling this tired at any time in my entire life."

"You can fill us in on your theories about Castillo over dinner," I said.

He glanced at Briarwood, and I knew something other than a discussion of life threatening wounds had transpired while I was getting dinner.

"Or have you already discussed it?" I asked.

"No, we didn't talk about that," Raver said. "Just a couple of things about Captain Maclaren."

I frowned. "Maclaren? Why?"

"She's not been particularly helpful so far. West said she had a meltdown when they landed at the airfield," Briarwood said. "Apparently she thought that the autopsy on Farnsworth would commence tonight. When he told her that since the body was in our custody, morning would be soon enough. We weren't likely to find anything that would advance the investigation overnight, nor were the autopsy results necessary because of an imminent threat related to her murder."

Raver winced again.

"She thinks the threat to your life is imminent," I said. "That's it, isn't it?"

"Not exactly," he admitted. "She's concerned that Castillo will target her too now."

"A valid concern," I said.

"No, not really. She didn't see him, Brick. I did. Anything she might testify to in court would be hearsay. She didn't see him. He didn't directly attack her person, not close up where she could identify him. You have to know that someone as savvy as Castillo seems to be would understand that I'm the threat to him. I'm the witness to what he did. I'm the one who puts him in that diner where I was stabbed and Myrtle and Dick were slaughtered."

"Typical," Briarwood muttered.

"Yes, we all know your views on women in command positions." It was petty and snarky, but I didn't care. I'd had enough of his hot and cold treatment where I was concerned anyway. It was clear to me and everyone else that he blamed me for this thing with Castillo languishing the way it had. And then super cop showed up and made me look like an even bigger fool.

"Let's get started on the details of that drawing in the alley now, Jay," Briarwood said. "I have a feeling we're gonna be stuck in traffic getting downtown tonight."

"The night this started, Friday, after I talked to the man I believe was O'Banion, I did some more research, dug through all of my old documentation, the links I saved from the online aspect of this guy's crimes."

"His urban legend," Briarwood clarified.

"Yeah," Raver replied. "There has been one site in particular that I go to, debunking nonsense or learning the origins of some of these cyber legends."

"I'm familiar with it," Briarwood grinned. "I've had to direct my mother to it a time or two when she gets wrapped up in the bullshit her paranoid canasta partners post on Facebook."

"Okay, so they had an article on the Night Lotus, one where they couldn't confirm or deny the rumor that there was a killer—at the time in the Southwest—who left the drawings we're accustomed to seeing at his crime scenes. It was classified as unsubstantiated, but true in the sense that it was information leaked from the first scene where we know the drawing was found."

I scooted to the middle of the bench seat and leaned forward. "Father Angelis Ryan, right?"

"Yeah," Raver nodded. "But the thing about it was this. And I hadn't noticed it before, or maybe subconsciously I had, I'm not sure. They've added the ability for posters to comment on their articles. A bunch of people, like hundreds, claimed that they new somebody who knew somebody else who was married to a cop at one crime scene or another, and they swore the Night Lotus was real and not just a legend.

"When I first stumbled on the article, I was more interested in finding the origin of the legend. Their researchers are pretty adept at pinning that sort of thing down in my experience. Plus, I can find information there without having to get authorization from Maclaren for our cyber guys to do the research."

Briarwood snorted. "I can't believe she actually thought you'd be compared to that loony fictional character braying at the moon about aliens, abductions and anal probes."

Raver smirked. "There was no mention of the latter, just to be clear. I understood her concern. I guess it was pretty ironic that Castillo showed up to kill someone in Maine after I'd spent so long following the trail of breadcrumbs he left behind."

"Statistically speaking, maybe not so ironic," I said. "There are only 48 continental states. He doesn't appear in anything registered with Interpol. He's hit in what, half a dozen states? You had a one in forty-two chance that he'd come to Maine."

"I'm not sure how sound that theory is in a pure statistical sense, but I wondered if he didn't come to my state in part because I was actively soliciting information from people who might've seen someone suspicious at any of his documented crime scenes. Trust me, if I'd known about O'Banion, I could've probably found a lot more witnesses. He's not the kind of person I'd call forgettable."

"We could still work that angle," Briarwood said. "Doesn't matter if he's dead, Jay. Odds are, if somebody saw and remembered O'Banion, they may very well have seen Castillo too."

"I considered that tonight, when I was looking at his signature for the bombing."

"What makes you so sure it was for the bombing, Jay?" I asked.

"Because he already signed Gloria Farnsworth. He knew we linked her murder to him. It's been on the radio all day, the tragic footnote to the good news that Castillo didn't successfully kill me like we wanted everyone to believe," he said. "But back to this website debunking some of the urban legends that are so popular.

"In the comment section, one person got rather irate about this guy being called the Night Lotus. He remarked about the lotus not blooming at night, that the only flower that remotely resembles the lotus but is night-blooming is something called the cereus."

"They bloom on cacti," Briarwood said.

"Right," Raver nodded. "It got me thinking about where this guy's crimes started. Now, I've seen the drawings. They're included in the files on ViCAP. But this story online? They only had the story that continued to grow on the Internet."

"So what?" I muttered.

"How did he know the picture isn't really a lotus, but a close facsimile?" I asked. "Either he's a cop who's seen one up close and personal, or..."

"It's Castillo, following his groupies online," Briarwood breathed. "Hot damn, and hot lead. Good job, Raver."

Chapter 24

Castillo

I debated for about ten seconds after I could follow that stupid SUV no longer. Long term parking and a flight to Washington D.C. seemed to be the prudent course of action. Let them have the Farnsworth woman. Like I gave a shit about some cheating broad. I wanted Raver. I didn't want him crushed to death, or burned in an explosion.

I wanted him tied to a chair while I used my straight razor to peel the skin from his body and then dunk him in salt water. I needed to smell his fear and will to live. I itched for him to feel impotent and unable to fight back. I ached to feel saturated in his helplessness against the flood of adrenalin that would make him fight to his dying breath.

Getting my weapons on an airplane meant I'd have to check a bag and pray that they didn't pull it and remove what an x-ray might find.

Dammit. Fucking terrorists just made my life hell.

Of course the radio had labeled me one of them. If that were true, I'm the worst one on the planet. No casualties, and barely any cuts from broken glass. They attributed my act as a failed attempt.

Oh hell no. I didn't fail at anything, other than forgetting to lock Briarwood's doors after I planted the GPS device. They're not all that expensive anyway. No great loss. Odds were good that they didn't retrieve the SIM card, but even if they did, I was smart enough to use Raver's cell phone to connect with the device.

I laughed aloud. "Thwarted again, you stupid cops. FBI? Bring it on. Bring 'em all on. You'll never catch me."

It was a duffle bag. The woman at ticketing asked me twice if I was sure I didn't want to take it as a carryon.

"Ma'am, I'm sure. I don't mind paying for a checked bag." I leaned close. "I'm a hunter, and I'm meeting up with a buddy in Virginia. He's got the bows; I've got the Bowies. He shoots; I skin. So I really can't carry my bag on the flight, not if I want to board."

She flushed crimson. "Well...thank you for declaring, sir. And since there's no regulation that prohibits hunting knives in checked baggage, I'll just..." she slid the ticket and one of my many not-so-legal forms of identification across the counter. "Have a safe flight, and good luck hunting. You'll have to hurry to your gate, sir. They're boarding in about ten minutes."

Perfect. With any luck, I'd land at Reagan and get a rental car before my true prey was far ahead of me.

I couldn't believe the luck when a van emblazoned with the letters FBI and the logo sped past me on the highway toward Quantico. There were two agents in front, male and female.

Acceleration brought me to the side of the van and I glanced at the passenger.

"Son of a bitch. This really is my lucky day," I said. "It's her. And that jackass detective of hers must be in the back seat of the van. Yuck. Cargo van. He's riding with the body."

I wanted to slam the rental into the side of the van, but subtlety would be required. "Patience. They're not camping out at Quantico."

Could they though? Quantico had some sort of housing for new trainees on campus. I'd read about it on some forum online a few years back. During the physical training exercises, they had to live in the dormitory, but moved to some nearby hotel as they advanced to make room for new recruits.

"Maybe they'd drop the soon-to-be-dead detective off in a hotel. Popping the locks on hotel doors would be a hell of a lot easier than dealing with security at Quantico, that's for damn sure."

There wasn't much traffic on the road to the FBI training facility at our late hour. I slowed my speed and fell about a mile behind the van. When it rounded a curve, I shut off the headlights on the car. We'd been on the road a good thirty-five minutes. It couldn't be far now.

I noticed the van slow and signal left. I smiled when I realized that it was heading toward town instead of away from it. It was very good news for me. The very special agent delivering Gloria Farnsworth to Quantico did indeed seem to be dropping off Captain Maclaren and company first. I turned the headlights back on before turning the corner to follow. I drove past the motel where the van had stopped.

No fancy digs for my persistent police officers tonight. Even better. I stopped at the traffic signal and watched in the rearview mirror. Maclaren exited...and the van slowly drove away.

"Shit!" she was alone. So where were the rest of them, the two agents with Raver and Maclaren in Boston? They must've stayed behind in Boston.

I grinned. No matter. Maclaren would know the plan, and getting her to talk would be my distinct pleasure. She exited the office of the motel, one of those economy places where room doors were accessed from outside the building.

Number six, my favorite. She closed the door behind her as the bit of light illuminated the gap at the bottom of the drapes hanging over the windows. Of course she'd be like every other paranoid traveler and bolt the door. I'd have to be creative getting inside.

Down several doors was a room marked housekeeping. Perfect.

I parked the car on the opposite side of the building where no light from the street or passing vehicles would reveal my activities, and got busy. She'd never seen me before, but a disguise would be necessary in case someone else did.

I donned a white-blonde wig for consistency. Why let Raver assume I might've been disguised the night he met me if someone noticed my presence tonight? I tucked my favorite blade into my rear pocket and took a screwdriver and a pry bar out of my duffle bag. Honesty at the airport paid off. Apparently my friendly ticketing agent had communicated that my bag might have some unusual items in it.

Hell, they were probably used to catching far worse than simple tools going through in people's bags.

It took thirty seconds to pop open the housekeeping door. On a cart inside, I found exactly what I knew I'd need. Before touching anything, I donned my leather gloves and tugged the hood of my coat over my head. Draping several towels over my arm and appearing sufficiently bundled up to combat the cold air—while concealing my identity—I slipped back out into the night.

I rapped lightly on Maclaren's door and announced, "Towels."

She flung the door open. "Well this is a surprise. I was just about to call. The only thing in that bathroom is the bathmat. Just put them on the counter by the sink."

My head was tucked low, so she didn't get even a glimpse of my face as I moved quickly across the room and deposited the towels as directed.

"I don't suppose you guys supply stuff like toiletries, do you?" she muttered. "I can't believe that jerk dropped me off at this place. Like I really believe I'm surrounded by a bunch of agents-in-training."

It gave me only half a second's pause. She'd have to be silenced first, which would make questioning her difficult.

I turned swiftly as I pulled the pry bar out of my coat and clobbered her over the back of the head. I even managed to catch her before she hit the floor.

It was important to give her the illusion of making it through her ordeal alive when she woke up. Otherwise, she'd clam up and refuse to cooperate if she didn't believe she could bargain for her life.

I worked quickly, shredding one of the sheets on the bed into strips that I used to tie her hands, feet and gag her.

Good thing I didn't dawdle. It wasn't more than a couple of minutes before she groaned and stirred. It took all of two seconds for her to realize she was restrained.

I'd shut off all the lights except for the bathroom, including the fan to add a little extra white noise just in case the construction of the motel was as shoddy as it appeared. I didn't want her whimpering to sound like anything more than the television.

I sat on the end of the bed and watched realization dawn. She struggled mightily, and even in the darkened room, I could see the whites of her eyes, large as moons and feel her panic rising.

"Hello," I said softly.

She stilled and lifted her head up to where I filled her visual field. That's when the whimpering started, and holy Christ, buckets of tears squirting from her eyes.

I lifted one finger to my lips and hissed, "Shh. I'm not going to hurt you unless you don't cooperate with me, Captain Maclaren."

Her chin dipped to her chest, and the whimpers and whines transformed into great but muffled sobs.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked.

She shook her head wildly with negative affirmation.

"Aw, come on now. Let's not start off with lies. So far, you haven't done anything that would make me feel remotely threatened by you, Captain. Let's try to keep things honest...and just a tad quieter. If you don't, I may just turn the lights on so you get a good long look at me and eliminate your option of making it through to sunrise alive."

I rose and walked to the window for a peek outside. "Morning can seem a painfully long way off when you're suffering, Kelsey. May I call you Kelsey?"

I looked over my shoulder and glimpsed the horrified expression on her face as she nodded this time. That yes, yes, please call me Kelsey nod.

I found it ridiculous that cops and psychology experts really believed that using a victim's first name somehow personalized them to people like me. She was a breathing lump of whining desperation, maybe with some knowledge of something I might find useful, but nothing more. In the end, she'd bleed like all the others. I'd taste her panic. I'd bathe in her tears if I could. But she'd die, whether I called her it or by a name. It really didn't matter to me at all.

Moving near her made her tense and try to scoot away.

"Stop it!" I spoke soft, sharp words.

She froze.

"I'm going to remove the gag, because I want to talk to you. I think you owe me some answers after the merry chase you people made me endure today. You scream, and it'll be the last thing you ever do. Got it?"

Wilder bobbing of the head, up and down, up and down.

"Okay, but you have to answer my questions too, Kelsey. Trust me on this. You don't want to make me angry. I tend to do some ugly things when people piss me off."

My fingers loosed the knotted fabric at the back of her head.

In hindsight, she was pretty brave, all things considered. She didn't scream or wail. In fact, I was pretty sure she knew she'd never walk out of her motel room.

"Where is Detective Raver?" I asked.

Her tongue poked over her lips in a very dry lick. "He's...he's still in Boston. They found your GPS device. Figured out you must've planted one in the car before we left the garage."

I chuckled softly. "So all of that nonsense about rushing off to Quantico and getting the two of you into some super secure FBI safe house was a bunch of bullshit playacting? Bravo. Bra-fucking-vo. I never expected the detective had such pluck, but then, I do have access to his computer and all of his little condescending theories about me."

The straight razor came out of my pocket, and I took great care in unfolding the blade from its handle. I turned it this way and that, letting the meager bathroom light glint off the perfectly sharpened blade.

"Is that what you used on Jay?" she asked.

My lips curled. "No," I said drily, "though if I had, there wouldn't be a problem anymore."

"What does that mean?"

"It means," spoken with soft menace, "if I'd used one of my straight razors instead of pricking the little prick with a switchblade, I wouldn't be wasting all this time hunting someone who didn't have the sense to drop dead when given the perfect opportunity to do so."

"They're coming here tomorrow," she babbled. "That pilot refused to fly back to Boston so late tonight to pick them up. The agent in charge, his name is Briarwood. He plans to put Jay in a safe house out here somewhere."

"Safe like this one?" I let my white teeth show with a sincere grin.

"I never saw your face. I'm not part of this. I told Jay it was a mistake to get involved. Please. Please don't kill me."

"Did you know that it takes some serious experience to effectively use a straight razor to shave without turning your face into a bloody mess?"

She whimpered, and felt the heat of my glare. Her lips rolled between her teeth, turning her mouth into some stretched, ghoulish line.

"I was taught at a very early age to respect the blade. My stepfather, you see. He was a barber. One of those old-time variety barbers. The warm towel, the lather, taking the straight razor to a leather strap, and then shaving a man's face as close as humanly possible without ever breaking the skin.

"He forced me to learn his trade, you know. I didn't want to learn, but if I refused, he'd take that same strap of leather to my backside and whip me so hard I couldn't sit for a week."

"Wha...what did you want to learn?" she stammered.

"I wanted to learn a thousand ways to torture bastards who whip little boys. And then I wanted to know the most painful way of killing them." I ran the edge of the blade over my jeans for effect. It sliced neatly through the heavy denim. "I had the best teacher imaginable for what I wanted to study."

"O'Banion," she whispered.

"So tell me why our mutual friend stayed in Boston."

"He...he wanted to question Senator Farnsworth," her words tight, low, not quite whispered. "I know you believe you won't be caught, but he will find you, and he'll either kill you or send you to death row, but he will find you."

"So I'm being hunted by a truly honest cop. He's the dying breed, Captain. Open your eyes; look at the world around you. The justice system has become a game to both sides. Cops cut corners. They lie, they obtain evidence illegally, they murder unarmed children and claim they were threatened. People die mysteriously in lockup. Granted, it seems to happen to a certain color of skin more often than others, which I find telling, don't you?"

"I—I don't know what you mean."

I slid the dull side of my straight razor down her cheek. "Don't you, Kelsey? Or is Maine so milquetoast you haven't encountered the kind of insidious corruption that's taken root in law enforcement and the criminal justice system?

"No matter," I shifted direction. "Raver thinks he can find me by talking to the bosses. I think in light of that very valuable bit of information, you've earned something precious tonight."

She wanted to express relief. I could see it written all over her body.

Like O'Banion, this time I saw the value in having plenty of time to commit a crime.

"Wh-what did I earn?" she asked.

I sliced the blade quickly across Maclaren's throat. They say that the brain continues to process hearing for several moments before death is final. As blood pumped from her throat, I answered her question. "A quick death, Kelsey. You earned a quick death."

Chapter 25

Raver

I dragged out of bed with burning pain in my left leg. Not sure what I'd find when I tore off my bandage, I experienced overwhelming relief when the skin wasn't red and oozing pus between the staples that closed my incision. I showered quickly, after popping a couple more pain pills and considered that this was probably what the nurse meant when she cautioned me about overdoing.

Pain was the price to pay for getting perhaps a step closer in understanding my Night Lotus.

Before we parted last night, Briarwood assured me that he'd have his computer analysts do what they could to attempt to identify the person who left an outraged message chastising folks for accepting the name Night Lotus for Castillo.

I wondered if he posted that message. If Night Lotus wasn't his creation, then whose was it?

With a new bandage in place, I called Briarwood's room.

"Briarwood."

"It's Raver," I said. "Do you think that Castillo actually gave himself this little moniker that took off like wildfire online?"

"I was just pondering that very thing," he said. "You up and ready to face the day? If you are, I thought maybe we could order room service and do breakfast where a confidential conversation can take place."

"Sure. You want me to come to your room?"

Briarwood chuckled, "No. I think they put me up in a broom closet with a cot. I'll come to you."

"You want me to call Newburgh?"

"Uh, negative, Jay. I'm gonna have Newburgh go round up the specific employees present when that package was delivered for you yesterday. He also needs to get cooperation from the hotel for their security footage. I don't want to have to slow down for a warrant for it, so a little finesse will help avoid that."

"Should I order breakfast?" I suddenly felt a little superfluous to Briarwood's investigation. He'd been dropping hints like bricks since I met him that this was indeed his case. I'd argue that point vehemently. He wasn't the one with some psycho hell-bent on killing him.

Well, at least not yet. I'm sure Castillo wouldn't mind expanding his hit list by any number of names if he thought we were getting too close.

"That'd be good. Less wait by the time I get there. Steak and eggs for me if they've got it. See you in five."

I finished ordering, paced, checked my watch... Five minutes turned into fifteen, then twenty. At thirty-five, breakfast arrived and still no Briarwood. Something else had happened. I felt it like a sick bellyful of vomit that just wouldn't purge.

When it came, the knock had me jumping out of my skin. Fuck. No side arm. I've got to get a weapon. This is insane.

"Who is it?" I called from far away from the door.

"Room service."

"I've got it. Move along about your business," Briarwood's voice boomed through the closed door.

"I need a signature, sir."

"I'll sign. This room's on the bureau's tab anyway."

"Raver, open the door now," Briarwood said.

I disengaged the security bar and opened the door. "Hey. I was starting to get concerned."

He looked at me with the grimmest expression I'd ever seen in my life. "Sit down, Jay. We need to talk."

"What happened?" I asked.

"You need to sit first," he ordered as he wheeled the cart of breakfast food into my room.

I dropped into a chair. "Something awful happened, didn't it?"

"You could say that. I got the call right after we got off the phone. Newburgh's talking to the girl who accepted the package yesterday, and the hotel manager already had the surveillance video on a thumb drive to-go for us this morning."

"Has there been another bombing?" I asked. Suddenly the notion of putting food in my stomach seemed as obscene as gorging myself in front of starving children.

"There was an incident last night, yes," he said. "It wasn't here in Boston, but I have no doubt that our perp was hoping to find you too."

My heart sank while I bolted from the chair and ran to the bathroom. My stomach revolted and emptied itself while I bowed over the toilet.

Briarwood followed. "Maclaren is dead. We sent one of our medical examiners—well, she's a Naval officer technically, but they perform the bulk of our examinations—and he felt that her death was quick and the message was left postmortem."

Sweat popped from every pore on my skin, cold and clammy. Jesus, not Maclaren. She didn't deserve this. Not even when I was pissed at her for trying to belittle me into following protocol as she defined it would I have wished anything so vile on her.

Another wave crested and expelled forcefully from my throat.

Briarwood turned on the water at the sink and dampened a washcloth. "Put this on the back of your neck. I don't know that it actually helps with nausea, but my wife always said it did."

It was such a banal statement thrust into the mix of horror and dread swirling around in my brain that I laughed. "You should just sit me on a street corner and let him take me, Briarwood. This isn't worth it. He'll come after you, after Newburgh, after anybody he thinks I might've told what I remember from Saturday morning. Get away while you can, before it's too late for you and the people you love."

He squatted beside me. "Stop talking nonsense, Jay. This isn't your fault. If anybody's to blame, it's West for not considering that Castillo would go after her and not taking her to a more secure location than the cheapest motel near Quantico that the trainees use. He figured if anybody tried anything, she'd be surrounded by agents in training who could help."

I rolled out of my bowed position over the toilet and sat with my back against the wall. My hair was now plastered to my forehead with the chilled mat of horrified sweat pouring from my body. "Tell me what happened."

"Rinse and come out—"

"I can't. Just...I want to know what happened to her."

"You already know she pitched a fit that the autopsy wasn't going to be performed last night," he said. "West dropped her off and told her he'd pick her up this morning, that the officer doing the autopsy already understood it was first in the queue this morning. When he got to her room, the door was slightly ajar. She was inside, dead. Her throat was cut with a very sharp, thin blade. The ME said it was scalpel quality, but he suspected something like a straight razor. I guess different blades have distinctive cutting patterns based on angles or some such. Anyway, she'd been bound with a sheet he cut up from the bed, hands tied and legs secured at the ankles. He found a cloth that looked like it had saliva on it too, so he figures she might've been gagged at some point during the encounter.

"Like I said, Jepson said the wound that bled was the throat." Briarwood paused and regarded me with drawn brows for a moment. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be more comfortable for the rest of this?"

"The only thing I'm certain of right now is that if you're about to tell me what I think you are, I'm going to need the toilet handier than it'll be if I'm out in a goddamned chair in the room."

"What do you think happened?" he frowned. It was a sobering question without the merest hint of rhetorical flavor.

"I think he used my boss to send us another message, one probably as compulsive as every other one he's left. What did he do, carve it into skin this time?"

Briarwood recoiled. "How could you possibly...?"

"That's what he did?"

He nodded, "In a manner of speaking. I guess it would be more accurate to say that he skinned his message into her flesh. Jepson said it was like some sort of 3-D image that he managed to make with nothing but a blade."

"Full moon over his flower of choice," I said. The sick rocks of nausea in my stomach disappeared in the wake of hollow emptiness. "He wanted to find me last night, because that little ruse of yours in the SUV made him believe we were all heading to Virginia."

"I wanted to misdirect him," Briarwood said. "I never dreamed he'd kill Maclaren."

"Then you need to get it through your head right now that this guy will kill anybody. He doesn't need a reason, Gage. He likes this. If he weren't being paid to kill people, he'd still do it. The fact that he's determined to murder someone he believes can identify him has only contributed to his determination to get to me. You're all in his way, obstacles that need to be trimmed away so he can finish it. So let him. I can't live with this on my conscience."

Briarwood reached down and grabbed my hand. He pulled me to my feet. "Snap out of it. Make his determination yours. Don't let him win, Jay. Don't let Maclaren's death be in vain, or any of his innocent victims."

I nodded numbly. "We need to work this thing backwards, Briarwood."

"What do you mean?"

"The key to finding this guy isn't in trying to predict what he'll do next. I think it's pretty safe to say that his next target is already known. He wants me, and he's going to keep coming until we either catch him, kill him or convince him that I'm not the threat he imagines," I said.

"You're not?"

"I barely glimpsed the guy," I said. "I have better recall of Dick saving my life than I do the guy who tried to kill me. I think I was just his way of distracting Myrtle and Dick anyway. She was the one who remembered faces, not me."

Briarwood's eyes widened.

"Didn't I mention that? He asked Myrtle if she recognized him, and I think she said something about having a thing for faces, even if she was a tad forgetful about other things."

"Shit. So that's why he killed the Saings."

"I was just...there."

"Coincidentally? Ironically? I don't think so," Briarwood said. "Maybe this O'Banion character knew that Castillo was about to ditch him permanently. He wasn't smart enough to stop him, but he figured if anybody had a shot at it, it was a cop who managed to figure out that the Night Lotus wasn't just some crazy online story like the Thin Man."

I shrugged.

"You've held something back, Raver. What else did O'Banion tell you Friday night?"

"If I tell you that, you're in more danger than you could possibly imagine."

"Too late," Briarwood said. "I'm in this up to my eyeballs, like it or not. Remember, he saw us together in that parking garage across town yesterday. He had to be there when I tried to lock the SUV in order to block the signal. So you may as well get used to telling me every thought, every conversation, everything you know related to this case and to these guys."

"He told me he saw the Night Lotus throw away a receipt a couple of days earlier from Dick's Diner in Whisper Cove," I admitted. "That's the real reason I went there."

"But you didn't notice the guy come into the diner?"

"O'Banion told me the guy had longer dark hair. The one in the diner that night was white-blonde with a buzz cut."

"And it didn't occur to you that he could've been in disguise?" Briarwood looked as appalled and incredulous as he sounded.

"What I believed, what I have believed until learning O'Banion was dead, was that the Night Lotus had a partner. I did tell you that, and I explained why. I figured O'Banion was that partner. Why the fuck would Castillo's partner describe him in a disguise if he really wanted his partner to be caught?"

Briarwood scowled. "I don't know, but that's a valid point. You don't suppose this man was gaming O'Banion too, do you?"

"I think he games everyone he meets, if you must know my frank opinion. O'Banion was a dumb guy according to what you told me. According to what I told you, he was probably one of the least hygienic people I've ever met. How do you suppose someone like Castillo, a killer who fancies himself the ultimate game-player would treat someone like O'Banion?"

"Not well, I'd imagine," he said.

"Exactly."

"So why wouldn't O'Banion just kill the guy?" he wondered.

"I've been thinking about that among other things, since I met O'Banion Friday night," I said. "They obviously both wanted to rid themselves of the other. Two killers, both capable of not only some pretty horrific murders...why not just off the burdensome partner? I think they were afraid of each other."

Briarwood laughed. "That's crazy. Castillo at least doesn't seem to have an ounce of fear in his body. He bugged and tracked FBI agents. He blew up a government building. He, in the space of a couple of days, slaughtered what, eighteen people now? He's tried to kill a cop how many times?"

"Because he's afraid," I said. "I'm not saying he doesn't enjoy killing, because he obviously loves it. But even more with Castillo, he loves confounding us, proving he's smarter, shrewder, able to commit crimes without leaving his DNA behind or fingerprints. No witnesses either. We have evidence of his traits, but nothing concrete that would link him to crimes."

"The left-handed thing, right?"

I nodded. "We can't prosecute someone based on brain hemisphere dominance. Seventy to ninety percent of the world is right-handed. That leaves a hell of a large suspect pool, even if we trimmed it down to the number of left-handed men who sort of match the physical characteristics I can recall about Castillo."

"How tall are you?" Briarwood asked.

"Six-two," I said.

"And this guy, as he bumped into you on the way out of the diner, where did his shoulder impact you?"

I frowned. My fingers rubbed the spot under my pectoral where his shoulder impacted my chest. "But he was sort of tucked down, you know, like someone would who's heading into a strong wind."

Briarwood mimicked the pose and bumped his shoulder against my chest. "Like that?"

"Yeah," I shuddered, as the memory of it somehow grew stronger. "Just like that."

"So he's about five-nine."

"He wasn't stocky like...uh, though."

"Like me," Briarwood chuckled. "It's all muscle. Tell me what else that triggered in your memory, Jay."

"His hood was up. I saw the blonde hair while he was at the counter. I never actually got a decent look at his face. The shadow I saw, it could've been just that. Shadow from the hood."

"But?"

I shrugged. "His facial hair growth looked much darker than the white-blonde hair."

"So maybe it was a bleach job, bleach and cut behind O'Banion's back perhaps, while he was off betraying Castillo."

"Possibly," I said. "Or Castillo can't resist messing with any head he encounters. Which do you think is more likely?"

"At this point," Briarwood sighed, "I'm not inclined to doubt your instinct."

Chapter 26

Newburgh

The girl from the front desk was sobbing and hiccupping and drizzling snot like Vesuvius before it blew. "This is pointless, for God's sake. I can't understand a word she's saying. Does she speak English? How many times do I have to tell her she's a witness, not a suspect?"

"I think it's the witness part that has her so terrified," the daytime manager spoke in a low, confidential tone. "I'm afraid she saw the news about the police captain who might've been a witness in one of this Night Lotus' crimes too."

"Jesus, are you telling me the person who delivered the package was a man?" I turned to face my blubbering witness again.

"No!" she wailed, and then ripped into another spate of speech in the decibels dogs could hear.

I looked to her boss.

"She said at least I don't think it was a man."

Good grief. "Just give me the thumb drive and I'll go. I don't have time to wait for this woman to regain her composure. I also doubt very much that the person who dropped off that box of money yesterday was the killer we're trying to apprehend, but please, by all means when this twit calms down, thank her for her cooperation for me."

The manager bristled. "I don't think that was called for."

Briarwood's attitude must've rubbed off on me. "I'm sorry. It's a serious situation, sir. We'd like to make sure that whoever delivered that money is safe, and not another potential target. You surely understand my frustration."

The young woman sniffled. "Y-you think she could be in d-danger too?"

I squatted down beside where she sat in a chair in the employee break room. Her tissues littered the tabletop, some having fallen on the floor. "I don't think you're in any danger at all, miss. You accepted a package from a delivery person. You didn't see the killer—who we know is a man. But I don't know if the delivery person dealt with him directly or not. Do you see where I'm coming from with this?"

She nodded. "It...it was a woman. I noticed her makeup more than anything else. She tried to keep her chin tucked down so the bill of her cap covered her face, but her makeup. It was," she paused and sniffled. "It was really good. Expensive, you know? It wasn't the kind that makes you think gee, she must hire someone to paint her face like that. It was real subtle, and might've looked like no makeup at all to an untrained eye."

"And your eyes have that kind of special discernment?" I asked.

"It's a matter of logic. When you see a photograph of someone with flawless skin, one of two things has happened. Either they had great makeup and lighting, or someone did one hell of a job with Photoshop. Well, our lighting sucks, and I didn't sign for a package from a photograph. There is no such thing as flawless skin, and I'm telling you, hers was too perfect to be anything less than very expensive makeup expertly applied."

"And you just know this?" my dubious regard for her assertion must've been too obvious. She gasped, placed one hand on her chest and began with the ultra-sonic pitch.

"She's a theater major at Boston College," her boss said. "If anyone knows about makeup, it's Evie."

"I doubt my perp is skilled with the airbrushed made-up look," I said. "I'll take that thumb drive and be on my way."

"Of course," the manager handed the small USB stick over and walked me back to the lobby. "Please don't hold it against Evie what happened yesterday or this morning. She's understandably upset. The idea that she might've come face to face with this merciless killer has been difficult for her."

"I'm sure," I muttered. "Thanks for not giving me a bunch of grief with the security video. I appreciate your cooperation."

I decided that while Briarwood and Raver were off no doubt bonding some more, possibly solving my case behind my back, that I'd take the security surveillance back to my room and watch it alone first.

Helpful manager man included the whole day's worth of footage unfortunately, which left me skipping large chunks to find the correct timeframe for the money drop.

The video timestamp displayed five minutes to one when I saw the woman wearing a baseball cap approach the desk with a box under one arm and a clipboard in hand. Most people don't realize how small and light twenty-five thousand in cash is, provided it's issued in $100 bills. The paper surrounding a stack of $100s is called a strap, and full, contains one hundred bills, or ten thousand dollars. Twenty-five thousand would be two and a half straps. The weight of such a package was probably close to a pound including the weight of the box. The money itself would've only weight just over half a pound.

There was nothing strange about the drop. Evie was busy with some task at the desk and absently looked up, took the clipboard and signed.

It was a full five minutes before she looked at the package and saw whose name was on the address. That's when her shrieking and wailing began.

"No wonder she's in theater," I muttered.

Still, the video showed nothing but the obvious figure of a trim, fit woman wearing a baseball cap pulled low on her forehead, khaki pants and a bulky coat. She looked like a delivery person.

It was then that I made note of the split screen—one camera on the front desk, another on the hotel's main entrance. The delivery woman rushed out the door, got into a waiting taxi under the portico, and sped away.

"Gotcha," I said. The medallion number of the taxi was clearly visible in the security footage.

I grabbed the phone and called the Boston PD. "This is Special Agent Brick Newburgh. I need to talk to the investigator in the Farnsworth murder. Right away."

"Hold on," she came back half a second later. "You want the one for the bombing or the one who got the perp down on Mass Ave?"

"The one who took Senator Farnsworth into custody, please."

"Yeah, he said to tell ya he's busy, 'cause they're gonna have to kick the case now since your boy screwed the pooch."

"I have more evidence, conclusive evidence that proves Diane Farnsworth paid to have her wife murdered. Get him on the phone now, or I'll make sure the feds completely take jurisdiction in this prosecution."

"Hold on," she said again.

Two seconds passed when the angry detective answered. "Holtz. Whaddya want, Newburgh?"

I rolled my eyes. "I have the security footage from the hotel where the money drop addressed to Jay Raver took place. The hotel voluntarily surrendered it."

"So what? That don't prove squat. And I gotta tell ya, I ain't the only one pissed about how youse handled all this mess yesterday. Prosecutor's jumpin' up and down—"

"Would it help to have Farnsworth on video dropping off twenty-five grand addressed to Detective Jay Raver minutes before her wife was murdered?"

"Seriously?"

"The hotel put it on a thumb drive and handed it to me not more than half an hour ago. You can't tell it's her until she gets in the cab and takes off her Sox cap. The best part is that the video clearly shows the cab's medallion number."

"Son of a gun. I think the prosecutor's gonna wanna kiss your feet and give you his firstborn. I wouldn't take her though; she's a handful."

"You want to send somebody over here to pick up the evidence?" I asked.

"That'd be great. What's your room number?"

I rattled off the number before uploading the files to the cloud so we'd have the evidence too, should it ever become necessary. It might be nice to offer to shave off a few years for Senator Farnsworth in exchange for her testimony against Castillo.

We'd catch him. It was only a matter of time.

My cell phone rang.

"Newburgh."

"What's the hold up? I just called the desk and the manager said you left half an hour ago."

"Uh, yeah, I'm just sending the data from the thumb drive to the cloud so our analysts have it immediately. It shows who the delivery person was, Gage. Senator Farnsworth dropped that package off at the front desk. I already called Detective Bad-ass with the Boston PD. He's sending someone over to pick up the drive."

"Oh. I kinda wish you'd talked to me before you did them, Brick."

"It's my case. I made a judgment call," I said.

"Don't get defensive, son," he said in that patronizing tone that made me want to go a little Castillo on his ass. "There are other concerns here."

"Like what?" I snapped.

"Jurisdictional concerns. You realize of course that bombing a government building was an act of terrorism. I'm not sure this whole thing is gonna stay within our purview at all, Brick. You really should've run this one up the flag pole first."

"I'm not hunting this guy because somebody thinks the quick path to his demise is a needle in the arm," I half-hissed. "I want to protect the public, his future victims."

"And he's gonna end up with a taskforce hunting him, no doubt about it, but you and me, we won't be running it."

"I know this perp better than anybody!" I yelled.

"Do you? I'm not so sure, Brick. I'm not sure about a whole lot anymore, but I can tell you this. Raver has insight with this guy that frankly scares the shit out of me."

I started pacing. "What does that mean? Do you think he's somehow in cahoots with Castillo?"

"Of course not. I can't explain it. He's just...plugged in. You've studied him from the perspective of the LEOs who worked his cases over the past four years and change. Raver's been studying this guy from the perspective of his online cult, and I gotta tell you, of the two methods, I think Raver's learned a hell of a lot more about this guy than we could ever know from case files."

"That's ridiculous. The Internet is rife with urban legends."

"Yeah, but Raver's right about one thing. This guy popped up outta nowhere with actual case information. He said something to me—either a cop went rogue and told tales out of school, or Castillo started this shit about himself online."

I dropped down to the edge of the bed. Shit. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"You still there, son?"

"I really hate it when you call me that," I snapped. "I'm not your son, not your subordinate. Stop being so damned condescending. I may not have been an agent for twenty years yet, but I'm not some greenstick either."

"You got quiet," he said. "What's that about?"

"It makes sense that a pathological narcissist would actually be the source of his online legend. He's developing a flare since Maine for rubbing our noses in the fact that he's more than ten steps ahead of us. A guy like that would be eaten up, consumed by his lack of notoriety because of tight-lipped police policy regarding open cases."

"You see my point then, how integral Raver's insight into this guy really is. I'm not saying it to diminish what you know from the investigative perspective, Brick. We've gotta find the middle on this one, partner, because I think we'll never catch Castillo until we achieve a meeting of the minds. He's far too slick and shadowy as it is. A divided front on our end only helps him."

"I take it he was upset about his boss," I said.

"Heaved his guts out over it," Briarwood replied. "I don't get this guy."

"Castillo?"

"No," he said, "I don't get Raver. He begged me to plop him out on a street corner so Castillo could do his thing and move on. He seemed to think that it would put an end to his recent spate of murders."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. He's some kind of Boy Scout, that's for sure. All law and order, no exceptions, no corners cut, nothing like that. You gotta admire that about the guy. We could use a little more of that sort of dedication to not just the letter of the law, but the spirit of it."

I thought of my temptation to lie about Farnsworth's confession being spontaneous and sighed. "You're right. He's a real Captain America. But Gage, this killer isn't playing by any rules at all. Our investigation could take us to some pretty dark places where we might have no choice but to...bend the rules a bit to get him."

"Raver won't go for anything less than an honest case. I think he truly believes in the nobility of death while upholding the law. Maybe he'd be a little less idealistic if he saw the crime scene photos from Maclaren's motel room."

"They sent them to you?" It pricked my ire, the deference to Briarwood in all things.

"I'd imagine they're in your email too, Brick. He really did a number on her. Fortunately, the worst of it was postmortem."

"Worse than having her throat cut from ear to ear?" I stalked to the desk and loaded my email program. Sure enough, the photos were there. I clicked through them and groaned. "Good God, what's wrong with this guy?"

"You tell me. I thought narcissists were killers at parties, not visual artists who use human beings as their medium of artistic choice."

"I wonder..." I said.

"What?"

"He's got real talent, Gage. Maybe he had aptitude as a kid, something somebody might recognize. Of course we'd have to find out who he really is to figure that out, which sort of renders my suggestion moot."

"Maybe not. Raver thinks we need to work this thing backwards. Start at the beginning and move forward. He said something about familiarity and ease in his first setting."

"That makes sense. He'd have been more likely to branch out from his stomping grounds after gaining confidence than he would be going to an unfamiliar place to start killing people."

"Raver thinks there might've been earlier cases without his signature."

"That makes sense too," I said. "Give me ten minutes. Are you still in Raver's room?"

"No, he asked for some time alone."

"Ah shit, Briarwood. Tell me you didn't honestly leave this guy alone."

"Why wouldn't I?" he asked. "Detective Raver was understandably distraught after learning what happened to Maclaren. So he needs a few minutes to pull himself together."

"And you believed him?" I laughed at this seasoned investigator's naiveté. "Think about it, Gage. He begs you to put him out on the street so Castillo can end this, and you thought it'd be fine and dandy to give the guy a little space? Please."

"Shit!" Briarwood's phone hit the floor with a thud.

But I was right. Raver was gone.

Chapter 27

Castillo

Back in Boston. Well, that was a kick in the pants.

I slipped out of Maclaren's room into the sleepy darkness just before pre-dawn. The air was crisp and cold. Frost climbed the windows of the rooms along the long stretch of walkway around the motel.

Life was good. I wanted to freeze the feelings and store them safely away in the cold where I could take them out and play with them when I felt bored or unappreciated.

Yeah, that was the word for it. Unappreciated.

O'Banion didn't care for my contributions at all. He thought I didn't have the stones to kill with impunity. Wrong, and wrong eighteen times over now, though the bombing deaths didn't quite thrill me with the purity of the blade that I felt with Cunningham, the Saings and now Maclaren.

I was tired, too tired to go back to Boston. I doubted that they'd stick around there for long anyway. No, at some point, they'd return to Virginia, to the safe arms of the Quantico fortress.

I climbed into the rental car. It made more sense to carry on, business as usual and let these assholes come to me. Technically, they should be rushing to Virginia in the next few hours. But this environment, the setting was far too controlled. I'd never get a good clean opportunity to take Raver out here. Hell, once news of Maclaren's demise spread up to Boston, they'd surely put a hundred men around Raver at all times before giving him a new identity and setting him up in suburbia somewhere.

The thought appealed to me.

I hate suburbia, with all of its homogenous people in their cookie-cutter houses with the perfectly coiffed yards and sculpted shrubberies. They were a blight on humanity. Who the fuck gets excited about garden gnomes? People who don't deserve to breathe, that's who.

It was a good plan. I needed to sleep, to refuel the body on more than caffeine and stale pastry. Boston wasn't where I needed to be. No, I ached for familiarity, for my stash, for the things that comforted me when I was weaker and fearful that O'Banion would kill me.

Those days seemed so long ago. Six months into our gig, and I knew it would come to him versus me. He had brute strength and took a delight in killing that had taught me many things during our time together, but my brain wasn't something he could learn from me. In the end, it was the sharp edge I needed to end him.

I drove back into D.C. and deposited my rental back in the lot with the other cars. There wasn't a speck of anything inside that would betray where I'd gone or what I'd done. I made sure to circle the beltway a couple of times—even though it thrust me into the gridlock that apparently affected more than our government—before leaving the car. Didn't want the mileage to show too much. I doubted that the cheapest model of sub-compact was equipped with GPS that did more than locate the car if it were missing. Just the same, I made sure I uploaded a little virus via the USB port in the car. They'd never know that I was at that motel out near Quantico. It was a beaut, this little bit of code. It didn't do much more than shut down the process that recorded locations during a trip. It was benign and innocuous enough that nobody would probably suspect more than some sort of snafu with the hardware. Maybe solar flares affected satellite ping activity to the device.

The Internet is full of wonderful people who take perverse delight in thwarting that edge the man tries to hold over us. Quiet little anarchists lurking in the dark corners of cyberspace. These are my heroes.

I took a taxi to a hotel near Reagan. I'd earned some luxury after the past few days of frenetic hunting. Tomorrow would be soon enough to fly back to Boston, pick up the Mustang and head for warmer climes. Yes. I'd lead my new friends on a merry chase for sure, but it would be on my turf, the places I knew best.

Maybe I'd pull that old trick I once read nineteenth century Arabs liked to inflict on their captured enemies in the desert. I thought of it, planting four stakes in the desert, stripping Raver and tying him to the stakes, letting the unmerciful sun bake him to death. I'd pitch a tent nearby and sit in the shade sipping icy water within his sight.

I sighed. "Yeah. But first I have to find a way to draw him out," I murmured softly.

"Excuse me? Sir. Sir, I need your credit card."

"Oh, sorry," I grinned at the woman at the front desk in the hotel. "I'm meeting someone. He's a little shy about... you know... us."

She tried to disguise her smirk.

"Any suggestions?" I asked as I accepted my card and ID back. I scribbled something undecipherable on the printed bill accompanying them.

"Flowers always did it for me."

I burst out laughing. Flowers. How perfect. I leaned into the high desk. "Know any good florists? He's got exotic tastes."

This time, her smile was full-blown. "Yeah," she said. "I happen to know of one or two. Give me a sec and I'll get the numbers for you."

I wouldn't need them. What I had in mind could only come from a florist in my home stomping grounds, something they wouldn't deliver to the address where it would be sent. No, I'd never do something so easily traceable anyway.

She slipped me the key to my room and her florist phone numbers and floated another smile. "Whoever he is, I hope he knows how lucky he is."

Ha! Yes, Jameson Raver had achieved what no other mark had: my undying and completely devoted attention. How lucky he truly was.

I began savoring the notion of his death more than ever. This was about far more than silencing someone who glimpsed me in a diner. This was more than concern that even in his state of distracted focus on my Night Lotus persona that he might've seen more of the real man than I wanted anyone breathing to have.

None of it needed happen anyway. If Myrtle didn't have her goddamn superpower of facial recognition, I could've strolled out and just been that guy who'd come in once before that she vaguely recalled had been in the night of poor Felicia Cunningham's murder at the hands of that crazy killer, the dirty slob with bad breath.

But no, she had to have total recall on top of being a nosy bitch that wondered what I was doing in her diner in the dead of night. It was the sort of thing that made a guy memorable.

On one hand, I wanted very much to be remembered, but not as a physical man. I wanted so much more than that, and Raver wasn't going to stand in the way of what I would achieve. I'd go down in history as the unstoppable one, the smartest one, the clever Night Lotus who got away and eluded, and solved problems for those who could afford it.

Part of me wanted to match wits with this cop who tracked me and somehow got O'Banion's attention. The other part simply relished the moment when he'd die. And he would die.

I booked my flight home from Raver's laptop computer in my hotel room and settled back to finally take the time to peruse his notes about me.

Another sensation crept into my head as I read page after page of his notes on what people said about me online.

"He's trying to figure out where this started," I said. "He wants to know how the world found out about me at all, who named me, who established my story the very first time."

It was a glorious day, when the Night Lotus was born. I'd made that silly sketch in Father Ryan's church, out of boredom mostly. It sort of became habit, just something to do to while away the hours while O'Banion got his jollies playing with eyeballs back then. (Glad he got over that kink quickly.)

I was surfing the 'net in one of those Internet cafés, and came upon some website that was talking about the priest killer who left a lotus drawing behind. I'd responded to the comment and intimated that the killer only struck at night, that's why he drew the moon over the flower. I added some nonsensical lore about this boogeyman-like character that was almost an avenging angel. I was laughing so hard at how clever I was, I didn't notice how much attention I garnered from the other customers.

"Dude, what're you doing?"

I think it was after a Nevada job, and O'Banion insisted on some legal prostitution. I'd dumped him off somewhere for a three-day weekend and ventured into Vegas to explore.

I glanced at the young man approaching far too fast toward a man who hung out with a dude who loved knives. I minimized the screen. "Trolling. People's buttons are way too easy to push, man."

But the notion that people might fear me, even just a little bit, it fascinated me. O'Banion had been particularly vile in his abuse of my person of late that I'd even stopped guzzling rot gut out of fear that he really would cut me to pieces if I passed out.

Maybe it was the gallons of booze or O'Banion's constant abuse, I don't know for sure. I couldn't be sure how it all started. It was a jumbled up mess. I'm not saying I was drunk all the time, but certainly for the first year or so, especially after O'Banion did his thing.

I get it though. The whole thing, from the very beginning was my idea. O'Banion was a sick fuck. He couldn't hold down a job, and I couldn't figure a way to get him off my ass. It'd been that way since the punk was ten years old. I figured as much as he loved killing shit, there had to be a way to put those skills to work.

The story I told Father Ryan wasn't entirely fiction. I hadn't gone to confession since the age of seventeen. That was when O'Banion showed up and said he was done. He was fifteen years old, and I...well, it wasn't important anymore.

I was free of O'Banion for the first time in almost as long as I could remember, and now all of this belonged to me, the money, the murders, the cred from people who feared some flower-scrawling monster.

Room service knocked, rolled in a cart laden with surf and turf and a big bottle of very nice wine. I deserved a little self-congratulatory indulgence. My flight would take me home, and then I could delve into the part of this shit that I loved from day one.

It was always in the head. That's where the fun lies for a guy like me. I'm not some big scary dude like O'Banion. I'm not the disgustingly pretty cop with nice clothes, a shiny badge and some fancy degree to go along with it.

But my brain was better than all of it, and I was about to climb into some skulls and do some serious damage. What more could a guy ask for?

I passed out on the bed after polishing off the bottle of wine and devouring the rare steak and buttery lobster. A shower the next morning did little to rouse my aching brain cells. It was easy to remember why I gave up the booze. I felt like shit smushed into the treads on a tire.

Breakfast consisted of a Coke snagged from a vending machine near the gate at Reagan and two dusty aspirin salvaged from the bottom of one of the zippered pockets on the backpack I picked up in Las Cruces years ago. There would be fewer questions at boarding if I had a carryon with my large duffle bag.

I splurged again, this time on a first class ticket. We were flying with only one stop from Washington D.C. to Tucson. The flight was just under seven hours, meaning that I'd land two hours after takeoff. Time zones screw with my head, which was already throbbing.

They aren't stewardesses anymore, but whatever the hell she was, she came and pestered me before the flight was ready to leave the gate. I waved her off with surly flair, but had second thoughts a moment later.

"Hey," I said. "Sorry to snarl. Late night last night, and I've got a killer headache this morning. The idea of five hours with screaming kids back there put me in a bad mood. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

"Can I get you some water, something to eat maybe before we take off?" she offered kindly.

I donned a mousy brownish wig before leaving the hotel this morning. It was making my head itch and I wished I hadn't bothered with it. What I really wanted was for her to burn the damn thing for me. Instead, I smiled weakly. "Maybe some water? I'm not sure what airlines feed people anymore."

"I've got some fresh fruit, bananas and pears."

"A pear," I said.

She returned a moment later. "So was it business that gave you the headache?" she asked.

"Yeah, I guess you could say it was. We had a lot to celebrate last night, and I knew better than to have those last three glasses of wine."

"Ouch," she winced in commiseration. "If that's what's got the little men hammering away in your skull, the water is the best thing for you."

"Oh yeah?" God, the banality of her chitchat made me want to bury my biggest blade in her gut.

"It's an old trick, but when you're drinking wine, you need to drink eight ounces of water for every glass of wine you consume. Wine dehydrates people, and that's why the headache is so ugly the next day."

I revised my earlier thought. I wanted to bury the knife in my heart just so I didn't have to endure her friendly bullshit for the next five hours.

"You got a pillow I could use?" I asked. Faking sleep would be better then enduring more of this social torture. Another sick smile flooded her eyes with all that nurturing crap normal women have—not that I had any experience with them. Ever.

"Poor thing," she murmured. "I'll be right back."

True to her word, goddammit, she was back in a flash with both a pillow and blanket—airline sized of course, meaning they were like everything else served, only good for one use.

I ate the fruit quickly before I tucked the pillow under my head, followed by the blanket. Shut them out. If you don't, you're gonna sit here wondering how many of them you could kill with whatever you can find on board before somebody stops you.

"Shut up, O'Banion," I whispered.

Chapter 28

Raver

I had no money, no identification, no way to even make sure Castillo knew I was out in the open.

That was when the idea occurred to me. He was probably trying to figure out where I might pop up next. And what do police predictably do when we lose one of our own? That's right. In a ceremony of pomp and circumstance, we honor our dead. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder, the united blue wall, and say our final farewell tribute.

I owed that much to Maclaren even if I never got the feeling she liked me much. In the end, she believed me, and literally sacrificed her life trying to keep me alive. Guilt for letting her go off alone with an agent who had no idea the kind of bastard Castillo is overwhelmed me. What the hell was wrong with me? What was I thinking?

My other option would be to do something akin to what I threatened, you know, stand on a street corner. Maybe I could wear a sandwich board announcing to the world and Castillo—Here I am; come and get me, Castillo.

Of course that presupposed his presence back in Boston. I doubted that Castillo was that stupid or desperate. No, his attacks had always been more insidious. He struck people at their most vulnerable. He always had.

As far as Newburgh's expertise on the cold cases, it seemed to be a detail he overlooked. Castillo's crimes were in the quiet moments when people were alone. Nothing flashy, nothing high profile. I suspected it was what made him so goddamned good at his job. He had this ability to assess situations, manipulate them even, with the help of those who hired him. Castillo was like the recluse spider hiding in the dark, just waiting for a tender morsel of flesh to enter its shadow. He'd bite, and then they'd die.

I knew exactly where to hide in the meantime. Castillo would expect me to show up for Maclaren's funeral. He'd anticipate a bevy of FBI agents swarming around to protect me with every high tech means available to prevent him from blowing a bunch of cops to kingdom come right along with me too.

But he'd show. I felt it in my bones.

In the meantime, I'd endure Gracie Sorenson's fretful I-told-you-so's. I should've gone to her for protection in the first place. Nobody, not even Castillo, would think a man would turn to his ex-fiancée for help when his life was in danger. One, he'd never risk the life of someone he loved that much. Two, in our case at least, they'd never believe her father would allow an ex to get that close to the beloved daughter.

She was the perfect choice. The only choice.

I had rushed about half a mile from the hotel after Briarwood left my room, but had no idea where I was. I saw a woman window-shopping and approached her. "Ma'am, I seem to have lost my sense of direction while I was walking. Could you tell me if there's somewhere around here where I could use the Internet? I'd like to print out a map so I can find my way back to my hotel after walking some more."

She smiled kindly and pointed about two businesses down the row to a coffee house. "They've got all kinds of computer access in there, son. Coffee's good too."

"Do you know how much they charge?"

"Can't you just use your phone to get a map?" she asked.

"I...girlfriend has my phone in her purse. I forgot to grab it when I left the hotel."

She chuckled. "You're in a pickle then, I'd say. Let me talk to Joe. He owns the coffee house. Maybe he'll let you do your business on the house. I presume your wallet is in her purse too?"

I grinned sheepishly.

"Smart gal, I'd say."

Three minutes later I had a cup of coffee on the house and a computer in front of me. Fantastic. I could wire money from my bank to a Western Union office at the bus depot. I quickly typed in my information and held my breath, hoping that nobody cancelled my cards or had the bank shut down my debit card specifically. If Hogan was thinking, he'd want to keep them active to see if our little murderer cum thief used them at any point in the future. I'd need to contact him. Shit. The bank might put a hold on everything.

Still, what happened to me didn't occur on a normal banking day, nor did anybody realize that Castillo lifted my property until Saturday afternoon or early evening.

I glanced at my watch. Barely eight in the morning.

I rolled the dice and requested a five hundred dollar transfer to the pickup location at the Greyhound depot.

An instant later, the confirmation number that I'd need for pickup popped up on the screen. I clicked print, and pulled the page off the small printer next to my workstation and logged off the computer.

That was when my heart sank. I had no government issue ID to pick up the money.

The woman who brought me to Joe's slipped into the seat behind me. "I know who you are," she whispered. "What's really going on, detective?"

Panic welled in my chest.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to start screaming your name at the top of my lungs. You're running from that psycho who killed the senator's wife, aren't you?"

I nodded, barely, but it was enough.

"That's why you need money, right? But now you can't get the money because this creep stole your stuff when he tried to kill you. Don't freak out. It was on the news Sunday morning. I doubt many people were watching CNN in the wee hours and caught the broadcast before the thing with Senator Farnsworth's wife happened. I'd like to help you."

"I wired money to Western Union at the bus station over on Atlantic," I said. "But I can't get it without a government ID. Sadly, I don't have one, since the son of a...my attacker stole my wallet, my phone, my laptop computer, my badge," I gritted my teeth. "I've got to get out of here and lure him away from a populated area so more innocent people aren't hurt because of me."

"I'll accompany you to the bus station and pick up the money for you," she said. "There's a Cricket store just around the corner and up the street. You could at least replace your phone. You might need to make an emergency call."

"I'd pay you for your help," I said.

She smiled. "Not necessary. I have a son in New York City on the job. I hope if something like this ever happened to him, a stranger would try to help him too. Let's go."

We walked briskly and arrived at the bus station in less than five minutes. It went off without a hitch. She showed her ID and the retrieval number to the clerk and put five hundred dollars in my hand just as soon as she walked away from the desk.

"Now," she said, "let's see about getting you a phone."

I thanked her profusely before heading back toward the bus depot after I had a cheap little phone in hand. "Remember, if you tell people you saw me, it could really put you in danger. That's the last thing I want."

"I know," she said. "Good luck, detective."

I was ten steps away when I called Gracie.

"Hello?" she sounded congested, so nasally, I barely recognized her voice.

"Grace?"

She gasped.

"Are you alone?" I asked.

"Relatively speaking. Dad's in the other room. My God, Jay, where are you? They said the FBI had you stashed in a safe house somewhere. I just heard the news about Captain Maclaren. If that's how the FBI keeps people safe—"

"Gracie, stop. I need you to listen to me carefully. I...I sort of ditched my FBI detail. After I found out Kelsey was murdered in Virginia last night, I figured I'd be better off staying away from the people this guy obviously knows about. He saw me with the FBI yesterday after that bombing in Boston."

"Jay..."

"I'm still in Boston. I figured out how to get my hands on some cash, so I'm going to get on a Greyhound and head north."

"Like Canada north?"

"No, like Whisper Cove north," I said. "Gracie, I gotta find some place to lay low. I'm hurt. Do you understand? I almost died Saturday. They cut my leg open and patched the artery that bastard cut before he murdered Myrtle and Dick Saing."

"Wait. Back up. What do you mean you got your hands on some cash? What did the FBI do, steal your wallet?"

"No," I gritted my teeth. "It was in my bag with the badge, the police ID, the laptop, my damned phone...I was lucky to get the wire transfer done before the bank opened this morning and could freeze my assets."

"If you don't have ID, you'll never be able to get on a bus, sweetheart," she said gently. "I wish you'd listened to me and gotten out before all of this happened. Dammit, Jay. I told you this career would bring both of us nothing but pain. Do you have any idea what I went through, believing you died Saturday night?"

I heard a door slam, in close proximity to Gracie's phone. "What are you doing?"

"I'm coming to pick you up. Jesus, Jay. Where are you exactly in Boston?"

"Downtown, headed to the bus depot on Atlantic," I said.

"You can take metro buses anywhere in the city with a pass and a schedule," she said. "Go to the depot, get a day pass, and take the metro as far north as possible. Call me and let me know your final destination and I'll pick you up there. I'm heading out right now."

"Gracie, I can't...I don't want to put you in danger."

"Unless this killer is some kind of cyborg that doesn't require sleep, I doubt he made it from Virginia to Boston already. It's a big city. He'll be looking for you with the FBI, not on your own. Just keep a low profile, and tell me where you end up. It'll take me a while to get down there, so please... be careful."

I hesitated for a moment.

"Jay, dammit. You called me because you need my help."

"Are you telling Taggart what you're doing?" I asked.

She snorted. "If I told him, he'd probably handcuff me and lock me in my room. I'll call him from the road and tell him I needed to get away. God knows, it's not the first time I've told him that. In recent months even."

"I'm so sorry," I whispered.

"I'd say it's not your fault, but it'd be a lie. Do you understand now why I said this line of work is too dangerous? I hate it that you wouldn't listen to me, Jay." She paused, and I heard the garage door opening. "I'll call you after I talk to Dad. When he sees me leaving, he'll be suspicious as hell if I'm on the phone."

She clicked off, and waves of the pain she didn't realize I felt when we mutually agreed to break off our engagement crested to overwhelm me again. I laughed bitterly, despite how awful I felt both physically and emotionally. She was still firmly in her camp, and I in mine. I couldn't regret being a cop. Even if Castillo got to me at Maclaren's funeral, all of this would be worth it. At least law enforcement realized he was more than some ridiculous urban legend. He was corporeal now, and would be hunted by cops until the end of time if need be. He slaughtered one of us. And that was far more grave than trying to kill me but failing.

I reentered the depot and did what Gracie suggested. With a day pass and schedule in hand, I scanned for the quickest path to Oak Grove.

Problem was, my location didn't have a direct line. I'd be hopping buses to get to where I needed to be. Including stops, Gracie would probably end up waiting for me all day. I cursed softly under my breath, or so I thought.

"Problem young man?"

He worked for MBTA I noticed when I looked up. "Yeah, I need to get to the Oak Grove station, but I don't want to sit on a bus all day getting there."

"You got a pass for both subway and bus?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Whatever it is, the ticketing agent said it'd take me anywhere in the metro area for a month. Cost me seventy-five bucks, so I'd surely hope it's for both."

He laughed. "It's rail and bus. Get on the Red Line and take it to Downtown Crossing Station at Washington and Summer. It's just a few blocks northwest. Get off the bus and take the Orange Line. It goes all the way to the end of the line at Oak Grove."

"Faster than the bus?"

My helper grinned. "No stoplights, no traffic. Sure you're gonna hit other stations to pick up passengers, but it's a hell of a lot faster. You'll be there in time for the lunch specials. There's a good restaurant within walking distance of Oak Grove. Head up Banks until you hit Oak Grove; go right, and it's just before the corner of Oak Grove and Main. That is, if you're looking to kill some time waiting for somebody."

Kill time. Nice phrase. Instead of biting his head off, I thanked him and made my way to the bus he indicated would take me to the Downtown Crossing Station. The sun shined brightly in the crisp winter morning. I decided to skip the bus and walk the short distance rather than wait for the bus to arrive.

It was a brief trek, much faster than waiting for the bus. By the time I got to the Oak Grove station, Gracie called.

"Sorry it took so long to get back to you," she said. "Dad's a wreck. He wasn't very happy that I took off again."

"Again?" I echoed. "You didn't leave Saturday night, did you?"

"No, I couldn't see well enough to drive, otherwise I would've. Jay, I've been crazy with worry about you. Are you really all right? You sound okay, but...but..."

"They said I almost died on the news, I suppose," I said as I began walking up the street toward the restaurant the friendly MBTA employee cited. "It was serious, but Dick saved my life. I can't tell you how much I wish the guy had just killed me and left Myrtle and Dick alone. And now Kelsey's dead. It's all my fault. You should just turn around and go home, Gracie. I'd never be able to live with myself if my mess got you hurt or worse."

"Are you insane? I'm not leaving you out there alone, Jay Raver, so you can just get that thought out of your head right now. I'll hide you myself until they catch this lunatic."

"Grace, I didn't ask for your help so you could put yourself in danger."

"What the hell does that mean?" she demanded.

"I'm trying to tell you that I want you to take me home, but after that, I can't see you or talk to you again. I won't live with the fear that he'd go after you to get to me. Don't ask me to do that, Grace. Ask anything else, but not that."

"Jay...when you say you want me to take you home, what exactly are you talking about?"

"My house in Augusta. I've got stuff there that I need, my car, clothes, cash, my identification, weapons—"

"You cannot go after this man alone, honey," she said. I could hear her tears. "Please, Jay. I love you too much to let you go off and do the noble thing because you think it'll keep the people you love safe. It won't. If he kills you, it only means that more people who love you will just keep hunting him."

"Like who?" I scoffed. "This is in my hands to end, Grace. Mine alone."

"I'd hunt him," she sobbed. "And if you think for one second that my father wouldn't hunt him to the ends of the earth, you're wrong."

I sighed. "I have a plan, Gracie, but I'm not telling you what it is, and I'm not letting you put yourself in this guy's sights. If I have to scare you to death by telling you what he's done to the victims I've seen with my own eyes, I'll do it. I know it's asking a lot, you coming here and getting me home, but I'm begging. Do this one thing, and go home."

"This is gonna be another one of those issues where you dig your heels in and won't listen to reason, isn't it?" she sniffled. "Because God forbid you realize I was right all along, that you're not meant to be doing this job, Jay. I told you no good would come of it. But no. You had to do it anyway. It was good enough for your dad and mine and both of our grandfathers before them. You couldn't do anything else. Stubborn assholes. The lot of you!"

"If you've got second thoughts about helping me, tell me now Grace. I'll take my chances with Hogan going along with my plan."

"Like hell are you pushing me away again!" she yelled. "I might not be willing to be a young widow like your mother was, but I damn well won't turn my back on you."

"Then meet me at a restaurant near the corner of Main and Oak Grove Avenue in Melrose. I'm almost there right now."

"Okay. I should be there in an hour or so. Don't do anything stupid."

I laughed, "Like what, find another psychopath intent on killing me? Relax, Grace. And don't worry. Maybe you should have a little faith that I know what I'm doing, huh?"

Chapter 29

Briarwood

I was so pissed for missing the obvious that I was tempted to take my gun out and shoot myself. Raver was gone. We had every cop available, every agent from the local field office scouring the city for him.

"He has no money, no identification, no means of getting anywhere except by two methods—walking or using his thumb," I barked. "How hard can it be to find one guy? This isn't New York City, for fuck's sake!"

"Briarwood, settle down," Newburgh. That pipsqueak thought he'd take an authoritative tone with me, did he?

One lethal glare put him in his place right quick.

"Agent Briarwood, it's conceivable that he could've taken a city bus or train. He wouldn't need to show ID to buy a local ticket."

"Where the hell would he go? He doesn't have money. How the hell do you get money when a serial killing assassin has your wallet? Christ!" I smacked my hand against my forehead and whipped out my phone.

A moment later, "Hogan."

"Chief, it's Special Agent Gage Briarwood. Did you by any chance notify Raver's bank and credit card companies to report any activity on his accounts?"

"Yeah, I just processed the request fifteen minutes ago. You think this guy's dumb enough to use Raver's funds?"

"No," I said, "but I think that Jay is desperate enough to use them."

"Wait. I thought he was with you guys."

"He was until about ninety minutes ago. He got a good thirty to forty minutes head start before I realized he took off," I said. "He's upset, Chief. He didn't take the news of Maclaren's murder so well."

"Understandable," Hogan said. "None of us took that news very well either. I know what I said about her when we met, but Christ, the woman didn't deserve what happened to her. I know she was doing her utmost to protect one of our men."

"He seems to think that if he offers himself up to this Night Lotus that he'll protect a whole lot of other people," I said. "It's lunacy. His death won't stop this guy, Chief Hogan. I'm not sure if you're aware of everything that happened in Boston yesterday. Our unsub isn't about to stop killing. And I need Raver on my team."

"Oh?" I heard his chair groan beneath his weight when he shifted in it. "Why is that, Agent Briarwood?"

"I think that of all the cops who have ever tried to find our killer, that your detective is the only one who tapped into something everybody else missed. I don't know what he did or how he did it, but we're gonna need that to solve this case. And if he goes out there to sacrifice himself to Castillo—"

"That's his name?" Hogan's voice pitched in excitement.

"It's an alias he used in Boston, one that we absolutely don't want getting out to the public, Chief. Don't make me remind you of the repercussions of doing or saying anything that might jeopardize a federal investigation. I get one whiff of this in the press, and I'm coming after you."

"I don't appreciate being talked to like an errant schoolboy," Hogan said. "I'll call you if we get any hits on activity from Jay's bank or credit cards."

He slammed the phone down so hard it made my ear ring.

"So Raver's the only cop capable of catching the Night Lotus, is that it?" Newburgh rolled over his breaking point and popped. "I've had about enough of your condescension, Gage. This cop is a rookie detective at best. For you to put so much pressure on him to find Castillo is probably what prompted him to run. Did you stop to think about that?"

"I did no such thing, in the first place, but in the second, Raver got a hell of a lot more accomplished actually proving that this guy is the real deal than you ever did, Newburgh. I get it. You're jealous that a rookie detective bested you at every turn, in every way conceivable. You can't stand it. Well, I'm here to tell you, there are janitors at Hoover with more talent and skill solving crimes in their little fingers than you possess in all your body.

"And don't you dare blame me for the clusterfuck this case has become. You played the whole thing down to your superiors for a year and a half. There's only one reason a cop would do something like that."

Newburgh took an aggressive step toward me.

"You think you can take me on?" I taunted. "Bring it. Here's the ugly truth, Newburgh. You coasted through this case knowing damn good and well that you weren't doing anything to invalidate or confirm the potential links in all of those cases to one guy. It was a cushy assignment for you, and hey, you figured if you played your cards right, you could build your case, catch the guy from your so-called profile and look like the golden child to the brass. You're as big a narcissist as you claim Castillo is."

"You son of a—"

Three agents from the Boston field office had him restrained before he could finish the lunge toward me.

"Admit it, you prick. You've been jealous of Raver from the moment you realized he's bested you at every turn in this investigation. You're pissed because I'd rather work with him than you!"

"How would you know what I've accomplished in this case? You've never listened to a goddamn thing I've had to say from day one. You think I don't realize why they assigned you to work with me? It's because you're a screw-up, Briarwood. Letting Raver slip through your fingers is just another example of how inept you've become in your old age!" Newburgh yelled.

This time I lunged.

"Gentlemen!" a voice barked from the doorway.

Newburgh and I both froze. What. The. Hell.

Our deputy assistant director was standing not more than ten feet away. He flew up to Boston. I couldn't believe it.

"I had hoped that the two of you would be making better progress than this, but suspected otherwise after Agent West expressed his concerns to me while he was en route to D.C. last night. Everybody else, out."

The spectators ambled out of the room.

"Gage, what the hell is going on?" Glen Harvey had been in the FBI since Hoover was on the throne, I swear to God. The guy was ancient, but sharp as a tack and made Jack LaLaine look like a couch potato.

"I won't work another day with this asshole," I said. "Not one more day. If that gives you what you want so you can throw me out on my ass, so be it."

"Throw you out on your...what the devil are you talking about, Gage? Nobody's throwing anybody anywhere. And what's this bizarre notion you've got that this assignment was intended to serve as punishment? You know me better than that. If you'd committed an offence worthy of the attention of OPR, you'd have your ass planted there, not on an active investigation that nobody bothered to take seriously until very recently."

"Three months," I said. "You threw this steaming pile of—" I clamped my mouth shut. "Three months ago, you assigned me to work with Newburgh on this case. I think I have the right to know why you replaced Kraaling. He's a top notch agent."

"He is," Harvey said with a firm nod. "Newburgh, outside. I'll deal with you in a minute. What needs to be said to Briarwood is private."

Newburgh flushed to his roots and scurried away, now seething more than he was before.

"Gage, listen, Kraaling is a patient guy. You're right. He's top notch, but he's a ticking clock kind of guy. If there's no deadline on something, he's just too darn nice to push. Give him an active case like this one has become, and he'd be all over it."

"Then give it back to him!"

"I won't do that. Newburgh is a problem, Gage. You know it after far less than three months working with him. I'd hoped that he'd improve if we partnered him with some solid good guys, but it hasn't worked that way. Behavioral Analysis doesn't want him back. There is no criminal division that'll take him."

"Why are you so concerned with salvaging him? If he's so worthless, dump him!"

"It's not that simple. And this is the part of my job that we both hate, agent. You know that there will always be some sort of political component in this job. It just so happens that Newburgh comes with some definite baggage. He's blessed with an ego the size of Asia. His mother is the Honorable Congresswoman from Maryland. He's not going anywhere."

"This sort of nepotism should be illegal," I muttered, then loud and forcefully, "We're talking about people's lives, here, Glen. How many bodies have to be stacked up to convince this woman that her precious boy isn't the wunderkind she wants to brag that he is?"

"I don't think it's aptitude or ambition that limit his value to the bureau, Gage. He fancies himself above all of us. Hell, he's probably on the phone to Mommy right now. I can't pull him off this case. What I can do is make it clear to him in no uncertain terms that you are the senior agent on this case, that he is not, that he does not make a move without your authorization."

"My judgment sent Kelsey Maclaren to her death last night."

"West made a mistake," Harvey said. He knows it. Nobody was ready to believe this guy poses the threat he really does, Gage. They know now, believe me. Everybody is on the same page. That's why I'm here. I'd like to talk to this Raver fellow."

I cringed but was ready to face the music. I told Harvey what happened that morning. "I should've seen it. Even worthless Newburgh saw it," I said.

"Newburgh was likely hoping Raver would run. Don't worry. We'll find him. I've been mightily impressed with young Raver's ability to anticipate this killer's activities. He's a third generation cop. Did you know that?"

I shook my head. "He seems to think he ought to sacrifice himself to Castillo to put an end to the risk to the rest of us." I sighed and kicked one of the chairs. "Goddamned nobility like that...and I'm shackled with little-miss-can't-be-wrong."

My phone rang. I answered it. "Briarwood."

"Hogan here. Thought I should tell you Jay's bank called. He had money transferred from his checking account to Western Union. The money was picked up at a kiosk or some such at one of your transit stations."

"Which one?"

"South Station in Boston. He might not have his ID, but he's got money now."

"What did you tell the bank?" I asked.

"I told 'em to keep the accounts open and active, but to call immediately if there's any additional activity. I'm pretty sure it was Jay who withdrew this morning. Like I said, it was a transfer using his account number, which probably wasn't something your Night Lotus wouldn't find in Jay's wallet."

"Thanks, Chief Hogan. I didn't express my condolences when we spoke earlier. I'm sorry for that and for your loss."

"Thanks, agent. I appreciate it. Don't suppose you've got any idea when they'll be sendin' our gal back home so we can honor her properly, do you?"

"No," I said, "but I can make some calls. I'll get back to you soon."

I clicked off the call and looked at Harvey. "Give me your honest opinion."

The caterpillar that served as one eyebrow waggled at me. "Because I've always couched them for your benefit in the past."

I chuckled. "If you were Raver, what would you do to lure a killer like Castillo out in the open?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure there's anything you could do," he said. "Seems to me that Mr. Castillo is holding all the face cards, Gage. This time, we're not the cats chasing the mouse. We're being chased by him."

"You're saying you don't think Raver can find him?"

"I think we need to find Raver. That seems to be the most probable action for success. He's a cop. He thinks like a cop. So think like Raver and find out where he'd run."

"I'd expect him to take out an ad in the paper telling Castillo where to find him."

"Then contact the newspapers."

"Or Craigslist. That's how he found O'Banion."

"See? I knew you'd figure it out."

"Sir, I really don't want to deal with Newburgh's bullshit anymore. He took too much delight in Raver's escape this morning. It was...glee. He was thrilled that the man took off on his own. Raver's reacting out of grief for his lost...ah hell."

"What?"

"I think I know where he'll turn up, sir. At least I hope I know."

Harvey nodded. "Her funeral?"

"Yeah. He's probably betting that Castillo will figure it out too."

"Then I guess you'll put men on a local search, cover the bases with this Craigslist idea, and wait it out for Maclaren's funeral."

"And Newburgh?"

Harvey's phone rang. He held up one finger and answered it. "Deputy Assistant Director Harvey...

"Good morning, Congresswoman Newburgh."

I rolled my eyes. Unbelievable.

"Madam, with all due respect, you need to stop talking. This is what will happen. I won't tell you how to cast your votes in Congress, and you won't tell me how to run operations with my agents at the FBI." He paused. "That's fine, ma'am. I look forward to you taking your concerns to the Director himself. Good day."

Harvey smiled without warmth and walked to the door. He opened it. "Newburgh, I'll see you now."

"Do I get the courtesy of a private meeting to vent my grievances as well?" he asked with a degree of insubordination that made me tremble in fear of how Harvey would respond.

"You will get what I allow you to have, Agent Newburgh. I'm going to say this one time, and one time only. If you ever call your mommy to scold me for how I see fit to do my job, I will bring the wrath of hell down on you, her and anyone who supports that kind of interference in law enforcement operations. Do I make myself clear?"

Newburgh stiffened his spine. "You think you can challenge her old man? She's bested better than you without breaking a sweat."

"You are not the agent in charge of this Night Lotus investigation. Gage Briarwood is, just like Sean Keeling was as his predecessor. You could investigate this case for twenty years, and I will see to it personally that you are never the lead agent on it. You do as he tells you. You do not question his orders; you do not act without his prior authorization. Failure to follow my orders may not get you tossed out of the bureau entirely, but it very well could see you reassigned to a very unpleasant part of the country with absolutely zero prestige. Is that clear?"

Newburgh pulled out his badge and gun and laid them on the conference room table. "I know enough about the Night Lotus to catch him myself, Glen. You can take the FBI and shove it up your ass. I quit."

Harvey adjusted his tie after the door slammed shut behind Newburgh. "Well, that went about as well as I expected. You'll keep me informed of your progress finding Detective Raver?"

"Yes sir."

"Carry on then."

Chapter 30

Raver

It was dusk by the time Gracie dropped me off at my house in Augusta. I stepped inside the back door not quite knowing what to expect. Castillo wasn't standing there waiting for me. The only remarkable thing I found was a bit of mold growing in the cereal bowl sitting in the sink since I dashed off to work last Friday morning.

Three newspapers were frozen to the front steps. The pilot light in the furnace had gone out again—a sure sign that at some point during my absence a down draft had blown it out. The ambient temperature in the house was only fifty degrees.

I shivered and lit the furnace again and checked the bandage on my thigh while I waited for the house to warm up. I needed to figure out what to do next.

Castillo had my identification, my credit cards, I'd left the gun locked up in the car at Dick's Diner, so Hogan probably had it in the possession of the state police. If I called him, I knew he'd rat me out to the FBI. The driver's license would be easy. I had my credit card numbers memorized, and one of them I never carried. It was the household emergency card, one kept in reserve in case the furnace died completely, or the water heater. Big stuff.

I pulled it out and went to my computer. In Maine, provided there were no changes to the license, I could replace it online for five bucks. I could print out the temporary at my desk, valid for sixty days. I could use the card that Hogan probably didn't know about to pay the fee, since I'd never had to actually use it.

There were plenty of guns in reserve in my gun safe.

My Prius could be tracked.

Mom still had that old 1970 ½ Ford Falcon parked in the garage at her old place. It probably wouldn't start, but I could get out the cables and jump it. Better yet, I could pick up a new battery and just change it out.

Her grandfather gave it to her for her sixteenth birthday, but my grandfather would never let her drive it, at least not until she finished college. I think it had about thirty thousand miles on it.

Great old car. I wanted it like crazy when I was a kid, but she said no, every time I asked if she'd give it to me one day. I stopped asking after Dad died.

So I had a car they couldn't track and likely didn't know about. It was still registered in Mom's name anyway. I had guns. I had a credit card worth fifteen grand. The driver's license was replaced.

I couldn't get another badge without letting Hogan know I was back, and doing that would probably end with one of my legs shackled to Briarwood or Newburgh.

Before I did anything else, I checked my cloud and sighed with relief. Everything had been backed up, all of my notes on Castillo, all of my theories, the observations I made after meeting O'Banion. I even had the recording I'd made of our conversation stored. I used the phone that night, and it automatically backed up to the cloud when I synced my laptop inside Dick's Diner.

I grabbed one of the USB drives out of the desk drawer and made a quick dump of all the existing files before copying everything relevant from my cloud storage onto the thumb drive. I'd have to buy a new laptop outside Augusta. My face was just a little too famous after everything that happened over the weekend.

All that was left to put the plan into action was...well, working out the details of a plan.

I was certain that Castillo would make an appearance somehow at Kelsey's funeral. How I could do the same without being noticed or immediately recognized would be the first hurdle.

I could always hang back at the graveside service. Surely there would be fewer people loitering after the service in the dead of winter.

Hell, I wasn't even sure when her funeral would take place.

I pulled up Google and searched for the number of funeral homes in Augusta. Kelsey was born and raised here. There were three of them. I doubted that arrangements had been made for her transport back to Maine from Virginia yet. It was—I glanced at my watch—seven o'clock. They probably hadn't rushed her to Quantico for an autopsy after finding her body this morning.

A ripple of guilt shivered down my spine again. It was all my fault. I should've insisted that we go straight to Hogan after the horror in Portland unfolded in front of us. If the FBI had been involved in protecting the truth of my existence in the first place, Castillo still wouldn't know I hadn't died as a result of his attack.

Banging at my front door nearly startled me out of my skin. I ducked down below the line of sight where my shadow might be detected through windows and crept closer to the door. Muffled voices met my ears.

"Tellin' you, if Jay came back here, I'd have been his first call."

"Nobody vanishes without a trace, Chief Hogan."

Shit. Briarwood was hot on my trail. I uttered a silent prayer that Hogan wouldn't think about contacting Gracie.

"I'm telling you, he wouldn't come back here, not when he knows that psycho's still after him."

Bless you Eugene Hogan.

"Well, just the same, I'm going to have to insist that we search the interior of this residence."

I could hear the bristle in Hogan's voice, imagined the puffed out chest that accompanied his harsh statement. "The way I see it, we don't have cause to open this man's home, agent. Now I'm not sure how you federal boys justify such strong-arm tactics with witnesses, but up here, we follow the law."

The sound of friction against the door alarmed me. I pressed myself tightly into the dark corner next to the front entrance to the house and glanced up. I could see the blast of heat fog and freeze over the glass pane in the door. The sides of Briarwood's beefy palms pressed into the frost and melted it. Soon, a flashlight beam spiked the darkness in my living room.

"You see somethin' in there?" Hogan asked.

"Nothing," defeat saturated Briarwood's voice. "I was so sure he'd want to come back here for Captain Maclaren's funeral."

"Well, he may show up. Just 'cause he isn't here yet doesn't mean he won't be here come Friday morning when we hold the service. Provided you were telling me the truth that this autopsy business won't take long in Virginia."

"No," he said. "For reasons of exigency, Maclaren went to the front of the line. We need to ascertain if this perp left any evidence on her body other than his gruesome artwork. They'll be done with her by morning, I'm certain. She'll be at the funeral home by late tomorrow afternoon."

Hogan uttered the name, for clarification, I supposed. There were only three of them in Augusta anyway. I recognized the name as another thought occurred to me.

If Castillo was following the FBI, maybe he'd rushed back to Boston to find Briarwood and Newburgh. Speaking of Newburgh, I wondered where he was in all of this. Castillo might be watching Briarwood right now.

The thought was as sobering as it was chilling.

"What time is the funeral?" Briarwood asked while the beam of light continued to illuminate dust motes stirred by the forced air heating in the house.

"Ten. We've tentatively set the viewing for five to eight Thursday night. Course the community outpouring of grief has humbled the whole department. Flowers, food, cards, hell, folks been building a memorial to her in her parking stall down at the office."

"No skepticism that this was just another ploy on the part of your department?" he asked. The flashlight clicked off.

"None," Hogan's voice started to drift away. They were leaving.

I relaxed a bit and exhaled breath I wasn't consciously aware was trapped in my lungs. This could work. I might not be able to pull off the graveside ceremony or even her funeral service, but I could sneak my way into the viewing somehow. The funeral home she'd be sent to tomorrow was an old Victorian mansion.

Absently, I went to my bedroom and began packing by rote until the bag was filled with clothing, spare shoes, toiletries and two guns, two boxes of ammunition and four spare loaded clips. I found an old wallet in the kitchen junk drawer and put my temporary identification in it, along with the emergency credit card and the cash I kept stashed in an old coffee can in the cupboard above the refrigerator. I layered a hooded sweatshirt over the shirt I wore, slipped on a zippered sweat jacket and stuffed myself into an oversized winter coat.

With one last glance around the house, I slipped out into the bitter night. Mom's old house was a five-mile hike in the cold. I couldn't risk driving in the Prius, even if I hid it in Mom's garage after getting the old Falcon out and ready to use.

Her house still had electricity, including heating. I usually kept the thermostat set between fifty-five and sixty degrees Fahrenheit so the pipes wouldn't freeze. To my knowledge, nobody knew that I kept the place after she died. I'd made such a fuss about how hard it was for me to step foot inside that the world likely presumed I sold it as quickly as possible.

I'd be safer there than anywhere else. Nobody would think to look for Lillian Jameson if they wanted to find Jay Raver. After the shame, she didn't kill herself like my grandfather had. But she did drop the Raver name. She also cursed the judge who refused to let her change my name too.

I wondered as I trudged through the snow if, like my father, it was greed that transformed Castillo into a killing machine who had no regard for human life. Who knew? In the end, my father killed for his greed and lost his life at the hand of someone with the same motto—anything for a buck.

The house, just outside town, came into view as a dark, shadowy blob in the midst of the pristine snow and ice that hadn't melted off the grass yet under the cold, winter sunshine. Shortly after we moved to Maine, Mom had the ratty old driveway grated and paved with asphalt thank God. It warmed up much better than concrete, and didn't take a whole lot of sunlight to do the job.

The detached garage still stood behind the house. The power line's shadow looked like a child's jump rope on the snow, waving back and forth as the biting nor'easter wind whipped it.

I pulled the key to the padlock on the door out of my pocket and went to work on a frozen lock to the door proper. Mom's garage had no windows, so I'd at least have the luxury of light to see if Ol' Sally—Mom's name for the car—would start. It was an old joke in the family. She'd begged her grandfather for a Mustang, but had gotten a Falcon instead.

Apparently, my great-grandfather had a wry sense of humor. He'd told Mom, "No Mustang Sally for you, young lady. Ol' Sally will just have to do."

Dad repainted her just a few weeks before he died—gunmetal gray. She really was a beauty. I noticed the extension cord plugged in at the front of the car as well as the trickle charger in place and smiled. "Good job, Mom."

The engine didn't hesitate, turned over the second I cranked it. I sat inside with the heat blasting at full force. That was one thing nice about Ol' Sally. She didn't have shit for air conditioning, but the heater would melt a frozen block of flesh in a matter of minutes.

The battery was probably older than shit, so I would need to replace it. But a full charge to start out would at least get me away from Augusta before I had to do some of that stuff.

Mom's house had been closed up for a couple of years. Literally closed up. She had shutters that could be closed—a necessity, she explained because her Southerner's blood had never fully acclimated to the frigid climes of the Northeast, and any means she had of blocking out the cold, she'd use.

I doubted the shutters did much good in that regard, but in her mind, they made all the difference in the world. Tonight, I was grateful for her delusion. Stumbling around in complete darkness wouldn't be necessary.

The back door unlocked without a creak or groan. I slipped inside, closed the door and flicked on the kitchen light. Memories assailed me. I spent most of my teens growing up in this house. It wasn't a particularly happy time in my life, but looking back, I appreciated that Mom did the best for me that she could.

"She'd be pissed enough to kill you herself, Castillo, if she were still alive." Mom would've blown a gasket if she'd lived to see any of this happening.

Of course, she'd have also come down heavily on Gracie's side of the law enforcement career debate. She didn't mind me being a cop, but moving from patrol to detective would've been too much for her. Like history repeating itself.

In that sense, I was relieved she wasn't alive for this, because her lack of faith that I would be different than Dad would've hurt far too much.

My stomach rumbled loudly. I hadn't eaten since noon, some ten hours ago now. When I closed up Mom's house, I donated all of her canned goods to her church where they could be distributed to families in need. There wasn't a speck of food in the place, and I couldn't exactly risk going out to buy dinner.

Sleep wouldn't come. I had to do something. If Kelsey's funeral wasn't until Friday, I couldn't sit here for three days without food or drinking water. Going at night would be far less risky.

I bundled up again and headed back to the garage. Light's out this time, I opened the garage door and started the car. I kept the headlights off until I was out of the lane and onto the highway. I was terrified that somebody would notice the car leaving Mom's place and feel the need to investigate.

Still, there was a Walmart open until midnight fairly close to Mom's place. Did I dare risk it? Maybe if I kept the hood on my coat up covering my hair.

The parking lot was nearly deserted on this bitter cold night. I pulled in, grabbed a cart and started in the automotive section first. The only pay lanes open in the store were self-service. It would help cut down on anybody noticing me, or paying attention to the name on my credit card.

I tossed the battery for Ol' Sally under the cart and sped through the grocery section of the store. I cleaned out the sandwich selection in the deli and settled for donuts and cookies from the bakery. A couple of bags of chips, nothing I couldn't eat with my fingers, and then I tossed a case of bottled water into the cart. I was about to leave when I considered a better disguise, at least something that didn't scream Jay Raver, that sandy-haired southern boy before I reached the checkout lane. I went back to the hair care section in the store and grabbed a box of dark brown hair color...and realized I had no towels or soap for showers, no shampoo either for that matter.

A few more items, and my trip was done.

I checked out in a hurry, half holding my breath the entire time.

The tired, disinterested employees didn't even glance at me as I finished checking out, scanned my card and hurried with my purchase out to my car.

I panted heavily once inside and realized that I'd taken a crazy risk that was probably pretty stupid. In the end, it all worked out, and I could spend the next couple of days figuring out the best way to get into Kelsey's viewing without Briarwood nabbing me and tossing my ass into a safe house from which there was no escape.

Chapter 31

Briarwood

I tumbled into my bed at the only hotel in Augusta that had vacancies, the most expensive one in town according to Hogan.

There was still no sign of Jay Raver. I'd gone back to his house half a dozen times, and the only thing that changed were the number of newspapers on the front step.

I even drove to Whisper Cove and grilled the sheriff and his daughter.

Taggart Sorenson was probably the rudest cop I'd ever met. Oh, he was amiable enough until I mentioned Raver's name. At that point, he went off on a rant about how people were dead in his town and it was all Jay's fault, that he was a no-good, bad-seed son of a bitch who'd stay out of Whisper Cove in the future if he knew what was good for him.

I later learned that Taggart hadn't quite forgiven the youngster for breaking his daughter's heart.

She was more forthcoming about their shared history.

"I've known Jay since college," she said. "I knew his mother."

"But not his father too?" I asked.

She hesitated. There was a story in that pause, though I doubted it had anything to do with where Jay was hiding.

"We didn't want him to follow in the family tradition of law enforcement." Grace Sorenson shrugged one shoulder. "He disagreed. Beth Ann was satisfied that he was content working patrol for the state police. She presumed he'd grow bored with the monotony of his job and head back to college to do something that suited him much better."

I frowned. "Like what?"

"Oh, just about anything. He's intelligent, and when he puts his mind to something, he succeeds. If it were up to me, I'd have chosen something a little closer to my profession."

"Which is?" I asked.

"I'm a social worker," she said. "Mostly, I work with children, occasionally their mothers in cases where a father is abusive."

I felt my lips curl with bone-deep disagreement. "Jay Raver is a fine detective with instincts like I've never seen before."

"Yes, which is why I regret that he didn't pursue a higher degree in psychology. He has the ability to read people—when he pays attention at least. He could've done a lot of good in the world.

"My father knows this. His bluster at Jay isn't about him disliking my ex-fiancé. As a matter of fact, it's about coming to love him like the son he always wanted but never had. Jay disappointed him when we broke up."

"Which was based upon what, if you don't mind me asking?"

"His career of course. Dad won't believe it. I still think he believes Jay cheated on me or something nefarious like that. But our decision was mutual. We decided it would be best if we parted ways. I couldn't stand waiting for a phone call telling me I was a widow, and he couldn't give up his passion for making the world a safer place."

"Do you know where Jay Raver is, Ms. Sorenson?" I asked. Clearly, her decision hadn't spared her a speck of pain. I could see the worry written all over her twenty-something face.

Her golden brown eyes met mine soberly. "I honestly have no idea where he is or what he's thinking running away from the protection you offered him, Agent Briarwood. Knowing Jay, he's probably got some notion that it'll save lives if he hunts for this man who killed so many people on his own."

"You know him well," I said.

Grace nodded. "As well as anyone alive."

"What do you think he plans to do? I mean, what's your gut instinct on this?" I asked.

"I already told you what I think," she replied.

"Yes, but how do you think he'd go about doing it?"

"I would be the last person he would ever share those thoughts with," she said softly. "He wouldn't want to worry me or make me afraid. And if I had seen or heard from him, you can be certain he wouldn't have confided in me at all, agent."

"What would you say to him?" I asked.

"I told you so," she mumbled. "I'd tell him that I told him this was a terrible plan for his life, that accepting a promotion to the detective unit would put him in situations where he wouldn't be able to resist rushing headlong into danger."

"So here we sit," I said as I picked up the spoon beside my cup of tea and stirred idly. "You'll call me if you hear from him, won't you?"

"I won't hear from him, Agent Briarwood. He knows how I feel about all of this. He knows that you'd be the first person I'd call."

But would she? I got the feeling that she loved Raver enough still, even after they'd parted ways, that her first instinct would be to respect his wishes and keep his confidence.

"What happened to Kelsey Maclaren isn't widely known outside law enforcement circles, Ms. Sorenson. I think you need to understand exactly how much danger Jay really is facing out there alone."

"I'm sure it's horrible. I do know what that monster did to Dick and Myrtle Saing. I'd rather not hear the gory details about Captain Maclaren."

"Did you know her?" I tried a different tactic.

"No," she said. "Jay was promoted after we ended our relationship."

"Ah," I nodded. "So she wasn't a contributing factor at all."

Her eyes narrowed. "A contributing factor in what? The end of our relationship?"

I struggled not to smile, but it was Grace's gotcha moment.

"I'm sorry. Sincerely, if the vibe I got was wrong, I truly apologize."

"You think Jay was...was involved with his commanding officer?"

Shit. Openly scoffing wasn't a good sign. "I just sensed a sort of closeness between them. Maclaren didn't leave his side after he was injured you know, and she was responsible for getting him out of that hospital and saving his life."

"My father would do the same for any of his officers, too, Agent Briarwood. Maybe those in command positions in federal law enforcement aren't as invested in their subordinates as they are here in Maine."

"My deputy assistant director was with me in Boston shortly after we discovered that Detective Raver was missing, Ms. Sorenson, so I'm going to have to disagree with you on that. I understand that this might not be the best time to learn that Jay developed feelings for someone else—"

"He didn't!" she hissed at me. "Jay still loves me!"

"Oh? What makes you so sure, Grace?"

She flushed deep crimson.

"You don't know where he is right now, but you knew where he was yesterday, didn't you? And before you answer that, kindly remember that it is a crime to lie to the FBI."

I watched the young woman sag into her chair. She didn't answer me.

"Silence can also be construed as an admission of guilt."

"I'm not going to lie to you."

My smile stretched as thin as my patience. She could avoid lying by refusing to answer my questions. "If he dies because of this crazy plan to sacrifice himself to Castillo, I will hold you partially responsible, Grace. The man you claim to still care for enough to help him when he was in trouble cannot be left to fend for himself against this man. Your silence could be the difference between life and death."

"On more than one occasion, Jay reminded me that I needed to have a little bit of faith in him. I think he'd advise you the same."

"When was the last time he asked for your faith?" I persisted.

She rose and left the room.

This time, I didn't dick around. I went back to Raver's house and broke in. I figured at worst I could claim exigent circumstances. But he wasn't there. Mold grew over the top of the milky remnants of a breakfast bowl in the sink. Nothing was out of place. No lights or appliances had been left on—including his computer.

It was as if he'd vanished without a trace. I knew Grace Sorenson had contact with him since he decided to part company with the FBI. I couldn't understand how blind faith had been a compelling enough argument for her to go along with his insanity.

And that's what it was. Bonkers. Off the rails hurtling headlong for disaster. Hell, at this rate, I'd probably have more luck watching for Castillo.

"Where are you, Raver, and what the hell do you think any of this is going to accomplish?"

Darkness fell by the time I returned to my hotel room. The light indicating messages on the telephone was blinking madly. It had to be Hogan calling me, because anyone from the bureau would've just called my cell phone (which I'd given to Hogan on my business card, indicating he probably threw it away).

"Call me when you get in, Briarwood. I got a strange call late this afternoon, and I wanna run it by you." Hogan said. He rattled off a phone number.

Three messages later, "Son, don't you check your messages through the day? I been sittin' on this information since shortly after ten this morning, and I'm about to bust. Call me back. I don't care what time it is."

Five more, each with growing agitation, "What do I gotta do to get a response outta you, Briarwood? This might be the very thing you expected to happen. If I haven't heard from you by seven, I'm havin' my guys investigate this lead."

I glanced at my watch, barely five. I dialed Hogan's number and waited for him to pick up.

"Hogan," he barked into my ear.

I winced. "Agent Briarwood. If your issue was so urgent, you could've called me on my cell phone. I did give it to you on my business card last Saturday, chief."

"Misplaced it," he muttered. "I got a call from the funeral home 'bout ten o'clock this morning. They been getting flowers delivered for Maclaren's viewing tomorrow and funeral service on Friday since news broke about her death. That isn't surprising at all, but they called this morning and told me one of the arrangements had an envelope with Raver's name on it. I had one of the boys go down and pick it up, but uh..."

"You think he sent a letter bomb to Maclaren's funeral?" I asked.

"The thought did occur, though our tech folks tell me there's nothin' strange about that envelope, that it's probably the little card that comes from a florist anyway."

"So maybe somebody wanted to send their condolences specifically to Jay Raver," I said.

"You don't really think that. Besides, Ted down at the funeral home said no florist delivered this package."

I sat up straighter. "Did he get a good look at who did?" Maybe Raver's instincts were right. What if Castillo delivered something personally?

"Course he did. Marci Mayfair has been delivering packages for FedEx since she graduated high school 'bout thirty years ago. But how many times have you seen flowers or some such come to a funeral home from FedEx instead of a flower shop?"

I frowned. "Where's this card addressed to Raver?"

"I got it right here in my office," he said. "I was hoping you'd call back at a decent hour so you could have a look at it and tell me what you think."

"I'll be right there." I grabbed my coat and dashed out the door again. Idiot. I was tempted to staple my business card to Hogan's forehead this time. Here we wasted a whole day because he resented our involvement in the first place and then lacked the ambition to open the damned envelope and read what the message said.

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in Hogan's office. He handed me the tiny florist's envelope. I had no qualms about opening the damned thing.

I slid the cardstock out of the envelope and cursed.

"What is it?"

"It's from Castillo," I flipped the card over and practically shoved it in Hogan's face. He'd drawn his little flower art on the vines that climbed the trunk of a saguaro cactus. The three-quarters moon loomed large overhead. The bastard wrote in block letters: C U Soon.

"Did you process the envelope for prints?" I asked.

"Nothin' there, Briarwood. I expect he sent his little package via FedEx so we couldn't trace the flowers back to a florist who might be able to describe the customer."

I nodded, more convinced than ever that for whatever reason, Raver understood what this guy would do next better than anybody. It assuaged some of my concerns that I wouldn't be able to find Raver before he did something stupid. He'd find a way to get to Maclaren's funeral... or her viewing, where it would be much easier to slip in unnoticed.

I stuffed the card back in the envelope and turned on my heel.

"Hey, where you goin' with that?"

"I'm putting it back on the arrangement. Castillo wants Raver to see this, and I'm convinced it'll mean more to Raver than it does to any of us."

"But that means he's gotta show up to see it, and frankly, Briarwood, I just don't see that happening. He's gotta know how hard you fibbies are looking for him."

"Oh, he'll find a way. You leave it to me to work out the details of how I'll find him. You and every other cop planning to attend this funeral need to carry on business as usual."

Hogan started to splutter, but I forestalled it with one hand. "Listen to me. I'm not going to let anybody hurt him, okay? If I have to move into the funeral home and stand guard so I'm sure I find him before he slips through our fingers, that's what I'll do. Don't underestimate my resolve."

But when I got to the funeral home, the doubt slammed into me like a ton of bricks. This killer had gone too far, trying to kill one cop, succeeding in killing another. He'd slaughtered close to three-dozen people that we knew of so far.

And now he was taunting Raver.

I stared at his message, the real one that Raver would recognize in a nanosecond, with a true sense of dismay. "We're never gonna catch him."

"Excuse me?"

I glanced at the proprietor of the funeral home and shook my head. "Not exactly a local selection of plant life is it?"

He shook his head, "Beautiful none the less. I seldom get to examine specimens so far outside our growth zone. These succulents are indeed lovely. The shipping alone probably cost as much as the arrangement.

I had a feeling that money wasn't an issue for Castillo.

And the shape of one of the succulents in the glass bowl just happened to resemble his little drawn flower. Shit. Even without the note, Raver would know exactly who sent this, and why.

Chapter 32

Castillo

My flight landed late in Tucson. I took a taxi to one of O'Banion's hideouts—a storage container in a rather rough area (he liked those best, the seedier sides of the world), and opened the door with the spare key he insisted I hold.

"Just in case I drop mine in some asshole's guts," he'd grinned.

I flung the door high over my head and found what I expected—another one of O'Banion's clunkers, trunk outfitted with a bag of tricks of O'Banion's trade. Blades of all varieties were rolled in lambskin cloths and stored with great care.

In another bag, I found three large bottles of the rotgut I used to drink once upon a time. The trunk was lined with plastic tarp, and in one corner was a stack of more sheets of plastic. He had duct tape, a rubber mallet, handcuffs, instant glue, railroad spikes and a cooler filled with melted water and tied off condoms full of...something I'd rather not think of or deal with.

The first thing I did after getting O'Banion's car out of storage (the owner of the establishment was kind enough to jump start the piece of shit for me) was check into a cheap motel on the outskirts of Tucson where I finally crashed and slept a good fifteen hours.

The second item on the agenda was a florist who sold me a little bowl full of succulents, one of which bore a remarkable resemblance to my signature flower.

Third stop: packing supplies. I wanted my little thorn in the side of Detective Raver to arrive in perfect condition, and just in time for his precious captain's funeral. "Yeah, you wouldn't think twice about missing her funeral if you knew what I do. She rolled on you, boy. She couldn't talk fast enough to sell you out."

After the gift was carefully wrapped and ready for transport, I stopped into a nearby FedEx and overnighted the package to Augusta. I didn't know Raver's address, but there were only three funeral homes in town. I made a few calls, and easily located the one that would have Maclaren's remains in house within a day or so. They were kind enough to tell me that her viewing would be held Thursday.

I almost laughed. Really? They planned to let the world up north look at her after what I did to her? Creepy. Maybe they were my kind of people after all.

At that moment, it occurred to me that the last time O'Banion and I used the car now in my possession was the night Father Ryan died. So that was why he had railroad spikes in the car...the crucifixion thing. The rubber mallet suddenly made complete sense too.

I crumpled the receipt from FedEx in one hand and shoved it into the pocket of my jeans. I'd have to remember to check in the morning to make sure it was delivered by ten o'clock as promised. Was that ten my time or theirs?

No matter.

I had bigger issues on the horizon. When Raver read the little note addressed to him, he'd come. I knew he would. The guy was a real white knight. He'd hop on his steed and rush straight into my trap.

And on the off chance that he didn't get my little message, or was too stupid to figure it out, the body I stalked to leave behind as a message to both Raver and the FBI would bring them running.

It had to be grotesque.

The world needed to be sickened and appalled.

This murder had to be the most noticeable one of all.

Oh, and I wanted to fuck with the little pea brains of my Internet fans a bit too. The victim had to be someone that after more consideration, everyone would say, "Well, he got what was coming to him in the end, so maybe it's not so bad."

That avenging angel thing almost got me aroused, something that never happened to me. The little tingle at the base of my spine was almost painful. It distracted me in ways I didn't like, but what could I do? I couldn't control what others thought of my notorious activities or me. See, it was more of an angel of death thing anyway, but playing into the notion that I defended anybody was a perk to my way of seeing things.

What was that old saying? Any press is good press.

I rolled into the motel again and flopped down on the bed, this time with my own laptop computer in service. I opened the browser and hit my regular sites, those where I offered services for hire, where my unique problem solving skills could be purchased for the right price.

It was funny, how often people expected to find me on the Dark Net. Why would I advertise where cops would expect to find me? Hiding in plain sight was always a much better plan.

Oh, sure, I'd get the occasional message from some little old lady who thought I could remove the stump from her yard or had a mobile grooming service. But the people who had money, they knew what I was and exactly what I offered.

So I browsed the messages looking for anything remotely local to my current location.

A smile slowly spread across my face. There were four jobs waiting for me: three in southern California (where I truly didn't like to work based solely on the number of amateur paps who thought they'd get a million dollar photo on a smart phone) and one in Phoenix. I could live with the Phoenix job.

Quickly I replied to expect to hear from me the next day so that we could communicate regarding the problem in need of professional intervention.

I used a different FedEx this time, swapping out the SIM card of the prepaid phone for one of my collection. I packaged the phone and again, got guaranteed ten o'clock delivery for tomorrow morning. It wouldn't leave me much time to learn the routine or plan the attack, but those details were less important than the message it would deliver to Detective Raver. Everything else was incidental.

The next morning, my new boss answered on the first ring.

"Castillo?"

"Yes, how can I be of service to you, Mr....?"

I heard the hesitation in his voice. "Whatley. It's my... my daughter's idiot fiancé," he said slowly. "He's a controlling bastard, berates her all the time and when she stands up to him, he publicly humiliates her on that vile Facebook thing."

"Humiliates her in what way?" I asked.

"Just the things he posts. First, you should know that this guy is almost always armed."

"With guns, I presume," I said drily. The image of some fat fuck with no dick suddenly formed in my brain.

"Of course with guns. He's always posting his right wing nonsense—"

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. Let's not forget here that the great U.S. Southwest is my native territory, my stomping-grounds, the cradle of my very existence. Arizona in particular is known by all her neighbors to be as far right as New Mexico is center-left. "You live in Phoenix and you criticize someone for being far right?" It was funny, so I laughed.

"I've only been in Phoenix for a year, sir. Gabby Giffords was my congresswoman," he said defensively. "We're not all troglodytes out here."

"Sorry, carry on with your tale."

"A man who berates my daughter publicly can only be a hundred times more abusive behind closed doors."

"Agreed," I said.

"So I've noticed her changing. Her esteem seems to be taking a hit. Of course she denies it, but he's making her believe she's worthless, Castillo, and I won't stand for it. I'm not a rich man, but I'll pay whatever you want. Just get this bastard out of my daughter's life for good."

"Ten grand," I said. "Cash if you can manage it."

"I...uh...I know someone in New Mexico who referred me to you. He led me to believe you'd be a lot more expensive than that."

I fiddled with the handle of one of O'Banion's preferred bowie knives, the sawback blade. "Let's just say that in certain circumstances, I give discounts. I think perhaps your daughter's situation has struck a nerve. How soon can you come up with the money?"

"I've got it now," he said. "Well, most of it. I'd probably have to go to the bank and withdraw a couple hundred."

"Then we'll make it an even ninety-eight hundred," I said. "What's this devil's name?"

"Truman. His name is Truman Hoyt."

"Lives in Phoenix, I presume," I said.

"No, he's not in Phoenix. He lives and works in Tucson. I know Aimee wouldn't be able to lie to my face about what's going on. She can barely do it over the phone."

I smiled again. So he was as close to local as could be.

"And what sort of job does Truman have?" I asked.

"He's an executive with some kind of golf gig, or so Aimee tells me. She's a good girl, Castillo, and by no means near the expiration date, but this asshole has her convinced if she doesn't marry now, it'll be too late for her and she'll die alone."

I frowned. Ordinarily I didn't give half a shit about the sob stories, because in my experience they were usually flat out lies or way off base. For some reason, this guy intrigued me. Perhaps it was the plaintive note of desperation in his voice.

"I take it you've exhausted all other means of extricating Aimee from Truman's clutches."

"Christ I've done everything short of killing the man myself. I'm sure you've heard every sob story under the sun, Castillo, but I'm telling you the God's truth. If my girl won't let this man completely control every aspect of her life, he'll kill her. I know he will. Hell, he's taken to insisting she arm herself. Why else if not to shoot her and claim self-defense?"

"Uh...maybe he wants to protect her?"

"She's gone thirty-two years without the need of carrying a gun. She doesn't need one now, unless she'd really need to defend herself against this asshole, but even then, she hasn't got it in her to harm a soul. When she was a kid, she couldn't bear to see scorpions killed, so she'd brush 'em out of the house with a broom if they managed to get inside. And I want you to know I raised her to be a good, strong woman, but... but..."

"What's really going on with this guy?" I asked.

"He wanted something from her. She wouldn't tell me the specifics, but told me she was appalled, and that she was having second thoughts about marrying the guy."

"I take it this was something of a sexual nature."

"That's what I assumed," he snarled, "though God knows what it is. You can find him down at the snazziest golf course in Tucson. At least to hear him talk about it, this place is the cream of the crop. Tidwell something or other, I think. It's the only five-star rated course in the area."

"And he's an executive there?"

"Huh," Whatley grunted. "If by executive he means playing golf, drinking beer and riding around on his fat ass glad-handing the members all day, yes. He's their top man."

I gave Whatley instructions on where to drop the money and when, and told him I'd be in touch just as soon as the job was finished.

This would be too goddamned easy. Still, I wanted more background information about these people, so I did what everybody does these days when curiosity mates with nosiness. Daddy Dearest already said that snooty Truman Hoyt had a propensity for over-sharing on social media.

I snorted. Who didn't? In my very informed opinion, people put way too much out there for the world to see and find with a simple Boolean search.

For over an hour, I found myself engrossed in the online back-and-forth, the bickering and sniping, the utter disrespect that Tucker Hoyt slung at anyone with the temerity to call him on his shit. When Aimee capitulated and apologized to him and he came back with what amounted to it took you long enough, I had a keen sense of her father's frustration.

Again, I wondered at the stupidity of sharing so much personal information publicly. Even I knew that the network offered more privacy tools than either one of these people used. Of course, I couldn't complain since most of my background research relied specifically on the ball-to-the-walls style.

"Oh, man, this is gonna be fun."

I channeled my inner O'Banion and headed over to the golf club. I couldn't believe the amount of cash it took just to get into the bar. I was decked out in my rich, lazy asshole attire as I made my way to the bar and ordered some bitter brew that was apparently popular at Douchebag Central. It only took two outlandishly high tips to garner the attention of the bar manager—something I ordinarily would never do, but even if the jerk tried to describe me as the stranger that showed up the day Truman Hoyt died, it would do them no goddamned good. Sure, the latex was itchy, but totally worth it and helped me pull off snotty Richard "Todd" Saing III.

I laughed internally at that one. Let's send those decrepit-brained FBI agents into a tailspin while we're at it here. It was the game in this one that actually did wake the monster in my pants. I was so hard it hurt.

Before I knew it, we were betting on a game of darts (which I intentionally lost. I mean, come on. I spent years with O'Banion. Did they really believe I couldn't throw objects with sharp tips with lethal accuracy?) Which eventually dissolved into a bet over moonlight golf.

I'd been drunk so many times in my life; it took very little effort to feign the appearance of inebriation to a bunch of stupid assholes who probably enjoyed the smell of each other farting. But I had a purpose, other than to silently mock these self-important idiots. And that purpose was to get Truman Hoyt's attention. Boy did I ever get it.

He'd been on the periphery of the antics so far, so I strode over and asked, "You too good to pony up in the bet?"

"I don't wager with men who can't win at darts."

I fingered the tip of the dart for a moment of luxurious imagination, thinking about the sound it would make, the tremor that would ripple up from fingertips to arm if I sank that shiny tip into the cartilage of his throat. Instead of killing him in front of a bunch of witnesses who would then have to be killed too, I smiled, and flung the dart over my shoulder without breaking eye contact with my quarry. The dart hit the board with a muffled thwunk.

Silence descended. I didn't have to look to know I'd hit dead center.

"Now you've just convinced me you're a hustler."

"Nah," I grinned. "Sharp objects are my thing. I've never played a round of golf in my life. But on the off chance that I'm lying, what's your toughest hole on the course?"

"Eighteen," he said warily. Maybe he wasn't as dumb as I hoped.

"You, me, the eighteenth hole. A hundred grand."

The collective gasp took on the quality of a man fucking his enemy's wife right in front of him, and then daring him to do something about it. I suspected from Truman's obsession with wealth and status, that it would be a gauntlet, the easy acquisition of a chunk of change I had no intention of coughing up. But I continued before he could chicken out. "The briefcase by the bar, have your bartender retrieve it and open it."

Truman jerked his head, and I waited until I heard the snick of the fasteners pop open. "There are precisely ten straps of one hundred dollar bills in my briefcase, among other business documents I'd just as soon not lose," I explained. "I don't want any trouble with the SEC, you understand."

Dollar signs gleamed in Truman's eyes. "All right, Todd. Let's indeed sweeten the pot. You beat me with anything over par and you lose the bet. Par or under. And if you lose, I get the documents too."

"You're on."

I reached for his hand to shake it. He regarded me with a bit of disdain.

"You think I won't require at least some form of gentleman's agreement here?" I asked. "This will be mono e mono as they say."

A frown rippled across his pudgy forehead. Christ, I had him pegged as a dickless fat fuck. He lived in Tucson and couldn't even translate the Spanish term for one-on-one.

"Nobody but the two of you out there on the eighteenth," the bartender supplied.

Truman's posture stiffened. "You're not an illegal, are you, Todd."

"Does Saing sound Spanish?" Still, it irritated me to the point that I almost told him my name was Castillo, and what was it to him if I was illegal or anything else. I reined it in. "You in or out, Tru-Tru."

"I'm in."

Another gasp rose.

That's when I added my caveat. "You beat me with anything less than par or under, you lose the bet. And I get your corazón palpitante."

"We've got a fancy chef in the kitchen, Todd. I'm sure he can lower himself to whipping up whatever Tex-Mex suits your not-so-refined palate. Let's go."

"You'll be able to pay if I win?" I asked. "A hundred grand."

"I've got the money. Don't worry. You sound like my fucking fiancée."

"She sounds like she ought to be smitten."

"Aimee will come around and see things my way. Eventually." Everyone in the room laughed. I seemed to be the only one not in on the joke.

"Care to enlighten me as to why that's so funny?"

Truman grinned evilly. "She'll accept my mistress as her lover one way or another, Todd. It's just a matter of her realizing who the alpha really is in this relationship." He turned to his friends. "Give us what, an hour? You think you can manage to lose in that amount of time, Todd?"

"I won't need more than twenty minutes to put you in your place," I said.

I was gone by fifteen, and only out a little under two thousand bucks. The idiots didn't even check to see the one-dollar bills under that first hundred in each strap.

Chapter 33

Raver

I was climbing the walls by Thursday afternoon. The plan was as solid as I could devise, which wasn't saying much.

Another late night trip to Walmart—this one farther away from Augusta, yielded what I needed for the plan to have even a chance of working. I bought a suit of clothes that could reasonably be mistaken for a floral delivery person, a vase and the materials I'd need to arrange the fresh flowers I also picked up, so I could walk into the mortuary before the viewing and deliver them.

It went off without a hitch, except that the little man who tried to take them from me was so nervous, he tipped me off to the fact that something was terribly wrong. I could feel the gun burning my flesh in the holster on my belt. Maybe Castillo was here, holding this guy's boss hostage. Maybe Castillo was as tuned in to how my mind works as I was to his.

"I think I'd like to pay my respects before I leave," I said as the nervous fellow nearly dropped the flowers I'd worked half the night to get pretty enough to appear to be a real bouquet for a funeral.

"Sure," he stammered. I watched his trembling finger extend toward the closed sliding doors to one of the viewing parlors. "I'll uh, I'll show you the way, since I need to add this bouquet to the rest of the arrangements delivered this week. Did you know the detective?"

"No," I lied fluidly. "I just feel bad that the cops seem more often than not to be targets of these killers anymore."

"Right you are," he breathed under his breath, then louder, "Would you mind opening the doors for me? We may as well keep the parlor open. Her fellow officers should be arriving any moment now."

Maybe the guy thought I was Castillo.

I did as he asked and followed him into a room overflowing with flowers and plants. I wondered what they'd do with all of them after the service. I had no idea if Kelsey had family that would want to keep them.

"What do you do with all this stuff when the funeral is over?" I asked as I followed him across the room to where he placed the vase on a low pillar. I almost didn't notice the arrangement behind it, but did a double take when it registered in my head.

I didn't even hear his answer, couldn't care in the least little bit what happened to all these blooms when the day was done, the prayers were spoken and the deceased was laid to her final rest. All I could see was the large bowl filled with succulents—cacti, in the more common vernacular. One of them bore an uncanny resemblance to the shape Castillo left in the wake of his murderous benders.

"Unusual arrangements for these parts," the man said. "It came with a card, addressed to that detective that Captain Maclaren died trying to protect."

I gritted my teeth. I knew it! The son of a bitch isn't here, but he is at the same time, at least in his dark, sinful spirit.

"I'd like to have a look around at the flowers if you don't mind, maybe say a prayer for Captain Maclaren," I said tightly.

"Sure," he agreed. "Just be aware that others will be arriving soon."

I nodded impatiently and waited until he was outside the room before turning the bowl until the small envelope was visible. I snatched it, stuffed it into my pocket and walked quickly to Kelsey's open casket. The body looked like wax, and it didn't resemble the woman I'd come to know over the past few months at all. She looked serene now, instead of stressed.

I mumbled the Lord's Prayer and added one of my own at the end. "Please, God, give me the strength to find the man who did this to her and bring him to justice. I know he can't escape yours, but please don't let him escape ours either. Amen."

Turning, I left as briskly as I could without appearing to run away. I got to Old Sally and cranked the engine. I wasn't inside long enough for her to grow cold. Heat blasted in my face while anxiety and a burning desire to examine the contents of the card addressed to me caused cold pimples of sweat to burst from my skin.

"It'll wait. I gotta get out of here before Hogan shows up and recognizes me," I said as I tried my very best not to break the sound barrier while speeding away.

I was losing the battle when a voice from the back seat surprised me.

Surprise. Too mild. It scared the bejesus out of me to the point of nearly swerving off the road into a line of trees.

"Calm down," Gage Briarwood chuckled as he sat up in the back seat of the car. "I had a feeling you'd show up today."

"You can't be here!" I slowed down and came to a stop at the curb. "I mean it, Briarwood. You're gonna get yourself killed."

"Oh, so it's all right for you, but not me? Nice wheels by the way. Where'd you get your hands on such a sweet ride?"

I crossed my arms over my chest and clamped my mouth shut so hard, my jaw ached.

"Don't be angry. You knew I had to come after you, Jay. Like it or not, it seems that the two of us are in it up to our eyeballs and beyond. I'm backing your play whether you like it or not. So you may as well take me to wherever you've kept yourself so well-hidden so we can talk about all the shit that's happened while you were under a rock."

My eyes met his in the rearview mirror. "He killed again, didn't he?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?"

"You read this taunt he sent me," I said.

"I'd rather you read it and give me your take," Briarwood replied. "But if you're not going to drive, I'd rather ride shotgun than back here."

I shrugged. "Suit yourself." While he struggled to push the seat forward and grapple with the door handle, I pulled the small envelope out of my pocket and removed the card. It was little more than his typical artwork, this time with an added cactus, and the message C U Soon.

"Let me guess. He's returned to the beginning."

"Meaning what exactly?" Gage huffed and puffed even after he was settled in the front seat of the car.

"He's back in the Southwest United States. It's why he sent the plants native to his stomping-ground. It's why he drew a saguaro cactus on his calling card. Do you believe me now that his flower isn't a lotus?"

"I do. Our cyber unit is trying to do what they can to track down that outraged message somebody posted on your skeptic-debunking website," he said. "So far, no luck, but it seems our boy might not be as thrilled by his moniker as one would expect."

I waved it aside. "This is immaterial to him. I doubt he cares what they call him, Briarwood. He simply wants to be known."

He looked at me gravely. "I sure as shit hope you're right, Jay, because as things stand right now, our team is short a psychology guru."

My heart sank. "Please don't tell me he killed Newburgh."

Briarwood laughed softly. "Nothing quite that dramatic. It seems Congresswoman Newburgh decided to put my boss in his place for not bowing to Newburgh's expertise. Boss wouldn't back down. Newburgh turned in his badge and gun."

I shook my head, "No way would he walk away from this thing, Gage. It means way too much to him. I had this thought the other day when he got so proprietary about your audacity—accepting my theories at all. He craves attention about as much as Castillo does."

"Picked up on that, eh?" Briarwood grinned. "It's neither here nor there. He's out. You're in. I've got a flight ready to take us to Tucson waiting in Portland. Let's move."

"I thought you wanted to go back to my hideout and fill me in on what Castillo did this time."

"Either way, drive. I'm not going anywhere. If I have to cuff you to my wrist to keep you working with me, that's what I'll do."

It was only a few miles to Mom's house, and with a great deal of reluctance, I drove there.

"This wouldn't by any chance be a house your ex-girlfriend owns, would it?"

"Gracie? No, this place is mine, well, it was my mother's house, but it's mine now."

"Ah. Funny how I didn't turn up any property in her name, or in yours, other than the house where I expected to find you."

"She took back her maiden name—it's not important. The deed is under Jameson."

"Ah, so that's why you've got such an unusual Christian name."

"Tell me how bad Castillo's latest hit was," I said.

"Pretty bad. He slaughtered some poor sap on the eighteenth hole of a highfalutin golf course in Tucson, Arizona, cut the poor bastard's balls off and stuffed them in the cup on the green. Afterward, he proceeded to use the guy's blood to completely defile the grass. Hacked his heart out too, which they haven't found yet."

"His artwork?" I asked.

"Mmm-hmm," Gage nodded. "With another little message. We'll have to wait until we're at your other property for you to get the full impact. I have pictures, but we'll need a computer."

"And you think I've got one?"

"You don't?" he asked.

"I planned to pick one up when I got out of Maine, but no, I haven't got anything right now, certainly not in my mother's mostly empty house. I'll have to pick up my supplies and call a cab to take us to wherever you've been staying."

"And how is it that you're driving legally, Jay?" he asked.

"Maine issued a temporary license that I printed off at my house..." I stopped speaking.

"Were you there when I showed up the other day?"

"What difference does it make?" I snapped. "You outsmarted me, Briarwood. I'm under your thumb again."

"Funny, but I don't look at this that way, Jay. Without you, my chances of tracking down Castillo diminish exponentially."

"Why? You know what I do."

"Maybe," he said. "But when you see the pictures from the crime scene in Arizona, I think you'll realize he's not playing this game with me. No, Castillo wants your attention, and yours alone."

Chapter 34

Castillo

Punch-drunk.

It had to be how Raver felt right about now. I felt a literal ache in my bones to watch him struggle in his clueless and stupefied state. He had to want my capture so badly that he could taste it.

I've seen his kind before. Oh yes. He wears a figurative cape and flies around the world trying to save it with no regard for his own safety. I suspected as much when I sent the little contribution to the horticulture of Captain Maclaren's funeral service. It wouldn't scare him away. Instead, it ignited that righteous fury within him, something very absent from law enforcement in my vast and varied observations of them in diverse places.

There was a movie when I was a kid, maybe seventeen years old. The bad guy had everybody fooled; he even captured the ear of the very cops that were hunting him. This super-villain made an observation about cops, one that I had seen in practice.

This guy said something to the effect that cops are clueless. They see a crime, and decide who committed it, and then everything falls into place to prove they were right. It didn't matter if they were actually right, or if they caught the right bad guy. They'd made up their minds, and that was the end of it.

In my eyes, this fictional character was the coolest villain of all, and if I could be like anybody, it would be him. I wanted that reputation, the fearsome nightmare, the ghostly specter, the avenging demon who would right your wrongs if the price was right or it suited my purpose.

Truman Hoyt suited that purpose very much. Now, it was simply a matter of sitting back and watching the show. Raver would come. He'd show up as sure as Hoyt's recently liberated fiancée secretly tried to hide the joy in her eyes that he was dead.

They trotted her out on the news, her tears of anguish, her plea for the friends of this cretin I exterminated to come forward and give descriptions of the cold blooded Night Lotus made me laugh.

The sparkle in her eyes wasn't moisture, it was freedom.

The twisting and wringing of hands wasn't anxiety; it was an itch she couldn't quite yet scratch with the cops watching her every move. I recognized it. That ring he put on her finger was burning her. She wanted no part of it, but had to continue to play her role.

And Daddy Dearest was right there at her side. Now that man could act. He looked horrified.

It's like the old adage goes; be careful what you wish for.

I doubted that Whatley imagined for one second that Truman's balls would be removed. Hell, the way he screamed, I figured everybody in the clubhouse heard him.

There were things I learned last night...beautifully gruesome things. Like what they say about the nine iron is true. I clubbed him over the head with mine and knocked him out cold when we finally got on the green (which didn't take me an hour for fuck's sake). I staked him to the ground after breaking the flagpole into four pieces and used his pants and both of our belts for restraints, and cut his balls off.

Talk about a rude awakening.

But I needed it. I needed him wide-awake for the rest of what changed for me last night. I wanted him to beg for his life. I needed him to offer me anything, everything he possessed, just to spare his worthless life.

We had a brief chat, Truman and I. Well, to be fair, I talked; he whimpered.

I asked him if he felt like a big man for treating a woman like she was his personal property, like she shouldn't exert her will or have opinions of her own.

The response included curses, promises of what he'd do with my dick when he got himself free and cut it off, etcetera.

Wrong answer. So I cut off his dick and threw it as far as I could. It landed in the rough. I told him he was lucky we weren't in Florida. I'd be tempted to let the gators finish him off after the little snack of his tiny dick.

He sobbed; he ranted. Then he started begging, pleading and praying. That was shortly followed by his condemnation of me to hell.

"Let me get this right in my mind," I squatted down beside him and peered intently. "You expect me to fear your condemnation after how you've treated a woman whose only crime as far as I can tell, was that she loved you? Buddy, you don't know what hell really is, but I'm about to show you."

"W-why are you doing this? W-who are you?"

I raised O'Banion's favorite blade high above my head and watched the blue-black viscous fluid drip onto Hoyt's chest. "Don't you know?" I asked. "I'm going to draw such a pretty picture with your blood. A flower for your lost love."

He paled in the moonlight. I'd like to think it wasn't blood loss or excruciating pain, but rather that he knew in that instant that he'd met the Night Lotus. But I didn't wait for him to acknowledge it. Instead, I slammed the blade through flesh, muscle, gristle and bone until it imbedded in his heart.

Don't ever think sawing the heart out of a man's chest is easy.

I pulled off my wig and used it to paint with his blood all over the green at the eighteenth hole. It was crude, certainly not my best work, but my calling card looked absolutely beautiful under the moonlight.

This time, I signed it. Detective Raver, game on.

They had to be going batshit right about now.

I crouched down on my vantage point on a mountain that overlooked the course and pressed my binoculars tightly to my eyes. There were local police in droves. Hell, they'd been there all night, bright lights and all, looking around for clues I supposed.

One of the suits was on his cell phone for over an hour.

Could he be talking to the FBI?

Oh God, I dared not hope. This thing with Raver and giving him that little cut to the thigh; that was nothing. It wasn't national news at all. The explosion in Portland? You bet that got everybody's attention. The big networks even trotted out the dreaded T word.

Now it would be obvious. Every crackpot with an Internet connection would be buzzing about me, about the fact that they were right. I'm real, and I exist.

It would be more helpful to my reputation in this world if someone would out Truman Hoyt for the bastard he was.

No, I am definitely no angel. I think demons can avenge the wronged. Maybe I'm a demon that got tricked into defying God. Yeah...I like that. O'Banion corrupted me. I was on the straight and narrow before that happened.

I snorted and adjusted my position. It had been a long time since I had no choice but to sleep out in the cold desert night. But this was my choice. I'd sit here. I'd watch this circus unfold. I couldn't wait for one more second to see Raver and his FBI pals show up.

What could they do? I already confirmed who they're looking for many times over. Accept it. Accept me. Acknowledge that I'm smarter than all of you put together.

The black Dodge Charger rolled over the course toward the police tape around the green. It gleamed in the warm Arizona sunshine like onyx lying below crystal clear water. I watched one door open lazily, then the other.

I was too far, dammit. I could barely make out more than the car with the shitty resolution of what O'Banion no doubt used to peep at neighbors through his windows. I could tell they were men. One...maybe light haired? Definitely shorter than the other guy who had dark hair.

It wasn't Raver. Dammit! Where the hell was he? There was plenty of time for him to find out what I'd done last night and dash out here on his white steed to try to catch me. The little ants below my vantage point would be packing up their gear and hosing down the grass soon. The stupid golf course would be back to business as usual.

Didn't they care what I'd done? Was Raver really so weak that he'd give up after a couple of lame attempts to get him to back off? Christ, I could've gone a lot harder on Maclaren than I did.

By mid-afternoon, the cops below had packed up most everything. One of them looked like he was about to remove...yep; there went the crime scene tape. I didn't understand it. Where were they? Was this how they hunted someone who at worst had to hit at least number ten on the FBI's most wanted list?

I made my way back to the motel and crawled into my bed. Why weren't they here yet? It made no sense. I couldn't be wrong about Raver. I'd read his notes, his jotted musings about me. The guy was invested in the legend; convinced I was real long before our paths ever crossed.

"You son of a bitch," I shouted into my pillow. I lifted my head and craned to the right as I reached for the remote control. The television flickered to life and I clicked through the meager offerings of a budget motel.

Finally, I settled on the local news.

Blah, blah, blah. Nobody gives a crap about Sheriff-Who-Gives-a-Damn persecuting illegal aliens. Though I bet if I bumped one of his guys—or even him—off, I'd get all kinds of coverage on their little pissant news station. Maybe I should!

The petulant seed sprouted and took deep root as I wondered about the logistics of such an assault. I still had a bunch of my homemade C4 that I could put into play. Maybe bomb his damned office. Surely that would bring a swarm of special agents and oh-so-somber guys from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Fuckers were probably still analyzing bits of debris back in Boston.

I ached for some kind of twenty-four hour news channel. Where was CNN when I needed them most? Hell, they hunted for a lost airplane for over a year, hardly talked about anything else for three months. It was like one little old plane disappeared and they went all X-Files over it.

I settled on the Fox affiliate, because in my perusing online, they tended to favor links to the macabre more than any other network. Plus, people who commented on the stories all seemed to be prone toward tin-foil headgear.

Boring, blah, city council bullshit, zoning news, the crazy racist deputies...who weren't racist at all according to the news report on—hello—racial profiling.

I was about to flip over to PBS and watch reruns of Bob Ross painting his candy-ass view of nature (I'd liked to have seen him paint dead animals decomposing in his friggin' meadow landscapes), when the anchor announced their in-depth report on the grisly murder at ol' Truman's golf course right after the break.

Too bad I didn't have popcorn. My shitty motel didn't even have a fridge stocked with the microscopic bottles of liquor.

But O'Banion's trunk still had a couple of bottles of rotgut. I dashed out the door in my socks and grabbed one from the trunk, barely making it back to the perch against the cheap headboard before the report started.

"As we broke the story last night in our nine o'clock news broadcast, Truman Hoyt, CEO and president of Tidwell Estates Golf Club was found murdered on the eighteenth green last night around seven-thirty.

"Tucson police have released only scant information from the crime scene, but our sources revealed that Hoyt was actually tortured before he was killed. Live with a report from the golf club earlier this after noon is Missy Snow."

"Good afternoon, Tyler. As you can see behind me, the police are now wrapping up their investigation at the scene of the crime, the luxurious Tidwell Estates Golf Club here in Tucson.

"We've yet to hear any kind of official statement from the police, but I talked to members of the club who were present last night before the chilling events began to unfold.

"Witnesses told me that a stranger who claimed to have funds on hand for a high-end wager came into the facility's bar late yesterday afternoon. He drew attention initially, according to witnesses, by bragging that he could beat any one of them in darts. They said he lost badly, so badly that they estimated his financial debt close to ten thousand dollars by the time Truman Hoyt showed up.

"They claim that Mr. Hoyt was summoned to the bar because some of the patrons were concerned that this stranger seemed a little off.

"Upon Mr. Hoyt's arrival, the stranger who identified himself by the name Todd was trying to lure other members into a nighttime game of golf, wagering staggering amounts of money. The witnesses said they all declined until Richard 'Todd' Saing III showed them the contents of his briefcase, which appeared to contain one hundred thousand dollars in cash, along with a number of confidential corporate documents.

"Unfortunately for Mr. Hoyt, he accepted Mr. Saing's challenge. When the respected CEO didn't return to the clubhouse after an hour, some of the patrons went out to find him.

"With me now is Matthew Blaylock. Matthew, you were one of the men who found Mr. Hoyt last night, is that correct?"

The man choked on whatever he tried to say, and opted for a nod.

"I know this is difficult for you, but can you tell us what you saw?"

"He was... he was slaughtered. Cut up like you can't imagine, and that bleep Todd had painted the green with his blood."

"When you say painted the green, what exactly do you mean?" she asked.

"I'm not sure what it was. Some kind of flower I think, and the moon or something, and then he'd written something. We called for help right away, but it was too late for Truman. The bleeeeeeeeep cut his heart out."

I burst out laughing. What he said was clear as day even though they tried to censor him. I was a bastard and a motherfucking asshole.

"Thank you sir. I know that was difficult for you." Bimbo Reporter turned back to the camera. "We've been told that the Tucson police have requested assistance from the FBI to solve this case, and members of the FBI's field office in Phoenix were on scene early this morning.

"The truly frightening bit of irony in this story is that the name the killer gave to his victim last night was the same name of another gruesome murder victim all the way across the country in a small town, Whisper Cove, Maine. Richard and Myrtle Saing were both found stabbed to death in their diner in the early hours of last Saturday morning."

"Have the police commented on any potential link to the two cases, Missy?" Tyler asked.

"Again, the police have remained remarkably tight-lipped about the entire situation. Most of what we know has come from witnesses in the bar last night, and the victim's grieving fiancée."

"Thanks so much. Missy Snow, one of our investigative reporters, will continue to cover this story to bring you any breaking news for our nine o'clock news broadcast."

I muted the television and stared at it sightlessly. "Local field office? What's this shit all about? I don't want the local field office! I want Raver out here. He was supposed to come!"

Chapter 35

Briarwood

We covertly monitored the media circus, dressed like any other golfer schmoe out there watching the goings on. Other than Raver's somewhat pale skin, he looked like any other avid golfer watching the investigation unfold.

The bonehead who talked to the reporter ambled past us about an hour after his big statement. The sun was starting to sink in the western sky, and he was apparently satisfied with his fifteen minutes of fame.

"Hey," Raver said as he approached. "Were you really out on the green last night when they found Hoyt's body?"

He nodded. "Sickest shit I've ever seen in my life. What kind of monster does that to a person?"

"I'm curious what the guy wrote," I said.

"No way, man. The cops threatened to arrest any of us if we blabbed that message. I'll tell you this much. I got a seventeen year old at home. He's convinced all this shit is related to that Night Lotus guy."

"Night Lotus?" Raver echoed. "Why would a teenager know about something adults haven't heard of?"

"He's all over the Internet, I guess. Some sort of urban legend. If he'd stick to the urban areas, I'd be a hell of a lot happier. Tucson is no place for some psycho maniac killer."

"Did the cops ask you to describe what he looked like?" Raver stepped closer to the man and lowered his voice. "I mean, the lot of you in that bar had to get a good look at him."

"We did. I was up half the night with a sketch artist, for all the good that'll do. I didn't tell that reporter that he left his rug on the green. It was soaked in blood. I think he must've used it like a paintbrush."

"Creepy," I commiserated.

"I'm going home. It makes me sick thinking that the guy was right beside me in that bar. It could've been me, you know, but the kid says the Night Lotus only goes after people who deserved to die."

"And do you think that's true, now that you've seen his handiwork up close?" Raver asked.

"I don't like to speak ill of the dead..."

"But?" Raver prompted.

"Truman wasn't a bad guy really. He was just kind of...sexist. He didn't treat women well at all. I think the feminists would say he objectified all of them, but the ones close to him, he treated like property. Sorry, guys... I just—I don't wanna think about this anymore."

"Thanks for the info, and be safe out there, man. If this guy really is related to the creep that slaughtered a bunch of people in Maine, it might not be such a good idea talking about him on camera, you know? I heard he tried to kill a cop that witnessed a couple of his murders up north. Went after him more than once, and finally caught his police captain and killed her instead."

"Jesus," the man hissed. "Thanks a lot, buddy. I may never sleep again."

I watched him hurry away, while I made an offhand remark to Raver. "You thought that was necessary, huh, scaring the shit outta that guy."

"He needs to shut up and stop giving interviews," he said. "If, as I suspect, Castillo is hanging around waiting for us to come in and take over the investigation, he wouldn't respond well to anyone giving an accurate description of him on the early news."

"Well, as far as the public and especially the press is concerned, our local field office has this one. It's probably driving Castillo even more insane than he already is."

Raver and I disagreed on that one. I thought the guy had to be bonkers.

Jay believed he was too organized and methodical to be psychotic. "Not every murderer is insane, Gage. I'm a fairly religious guy. I believe that evil exists. Evil isn't an illness, it's a choice."

Still, gouging the heart out of this vic? It was beyond berserk to do such a thing. And the sickest part about it was that the locals combed every inch of the entire golf course and couldn't find it anywhere. They had, however, uncovered the other amputated parts.

"They could get DNA from inside the wig," Raver said.

"Great. What are the odds we'll find a match in CODIS? Zilch," I kicked at a tuft of grass. "Let's get out of here, get something to eat, get some sleep and hit this in the morning from a fresh perspective."

Raver nodded and followed me to the unremarkable car loaned out from the field office's pool. "I've never been this far west before."

"Yeah?" I asked. "You should go to San Diego if you really want a gorgeous west experience. I love it out there."

"You think he's been watching?" Raver asked.

"Well, since nobody tried to bump into you and stab you to death, I'm gonna say that if he was watching, it was long distance."

"I noticed something earlier, when we first arrived. It didn't really register until now," he said.

"What?"

"Probably nothing," he continued. "Still, now that I think about it, in light of the crime scene, I think it makes sense. I mean, he sent that message to me as a taunt. He'd see me soon, and then he goes and commits a murder like this, one that we couldn't really even control the scene of, Gage. I mean, did you notice the helicopters flying around?"

"The police controlled the airspace," I said.

"Yet his little artful contribution at this particular scene was larger than life, just like the one he left behind in Portland."

I laughed. "You think he's been circling the crime scene in a helicopter?"

"No," Raver said soberly. He pointed through the windshield. "But I saw a glint up there when we arrived. I bet if we went up there before the cops finish hosing things down on the green—"

I jumped out of the car. "Stop! Don't close the scene yet!" I barked.

The field agent working with the Tucson police looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "Agent Briarwood, we're through here," he said.

"Did you find the victim's heart?"

"No," he replied. "You already know that."

"Then light this green up as bright as you can. I'll radio you in a few. My partner had a thought that I think we should investigate before we clean this one up."

"Okay," he rolled his eyes a little bit and issued the command that nobody move anything just yet.

"And keep everybody off the green until I call you," I said.

"Where are we going?" Raver asked.

"To the point where you saw that glint of what might've been binoculars, Jay. We're going up the mountain."

It was pitch black by the time we arrived. I radioed Agent Keating and asked him if we could get some overhead illumination on the path on the adjacent mountain."

"Shit," Keating muttered. "I see where you're going with this, Briarwood."

Moments later, one of the police helicopters lighted the way along a hiking trail on the hardscrabble terrain.

Raver and I carefully picked our way through the quivering light until he pointed out a single set of footprints off the path. He looked down at the vista below and said, "Whoa."

My eyes followed his. "Jesus, he was up here the whole time, wasn't he?"

Below us, under the bright lights used to help law enforcement process crime scenes in the dark, his painting was extremely obvious, though at this distance, his message to Raver wasn't legible at all.

"Ah hell no," Raver said. "Call your agent, Gage. Tell him we found the victim's heart."

Beside the already decaying hunk of muscle was a clear glass bottle, the kind with an actual cork stopper. Inside, Castillo had left a rolled piece of white paper.

"You got gloves on you?" Raver asked.

"They need to photograph this before we touch anything, Jay," I reminded him.

"Not the message. That's for me, and I'm not taking any chances that some loose-tongued cop leaks this to the press. If you're worried about prosecution issues down the road if we catch this guy, I'd suggest you get your phone out right now and start taking photographs. No way am I waiting to find out what's in that bottle."

I sighed. "I'll take some pictures. There's a kit in the trunk of the car. Go get your gloves."

Raver was a lot faster on the return trip than I expected him to be. He bagged the bottle. "Now let Keating know where he needs to send another team. I'll wait in the car. We can remove the message and have the bottle dusted for prints in the morning. I'm a hundred percent certain we won't find anything."

I couldn't disagree.

An hour later, Raver and I were holed up in our hotel, in his room. He opened the bottle and carefully dumped the message out on the table.

I unrolled it.

I told you ignorant jackasses to get Raver out here. Now you'll suffer the consequences for ignoring my demands.

"He's going to kill someone else," Raver said quietly. "All this because he had shitty binoculars and I dyed my hair."

"He's going to keep killing people until he's caught," I said. "None of this is your fault, Jay. We may not be able to use any of this to prevent what he's set on doing, but he left a clue."

"Another worthless message?"

"That bottle," I said. "Didn't you notice the smell the second we opened it?"

"It smelled like hard liquor."

"With a cork in the bottle," I said.

"Sorry, Gage, but you've lost me. I don't drink."

"You really are a good Christian boy, aren't you?" I chuckled. "There's residue inside the bottle in the first place, but more importantly, that's real cork. Since you're not a drinker, I'll tell you. Most caps are screw on and the ones with cork these days are synthetic."

"So...what does that mean?" he frowned.

"It means that this is a very unusual bottle of what I suspect was whiskey." I picked it up and turned the bottle into the light. "I can see residue from some kind of glue that held the label on at one point. It's very dried out, Jay. It looks like all of the adhesive is intact, without any paper remainder whatsoever."

"It's hot and dry out here. Is that really so unremarkable? The dry heat affects the glue, the label falls off."

"Most labels are fully adhesive, Jay, not with a few skinny little lines of glue on the bottle to hold the label down. If a label fell off say a bottle of Jack Daniels—didn't you say you were from Tennessee?"

"I am," he said, "and I'm familiar with how those labels appear."

"Then you know the label would fade with age, but it wouldn't fall off without a little help from a prying fingernail. And then, we'd see some paper bits left in the adhesive."

"I'm still not sure how this helps us."

"What if," I proposed. "What if this liquor is unique enough to pinpoint the location of its origin?"

Raver's eyes widened. "Whoever sold it, or gave it to Castillo, might not be somebody who actually sells the stuff, but makes it himself."

I nodded. "He'd know Castillo."

"Ah hell," he stared down at the bottle like he'd discovered a rich vein of gold. "He screwed up, Gage. Castillo sat up on that mountain, fully expecting to see us show up. The hours tick by slowly. His frustration grows. He starts drinking and trying to spot us from his vantage point."

"But that stroke of genius color job of yours threw him off. It's like you said. He had shitty binoculars and you dyed your hair."

Raver walked across the room and sat down hard on the edge of the bed. "He planned to follow us so he could finish what he started in Maine."

"Instead, he got drunk and left us something that could well lead to his capture. I don't think we should wait until morning for the analysis of what was in that bottle, Jay. We should get this over to the crime lab right away."

"Does the FBI have one of those out here?"

"Phoenix has an accredited forensic crime lab. We'll process the paperwork through the bureau and have them do the testing. I'll submit it under a John Doe case—which technically this is, since we don't know that Castillo is this joker's real name anyway—and get the results sent directly to us."

"He's still gonna kill somebody else unless we tell him that I'm here," Raver said.

"Castillo is gonna kill people regardless. Clueing him in to your current location only gives him the target he really wants."

"Better me than some innocent victim."

"Lay off the crazy talk," I said. "If he's looking to snare your attention, he'll go after a high profile target. I'm not talking about a celebrity either."

"Another cop," Raver concurred grimly.

"Yeah. Short of putting every police officer in the country on high alert, I see no way of narrowing that down to a specific target."

"Oh, it won't be just any old patrol officer or even a detective," Raver said. "Remember what you said, Gage. He's looking for a big bang, a splashy kill that'll garner all kinds of attention. Certainly something that he thinks we wouldn't be able to ignore."

"So how do we figure out who that'd be? In a city this size, the chief of police is a pretty tough target to hit," I said.

"Right. But from coast to coast, I doubt you could find five people outside the Tucson area who could tell you the name of the police chief. You're right about his assessment of an easy target though. So who would he go after? A name most people would recognize."

"Jesus," I muttered. "That sheriff...the old guy."

"Right," Raver said. "Someone he'd see as the weakest of the herd anyway."

"But we know he's coming," I said.

"Exactly. And we'll be waiting for him. This could really be our chance to catch him, Gage. We'll just need a whole lot of local cooperation."

Chapter 36

Raver

It took very little evidence to convince the local authorities to have SWAT rifles trained on the sheriff at all times. We weren't going to restrict his movements or alter his normal routine one bit. To do so would only alert Castillo to our arrival and my guess that Sheriff Trujillo was his target.

I pondered the irony of this sheriff's surname stacked against his stance on all immigration—legal or otherwise. He didn't like foreigners, and didn't want them in his county, or his country as a whole for that matter.

Trujillo eyed Briarwood with frank assessment. "Good English name," he said. "Proper even."

He sort of rolled his eyes at me, as if I were the mutt on the team, the Heinz-57.

"Mine is actually Scottish in origin," I said.

"Uh-huh," he muttered. "I'm familiar. I do believe your name was associated with a noble profession for Scotsmen. Highway robbery, wasn't it?"

"Oh for God's sake," Gage blustered. "You're talking about a reaver, sheriff. Entirely different thing. Jesus Christ, I don't think the word is even used outside the occasional bodice ripper."

Trujillo's face flushed to the roots of his salt-and-pepper hair.

"Now, Trujillo," Briarwood continued. "What's that, Mexican, Spaniard?"

"Spaniards," he growled. "My people paved the way for your people to come over here and claim what was rightfully ours."

This time I grunted and rolled my eyes. "One of those, I see. Regardless, sheriff, it's been the United States for a long time now, and I do believe that you're sworn to uphold her Constitution, not laws of your ancestors."

I peered at Gage for a moment.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You think Castillo fancies himself pure Spaniard?" I asked.

I noticed the corners of his lips tighten as the flesh between compressed. His eyes twinkled.

"That bastard isn't kin to anything good out of Spain," Trujillo snapped. "You mark my words. He might even be one of them illegals Mexico's so fond of scooting across the border into our country. Can't manage their own dregs so they toss 'em into my backyard."

"Calm down, sheriff. Remember that Detective Raver's insight into this guy will probably save your life."

"Insight, bah," he scoffed. "I tell you what, son, it ain't insight that catches bad guys. It's nose-to-the-grindstone police work. I don't see how findin' an empty bottle of rotgut in the place where this psycho dumped poor Hoyt's heart is more'n a stroke of luck."

I tensed. "Rotgut?"

"You know, the bottom of the barrel whiskey. It used to be pretty common out west, oh, say a hundred and fifty years ago. Boy, ain't you ever seen any Western movies?"

"Where could a guy get something like that now?" I asked.

He looked at Gage. "Teetotaler?" he asked.

"I meant something akin to what they sold back in Arizona's glory days."

"Hell, son. Just trot on into any liquor store and buy the cheapest bottle they got."

"I meant something perhaps...not mass produced," I clarified. "Something that the cheap glued-on label might fall off of, something stoppered with a real cork and not something synthetic."

Owen Trujillo chuckled. "I see what you're sayin'—like the stuff tourists would buy. It's drinkable, barely, but not what you'd find at the local liquor store."

It hadn't occurred to me in that context, but, yeah. I nodded. "So there is such a thing?"

"There was a fella down near Tombstone sometime back. He used to make his own rye whiskey, claimed it was his great-granddaddy's recipe."

"Used to," I repeated.

"I heard he died about four, maybe five years ago. His whiskey was a big hit with the tourists. Came with some old-time labels glued on, real cork stoppers, the old time style with the mushroomed heads. Like I said, though, the guy died a long time ago. Maybe somebody bought up whatever stock he had on hand after he kicked the bucket, but to my knowledge, nobody picked up the gauntlet. It isn't exactly an easy one-man process you know."

"Making whiskey?" Briarwood asked.

"Yeah. It takes a shit-ton of grain, a still, a whole pain-in-the-ass involved process. Like I said, the old timer's whiskey wouldn't kill a person, but I don't know how anybody not weaned on it could stand more than a sip, especially if his recipe was authentic to the late nineteenth century."

Briarwood groaned. "I so do not want to go to Tombstone, Jay."

"I said near there, though it was Tombstone's fake authentic saloons that pedaled most of the rotgut if memory serves. This guy was a ways north. I'm not entirely certain. Benson maybe, or just east near the New Mexico line. He had a reputation as an ornery old cuss, mind, probably from drinking that rye rotgut since infancy."

"Benson, never heard of it," Briarwood muttered.

Trujillo laughed. "Relax, agent. It's about a forty-five minute drive east of here, just off the I-10. Like I said, though, the guy's dead, and I'm not even sure that's where he lived. Somewhere around there, I think. You'd have to do a little more digging if you want to satisfy your curiosity, though for the life of me, I can't reckon how an old man's hobby of scamming tourists has anything to do with this Night Lotus character."

Briarwood wisely held his tongue.

"We've got some other work to deal with at the moment, sheriff, but we won't be far. I'd just like you to let us know when you plan to leave, what route you'll be taking, etcetera. We need to be present in the event that my hunch is correct, and Castillo targets you as the highest profile law enforcement official in the area."

"The country," Gage muttered without any attempt at hiding his disgust.

"Damn straight, I am," Trujillo's chest puffed with pride. "They can sue me. They can hate me. They can revile me in the hoity-toity, citified press. But my county keeps electing me. You think that means they disagree with my approach?"

"I think it's akin to South Carolina stomping off in a tantrum and seceding from the United States when their preferred candidate lost the presidential election in 1860," Gage said. "A slew of people content to keep a boot to the necks of their fellow man because they don't like brown skin or Mexican heritage doesn't make them right. It's just an unfortunate concentration of people who need their heads examined."

Trujillo snorted, "Well, son, if you really feel that way about me and my people, what the hell did you bother warning me about this guy for? You could've just let him bump me off and called it a day."

"I uphold the laws of the land, sheriff. Even when they require me to protect people with disgusting ideologies. And you can thank my very strong, tolerant English heritage for that citified opinion."

"Gage, let's get out of here for awhile. We do have some other things we need to follow up on, remember?"

He nodded and followed me out of Trujillo's inner sanctum.

"Don't bother trying to apologize for his behavior, Raver. That old dog should be the first in line to learn some new tricks."

"Listen," I said. "I spent the first thirteen years of my life in Tennessee. In case you've forgotten, they eventually joined the confederacy's cause."

"I haven't forgotten," he scowled at me.

"My point is that people can change, Gage. Do you think my mind processes information the same way as Trujillo's does?"

"Of course not."

"He's an old buffoon, but his life matters just like any other."

"Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me that you wouldn't support a death penalty sentence for Castillo?"

I sighed and rubbed one eye. Fatigue was catching me in a big way again. "I guess it is. To me, the death penalty always seems so...easy. They get a quick, humane end. I'd rather they live long behind bars, incarcerated with no hope of returning to freedom."

Briarwood's mouth twisted down and sideways. "I disagree. Moot at this point. What other business do we need to focus on right now beyond making sure Sheriff Jerk-wad Trujillo isn't assassinated?"

"Your phone has been vibrating intermittently for the past half hour. I figured maybe there might be word from the lab about the bottle you sent back with the agents from the Phoenix field office."

He patted his breast pocket. "How the hell did you know the phone was vibrating when I didn't even realize it?"

"I heard it, and you probably didn't notice because you were too engaged with Trujillo's trolling than anything else."

"You think he didn't mean the bullshit he just spouted?"

I shrugged. "He's enforcing immigration law, Gage. Actual law."

"But going about it by racially profiling anybody who remotely looks Hispanic."

"I won't argue the details, but I will ask one question. Does the FBI racially profile at all?"

Briarwood cursed softly. "That's different."

"Standard profile for a serial killer is based on race. They are predominantly white males, correct?"

"Yes, they're white. You don't hear people bitching about that racial profile, do you?"

"When you consider the racial makeup in this country, I suppose that is surprising, but not when the horrors of reality blind people to the fact that law enforcement has engaged in determining the likelihood of who commits crimes based upon race for a very long time. It isn't exclusive to minorities. But because illegal immigration doesn't pose the same threat to public safety that serial killers do, people are selectively outraged. Yet the law is still the law, and illegal immigration statistically...well, you know what the data reveals."

"Are you anti-immigration, Raver?" his tone bore more than a hint of defensive aggression.

"Not at all. I'm anti-law-breaking."

"Captain-friggin'-America."

"Look, I'm not saying Trujillo's way is right or that it works. It's obviously more complex than that, and the solution lies in reform. But until then, we're stuck with the laws on the books. I disagree with him vehemently that our southern neighbors are ferrying their worst criminals across the border. That's just apologist rhetoric. I think the average immigrant illegal or legal comes to this country just like our forefathers did. They're looking for a better life.

"Maybe they wouldn't be so eager to come if they knew the ugly truth about this country," I continued. "One of your own pioneers in hunting guys like Castillo gave a conservative estimate that there are between thirty-five and fifty active serial killers in this country at any given time. You think Finland has the same problem we do?"

Briarwood laughed. "You've done your research. Finland doesn't have many documented serial killers at all, but just because they're not documented doesn't mean they aren't there."

"I think it's endemic to our society," I speculated. "Something about this culture... I don't know what it is, but if I could figure it out, I suspect I'd become a very wealthy man."

Gage looked at his phone. "You were right. It's the crime lab blowing up my phone. Give me two minutes."

"Put it on speaker. I want to know if I'm right about this guy's booze."

Several moments later, we were connected to one of the lab supervisors who examined our bottle.

"First of all, I want to know where you guys found this," she said. "The contents of the bottle were... unique."

"Let me guess," Gage said. "Rye whiskey that wouldn't quite pass quality control muster of the twenty-first century."

"How the hell did you know that?"

"My partner had a hunch," he grinned at me.

"Okay, good hunch," she said. "I can tell you with about ninety-eight percent confidence that the alcohol in that bottle was most certainly some type of home brewed concoction. The bottle itself was unique as well. The glass is very thin, cheap, and unless it was packed very carefully, would've been susceptible to breakage without much effort. The cork is genuine. I thought maybe the interior would be synthetic with some sort of exterior appliqué to simulate authenticity, but nope. It's real cork, through and through. The glue on the bottle was the really remarkable find, however. It's obsolete."

"What does that mean?" I asked. "How is glue obsolete?"

"The brand, the very style of the glue that was applied to the label and pressed to that bottle," she said. "It isn't synthetic. How old are you, agent?"

"Detective," I corrected, "and I'm twenty-nine."

"And you Agent Briarwood?"

Gage cleared his throat. "Considerably older. Make your point."

"Agent, do you remember the brown glue some kids used to take to school that came in a curvy little bottle with a rubber spreader on the top?"

"Sure," he said. "Jay, was it before your time?"

"Uh..."

"I'll take that as a yes," the lab supervisor chuckled. "I noticed that the glue on the bottle wasn't beaded, but smeared, so I ran some tests, nothing very complicated, since the composition of the glue itself was all natural. It was a hundred percent mucilage. Either your bottle of rye whiskey was distilled forty some years ago, or the distillery kept a stock of very old, discontinued glue."

"Do you know how long ago that specific style of glue was discontinued?" I asked.

"No," she replied. "I searched for a little while, but there wasn't some big announcement, at least not that I could find, just that the company responsible for the style that came with the little rubber spreader on top discontinued it some years back. I'd feel safe saying it was longer than twenty-nine years ago," she added with a wry chuckle. "I'm still running some tests that might help pinpoint the water source for the rye whiskey. If I turn anything up significant, I'll call you right away, but it's a long-shot, Agent Briarwood."

He frowned, seeing the screen light up with another incoming call.

"Gotta go, Peggy. Call if you find anything."

I couldn't see the screen well enough to identify the caller, and this time, Gage held the phone to his ear, no speaker function.

"Briarwood."

His mouth tightened into a grim line. "Jesus," he muttered. "We'll be right there."

"What's wrong? What happened?"

"Body dump in the street, right in front of the sheriff's office."

"What? Castillo got to him in spite of our countermeasures?" I asked.

"Seems Sheriff Trujillo wasn't his target at all, Jay. Jesus."

Chapter 37

Castillo

I watched from high above the sheriff's office as the little ants below scrambled to render aid to my newest plaything.

Funny how leaving him not quite dead amped up the thrill for me. Of course they wouldn't save him in time. My little surprise was just about to be revealed as the paramedics cut his shirt open to render aid.

I'd never seen so-called heroes scramble for cover so quickly in my life. I strapped a little device to the chest, a dummy of course. Why waste perfectly good C4 when the mere appearance of it would suffice? They'd retreat, and our very, superbly arrogant yet also special agent would finish bleeding to death slowly while they tried to figure out how to disarm his little package so they could save his life.

It was brilliant, a stroke of genius that impressed even me. The target I wanted was so well-guarded and protected by the obvious SWAT team that mysteriously started shadowing him the first day of my surveillance, hitting him would've been a suicide mission.

I am not now, nor will I ever be suicidal. This is far too much fun for me—especially now that I've hit an even higher profile target, one I presume that Raver and his new bestie from the FBI never dreamed I'd recognize, let alone target.

I'd seen the whole lot of them not just in Boston, but before, in Portland while I created my beautiful art and watched them sifting through the mangled bodies and detritus of my very first successful kill with C4.

The grin spread brightly across my face. Well, technically, it was my second successful kill, though the first one had truly been an accident. Nobody ever figured out the truth, not even O'Banion who assumed as everyone else had that it was accidental, one of the risks associated with certain endeavors.

Trujillo would've made a fine target. The man was long past his expiration date. I wasn't the only citizen of the county who believed it either. How he kept winning... I shook my head. "One of these days, the whole southwest will be dominated by the people your kind stole it from in the first place. I hope you live long enough to see that day come, you son of a bitch."

What baffled me was why Congresswoman Newburgh's FBI agent son was out here shadowing Briarwood and Raver. It took me about twelve seconds following Trujillo to realize good old Detective Raver was indeed in town, and very interested in the Hoyt killing.

Sneaky bastards.

What I didn't know is if they realized they were being followed by the most unfortunately named asshole on the face of the earth. Brick. What a dumb name. When I realized that not only were Briarwood and Raver suddenly enmeshed with Sheriff Dickhead, but SWAT was watching his every move with guns trained, I felt a rage deeper than any I'd experienced before.

Raver was smart enough to figure out the little taunt I'd left behind for him with Hoyt's heart. That really pissed me off. He was just another dumb cop. But somehow, he figured it out. I refused to be transparent.

They (FBI talking heads) always say shit like the killer obviously wants to be caught. My response? Fuck no, you retards. I don't wanna be caught. I want to be known—on my terms, not theirs. If screwing with their heads and outsmarting them at every turn happens along the way, all the better.

This game, it's addictive.

If they were so goddamned smart, and these SWAT dudes were so skilled at threat assessments, how come none of them noticed Brick Newburgh tailing along behind the procession I was sure had two purposes?

First, they wanted to protect the dickhead.

Second, they thought they might spot me making a move on him. I had no doubt my name was engraved in every single bullet those tactical officers had loaded into their big, black, scary guns.

Raver. He had to be the one that figured it out. He'd found O'Banion after all, another dumb bastard who literally was too stupid to live. "When I finally get my hands on you, and I will, you will suffer more than anybody in the history of suffering," I muttered.

I peeked over the lip of the rooftop where I'd been hiding since ditching the van I used to dump Newburgh's body. Just locals. Where the hell was Raver? Was the FBI really that intent on protecting him?

The dump itself was ingenious. I stopped, emergency lights flashing, dashed to the back doors from inside the van, popped them open, rolled him out and was on my way before anybody realized what happened.

It was a simple matter of parking in yet another structure, and strolling away from the van, one that wouldn't be reported stolen for at least another day, was my best guess. The folks at the snotty golf course were too steeped in grief and horror to realize that one of the fleet vans was missing.

Getting Newburgh alone wasn't difficult at all. He had no backup. He didn't even think anybody knew he was in town.

My guess was, he was right about that. Briarwood carried on, business as usual after I nabbed his partner. Even mommy dearest wasn't worried that she hadn't heard from her son for two days. I figured an entitled bitch like that would be all over the news if she thought something happened to her precious boy. All politicians are the same, whether they sit in Congress or in the sheriff's department. I liked the statement Brick's death would make, the rage it would incite.

Now all I needed was Raver to show up and see my handiwork.

It was beautiful.

Newburgh wasn't even armed, the cocky bastard. I zapped him from behind with a stun gun and hauled his ass to one of my hideouts that not even O'Banion knew about. He came to, hogtied to a bed atop a musty mattress. His eyes were wide with horror when he realized I wore no disguise.

That's when the girly screams and pleas for his life began. I warned him that if he didn't stop, I'd cut his tongue off. But did that stop him? Hell no.

He broke some teeth trying to resist the pliers I used on his tongue, but he shut up, and realized that I don't make idle threats. Of course, keeping his tongue in his head didn't save him in the end.

Newburgh was a message for Raver. I gave them twin wounds, only with Newburgh, I didn't want him to bleed out as quickly as Raver would've if not for the intervention of Richard Saing.

For two days, I fed him high doses of aspirin. The guy sneezed once this morning and his nose started bleeding. He was ready. I was ready.

So I opened a vein in each arm, waited a couple of hours until he was barely alive, and rolled up in front of the sheriff's office.

I lifted my head again to look below. A smile blossomed. Briarwood was there. Literally two seconds after I recognized him, I noticed the dark haired man beside him. He threw up his hands and stalked into the middle of the street and ripped the faux explosive off Newburgh's chest. He held it over his head and yelled, "Dummy!"

My sentiments exactly.

"Oh, you're a crafty one," I muttered. I'd done my homework on Jameson "Jay" Raver. He was no expert in explosives and incendiary devices. So how the hell had he not been fooled by my game? It begged the question. Who was this guy?

Nice move, the hair color. It clicked in my head. He and Briarwood had been at the golf course the other day. I was looking for the blonde hair, and Raver didn't have it anymore.

I was closer this time, and got a really good look at his face. I snorted softly. Fucking pretty boy. He looked younger than twenty-nine to me, not that late twenties was old by any means.

"Probably gay," I sneered. He had that whole bad-boy, perfectly sculpted five o'clock shadow thing going on. Tall, lean, perfect nose. Hell, why hadn't I paid more attention the night I tried to kill him? The guy could've been the poster boy for Calvin Klein underwear. He was far too sleek looking to be a cop of any kind. Briarwood...now he looked like a guy capable of catching me.

I watched his dark eyes darting around the crime scene. It was rhythmic, like a Terminator scanning for humans. Only Briarwood was scanning for me. He looked short and fat compared to Raver, but I wasn't deceived by the poor cut of his suit. I bet he could deadlift twice his body weight. The guy looked like he'd be more comfortable on the sideline in Foxboro wearing a cut-off sweatshirt and shorts. He didn't have the pretty-man look Raver did, no lush hair—his was unnaturally dark and thinning, but he combed the strands of his widow's peak back to help conceal some of the hair loss at the crown. And his nose looked like it had been broken a time or two. Either that, or his genetics had bestowed a seriously unfortunate bumped and hooked schnoz.

A little burst of laughter escaped my throat. If he kept the widow's peak short, it would be a little tuft right in front of the bald spot. With the beak on his face, he'd have looked clownish without a speck of makeup on.

He gripped Raver's arm and tugged him out of the street.

Raver handed my device off to someone dressed like a Kevlar barrel and walked inside the sheriff's office. I itched to find out what was going on, what they were talking about over there.

Well, of course they were talking about me.

I couldn't wrap my head around why there weren't hordes of federal agents descending, the Secret Service too. Wouldn't they be interested in the murder of the congresswoman's son?

It wasn't happening fast enough. Where were the film crews for the news networks? Why wasn't Sheriff Dickhead on the steps of his building swearing to capture me dead or alive yet?

I pulled the smartphone out of my pocket and woke the screen. It took a minute to set up an email address. I chuckled softly as I typed: dig.ur.grave.night.lotus at Gmail dot com. A quick step later, and with the use of the same burner phone, I set up a Twitter account.

Fuck, about time somebody put these nonsense social apps to proper use.

I tweeted to the local media from my address @RealNightLotus: Left dead FBI package 4 Sheriff Trujillo. Do UR job.

Within thirty minutes, the street was filled with exactly what I wanted to see, just beyond the barricades the cops hastily put up. Both ends of the street clogged with these hungry vultures. And people say I'm soulless.

I continued to watch until somebody from the sheriff's office erected some sort of white-tarp-structure over Newburgh's body.

There was no further interaction from Raver or Briarwood. They were probably inside scratching their heads, wondering how I happened to outsmart them once again.

I felt punchy, half-drunk with jubilation that I managed to rock their world again. The feeling of invincibility continued to swell in my chest like a balloon. I was light, floating over my accomplishments and how much smarter I was than all of them.

I dropped to my knees on the rooftop and began carving this time. I chiseled my signs into the old, baked concrete. It wasn't as precise as I preferred, but this wasn't something they could simply wash off and forget. No, this was a lasting reminder of my superiority.

And I was superior. It was the apex of my career so far. The satisfaction was short-lived. How could anything other than Raver's death top this one?

Raver. Fucking thorn in my side.

A literal itch plagued my flesh, made my hands burn. He was so close, but I couldn't get to him. I needed a plan, a better plan, to lure him out into the open. Without his little Bulldog protector.

The blade dug deeply into the wind and heat-worn concrete while I tried to work out some way to achieve that goal.

The moon rose over the desert in the late afternoon sun. The flower began to bloom in its dim light. It was time for me to move on, to regroup and figure out what to do next. It had to be more than this latest bout of genius. I had to find a way to get Raver alone. That's how this thing ended. Him and me. Nothing else would satisfy the compulsion to best him that pumped through my veins with every beat of my heart.

I folded the blade and stuffed it back into my pocket.

"Gotta go, guys. See ya," I muttered with another peek over the edge of the rooftop.

I opened the door to the stairwell and dashed down quickly. The rear exited into an alley. I could see O'Banion's dusty death trap parked at the end, poking out a good foot from the garbage dumpster that shielded it from full view.

I was ten steps away from the car when a voice behind me boomed.

"You! You there, in the sweatshirt! Halt!"

I tossed a glance over my left shoulder. My heart galloped in my chest wildly. It was them! Raver. Briarwood. They were still several yards away.

I grabbed the handle on the door.

"FBI! Stop or I'll shoot!" Briarwood yelled.

I yanked the door open. A millisecond later, the blast from his gun echoed down the shaft of space between buildings. Something burned, horribly bad; I felt my right leg start to buckle. Son of a bitch shot me!

I jumped into the car and started the engine and slammed my foot down on the accelerator as a hail of bullets flew. One hit the mirror outside the window. I ducked and kept going while blood gushed from my right thigh.

"Motherfucker!" I screamed. "I will kill you for this!"

Chapter 38

Raver

I couldn't believe it.

Briarwood was still chasing the car, emptying his clip after he opened fire on Castillo. Once again, we didn't get more than a glimpse of his face in profile when he turned to look over his shoulder.

Now I stood over scant droplets of his blood on the dirty pavement in the alley.

Briarwood joined me a moment later, his phone out as he dialed. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled with a fierce kick into the dumpster.

"Agent Gage Briarwood. Suspect is driving a late model Dodge, filthy vehicle, either black or dark brown. The driver's side exterior mirror is shattered. Because I shot it! I think the tags on the vehicle were either Arizona or New Mexico. He's speeding away from the vicinity of the Sheriff's Department. Suspect has been shot in the right leg. I need blood evidence collected from the scene where he was hit. I want that DNA processed and entered into CODIS now."

He shoved the phone back in his pocket and kicked the dumpster again. "How the hell did you know he hung around to watch this time? Talk about a suicide move!"

"You should put the local hospitals on alert, Gage. He's going to need medical attention for that gunshot wound. He can't get far without treatment."

"Son of a..."

"I know you're frustrated. We got close, but he hasn't slipped through our fingers."

"Yet," Briarwood muttered. "Who is this asshole? And more important, what the hell was Newburgh doing out here? Son, I don't think you realize or are prepared for the shit storm that's about to descend upon us."

"Because of the congresswoman?"

He nodded. "Jesus, Jay. How the hell did you know that bomb was a dummy?"

"He wouldn't have wanted to destroy his masterpiece," I said. "Provided he left one on Brick's body. I'd really like to know what he was doing out here too."

"I'll tell you," Briarwood started pacing, half a circle away from the droplets of blood, and then back. "He couldn't let it go. He couldn't accept that the boss took his case away from him. Mark my words. We'll dig into what he's been doing since his tantrum in Boston last Monday. We'll find that he's been either searching for Castillo on his own, or shadowing me."

"But why? If he was that dedicated to finding the Night Lotus, he could've done it long ago," I said. "With his background in psychology—"

"It had nothing to do with actually doing the work, Jay," Briarwood said. "I told you that he was worthless as tits on a boar. All flash, no substance. He disdained investigative methods. He thought his brilliance should direct those of us he deemed appropriate for the grunt work. He didn't want to be quite so hands-on. And his presence out here makes absolutely no sense."

"Then you don't know why he'd put himself in harm's way?" I asked.

"It's the antithesis of the man I knew," he said. "He must've been pissed that he was taken off the case, you know, like trying to prove something to everybody."

"Oh he proved something all right," I muttered. "He proved that Castillo was paying far more attention to what was right around the corner than we were."

"Dammit, I wish I'd gotten a better look at him," Gage cursed and kicked the dumpster again.

"He's very good at only giving a glimpse," I said. "Myrtle, she was an aberration. I'd imagine that Castillo has perfected the art of average and unmemorable."

"He'd have to, wouldn't he? Nobody lives in this day and age without interacting with people at all." His cell phone rang and interrupted. "Briarwood."

I tuned out with one ear. Something was happening on the street. I started walking toward the end of the alley where Castillo made his escape, only to be confronted with a throng of pushing and shoving reporters, their shouted questions at me hitting with the force of a battering ram.

I held up one hand, like that would ward off the media beast.

Briarwood stepped in front of me. "FBI. Back off! This is an active crime scene, and unless you all want to be charged with evidence tampering and interfering with a federal investigation into a terrorist act—"

They backed away, but the shouted questions continued.

"Detective Raver, was this the Night Lotus? Were you aware that we were contacted about the murder today by someone on Twitter using the name Castillo and the account Real Night Lotus?"

"The detective has no comment. Leave now before I call the sheriff and have you all taken into custody."

"The First Amendment—"

"Doesn't give you the right to interfere in our investigation. You've got five seconds to back up to the barricade and get off this street."

As Gage issued his final warning, the city police arrived and started moving them back to where they'd originally been.

I had my phone out, browsing to Twitter where I found the tweet in question. "Jesus Christ."

"He's on friggin' Twitter?"

I nodded. "He loves his fan base. Since he made that tweet less than an hour ago, he's already got seventy-five thousand followers."

"Hell no," Briarwood uttered the sentiment three times before finding something else to kick. "They're gonna feed this monster's ego, aren't they?"

"Unfortunately, I don't think Castillo needs much help in that regard. We need to get this account shut down, Gage."

"We need to trace it," he said. "This might be the best and easiest way to track this bastard. They keep records."

I snorted. "Think about what you're suggesting. Castillo may have outed himself by the name he uses with his clients, but he's no less savvy than to set up his account with anything less than a completely untraceable trail."

"But if he starts communicating with these people, we could learn things...important things about him. It could be that he just let his monstrous ego slide into the driver's seat. A mistake, Jay. He just made a big mistake."

"Contact the company," I said. "I doubt it'll get us any closer to him, and this account proves nothing. It doesn't mean it's Castillo. For all we know, it could be one of his groupies."

"One who knew about the murder today?" he asked. Briarwood's forehead creased, and I could almost read the dissent on the tip of his tongue.

"He's worked with a partner in the past. Maybe he's found a replacement for O'Banion."

"Bullshit," he said. "And you know it's bullshit. You were the one who had the instinct that Castillo hung around. Tell me you really believe he didn't get pissed off at the lack of attention his latest escapade received."

"It wasn't so much instinct as it was relying on his behavior over the past week, Gage. After he ratted out O'Banion, what did he do? He went to Dick's Diner to hang out and see what happened next. When he bombed the ambulance he thought carried me, what did he do? He hung around the scene and drew his masterpiece. After he used C4 to flush us out of the ME's office in Boston, what did he do? He went around the corner and down the street to leave another signature on a wall that time. He did the same thing on the side of a mountain after he slaughtered Truman Hoyt. This is his pattern. Do I know for certain that he hung around before, when he was still working with O'Banion? No, but considering how much attention the man's breath alone drew, I'd say this is Castillo's behavior and doesn't represent how he behaved when it was a partnership. Hell, having O'Banion in the equation made laying low a matter of survival, no matter how much Castillo might've wanted to see what kind of attention they were getting."

Briarwood rubbed his forehead roughly. "Maybe that's why he felt the need to get some attention and credit elsewhere."

"Possibly," I said.

"But you think it wasn't that simple," he replied.

"I don't think the kind of narcissism Castillo has is simple at all."

"That call I just got...it was about his car," Briarwood said. "They found it abandoned six blocks from here. Castillo's in the wind."

"How much blood?" I asked.

"Enough, but not fatally enough. At least not yet," he said, mouth twisted in disgust. "We can't seem to catch a break with this guy. The alert to all hospitals in Arizona and New Mexico is out. Gunshot wounds are in the mandatory reporting category anyway, but I expect we'll be getting more than a couple of calls."

"He's not going to a hospital," I said. "We'd be more likely to find his mummified remains in the desert somewhere than we would finding him in a hospital getting medical attention."

"It was a through and through," Briarwood sighed. "They found a bullet hole in the panel of the interior driver's door. He won't need to dig out any lead, that's for sure."

We were joined by more crime scene techs. Briarwood jerked his head toward the opposite end of the alley. "They've got this, Jay. I think we should look for any point where Castillo might've been watching the show."

"The building across the street from the sheriff's office is high enough. We already know he likes rooftops."

"Let's go."

It took about five seconds to find Castillo's crude engraving in the concrete. Briarwood lost his temper and started kicking things again.

"Calm down," I said. "He's getting to you, and it's exactly what he wants."

"You're still stitched shut from what he did to you, and you're telling me to calm down? What happened to Brick might well have happened to you too, Jay. Don't tell me to calm down."

I peered up at him from where I crouched over Castillo's latest message. "You're afraid of him."

"Damn skippy, I'm afraid. Not just for myself, but for the unsuspecting public, even for the Twitter morons following this guy. We have reason to fear him. The longer he's out there, the more at risk people are."

"He's the injured party," I said. "Now he knows how it feels."

"This asshole isn't capable of empathy," Gage snarled. "Did you miss that somehow?"

"I know he isn't, but if he thought he was invincible, which hanging out to watch after he commits his crimes, or bragging about them because he wants to create his own legend, those things indicate he doesn't believe he'll be caught. I don't know how I sense this about him, but I do. He doesn't want to be caught. He wants to win."

"What's the friggin' prize?" he muttered.

"I don't know. I don't think he knows. He's just compelled to prove that he's the smartest, that he's unstoppable, that he will win the game I guess."

"People's lives are not games."

I nodded. "Yeah, we both know that. But you're not gonna catch this guy thinking like Gage Briarwood. I'm not going to catch him thinking as Jay Raver. We have to know more about him if we're going to understand him."

"Without his goddamned name. Right. Good luck with that."

"Hold on. It's not like we have nothing. We've got all the previous crimes. We've got Hank O'Banion's identity. So let's get back to the idea that we need to track this back to the beginning. It's not going to make anybody happy. They're gonna want results right now, and I say let them initiate an all-out manhunt for this guy. But we've gotta take this in a smarter direction. He's never going to be caught if we limit ourselves to one approach, Gage. I think you know that as well as I do."

"So let the tech guys go after his online presence."

I nodded.

"And the locals, the US Marshals, anybody else who wants to help do the manhunt."

"The forensics guys can tackle anything Castillo might've left behind with any of his victims. But we have to stay focused on who he is, what created such a monster. If we do that, I think we'll have our best shot not just in helping focus everybody else in the search for him, but really pinpointing where he's going based on what he's already done. I'm still not convinced that Father Ryan was the first victim Castillo and O'Banion killed, but I think it's the place where we have to start."

"I've been over every single element of that case, Raver," Briarwood started pacing again. "I'd imagine you have too. What makes you so sure it wasn't the first one?"

I shrugged. How could I explain it without sounding like a lunatic or flat out lying? I could always claim that O'Banion told me Ryan wasn't the first.

"What?"

"You're gonna think I'm nuts," I said.

"Isn't that mistake sort of what began this whole nightmare for you? Somebody above you thought you were nuts and didn't take any of this as seriously as they should've."

Somebody.

Kelsey Maclaren.

"Jay, her death wasn't your fault. Let it go."

"If she'd remained in denial, she'd be alive."

"Stop talking like a lunatic. Tell me where your instinct is leading."

"It was just a sense I had from the photos from the first crime scene we know about," I said. "That drawing. I keep coming back to it."

"That's the one where he used that stick thing Catholics use to light prayer candles and drew on the altar cloth, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "Kind of like a doodle on a cocktail napkin."

"Okay. I'll even go so far as to agree with you," Briarwood said. "So how does this make Ryan not the first murder?"

"Because he was bored already," I said. "Bored, doodling, waiting for O'Banion to do his thing so they could get out and collect payment maybe. You don't make some bored little doodle during the adrenalin of the first kill. I'm sorry. It just doesn't work that way."

He frowned. "You might be onto something. But without that signature, we'd be looking for what? Violent murders involving knife wounds. To my knowledge, until O'Banion was killed, they didn't use anything but blades."

"Right. And if we continue to operate under the theory that Father Ryan's murder was located in an area where they had inherent comfort because it was geographically familiar, we could narrow that search to unsolved cases involving violent stabbing murders."

Briarwood shook his head. "With the love of the game this guy has? His sense of irony for his kills? No way. We need to take a look at all murders committed with knives in the southwest, both open and solved. Imagine the havoc they might've caused setting somebody else up for a murder, Jay. If that was the game before Castillo got bored and started signing the crime scenes..."

"There could be innocent people incarcerated, maybe even on death row."

I felt his sense of urgency as keenly as Briarwood felt mine. He had his phone out, calling for another team to sweep the rooftop for any other evidence Castillo might've left behind.

His call waiting interrupted the conversation. "I have to take another call, sheriff, but I expect you to coordinate fully with the field office and the Tucson police."

Gage cringed when he saw the ID on his screen. He answered the call and turned his back to me. "Sir," he said. A long pause followed. "Alright. I'm going to put you on speaker so Detective Raver can be apprised of what's happening too."

A moment later, "Detective Raver, this is Deputy Assistant Director Glen Harvey. Firstly, welcome back to the fold. If you would be so kind as to not spread our resources any thinner in the future and remain with Agent Briarwood, I'd appreciate it."

"Sorry about that, sir."

"Secondly, the local media has somehow learned the identity of your latest victim. One of them contacted the office of Congresswoman Newburgh for comment on her son falling victim to the Night Lotus."

"Shit," I muttered.

"My sentiments exactly," he said. "We have no choice but to task force this investigation now. Even as I speak, a group agents from the US Marshal service and the FBI who specialize in hunting fugitives is being formed. It seems the congresswoman, other than demanding my balls on a platter, is insisting that you and Agent Briarwood be allowed nowhere near this investigation."

"But sir," Briarwood immediately protested.

"I told her to go to hell a bit more explicitly this time. But I don't want you wasting time on the manhunt. I want you focused on figuring out who this bastard is."

"He's wounded, Glen," Gage said. "I think they'll have a real shot at catching him. He's not going to be as mobile this time."

"You got a shot?" he asked.

"Hit him with a through and through to the right thigh. We've already got alerts out to hospitals in the region. Jay doesn't think he'll go to a hospital though."

"Then figuring out who he is and where he'd go to treat his own wound is going to be of the utmost importance, Gage. I want twice daily status reports. I shouldn't have to explain why."

"No sir. No explanation necessary."

Gage and I looked at each other, maybe measuring a bit whether or not we were up to the task ahead of us, or if Castillo would continue to elude capture and kill.

Chapter 39

Castillo

Swear to Christ, fever set in before I ditched the second car and climbed into a third. I was bleeding like a mother right after it happened. It gushed at first, so I stripped off my belt and made a tourniquet on my mid-thigh just above the wound when I ditched O'Banion's car a few blocks from where that bastard Briarwood shot me.

The pain was so intense, like a white-hot blade through my brain. And I couldn't believe that stupid FBI agent shot me. What if he was wrong, and I was just some scared as shit reporter who didn't want to get caught being in the wrong place in the hunt for a scoop on the story of the year?

He didn't know, couldn't have known. "This is the problem with cops today," I said through clenched teeth. The belt probably made the pain worse by cutting off circulation to all the rest of my leg. I felt weak, dizzy. I just wasn't sure if it was from blood loss or pain. Maybe it was both. I wasted so much time, precious minutes that may well have ticked down to my last on earth, just to find a car they couldn't track with GPS. I never took much time to think about the annoyance of such things until boosting cars became a necessity.

So I drove away from Tucson into the desert in the world shittiest late '90s Plymouth Neon known to mankind. Whoever own this one beat the hell out of it, and the filth inside probably contributed more to my growing fever than anything else.

I couldn't stop somewhere and ask for help with my wound. Hell no, even I knew that the cops had probably alerted every hospital and clinic from the Mississippi to Pacific, Canada to Mexico. I was too bloody to stop at a convenience store and stock up on bandages and peroxide or rubbing alcohol.

The only remotely antiseptic substance in my possession was the last two bottles of rotgut that I snatched from O'Banion's trunk before running.

I wanted to kill Briarwood in the worst, most painfully gruesome manner ever conceived. The racks, hot oil? Child's play. Disembowelment was too kind for what that motherfucker had done to me.

There was no way to abandon that vile car and make it on foot to the cabin. My only hope was that the tree cover would be enough to hide it from overhead, should anyone looking for me fly this far out into the middle of nowhere in the search. I simply didn't have the strength to hike in for as many miles as it was on foot. Besides, leaving the car anywhere in the vicinity of this place would lead them right to me. Once I had the wound under control, then...then I could worry about ditching the car or maybe hiding it better than it was parked under trees.

I limped into the cabin and immediately checked the kerosene lamps. They were full, wicks clean and trimmed, ready for use. There was a nice pile of firewood next to the stove, in the event that I needed it during the cold mountain nights.

Maybe it would snow up here enough to hide that damned pink hunk of junk.

I went through the cupboards. Still stocked with enough supplies to last a month or more, provided I didn't die from infection first.

And speaking of infection, I had a small first aid kit up here stashed behind the curtain draped around the old sink in the bathroom. I tore it out and picked through the contents. It was a very basic collection, nothing that would provide the advanced type of care I'd need for this gaping wound in my thigh. Bastard probably thought it poetic justice to wound the same body part I targeted on Raver. At least his aim was for shit. He could've killed me.

Then again, as I peeled my pants off and looked at the angry wound, already inflamed and hot, still oozing stuff that didn't look so very normal at all, maybe Briarwood had taken a kill shot.

It was going to be the worst pain I'd ever experienced in my life. I knew this before I popped the lid off the bottle of rubbing alcohol. What do I know about this shit? I wasn't even sure that pouring rubbing alcohol in the wound would help clean it or maybe fight some of the infection.

The phone. Yes! I hobbled back out of the bathroom to my bag of goodies rescued from the trunk of O'Banion's car. After a quick search, I shuddered in relief that I'd thought to seek information before relying on shit I'd seen on television as a kid. Rubbing alcohol would've probably made the wound worse. The Internet might've been wrong, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I recalled reading that cleaning a wound with soap and water was always best.

It still felt like someone had rammed a white-hot poker through my leg, and after a good ten minutes of thoroughly cleaning and scrubbing at the wound, I felt like passing out from the pain alone. Desperation propelled me forward, carefully applying what few dressings I had in the kit to the entry and exit wounds, and then wrapping my thigh snugly with a roll of gauze.

I'd need more supplies if I planned to survive this thing at all, which meant I needed to rest for awhile and hope my strength would be restored just enough for a trip back down the mountain. There was a twenty-four hour Walmart in Silver City, which wasn't too terribly far from the cabin. I could go off-hours and maybe avoid being noticed. I'd have to do something about those Arizona plates on the car though. I wondered if Granddad had any old ones up here in the shed.

Sleep, my body begged.

I pulled the dust cover off the bed and peeled back the blankets. Shivering, I hunkered down and let my eyes drift shut. The notion that I may never wake hit just as consciousness slid away into blackest night.

Chapter 40

Raver

I looked out this morning and saw a world that was foreign to me. In the distance, I could see the spire of the US Capitol building looming in the background over the tops of businesses, hotels, shops, the like. I'd never been here before, but instead of the sense of awe I might've otherwise felt at visiting the seat of power of my country, cold dread filled my heart.

Bursts of snow flurries swirled outside the window of my hotel room, and I missed the warmth of our hunt for a chilling serial killer in the Southwest. This was not going to go well. I felt it in my bones.

My heart ached with the loss Congresswoman Newburgh had to be feeling right about now. Since Brick's murder, I learned that not only was he her only son, he was her only child.

Like my family, my brain whispered.

Children are meant to outlive their parents. At least this was a horror my mother was spared in her too-short life. I was certain, if such a thing were possible, that she was watching me and grateful that she hadn't had to live through such worrisome ache of a child whose career regularly flung him in the path of killers.

The light rap on my door pulled me back to here and now. That would be Briarwood coming to retrieve me. Today was full of meetings, the first being the most difficult of course.

I slid one hand down my chest, smoothed the imaginary wrinkles from my shirt, my black tie. I walked to the door and opened it.

Briarwood gave me a once-over. Other than the crisp white shirt, I was head to toe in appropriate funereal black. "It's time."

He offered no out. There was no question: "Are you ready?" Gage Briarwood understood as well as I did; a man could never be ready for what we faced. The best he could hope for was some understanding, some general ability to follow the complex threads in the tapestry of this investigation.

"We're not prognosticators, Jay. Even though you've been wired into the way this guy thinks, we couldn't have predicted what would happen in a million years."

"Maybe we were too visible, protecting Trujillo with SWAT. He had to know, Gage. So he changed his plan."

"Of course he knew. He was watching our every move. That's why he knew Brick Newburgh was following us, and we didn't."

It might well have been the single kindness I could expect today—that Gage included himself in who Castillo was watching. We both knew better. He was watching Trujillo because he was pissed that I hadn't shown up, as he wanted, not because I wasn't really there, but because I had changed my appearance from the easily visible blonde to the less discernible brown hair.

So the punishment death toll rose. First Maclaren. Now Newburgh.

"We may as well get this part over with," Briarwood said. "Delay won't circumvent anyway. Likely, it'll just make it worse. Just...try to keep your cool, and don't personalize what might be said to you."

Thirty minutes later, we were in the anteroom of Congresswoman Newburgh's office. Despite the bitter cold outside, my palms started sweating the second I stepped out of my hotel. I felt like a drippy, soggy mess.

The heavy mahogany door swung open, and a man in a dark suit with a red and blue striped tie stepped out. "The Congresswoman will see you now."

I wasn't sure how I made it to the threshold of that room, but I did. Inside sat a woman—in hindsight, thankfully—looked nothing like the man I'd come to vaguely know over less than a week's time. It was barely half a week. Yet somehow, I could see it in the deep, tight lines of her face. This was entirely my fault. I had performed some sort of sorcery to supplant her son with the FBI.

Another man was seated in her office and rose. "Detective Raver, we finally meet." He thrust out one hand and shook mine a bit forcefully. "I'm Deputy Assistant Director Glen Harvey. Thank you for coming this morning, for agreeing to meet with Congresswoman Newburgh about what happened in Tucson."

He didn't looked whipped. Maybe I didn't need to feel so worried.

Then the Congresswoman opened her mouth. "I don't know how to feel about you, Detective Raver. Part of me wants to hate you for somehow weaseling your way into my son's position with the FBI, but the other part of me, the rational part has decided to withhold my judgment—for the time being—to see if you're really good enough to catch the monster who murdered Brick."

Sweat popped in tiny beads on my forehead. I felt the eruption there first, but it quickly migrated everywhere.

Gage cleared his throat and glanced at me. What the hell was I supposed to say or do?

The words flew out of my mouth without much forethought. "No one is sorrier for his death than I am, ma'am. If you think I don't blame myself for what happened to Brick, to my own commanding officer, you'd be so very wrong."

She blinked slowly. Twice.

Gage's jaw dropped.

Harvey's did the same, accompanied by a bug-eyed stare.

"If I'd done what I wanted to do in the first place, none of this would be happening right now."

She was clearly taken aback by anger—not directed at me, but at the Deputy Assistant Director of the FBI. "And what was your plan, Detective Raver?" her words were sharp, biting, bitter.

"He wanted to sacrifice himself, march out and put his life in that lunatic's hands," Gage growled. His expression was dark and focused solely on me. "The dumbest plan in the history of law enforcement if you don't mind my saying so, Congresswoman. While your son had studied our suspect for a long time, he never went at the open cases the way Jay has. He never looked at the crimes through the eyes of the killer, only the reports and evidence gathered by cops who showed up to clean up the messes."

She stared at the gleaming surface of her desk. I was almost close enough to make out her reflection in the wood and read what sort of turbulence flickered in her eyes. Finally, her chin lifted. She stared at me, hard. "I want your promise, detective. You must not do anything foolish that would prevent this serial killer from being brought to justice. Surely you realize your death will not prevent him from killing more innocents. I may hate you, but I don't wish you dead."

I understood and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Tell me how you're going to capture this man."

Her question was one that Gage and I had been kicking around for the past few weeks. The search for Castillo turned up absolutely nothing. It was becoming a running joke that one of the tabloids that claimed—sarcastically—that perhaps the Night Lotus had been abducted by aliens.

Nobody vanishes without a trace. But Castillo had. There were no reports of gunshot victims in any hospital in the Southwest that could've been his specific injury. The car he'd stolen in Tucson—a Pepto-Bismol pink atrocity—hadn't popped up anywhere yet. His body hadn't been discovered. If not for the amount of blood found in his abandoned car, I think both Gage and I would've doubted what we saw happen in that alley.

I opened my mouth to speak honestly again. This time, Harvey had an inkling that I wouldn't follow the bureau's party line of revealing as little as possible to anyone about plans to apprehend criminals.

"Congresswoman, you may be assured that we are using a multi-pronged approach backed by decades of experienced field agents working this case. We will find him, capture him, and bring him to justice as swiftly as possible."

She smiled thinly, never taking her eyes from mine. "That's all well and good, Deputy Assistant Director, but I was addressing this man who has somehow captured the blind faith of the FBI. I want to know how he intends to determine this man's next move. It seems to me the trail is growing colder by the second, Detective Raver."

I shrugged and glanced at Harvey. He gave me a barely perceptible nod. "I'll keep doing what I've been doing, ma'am. He'll show his face online again—so to speak—if he's still alive. The only thing that would prevent him from going back to where he's getting the attention he wants is death. We'll have to play it by ear until then."

"So you sit around waiting?" she demanded.

"No, ma'am, we start looking at everything he's done in the past with fresh eyes," I said.

"Because Brick's attentiveness wasn't enough for the FBI."

"Gentlemen, if you'd leave now, I'd like to speak with Mrs. Newburgh alone," Harvey said. "We'll talk in my office."

Gage closed the door behind us. "Well, all things considered, I think that went very well."

"She hates me," I muttered.

"Jesus, Raver. Where's all this guilt coming from? You're a cop. You had a good instinct that turned into a solid lead. You're not responsible for what this asshole Castillo does. I gotta say, the martyr bit is wearing thin."

"You didn't like Brick Newburgh," I said. "Oh, maybe it was nothing personal, but your dislike was professional. I barely saw you extend him any respect or common courtesy. At first, I didn't understand it. In the beginning, I liked him, much more than I did you. But then I saw a glimpse of what you were dealing with. He might not have been a great agent. Perhaps he was entitled, a little on the lazy side even. Nobody deserves to die the way he did, Gage. Nobody."

"And we didn't make Brick resign from the FBI in a fit of temper, nor did we suggest that he shadow our investigation without any legal authority to do so. He knew how bad Castillo was. He made a bad choice, Jay."

The door to the congresswoman's office flew open, and Harvey stormed out. "I thought I told you to get back to the Hoover Building."

"Sir, we left the office about a minute ago," Gage said. "What's wrong? Is she—?"

"This isn't about that woman," he cut Gage off with an impatient snarl. "There's been an incident."

My stomach felt inverted, twisted around upside down and backwards. "Castillo?" I barely whispered. God, in that instant I realized how much I hoped we'd find his bones in the desert somewhere, the carcass picked clean by vultures and coyotes.

"We won't know for sure until the two of you get a look at what we've got so far. There are similarities."

"Where's the crime scene?" Gage asked.

"We have no friggin' idea," Harvey said. "The bastard posted a video on the Internet. Tech is trying to trace the location."

My blood chilled to an icy flow of slush that slogged through my veins. I shivered. "What makes them think it's Castillo?" I asked.

"Apparently, he's labeled his crime scene with his graffiti tags again," Harvey said. "Let's go. I want your take on this, Raver. Right now, you're the one who seems to get this guy better than anybody else."

We rode back to the Washington bureau, lights flashing, sirens blaring. I stared out the window of the vehicle feeling numb beyond measure. I really believed he was dead. The thought repeated on a loop in my head. I really believed he was dead. Over and over again.

Harvey hustled us into a conference room where agents with tech hunched over doing whatever it was they did. Others pored over old case files—presumably from Castillo's previous crimes. Two others attached crime scene photos on a dry erase board with magnets.

The second Harvey stomped into the room, he commanded attention. "You all know Gage Briarwood. This is our outside taskforce member, Detective Jameson Raver from the Maine State Police."

Nobody acknowledged me with more than a bit of a startled stare that quickly dropped behind the cool veneer of the professional federal agent. There was no stew of intensity bubbling and boiling among these men and women, no pity, no genuine curiosity about what I'd been through, what I knew or how I figured it out.

"You," he snapped his fingers. "Brady, do that AV thing you do and make it big enough for everybody to see. None of this smart tablet bullshit on this one."

A screen lowered from the ceiling. A moment later, the video began to play. The video opened with a script: You have forty-eight hours before she dies. A shuddering camera shot followed, panning from tied ankles up to the cord knotted around what were clearly a victim's wrists. She was still alive.

The shot bounced away from the delicate bones of wrists, hands and fingers to a drawing on the wall.

I took one look at it and knew. I grabbed Briarwood's bicep and squeezed hard. "That's not Castillo," I said. "That flower is a lotus. It's not Castillo."

Harvey looked at me, the gravest expression I'd ever seen on his face. "Then we all agree."

"It could be a partner," I said.

"Or a copycat," Briarwood sighed. "This is not what we need right now."

"Regardless," Harvey said. "This is the fresh lead. This is the vic who wasn't yet dead by the time he posted the video."

"You'll notice," Brady piped up, "this thing's gone viral already. Two million views and change."

"Christ, shut that site down," Harvey yelled. "Now, people! We're the goddamned FBI. I will not have this jerk off playing games like this with an Internet full of fools and imbeciles I'm not convinced possess opposable thumbs perpetuating it."

He paused and impaled Gage and me with a hard stare. "I'm torn. Do I yank you off the cold case we have no choice but classify this Night Lotus idiot as, and send you after whoever this is, or—"

"We've got to take this case, sir," I interrupted. "It's not Castillo's drawing, at least not as we've witnessed them previously. I can't say with absolute certainty that this isn't him. Castillo loves attention, and he loves yanking our chain. I can't put it past him, a slight change in part of his ritual."

"That's not how rituals work," Gage said. "Even I know that much."

"Unless Castillo's real ritual is to show us how much smarter he is than everyone else," I said. "My gut says it isn't his drawing. But the attention grab online? The idea of getting one of his murder plots going viral? That's a very Castillo thing to do."

"Sir," Brady said. "I think you should be aware that this video was posted about sixteen hours ago. We don't have forty-eight before he kills the victim. This girl is going to have to be all of our focus, right now. Right away."

It was a horrible thought, but it popped into my head, just about at the same moment that it occurred to Briarwood. The only way we'd probably be completely certain if it was Castillo or not was if the victim died.

"Let's go," Briarwood said. "Brady's right. We haven't got a lot of time."

I got halfway to the door behind him when the urge to empty my stomach hit. If this wasn't Castillo, there were now two of them again, and I didn't know if I had the fortitude to face another duo.

By the time we got back to my hotel room, I needed a good fifteen minutes alone in the bathroom to empty my gut of sickness at the mere notion of the terror that victim was experiencing.

Over the past couple of weeks, Briarwood and I had looked at all of the known Night Lotus murders, gone over every single one of them with a fine-toothed comb. It helped narrow our search parameters for the investigation that lay ahead of us. During the O'Banion years, torture was a consistent element, along with the disorganized nature of the crime scenes. Post-O'Banion, it was clear that Castillo was the organized element in their crimes. He also favored quick kills, and did what would've been torturous postmortem.

I came out of the bathroom, still mopping cold sweat from my brow.

Briarwood eyed me warily. "I know how much you blame yourself for all of this, Jay, but really, you need to stop. What he's doing, it isn't about you at all."

"And his games directed at me?" I asked.

His eyes widened, and he whipped out his phone. "Send me hardcopy of that video online. Yeah, the actual file, and don't bullshit me about not having it downloaded and saved for evidence. We need to see it again. I had a thought."

He ended the call as tersely as it had begun. A few moments later, he had the video playing on his phone. "Step away from the emotion, Jay. Look at this video and tell me what you don't see."

I watched it three times. "I'm not sure what you think I should notice," I said. "He has a live victim, restrained with something that looks like telephone cable. She's alive. He pans to his drawing that actually does look like the lotus."

"Where's the Raver taunt?" he asked.

I frowned. "He only did that once, Gage, at the golf course in Tucson."

"And the plant arrangement he sent to Maclaren's funeral," he reminded me.

"The video itself could be the taunt. And if he's found another partner, who's to say he shared his deepest, darkest games with him?"

Gage Briarwood shook his head and started pacing. "No," he repeated as he traversed the limited space in my room again and again. "I don't think so. We haven't heard a peep from Castillo for weeks, Jay. That gunshot wound could've been fatal. We know he didn't get medical attention."

"Maybe he knew a doctor somewhere who wouldn't report it. You know it happens, charlatans who don't give a damn about practicing medicine within the boundaries of the law. Or he could've found a nurse with emergency room experience to treat him. There are a thousand ways he could've survived and been back to a hundred percent while staying off our radar."

"My gut says this isn't Castillo," Briarwood said. "It's too different. You told me, convinced me that this signature of his is like a compulsion now. We know from Senator Farnsworth's confession that he agreed not to sign his work when he killed her wife. But he had to do it anyway."

I nodded. "But there is a drawing, Gage."

"You realize that how this victim dies will tell us definitively if it's Castillo or a copycat, right?"

"He might have a partner," I spoke quietly. Dread choked me again.

"Watch the video again. Absorb everything you possibly can. Don't ignore any detail, no matter how small," he said.

"We'll never find her in thirty-two hours."

Gage, still fond of kicking things, bashed his foot into one of the chairs at the small table. "She's probably dead already, and you know it. Why would he all of a sudden give us time to find a victim and save her? It's bullshit, I tell you. This is so far outside Castillo's game it couldn't be more different."

"Maybe that's the taunt, and when we find her, there will be another message," I said.

"So let's find her. Watch the video again."

I did. In spite of my dread, and sweat, and wrenching nausea. I watched that damned video for what felt like hours.

Gage was relentless. "What did you see?"

"She's struggling," I said.

"Watch it again."

It went on until I felt completely numb to the terror in those clenching fingers and futilely twisting wrists.

"The building," I leaned closer to the small screen on Gage's phone.

"Yes? What about the building, Jay?" he mimicked my position and watched while I played the video again. "I'll be damned."

"It's abandoned. The floor is dirt."

"Bone dry dirt," he added. His eyes sparkled with determination. "It seems likely, given the time of year, that this woman's abduction and murder is ongoing in a dry state, Jay. One that isn't riddled with the normal headaches of winter."

"That's still a lot of territory to cover." I glanced at my watch. "We'll never find her in twenty-seven hours."

"She's dead already, and you know it. Finding her answers the question, Jay. It's gonna tell us if Castillo is mended and on the rampage, or not."

"But it could be a partner," I insisted.

"And what if it isn't?"

I shook my head. "I can't deal with two of them."

"You'd best figure out how, and right away, Jay, because I'm not gonna have this bastard cloning himself with all the narcissistic wannabes out there. You feel me?"

"Yeah," I whispered thickly. "I feel ya."

Still, I suffered a bone deep chill, and a nausea that would not abate. I knew Briarwood was right. We wouldn't find a survivor, but another victim.

God only knew how far Castillo would be into his next job by the time we uncovered the motive for the death of the poor woman in the video.

