

BEHOLDER'S EYE

CENTRAL DIVISION SERIES

BOOK 1

A Novel Written

By

Mark S. R. Peterson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 © Mark S. R. Peterson

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DEDICATION

To Melissa,

For always believing, even in our roughest times.

To the Permanent Ink Writers Group,

(Evelyn, Amanda, Jo, and Ted)

a huge thanks goes out for all your support

and thoughtful criticism of my stories.

Thanks for those few souls who have _always_

supported my dreams – you know who you are . . .

Then there are those who didn't support me and told me to

"be realistic" and "just get a job like everyone else"

– ha, look at me now, sucka!

Thanks to the men and women of the law enforcement community

who risk their lives every day for our freedoms. Also, for those

who have died in the line of duty (including one, Mike Staples, whom

I personally knew) my hat is off to you all. God Bless!

And to God,

thanks for everything!
PROLOGUE

Stephanie turns down the side street, and floors it.

"Whoa, Mom, slow down," her daughter Kelsey says, bracing a hand up on the dash.

"I can't, I'm gonna be late."

Kelsey pulls out her phone. "I have time. I can walk from here. It's not _that_ far."

Stephanie slows as she comes to a four-way stop sign—one of three, and _this_ is supposed to be a shortcut—and, once she determines no other cars are nearby, she rolls on through the crosswalk and accelerates.

"Seriously, Mom, I can walk. It won't take me long."

She soon comes to the second stop sign.

Ding!

She peers down at the gas gauge. The yellow low fuel light is on.

No, no, no! Mr. Perkins is gonna yell at me if I'm late again. Christ, why does this have to happen to me? I wish we wouldn't have needed to use Kelsey's car fund to pay for some of Joe's medical bills. But we had to. I suppose I could dip into the life insurance savings he left us and get her something. It'll have to be safe. And cheap.

She stops.

Fifth and Franklin. Okay, with the school only five blocks away, she should be okay. If I take a left here, I think there's a Holiday station on the way I can hit. Then I should get to work on time. But I have to go right now.

"Okay," Stephanie says. "Be safe."

Kelsey grabs her bag and purse. "I always am, Mom."

As soon as her daughter exits, she takes a hard left and speeds away, well past the speed limit.

Thank God no cops are nearby.

* * *

Claudia Raynes sits at the dining room table, and sets her backpack on the floor. "Dad's coming home tonight?" she asks.

Her Mom, Anna, picks up her cell. "His plane should be landing in ninety minutes."

"Too bad I can't stay home from school to see him. Is he going into work today?"

Anna shakes her head. "He promised he wouldn't go in until tomorrow. Unless a huge crisis comes up."

Claudia's younger sisters, Emily and June, skip downstairs, each wearing shirts bearing their favorite Disney characters. "Dad's coming home?" asks Emily, the middle child, glancing back towards the front door.

"Yeah, Daddy!" June exclaims.

"He'll be here when Mom gets done with work," says Claudia.

"He promised to take us to King Chester's when he got back," Emily says. "Can we go, Mom? Please, can we? I know it's a school night and all, but he promised."

Anna grins. "As long as I can get my own personal veggie pizza, we all can go."

"Yeah!"

"So, Dad isn't going to be like an FBI agent or anything, right?" asks Claudia. She opens her backpack, and pulls out her history homework. She checks her answers for probably the tenth time.

Good, I was right. I was worried I wrote something different for the question on Lincoln's Gettysburg speech.

"No, he was just training at their academy," Anna says. "All new investigators go there."

"What's a cademy?" asks June.

"An _academy_ is like school for adults," Claudia says.

June giggles. "Daddy had to go back to school?"

"You know where he's been for the past eight weeks. Did you think he went to Disney World or something?"

June giggles again while taking a bowl out of the cupboard. "That would be fun."

"He's gonna go back to working his weird hours again, isn't he?" Claudia asks her Mom. "I hated it when he worked his vampire hours."

"I don't think he'll be doing night shifts," Anna says. "But they could be longer days, depending on if he's working on a large investigation."

I hope not.

* * *

When the blue car races over from the other side of the street, skidding to a stop right next to her, Kelsey wonders if it's one of her friends showing off their new car.

Or Greg.

No, it wouldn't be Greg. He loves his crotch rocket too much. That's why we only lasted two months.

In a flash, the driver leaps out and smacks her alongside the neck. The last thing she remembers before completely blacking out is being tossed into the back seat.

CHAPTER ONE

Kolin Raynes unpacks from his eight-week hiatus at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, when the house phone rings—it's an almost alien sound as he's so used to hearing the _Hawaii Five-O_ ringtone on his cell.

He looks at the caller ID.

"VCU, huh?" he asks, wondering if it's his best friend Simon welcoming him home.

"I've been trying your cell for the past ten minutes," Captain Lewis Mack, Kolin's new boss at the Minneapolis PD's Violent Crime Unit, says. "Why didn't you answer it?"

Kolin runs his hands along his pockets. "Sorry, sir, I must've left it out in the Expedition."

Then, he hears something that stops him cold: "We need you in here today. There's an Amber Alert issued for our area. A teenage girl was reported being dragged into a dark blue car along the north side of Minneapolis."

Kolin's plan for the day had been simple, since his official starting day isn't until tomorrow: once he'd arrive back home, he'd unpack and unwind, his mind swimming from the intense training he underwent as a part of his new job. Then, when Anna would come home from her high-level job at the IRS, he'd fulfill a promise he made to his three daughters by taking them out to King Chester's, a local pizzeria known for its elaborate play area.

"Why is VCU involved, sir?" Kolin asks. "Shouldn't the street cops follow up on this?"

"They are, but asked for our assistance when eyewitnesses gave a description of the UNSUB as wearing all black clothing, including a face mask, matching the other two snatch-and-grabs we've had over the past two weeks."

While in college, he would've given his right arm to be an FBI special agent, so his recent training, in a way, was like a dream come true. Just one that had passed, like so many others.

He grew up in Hibbing, Minnesota, and his many life-long aspirations were greatly influenced by popular culture. When he first watched the _Rocky_ movies, he wanted to be a boxer. Early one Saturday morning, he started running around their small suburban home. After a half-dozen laps, however, he went inside and ate a bowl of Captain Crunch. His boxing career was officially over.

After he got accepted to Bemidji State University, he had no idea on a major. There were so many to choose from. He perused the course catalog, eliminating those fields of study he had no interest in while earmarking the ones that peaked even a little curiosity.

One night that summer, he watched _America's Most Wanted_. This time the events drew a little closer to home as the show featured the brutal murder of a teenage girl in a small northwestern Minnesota town. He then spied, within the tall stack of movies next to the TV, one of his favorites: _Silence of the Lambs._ "That's it," he said.

"What's it?" his dad asked.

"I know what my major is going to be." He turned to one of the earmarked pages. "Criminal justice," he said. "I'm going to be an FBI agent."

He graduated with a 3.2 GPA, married Anna, and readily applied to the Federal Bureau of Investigations. But after a battery of written and physical exams, as well as an intense interview, he was not selected.

"Things happen for a reason," his dad said to him.

"Hope you're right," Kolin said. He could always apply again after working as a cop for a few years, gaining the necessary field experience that would make the FBI take notice.

But he never did.

"I'm teaming you up with Simon Templeton," Captain Mack says. "He'll get you up to speed on what we have so far. Oh, before I forget, you received a package in the mail here. It has an odd return address too. Part of it looks like it's in code. The street address itself is something you'll have to check on, to see if it's even real. Don't worry, it's been scanned. They said it looks like a VHS video tape. God, I haven't seen one of those things in ages. It'll be sitting on your desk when you get here."

Kolin peers over at a picture of his three daughters. Last summer, he built a large L-shaped wooden swingset, with swings on one side, a set of rings on the other, and a tower connecting them. The directions on the kit said it would take roughly eight hours to put together, which ended up being so far off the mark he considered putting a match to it when he was only halfway through after twenty hours. When he finally completed it, Claudia, Emily, and June stood in the tower and posed for a picture. The same picture he's looking at now.

"Okay," he says, disappointed that he'll have to break his promise about King Chester's. _They'll understand. I hope._ "I'll be right there, sir."
CHAPTER TWO

When Kolin steps out onto the third floor of the Minneapolis PD's Central Division Building, the sharp ebb and flow of buzzing telephones and frantic chatter strike a jarring contrast from the serene atmosphere inside the elevator. Since the Violent Crime Unit shares this floor with three other investigation units, their portion of the frenzy is undoubtedly due to today's abduction.

Cascaded across the entire floor are rows upon rows of several hundred cubicles, most of them manned by investigators in similar garb: light-colored button-down shirts, ties, khaki pants, and dark-colored suit jackets. Decorating these mini-offices are bikini calendars, Vikings or Twins memorabilia, and paper silhouette targets, many of the latter with .40 caliber-sized holes littering center-mass. Family photos are devoid in this largely masculine atmosphere, save for a few bearing kids dressed in sports uniforms.

How the hell am I supposed to find Simon in all this?

"Over here, Kolin!" a familiar voice sounds off to his right. Simon Templeton is along the far aisle, waving him over. The outer walls are lined with conference rooms and offices of the upper echelon—including that of VCU Captain Lewis Mack.

Kolin's cubicle is next to Simon's. Save for a laptop and a small, rectangular-shaped package sitting in the middle of his desk, his cubicle is bare— _but probably not for very long,_ he thinks. The package is wrapped in plain brown paper. The handwritten address is in neat block lettering. The top right corner is also loaded with stamps. _Looks to be way too many, if it's just a video tape_.

The return address reads:

NW CR 300D 120Y

11083 Robbinsdale Blvd. NE

Anoka, MN 55303

_Captain Mack was right about it looking like a code. I'll call_ _Anoka PD, but I'll bet good money the address is a fake._

"We're assigned to the three snatch-and-grabs," Simon says.

"Yeah, I heard, but I'm confused," Kolin says, looking around at the frenzy. "Who else is working on them?"

"Just us, my friend. Most of my caseload has been reassigned so we can concentrate on these. It isn't unheard of. Happens quite often when a case gets headline news." Simon sips his coffee. "How was Quantico?"

* * *

Kolin logs onto his laptop and accesses his case files. He chooses the latest one, then opens a JPEG in the victim's folder. A driver's license photo appears.

"Kelsey Marie Falk, age seventeen," Simon says. "This morning, her mother Stephanie drove her to school but dropped her off at the corner of Fifth and Franklin when she realized she was running low on gas and didn't wanna be late for work. Not long afterwards, a dark blue car, possibly a Pontiac Sunfire, crossed over from the oncoming lane and stopped next to Kelsey. The driver then jumped out, smacked her along the side of the head, threw her into his car, and peeled out in the direction of the Interstate."

"Holy Christ," Kolin says. "Talk about bold. And in broad daylight. It's like the UNSUB didn't even care about eyewitnesses."

"The first two were also like that," Simon says, nodding. "But the abduction vehicles are all different. It's possible they're stolen and the UNSUB has a drop-off car stashed somewhere, but the odd thing is no one's called in a stolen vehicle that matches any of them."

"What about Kelsey's father?"

"Died from stomach cancer a few years ago. No boyfriends either, for _both_ Kelsey and Stephanie. Unless Kelsey had one her mother didn't know about."

"That's odd, for a single mother and a seventeen-year-old girl," says Kolin.

"Let's go to the first abduction, so you can see all of them together. Maybe you'll notice a pattern I missed."

_I doubt it,_ Kolin thinks, closing out of that file and opening the first. He can tell that the size of this one is quite large, given the delay in opening it—the hourglass icon turning over and over and over. Once the file opens, he clicks on the victim's info.

"Patricia Sue Waterman, age sixteen, was abducted twelve days ago from the Arch Mall parking lot," Simon says. "The UNSUB was driving a blue Chevy Astro mini-van. Surveillance cameras there are very sparse. Only two covering that particular corner of the parking lot actually recorded it. The videos aren't real clear, sorry to say." He says this last part while pointing out the two video files.

"Eyewitnesses?" Kolin asks.

"Patricia was walking with five other girls when she was abducted," Simon says. "They were heading towards Glitzy, this little jewelry shop in the mall."

"Any leads?" asks Kolin.

"Several, but so far they've all been cleared. I interviewed all of the registered sex offenders in a twenty-mile radius, forty-seven of which are level threes. Every single one has a strong alibi. I kinda hit a road block by around day six, and then of course we had another one."

Kolin closes out of that file, and opens the next one, which is also quite large.

"Fergie Ruth Almanderez, age fifteen, was abducted six days ago along Hennepin Avenue while walking home from school," Simon says. "Three eyewitnesses said that the license plate of the UNSUB's tan-colored Cutlass Ciera looked like one you'd get at a dealership."

"Dealer plates?"

"No," Simon says. "Like the ones that have the dealership's logo on it. No one knew what dealership it was though. It's probably one of the smaller lots."

"What about Fergie's family?"

Simon leans back, crosses his arms, and says, "Fergie's mother, Adrianna, is a widow. Her husband Juan died from a hit-and-run about five years ago. You might even remember this one. Juan's car broke down on Penn Avenue, just as he got off of I-394. Since he only lived a few blocks away, he decided to walk home, but was struck from behind by some dope-heads in an older black Cadillac."

"Yeah, I think I remember that one. Didn't we find the guy's finger in the busted headlight of that Caddy?"

"Good memory," he says, patting Kolin on the back.

Kolin rubs his chin, then asks, "Her mother never remarried?"

Simon shakes his head. "Adrianna works days as a full-time grocery store clerk and three nights a week part-time as a janitor for a daycare center. She's only had two guys in her life since Juan's death and all were pretty short-lived. She told me she just didn't have time for men, with her raising three kids and working two jobs just to make ends meet."

"Do you think it's a coincidence that the last two victims came from single parent families, both having a mother as a widow?" asks Kolin.

"I thought of that, briefly, but they don't have any other connection to each other. And here's the shitty part: all three girls were taken during rush-hour traffic times. We couldn't set up any road blocks, especially on the Interstates, so we've had to rely on the media and as well as VCU's Facebook and Twitter accounts."

"What's the description of the UNSUB on the first two?" asks Kolin.

"Descriptions are near identical to today's: black clothing, including a black face mask, height is between five foot six and five eight, and weight is anywhere from one forty to one fifty."

"Huh, not a very big guy."

* * *

Kolin carefully removes the brown paper wrapping from the small package. He cuts through the tape securing the box, opens the top, and peers down at a VHS video tape sitting upon a cushion of bubble wrap. On the video's label area is a silver-colored sticker of an eyeball. Imprinted along the bottom of each corner of the video are the words: IMPERIAL and PROFESSIONAL GRADE.

He takes the tape into a nearby conference room. Since everything has been converted to digital over the past few years, he searches around and luckily finds an old VCR in a nearby storage closet. After painstakingly hooking it up, he sits back, says a little prayer of encouragement to the ancient, dusty machine, and presses PLAY.

The screen is snowy for a few seconds, then turns black. There is a muffled panting in the background as the picture focuses on a single candle.

Wondering if some of his cop buddies sent him a skin flick as a joke, he starts to smile, but remembers the cryptic return address and his expression fades.

The camera pans back. A teenage girl, fully clothed, is gagged and tied to a bed. The room is dark, save for four lit candles on either side of her. She's breathing hard, her eyes wet with tears.

Simon strides into the room. "Here you are—what the hell is this? God, that looks like Patricia. Waterman, I mean."

"From the first abduction?" asks Kolin.

Simon nods.

Just then, someone dressed in black, brandishing a butcher knife, slowly emerges from within the shadows.

The girl screams, the gag gouging into the sides of her cheeks.
CHAPTER THREE

Simon hangs up the phone and says, "When I was a kid, my grandma used to tell me to not count my chickens before they hatch. Well, I'm counting 'em now because I really think we might've just closed this case."

"You mean the return address is real?" Kolin asks.

"You knew it was real when we did a Google search," Simon says. "We just didn't know who lived there. Anoka PD said the address is for a Rick and Joy Busch, ages thirty-three and twenty-nine. According to the DMV, they own a blue Chevy Astro, which matches the vehicle Patricia was abducted in. But that's not all. They requested a house watch because they were going to be out of town for a few weeks. Take a guess when they left."

Kolin searches for the answer in the ceiling, then says, "The day Patricia was abducted."

"There you go," Simon says, slapping him on the shoulder. "If you were this sharp back in college, you would've gotten an A in Criminal Investigations instead of a B."

"Eighty-nine percent. Almost an A."

"Almost isn't good enough, my friend. But you're right. That's when. Twelve days ago."

Kolin rubs his chin and says, "I wonder if the going out of town bit was a bluff. But if it was, why would they call the cops for a house watch? They just set themselves up if they were. Doesn't make any sense. Do we have enough for a search warrant? It could just be a coincidence that they own a blue Chevy Astro and left twelve days ago."

"I agree, but check this out over here." Simon shows Kolin a secure Minnesota DOC website. "Rick is a convicted felon and registered sex offender, a low risk level one. When Rick was nineteen, he got Joy pregnant. She was only fifteen at the time. He pled guilty to third-degree criminal sexual conduct and spent eighteen months in Moose Lake."

"But I thought you interviewed all of the registered sex offenders?"

Simon nods. "Because of their high recidivism rate, I concentrated on the level threes and spot-checked only the twos that had a history of violence. I did a quick check just now on all of the level ones in the same twenty-mile radius, and I found over nine hundred."

"What about Rick's height and weight?" asks Kolin.

"Weight is one thirty-five and he's five six, which is another match. But since Rick is still on probation for another two years, we can search his residence at any time. We don't need a warrant. Now, I got in touch with his PO and told him what we had. Get this: with Rick on probation, he was prohibited from traveling out of the state, but since he's had absolutely no violations—and I mean absolutely none—Rick was granted permission to go on a trip out east to DC."

* * *

Kolin follows Simon down to the ground level, where the Fugitive SWAT Task Force is located.

Simon's cell rings. After a few minutes of back-and-forth conversation, he disconnects. "That was Forensics," he says. "They didn't find any of Rick's prints at all, but they did find Patricia's prints on the tape used to secure the package as well as on the self-adhesive stamps. Speaking of stamps, what did you find out at the post office?"

"They told me the package had to be dropped off in an outside mailbox instead of mailed directly with a postmaster," Kolin says. "I told them how many stamps were on it and the weight of the package. They said it had about three times the amount of postage needed to mail it."

"How do they know it wasn't brought inside to mail?"

"Because the postmaster would've just printed a label with the exact postage."

"Good way to avoid getting captured on any cameras."

They stop outside a SWAT briefing room. Simon pokes his head in, sees a group of five suiting up, and says to Kolin, "Forensics also said the wrapping was from a grocery bag. There wasn't any lettering on the paper to tell what store it came from, so they sent a sampling off to the FBI Crime Lab to find out the manufacturer. They could tell the wrapping was from the bottom half of a bag though. What we can hope to find at the house is the top half."

SWAT Captain Ray Smelt, an ex-Marine with close to twenty years of law enforcement experience, bursts out into the hallway and says, "Simon, I thought I heard you. Let's get on with the briefing."
CHAPTER FOUR

Over time, the details of most cases Kolin has handled over the years have grown a little fuzzy, with the exception of one—which also happens to be the very first case of his law enforcement career. Although he's seen his fair share of brutal human nature, this one is the most disturbing.

And remains unsolved, even to this day.

Before Kolin was hired by the Minneapolis PD, he worked part-time for the Glade County Sheriff's Department. Glade County is a rural farming community, one of the smallest counties in the state, located fifty miles north of the Metro area, with more gravel roads etched across its landscape than tarred ones.

During the hiring interview, Glade County Sheriff Dean Ross Jr. jokingly called him an overqualified college twerp, for all of his other deputies had two-year technical college degrees—the minimum licensing standard required by the state. But since he received only one application, Kolin got the job.

His one day of training consisted of riding around with Deputy Philip Gust, a seven-year veteran who, ironically, was also the county's last hired officer. They drove from one edge of the county to the other, Philip not saying a word for the first few hours. Then, Philip turned and asked Kolin, "Four years of college, huh? Why'd you do that? Kind of a waste of money, those extra two years. Most departments have a starting wage of around twelve, thirteen bucks an hour. Not here though. What's it at? Five bucks?"

"Five twenty-five."

"See what I mean? Should've just gone for two years. That way you could've been earning a decent living by now."

Kolin didn't quite know how to answer him. He didn't want to sound like a smartass and say that he's shooting for a job with the FBI, which _did_ require at the very least a four-year bachelor's degree. "I just figured the extra education would give me an edge over someone else," Kolin said.

"You know, most of that crap they teach you is bullshit anyway," Philip said. "When you're dealing with a drunk driver or if there's a fight at Rooster's Tavern, who cares where the first prison was built? It doesn't, does it?"

"No," Kolin said. "I guess not."

Kolin's first shift was Saturday morning. All of the other deputies, save for one, were at an annual law enforcement golf tournament in Edina. The one who stayed behind had no interest in golf, and besides from counting the years before his retirement—which were at least in the middle single-digits—Deputy Devin Cross usually spent his nightshifts dozing behind the Kettle Café.

Kolin hopped into his squad, a turd-colored Ford LTD Crown Victoria, running on seven of its eight cylinders, at 0758 hours, and radioed-in that he was 10-8: on-duty. At 0804 hours, dispatch received a frantic 911 call from Scott and Marie Sandberg. Apparently, their fourteen-year-old daughter Trisha was missing, having been last seen at a neighbor's slumber party earlier that morning.

Kolin felt his chest tightening as he sped out to the rural residence. He didn't know exactly how to proceed, but knew he had to remain calm and gather all the facts.

This notion of working alone seems dangerously odd to him nowadays, especially after working in one of the largest, most dangerous cities in Minnesota. If there's a non-critical incident in Minneapolis, no fewer than two squads respond, each with two officers inside. And at any given time, more than a dozen squads as well as SWAT could descend on a critical situation within minutes. In Glade County, however, like in many smaller communities, officers work most of their shifts alone, and back-up could sometimes be thirty or more minutes away.

Trisha Ann Sandberg was last seen walking home from a friend's house, about two miles away, around six thirty that morning, despite her parents' wishes about picking her up or allowing her friend's parents to give her a ride.

"She said she was a big girl and not to worry," Scott had told Kolin. "She walks to their place all the time, just never that early. But after we waited an hour or so and she still wasn't home, we drove out to look for her. When we couldn't find her, we called you guys."

"Why did she leave so early?" Kolin asked, remembering the few sleepovers he had when he was a kid. He didn't think there were any that he had to wake up by six thirty, let alone leave the house by then.

"Tracy and Dean Long are heading to the Wisconsin Dells," Marie said, twisting her hands back and forth, "and their daughter Angela wanted to have a birthday slumber party before they left."

"Did they give the other girls a ride home? Maybe Trisha hitched a ride with them after all."

Marie wiped her eyes, glanced over at her husband, and said, "I don't know. But Trisha insisted on walking home alone. We pleaded with her to change her mind." She choked back a few tears. "No, we're pretty sure she walked home."

The first obstacle Kolin faced—aside from his inexperience—was that there were few clues to go by. Scott thought he might've seen a white Ford Bronco driving by between six thirty and seven, but the hard-packed gravel left virtually no tracks and no one in the area knew who drove a vehicle like that.

After interviewing the Long's, and confirming that Trisha did indeed walk home, he drove back. A quarter-mile from the Sandberg's, he noticed something pink sticking out of a culvert. He jumped out, waded down into the ditch, and pulled out a pink _Hello Kitty_ sleeping bag. He then feared the worst for he saw blood splattered across the bottom of it.

Kolin, the other deputies, and dozens of volunteers, combed the countryside, searching for Trisha. Nothing was found until almost a week had passed when one of the volunteers Kolin was with stumbled on a clump of brush beside a creek, west of the Sandberg's house, and came face-to-face with the dead body of a young girl. The vile stench that surrounded the body was nothing that Kolin had ever smelled before but has experienced hundreds of times since then.

She was later identified through dental records as Trisha Ann Sandberg.

An autopsy showed some disturbing results. Trisha may have died from a single knife wound to the abdomen, but there was bruising around her vagina, indicating recent penetration, even though she was found fully clothed.

Kolin spoke with Scott and Marie down at the office. The Sheriff sat behind him in case he needed help. Kolin told them how Trisha had died, then asked, "Did she have a boyfriend?"

Scott's gaze turned icy. "She was only fourteen. We'd never allow that. What makes you think-"

"Scott," Marie said, placing a hand on her husband's arm. "Let's hear him out." She turned to Kolin. "Not that we knew of. Why?"

Rubbing his hands together, Kolin said, "Because she had some bruising around her . . . her privates. We found traces of fluids too. Dried, of course, since she was fully clothed. The DNA results will take a few weeks to come back. Would you know anything about that?" This last part was a lie, of course, but he wanted to see Scott's reaction.

"What are you saying?" Scott asked, his whole body trembling. "Are you saying I fucked my own daughter? What kind of sick bastard do you think I am?"

"He doesn't," Sheriff Ross said, leaning forward. "But the question has to be asked in order to eliminate suspects. Would you submit to a blood test, to eliminate any possibilities?"

Scott stood. "What if I don't?"

"If you don't," Sheriff Ross said, also getting to his feet, "we can have a judge order you to do so. Make it easy on yourself, Scott, so we can move on and find out who killed Trisha."

"This is an absolute fucking waste of time!" Scott exclaimed, fists clenching. "You should be out there, finding out who did this!"

"That's why we need the blood test," Kolin said. "It'll provide a baseline so we can rule out suspects. There are other deputies in this department than just us, and they're out there, working hard to bring this killer to justice. And we will, Scott. We just need your help."

Scott eventually agreed.

When the Sandberg's left, the Sheriff said to Kolin, "For an overqualified college twerp, I'm very impressed with how you've handled this case so far." He smiled. "You've got the instincts to make a very successful career in this field. We probably won't have any full-time openings for about five or six years, unless the county suddenly allocates a bunch of money to this office, which is about as likely to happen as me winning the Powerball. Trust me, I had to plead long and hard for them to allocate enough in my budget to hire a part-timer, which we were sorely in need of. Anyway, I'll give you a great recommendation if you apply anywhere else, and I really hope you do because you deserve it."

"Thank you, sir. I'll keep that is mind."

* * *

Two weeks later, Simon called Kolin.

"Hey there, Famous One," Simon said. "What's it like being in every newspaper from Duluth to Des Moines? Has Hollywood bought the movie rights yet?"

"Sure did," Kolin said, lying. "Twentieth-Century Fox offered me a hundred grand, but I told them I wouldn't take anything less than a half-million. Sounds like that Garrett Hedlund is in talks to play me."

"Really? I was joking-"

"So am I."

"You asshole. Anyway, have you looked in the Minneapolis Times today, in the job openings?"

"No, I haven't looked there for a while," Kolin said, which was strange since he usually scanned that section of the paper quite regularly. "This case is eating up a lot of my time. Why?"

"Minneapolis PD is hiring. We should both apply."

"But I'm in the middle of this case. We might've located the vehicle Scott said he saw that morning, that white Bronco-"

"Benefits, man. Think about it. And their starting salary is one of the highest in the state. The sheriff said he'd give you a recommendation. Let him prove it. What do you say? Let's apply."

Kolin looked around his apartment, which was so small that Anna and he barely had enough room for a bed and dining room table. Hell, they didn't even have a TV. He sighed. "When?"

"What are you doing this afternoon?"
CHAPTER FIVE

The Busch's residence is a tri-level with an attached two-stall garage. Along the back is a red cedar gazebo, topped with a black cast-iron weathervane in the shape of an angel.

Simon and he are in an unmarked SWAT surveillance van across the street. The other SWAT van, this one equipped with lightbars and housing four of the five-man team, is parked three blocks away in the corner of an empty elementary school parking lot.

Kolin frowns, studying the entire yard, front and back. _Where are all the toys? I don't even see a swing set or a sandbox or anything, and their oldest would be around fourteen. And I'm sure they had more kids, if they've stayed together this long._

A UPS van soon pulls into the Busch's driveway. The driver, SWAT Lt. Quentin Rose, dressed in UPS browns he borrowed from his brother, exits, carrying a long narrow package. He rings the doorbell. He holds the top of the box away from him. The bottom side, however, is cut out, so he can grasp the Benelli twelve-gauge shotgun hidden inside.

He rings the doorbell again.

"Young man! Hey, young man!"

Quentin turns.

An elderly man strides across the lawn towards him. "They're not home," he says. "They should be back tomorrow."

Quentin glances at the label pasted on the box. "Mr. Richard Busch will be back tomorrow?"

"Yes. I've been looking after their place while they went to DC. First vacation Joy and Rick have had in years. They sure deserve it, working as hard as they do. He's an engineer at 3M. She doesn't work, mostly because of their son Travis. Poor thing. Had this brittle-bone disease. Life expectancy wasn't very long, and he sure beat the odds for a while. He died about . . . three, maybe four months ago." He wipes his eyes. "Anyway, I water their plants, feed their fish, and make sure their cat Smokey has enough food and a clean litter box. Did you want me to sign for that?" The man reaches for the package.

"No," Quentin says, pulling back the box. "I need this delivered to Mr. Busch personally."

"Are you new to the route?"

Rehearsing the story his brother came up with earlier, because you never know when you'll run into someone who knows all of the drivers by name, Quentin says, "I usually work Metro South, but they're short-handed in North this week and asked me to help out."

"Bob Jingle still around or did he finally retire?"

"Ah . . . Bob's still around. No, I have to run. Thanks. I'll come back tomorrow."

The old man smirks. "Don't mention it. Say hi to Bob for me."

* * *

Harvey Baker pours himself a cup of coffee. He picks up the phone.

"Bob Jingle, my ass. Died two years ago from the big C." He dials nine, but soon disconnects. "But if he works Metro South, he wouldn't have known Bob at all."

He stares out through the kitchen window. The UPS van is still in the Busch's driveway, the driver sitting inside.

He brings the cup up. Then, before the strong beverage reaches his lips, he slams it down onto the counter. "He didn't have one of those electronic clipboards. I knew it. _That's_ what was missing."

He starts to dial 911, but stops again when a black van with flashing lights pulls into his neighbor's driveway.

* * *

Three hours later, in which time Forensics thoroughly scans the house and garage, they find no trace of Patricia Waterman in the way of fingerprints or personal belongings. One stall of the garage is empty, while the other houses a royal blue '57 Chevy with a tarp draped over it. On a shelf beside it are a few dozen trophies from various car shows throughout Minnesota.

"Maybe they took Patricia to a cabin or something," Simon says, rubbing his forehead.

Kolin faces his partner and says, "We went through over ten years of financial papers in that office upstairs. This is the only property they own, and it appears that they have quite a substantial mortgage. Given their son's condition, they probably had piles and piles of medical bills. We'll get a subpoena for their credit cards, but what if they've really been in DC for the past two weeks? The Busch's own a blue Chevy Astro _and_ Rick matches the description of the UNSUB."

"Height and weight only," Simon says. "The UNSUB wore black clothing, remember?"

They walk out to the driveway, where a blue Chevy Astro pulls in behind the Forensics van.

The driver leaps out. "What the hell happened?" he asks, oblivious to the words MINNEAPOLIS PD and SWAT painted along one of the black vans. "Were we robbed?"

Immediately recognizing the man from his driver's license photo, the two VCU investigators quickly detain Rick Busch.
CHAPTER SIX

Forensics finds Patricia Waterman's prints all over the interior of the van, including a perfect palm print right on the dashboard.

"My guess is that it was put there on purpose," one of the fingerprint gurus says. "Didn't even have any smudges."

"No one else's prints though?" asks Kolin.

"Oh, there was some of Joy's where she was sitting and all, but Rick's was the only one on the steering wheel. It looks like it was wiped clean just before he touched it. Usually, there's a ton of smudges and partial prints. Someone spent an awful lot of time cleaning the interior and then placing Patricia's prints here and there. There was also a perfect thumb print right along the bottom edge of the back window.

"The other interesting piece we found was an airport parking ramp receipt. It was crumpled and tossed underneath the driver's seat. No fingerprints, but it's dated two hours _after_ the Busch's plane departed."

* * *

It's well past dusk by the time Rick and Joy are driven back home.

Simon lets them out of the back seat, then says, "Now that you're here, maybe something will jog your memory. Do you remember seeing any vehicles parked along the street before you left? Ones you didn't normally see?"

"I'll say this again for the thousandth time," Rick says, crossing his arms and clenching his fists. "We were running late that morning. We were more worried about getting to the airport on time than noticing any damn cars." He glances around, then lowers his voice. "I'm not a bad guy. I married the girl I went to prison for, and even got my Masters in mechanical engineering. In fact, because of this whole fuck-up, I just might sue your asses-"

"Honey," Joy interjects, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Someone is obviously out to get us. For crying out loud, someone stole our van and parked it right back in the same exact spot. When you paid for the parking, don't you remember saying you were expecting it to be more?"

Rick nods, his shoulders drooping slightly. He relaxes his fists. "I remember."

"They even called Carl, your probation officer."

"I know, I know," Rick says, hanging his head. "It's just that what am I going to tell Harvey? Or our other neighbors? Everyone saw the cops here."

"Tell them the truth," Kolin says.

"What?" asks Rick, exasperated.

"Someone stole your van while you were on vacation and used it to commit a heinous crime. That's it. Nothing more needs to be said."

Rick unfolds his arms. "Yeah. I guess that could work."

* * *

Kolin dishes up some spaghetti leftovers, sets them into the microwave, and goes upstairs to kiss his girls goodnight.

Wish I could've been here earlier. I'll make it up to them.

After watching the first half-hour of _The Tonight Show_ , he undresses, slides underneath the covers, and spoons next to Anna. Then, he closes his eyes-

He sits bolt upright, instantly wide awake. He hears something— _feels_ some-thing—moving out in the hallway. He checks each room, making sure everyone is okay and his kids are still sleeping. Finding nothing, he moves down to the main floor. All of the doors and windows are locked.

The microwave chimes.

"Oh, Christ, my spaghetti," he says, slapping himself on the forehead. "I forgot all about—hey, wait a minute." He opens the microwave door. The spaghetti is hot, but not so much that it's been cooking for the past forty-five minutes. "Did I somehow put it on a timer?" He searches the panel, pushing buttons here and there—for once, he wishes he kept the owner's manual—but finds nothing to indicate a timer.

There's someone in here!

Refraining himself from grabbing his Glock, he searches the house again but still finds it empty.

Unnerved, he turns on the TV, and gulps down the lukewarm leftovers while watching Michael J. Fox and the rest of the _Family Ties_ cast on Nick At Night. He then mutes the TV, clasps his hands behind his back, and paces around the living room.

"How did the killer know I would've been working today? I was supposed to start tomorrow. The package had a St. Paul postmark dated yesterday, so the killer had to know when the package would've been delivered." He stops pacing. "If he knew when, he must've set his plan in motion . . . twelve days ago." He sighs and rubs his eyes. "And then there's that damn coded return address. What the hell do those letters mean?"

He retrieves his pocket notebook. He thumbs through until he finds his notes on Patricia Waterman.

NW CR 300D 120Y.

He looks up at the ceiling, trying to draw a mental picture of the Busch's home from all angles.

In a flash, he sees it.

He calls Simon. When his friend answers with a groggy mumble, Kolin says, "We need to go back to the Busch's."

There is silence on Simon's end. "It's a quarter to one," he finally says, this time a bit more coherent. "What do you wanna do, piss them off more?"

"But I have this feeling that Patricia is there. We just missed her because we didn't know what to look for. It's all in that return address. The coded letters, I mean."

Simon sighs. "Just say what you're getting at, Kolin."

"Not over the phone. I have to show you. Meet me at their house by six."

"You've gotta be kidding me? No, I'll meet you at the office by eight, then we'll go over there."

"Eight? No, that's too late. How about seven? Please, Simon, I . . . I need to see if I'm right."

"You know something. If you're this sure, I'll meet you in the office by seven."
CHAPTER SEVEN

As the eldest child, Claudia Raynes remembers when her Dad worked vampire hours: work at night and sleep in the day. He finally switched to a normal day shift when she was in the first grade, and has grown quite accustomed to it over the years. Now, with his new job, he's back to a different work schedule. Not vampire hours, mind you, but even longer ones, depending on what type of case he's working on.

She awakens. She hears him talking down in the living room, so she tiptoes over to the door. She opens it and almost screams, for Emily and June are standing there in their matching pink Disney princess pajamas.

"What are you doing?" Claudia asks, whispering.

"Heard Daddy," June says, eyeballing her older sisters. "Should we go see him?"

"Mommy said he's working on a new case," says Claudia, shaking her head.

"Yeah," Emily says. "A little girl was kidnapped."

"What's kidnap?" asks June.

"It means," Claudia says, not wanting to scare her but not wanting to make it sound like it's something she'd want to participate in, "that someone takes you away from Mommy and Daddy. Forever. Like a stranger. You remember what Dad says about strangers, right?"

June's eyes grow wide. "Yeah," she says. "Never talk to a stranger. Never get in a stranger's car. But what if a stranger kidnaps me?"

"Don't worry," Claudia says. "Daddy'll get 'em."

* * *

Judging from past experience, Anna Raynes knows Kolin has to be in the living room, pacing, talking over whatever case is challenging him.

_That poor girl. I pray she's okay. Oh, her family must be devastated._ She sighs. _I hope he isn't assigned to too many of these though. He promised this new job wouldn't interfere with anything. It was hard enough to get the kids ready in the morning when he was at Quantico. Now that he's back . . ._

She fluffs up his pillow, hoping he'll be laying his head on it soon.

Very soon.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Kolin dunks a third donut into his coffee. He checks again if the three rolls of kite string are still in his pocket. They are. He glances at his watch. Five to seven. Only two minutes have passed since he last looked at it.

At three minutes after the hour, Simon walks off of the elevator.

Kolin tosses his empty cup into the garbage and says, "Okay, let's go."

"Hold up, buddy," says Simon. "I wanna see if Forensics has anything new." He grabs a sugar donut. "Can't you give me even a little hint as to what you discovered, why we're going back over to the Busch's house?"

Kolin shakes his head.

"Thought I'd ask."

* * *

They turn onto Robbinsdale Boulevard, driving a silver Mercedes Benz E320 convertible that Dope seized two weeks ago in a meth raid. When they're two blocks from the residence, they meet a very familiar blue Chevy Astro.

"Well," Kolin says, "at least Joy will be alone. Maybe waiting wasn't such a bad idea."

Simon smiles. "Told you."

They park at the end of the driveway. Simon motions Kolin to the front door and says, "This is your call."

Kolin knocks. He then steps back and folds his hands together.

The door opens. Joy stands in the doorway, dressed in a white cotton robe, and crosses her arms. "Rick isn't here."

"That's okay," Kolin says. "We were wondering if we could look around your property."

"I thought you already did that."

"We did, but we came across some new evidence and believe we may have missed something." He doesn't want to give too much away. Especially if he turns out to be wrong. "We don't need to go inside or anything. If we could just walk around out here in your yard, it would be greatly appreciated. Twenty, twenty-five minutes is all we need. Unless we find something, of course."

"I don't know-"

Kolin steps up and whispers in her ear. Before too long, tears fall onto her cheeks. She closes her eyes and nods.

"Thank you," Kolin says, wiping his own eyes.

She shuts the door.

"Not sure what that was about," Simon says, following Kolin to the middle of the driveway. "So now can you _finally_ tell me?"

Kolin pulls out his pocket notebook, flips past a few pages, then says, "This is the return address on the package sent to me. Let's break down the letters. What could NW stand for?"

Simon lowers his head, deep in thought. "The only thing that comes to mind is northwest, but that sounds far too simple."

"If it _is_ northwest," asks Kolin, "could CR stand for . . . corner?"

Simon nods, then asks, "The northwest corner of what?"

Kolin extends a thumb towards the house.

"What about the rest? 300D? 120Y?"

"Let's start at the northwest corner and see where we are."

They trudge around to the back. Surrounding the yard here is a thick woods. The gazebo, along with a few tall shrubs next to the house, block much of the view to Harvey Baker's house. Bordering the property on the other side are evergreens so large and wide they could be future contestants for the monstrosities chosen at Rockefeller Center each Christmas.

"If the UNSUB stood back here," Simon says, "no one would see him, even with a body slung over his shoulder."

Kolin holds out his phone and taps on the compass app. "Unless you have another idea, I think 300D means three hundred degrees." When the digital needle relaxes into position and he points it at the correct degree, he says, "And if Y stands for yards, I believe Patricia's body is a hundred and twenty yards . . . _that way._ "

Smiling, Simon slaps Kolin on the back and says, "Forget what I said yesterday about our college Criminal Investigations class. They should've fired the professor and hired you instead."

* * *

During last night's revelation, Kolin measured the length of his strides along the kitchen floor. Much to his surprise, they were a few inches shy of a yard.

After securing one end of the first roll of kite string to a shrub at the northwest corner of the house, they walk slowly onward, careful not to step on any possible evidence.

As they soon surpass the one hundred yard mark, Simon says, "I don't see any trail leading through here. What if NW and CR don't mean the northwest corner of the house?"

"What else could it be?" asks Kolin. He ties the end of the second roll of string to the third one. "If it was the gazebo or something, I have a feeling the code would've mentioned it. Patricia's been missing for thirteen days. There wasn't a date stamp on the video, but a trail almost two weeks old would be obliterated by now."

Ahead of them is a massive oak tree, with a trunk so wide Kolin's sure he could park his Expedition right in the middle of it.

The eerie caw of a raven pierces the morning air.

As they make their way to the oak, a flock of more than a dozen ravens crowd around the ground, pecking and pulling on what flesh remains on the dead body.

"Get outta here!" Simon exclaims, kicking the birds. They violently scatter away into flight, squawking their disapproval.

Much of the body's abdomen and upper thighs have been chewed away. The clothing is tattered, while portions of it along her arms and legs are still intact.

But the strangest sight is the upper portion of the chest. With the devastating condition of the rest of the body, this area is surprisingly preserved. Here, the killer carved an eyeball into the flesh—a near replica of the eyeball found on the VHS tape Kolin received.

Simon kneels beside the body and points at the carving. "Looks like there's something . . . sprayed over it."
CHAPTER NINE

When Kolin arrives home, his wife and kids are already in bed.

He kisses each daughter on the forehead, and afterwards tucks them in, making them as snug as possible.

"Night, Daddy," June whispers.

"Goodnight, my sweetie," he says, whisking a few strands of hair from in front of her eyes. "Daddy loves you."

"Love . . . too," she says, her voice barely audible now.

_I gotta quit doing this,_ he thinks. _I need to be home earlier._

* * *

Kolin awakens with a start.

The neon green numerals on the clock read 3:32 AM. He looks around the room, the faint illumination from the streetlights streaming through the partially-open vinyl blinds. Even though he doesn't hear anything—besides Anna's heavy breathing—he senses something is amiss.

Claudia's bedroom door is open. He peeks inside. Her bed is empty and the sheets are tossed to the side. A weighted feeling overcomes him. In a flash, he sees Claudia's face on the dead girl he saw instead of Patricia Waterman's.

He scrambles into the other bedrooms. Emily and June are still asleep, just the way he left them hours ago.

There is a light coming from under the bathroom door. He envisions the killer hacking apart his oldest child in their bathtub. He sprints to the door and wrenches it open.

"Claudia?"

His eldest daughter is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, reading a book, the cover bearing a group of teenage vampires, with their fangs bloody and their black eyes shimmering.

"Sorry, honey," Kolin says. "I heard a noise and thought . . ."

"That's okay." Claudia marks her place in the book. "I went to the bathroom but I still couldn't sleep. I missed you. How was your trip?"

"It was fun," Kolin says. "I learned a lot. But I missed you guys too."

"Did you meet anybody famous?"

"The FBI Director gave a speech when I first got there. Afterwards, they served lunch and I got to meet him personally. He asked me about the Minneapolis PD. When I told him who the Chief of Police was, he said he worked with him over in the Milwaukee FBI Field Office years ago."

Claudia's eyebrows turn into a V. "Have I ever seen him on TV? The FBI guy?"

"Probably not," Kolin says, smirking. "How's school?"

* * *

Emily awakens. Claudia and her Dad are whispering out in the hall.

She starts to get up, but notices a shadowy figure standing near her door.

"Daddy?" she asks, knowing this can't possibly be him, for he's telling Claudia goodnight.

The figure turns towards her. "Shhh."

Why would Daddy shush me? He would tuck me in and tell me to sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite.

She frowns, then yawns.

Finally overcome by sleepiness, she closes her eyes.

Maybe it's just my imagination . . .
CHAPTER TEN

Kolin introduces himself to the WLOK TV receptionist, then waits for only a minute or two before a pudgy, short man in thick glasses, who bears a striking resemblance to a younger Mel Brooks, walks up to greet him.

"Kolin, my man," Bernie Ping says, patting him on the shoulder. "Good to see you. What brings you over here?"

"I need your help with something," Kolin says. "I'm at VCU now, with Simon Templeton."

Bernie beams. "Glad to be off the street beat? I bet you are. You working the Waterman murder?"

Kolin glances around. "That's why I need to talk with you. I have a favor or two to ask."

"No problem. Anything for an old college buddy. Let's go up to my office."

Bernie graduated from Bemidji State University the same year as Kolin, with a major in Mass Communications with an emphasis in television-media. His office commands a spacious view of the south side of the Twin Cities. Behind him is an array of televisions, all tuned to the competition, local and national.

"Well," Bernie asks, sitting behind his desk, "what can I do for you? Want coffee?" He motions to a coffee pot near the door.

"No thanks," Kolin says. "I can trust you that the information I share isn't to be broadcasted until Simon or I give our permission to do so, right? Good. We're the lead investigators, so whatever comes in regarding it goes through us. That means, we _will_ call you first."

After repeating the bare facts of the case, Kolin tells how he acquired the VHS tape, stamped professional-grade by a company called Imperial. "Are those the types of tapes you use?"

"We use Imperial," says Bernie, nodding. "They're probably one of a few companies still making professional VHS tapes nowadays, since everyone's moving to digital." He opens a drawer, shoves aside some papers, and fishes out a tape. He holds it up. "Here's what ours look like."

"Yeah, that looks exactly like the one I've got," Kolin says.

"You can take it to compare. In the next six months or so, God willing, we're moving completely to digital, so these will all be obsolete anyway."

"Thanks," Kolin says, taking the tape. "Do you have any of these unaccounted for?"

"No, we don't keep track of who takes them. We just order more when the pile starts to run low. It tried it once, keeping track of who takes them—some corporate accounting bullshit initiative, if you know what I mean—but it was way too much of a hassle. They're stored in a supply closet just down the hall here. Everyone has access to them, from the CEO all the way down to the janitors."

"Would you be able to provide me with a list of employees who've been fired or quit over the past few years? If we could also get a list of current employees, that would be helpful, just in case the murderer is employed here."

"Here?" Bernie asks, his eyes growing wide. "Are you serious?"

Kolin nods. "He somehow had access to those tapes."

"I'm sure we're not the only ones here in the Twin Cities who use them though. And any idiot with a computer could order them over the Internet too. Christ, I might have to get that permit-to-carry after all." Bernie sighs, then punches a few keys on his computer. He looks over at Kolin. "Two years is as far back as I can go here. If you want to go farther back, you'll have to go to our basement storage room. You're more than welcome to go through them, but those will take a bit more elbow grease."

Bernie reaches back to a printer behind him. He separates the pages into two piles, and hands each one to Kolin. "This is a list of current employees. Oh, here." He grabs a business card from his desk. "Don't lose this. My direct line is on there." He points to the second pile. "This is everyone we've either fired or have quit in the past two years. You may see the employee file on anyone in the fired or quit list, but, due to confidentiality, if you want to see a file on someone who's still employed, could you please get a subpoena? I hate to be a hardass, but that way no one will accuse me of giving out personal information just because we're old college buddies."

"Thanks, you got it," Kolin says, thinking he'd have to get a subpoena just to get copies of these in the first place. "I really appreciate this." He hands Bernie his own card, then glances over the lists, with the hopes that POTENTIAL KILLER is stamped beside one of the names.

"You said you'd call me first with any new information, right?" Bernie asks.

"You have my word."

"Anything new we can share with the public right now?"

"I'll let you know shortly." Kolin stands. "Bernie, I know college was a long time ago, but was there anyone else in the Mass Communications department who knew me besides you? Someone who may even be working here in the Cities?"

For a fleeting instant, a chill runs down Kolin's spine. He pictures Bernie, dressed in black, slashing and stabbing Patricia Waterman.

During rookie training, he spent three full weeks learning the various computer systems officers use while on the job. One of these was a secure online database of the Minnesota DMV.

"Just for practice, search for everybody that you know," the instructor said. "Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, old girlfriends—or boyfriends, if that's your thing—high school classmates, frat house chums. Hell, for fun, even look yourself up. Find out everything you can, from the number of registered vehicles to basic descriptors like height and weight."

Kolin knew Bernie was shorter than he was—Kolin being five foot nine—but when he learned his college buddy was four eleven, he remembers thinking, _So that's how short he is._

"I keep in touch with a few, but I'm almost positive none of them knew you," Bernie says, rubbing his chin. He rattles off the names of the five and Kolin scribbles them down. "I'll give you a call if I think of . . . wait a sec." He thumbs through the pages in Kolin's hands. "I have someone for you to check out. Ah, here he is. Kyle Patrick Hammer. He was only employed for two months before we caught him stealing printer toner from the supply closet. He might've stolen tapes too, but all he ever admitted to was the toner. Said he sold them on eBay."

"When was he fired?" Kolin asks.

"About six months ago. I'll have Personnel e-mail his file to you. Now, before you ask, we never called the cops. We just wanted to be rid of him, so we handled it ourselves."

"Did he go to BSU?"

"I don't think so," Bernie says, frowning. "I think all he had was a GED, and you don't need much more than that to be a janitor. Why?"

"Because I think this person knows me from somewhere. Why else would he personally send me that tape?"

Bernie shrugs. "Beats me."

* * *

Finally, a possible suspect.

As Kolin walks down the hall to the reception area, he calls Simon, telling him about his meeting with Bernie.

"I'll run Kyle's criminal history," says Simon.

"How are the airport surveillance videos coming along?" Kolin asks.

"Slow," Simon says. "Last I heard, the Airport Authority has _finally_ pinpointed the time when the UNSUB stole the Busch's van. They're tracking him back through the airport, to see how he came in, who he talked to, and even if he went into any of the shops."

When Kolin turns a corner, he almost collides with a lady pushing a mop and bucket.

"Excuse me," Kolin says, shifting out of the way.

The lady gasps, mumbles a meek apology, and continues on her way.

Kolin stares at her. She soon rounds the corner, not once looking back.

"Kolin!" barks Simon.

"Yeah, I'm here," Kolin says, resuming his walk.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Just thought I ran into someone I knew."
CHAPTER ELEVEN

They walk into their boss's office. "Captain, I think we've got our man," says Simon.

Captain Lewis Mack laces his fingers in front of him.

"Kyle Patrick Hammer," Kolin says. "His height and weight match the UNSUB's description. WLOK fired him six months ago for stealing printer toner, but may have stolen some of their tapes too."

"Does he own anything that matches the abduction vehicles?" Lewis asks.

"He doesn't have any vehicles registered to him right now. Besides, he doesn't even have a driver's license. He pretty much lost it a few years ago after his sixth DUI."

"Do you know him, Kolin?"

"No, sir. There's no record of him working up in Bemidji or anywhere else but here in the Cities. He grew up in Brooklyn Center."

"Then why would this guy allegedly send you a video-"

"We still haven't figured that one out yet, sir," Simon says. "But when I ran his criminal history, I found some interesting information. Aside from a few petty thefts and numerous alcohol violations, he stole a car two days after his nineteenth birthday. Spent six months in Hennepin County Corrections. A year later, St. Paul PD arrested him for first degree criminal sexual conduct. The charges were later dropped though." He crosses his arms. "According to St. Paul, a man wearing a blue-colored jean jacket ran up behind a seventeen-year-old girl, threw a grocery bag over her head, dragged her into the bushes, and brutally raped her. The only eyewitness was an eighty-seven-year-old man who lived in a third-floor apartment across the street."

"How did they pin it on Kyle?" asks Lewis.

"The next day, an officer saw him walking out of a convenience store. He was wearing a blue jean jacket. That's what made the officer notice him. When he was questioned, he was evasive and belligerent, so they arrested him. Later on, he told his public defender that at the time of the offense he was at a junk yard in Inver Grove Heights called Ye Olde Klunkers. After they corroborated his story, as well as discovered his DNA didn't match the DNA from the crime scene, they dropped the charges."

"Why didn't Kyle just tell the officer where he was in the first place?"

"He has a long history of being uncooperative with the authorities," says Simon. "Every DUI he's had has been a refusal to test, which as you know means a year without a license and an added offense. After the sixth one, the judge pretty much warned him that his next one will land him in state prison."

"But the use of a grocery bag seems a little more than coincidental, even if the charges were dropped," says Captain Mack. "What else have you got?"

Kolin glances at Simon, then says, "Well, sir, Kyle lives a block from a mom-and-pop store that uses the same grocery bag manufacturer as the one wrapped around the videotape. There is also a promotional product supply company three blocks away. The eyeball stickers might've come from there. We'll check into that today. Lastly, the video was mailed from right across the river in St. Paul."

"How do you know that? Is the post office able to trace their first class packages now?"

Kolin nods and says, "Sort of. Along the bottom of every letter and package, the post office prints a barcode. With that, they can tell what postal area it came from. They use it to track the volume of mail and determine if a change of manpower is needed."

Captain Mack leans back, focusing on the backwards spelling of his name on the frosty-glass door. "Let's be discrete, guys," he says. "We don't want another Rick Busch incident."

* * *

A shiny black Monte Carlo pulls in front of a long narrow building. The words RIVER MEATS CO. are still faintly visible in white along the outside, while below it is a multi-colored sign that reads: PRIZE PROMOS.

Two men exit the vehicle, and walk inside. To their right is a showcase of promotional items, including a wide array of stickers.

A portly man with a gray goatee soon waddles out into the hallway and notices the two standing near his sticker display. "Those are some of our hottest sellers," he says. "You can put anything you want on them. Local rock bands stick 'em on club walls and several politicians get their campaign stickers made here. I even designed some for Ventura when he ran for governor. If you don't see anything there that suits your fancy, our website has thousands more to choose from. We can even customize too. What type of business are you two in?"

"Law enforcement," one of the men, a Native American, says.

"Great! What type of equipment do you sell to them?"

The other man holds out a badge. "Minneapolis VCU. I'm Kolin."

The portly man shifts back and says, "Oh, you're the real deal. What can I help you with?"

The Native American man says, "We were wondering if you happened to make this particular sticker." Simon removes a photo from his jacket pocket, showing a close-up of the silver eyeball sticker.

"Is it part of a murder investigation?" the man asks, taking the photo to gain a better look. "If you're VCU, it must be something big and nasty."

"We can't say," says Kolin.

"Oh, yeah, I understand. Anyway, this looks a little familiar to me. Come to my office here and we'll check out our website."

They soon enter a small office with the name OSCAR LONGE-GENERAL MANAGER painted on the door.

Oscar props the photo beside his computer. "Okay, let's search for eyeball and see what we get." But when he punches RETURN, he discovers that they have six hundred and seventy-nine various eyeball stickers.

"You're kidding me?" Simon asks. "We'll be here forever. And we don't even know if you're the one who sold it."

"Don't worry," Oscar says. "We always add a few other descriptors, in case someone is looking for something similar. Okay, let's also search for . . . silver background and . . . one eyeball. Let's see what that'll do." Their search is narrowed down to six. Oscar points to one, counts the number of eyelashes on each, and examines the color scheme. "A perfect match," he finally says, enlarging a picture of it on the screen.

Simon nods. "Looks good to me."

"Who's been buying that one?" Kolin asks.

Oscar swivels around and says, "Only one who utters the magic word may know that."

"Look," Simon says, holding his finger a fraction of an inch from Oscar's nose. "If you want us to get a warrant, we'll be back with one in less than five minutes."

"No need to get hostile," Oscar says, leaning back. "Don't either of you remember when you were kids? The magic word is 'please.'"

"Oh," Simon says. "Sorry. Could we _please_ see who's been buying that sticker?"

Oscar beams and says, "Certainly." He swivels back around to the computer and punches a few more keys. "Huh. Interesting. Ever heard of the Beholder's Club? Probably not. They're a small group of home video enthusiasts. They get together once a month or so and share their latest finds."

"Do you have a contact name?" Simon asks, grinning at Kolin. "And even a list of all the times they've ordered? Please."

Oscar chuckles, then says, "The only contact I have is the club's president: Roger Vimms. I'll get a list of all the times they've ordered, since you said the magic word. Oh, and before you ask, it looks like they're the only ones who've ordered this particular sticker too."

"Have any of your employees ever taken an interest in their organization?" Kolin asks.

"All of my salespersons are interested in our customers' interests," says Oscar. "That's how they earn their money: straight commission with quarterly performance bonuses. Four take home high five-figure salaries, while one does six." He leans back. "Come to think of it, I had a guy who paid Roger a little more attention than others. This was probably a year ago by now. He might've joined the Beholder's Club. I mean, Roger is a good repeat customer and all, but the eyeball stickers are the only things they buy. They order four, maybe five full rolls a year. There are other customers who are worth a lot more."

"Who was he?" Simon asks.

"He was the only non-colored salesperson I've ever hired."

"Non-colored?"

"Yeah. A white guy, in other words. The people working for me now are Hispanic, African, and Asian. Anyway, the guy only lived a few blocks away, but he could never keep up with the hours. I mean, even though they work on commission, all I ask for are forty hours a week. But his timecard in the three months he worked here averaged no more than twenty."

"What's his name?"

"Kyle Hammer. Was a bit on the strange side too. Always had this shifty look about him, like he was casing out the joint. I was actually glad to get rid of him."

"Did you catch him stealing?" Kolin asks, his heart now thumping hard.

Oscar frowns, crosses his arms, and says, "I run a very tight ship here. I keep track of all supplies, right down to the last roll of sticker blanks. Nope, I fired him solely for his hours."
CHAPTER TWELVE

"Why do you call it the Beholder's Club?" Kolin asks Roger Vimms.

Deciding to go the undercover route, Kolin dresses in torn blue jeans and a Minnesota Vikings jersey, and assumes the role of a burned-out high school science teacher named Chris, who has always dreamed of capturing the next viral video on YouTube.

"Our motto is 'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,'" Roger says. "I know it sounds a little cliché. We're beholders of reality, really, capturing moments for all time. Say, how did you find out about our group?"

"A friend of mine told me. Kyle Hammer."

"Kyle, right. How is he? He missed last month's meeting. I phoned his apartment, but he didn't answer. Now, I don't normally call members who miss meetings, but he's been so loyal over this past year. I first met him when he worked for this company that supplies stickers of our group's logo. They're pretty cool. All of our members can put them on their videos, from old VHS tapes to DVDs. Anyway, Kyle has never missed a meeting until last month."

"Oh, Kyle is fine. He works at a Target in west Minneapolis, but he wanted me to tell you that he'll be at next week's meeting with tons of video to share."

"Great!" They shake hands. "See you Monday, Chris."

* * *

Simon parks across the street from a five-story brownstone apartment complex. "Kyle lives on the third floor, Room 309," he says. "Did you ever find out if he's employed now?"

"After WLOK fired him," Kolin says, "he worked at a 7-11 a few blocks north of here, but he only lasted about three or four months. Scott, the manager, said Kyle was constantly tardy, and that money and inventory were always missing during his shifts, but they could never catch him on the surveillance cameras.

"Speaking of that, do the pictures from the airport cameras look like him? I haven't had a chance to look at them yet."

Simon passes back a stack of photos. The man who stole the Busch's van wore dark baggy clothes, a Minnesota Twins hat, leather gloves, sunglasses, and had a goatee. There are a few partial facial shots, and even though there is a slight resemblance to Kyle, it may not be enough to convince a jury.

The surveillance photos are printed in order, from when he first stepped out from a taxi, walked across the concourse to where the van was parked, drove out, paid cash for the parking, drove it back to the same parking spot two days later, and took the same path through the airport. Not a similar path, mind you. The _exact_ same path.

"Notice that the UNSUB seems to head right to the van?" asks Kolin. "He doesn't search each and every level until he finds it. Do you think he had the van wired? Tracked, I mean?"

"Sure seems like it," says Simon.

"This guy's a pro then."

Simon glances back. "From what we know of Kyle, do you think he's smart enough to pull something like this off?" he asks.

Kolin frowns, leafing back and forth through the photos. He recalls the many hours he spent at the FBI Training Academy engaged in the finer points of offender profiling.

_The complexity of these crimes_ , he thinks, _leads more to a highly-organized individual than one who has a GED and can't hold down a convenience store clerk or a custodial job_.

"Doesn't seem like it," Kolin says. "But, since we're here, I'll see if Kyle is home."

Kolin, donning a long black trench coat and dark sunglasses, walks into the apartment building as if he's done this a thousand times before.

Next to the entrance inside is a row of mailboxes. Box 309 is overly stuffed with letters, many of them stamped PAST DUE or FINAL NOTICE.

When he reaches the third floor, there is a man painting the ceiling to his left. Kolin walks in the opposite direction, utilizing his peripheral vision to examine the apartment numbers. He stops at 309, and knocks.

After hearing nobody inside, he knocks again.

If Kyle answers, his plan is to pretend he's looking for someone, just so that he can peek inside. What he expects to find, he doesn't know. It could be something as simple as another Imperial VHS tape or a silver eyeball sticker.

Still receiving no answer, he goes back down.

As Kolin nears the first floor, someone in a gray pullover with the hood up slips a stack of envelopes into the jacket pockets, and walks out. Kolin glances over to the mailboxes.

309 is empty.

Kolin runs outside, shoving the door open so hard that it slams against the wall. He looks around.

Where is that bastard?

Simon gets out and asks, "What's up?"

"Did you see someone in a gray pullover walk out before me?" Kolin asks, running up to him.

"Yeah. He jogged over that way." Simon points to the south. "But I don't think it was Kyle."

"If it wasn't," Kolin says, "he must know him. He took his mail."

Kolin sprints on ahead, and around the corner to the south side of the building. He sees no one in a gray pullover. Simon squeals around the corner in the Monte Carlo and stops next to him. Kolin leaps inside and says, "He couldn't have gone too far—wait!"

Along the sidewalk up ahead is a gray pullover.

Three vagrants, a woman and two men, are huddled along the side of the building. Kolin grabs the pullover, flashes his badge, and asks, "Anyone see who dropped this?"

They remain silent, staring out at nothing in a drunken state.

"I'll give five bucks to whoever gives me the right answer."

The woman points to a building across the street, with graffiti decorating much of the walls and boarded up windows.

"Okay, what did he look like?" asks Kolin. "Was he white or black?"

She coughs, rubs the sides of her throat, and points at Kolin.

"White like me?"

She nods.

"What color was his hair?"

She looks around, then points to one of the men sitting beside her, a line of drool connecting his chapped lips to his grungy coat.

The man's hair is blond.

"Sounds like Kyle to me," Simon says.

Kolin hands her a five-dollar bill. She snatches it, and jams it into her pants.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

They do a floor-to-floor search of what appears to be an abandoned warehouse, counting over thirty homeless tucked away in cardboard boxes throughout the premises. None are Kyle.

"What's up there?" Kolin asks, shining his flashlight beam up a steep metal staircase. At the top is a door with a crash bar across the middle. "Stay here." He bounds up to it.

Once onto the small landing, he examines the door. The edges are thick with rust. He heaves his shoulder against it. It doesn't budge.

"Don't do that," a voice behind him says.

Kolin whirls around, leveling his Glock on a man huddled in the corner of the landing, wearing a burlap bag jacket.

"Gonna let in the cold, man."

Kolin flashes his badge. He feels stupid for being taken by surprise like this. He learned long ago never to get comfortable and assume you're alone. "Has anyone come this way?"

The man shakes his head. "Just you."

"Do you know a guy named Kyle Hammer? He has blond hair and lives in the apartment building next door."

"Nope. What he do?"

* * *

They walk back to the Monte Carlo, and the first thing Kolin notices is the woman he gave money to before is now gone.

"Where did that lady go who was sitting here?" Simon asks the two men. "Did a blond-haired man come out of that building while we were in there? Whoever tells me can have this." He holds up a ten-dollar bill.

They don't acknowledge him. They just stare off across the street, their breath ripe with cheap alcohol.

"That's strange," says Simon. "Now what?"

"Let's go back to Kyle's apartment, in case he did double-back on us. Then, let's talk with the apartment manager."

* * *

Once the two pigs drive away, Randy and Joe both unclench their fists, revealing the thick roll of twenty-dollar bills in each of their possession.

"Think she's gonna come back?" asks Randy.

"She promised."

"What if she don't?"

Joe shrugs. "She said she gonna watch us. 'member? If we act dumb, we get more. She promised."

"I know," says Randy. "But what if she don't?"

Joe sighs. "Maybe we should'a taken the Injun's ten."

"Yeah. I know."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Haven't seen him in a while," Mitch, the apartment manager, says, pointing the paint brush at Kyle's apartment. He dips it back in the can, scrapes the excess paint along the inside of the lid, and swabs a fresh coat across the ceiling. "Not all that odd, really. Most tenants don't want to hang around the guy who could throw them out in the street if they don't pay their rent. In fact, they all usually just shove an envelope under my door."

"What's he like?" asks Kolin.

"Kyle? Can't seem to keep a job, that's for damn sure. Keeps putting me down as his emergency contact and reference. I don't mind, really. I don't think he has any family. Besides, if he doesn't work, he can't pay rent. Win-win." Mitch climbs down, slides the ladder over a foot or so, and climbs back up. "Boy loves his stereo though."

"Stereo?"

"Oh, yeah. Rap. Metal. Doesn't matter, really. He just cranks it up and gets the walls rattling with that damn bass. _Boom-boom-boom._ I swear to God I can hear it down in my apartment." He carefully paints around a light fixture, then pauses. He looks down. "That's about the only time I see him, really. And I haven't had to come up here in . . . Christ, it must be four or five weeks."

"How does he pay rent? Cash? Check?"

Mitch sets the brush onto the top step, then climbs down. His arms are splotched with the same color paint as the ceiling. "On the first of _this_ month, I get an envelope from him with six fifty-dollar bills in it. Before, Kyle was always a week or so late. And I mean _always._ Last Christmas, he was close to three weeks late. I almost evicted him, but then all of a sudden he had the cash. Always pays in cash too. Never a check. But before it's been fives and tens with an occasional twenty."

* * *

"Does Kyle sell dope?" Captain Lewis Mack asks. "That would explain the sudden influx of cash."

"I didn't even think of that," says Simon. "With him being a known thief, we checked out the pawnshops. Unfortunately, everything he's sold them has been legit." He turns to Kolin. "You should see if Jim Brandt knows him. He's a sergeant down in Dope. If he doesn't know Kyle, nobody does. Have you ever met Jim before?"

Kolin shakes his head.

"Watch yourself," Simon says. "He's an arrogant prick who thinks he is God's greatest gift to law enforcement." He turns to Captain Mack and sighs. "Sorry, sir, that was uncalled for-"

"No need to be sorry," Lewis says, cracking a smile. "You were just speaking the truth. I'd caution you as to who you say that to though. Be very careful. He's been known to have informants everywhere. And he isn't opposed to using electronic bugs either."

"Point taken." He says to Kolin, "Just go down there, give him Kyle's name as well as the low-down on the investigation so far, and see what he has to say. In fact, I'd even tell him about the eyeball carving on the girl's chest."

"Whoa," Kolin interjects, holding his hands out. "I don't feel comfortable sharing that outside us three and Forensics. That's our calling card to separate the copy cats from the real killer."

"I understand, but Dope Jim—that's his nickname—can be trusted not to blab anything to the media. Or to anyone else, for that matter. He wants nothing more than to see justice served. He hates to see the bad guys win. He plays by his own rules sometimes, but he gets the job done. He's like a chain-smoking, alcoholic Batman."

"Okay," Kolin says, still reluctant about sharing the precious details of this case. He sighs, wondering why Simon doesn't volunteer to accompany him.

* * *

Dope is the nickname for the Minneapolis PD's Narcotic Enforcement Unit, housed one floor down from VCU.

Sergeant Jim Brandt has a desk in the far corner, with three large chalkboards surrounding him like a wall. Despite that they're in a government building, he smokes up to three packs a day and doesn't care who complains about it.

Kolin knocks on the back of a chalkboard. "Talk to you a minute, sir?"

Jim peers over the top of his laptop, a half-smoked Camel sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He is a short, stocky man with a graying crewcut. "And you are?" he asks, scowling, his voice rough from years of too much booze and too much nicotine.

"Kolin Raynes. VCU." He slides inside.

Jim taps an inch of ash out an open window. "VCU, huh? Three stranger abductions in a single year is the average for you guys, but now you end up with three in less than two weeks—twelve days, to be exact. Then, you go and find the first one murdered. I'd keep my eye open on Tuesday, if I were you. Thank God and the Virgin Mary I'm not."

Kolin sits on the other side of his desk. There's nowhere to escape the smoke, so he just bears it. "Why Tuesday?"

"It's the next sixth day, you should know that. If you get another abduction and find little Fergie has been murdered, don't come crying to me. Now, what do you want?"

"We have a possible suspect in that case. We're trying to locate him, but nobody's seen him in the past month. Anyway, I came by to see if you have him in your system. We think he might be selling dope. His name is Kyle Patrick Hammer."

"Name's not familiar," Jim says, his eyes narrowing. "Then again, we have a few thousand little dealers in our system. He's not one of the major players, that much I can tell you. Nicknames or aliases?"

"None that we know of." Kolin hands over a folder containing Kyle's vitals.

Jim quickly scans each page, then closes the folder and leans back. "Tell me what's not in there, Raynes," he says. "Your gut feeling. Why do you feel _this_ is your man? Then, tell me why you're asking _me_ for help. I sure don't go asking VCU for help. Especially when you keep losing teenage girls and one turns up dead."

"I just heard you were the best, is all. And if anyone would know him, it'd be you."

"The best? Damn right."

Kolin gives detailed accounts of each case, including, against his better judgment, the eyeball carving on Patricia's chest. By the time he's done, the smoke has caused his eyes to water and a wave of nausea overcomes him.

Jim punches a few keys on his laptop, then says, "Brad!"

A black man peers over the top of a chalkboard. "Sir?"

"Step inside the domain."

A man walks in, stands next to Kolin, and extends down a hand. "Brad Ford," he says.

"Kolin Raynes." They shake hands.

"Raynes here is with VCU," Jim says. "They're asking for our help on some of their cases. Ever heard of such a thing? I haven't. Anyway, do you know a Kyle Patrick Hammer? Current address is Minneapolis, but VCU can't find him. They think he's possibly dealing, but he's not in our database. Got plenty of theft and alcohol convictions though, just nothing drug-related."

"Race?"

"Tidy whitey, blond hair, and according to his DL he's five six and weights one fifty. Here's a picture of his DL."

Brad studies the picture. "Don't recognize him," he says. "Aliases?"

"VCU doesn't think so."

Brad shakes his head, hands the picture back, and says, "Sorry. I'll keep my ear open though."

When Brad leaves, Jim says, "If this guy's running dope, we'd know about it. Next time, call first." Jim hands over his card. "Then you won't look like you're ready to pass out."

Kolin takes the card. It's a standard Minneapolis PD business card, except only his main phone and fax numbers are listed. His cell number and e-mail address lines are blank.

_Some officers write them on the back,_ Kolin thinks. _Especially if they want to be discreet about who has that info._

He flips it over. No go. It's completely blank.

"Expecting to find something?" asks Jim.

"Oh, no," Kolin says. He hands over one of his own business cards, which has his cell number and e-mail printed on the front.

Jim stares at him, making no move to take the card. "If I need to contact you, Raynes—and I can't, for the life of me, wonder why I'd do such a thing—then I'll call VCU's main number."

"Okay," Kolin says, tucking Jim's business card in his wallet. He grabs Kyle's folder.

As he is about to walk out, relieved to _finally_ be able to breathe fresh air again, Dope Jim asks, "What was sealing it?"

Kolin stops. "Excuse me?"

"You found Patricia's body in the woods, more than likely eaten by scavengers, and then you mention that there was an eyeball carved into her chest. I assume since the media hasn't called this guy the Eyeball Killer or something that the carving isn't being released to them. But, in order for you to know it was there, something would've had to preserve it or else that would've been one of the first parts to get eaten. Am I right? Of course, I am."

"Polyurethane."

"And you don't know why he did that?"

Kolin shakes his head. _Not yet._ "Do you?"

Dope Jim takes a long drag on his Camel, then hunches over his laptop. "Don't forget what I said about Tuesday, Raynes."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Anna Raynes crawls her fingers over to the other side of the bed, anticipating a warmth that matches her own. She finds it cool and empty.

_It's Sunday, even,_ she thinks. _He can't be working today. Unless he's eating breakfast or something. God, I wish he'd just wake me up when he gets home. I wanna see his face when I tell him the good news._

In high school, when all of her friends were watching MTV, Anna watched CNBC: the business channel. She loved numbers, and got a thrill by studying the stock market tickers streaming along the bottom of the screen.

She read everything she could about the stock market, most not worth their weight in gold—or silver, depending on the day's prices—as they were usually the latest get-rich-quick fad. She even read the biographies of the world's wealthiest people: from Warren Buffet to Donald Trump.

When she was eighteen, she asked her Dad if she could invest some money in her savings account.

"You earned it," he said. "Just make sure you know what you're doing."

"I will."

Of all the stock brokers in their small Wisconsin town, she chose one who had just opened a new office. This guy advertised _everywhere_ , on the TV, in the newspaper, even on one of the dozen benches that lined Main Street. He looked honest. Not that the others didn't. She felt, given his youth, that this one would take her seriously.

After school one day, she walked into the broker's office. There was a small desk by the front door, where a young man with sandy-blond hair was talking on the phone. Aside from the glasses, he looked a little like the guy pictured on the advertisements, but knew this had to be the secretary. Behind the desk was a shut door.

_He's probably back there, wheeling and dealing,_ she thought, glancing around the small office. Lining the paneled walls were inspirational posters in cheap gold-colored frames, each centered on themes such as DEDICATION, MOTIVATION, and OPTIMISM.

When the man hung up the phone, he smiled and asked, "Can I help you, miss?"

"Yes, I'd like to meet with the stock broker about . . . investing."

The man took off his glasses. "That would be me. Marvin Summers." He reached across the desk and shook her hand.

"You?" Anna asked. "Sorry, I thought the stock broker was back in that room." She pointed to the shut door.

Marvin laughed. "I go back there from time to time, but it's not for doing any investment business." He leaned forward. "That's the restroom."

She blushed.

"What'd you like to know about investing?" he asked.

"Before we get into that," she said, rehearsing what the many books she read advised her on about finding the right stock broker, "I need to know what your fees and credentials are."

He spent the next twenty minutes listing his fees, credentials, and examples of the types of financial goals he structured for his clients. It turned out that despite him being new to the area, he had a great deal of experience at a larger brokerage house before deciding to do it alone.

Then, Anna asked, "How come you haven't asked me how old I am?"

"Frankly," he said, folding his hands in front of him, "I don't think there's any age limit on when you should become interested in money. I wish everyone started out when they were young. Then they wouldn't get themselves in debt up to their eyeballs, and suddenly wake up in their fifties and discovered they haven't saved a dime for retirement. Quite sad, really, but I do the best I can for them, to make sure they have something to retire on. If you don't mind my asking, since you brought it up, how old _are_ you?"

"Eighteen. I'm a senior in high school."

"Like I said, never too young to start thinking about money."

"Well," she said, passing him an envelope, "I'd like to invest this."

Marvin opened the envelope, expecting to find either a twenty or a fifty dollar bill, and nearly fell over when he saw a cashier's check for three thousand dollars. "My word. And here I thought this was for a school project or something."

* * *

Two weeks before Kolin was due to arrive back from Quantico, she received a call at her IRS office in St. Paul.

"Anna Raynes, my name is Charles Sim, CEO of Wesley Investments."

"What can I do for you, Charles?" Anna asked, perusing her current caseload. She neither recalled the name nor the company.

"We're an up and coming investment group here in the Midwest, and I just got off the phone with a Marvin Summers."

"That's my investment broker," she said. "Been with him since I was in high school."

"That's right," he said. "He and I used to work together years ago. Wesley Investments may be small, about five hundred million in assets, but we're growing rapidly. We just opened an office right here in St. Paul, and I was wondering if you had plans for lunch today. I'd like to speak with you about something."

She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to twelve. Her lunch plan was to grab a quick sandwich from a local delicatessen, for she had a telephone conference with an Ohio Congressman at one.

"I don't have much time. Where did you have in mind?"

"There's a little deli a block from your office," said Charles. "Pete's Hearty. Know where that is?"

_Funny_ , she thought. _That's where I was planning to go too._

"Yes. I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes."

When she walked into the deli, she was met by a short, bald man with an impeccable gray suit. He smiled and shook her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Anna. Here, I have a table already set up."

She felt strange sitting at a table with another man, but, judging from the wedding band on his left hand and the open laptop, this was all business.

After they ordered beer cheese soup and turkey club sandwiches, Charles said, "Marvin told me you're quite the investment guru. And that you have a PhD in Economics."

She nodded. "I started an investment account with him when I was eighteen. I've made quite a bit of money through him. He'd be great for your company, if you were to hire him."

Charles beamed. "Thank you. Ironically, he's starting in a month. We're very excited. So, if you don't mind my asking, do you enjoy your job?"

"When I was in the eighth grade, my Dad was audited by the IRS. It was probably the most painful experience of his life. They said he owed close to ten thousand dollars in back taxes and penalties, going back over five years. He eventually discovered it was a mathematical error made by his accountant, but Dad still had to take out a second mortgage just to pay it off. Anyway, I wanted to get into the IRS and make changes, possibly even change how they treated people like my father."

"And have you accomplished that goal?"

Anna leaned forward, spoon hovering over her soup. "I suppose, in my own circle of influence." She wanted to add that it would be difficult to change anything drastically, unless you were either the Treasury Secretary or the President, and that most days she shook her head at the moronic imbeciles running the bureaucratic monster.

Charles turned his laptop around and said, "I have an investment here I'd like you to look over. Tell me your thoughts."

She examined the figures, the profits and losses, the return on investment. "This is either a restaurant or a retail store, judging from the high inventory turnaround and available cash," she said. "It appears to be a solid small-cap investment, with a strong cash flow, no long term debt, and very little short term. Their average growth is over twenty percent in the past ten years, which is impressive."

Charles motioned around him. "Excellent guess."

"Pete's Hearty?"

"The company went public last month. Their twelve-month goal is to open up ten new stores along the east coast. They already have eight in the Midwest, from Minnesota to Missouri."

"Wow," she said. "I never would've thought this was anything but a lone delicatessen."

"Anyway," he said, "the reason I asked to see you was to inquire if you'd like to analyze balance sheets like this on a regular basis. Wesley Investments is expanding and I'd like to bring you onboard."

Anna almost dropped her sandwich. "I thought this was about Marvin. You're offering me a job? As a fund manager?"

"Nope. With your vast expertise and education, we'd like you to _supervise_ a group of fund managers. You'll get your hands on a lot more investments that way." He slid a large manila envelope and a business card across the table. "Your contract is in there. Please let me know your decision soon. Also," he said, closing his laptop and folding in hands in front of him, "compensation is _always_ negotiable."

The day before Kolin returned home, Anna knew she was done working for Uncle Sam. She called Charles to tell him she'd take the job, and negotiated an even more lucrative performance bonus.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

With the mystery surrounding Kyle tumbling around in his mind, and all the while trying to ignore the more-than-usual house creaks, Kolin sleeps a total of two or three hours before finally succumbing to those inner demons and arriving at the office long before dawn.

The information on Kyle's employment applications from WLOK, Prize Promos, and 7-11 is scarce. Kyle listed the apartment manager as his emergency contact and one lone reference—the other two were left blank. No other previous employment is listed on all three applications.

_He obviously didn't want his past misgivings ruining any future employment_ , he thinks.

The only education Kyle listed was high school, and even that's sketchy, for he wrote "Yes" under the heading and offered no source as to where. Oscar Longe, at Prize Promos, is the only one who seemed to delve further into this discrepancy, as he wrote notations in the margins—if the others noted this discrepancy, they made no such notations and hired him anyway.

"Yeah, I remember Kyle's interview," Oscar said when Kolin had previously phoned him. "I almost didn't hire him because of that application. Hell, I almost didn't even interview him."

"Why did you?" asked Kolin.

"Curiosity got the best of me," Oscar said. "There was just something I wanted answers to. And after speaking with him, I guess I felt sorry for him. He damn near broke down in tears. Said he went to a high school in Minneapolis, but was treated so badly he wanted to put it all behind him and make a better life for himself. He apologized for deceiving me. Said he really needed the job to prove to himself he wasn't a loser."

"Treated badly by whom?"

"Teachers, students, his own parents, I assume. He was real vague on the subject. He said this was his first job and thought he could do well."

"Did you get a copy of his diploma?"

"From high school?" asked Oscar. "You're kidding, right? I've never asked to see someone's high school diploma. Would you have it handy if someone asked? It'd probably be in a frame, collecting dust in an old box. That's where mine is, I'm sure. Then again, everyone else who's worked here has had a college degree of some kind and they usually send a copy of their transcript along with their resume and application. Honestly, thinking about it now, I should've asked for something. Even a high school transcript or a letter of some kind."

Afterwards, Kolin called the power company, to see if they had any measurable usage coming from the apartment in the past month. They reviewed their remote electronic monitoring system, and said that the only usage was enough to power a clock or two.

"Guy must not turn on any lights," the technician said. "Or have a fridge that's plugged in."

"Why is that?" asked Kolin.

"Light bulbs and fridges eat up a lot of electricity. And I mean _a lot._ Kid leaves a light on all day and, boy oh boy, your bill spikes. May be a few dollars here and there, but they add up over time. Probably a hundred bucks or more over the year, just that one bulb. Anyway, even if this guy had one light on for the past month, we'd probably see four times the amount of electricity used. Still not much, judging from the amount that's been used so far, but it'd be something. At the rate he's going, we'll probably owe him money for being so extra conservative."

He opens the Waterman case file again, and scans the numerous photos taken at the crime scene. The condition of the body was devastating.

_Except the eyeball carving,_ he thinks. _That was preserved._

He minimizes the close-up photos of the eyeball carving, and opens the Forensics report. There's a supplemental from the FBI Crime Lab, which states the chemical compound of the sealant over the "deliberate lacerations" were consistent with a polyurethane sealant by Minwax.

"And probably sold in hundreds of stores throughout the Cities and thousands across the Midwest."

He thinks back to Dope Jim's question, about why the killer sealed the eyeball carving.

"The most obvious answer is the killer wants me to see something, but that sounds too easy. Why else would he have done it?"

He spies the professional-grade video tape Bernie gave him, sitting on the corner of his desk. The label area on this one is blank.

"But the one I got from the killer wasn't. Okay, Mr. UNSUB, I'll take the bait. What in the hell am I supposed to see?"

He minimizes what he has open on his taskbar, then opens the other two case files. A chill runs through him— _I have to be on the right track_ —but when he searches for the meaning behind it, he comes up empty.

* * *

Simon rolls in a few minutes before nine. "How long have you been here?" he asks.

Kolin glances up. "I believe the rooster was still asleep at the time."

Simon grabs a powdered donut and a coffee, and slides a chair next to his friend. "Anything new?"

"No," Kolin says, then slams his fist against the desk, causing the laptop to jump.

"Hey," Simon says, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I know you wanna catch this UNSUB and all, and make a good impression, but if you need to take a day or two off, just go ahead and do it. Nobody would be disappointed. Hell, you probably haven't even seen your wife and kids since you've been back. Am I right? I know what time you've left each night. This job is important, but so is your family."

Kolin snaps a gaze at him. "But we're the primary investigators. Besides, you're here on a Sunday too."

"We don't have to do _everything._ We can delegate and take a break. Trust me, when this case is over, there'll be other cases to investigate."

"What if I can't do this?" Kolin asks, keeping his voice low. Not that there is anyone else here. "Maybe I should go back on the street."

Simon sips his coffee. "You're good at this job, Kolin. You were meant to do it. That's why you were hired. I know there are days when you wished you did something else, but there's always a reason why certain doors are opened for us."

"Now you sound like my Dad."

Simon smiles. "Then your Dad's one smart cookie."

Kolin leans back and closes his eyes. After a few deep breaths, he opens them and says, "For now—today, at least—I'll work. But I'll seriously consider taking a few days off."

"Good," Simon says, nodding. "Now, where are we?"

* * *

Kolin kicks himself for not watching the time sooner. His plans for the evening included supper at King Chester's, but it's now a quarter to seven. _They've probably eaten by now,_ he thinks. _At least I'll get home before they all go to bed._

He calls Anna's cell, but only gets her voicemail. No one answers the house phone either.

He starts to back out of his parking spot, but stops when he sees Simon standing outside, peering through the passenger's side window.

"I just remembered that the wife and kids are at her Mom's for supper," says Simon, opening the passenger's door. "Mind if I come over? It's also been a while since I've seen Anna and the kids."

_Me too,_ Kolin thinks. "Hop on in. What about your car?"

"We'll figure that out later." Simon then pulls out his cell. "I better text my wife though. At least let her know where I'm at. Hey, maybe we should pick up a case or two of Leinenkugel's while we're at it."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Kolin calls Anna several times on the way home, but still no answer.

Then, when he pulls into the driveway and sees their minivan parked in the garage, he misjudges the accelerator for the brakes. A sudden burst of speed, followed by an equally sudden stop, causes Simon to brace himself between the dash and the center console and yell out a "Whoa! You okay?"

"Why didn't she answer?" Kolin asks.

"Anna? Is that who you've been trying to call this whole time?"

Kolin nods.

Simon shrugs and says, "Maybe they're out for a walk or something and Anna forgot her cell."

Kolin glances over at him and says, "It's possible, I suppose. She's not as married to the thing as I am."

They walk inside, each carrying a case of Leinenkugel's Honey Weiss.

"Anna!"

No answer. There is an eerie quiet about the house. He moves towards the bottom of the stairs.

"Anyone home!"

He searches upstairs, checking the bedrooms, bathroom, and closets. All are empty. His stomach sinks.

Where could they be?

"Kolin, come here," says Simon, crouching near the stairs. Once his friend sprints over to him, he points down. "I hear something. Sounds like . . . talking. Is a radio or TV on?"

"I don't remember. I don't think so though."

They charge back down. Standing in the kitchen, they hear nothing except the hum of the refrigerator.

"Call Anna again."

"Good idea," Kolin says, taking out his cell. He dials and leans against the counter. Then, he immediately slaps it closed and unholsters his Glock.

"What is it?" Simon asks, quickly placing a hand on his own sidearm.

Kolin punches his chin forward, gesturing towards the back yard.

"Do you see someone?" Simon asks, flanking behind him. "I don't-"

Then, he also sees it: the wavering orange-red glow of a cigarette being inhaled just beyond the sliding glass door.

_And none of us smoke,_ Kolin thinks. "On three. Ready?"

Simon unholsters his Smith and Wesson .40. "Ready."

Kolin counts to three, then whips open the sliding glass door, bursts through, and levels his gun-

"SURPRISE!"

Yard lights ignite from around the perimeter of the yard, originating from atop bamboo staffs that grant an aura of the Caribbean. Standing front and center before a small crowd are both his and Simon's family. Many of the others are his friends from the Minneapolis PD, including Captain Mack and several members of VCU.

Picnic tables are scattered along the lawn, eagerly awaiting guests. Two long tables are set beside the house, with piles of food across their length: salad greens, potato salad, fried chicken, baked beans, watermelon, and about a half-dozen macaroni-style hotdishes. At the far end is an assortment of beverages, ranging from 2-liter bottles of pop to a commanding crystal punch bowl.

Kolin quickly holsters his Glock. A banner along the back of the house, lit by a single spotlight, reads:

WELCOME TO VCU KOLIN!

CONGRATULATIONS!

"Sorry for all the late nights," says Simon, smiling. "Anna needed time to get this ready."

"You knew about this?" Kolin asks his friend.

"Who do you think I texted when we left? I had to let her know we were coming."

"And here I've been feeling guilty about staying so late at the office."

"Unfortunately, most of that couldn't be helped. But after tonight, we'll go back to more regular hours."

"Daddy!"

Kolin's kids run over to him, Emily and June tackling his legs while Claudia stands back and patiently waits.

"Hey, girls," he says, embracing them all. "Oh, I missed you so much. Tomorrow we'll go out to King Chester's, just like I promised. Okay?"

"Yeah!"

Anna saunters over to him. "Hi, stranger. Or did you forget about me?"

Kolin smiles. "I could never forget you."

She pecks him on the cheek, then whispers, "After the party, remind me to tell you the good news."

Kolin's eyes grow wide. "Are you pregnant?"

She shakes her head. " _After_ the party."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kolin sits up and yawns. Through the horizontal slats on the partially-open blinds, the landscape outside is a hazy gray, the sharp edges of the neighborhood houses cutting deep into the violet horizon.

Simon was right. I definitely needed that day off yesterday. Probably spent way too much time at King Chester's, but it was well worth it. The kids had a blast.

He looks over at Anna, the sheets angling from one shoulder down to her lower back. Seeing nothing but smooth bare skin, he gradually lifts the bottom of the sheet and smiles. He runs his fingers down her warm, slender back, caressing the firm curves and wishing time could stop for the next hour or so.

Resigned that he doesn't have that power, and in less than twenty minutes the rest of the household will be up, he goes downstairs to enjoy the last remnants of peaceful silence. While eating a bowl of oatmeal, he uses his cell to check the latest news and possible tips from VCU's Facebook and Twitter accounts.

He closes his cell by the time his eldest child comes downstairs.

"Morning, Claudia."

She stands frozen in the living room. She rubs her eyes, opens them again, and says, "Wow, two mornings in a row."

"I'm hoping it'll be like this everyday from now on," he says.

While she eats, she tells him how school is going and how she's looking forward to the upcoming summer break.

"So, what's your favorite class?" he asks. "History, still?"

"Yeah," she says, "but Mr. Benson is tough. He gives these five-point quizzes like everyday. Hardly anyone gets the full five."

"How well do you do?"

"Oh, I always get five. Me and Brandon Ramsey. But most get one or two."

"What's your grade so far? An A?"

She giggles. "Of course, silly. I'm getting an A in all my classes except science. I have a B+ there. Messed up on the mid-term, but I'll score an A on the next test."

His other two daughters race downstairs, June still dressed in her pajamas, bearing one of the latest Disney characters—who it is, he doesn't know.

Kolin misses being with his kids every morning. When he was working the streets, he'd usually feed them, drop Claudia off at the school bus stop, and bring Emily and June to daycare. He cherished those few minutes together. That was their bonding time.

And something he sorely missed when he was away at Quantico.

"Let's eat, girls," he says. "You need to get dressed too, June. Emily, you have preschool today, so the bus will pick you up from day care at eleven thirty."

"Okay, Daddy!"

Anna soon comes downstairs, wearing a white cotton robe, her hair wet. "You should've gotten me up earlier," she says to Kolin, yawning. "I slept in too late." She checks her watch. "Ugh. I have only fifteen minutes to get ready. There's construction on Rose Street and the detour takes me way out by the 5th Avenue Target."

He shrugs and says, "Sorry, honey. I just thought you needed a little more sleep." He winks.

She pours herself a half-cup of coffee and says, "I did, but you still should've gotten me up. I can't be late, even if this is my last week. You're still bringing the girls to daycare, right? And remind Emily she has preschool today."

"Already done, my love." He kisses her.

The doorbell rings.

He frowns, puzzled, then glances at the clock. He walks to the front door. He opens it.

Surprisingly, no one is there.

He looks along the shrubbery, in case someone is playing a joke on him. Still seeing nobody, he closes the door.

"Who was it?" Anna asks.

"Nobody. The front is the only place where we have a doorbell, right?"

"I think. Are you sure it wasn't the paperboy? They deliver promotional newspapers from time to time."

"I didn't see a paper-"

The doorbell rings again.

He whips open the door. Still, no one is there. The only person he sees is Butch Diesen, who lives across the street, standing in the middle of his own driveway and reading the _Minneapolis Times._

"Morning, Butch!" Kolin yells over to him. When Butch looks up, Kolin asks him if anyone's been ringing his doorbell.

"I didn't see anyone," Butch says, lifting the paper up a little higher.

"What about the paperboy?"

Sighing, Butch folds his newspaper together, tucks it under his arm, and says, "He comes around about six. You okay?"

"Oh, yeah, we're fine."

Butch turns to head inside.

Kolin examines the doorbell. It appears to be intact, no rust or stray wires or anything out of the ordinary—as if he's that much of a repairman to recognize it anyway. He pushes the button. The doorbell chimes. "Maybe there's a short in the wiring," he says to Anna. "We should get somebody to look at it, if this continues."

"Who is it, Daddy?" June asks, eating a bowl of cereal, still dressed in her pajamas.

"Nobody, honey. Just some bad wiring, is all."

She stares at him, her eyes turning to slits.

"The doorbell has a boo-boo," he says.

"It need a Band-aid? I have a Disney Princess one you can have."

"It needs a different kind of Band-aid, sweetie. You need to hurry and get dressed." He closes the door and peeks out the side window, in the hopes of seeing someone sneak up to the house. But after a few minutes elapse, and he hears June scamper upstairs, nobody comes by.

"Let's get ready to leave, girls," he calls out, heading back to the kitchen. He fills his coffee mug.

The doorbell rings again.

Kolin slams his cup down, splattering half of its contents onto the counter. He sprints to the door as Emily, who just donned her shoes, turns the knob.

"Emily, don't!"

He slips past her and charges outside. Once again, nobody is here.

"What the hell is going on?"

As he starts to step back inside, he glances at their mailbox by the end of the driveway. Oddly enough, the door is wide open.

"Bye, Dad," Claudia says, running past him. "I don't need a ride to the bus. I can walk."

Kolin eases across the yard, staring at the mailbox and praying that it's empty. It's not. There is a package inside, wrapped in brown paper.

No!

"Daddy!" Emily yells out to him. "There's something about a girl on TV! An alert thing!"

Kolin bolts back inside. A banner along the bottom of the screen reads: AMBER ALERT—Edina Police reports that a teenage girl has been abducted by a man driving a black Trans Am. The man is described as wearing a black facemask, baggy black pants, and a gray pullover sweatshirt.

Kolin's cell rings. It's Simon.

"Dope Jim was right," says Simon. "Christ, Kolin, why did we take the day off yesterday? But how would we have known? I'm already on my way to the office."

Kolin jogs back out to the mailbox.

"Height and weight seems to match the other abductions too," says Simon. "And eyewitnesses caught half of the plate number too, so we should be able to narrow this one down when we search the DVS website. You still at home?"

Kolin removes the package with his fingertips, noting this one has no stamps in the appropriate corner. His hands tremble as he reads the cryptic return address:

HF BT FH MTR 27D 45Y 160D 210F

825 Schmidt Lake Rd.

Plymouth, MN 55441

"Holy shit. Simon, I got another one. In my mailbox. At home."

"Got another what?"

"Another package."

"I'll be right there."
CHAPTER NINETEEN

Captain Lewis Mack strokes his goatee, a hint of grayness sprinkled throughout the deep black. He paces behind his desk. "Fergie Almendarez," he says, peering over at the two investigators seated in front of his desk. He sighs. "Are you absolutely positive it's her?"

Kolin nods. "The video is practically identical to the Waterman murder. Same MO, same positioning of the camera, same candle lighting, same brand of VHS tape. Hell, even the same silver eyeball sticker. The only difference was the victim."

"The return address?"

"We can only assume," Simon says, "that the UNSUB stashed her dead body there. We just haven't figured out what the letters mean yet. We'll take Forensics there later today, once we have Kyle in custody-"

"No! Go to Plymouth. Let SWAT take the arrest warrant and handle Kyle. I want you to recover Fergie right away. You deciphered the letters before. I have faith that you can do it again."

"But we should be there when Kyle is arrested," Simon says. "Fergie's already dead. _That_ evidence can still wait a few more hours. We need to get to Kyle."

"I agree with Simon, sir," Kolin says.

Captain Mack crosses his arms. "Gentlemen, do you have any idea how many times Fergie's mother Adrianna has called me this morning, crying, pleading with me that her little girl can't be dead, that it has to be someone else's daughter?"

"She's called me too," says Simon, rubbing his hands together. He shakes his head. "She just needs some closure, knowing what happened to the Waterman girl. I'd probably do the same thing if I were her, calling every hour of the day for an update."

"Did the partial plate produce anything?" asks Lewis. "I assume it didn't, since you're still pursuing Kyle."

"You're right, it didn't," Kolin says. "Either the eyewitnesses got the numbers wrong or the UNSUB switched plates. Believe it or not, there are two Trans Ams in the whole state that have the last three plate numbers of one seven eight—pretty good odds, if you ask me. One was in Red Wing and the other in Hibbing. I've spoken with both owners, to see if they still had them. The one in Hibbing said the car was totaled over a year ago, and he was sure the plates went with it. The one in Red Wing still had his. He told me something like, 'Yup, it's sitting there in the driveway, I can see it right now. But the tranny's shot. Damn shame, 'cause I've driven that car since high school.' He said he also hasn't driven the car in over three months. Said he's saving up to fix it, but he's got a house that the bank is just a few weeks away from foreclosing on so that's where his money's tied up with."

"Could they be lying?"

"Already got it covered," Kolin says. "I've spoken with both PDs, and they're sending someone to check each residence and formerly interview them. I should also have a copy of the accident report in my e-mail shortly. But if I had to guess, they're both telling the truth. I'm leaning towards someone switching plates, because all of the eyewitnesses are certain of the last three numbers. It's the letters that have them confused. I have a list of all plates with the same last three numbers from the DMV. That'll take a lot of time to sift through though."

"Who lives at the Plymouth residence?"

For this, Kolin flips open his pocket notebook. "Karl and Mindi Stokes, ages sixty-seven and sixty-one," he says. "Karl is a retired businessman. They have two vehicles registered in their names, and one is a 1989 tan Cutlass Ciera, which matches the description of the vehicle Fergie was abducted in."

"Tell him about your neighbor," Simon says to Kolin.

"Which one?"

"The doorbell, remember?"

"Oh, yeah! Here's something interesting, sir. Kevin Mitchell, this neighbor boy who lives just down the block from me, said that on Friday, while he was walking to the school bus stop, a stranger came up and gave him twenty bucks to hide in my bushes and ring my doorbell this morning. I must live in a trusting neighborhood, because this kid didn't even tell his Mom about it. Just took the money from a complete stranger like it was nothing. Sounded like he wanted to use the money towards an iPod or something. He described the stranger as a blond man wearing a gray pullover. I showed him Kyle's DL photo and he said it was probably him, but he wasn't a hundred percent sure."

Captain Mack sits behind his desk. "Do we know anything about the package from Forensics?"

"They said the brown paper is from the top half of a grocery bag, and matches perfectly when aligned with the first package we received," says Simon. "The store's name is printed on this one too. 4th Street Grocery, the same mom and pop store that's a block from Kyle's apartment. The cashier and stockboys all confirm Kyle's presence there at least once or twice a week."

"They also haven't seen in the last month," Captain Mack says. He sighs, then glances at his watch. "If you want to hitch a ride to Kyle's apartment, SWAT is leaving in ten minutes."

"Thank you, sir!" Simon and Kolin exclaim, leaping from their seats.

"But gentlemen?"

They stand frozen in the doorway.

"Once Kyle is in custody, go recover little Fergie. Kyle can rot in a holding cell for as long as I care. Adrianna needs to know the truth about her daughter, no matter how painful."

* * *

Two black vans squeal to a stop in front of the brownstone building. Six SWAT officers burst out and run inside, heading towards Apartment 309.

The dim glow of the van's interior, lit by various computer monitors and LED displays, gives the atmosphere a cozy feeling—almost like sitting in front of a lit fireplace—despite its purpose. The lone communications officer sits in a swivel chair, hunched over a keyboard, listening to the officers over the headset.

"I hope they mash his face into the floor," Kolin says.

"I still have this feeling though."

"What feeling?"

Simon shrugs. "That Kyle isn't the one. He doesn't seem to fit the profile that this killer is portraying."

"We talked about this before. I agree, but it's a little late now."

"I know. It's just that . . ."

The communications officer turns and says, "It's all clear. You can go on up now."

As they reach for the door handle, he adds: "Captain Smelt says to make sure you bring a gas mask."

* * *

They climb up to the third floor, gas masks in hand, expecting to smell the faint odor of tear gas. Instead, they're greeted with something far worse. Many things can cause a horrible smell, but the vile stench of a dead body—one that's been dead for several days, if not weeks—is unique.

They quickly don their gas masks.

All six SWAT officers crowd the hallway just outside the apartment, causing a few of Kyle's neighbors to peek out and squeal with exasperation.

"Look at the door," Kolin says, pointing at the foam insulation around the jamb. "Kyle must've sprayed this on here before he left to keep any of his neighbors from detecting any smells."

"No, it would've been impossible for Kyle to do that with the door," Smelt says, motioning them inside. "Besides, he's in the back bedroom. Don't worry, nobody's touched a thing. That's why we're all out here. I'll contact Forensics for you."

In the living room is a tattered brown recliner, situated in front of a fifty-plus inch plasma TV. There are three upside-down milk crates set up between them, where a Microsoft Xbox and a Sony PlayStation sits. Beneath the TV is a behemoth Pioneer stereo, with eight speakers situated throughout the room. Kolin judges there must be over five hundred CDs, DVDs, and video games scattered across the floor.

The kitchen is bare, the cupboards housing more dust than utensils. The refrigerator is unplugged and empty, save for an ice cube tray half-filled with water and an empty Budweiser case.

Kolin eases into the bedroom and snaps on the light. "Oh, my God," he mutters.

Kyle Patrick Hammer is tied to a blood-soaked bed, his hands and feet secured with nylon rope to each corner. His head is tilted up, as if praying to God for mercy. Lacerations zigzag his nude body, and a long visceral incision has caused his intestines to spill out and form a heaping mass onto the floor.

Carved in the center of his chest is an eyeball, sealed with what they guess is Minwax polyurethane.

"At least we know he's innocent," Kolin says, then spots a small rectangular-shaped package, wrapped in brown paper, on top of a small dresser along the wall. Instead of the cryptic return address found on the other two packages, the front on this one simply reads:

TO KOLIN RAYNES, VCU INVESTIGATOR:

AND I THOUGHT YOU WERE SMART . . .

"Can this case get any weirder?" Simon asks.

"Yes," Kolin says. "I believe it just did."
CHAPTER TWENTY

Seated around the Stokes' dining room table—the mastered craftsmanship is something that could never be bought at a cheap discount store chain—Kolin and Simon are on one side, facing the outside, while Karl is hunched over a chair across from them, his complexion pale. His hair is a short gray stubble. Before him are a dozen-plus medication bottles.

Mindi Stokes sets down four matching Corelle cups and a carafe.

"Are you in remission?" asks Simon.

"For now," Karl says, rapping his knuckles against the deep walnut. "The Mayo docs are miracle workers, that's for sure. Today is day three hundred and ninety-seven since my bone marrow transplant."

"Leukemia?"

Karl nods. "AML." He picks up a cup, turns to Mindi, and says, "Thanks, sweetie."

She lays a gentle hand on his shoulder and smiles.

"What can we do for you?" Karl asks, filling the four cups with coffee.

Simon asks if they were at home during the time of Fergie's abduction.

"We were out of town that whole week," Karl says, shaking his head. "We took our kids and grandkids to a Jellystone Park near the Wisconsin Dells. We wanted to do it a few years ago, but then I got sick. Not really sure it was a good idea to go now, when I'm still on monthly check-ups, but we did it anyway."

"And they all had so much fun," Mindi says. "We got a kick out of watching the grandkids go down the water slides. We rented a little cabin there. You can talk with our kids if you like."

"That may not be necessary," Simon says, then thinks that he'll have to, in order to properly establish their alibis. Because if he doesn't, he's sure a slick defense attorney will tear him a new one when—if—they ever bring this killer to justice. "Does anyone have keys to your house?"

"Just the kids," she says. "Marty and Susan live in St. Louis Park, and Trish and Nathan are in Fridley."

"Are their keys accounted for?"

She looks over at her husband, then says, "I think so. We'll give you their numbers, so you can call them."

"Good, I'll have to do that," says Simon. "How about neighbors? Do any of them have a key?"

"Nope," Karl says. "Don't trust the neighborhood."

"Why is that?" Kolin asks. "If you don't mind my asking. It seems like a nice enough neighborhood."

"Because we're so close to the interstate, it's an easy road to go down and pick a house to rob. Besides, most people around here pretty much keep to themselves. It's sad, really. For the past few years, the police tried to get a Neighborhood Watch program started, but the only ones who seem to show up are us and maybe two other couples."

"Do you keep a key outside?" asks Simon.

Karl sips his coffee. "For years, we kept a key under a rock right next to the door. But when the neighbors started becoming more strangers than friends, we decided we didn't need it there anymore. Besides," he says, rapping his knuckles against the table, "we've never used it once."

"Ever been burglarized?" Simon asks.

"Just one attempt that we know of," Karl says. "About a year and a half ago, I woke up around three in the morning. I had this horrible cough, you see. This was when my health started going downhill and we had to go to Mayo. Anyway, Mindi told me to get a glass of water, so I went downstairs. That's when I heard someone trying to jimmy the front door."

"Had any other experiences like that?" Simon asks.

"Nope." Karl glances at his wife. "Unless you're talking about when we came back from Wisconsin."

"What happened?" asks Kolin.

"Aside from knowing the Cutlass had been moved, the back door of the garage was unlocked. And I _always_ lock it. I even remember locking it. Nothing was taken though." Mindi starts to say something, but Karl interrupts her. "Yes, that's right, my deer hanging rope. That was taken, I guess. It's a rope and pulley that I use to hang up deer to the rafters. Always had it coiled up and hanging from a peg beside the other tools."

"How did you know the car had been moved?" Kolin asks.

"We have a small garage, you see. And when I drive the Cutlass in, I aim the windshield wiper at this rubber ball hanging down from the rafters. That way, I know when I'm in far enough to get the garage door closed."

"Did you call the police?" Simon asks.

"What for? I called them for a house watch just before we left, but someone still broke in. Besides, I've had that deer hanging rope since I was in high school. The police have more important things to do besides writing up a theft report for a five-dollar rope and pulley."

"How long have you had the Cutlass?"

"Karl," Mindi says, pointing at a small wrist watch. "Time for some meds."

"Oh, yeah. Thanks, sweetie." Karl opens three bottles and removes pills from each. Once they're taken, he says, "Had the Cutlass about two months. Traded in the Suburban because we didn't need such a gas guzzler. Especially now that gas has skyrocketed again to over four bucks a gallon. We just wanted something that could get us to the store and back."

"You didn't take it to Wisconsin?" Kolin asks.

Karl shakes his head and says, "Took the Caddie. That's what we usually take to Rochester too."

"It's better on the highways," Mindi says.

"Where did you buy it?"

"Way, way up north," Karl says. "Little town called Red Lake Falls. It's about an hour or so from the Canadian border. Bought it on the internet. Never done that before, but the dealer gave us a great deal."

"Would you still happen to have the dealer plates?" asks Kolin.

"Dealer plates? Gosh, no. He took them when we bought it."

Kolin glances at Simon, frowning.

"Unless you're talking about the plastic ones with the dealer's logo on it," Mindi says. "Because those we have."

* * *

"Both these guys and the Busch's requested house watches before they left for vacation," Kolin says, once they're outside. "What're the odds?"

"When you worked the street, how many houses were you asked to watch on the average?" Simon asks.

"Not many. Probably . . . five at the very most. It wasn't a service that we advertised, that's for sure. I always kinda wondered why anyone would call something like that in. But it's like Karl said, nobody knows their neighbors anymore. Nobody trusts them."

"Exactly," says Simon. "And I hate to say it, but I'm one of them. You, at least, know a few people you live next to. Well, you know what we need to do now."

"Yeah," Kolin says, flipping open his pocket notebook. He thumbs through the pages until he comes to the return address on the second package. "Let's find Fergie. HF . . . BT . . . FH and MTR. 27D and 160D are probably degrees on a compass, like before, and 45Y is forty-five yards. 210F might be . . . two hundred and ten feet. That sound right?"

Nodding, Simon glances around and says, "The starting point has to be around here somewhere. What are those letters again?" His cell rings. "It's the wife. Hello?"

Kolin walks out along the Stokes' yard, surveying the landscape. There is a small playground across the street, with a half-dozen kids swinging and sliding and twirling on the merry-go-round. He glances at the letters.

Nope, that's not it. Maybe the starting point is along the back, just like the-

He rams his foot into something hard.

"Shit!"

He bends down and rubs his foot, pissed that he's careless enough to slam right into a fire hydrant. Then, as he traces a line from the hydrant towards the back at the house, a chill pours down his spine.

"It can't be."

Moments later, he takes out his cell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Bernie Ping bursts into the Control Room. The production engineers acknowledge his presence by straightening their posture and lifting the level of focused excitement a few notches.

"What's the latest?" he asks Heather Nell, one of his trusted production assistants.

"Our chopper is over I-35W South," she says, swiveling around in her chair to meet him. "The police received numerous tips that the suspect vehicle was spotted along there, but they've found it and it turned out to be a false lead."

"Follow me," he says, bolting back down the hall to his office. Heather, with pen and paper in hand, follows close behind.

He settles into his chair. Once she closes the door, he says, "We just got a call from a housewife in Plymouth. She said that the Minneapolis VCU is hanging around the 800 block of Schmidt Lake Road."

"That's way out of their jurisdiction, isn't it?" she asks.

"I just called the Plymouth PD. They denied any involvement. In fact, they didn't even seem concerned. So much so that the dispatcher practically yawned in my ear."

"Do you think it was a prank call?"

He eyes his phone, willing it to ring. But he doesn't want just anyone to call. He has someone in mind. "Remember last week when Kelsey Falk was abducted? VCU stormed a residence in Anoka and discovered the body of Patricia Waterman. Today, there is another abduction and VCU is hanging around a residence in Plymouth." He leans forward. "Coincidence?"

She shrugs and says, "Doesn't seem to be."

"Send a crew to Schmidt Lake Road in Plymouth, and be ready to roll if anything's there."

"You got it."

After she leaves, he leans back, fingering the handset of his phone.

Come on. You promised.

Then, he remembers he has the person's cell number on his business card.

He pulls open a drawer, disheartened by the pile scattered along the bottom, and starts to sift through it.

* * *

"Good morning, WLOK," the receptionist says.

The caller rambles on for a full minute, insistent that he not be put on hold or transferred, then the line goes dead. Normally, he'd contact one of the reporters with information like this, but the caller demanded the message be given directly to someone else instead.

And when someone mentions Bernie Ping, then by God you better let him know about it.

* * *

"The caller asked for _me_?" Bernie asks, the found business card in hand.

"Yes, sir. Anonymous caller, that's all I know. He must've used a calling card. When I called back on the number that showed up, it said it was an AT&T service number."

"Okay, thanks."

After scribbling down the info, Bernie swings his feet around and knocks his wastebasket over, which is heaping with wadded-up papers. His floor now looks like the afterbirth of a busted-up piñata.

"Oh, Christ!"

He runs into the Control Room, hands Heather a piece of paper, and says, "Send the crew to _this_ location instead of in Plymouth. The police just raided an apartment there. According to an anonymous caller, a body was found inside that may be connected with the abductions. And, no, I don't think it was a prank call. I think it was the real deal."

"Yes, sir."

As Bernie steps back towards his office, he spots Fred Dillings, a maintenance supervisor, at the end of the hall.

"Fred!"

"Yes, Mr. Ping?" Fred asks.

"Do you know who was on yesterday afternoon? My garbage didn't get emptied last night, and now I have papers all over the floor."

Fred rubs his chin. "Marie worked yester—oh, that's right, she called in sick. Sorry, Mr. Ping. We'll get to it right away."

"Doesn't anyone else empty garbage when she calls in? This is probably the fourth time in a month she's called in sick and nobody has bothered to empty any of the garbage cans. We need to get this done, Fred. It's not rocket science we're dealing with here."

"I'll see to it personally, Mr. Ping."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Kolin waves at Simon to get his attention.

"Honey, I have to go," Simon says to his wife. "Be back in a few hours, hopefully." He disconnects. "What is it?"

"I think I have it," Kolin says, beaming. He extends his arms, pointing on either side of him. "See that fire hydrant over there and the meter at the Stokes' house?"

The fire hydrant is at the corner of the lot. The electric meter, which is normally hidden at the rear of most houses, is along the side, sandwiched between a pair of six-foot tall shrubs.

"Could FH be the fire hydrant and MTR be the meter?"

Simon studies the letters again, a shiver now coursing through him. "What about HF and BT?"

"Where am I?" Kolin asks. "I mean, where am I in relation to the fire hydrant and the meter?"

"With the fire hydrant by the road and the meter at the house, I'd say you're probably . . . well, somewhere in the middle-"

"How about . . . halfway between?"

Simon looks at the letters again. HF. BT. FH. MTR. "Halfway between the fire hydrant and the meter? Kind of a mouthful. Kind of redundant too. Could've just said halfway or between. Oh, well. But if that's what it is, we need to know where exactly that is."

"While you were busy chit-chatting with your wife, I took the liberty of stepping off the distance between them. This is the exact middle. Halfway between, in other words." Kolin pulls up the compass app on his cell. "And twenty-seven degrees is . . . that way." He points towards the rear of the yard, right into a patch of woods.

"Another woods," Simon says, shaking his head. He sighs. "Here we go again."

Kolin then removes a tent stake from his pocket, ties the end of a roll of kite string to it, and plants it in the ground.

* * *

"210F," Simon says, scratching his head. "Two hundred and ten feet."

"Seventy yards, in other words," Kolin says. He checks his compass heading, and points himself in the right direction, now noting their narrow V-shaped path. "Why didn't the UNSUB just stash her back in this woods like he did with Patricia? It's fairly secluded back here. We're almost back to where we started too." His stomach lurches when he spots the playground—and the group of kids—directly ahead. "Oh, God. See that? Now what?"

"If the UNSUB buried a body there, one of them would've stumbled upon it by now," says Simon. "It must be something else."

Kolin plants a stake in the ground, and loops the kite string around the end. As they walk onward and soon cross the street, they judge that the seventy yard mark will end right in the middle of the playground, right at the swings.

"Hi, misters," a boy near the top of a slide says.

"Hi," both Kolin and Simon reply, waving a friendly hand at them.

The boy says to one of the others, "Timmy, go get your mom. Tell her we have strangers at the park."

"We're cops," Kolin says, pulling out his badge.

Simon also pulls his out and says, "Detectives."

"Wow, detectives!" the kids exclaim in unison. "Cool!"

"What's the string for?" one of the girls asks.

"It's for marking our trail," Kolin says, pointing back into the woods. "Hey, do you think you guys can help us? Has anyone seen any strangers hanging around this park in the past few weeks? Not us, I mean, but a real stranger."

The kids shake their heads.

"How about at night?" Simon asks.

"We're not allowed out here after dark," another girl says.

"But there's a rope over there," the first girl says. She points towards a pair of swings, right in line of where Kolin judges his final step should be. "I just found it today. It's buried in the sand. Here, I'll show you."

She leads him over to the spot. She scoops away about an inch or so of sand, revealing an old gray rope.

Kolin kneels and pulls it up. The rope snakes through the sand, leading off towards a grove of trees a short distance away. The brush is thick and mighty oaks are stationed at either end and near the middle.

"You kids should head back home," Kolin says. "We're going to have others helping us here, and we don't want you to get in the way."

When the kids finally leave, after much debate over who the others will be and what they will be doing and no they didn't really need any help from who they considered to be junior detectives, Kolin says, "I'll bet my next paycheck that this is Karl's old deer-hanging rope."

"Yeah," Simon says, staring at the patch of woods ahead of them. "And I have a feeling he's not going to want it back."

* * *

The Forensics team, having just finished processing the Cutlass Ciera and the back door of the garage, hangs back while Kolin continues to pull on the rope.

"Find anything in the car?" Simon asks.

"It's just like Patricia Waterman's," a fingerprint guru says, nodding. "A perfect palm print of Fergie's was right on the dash and a thumb print along the back window. The rest was wiped clean, except for a few smudges on the steering wheel from Mr. Strokes."

"How about the back door?" Simon asks another tech.

"No sign of any tool marks, like a crowbar or anything. My guess, if they really did lock the door, was that it was picked. Very professional. The only other explanation is that they had a key for the back stashed somewhere."

"They didn't," Simon says. "We already asked, but I'll make sure to ask again about the back door."

The rope is buried an inch or two beneath the soil. It leads straight to the grove and then angles towards the base of a large oak. Once at the base, the rope goes straight down into a narrow patch of disturbed earth. Kolin tugs on it. "It's definitely tied to something."

Forensics spreads out a plastic sheet, and carefully excavates, documenting every scoop.

In what few windows Kolin can see, faces watch them, eager for a glimpse of the macabre and counting their blessings that it isn't their kid buried right in their backyard. Oddly enough, even though the neighborhood has lots of houses within viewing distance, the grove is secluded.

Could the killer have stood here and buried a girl?

Then, something Karl Stokes said sparks his brain cells. _He didn't trust any of his neighbors. They're all strangers to him—except the kids, of course. They weren't strangers to each other._

"We've got it," says one of the Forensics team members. "It was only down about four inches."

The body is bundled up in a black plastic tarp—Kolin contemplates asking Karl if he's missing that too—with the rope tied across the middle. Once they lift it out and cut away the rope, they slowly pull back the sheet. Inside is a pale, slightly decomposed body, bearing a striking resemblance to Fergie Almanderez.

And in the center of her chest, preserved from the elements by a coating of polyurethane, is the carving of an eyeball.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The search for Alyssa Cameron, the latest abduction victim, continues with every lead seeming to go nowhere.

"We're not giving up though," says Simon. "The UNSUB has to screw up some time."

Kolin interviews the Stokes's neighbors. Luckily, one tells him that less than a week after Fergie's abduction, someone dressed like a city meter reader was walking around the Stokes's yard.

"How did you know that's where he was from?" Kolin asks.

"Ironically, that's what I do for a living," Matt Mills says, crossing his arms. "The uniform looked exactly like mine, but I didn't recognize him. In the good ol' days, we used to walk around once a month and read everyone's meter. It was great exercise. On a typical day, I'd walk five or six miles. Now, meters are monitored electronically and only have physical inspections annually. This guy looked to be doing a physical, but the block here isn't scheduled for another three months."

"Do you know what he was driving?"

Frowning, Matt leans against the door jamb and looks out, past Kolin's shoulder, towards the Stokes'. He sighs. "You know something? I didn't see anything. Not that I remember, anyway. I was kinda distracted that morning. If he had a van or a truck, he didn't park it where I could see it."

"No car either?"

He shakes his head.

"Could the city have hired someone new?" asks Kolin. "Someone you didn't know?"

"Not a chance. We're like a family, you see. On the day this guy came around, I happened to be home sick. Maybe some of the neighbors saw him too."

_None did,_ Kolin thinks. _But I'll go back around and ask. Maybe no one else thought the so-called meter reader was suspicious enough to remember._

"I almost called the cops too," Matt says. "I knew Karl and Mindi were out of town, but I got distracted, like I said earlier. The school called to say my ten-year-old son Tory was having a low blood sugar. He's a diabetic and his blood sugar was thirty-two. _Way_ too low. Normal is around one hundred or so. Anyway, I was telling the school nurse how much juice and sugar tabs to give him. I was afraid Tory was going to have a diabetic seizure, with his sugars that low. I was probably on the phone for twenty minutes, and by then the guy was long gone. Honestly, I forgot all about it until you came here."

"How well do you know any of your neighbors?"

"Not as well as I used to. People move around so much nowadays. Not sure if it's the economy or what. I think in the past few years, probably half of the homes around here have been sold, so it's hard to keep up with the new ones."

"What about the Stokes?" Kolin asks, flipping his notebook closed. He tucks it away in a shirt pocket.

"Karl and Mindi are some of the nicest people you'd ever know," he says. He looks down and shakes his head. "Damn shame what happened to him. He got leukemia. They say he started to get sick a year or so ago, but I'll bet it started a lot longer than that."

"Why is that?"

"Karl used to be a Bobcat sales manager. He'd been working for them for close to thirty years. He knew every contractor, every county board member, and every Minnesota DOT decision-maker throughout central and southern Minnesota. And I mean _everyone._ I heard a story once about a young sales rep from Caterpillar who tried to woo the Hennepin County Board with all of his flashy slides and figures. Then, Karl comes in, sets his briefcase on the floor, tells a few jokes, and walks out ten minutes later with a two million dollar contract.

"About five or so years ago—when my wife was still around—Karl started feeling weak and was missing more and more work. He lost a lot of his fire until Bobcat put him on paid medical leave. Laura—that was my wife—was over at the Stokes' every other night with a hotdish or a pie of some kind. Then, all of a sudden, she decided that her life would be more exciting out in Vegas or California, so she left."

"Your wife? Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Matt says, unfolding his arms. "It was for the better, I'm sure. She cared for Karl and Mindi, but not her own family. She'd stay out and party every weekend, leaving Tory and I to fend for ourselves. Then, one day, she left while I was at work. Haven't seen her since.

"Anyway, if I think of what van or truck that guy was driving, I'll let you know."

* * *

Kolin finds two other neighbors that _possibly_ recall seeing the so-called meter reader, although neither one saw any vehicle he might've driven.

Mrs. Brenda Severson, a spry seventy-something, tells him, "I remember the days when those guys walked around to each house. I don't know what they do now, but back then I'd be washing dishes or fixing lunch and all of a sudden a man with a clipboard would come around to the back of the house. Scared the living daylights out of me the first couple times it happened. But I never, ever saw what they drove."

Once Anna and the girls are in bed, Kolin sits on the couch and mutes the lives of the Seaver's as they show their _Growing Pains_.

In the investigation so far, the one mystery that still boggles him—aside from a sociopath kidnapping and murdering teenage girls—is why he's being targeted with the videos.

"There has to be a reason behind it," he says as Mike Seaver plays another prank on his sister Carol. "But what?"

Thanks to his father for instilling this notion, Kolin has always believed things happen for a reason, that a Higher Power nudges the larger portions of one's life in certain directions.

Because it's happened to him before.

Around mid-February of his junior year of college, Bemidji was forecasted to see temperatures stabbing into the low forties—a heat wave for that time of year.

On Wednesdays that semester, Kolin had a night class: Criminal Investigations. Typically, Simon and he would walk together, the former gloating to the latter about his higher score on the latest test. But that night—the one that altered his life forever—Simon came down with a cold.

"Take good notes for me," Simon said, standing in the threshold of his small single room dorm, then blew his nose.

"Like hell I will," Kolin said, donning his winter coat, despite the mild forecast.

"I know they won't be as good as mine. Please, buddy. Come on. I'll take notes when you're gone."

"Well . . . okay."

Night classes at Bemidji State University typically ran from six to ten, but the Criminal Investigations class rarely went past eight thirty. The professor always gave his students tons of homework though, which compensated for the early departure.

At twenty after eight, Professor Brent Nicholas said, "Let's break for the night. Read the next two chapters on arson and sexual assault investigations. Remember that your crime scene projects are due next week. Also, two weeks from tonight, an investigator from the Minnesota BCA will be here, so class will probably run the full four hours. Class participation is mandatory, and will be graded accordingly, so be sure to grill him with a lot of questions."

Instead of heading back to the dorms, Kolin went to the library. He had a paper due the following week for Dr. Dewitt's Constitutional Law class, and he hadn't even picked a topic yet.

After perusing the periodicals for an hour, finally choosing to write on the importance of the Fifth Amendment—although he's sure he'll have to narrow it down from there—he made his way to the tunnels. He would've walked outside, but in the past hour the temperature had unexpectedly dropped to zero, bringing with it a chilling northwest wind.

Underneath much of the BSU campus was—and still is to this day—a vast tunnel system, allowing one to travel from one end of the campus to the other without ever going outside. The only exception was a fifty-yard stretch between the Birch Hall and Tamarack Hall dormitories.

Kolin poised himself to brave the new chill, but stopped at the Birch Hall door when he saw a girl standing by it, rubbing her bare arms as if she were suffering from a rash of poison ivy.

"You look cold," he said.

"Stupid me," she said. "I would've brought a coat, but my roommate told me it was supposed to be warm out tonight. Well, it _was_ warm when I left for class. She's probably sitting in our room right now, laughing like a baboon."

"That'd be funny if she was," he said.

She frowned.

Kolin backed up slightly. "Oh, no, I don't think it's funny that you didn't bring a coat," he said. "It'd be funny if she looked like a baboon. You see, this last weekend I was so bored that I watched this documentary on baboons on _The Discovery Channel_. They're hideous-looking things."

She instantly burst into a fit of laughter that caused a few people loitering in the lobby to look over at her, regarding her with annoyance.

"So, where are you heading?" Kolin asked.

"Oak Hall."

Suddenly, his insides warmed. He thought he knew every girl in the Oak Hall dormitory—well, _knew_ was a loose term. Knew what they looked like was more like it, and ranked their cuteness accordingly, but he'd never seen this one before: a petite brunette with slender legs, rosy cheekbones, and a wide smile that made his heart skip a beat or two.

"Wow, I live in Oak too." Once they shared which floor and wing they resided in, he asked, "Care to join me for a late-night snack at the Pizza Pan? My treat."

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," she said. "Besides, I have an Economics test on Monday."

"Okay, no problem," he said. He held out a hand. "Kolin Raynes."

"Anna Gibson."

They shook hands.

Anna glanced outside. "Well," she said, sighing, "we better make a run for it."

"Wait," Kolin said. He dropped his books, then stripped off his jacket. "Here. Wear this." He handed it to her. "I can't stand to watch a gorgeous woman freeze."

"No, I couldn't."

"If you don't wear it, I won't either. What do you say? Someone has to wear it. We're gonna look awful silly walking outside in this carrying a coat. Please?"

She stared at him for a moment. Then, with reluctance, she put it on.

Instead of running the fifty yards to Tamarack Hall, they walked, chatting about their majors, their love of TV comedy sitcoms—especially the old ones from when they were in high school—and action movies. Still following the tunnels, they soon arrived at Walnut Hall, which housed an expansive food court.

"Sure you won't change your mind?" asked Kolin, pointing inside the Pizza Pan. "Medium pepperoni with extra cheese?"

She agreed.

He got back to his room around eleven, where his roommate, Ryan Rentfrow, was cramming for a Psychology test the next morning.

Ryan glanced over at the clock and asked, "Class finally making up for always leaving early?"

"Nope," Kolin said, then told him about Anna. "And she's an Economics major, a female version of Alex P. Keaton."

"Whoa, that's great," Ryan said. "If you two get married, at least you'll be set money-wise, 'cause you ain't gonna get rich being an FBI agent."

"Hey, we haven't even gone out on a date yet," Kolin said. "It's a bit early to plan the rest of my life with her."

_Although she different from every other girl I've known,_ he thought. _We talked the whole time we were together. I think the only other person I've been able to do that with is Simon._

"I asked her out this weekend, but she has a test and two papers due next week."

Ryan leaned back and put a finger alongside his temple. "Never fear, I foresee good things in your future," he said. "Cha-ching, baby!"

"I hope you're right."

Kolin grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste, and headed down the hall to the bathroom.

"Forget something, Kolin?" a voice behind him asked.

He turned. It was Anna, with his winter jacket wrapped in her arms like a baby.

In a flash, he found it odd that he now remembered her wearing it while they were talking and chowing down on pizza, and even when they departed in the Oak Hall lobby he never asked for it back.

_Must've had my mind on other things,_ he thought, grinning.

"I forgot to give this back to you," she said. "And I was also thinking, I can't surely spend the _whole_ weekend studying and working on those papers. A movie would be nice. And maybe dinner too."

* * *

Seventeen months later, Anna Gibson became Anna Raynes.

Although Kolin knows he probably would've ran into her at some point—for BSU isn't _that_ big—it's funny to think that if class ran a little later or if he never would've gone to the library or if he would've walked outside instead of taking the tunnels or if the temperature hadn't unexpectedly dropped, they might not have ever met.

Odd how life works out that way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Simon and Kolin charge into one of the conference rooms typically devoted for large-scale investigations.

Taped onto much of the wall space here are photographs of every crime scene related to The Video Slayer—the title penned by a WLOK anchor one evening, and the name stuck. On the far wall is an oversized map of the Twin Cities, with colored pegs scattered across it indicating body dumps and abduction sites. Both investigators have stood in front of the map for hours, trying to decipher a pattern yet always coming up short.

Last spring, six days after Alyssa Cameron's abduction, Kolin received a video of her murder in the mail along with a cryptic return address to where her body was stashed. Then all was silent. There were no more abductions throughout the summer, which over time caused Simon and Kolin to be assigned to other cases. The weeks and months dragged by, and what few leads they acquired fizzled out and hit dead-ends.

Yesterday morning, however, The Video Slayer became their number one priority again when a teenager named Paulette Sampson was abducted in front of a high school in Eagen, in much the same fashion as the others.

When Kolin arrived home last night, he discovered a letter in his mailbox with no return address. It bore a St. Paul postmark. Inside was a single sheet of paper. Written on it in block lettering were the words:

I HOPE YOU'RE

RESTED UP, KOLIN!

"Okay, let's go through the main points of the profile again and brainstorm a few ideas," says Simon, clicking on a folder containing the psychological profile provided by the FBI. "The UNSUB is a white male in his mid to late-thirties, and has lived in the Twin Cities for much of his life, probably in several different suburbs. He has extensive knowledge of which roads are not affected much by rush hour traffic and may well have been employed in the home delivery or public transit sector." He taps the screen. "Now, I know we ran this one hard. We checked all of the taxi and bus drivers as well as every deliveryman we could find. Did we miss anyone that you can think of?"

"We were fairly thorough," Kolin says, shaking his head. "FedEx and UPS didn't really want to cooperate at first, but saw that it was in their best interest when they noticed the attention WLOK was getting. What especially helped was when we spent a week and had every single delivery driver pulled over and identified."

"Worked well, but with nothing to show for it."

"At least we could eliminate them though. And it got the word out who we were looking for."

"True," Simon says, nodding. He motions to the profile. "Since all of the victims have been fully clothed, with no evidence of sexual assault, the crimes appear to be a message."

"Yeah, directed right at me," Kolin says, reading the notation made by the profiler. "The significance of the eyeball on both the stickers and the victims' chests suggest the killer wants me to _see_ something. But what?"

Simon leans back and says, "They said only you would know. The use of the old VHS tapes to record the murders seems to point to something in your past."

Kolin rubs his chin. "Not sure what that could be. I wonder how far back? College? High school? Christ, I can't think of anything."

Turning his attention back to the laptop, Simon adds, "The UNSUB may also have access to a media source." He snaps his fingers. "How about a freelancer? That'd allow him the flexibility to work whenever—or wherever—he wants."

"WLOK doesn't use freelancers."

"Who said it has to be WLOK? There are other media sources than just them—KTSP, ABC, CBS, NBC-"

"But what about the professional grade VHS tapes? Imperial only had a handful of customers in the Twin Cities, and WLOK was by far their number one. Maybe we should go back more than two years on their employee list."

"Let's finish with the profile and toss out a few more ideas," Simon says, scrolling down the screen. "The UNSUB may be skilled at disguises, and, given the all-black clothing, may have a physical feature that he's ashamed of, like a birthmark or a scar or something unique."

"Is there a significance to the six days, I wonder?" Kolin asks. "It's not Biblical, that I know of, unless you count that God created the earth in six days and rested on the seventh."

"I don't know. Is there something that happened in the past that was six days long?"

Kolin frowns and says, "I've racked my brain on that, but . . . the only thing that comes to mind are a few summer camps I went to as a kid. They were about a week long. But nothing bad happened, that I can remember."

"It'll come to you," Simon says. "Okay, let's not forget about the Beholder's Club either. We're certain the eyeball stickers came from them, but all members, past and present, have been cleared."

"What about that one lady?" Kolin asks. "Marie, was it? She used a fake last name."

"She's cleared," Simon says. "I thought I told you this. The only reason she used a fake name was because she didn't want her husband—now her ex-husband—knowing about the club. She said he was abusive and controlling, and on meeting nights she'd tell him that she was going to help clean her mother's house. Which is odd, if you saw her. She's built like a brick shithouse. Honest to Pete. I'm sure she could even bench press me."

"My God," Kolin says, gasping, holding his hands out as if gripping an imaginary basketball. "What if the UNSUB has a job that requires him to travel during the summer? That would explain the three-month hiatus. What kind of job would that be?"

"Could be a teacher," says Simon. "They're off during the summer."

A chill rakes down Kolin's spine. _A teacher,_ he thinks. _My God, that fits. Almost too perfectly though . . ._

"I hate to say this," Simon says, glancing at the door to see if it's still shut. "He could even be a cop."

" _That_ could explain the six-day pattern," Kolin says, nodding. "Most departments have odd work schedules."

Simon slams his fist onto the table, causing the laptop to skitter. He jumps up and starts pacing back and forth, his arms flailing. "The house watches! Who's privy to that information besides cops? It has to be one of our own."

"Incident reports are not protected by any privacy act, unless there's a juvenile named," Kolin says.

"And nobody would think that kind of information is newsworthy," Simon says, slowing his pace. He soon stops and sits back down. "Okay, the house watches link all of these together. Let's go with that. The Minneapolis PD has a sign-in sheet when a reporter reviews their incident reports. We need to know if other departments do the same thing. Then, we'll get copies of the sign-in sheets from the week or so prior to each abduction, to cross-reference the names and see how many match up."

"Wait a second," Kolin says. He reaches across and scrolls to the end of the profile. He taps the screen. "The UNSUB may also have either martial arts or military experience, given the swift efficiency of the abductions. They missed one. Simon, I think you're right." He lowers his voice. "It could be a cop. Or at least _trained_ like one. Think of how each girl was taken: the UNSUB smacks them alongside the neck, right on this pressure point on the jugular. That's a defensive tactic move we're taught called a brachial stun."

"So we're looking for a reporter with possible law enforcement training," Simon says, checking his watch. "And we have to do this quickly in order to save Paulette Sampson."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Paulette Sampson pulls on the leather bindings securing her wrists and ankles, praying for any sign of give. It's no use. No matter how many times she tries, thinking that _this time_ it just has to work, that if she can just twist her wrists in such a way she could slip out, she finds the bindings are just too tight.

The room is lit by a dozen or more candles on either side, revealing the lack of decorum along the bare paneled walls. No pictures. No mirrors. Not even a shelf of knick-knacks, displaying a collection of spoons or thimbles. Even so, the room _feels_ confined, like she's stuck in a tomb. If she could stretch her arms to the side—the bindings are tied to the head and foot of the small bed—she judges that her fingertips could scrape against the walls.

Straight ahead of her is an open doorway. The door itself is either gone or opens to the outside, and has stayed that way since her short duration here. The hallway beyond is so dark that someone—or something—could stand just within the shadows and she'd never know it.

Aside from the tomb-like atmosphere, the deep humming silence leads her to believe she is underground, like in a basement, for on occasion she hears the heavy footfalls of The Man trailing across the ceiling.

The one oddity she isn't able to decipher, and at times has caused her heart to run wild, is the _smell._ Underneath the near-overpowering odor of bleach is a vile stench, something like rotten meat or urine or feces.

Or a combination of all three.

She doesn't know how long she's been here, whether it's hours or days. The last thing she remembers was rushing towards Jefferson High School with her best friend, Shelly Lawrence, hoping to make it to class before the last bell.

They drove around and around, dismissing one of the last spots in the school's parking lot for something closer. There just _had_ to be. There almost always was. They just needed to be persistent.

But that morning was turning into one of the rarities—one that made it an _almost_ always.

"Did Jeff Nichols ask you to the fall dance yet?" Shelly asked.

"Yeah, he called me last night," Paulette said, beaming. "We talked for like an hour. Oh, he's such a hunk. Dad doesn't like him though. He calls him a lazy twerp."

"He's just jealous, that's all."

"Yeah. Cause Jeff's gonna make it big with his music." Paulette suddenly pressed down hard on the brakes, causing them to lurch forward in their seats. She points up ahead. "Hey, there's a spot!"

"Weird," Shelly said. "Did we miss it before?"

"Don't think so."

The empty space was a block and a half from the school, next to an alley, but still much closer than the parking lot.

Paulette could've sworn a car was there before, but in looking at the time, they only had about two or three minutes to make the last bell.

She swerved into the spot, jumped out, and was fumbling with the lock when a car pulled out of the alley and stopped next to her. She had only a moment or two to register this before someone dressed all in black leaped out and smacked her alongside the neck.

Shelly screamed, the sound fading quickly away.

* * *

Paulette hears a muffled clunk, like something heavy being dropped upstairs. Soon afterwards, weighted footfalls descend, each calculating step creaks and thumps like a lethargic heartbeat.

She stares at the open doorway, her breathing becoming more labored.

She's only seen The Man twice before here: the first time was to feed her a bowl of stale Cheerios and to add a few more candles, replacing those that had died out; the other was to allow her to eliminate herself into a bedpan—this was both frightening and embarrassing as The Man practically ripped her jeans down to her knees, causing her to nearly spoil the bed. But she didn't, for she had a feeling he wouldn't be very happy.

She almost screams now—the gag around her mouth preventing much from escaping, save for a whimper—as The Man suddenly appears from out of the darkness, still wearing the same black clothing as before. He sets a tray right beside her. On it is a bowl of chicken noodle soup, a small glass of milk, and a half-dozen candles.

He loosens the gag enough to pull it down away from her mouth. He puts a straw in the milk, and brings the glass up.

She wants to speak to him— _needs_ to, in other words—but doesn't know if she should. The first time he brought food, she pleaded with him that she wanted to go home and that she promised never to tell anyone what he looked like or where she was . . . but the longer she did, the more forceful he fed her. Instead of using a straw for the milk, he almost poured it down her throat, some even spilling onto her shirt.

When she finishes drinking, he puts the straw in the lukewarm soup. When the liquid is gone, The Man wastes no time in scooping up the noodles and chicken chunks and shoving them into her mouth.

Afterwards, he holds up a piece of paper. Written on it in block lettering are the words:

NEED TO

PEE OR POOP?

She shakes her head. "No thanks," she whispers.

He then secures the gag back around her mouth again, lights the new candles, and leaves.

* * *

Paulette wonders how her parents and younger twin brothers, Levi and Joe, are coping. She imagines them huddled on the living room couch, crying and calling out for the safe return of their daughter and sister.

Levi and Joe, in the meanwhile, are probably thinking hard about how they, as the neighborhood's self-proclaimed Junior Investigators, can help. Their life-long aspiration is to rid the world of all crime, employing their inquisitive nature to those in need, from the FBI and CIA on down to the DNR and the State Fire Marshall.

Oddly enough, they recently did just that. A month ago, two of their neighbors' dogs were severely attacked—one was hurt so bad that he had to be put down. Rumors arose that it was a mountain lion.

Three blocks away lived a game warden, Stuart Benz.

"It can't be a mountain lion," he said to them. "I've never seen one in all my years of living here. My guess is that it's a stray dog. Or a pack of them."

Levi and Joe were not so satisfied with the answer. They've seen pictures of mountain lions here in Minnesota on the Internet, and they just had to be true.

That night, their black lab Dotty slept outside in the garage—something she was _not_ happy about. To tempt the attacker, Levi and Joe took a package of hamburger meat from the fridge and left a trail of chunks from the edge of the yard to the garage. They then situated a lasso around the remaining pile, looping the other end through the rafters.

"That'll never work," Paulette told them.

Levi smiled and said, "Sure it will. Just wait and see."

Paulette woke up around midnight to a wild screaming and barking coming from the garage. When she scrambled out there, she stopped cold. Her brothers had captured the intruder after all. It was dangling from the rafters!

"Call Benz!" Joe exclaimed, holding tight onto the rope with one hand and Dotty's collar with the other. Dotty was barking and growling, wanting to jump up and tear apart the intruder.

"Hurry!" Levi yelled. He had the rope wrapped around both hands, leaning back so far he was inches from the cement.

Minutes later, Benz rolled up in his large black pickup. He looked at the gray and white badger, snarling and snapping at them, with one of its back legs caught in the rope.

"Well done, boys," he said, carrying a cage. "Very impressive."

After the badger was placed safely in the back of the truck, he produced two baseball caps with a game warden patch on the front.

She looks around the room, the light growing dimmer as a candle winks out.

_I wonder why he hasn't brought in more candles,_ she thinks, trying to put a time frame on when he last replaced any.

Her conclusion is that it's been quite some time.

* * *

She hears a heavy clunk. To her, this sound—much fainter than before—seems to originate from another part of the house than the others. She doesn't feel this room is tucked away in a corner, for the clunks before always seemed to be from her right.

This time, it feels like it comes from the left.

The silence that follows grows long, almost to the point where she now wonders if she just imagined it.

Then, as another candle dies off, The Man emerges from within the shadows. Instead of a tray of food or a bedpan, he's carrying a video camera. It's not a hand-held digital one. It's a much larger one, like something a TV reporter would lug around. He sets it up on a tripod in the corner.

The Man sidesteps towards her, and, from behind his back, pulls out a butcher knife, the orange flickering candlelight reflecting on the cold steel.

Suddenly, she realizes who The Man really is, but never in her wildest dreams did she ever think that she'd fall into his clutches. Paulette screams as loud as she can through the gag, her bowels letting loose.

The Video Slayer turns on the camera and the glowing red indicator light along the front pierces through the dim candlelight.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, she pleads with him, screaming as loud as she can.

He ignores her and slowly lifts her shirt, the knife poised above his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

With a news broadcast looming right over the horizon, Kolin Raynes knows he has a better chance at winning the Powerball lottery than gaining Bernie's undivided attention.

Tucked under his arm is a thick manila envelope, containing copies of the sign-in sheets from PDs where the house watches were located. He marches into WLOK, and slaps the envelope onto the front desk with a brisk _crack_ , startling the receptionist, who now stares up at Kolin.

"Bernie Ping, please," Kolin says, flashing his badge. He edges towards the security gate.

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Ping is busy-"

Kolin holds back the urge to force his way inside, to simply leap over the cheap aluminum gate, even though his intentions are noble.

"I have Bernie's _personal_ number in my wallet," he says, pushing his badge even closer, "and if you want me to call him I will. It's an emergency."

_I need to put Bernie's number in my phone_ , he thinks. _Why do I keep putting things like that off?_

The receptionist peers closer at the badge. "VCU?" he asks.

Kolin nods. "Honestly, how many cops do you see coming in here on their own? Especially those who ask for station manager personally?" He leans forward and says in a low voice, "This is about The Video Slayer."

The man suddenly picks up the phone and dials.

It takes less than a minute for Bernie to come briskly down the stairs, slightly out of breath.

"Buzz him through, Kevin," Bernie says, gesturing for Kolin to follow him back up.

Once in his office, Bernie eyeballs the digital clock display along the far wall. "Better make this quick. I have seven minutes and forty seconds before the five o'clock broadcast." He shuts the door behind them.

"We've discussed this before," Kolin says, "but Simon and I still feel there's a connection with The Video Slayer through the media. And, with your connections, we truly feel you're the best one to help."

He briefly tells how they came to their conclusion, then hands Bernie the manila envelope.

Bernie flips the tabs and lifts the pages out a few inches. He thumbs through them like he would a wad of cash, sizing up what kind of a job he has ahead of him. "This'll take a while, buddy. And probably something I can't get to until later today. If not tomorrow."

"If you could just quickly scan through them here, to see if any names jump out, I'd really appreciate it. A girl's life is at stake." _Although it may already be too late,_ he thinks, judging how long Paulette's been missing. "Both of us have daughters. Paulette is somebody's daughter too. It's very urgent that you look at them."

"I understand," Bernie says, taking out the pages. "Couldn't imagine if it was one of my own." He glances at the clock. "Shit. Two fifty to air. Sorry, Kolin, I have to run. I'll look at these soon. I promise." Dropping the pages onto his desk, he whips his feet out, knocking over the wastebasket. Papers, foam cups, and empty Butterfinger and Snickers wrappers scatter across the floor. "Goddamn it!"

Bernie storms out into the hallway and stops a janitor walking by. "How many times do I have to ask you guys to empty my garbage! Do you see that mess?"

The janitor stammers for a moment. "Marie was on garbage detail yesterday," he says. "Oh, that's right, she called in sick. Sorry, Mr. Ping, we'll clean it up for you right away." He rushes into Bernie's office and starts picking things up.

"Why can't someone else empty the garbage whenever she calls in sick? For crying out loud, she's only part-time."

Kolin feels sorry for the berated janitor, yet only for a moment when he thinks about Paulette Sampson, tied to a bed. Images of all the other victims flash in his mind. "I have your promise, Bernie," he says, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You'll call, right? Today?"

"Don't worry," Bernie says, bolting down to the Control Room. "I will."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Kolin's cell rings.

"This can't be Bernie already," he says, then lifts out his phone. "Nope. It's Simon."

"I think we might've found our UNSUB," says Simon. "He was on all those lists, just as we suspected. Still at WLOK?"

"Just leaving," Kolin says, pulling out of the parking lot. "Bernie didn't have time right now to look at the lists, but he promised to do so once the news broadcast was over."

"It'll be funny if he comes up with the same guy. I'll show you what I have when you get here. I don't think we have enough for an arrest warrant at this point, but I'd still like to keep tabs on him."

"We could just talk to him and see what he has to say. We wouldn't be taking him in to custody or anything like that."

"Yeah, I thought about that," Simon says. "But, knowing my luck, he'd lawyer up anyway and that'll get us nowhere. Then, he'd know we were on to him. We need a little more evidence first. What I know so far is that he lives about six blocks from Kyle Hammer's apartment _and_ he worked at WLOK. Everything else is coincidental, but I'm still waiting for some paperwork from the Illinois DOC."

"What's his name?" asks Kolin.

At that moment, a yellow Pontiac Sunfire zips by him and cuts into his lane. Kolin slams on the brakes. He drops his cell and hears it land somewhere near his feet.

"Christ, what a maniac!"

The Sunfire, with its hazards flashing, swerves over the centerline to pass a white Lincoln, but must've failed to see the city bus looming right at him in that lane. The Sunfire notices its mistake a moment too late, for as it cuts back across, it slams into the corner and is crushed beneath the tire.

Kolin leaps out, accidentally kicking his cell across the pavement. Before he can snatch it up, a truck circling by the crash drives right over it, obliterating it into a pile of useless pieces.

The driver's side of the Sunfire is a crumpled mass of metal and fiberglass, so he runs around to the passenger's side. The door seems intact but he still can't yank it open. Seeing only the driver, he kicks in the window.

He leans his head inside. "You okay?" he asks, knowing how stupid it sounds—and not expecting to receive an answer like, "Oh, sure, I'm having the most glorious day of my life."—but wants to know if the driver is at least alive.

The driver has a long gash on his forehead. "Hospital," he moans. A line of blood trails down his cheek, staining the airbag pressing against him.

"Yes, you'll get taken to a hospital," Kolin says. "Hang in there. Help is coming."

"Wife . . . pregnant . . ."

Kolin looks around, then peers in the back seat. A woman is lying across the floor, one arm hanging at a wicked angle along her swollen belly. He leans in more. He still can't tell if she's breathing.

The bus tire lies right in the center of the dash. Something _pops_ and the tire drops an inch or two. Kolin quickly scrambles back out.

He sees a growing crowd standing far off to the side, many aiming cell phones at him.

"Someone call 9-1-1!"

The bus door opens and the driver staggers out. "Oh, my God, is he okay?"

"I hope so," Kolin says, then hears the familiar squawks and wails of incoming emergency personnel.

"I wonder why . . ."

The driver collapses, clutching his chest.

Kolin runs over in time to ease him to the ground. He checks his pulse. It's weak. The sirens grow louder—the whop-whop of the police cruisers intermixed with the wailing crescendo and decrescendo of the ambulances.

As officers rush out to start directing traffic, four EMTs run onto the scene—only one he recognizes from his years on the street. The officers, on the other hand, he knows save for two.

"He was clutching his chest," Kolin says to the EMTs tending the bus driver. "I think it might've been a heart attack, Brian."

Two fire trucks soon join the scene, followed by another police cruiser.

"My wife!" the man moans loudly once the Jaws of Life slices off the roof. "Pregnant! Our first!"

"Don't worry, sir, we'll take care of her," one of the firemen says.

The driver, with a collar around his neck, is secured to an orange backboard, then carefully lifted out onto a stretcher. As he is wheeled away, flames and black smoke immediately flare out from underneath the Sunfire's chassis.

Just then, Kolin sees the brightest flash he's ever seen burst out from underneath the car—the flash briefly reminds him of fireworks on the Fourth of July; not the huge sunbursts that brighten the sky with a smorgasbord of brilliant colors, but the ones that issue a single bright flash followed closely by a loud, echoing boom.

All goes black now before the explosive boom reaches his ears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Kolin feels like he's trapped under the weight of a hundred blankets. The only other sensation is a tingling in the tips of his fingers and toes, slowly seeping towards his chest. His arms and legs soon feel like they're tied to boat anchors, and there is a pressing feeling on one of his hands.

A speck of light—not the harsh, explosive flash at the crash scene but something calm and uniform, like Venus on a cloudless night—appears before him. He hears talking, both incoherent and distant.

He opens his eyes. His brother, Kurt, is sitting on one side of him and Anna on the other.

Kolin is the youngest of four brothers. The two oldest, Kurt and Kent, are the jocks of the family. Kurt went to the University of North Dakota on a hockey scholarship, but flunked out in the first semester of his sophomore year. He is now a forklift operator for Washburn Foods, Inc. in Washburn, Minnesota. Kent, on the other hand, was a point guard with the Gophers basketball team here in the Cities. He graduated with a business degree, scratching out the bare minimum GPA, then moved back to Hibbing where he is now a road supervisor for the Minnesota DOT.

The next youngest is Kyle. His extra-curricular activities consisted of knowledge bowl, speech, and drama. After earning advanced degrees in both mathematics and computer programming, he worked at Microsoft for three years before moving to Edina to start an online gaming business. Today, he's one of the _Forbes_ top 100 richest Minnesotans.

"He's awake," Kurt says, smiling, revealing a pair of silver teeth right along the front, the result of a hockey injury when he was seventeen. Kurt taps him on the cheek. "Glad to see you're okay, little brother. But I hate to say this: you look like a freaking lobster."

"Oh, Kurt, stop that," Kolin's Mom says, slapping him on the arm. She peers down at her youngest son. "Just ignore him, honey. It's not that bad."

"He's just . . . jealous 'cause . . . 'cause I'm better-looking." Kolin starts to chuckle, but stops when he feels a sharp pain in his chest.

A nurse charges in. Kurt and his Mom slide back while Anna stays right at her post, caressing Kolin's hand.

"Here you go, Mr. Raynes," the nurse says, placing a pill in his mouth. "This is for the pain." She brings a cup of water up for him to drink.

Kyle pulls out his iPhone. "Just got a text from Kent," he says. "He can't leave. Has to pull a double-shift today and tomorrow."

Anna turns to the nurse and says, "The doctor said he'd know more about his condition when Kolin woke up. Now that he is, do you know how long his recovery is going to take?"

The nurse angles towards the door and says, "I'll let him answer that one. He'll be here shortly."

Dr. Frank Betts, a burn specialist, soon enters and stops at the foot of the bed. He jots a few notes on the chart. "Anna," he says, looking up at her, "I have Kolin's test results. Do you wish for me to speak with you alone or with everyone here?"

"No, everyone can hear this," she says, her hands shaking, her voice cracking slightly. "We're all family."

"Your husband is very lucky," Dr. Betts says. "His burns, concentrated mostly on his forearms and part of his face, are superficial. I can best describe it as nothing more than a decent sunburn. The reason he's been unconscious for so long is simply due to the trauma of the blast. All of his bodily functions appear to be working properly, so it's just a matter of time. It helps now that he's awake."

"How much longer?" asks Anna.

Dr. Betts informs them that, barring any complications, once Kolin awakens in the morning, he should be released.

* * *

Kolin opens his eyes. All of the lights are off, save for an overhead fluorescent dimmed to the threshold of twilight and the electronic displays on the monitoring equipment.

Expecting to see the room filled with family and friends, he sees Simon sitting alone underneath the TV, partially hidden behind a mountain of flowers and balloon arrangements.

"Morning, Famous One," Simon says.

Kolin looks out the window, at the amber glow of the streetlights, then up at the clock. It's a quarter after nine.

Simon smiles. "Everyone's down in the cafeteria getting ice cream. One can only stare at these walls for so long. Besides, the kids were getting restless. They're staying with your parents tonight in their hotel room while Anna stays here."

"What do you mean by Famous One? You haven't called me that since . . . since that little girl was found murdered up in Glade County and I became the department's designated spokesman. God, that was a long time ago."

"Well, it seems that you're the next viral star. Can't turn on the TV without seeing your mug on it."

Kolin stares at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Your little heroic act has been watched about ten million times so far on YouTube. There's a string of media vans a mile long outside waiting to interview you."

Kolin tries sitting up, the skin on his forearms and face feeling raw. The best he can do is elbow himself back an inch or two on the bed.

"So, what happened?" asks Simon.

"Should've seen this guy," Kolin says. "The driver. He was going to the hospital. His pregnant wife was in the back seat. I saw her down on the floor. I don't think she survived the crash."

Simon looks down, pressing his fingers together into a steeple. "I heard you call the guy a maniac. Then your phone went dead."

"Yeah, it got run over," Kolin says.

"I'll talk to the boss about getting you a new one."

Suddenly, Kolin remembers why he was heading back to the office. "The UNSUB?"

Simon pulls up a chair and says, "Dexter Louis Grant. Name sound familiar?"

Kolin frowns, then says, "Yeah. Why?"

"He was employed at WLOK until about three weeks ago. They fired him because he supposedly exposed himself to a group of girl scouts." Simon leans back. "A janitor saw him. Marie Holter. She called the cops. All of the charges were later dropped because none of the girls saw him do it."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Yup. She said she saw him, could describe it, and was appalled none of the girls saw him."

"Think she lied about it?"

Simon shrugs and says, "I asked her if they were ever together at one time. She said they had a one-night stand about six months or so ago, but that was it. There just wasn't any spark between them. The arresting officers also asked him—to see if it was an old boyfriend/girlfriend spat—and he also said that they had a one-night stand but that was it."

"I thought we did a full background check on everyone?"

"Dexter doesn't have an _adult_ record."

"Juvenile?"

Simon nods. "From Chicago. Kinda lucky how I even stumbled on to him, but Dexter is a unique name and it kept popping up on the lists."

Kolin sighs and lies back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. "How do you know he's our UNSUB?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Dexter Louis Grant was born and raised in the slums of Chicago, living in a small two-bedroom apartment with his alcoholic parents and seven younger siblings.

His favorite pastime, besides baseball and basketball, was shoplifting, which he started around the not-so-tender age of eight. He took anything from candy bars to CDs and sold them to other kids. In turn, he used the proceeds to buy essentials such as bread, bananas, and shampoo.

He was never caught until right after his twelfth birthday. On that fateful day, he was walking around in Sprinkles, a neighborhood candy shop, holding an old pair of winter gloves which he had traded for a bottle of Mountain Dew. He hovered near the chocolate bars, acting as if he was trying to decide what to buy. He even jingled a few coins he had in his pocket for good measure.

The clerk must've already been suspicious, for when he didn't have a customer at the till, he was bouncing around, trying to keep a watchful eye on Dexter.

He _almost_ walked out, as he usually did when the threat of getting caught was high, when the door chimed and a customer walked in. As the clerk's attention was diverted, Dexter picked up a Big Brick Hershey's chocolate bar and slipped it inside a glove.

When he pushed open the door, the clerk grabbed his shoulder and asked, "Where do you think you're going, you little thief?"

"I'm no thief," Dexter said, clutching his gloves. "I just didn't find nothing to buy."

"Oh, yeah? What's in your gloves?"

He opened up the empty glove.

"What about the other one?"

Shit.

He was hauled down to the police station, where he begged and pleaded with the cop that he'd never do it again, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die-stick-a-needle-in-your-eye.

"Doesn't matter," the cop said as he typed up the report. "Shouldn't have done it in the first place. I called your apartment and talked to your Mom." He then leaned towards Dexter. "But I'll be honest though, she sounded a little juiced up."

"She probably was," Dexter said, hanging his head.

"I see." The cop straightened up. He stared at Dexter for a moment or two, then quickly finished the report. "Here's your copy. Be at juvenile court in two weeks. Do you want a ride home? My shift ends in five minutes, but I could still take you."

"I can walk," said Dexter. "I always do."

When he arrived home, his mother was laying haphazardly across the couch, one leg angled onto the floor. A tipped-over empty bottle of Jack Daniel's was on the lamp stand. "Why'd . . . cops call?" she asked. "You . . . trouble?"

"No, they just wanted to ask me about a carjacking they thought I saw," he said. "Told 'em I saw nothing. They didn't believe me, but I said that was the truth so they let me go."

"Good. Best that way . . . to say nothin'. Then nobody can . . . can harass us."

* * *

Two weeks later, the judge presiding over juvenile court saw Dexter sitting alone. "Where are your parents?" he asked.

"Dad's working, sir," said Dexter, folding his hands in front of him. "And Mom is . . . well, she's . . . been drinking." He sighed. "Again."

"I see. Seen as though you're not represented by counsel or guardian, I'll act on your behalf." The judge studied the police report. "Where did the clerk stop you, Mr. Grant?"

Dexter looked around. He had no idea who Mr. Grant was. The young junior prosecutor glanced over at Dexter, drumming his fingers against a legal pad.

"Mr. Grant?" asked the judge. "Dexter?"

Startled, Dexter looked up at the judge. "Oh, me? Sorry, sir." When the judge repeated the question, Dexter said, "In the door of the store."

The judge removed his glasses. "You mean, when the clerk stopped you, you were still on the store premises?"

He didn't know what premises meant, but he nodded anyway and said, "Yes, sir."

"Did you know this?" the judge asked, glaring at the prosecutor, who started frantically flipping pages on the two-page police report as if the answer was waiting to jump out at him.

"Your Honor, I can't tell from this. I'll have to request a continuance-"

"Denied. The elements on the crime were not met." The judge then banged his gavel and said, "Case dismissed."

"Objection!" exclaimed the prosecutor, leaping to his feet. "Your Honor, the juvenile hid the candy bar in his glove _and_ he was heading outside. In the doorway, to use how own words. He clearly intended to steal the item."

"Overruled. Mr. Olson, you can't honestly make this much fuss, and have the audacity to ask for a continuance, over a ninety-nine cent candy bar. The clerk stopped him inside the store premises, despite Mr. Grant's actual intent." The judge then peered down at Dexter. "Consider this your first and only warning, Mr. Grant. Because if you ever come into my courtroom again, even for something as minor as spitting on the sidewalk, I'll send you straight to juvenile detention. Is that understood?"

Dexter knew that juvenile detention meant jail for kids—and he also knew it wasn't a very pleasant place.

Then again, home isn't very pleasant either.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Over the next two years, Dexter visited juvenile court eleven more times for shoplifting, and several of those times were with the same judge. Despite his repeated attempts to plead guilty and demand that he be taken to juvenile detention—life in jail _had_ to be better than at home—he always ended up with the charges being dismissed on a minor technicality or sentenced to a few hours of community service.

Man, what do I have to do, kill someone?

After this last court visit, he skipped school and headed down to the loading docks. He began to question his motive for serving time in juvenile detention—although he never purposely wanted to get caught. Besides, if he was gone, who would look after his brothers and sisters?

From inside an abandoned warehouse, he heard shouts of rage. He slipped through a narrow gap along the wall, and crept amongst a graveyard of pallets until he spotted a group of older Latinos up ahead.

"I'll fucking cut you!" one of them shouted, flashing a blade.

"Bring it on, motherfucker!" one of the others yelled back. This one wielded a tire iron. The rest were either unarmed, save for their fists, or had crowbars, chains, and baseball bats.

A brief battle ensued, resulting in one being stabbed in the throat. They ran away, leaving behind the deceased. Dexter waited a long time, for he was afraid of someone returning.

He'd never seen a dead body before, except on TV or in the movies. He wasn't sure what to expect. If it weren't for the pool of blood and the gaping wound in his throat, he would've thought the guy was sleeping. Dexter kicked the guy's foot, just to be sure.

He found a switchblade—the murder weapon, no doubt—next to a pallet. Droplets of coagulated blood littered the blade and handle.

A noise from behind startled him. He whirled around. A rat had tipped over a crate.

He sighed relief. He wiped off as much blood as he could on the dead guy's shirt. When he was almost done, the guy instantly popped up and grabbed his wrist like a vice. A gurgling sound escaped from his throat.

"Aaagg . . . hhheee . . ."

Dexter screamed and tripped over his legs, landing sideways on the puddle of blood, smearing it across the cement. He kicked the guy twice and his wrist was free. He then ran as fast as he could, thankful not to run into any of the guy's buddies.

Or enemies.

* * *

When Dexter was sixteen and going on his second freshman year, he wondered why he was even in school. Except for an A in gym and journalism—he wasn't sure how he pulled off the latter, except to say that he had a small talent for writing—he never got anything higher than a D.

By late October, the weather started growing colder. The only jacket he owned was an old Army one with the right sleeve torn halfway up. He found it near the abandoned warehouse where he had earlier acquired the switchblade. The name of PETERS was sewn on the front.

He walked around after school, wondering what he could steal to trade for a warmer jacket. He had to constantly remind himself which stores he was banned from, had overly suspicious clerks, or had updated security measures. Many of his friends—if he could call them that—tried to convince him to sell drugs. "That's where the big money is," they'd tell him.

But he refused.

_If I go down that road,_ he thought, _I'd be no different than my parents._

He decided that Pistol's Hardware was his next target. Aside from the usual array of tools, they had two small racks of comic books near the front.

As he turned to head in the direction of the store, he came upon a playground, surrounded by a chain-link fence which was mostly hidden on three sides by tall scraggly shrubs. He spotted a young girl, possibly six or seven years old, sitting on top of the slide.

She was alone.

He looked around, taken aback by the sheer solitude.

"Hi, mister," she said to him, then slid down.

Mister? He'd never been called a mister, except by the judges in juvenile court.

"What'd ya playing?" he asked, pushing open the chain-link gate that squeaked like a tortured mouse.

"Sliding," she said. "Wanna play?"

"Sure. What's your name?"

"Momma used to call me Della. Dad doesn't though. But I like Della. What's yours?"

"Dexter."

They played for a while, swinging and sliding and climbing on the monkey bars and spinning on the merry-go-round. However, in all that time, no one had come by to check on her. He felt a queasy impulse churning in his stomach.

He stopped swinging.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," Dexter said, smiling. He slipped a hand inside his coat and grabbed the switchblade, caressing the release button with his thumb. "Just getting tired of swinging. Where's your Mom and Dad?"

"Dad's interviewing for a job. Hope he gets it. He hasn't had one since Mom died last year. She was bye . . . bi-polar, I think it's called. Took a bunch of pills one night and never woke up." She rubbed her eyes. "Dad punched his boss when he wouldn't let him go to Mom's funeral."

"Wow, his boss was a jerk."

"Yeah. He tried to sue but couldn't afford a lawyer. Hey, wanna play in the sandbox?" she asked. "Race you!"

She bounded towards the sandbox. Dexter followed close behind. He gently pressed the button on the knife and, startling himself, the blade snapped open. He hid it behind his back.

Della jumped into the sandbox and said, "I win! Should we make a fort?"

"Yeah," he said, then pointed behind her. "Let's use that sand over there. It looks better."

When she turned, he grabbed her hair, pulled it back, and brought the knife around to the front of her neck.

"Is this a new game?" she asked, her hazel eyes fluttering up at him. "It kinda hurts, if it is."

His hands quivered.

She doesn't even have a Mom. God, I wish my Mom would just-

She started to fall and he jerked his hands back, intending to catch her. Instead, the blade sliced across the side of her neck, blood splashing onto his shirt, pants, and jacket. He staggered back, letting her fall to the ground.

She flailed around, her body shaking. She reached out to him, staring at him with the look of helpless pleading of why he had done this to her.

Then she shrieked.

Not knowing what to do, Dexter threw the bloody jacket and the knife into the shrubs, and sprinted home. When he burst through the door, his parents were passed out on the couch and his siblings were huddled in front of a thirteen-inch TV—something his brother Greg found in a dumpster.

"You okay?" asked Greg.

"You get in a fight, Dex?" Monica asked, pointing at his pants.

"I'm fine," said Dexter. _I'll do something about my clothes in the morning_.

Dexter found a bare patch of floor on the far side of the room, laid down, and propped his head up on his schoolbooks. He closed his eyes. His mind soon whirled with distorted, funhouse mirror-like images of the girl's slow, agonizing death. He tried to stop it by putting his hands over the wound, but there was too much blood gushing from her neck. Then, her head popped off like a champagne cork and a shower of blood dowsed him from head to foot-

"Dex?" Greg asked, shaking his shoulder. "Cops are here to see you, Dex."

Cops? Cops!

"What'd ya do, Dex? Kill someone?"

"No," Dexter mumbled, wondering how they found him so quickly. _They must be here about something else,_ he thought.

"They wanted Mom and Dad too, but they're still . . . you know."

Dexter knew.

"So, what'd ya do?"

Dexter sat up. "Nothing, I said." If they were here because of what he did to Della, he needed to run away. But how? He couldn't go down the fire escape. The windows had been stuck shut for as far back as he could remember. His father complained to the manager once about it, but he threatened to raise the rent if anything was ever said to the authorities.

Needless to say, they were rewarded for their silence.

Dexter went to the front door, confident they wanted to speak with him about another matter. Two uniformed cops and one in a dark blue suit stood just outside the apartment, the former with their arms crossed.

"Dexter Grant?" the suited man asked.

"Yeah."

He held out a piece of paper and said, "I'm CPD Detective Stuart Hayes. This here is a juvenile arrest warrant. We're taking you into custody, because we have reasonable cause to believe that you were involved in the death of a seven-year-old girl this evening named Adele Graham."

Adele? Oh, that must've been her real name. No wonder she liked to be called Della.

Dexter narrowed his gaze and said, "I don't know her. Why would you think I cut her throat?"

The corners of Detective Hayes's mouth twitched upwards. "I never said anything about her throat being cut," he said, "but that's exactly how she was killed. Besides, I believe that's her blood on your shirt and pants."

"This?" Dexter asked, pointing down at his clothes. "I got in a fight."

Hayes then reached down and held up a clear plastic bag, about the size of a garbage bag, and a large baggie. "Recognize these?"

The plastic bag held his bloody jacket. The other contained a letter addressed to him from juvenile court.

Dexter felt his bowels let loose and his knees buckle as all went black.
CHAPTER THIRTY

"It seems that Dexter drew a fair amount of sympathy for his dysfunctional family life—and, believe it or not, the victim's father led the charge," Simon says. "If anything good came out of that whole tragic event, his brothers and sisters got sent away to a foster home and the parents eventually divorced.

"Anyway, Dexter pled guilty to second degree manslaughter and was sentenced to a detention facility for the remainder of his _juvenile_ life."

"So when he turned eighteen, he was free as a bird and with no record to show for it."

"Not quite," says Simon. "When I ran his criminal history again, I examined it more closely. I found a notation for a twenty-two month incarceration period, but there were no charges listed. Since I knew the only explanation was a juvenile record, I had a judge issue an order to have those records released to us. We missed him before because he's had no offenses as an adult. And I never thought to look at his accumulated incarceration."

"What led the Chicago PD to Dexter so quickly?" asks Kolin.

Simon sighs. "The little girl hung on longer than anyone expected," he says. "When the PD and ambulance arrived, she kept repeating his name and pointing towards the bushes. She died on the way to the ER. Officers found the knife and the bloody jacket. In one of the pockets, Dexter had a letter from juvenile court. Now, all we need to do is follow Dexter to see if he can lead us to Paulette."

"Do you think he did it though?"

Simon frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Do you feel Dexter is The Video Slayer?" Kolin asks. "Think about the profile. I don't remember this guy at all from my past. How does he link up to me? Did he join the military or a martial arts gym, or even take up law enforcement training? That's all in the profile."

"But we got his name from those lists."

Kolin nods. "I know. It just doesn't make sense."

The door opens, and in walks Kolin's family, his parents, and two of his brothers.

"I'm still working on that," Simon whispers. "We'll talk more later."

* * *

Anna is sleeping next to him in a chair, a blanket draped over her.

He turns on the TV, keeping the volume low. He scrolls past the national news programs—he doesn't have the stomach to listen to the latest political bullshit but oddly enough they all seem to be playing an amateur video of what looks like a nasty crash scene.

Remembering the crash that took Princess Diana's life so many years ago, he thinks, _Must be some celebrity, I guess. I wonder who it is._

He stops at WLOK to watch the re-broadcast of the local evening news. He turns the volume up a few notches.

A medical emblem appears over the anchor's right shoulder with the word VCU printed underneath. "In a bizarre twist of fate," she says, "one of the lead investigators for The Video Slayer was injured today while assisting in the traffic accident on Nicollet Avenue we reported on earlier. Again, here's footage of an amateur video that has gone viral with over eighteen million views so far on YouTube."

They play a ten-second clip, showing Kolin kicking in the passenger's window and then leaning inside.

Holy crap! That was me on all those other channels!

"We spoke with VCU Investigator Simon Templeton about the possible disruption in their investigation."

The screen changes to a headshot of Simon, who's standing in front of the hospital.

"Mr. Raynes's hospitalization doesn't hinder The Video Slayer investigation in any way," Simon says. "We're working closely with all the surrounding jurisdictions to bring this killer to justice."

"Have the doctors indicated when Mr. Raynes will be released?" the reporter asks.

"The doctors have informed the family that, barring any complications, he'll possibly be released in two or three days."

Kolin smiles.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Kolin glances around the hospital room, lit by the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the window. The chair his wife slept on before is now empty and the blanket, stained dark with splatters of blood, is folded across the back.

With a feat only previously accomplishable by Mister Fantastic, Kolin stretches his arm like an elastic band across the room to the lightswitch. He flips it on. The fluorescent lighting overhead strains to life . . . then suddenly fizzles out, plunging himself back into semi-darkness.

In the brief illumination, he notices that all of the balloons and flower arrangements are gone. He also spies someone lying in the other bed—he doesn't even remember another one being there before.

He swings his legs over and stands. He curls his bare feet on the icy floor. He eases towards the other bed, drawn by the odd anticipation that he knows who it is that lies there.

He lifts the top edge of the sheet-

" _Darling!" it screams, its body bending upwards like a jack-in-the-box._

Kolin jerks back, falling against the side of his bed.

Even though the thing in the bed fragmentally resembles his wife, his gut feeling is that it is her—in zombie-form! Its pale skin hangs loose in sheets, as if it had lost over a thousand pounds. It slides out of the bed, and drags itself towards him.

Kolin makes his way for the door, but his motions are slow, like moving underwater. The zombie-wife closes in, its fingers outstretched.

At the last second before its vile grip embraces him, he bursts through the door. He slams it shut behind him. He wedges a broom into the handle, then surveys the hallway. Doors are marked with titles such as MR. GEIN'S MORTUARY CLASS, MR. DEFEO'S MARKSMANSHIP CLUB, and MR. DAHMER'S CAFETERIA.

From down on one end, a janitor—who also looks like Anna albeit less zombieish—is wearing prison-style orange overalls, pushing an unusual broom. Instead of bristles, three severed heads take their place, leaving behind a streaking trail of crimson.

And the three heads bear a striking resemblance to his children.

" _Hi, Daddy!" they scream in unison, their teeth a shiny metallic. "We work real hard to earn our keep!"_

Kolin inches backwards. Then, as he turns to bolt down to the other end, he trips, tumbling onto the floor.

" _We're hungry, Daddy!" his children scream eerily, sounding like robotic monsters. "Feed us! Feed us!"_

Kolin scrambles up and sprints down the hallway, and soon comes to a closed set of double doors. A cobra, with its body twisted through the push-bars like a chain, rears its head and hisses at him. There are smaller doors on either side: MS. BORDEN'S CULINARY CLASS and GIRL'S BATHROOM.

" _Feed us, Daddy!" they scream, coming around the corner. "Stop running, Daddy!"_

He runs into what he thinks is the bathroom, and finds himself in another hallway, this one lined with plush, ruby-red carpet. More doors, these with small windows in the center, line both sides. Inside the rooms, he sees teenage girls tied to beds and shadowy figures, brandishing butcher knives, standing next to them.

Kolin reaches for his Glock, but it's not there.

Hey, this is a dream! I can have whatever I want!

A Glock appears in both hands. He fires at the murderers on either side, however, despite the bullets penetrating and shattering the windows, and chewing away at the paneled walls beyond that, they seem to do no harm to his intended targets.

What the hell?

_He runs down the hall, shooting dozens upon dozens of times without reloading. Then,_ _all of the doors suddenly fly open. His movements grow sluggish once again. The murderers—each black and faceless like a shadow—spill out into the hallway._

Kolin faces the closest one. He raises both Glocks to the attacker's forehead—and pauses as a face comes into focus . . .

Kolin awakens with a start.

Anna presses a button on a control panel along the side of his bed. "The nurses said to call whenever you woke up," she says. "You ready to go home?"

He glances out the window, at the clear, starry night. "This early?" he asks. "It's not even daylight yet."

Anna runs her fingers through his hair. "You've been out since yesterday, dear. This is Saturday _night._ The doctor said it was best that you rested as much as possible."

"Where are the kids?"

"With your parents in their hotel room. Everyone was here for most of the day. Captain Mack came too. He gave a press release out in front of the hospital and told everyone you'll still be here for a few more days. Simon said if you're feeling up to it tomorrow, he'll talk to you about The Video Slayer."

Kolin forces himself up—straining against his stiff and aching muscles—until he is sitting upright on the edge of the bed. A line of sweat trickles down one cheek. "Need help packing?" he asks, slightly out of breath, as if he just ran up a long flight of stairs.

She gestures to the suitcase on the floor. "It's already done."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Kolin Raynes looks over at the nuclear-green numericals on the digital clock.

"Six ten," he says, then sighs.

After eating a bowl of cereal, he searches around for his cell phone. Then, he remembers it's smashed into a multitude of pieces along Nicollet Avenue. He's sure by now it's nothing but a thin layer of dust along the pavement.

The house phone rings. He looks at the caller ID, praying it's not another reporter, then immediately snatches it up.

"Good to see you're finally home, Famous One," says Simon. "Hope I didn't wake you. We all wanted to get you up yesterday, but the doctor said you needed to rest. Say, how come you never told me the good news?"

Kolin frowns, trying to wrack his brain about what he could be talking about. "What good news?"

"I knew Anna made more than you, but with her new job, you must be raking in the dough big time. Soon you'll be vacationing every other month in Hawaii."

_Don't I wish,_ Kolin thinks, then tells him it was probably the combination of acclimating into his new job and The Video Slayer that caused him to forget about sharing his good fortune with his best friend.

"Speaking of The Video Slayer, I picked up Dexter yesterday morning," says Simon. "Nabbed him while he came out of the Fridley PD with a fresh stack of incident reports."

"Did he confess?"

"Nope," Simon says. "He told me he's a student at the U of M, living in Middlebrook Hall, and can't decide on either Mass Communications or Journalism as a major."

Kolin snorts a laugh. "What's his alibi?"

Simon sighs, then says, "He's enrolled at the U with an undeclared major, and, according to his class schedule, he has a journalism class as well as a mass communications class. The rest are liberal arts fillers. The U also has his address listed as Middlebrook Hall, just like he said. I even spoke with his roommate, a biology major from dinky town up north that's named after an animal—badger or fox or something. Anyway, so far, everything checks out. But here's the kicker: Dexter didn't even know what a house watch was."

"Do you believe him?"

"I can usually tell when someone's lying. Let's put it this way: if he is, chalk him up for an Academy Award."

"Did you ask him about the exposing incident at WLOK?"

"Oh, yeah," Simon says. "He said the whole thing was bullshit and was very hurt by it, especially from someone he thought was a friend. He wanted to sue both WLOK and the co-worker who called the cops on him, but couldn't find a lawyer who thought he could win."

Kolin stiffens. There's someone fumbling with the knob at the front door. He feels around his hip, but finds nothing except pajama pants and a slightly filled-out belly. "Where the hell is it?" he asks, moving his hand around to the small of his back.

"Where is what?"

"My gun."

"I have it," says Simon. "A cop gave it to me after your accident. Why? What's going on?"

"There's someone at the front door, trying to get in. Hang on." Kolin sets the phone down, grabs the TV remote, and slips next to the door. In one fluid motion, he unlocks the door and wrenches it open-

"Daddy!" his kids cry in unison, barging inside. They wrap their arms around his legs and waist.

Behind them is his mother.

"What's with the remote, son?" she asks.

"Oh," he says, then tucks it in his back pocket. "Nothing." He kisses each of his girls on the head. "I sure missed you all. What are you doing here so early?"

"They got up around six and kept bugging me to bring them home to see you," she says, grinning. "I couldn't even bribe them with swimming. Your Dad's still resting, of course. Is Anna going to church today? I'd like to go with her if she is. Your pastor is such a joy." She runs a hand across his forehead. "Feeling any better?"
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

After Anna, his mother, and the girls leave for church, Kolin calls Simon back. "Were there any other names you found on all of those lists besides Dexter's?" he asks, pacing around the living room, the TV on mute.

"I ran across four in all, three men and one woman," Simon says. "And Dexter seems to be the only one with any kind of criminal history. The other two guys are freelancers."

"And the woman is a dead-end as The Video Slayer is a guy." Kolin turns the channel to WLOK. They're updating the public on his early release. _Great. The media will probably start camping out in front of my house._ "What's next?"

"Still nailing down Dexter's alibis. Like I said before, it appears he's telling the truth—and if he is, I'm not sure where to go from here. I asked him about the girl he killed when he was a teen. Christ, you should've seen him. He completely broke down in tears, telling me how sorry he was and that it was a complete accident and all. Took him about ten or fifteen minutes just to get him back under control.

"He then talked about what his life was like after he was released from juvenile detention. The father of the young girl visited him three to four times a week when he was locked-up. After he was released, he offered Dexter a place to live. Dexter called him the only positive father-figure he'd ever had."

"The girl's father took him in?" asks Kolin. "What was he, insane or a saint?"

"Probably closer to the latter. The father's name is Bill. Bill Graham."

"Like . . . Reverend Billy Graham?"

"Believe it or not, the guy is a distant relative to him. Like a second or third cousin or something. Anyway, Dexter lived with the guy for over a year until he decided to move to the Cities. He said he had an interest in media, so he got a janitorial job at WLOK, and eventually got accepted into the U.

"Here's another thing: we might've seen Dexter's name on some of our social media sites. _That_ could be why his name was so familiar. He writes daily as the Twin Cities Crime Blogger, and has followed The Video Slayer case since the beginning. He then went on to tell me, 'This will be great for my blog, me being considered a suspect and all. I might even be able to get a book deal out of it too.' Hang on, I got another call."

Kolin flips through the channels, hoping to find a movie starring any of his favorites: Robin Williams, Tom Hanks, or Harrison Ford. He spies the ending credits of _Good Morning Vietnam_. He slaps the remote against his leg. "Damn, that's one of his funnier ones too."

He sits in the recliner and turns back to WLOK. Along the bottom of the screen is the familiar BREAKING NEWS-AMBER ALERT banner.

His heart flutters.

Not again.

Simon comes back on the line, sounding like he's running a marathon. "Kolin! We need you! Get down to the office!"

"Sorry, Simon, but I'm not in any decent shape to go running around-"

"You will for this one!"

When Simon tells him who's been abducted, Kolin drops the phone and sprints out to his Ford Expedition, knowing he has until Thursday to find his oldest daughter Claudia before she becomes fodder for The Video Slayer's next horrific video.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Anna Raynes wishes she could go back in time.

If only she would've let Emily go upstairs to get her Nintendo DS. If only she would've waited for the stoplight at Hill Avenue instead of flooring through it, even though the light _just_ turned yellow. If only she would've driven the posted speed limit instead of accelerating up to the ten-over mark, thinking only of how close she could park to the front doors and get a good seat. If only she would've done anything just to change where they were at that _exact_ moment.

_But then it would be someone else's daughter,_ she thinks.

The van was old and light brown, with no side windows, like something from the seventies when young guys painted the sides in all sorts of psychedelic colors. This one had no such rendering, just a plain brown color.

Like a turd on wheels.

It all happened in a flash. They were walking along the edge of the parking lot, with Claudia trailing behind her sisters, ordering them to hurry up and quit dawdling. The van whipped around the corner, off of the street and through the parking lot, and squealed to a stop behind Claudia. The driver's door flew open. A figure dressed in black rushed out, struck her daughter, and threw her inside. After the van sped off and was about twenty or so yards away, it stopped. It was only for a moment, but it was long enough for Anna to memorize the license plate number.

* * *

"Damn, I should've been there!"

Kolin blasts along the road, the red and blue LED flashers embedded in the grill, as well as in the upper corners of the front and back windows, blazing the way for him. Due to his lack of a siren, the horn is a decent substitute, for it also gives him an excuse to punch his anger into the steering wheel.

"All units, eyewitness description of the abduction vehicle is a late seventies van, possibly a Ford Econoline, light brown in color," the dispatcher over the police band radio blurts. "Eyewitness states the twenty-eight as Six Eight Seven King Yellow Nancy."

"Yes, we got the twenty-eight," Kolin says, pumping his fist up. A twenty-eight—short for 10-28—is the police ten-code for a vehicle plate number.

The dispatcher continues: "But in our system, Six Eight Seven King Yellow Nancy comes back to a tan-colored 2000 Chevy Tahoe. RO is a Sylvia Gayle Barstad of Minneapolis, 4001 Century Avenue. Over."

"Nobody would mistake a 70s van with a Tahoe," Kolin says. "The UNSUB must've switched the plates. No!"

* * *

Kolin rushes over to the ambulance. Emily and June are huddled in a blanket behind Anna and his mother.

"Oh, Kolin, I'm so sorry," Anna says, her face a mask of tears. "If only I-"

"Don't be sorry," Kolin says, hugging her. "I commend you on seeing the license plate. That's gonna be a big help. What else do you remember about the UN . . . the man who came out of the van?" _No sense telling her the plates were probably switched._

Then, he suddenly thinks of something, some reason for the discrepancy. "They were Minnesota plates, right?" he asks.

"Of course," she says. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. "It was all . . . all a blur."

"Just tell me what you can remember," Kolin says, stroking her arm. _Damn, I thought we might've had something._

"It happened so quick. The van came through the parking lot. The driver's door opened. He hit her and threw her inside. He took off, but then stopped again. He was all dressed in black. He was wearing a mask, so I don't know what he looked like."

"The van stopped twice?"

She nods and says, "That's how I saw his plates. They were Minnesota plates too. I'm sure of it. It went that way." She points towards the nearest interstate. "Oh, Kolin, what's gonna happen to Claudia? This isn't . . . isn't The Video Slayer, is it?" Tears flood out. "Oh, God, please tell me it isn't. _Please._ "

With tears streaking down his own cheeks, he chokes back a sob and says, "Sorry, honey, but I think it might be."

"You're gonna find her, aren't you?" she asks, her eyes wide and her shaking hands gripping his shirt like a vice. "Please, Kolin, tell me you are."

His initial reaction is to tell her that he'll try his best, but knows that answer will go over like a dead cop joke at a cop's funeral. "Yes, I will."

Emily peeks her head around and asks, "Daddy, where's Claudia? Is she gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, is she?" June also asks. "Was that man a stranger?"

"Girls," Kolin says, wiping his eyes. "Daddy has something to tell you. No matter what, do not lose hope. Okay? Pray to God that Claudia comes back safely. Can you two do that for me?"

"Yeah," they say in unison, nodding.

Kolin then explains what happened to their oldest sister, and before too long tears stream down all of their cheeks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Simon Templeton, followed closely by three squads from the Minneapolis PD, pulls his unmarked Monte Carlo into the driveway of 4001 Century Avenue: a plain, single-level rambler with a one-stall garage—a cookie cut-out of every other home in the neighborhood.

Simon addresses the uniformed cops now standing before him, several with their hands planted on their holsters. "I don't believe the UNSUB is here, given what we know about the RO," he says. "I'll talk with her alone, in any case. If anything goes down, I'll signal for you." He holds up a small portable radio, then points to the two rookies. "Check out the back."

"Yes, sir!"

Peeking through the garage window, Simon sees a tan Chevy Tahoe. Sure enough, when he peers down at the license plate, it reads 687KYN.

_Well, there goes my theory,_ he thinks.

He knows Sylvia just celebrated her sixty-first birthday last month. Her driving record is clean and she has never requested a housewatch. He prays she's home.

And alive.

He hates pulling so many officers off the street at once, but with the help of the media and surrounding jurisdictions—funny how everyone eagerly pulls together when a cop's family is involved—he still has tons of eyes out there.

Simon rings the doorbell.

"Hello—oh my," Sylvia says, opening the door and noticing the line of cops standing behind Simon. "May I help you?"

"Good morning, Mrs. Barstad. My name is Simon Templeton. I'm an investigator with the Minneapolis PD. I was wondering if I could speak with you for a few minutes."

"Sure, come on in," she says, waving him inside. "I just made some fresh cinnamon rolls and coffee. Invite your friends in too. I made plenty."

He motions for the cops to stay outside, then follows her down a short, narrow hallway.

Through the sliding glass doors, sunlight bathes a long oak table and six matching chairs in immense brilliance. The two rookies roam around the backyard, one with his gun drawn.

Idiot!

After pouring two cups of coffee, Sylvia carries two cinnamon rolls on a plate over to the table.

"Were you expecting company, Mrs. Barstad?"

She puts a roll on a napkin, slides it over to him, and says, "My Mama used to say, 'Always bake something fresh, because you never know when you'll get company.' Eat up, young man."

"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Barstad, but this isn't really necessary."

"Nonsense. Please sit." Once he does, she asks, "Now, what is it you wish to speak with me about? Is it about that poor girl this morning? Oh, my Lord, how dreadful. Her parents must be devastated."

"They are. The girl is my partner's daughter."

Sylvia gasps. "Wasn't he also in that horrible accident?"

"He was. Do you remember seeing anything unusual in the neighborhood this morning? Or even last night?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm usually in bed by seven thirty. Besides, this morning I went to church. Faith Lutheran, just down the road about four or five blocks. They have an eight o'clock worship. I got there around seven-thirty or so to help get the coffee started and I probably didn't get home until a quarter to ten."

_Okay, I do need to look at those plates,_ Simon thinks, tearing off a soft piece of the roll. A thick gooey crust of cinnamon and brown sugar tops it off. _My theory is possible after all, since the Tahoe wasn't even here._

"How about anyone weird hanging around the neighborhood in the past week?" asks Simon. "Someone perhaps even driving a brown van?"

Sylvia shakes her head and says, "Ever since my Duane passed away three years ago, I don't get out as much except for church on Sundays and Wednesday night Bingo at the American Legion. Ten, twenty years ago, I knew all of my neighbors. Not anymore. There are so many new people here now, and so many keep to themselves. Sad, really." She then cocks her head to the side and smiles. "I thought you looked familiar. You don't remember me, do you? Last spring, a young girl was taken not too far from here. You went around, just like now, asking if I'd seen anything unusual. I didn't. At the time. You left in quite a hurry."

He leans back, the near-empty cup of coffee cradled in his hands. He doesn't remember this place. Then again, he's probably visited several thousand homes throughout his law enforcement career so far.

_That's right_ , he thinks, concurring with his mental map of the area. _Kelsey Marie Falk was abducted just a few blocks from here._

"Mrs. Barstad, can I look at your Tahoe? I don't need to go inside of it. I'd just like to look at your license plates. It'll only take a minute."

"Certainly," she says. She leads him over to the garage.

He extracts a pen light from his jacket pocket. He examines the screws securing both license plates. He doesn't see any clear tool marks indicating they've been recently tampered with, just a thin film of rust and dirt.

When he walks back into the dining room, Sylvia walks in through the front door, carrying an empty plate. "Can't let your friends go hungry," she says. "Good thing I made plenty." She refills his cup, a rolling mist of steam cascading up from within.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Barstad, but I have to run. Thanks for the coffee and the roll. It was all very good-"

"Nonsense, young man. Sit for a few more minutes. Tell me what's so important about my car. Expecting to find a brown van, perhaps?"

"No . . . well, maybe," says Simon, fingering the back of the chair. "The license plate number of your Tahoe matches the one seen by an eyewitness as the license plate of the brown van. My theory was that someone switched the plates off of your Tahoe, but they haven't been touched."

She points to the chair. "You go sit and finish that cup, young man," she says, sounding like a mother telling her child that he has to eat his veggies before he can go outside to play. "It's gonna be a long day for you, and I'd be devastated if you starved. A young man like yourself needs all the energy he can get. Want another roll? How about a piece of cake?"

_God, I have a million things to do,_ he thinks _. I know she's probably lonely and doesn't get many visitors, but I can't be tied up like this._

Simon strides toward the front door and says, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Barstad, I have to go. I need to make a call. Thanks for everything. The roll was amazing." But when he puts his hand on the knob, he stops. A chill courses through him, running down his back and emptying into his legs. He slowly walks back to the dining room. "You said I was here before, right?"

"Yes," she says, then sips her coffee.

"But you also said my visit here was quick and that you didn't remember anything . . . _at the time_. Do you remember something?"

She nods.

He sits. On the kitchen counter is a chocolate cake, which sparks a vivid memory—he sat at this very table and ate a small wedge of cake. Chocolate and coconut, if he recalls correctly. It was very moist and the frosting was both thick and fluffy. The visit wasn't _that_ quick, for they sat and chitchatted about their families and the case. "I remember you now, Mrs. Barstad. Hardly anybody goes to the trouble of feeding cops when they visit. I probably said this before, but that cake was by far the best I've ever had."

"Thank you, you're very kind," Sylvia says. "Mama trained me right. She's in a nursing home right now in New Brighton, a spry eighty-seven-year-old with a mind so clear she remembers _everything_ about her family's life." She leans forward and folds her hands together. "A few days before that girl was taken, I went out to get the mail. There was quite a lot that day. My Lord, both the Sears and JCPenney catalogs came then. I had to take two trips. When I went out the second time, a car was parked next to the curb. The driver was looking at a map. When I grabbed the rest of my mail, I saw video tapes on the passenger's seat."

"Video tapes?" Simon asks, straightening up.

Sylvia nods and says, "Like for a VCR. I thought nothing of it at the time, but when the media started calling this killer The Video Slayer, I suddenly remembered those tapes."

"What do you remember about them? Anything out of the ordinary?"

She walks over to the cupboard. She grabs a folded napkin. "Each one had a sticker on them. This is what they looked like." She unfolds the napkin, and shows him a crude drawing of an eyeball. "Not sure why I drew a picture of it, really. I guess the Lord was telling me I had to."

Simon picks up the napkin, handling it as if it's a newborn baby. "Do you remember what the driver looked like?"

Nodding, Sylvia points to his full cup and says, "Drink and I'll tell you."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Eva Rosen has taken emergency calls that have ended up on the local nightly news, but today's could go national, for she took the initial call in today's abduction by The Video Slayer.

And the caller was none other than the victim's mother. Even more so, the victim's father is one of the investigators.

"Gotta be a first," she says. "Fox and CNN, here I come."

At fifty-nine, Eva has been with the Minneapolis PD since graduating from high school. She worked as an office secretary for two years before being promoted to an emergency dispatch operator at MECC, pronounced "meck," which is short for the Minneapolis Emergency Communications Center.

Eva loves the heart-racing action of an emergency call, coordinating police, fire, and ambulance services wherever they're needed. She would've given anything to be working—even for free—in the NYPD's 9-1-1 call center on September 11, 2001. And when the I-35W bridge collapsed here in August 2007, she was _unfortunately_ in Hawaii with her grandchildren.

Throughout the early years, she proved her worth by handling several different incidents at once, executing them with precision, and also fighting to implement new procedures that streamlined many of their clunky this-is-how-we've-always-done-it processes. In return, she had then been offered promotions to supervisory levels, but she turned them all down.

"You'll get paid more though," her superiors told her.

"I don't do this for the money," Eva said. "I love being in the middle of a crisis. And the bigger the crisis, the better. Besides, the best way to see what needs fixing is getting down into the trenches and doing the job yourself. I can't do that by standing over someone's shoulder."

Then, twenty years ago, a mentor position was created, which allowed her to supervise all of the new dispatchers through their first year after training while at the same time keeping up with her daily dispatch duties. Eva saw it as a new challenge and accepted the role—with a healthy raise, of course.

She logs out of her computer at noon, then prints off her notes and daily activities— _they'll be helpful when I get around to writing my memoirs_ , she thinks.

She passes by Carmen Schneider, a divorced mother of three teenage boys and one of her newest trainees.

"Twenty-eight on the suspect vehicle is Six Eight Seven King Yellow Nancy," Carmen informs the officers over the radio. "Description from an on-scene eyewitness is a late seventies van, brown in color. But according to DVS, the twenty-eight is a 2000 tan Chevy Tahoe. RO lives on Century Avenue, Minneapolis. VCU is at the residence along with fifty-twelve, fifty-oh-seven, and fifty-oh-three. Over."

Eva puts her time card up to the clock, but stops short.

Something doesn't seem right.

She studies her notes, going all the way back to when she got _the_ call from the victim's mother.

_Oh no,_ she thinks, tapping her finger on the entry. _They're looking for the wrong vehicle._

She runs back to her desk, and logs onto the State Computer. She punches in the twenty-eight she was given by the victim's mother.

To be sure she's right, she combs through the master dispatch log, noting all of the events tied into the abduction, starting with her own and fanning out to other operators as emergency personnel arrived on the scene and relayed back additional information. She even goes back through the recordings, finds her own from the initial call, and listens to it.

"I am right." She stands, noticing her supervisor just a few cubicles away. She waves her arms. "Ian! Come here!"

Ian Lins strides over to her. "Aren't you gone yet?" he asks, checking his watch. "Your shift ended five minutes ago." Despite being twenty years her junior, Ian leans on Eva quite often for advice. "I know you love a big crisis and all, but you need to rest sometimes too."

"Yeah, but I just noticed something. Look."

He adjusts his glasses, peers at the screen, and asks, "What am I looking at?"

She tells him.

After looking at the log, as well as the other information gleaned from the State Computer, Ian picks up the phone and says, "Christ, you're right. But we can't just broadcast it. We need to get this into the right hands first." He dials VCU Headquarters. "Hello, this is MECC. We need to speak to the investigator in charge of The Video Slayer. Can you transfer us? It's an emergency." Once he is put on hold, he hits the speakerphone button and says to Eva, "It's all yours."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Simon calls Captain Mack.

"Sir, I just received a call from MECC," he says, accelerating out onto the interstate. "They just discovered why we had such glaring discrepancies in the description of the UNSUB's vehicle. It seems that when Kolin's wife called 9-1-1, she gave them the correct license plate number, but the first on-scene officer heard it incorrectly and _that's_ the one that is being broadcasted. The last letter of the twenty-eight is Mike instead of Nancy. It comes back to a 1978 brown Ford Econoline van, registered to a Scott Gregory Sandberg of Minneapolis."

"Christ, we can't tolerate mistakes like that," Mack says, an edge of anger piercing through the phone. "The time we've lost may be the difference between finding Claudia or not. I'll _personally_ sanction that officer-"

"Sir, I don't think it was entirely a waste." He then tells Captain Mack what Sylvia Barstad said.

"Could The Video Slayer have an accomplice?" asks Mack.

"Nothing in the FBI profile suggests it, however . . . it could be the reason why the killer has been so elusive. I'll keep you posted."

Simon then calls the secretary at VCU Headquarters and asks her to run everything on Scott. "Please e-mail it to both myself and Kolin. Is he there, by any chance?"

"I haven't seen him."

"Thought I'd ask."

He turns onto an off-ramp, all the while thinking about Scott. _Why does his address sound so familiar?_

* * *

Simon walks through the front door of the aging, three-story brownstone, then up a flight of creaky, wooden stairs. The apartment is on the second floor. Hearing nothing from within, he knocks.

After the third round of knocking and receiving no answer, he heads down to talk with the manager.

_Scott can't be the killer though,_ he thinks. Scott Sandberg is forty-five, and even though his weight matches the UNSUB's description, he is much taller at six foot one. His criminal record contains only two entries: a DWI from twelve years ago and a disorderly conduct charge a year before that. For the past five years, he's lived here. Prior to that, he lived up in rural Glade County. _But somehow the trail leads here. Then again, if we're dealing with a team . . ._

The apartment manager stands just under five feet and weighs close to three hundred. The only hair on his head is a thin stash along the back. It's tied in a loose ponytail and hangs crookedly across his bloated mass, avoiding gravity by clinging to mere bodily secretions. The lenses on his glasses are thicker than his thumb and his attire is conducive for someone clearly not expecting visitors.

"No apartments available, mister," the man says, panting, wearing only a pair of dirt-stained underwear and a white T-shirt with his pregnant gut bulging out from underneath.

Simon flashes his badge and says, "I'm looking for Scott Sandberg."

"Scott? Oh, he's either in his apartment or at work. Unless he's out and about. I'm not his mother, you know. A man's free to do what he wants."

_Unless he's abducting and cutting up teenage girls,_ Simon thinks, then says, "I already knocked on his apartment. He didn't answer. Where does he work?"

"At the 7-11, just down a few blocks from here. He's the manager. What the hell did he do?"

Simon pushes the door open and steps inside, the apartment manager waddling back and nearly tripping over his own feet. Simon comes close to gagging from the rank smell of body odor and . . . something like ammonia, but doesn't think it's from any cleaning products. He flips open a pocket notebook and asks, "What's your name?"

"Cleo Dells."

"What do you know about Scott?"

"Gotta be honest, Scott's my best tenant. Always pays his rent on time and I've never had a single complaint about him. Ever. Doesn't make a sound except for a few times a month when he brings a chick home. His apartment is above mine, so I know. He gets the bed squeaking pretty good, let me tell you. In fact, he must've brought one home last night, 'cause he was going at it for a while."

"What time was that?" _If it's a few times a month, that might fit the six-day timeline. I just don't remember a squeaky bed in those videos._

Cleo rubs his chin, the flab under his arm swinging like a clock pendulum. "Oh, that must've been around . . . eleven, eleven-thirty, I'd say."

"What does Scott drive?"

"An old van. It's parked out back."

"Show me."

Cleo makes his way towards the door.

Simon puts a hand on Cleo's chest and presses him back—the thought of what filth could be clinging to his hands at that very moment instantly disgusting him. "You're not going out dressed like that," he says, motioning down.

"Why not? It's not like we're going outside or anything. You can see it through the back window."

"I don't care. I could still charge you with indecent exposure."

"Okay, okay, I'll be right back." He goes into one of the back rooms to change.

Along the same wall as the door is a flat-screen TV. A tattered green recliner is in front of it. Mounds of candy bar wrappers, empty cheese ball tins, and empty two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew litter the floor between them.

Simon walks over to see what Cleo was watching. Just as he suspected, three young blonds in pigtails are taking turns sucking on a black guy's cock. As evidence of Cleo's excitement over the subject matter, various fluid stains are splattered along the foot of the chair.

That's the smell! Christ, I'll have to take a scalding hot shower and throw these shoes away after this.

"Is this okay, Mr. Officer?" Cleo asks, donning black sweatpants and a U of M T-shirt.

"Fine. Let's go."

They trudge out to the back parking lot. Cleo points to an empty space next to the building. "Well, that spot is his. But I don't think he's working. He usually walks to work. He said once he's been meaning to get rid of it, because it reminded him too much of his ex-wife, but just couldn't do it."

"And, for all you know, he drives a seventy-eight brown Ford Econoline van, right?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right. Why?"

Simon sighs, then asks, "You haven't been watching the news this morning?"

"No, the news is too depressing. I just watch movies. You know, the latest blockbusters and Academy Award winners."

* * *

Simon stands out in the hallway and calls the 7-11 where Scott works.

After four rings, a guy finally answers: "Yeah, 7-11."

"Hello," Simon says. "Is Scott Sandberg working?"

"Nope."

"Are you expecting him in today?"

"Nope. Dude never works weekends."

"Do you or any of your other co-workers know if he went somewhere for the weekend? It's real important that I get a hold of him."

"Don't know. I'm the only one here. Sally comes in at four. She might know. Unless she calls in sick. If she does that though, I'm fucked. Metallica's at the Target Center tonight. Third fucking row, I got. I might just leave if she does that."

"Listen," Simon says, taking a deep breath. "Scott is a good friend of mine. My name is Joe Green."

"Hey, like Mean Joe Green?"

"No, I'm not Mean Joe Green."

"Wouldn't that be cool if you was? I could sell your autograph on eBay or something and then I wouldn't have to work at this shitty-ass job."

Simon clenches a fist. "Do you know how I can get a hold of Scott? I've tried his apartment but he's not there. Do you have his cell number?"

"Nope. Don't think he has a cell."

"What if you had a problem? How would you contact him?"

"That bitch better not call in sick. I bought those Metallica tickets like two fucking months ago. Yeah, if I needed him, I'd page him. Dude carries around this old pager."

"Do you have his pager number?"

"Yup."

Simon holds a hand out, urging the twerp to speak, then asks, "Well, can I have it?"

"Not supposed to give it out. Who did you say you were—oh, yeah, Joe Green. Not Mean Joe Green. How do you-"

"Scott's a high school buddy of mine. I was supposed to work this weekend, but got today off and figured I'd see what he's up to. Scott gave me his pager number before. It starts with area code six one two, right?"

"Yeah, it starts with six one two. So he must've given it to you before."

Simon jots the number down.

After hanging up, he immediately remembers something. This past spring, when they were investigating Kyle Hammer, he called a 7-11. He wonders if it's the same-

_It is! I'll have to look at my notes, but I'm positive it's the same one. Weird._ He rubs his forehead. _That can't be a coincidence._

He looks back up the stairs, in the direction of Scott's apartment. A chill runs down his spine.

Wait a sec. Kyle lived just down the road from here and he worked at that same 7-11. That's why I thought Scott's address was so familiar before. Christ, I gotta get in there. Now!

After a quick succession of calls to both VCU Headquarters and a judge, he has what he needs. He bangs on Cleo's door. Without waiting, he pushes his way inside.

"Hey!" Cleo exclaims, standing in front of his TV. His sweatpants and underwear are around his ankles and his hands are pumping in front of him like a small engine piston. "What's the big deal?"

"Get your pants up," Simon says, crossing his arms. "You're going to let me into Scott's apartment."

"I can't do-"

"You _can_ and you _will_."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

"Don't you need a warrant?" Cleo asks.

"I have one," Simon says, grabbing the front of Cleo's shirt. "And if you were watching the news this morning instead of whacking off to your fucking pornos, you'd know that Scott's van was used in an abduction this morning. An abduction of a cop's daughter, to be exact. Now don't ask me any more stupid questions or else I'll get a search warrant for _your_ apartment."

"Okay, okay, okay," Cleo says, struggling to free the wad of keys from his pocket.

Simon releases his grip—he regards his hand for a moment, wanting nothing more than to stick it in a sink of scalding hot water and bleach. He then dials the pager number. Moments later, after the automated system asks him to please enter his phone number, he hears a beeping sound coming from inside the apartment. "Unlock it," he says. "Now."

Cleo fumbles to find the right key, then fumbles to get the key in the lock. Once it's unlocked, Simon says, "Stay out here."

Cleo cowers to the side, while Simon turns the knob and pushes the door open. Gripping his Sig-Sauer .40 caliber, he exclaims, "Scott Sandberg! This is the police! I have a warrant for your arrest! Come out with your hands up and you will not get hurt!"

He steps inside, keeping tight against the wall. To his right is the bathroom, the light on and the door ajar. On the opposite side is the kitchen and another room which Simon deduces to be the bedroom.

"Scott Sandberg! Come out with your hands up!"

The pager is sitting on a small dining room table, the beeping seeming to grow impatient about being ignored. He turns it off, bathing the apartment in an eerie silence.

He slips into the bathroom. An electric shaver is on the sink. It's cool to the touch. The shower curtain is shut halfway. There is a dark mass behind it.

He crouches and switches his grip on the Sig-Sauer to his left hand. With his right, he eases forward, and whips the curtain back.

A dark blue towel lies along the base of the tub.

He steps across to the shut door. He turns the knob, but finds it locked. In one fluid motion, he backs up and kicks it open.

Ahead of him is Scott Sandberg. He's tied to a bed, the sheets underneath stained dark with blood. He has a gag across his mouth. There are dozens upon dozens of lacerations across much of his body. His genitals are mutilated, and his left hand is nearly severed off, dangling only by a few strands of muscle and tendons. His eyes are also gouged out, the blood on his cheeks making his face look like a grotesque KISS rock star Halloween mask.

And carved into the middle of his chest is an eyeball.

He calls VCU Headquarters. "I'm in Scott Sandberg's apartment and I've just found him dead. Murdered. Could you contact Forensics and the ME for me?"

He spins around when he hears a shuffling sound.

Cleo is halfway across the living room.

"Goddamn it, Cleo! Get outta here! You're contaminating the crime scene!"

Without a word, Cleo waddles back out into the hallway.

There are two VHS video tapes propped up on a dresser, both with a silver eyeball sticker pasted on the front. He's certain one shows the murder of Paulette Sampson. What about the other one?

He glances over at Scott.

An index card lies next to the videos. It reads in block letters:

FP 27D 120Y 14F

42D 3600I 105D 24Y

415 East St. Paul Avenue

Fridley, MN 55421

Simon snaps on a pair of latex gloves, and picks up the card. He notices writing on the back. He flips it over. The back reads:

KOLIN,

THE NEXT VIDEO

WILL BE YOUR DAUGHTER'S!

HAVE A NICE DAY!

Simon backs out of the room, takes off the gloves, and grabs his cell. "Please be working today," he whispers.

"BCA, Nick Colter," the voice on the other end says.

Thank God.

Simon stands near the apartment door and says, "Nick, it's Simon with VCU." Nick Colter is an Electronics Specialist for the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. After analyzing all of the videos in The Video Slayer case so far, the only evidence he's been able to glean is that the same camera has recorded them all. "Can't believe you're there today."

"Yeah, I like to come in on the weekends sometimes. Less bosses looking over my shoulder."

"I hear you. Say, are you busy? I've got two more Slayer videos from a fresh crime scene. I need a quick analysis, if you have the time."

Simon hears a stampede of footsteps ascending the stairs. He cracks the door and sees the Forensics Team and Dr. Janice York, the medical examiner. He lets them in.

"Why two?" Nick asks.

"I think one may be from the victim I found here, a forty-five year old male. He's the owner of the brown van everyone's looking for. I'll be down at your office in an hour or so."

"Bring in some donuts," says Nick, "and I'll put everything on hold just for you, Mr. Simon."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

How many voicemails does this system hold?

Kolin Raynes nearly drops the receiver when he first accesses the voicemail on his desk phone, briefly hoping that the number of messages left is meant in terms of seconds instead of individual calls. Even though most of the messages are sympathy calls from fellow officers—he doesn't listen to many of them or else he knows he'll just break down crying—it still takes the better part of an hour to wade through. Once he's done, he counts three messages from Bernie Ping at WLOK, two from Simon, and two hang-ups.

In Simon's first message, he says that the profile is wrong and that there was a mix-up in the original twenty-eight, which also happened to be a blessing in disguise.

_So, that's who this guy is,_ he thinks, opening the e-mail from the VCU secretary. When he first came to the office, he assumed it was for another case. He saved the file in a temporary folder, and went back downstairs, his mind feeling like chains were tugging at him from all different directions.

But as he started to trudge out across the parking lot, he stopped.

"What am I doing?" he said to himself. "The best place for me to be is here. Not out there. I need to find out why she was taken and why I'm the target for those videos. _That's_ the key to all this." He covered his face. "God, help me. Please tell me what I need to do."

Kolin opens the JPEG file, showing the driver's license photo of Scott Gregory Sandberg.

He looks familiar.

Simon's second message informs him that he found Scott, murdered, along with two videos.

Kolin glances over at a picture of his family. His eyes well up with tears.

How in the world am I going to find Claudia?

Then, with a surge of adrenalin, he picks up the phone and dials a number. He's respected what Dope Jim has said in the past regarding this case, albeit with a stab of arrogance, and wants to know if there is something he's missing, something so obvious he should've been looking at it from the beginning? Even if it's nothing, he still wants to know.

Kolin hangs up when he gets no answer.

"He's probably out in the field anyway."

His phone rings.

"Was he screening his calls?" He picks up the phone. "Hello?"

"Oh, thank God, Kolin. I was wondering where you were."

"I haven't been here that long, Simon. What's going on?"

"The ME is at the apartment with me. She's examining Sandberg. Nasty shit, let me tell you. So far, she's counted seventy-two lacerations. Say, I need to talk to you about something."

"Is it about the profile being wrong?"

"Yes, but there's more. I'll explain everything once I get there."

The message light on his phone turns on.

"I'm bringing Nick Colter two more videos to analyze," says Simon. "It shouldn't take too long. I'll hopefully be down there in a few hours."

* * *

Kolin sifts through the information on Scott Sandberg— _why was he killed and what does he have to do with all this?_ —then suddenly remembers the message light.

It's another hang-up. The message drags on in silence for the full two minute capacity. Near the end of it, he hears something faint. He turns up the volume, and hits replay. He hears someone breathing as well as a bit of unintelligible background chatter. There is even an odd clinking sound.

Then, right at the end, he hears someone faintly say, "Get me a Stinky Four-Leaf Special, baby."

* * *

Kolin walks back to his desk with a full cup of coffee and bag of dill pickle-flavored chips.

His message light is on.

There are three this time: one from Bernie and two hang-ups. Bernie asks him to call ASAP.

"Sorry, Bernie, I'm not ready to give you an exclusive yet," he says to himself.

The hang-ups are similar as before, but the background noise is more distinguishable. Aside from the usual banter regarding the Vikings, the Twins, or the Gophers, he jots down the other conversations:

"Bring us another round."

"Six Stinky Four-Leafs, babe. Pete's buying."

"Wings and a Coors and what time do you get off, ya sweet thing?"

"You don't carry Leinenkugel's? What kind of shit is that?"

"Bud Light and a Stinky Four-Leaf bacon cheeseburger."

What bar has specials called the Stinky Four-Leaf?

He calls Dope Jim again.

No answer.

He taps his pen on the desk, straining to think of where the bar could be and why it seems so familiar to him. Then, he slams down the pen. "I've been there. Downtown Minneapolis, I believe."

He does a quick search on Google.

"There it is," he says, bolting up from his chair when his top search result yields what he needs. "Now let's find out who you are, you son of a bitch."
CHAPTER FORTY

Nick Colter escorts Simon along the deserted, dimly-lit hallway. With the lack of everyday personnel, busily congregating all corners of the Minnesota BCA's Scientific Laboratory, their footsteps echo eerily along the red brick architecture, which, to Simon, has always reminded him of a school than a forensic mecca.

Nick, wearing blue jeans and a black Pink Floyd T-shirt, peers down at the box of Dunkin Donuts with an aura of teenage lust. "Got all of my favorites, Mr. Simon," he says. He lifts out one with a coating of chocolate frosting along the top. "Hot-diggity-dog."

"Thanks again for being here on a Sunday," Simon says.

"No thanks necessary," Nick says. He clamps the donut in his mouth, then swipes his access card in front of a square black panel. A metallic lock disengages. He opens the door to his second floor office. "Besides, there's no dress code on the weekends."

Despite the blast of cold air rushing down from overhead, there is a wave of intense heat radiating from the bank of computers and electronic equipment, literally situated from floor to ceiling. More than a dozen flat-screen monitors, each displaying their own roaming superhero by either DC or Marvel, surround a lone desk like Jesus and His disciples. Prominently set next to the wireless mouse and keyboard is the latest Apple iPad.

Nick licks his fingers clean from the pastry wonder, then puts in the first VHS tape. After briefly watching the horrific slaying of Paulette Sampson, he ejects it and grabs the other one.

"I think the killer taped Scott's murder on that one," Simon says. "Scott was the owner of the brown van we're looking for."

"Well," Nick says, stroking his chin, "let's see if it is."

Simon's worst nightmare is that the killer discovered Claudia was a cop's kid and prematurely killed her. But when the video starts playing and shows Scott tied and gagged to a bed, he knows his first instinct is true.

When the video finishes, Nick shakes his head, wipes his forehead, and says, "Freaking brutal. Well, Mr. Simon, both were recorded on the same camera as the others. That much I can tell right now. But in _this_ video, the streetlights outside make the overall lighting better."

"What difference could that make?"

Nick shrugs. "Not sure yet. I'll filter some of the junk out and see if that helps. I'll call to let you know what I find."

* * *

Simon tracks down the homeowners to the address in Fridley where Paulette's body could be stashed. Like usual, they appear to be innocent, law-abiding citizens.

They also had requested a recent house watch.

By suppertime, officers across the entire Metro area have stopped hundreds of brown vans. None are 687KYM.

Captain Mack marches over. He sets a new cell on Kolin's desk. "Had to pay for it out of my own pocket," he says. "I just couldn't wait a week for Accounting to issue a PO for a new one. Have you seen him?"

"He was gone when I got here. He left a Google map search up on his computer though. Something about a Stinky Four-Leaf."

Mack crosses his arms. "The only place that rings a bell would be Stinky's Pub, this little Irish joint down along North Washington. They have a drink special called that. Karl Olson had his retirement party there last year, if you remember. Not sure why Kolin would be searching for that right now."

* * *

Kolin's desk phone rings.

Simon contemplates whether or not to answer it. By the third ring, he does. "Hello, Kolin Raynes's desk."

"Is Raynes there?" a gruff voice asks. There is chatter in the background and the clinking of glasses.

Like a bar. Stinky's Pub, maybe?

"No, he's not. This is Investigator Simon Templeton." The male voice sounds familiar, but he can't quite place it. The caller ID is no help, as the number shows up as BLOCKED. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

The line goes dead.

"Asshole."

He goes back to his computer, begrudgingly piecing more together on the Fridley homeowners, knowing it'll lead nowhere near the killer.

"Wait a sec," he whispers.

He leans back in his chair. Glancing over at Kolin's computer, he asks, "Why would he be searching for Stinky's Pub? Is there—son of a bitch."

Even though he doesn't have access to Kolin's voicemail, he scrolls back through the incoming call log on the phone display, noticing the number of BLOCKED calls that have come through today.

"What the hell have you done?"

He jots down the address for the bar, then bolts over to the elevators. But as the doors slide open, his cell rings. It's Nick Colter.

"I found something interesting on the second tape, Mr. Simon," Nick says. "I copied a short clip of it and e-mailed it over to you. Let me know when you get it."

Simon logs onto his e-mail, then clicks on the file Nick sent. He hits PLAY.

The video is at a brutal point, where the killer slashes at Scott's genitals.

"Not a pretty picture," Simon says, squirming in his chair.

"No, it isn't," Nick says. "But in this clip, I highlighted something, Mr. Simon. _Two_ somethings."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

"It's about time, Raynes," Dope Jim says, a bottle of Coors in one hand and a cell phone in the other. "How many times did I have to call you anyway? A hundred?"

"Not quite that many," Kolin says. "Around five or-"

"Let's quit the small talk. Sit."

Kolin slides into the booth across from him.

When he first spotted Stinky's Pub, nestled between a pizzeria and a Thrift White drug store, he had no idea who could be inside. But when he saw Dope Jim through the front window, he came close to sprinting his way back from the nearby parking ramp.

"I've been trying to call you," Kolin says, "but all I have is your office number. I don't have your cell."

"Only the privileged have _that_ number. You're not one of them. Yet. Why were you calling me?"

"Probably the same reason why you've been calling me."

"Doubt it," Dope Jim says, then takes a gulp of his beer. "Why?"

"Well," Kolin says, glancing outside, "I thought you may have some insight as to where I might look for my daughter. I'm sure you heard she-"

"Yes, I heard," Dope Jim says. He starts to bring the Coors up for another gulp, but pauses with the bottle nearing his lips. He places it down, and folds his hands together. "Sorry to hear about that."

Noting a speck of sincerity in Jim's voice, Kolin has a feeling few people have seen this side of him—that list is probably shorter than the ones who are in possession of his cell number. "Thanks. But that's why. I asked you for help before, and I wanted to pick your brain again."

"I assume you still haven't discovered a connection with the six days." Jim leans forward. "Tell me what you know about the case, Raynes."

"Anyone could tell you that. A guy's been abducting-"

"Stop," Jim says, holding a finger up. "Start again. Nothing about the suspect. Just all of the evidence linked to this case."

Kolin frowns, sighs, then says, "Well, aside from a three-month hiatus this summer, girls are being abducted every six days and killed approximately four days later."

"Which means the clock is ticking. Go on."

"Then, the day of the next abduction, a video of the previous victim's murder is sent to me on a VHS tape along with a letter and number code leading us to where the body is located. The homeowners of each address had previously requested house watches."

"Have you tried having undercover officers staked out in front of these houses or even beefing up the number of times patrol drives by?"

Kolin shakes his head. "Between the lack of manpower and the number of house watches requested, this was almost impossible to pull off," he says. "We even had a fake house watch at one time, to see if the killer would take the bait. No go."

"Impressive," Jim says, the tips of his mouth turning upward. He takes another gulp of his Coors. "My respect for VCU has just risen a little. Not too much. Don't get cocky. What else? What other evidence do you have?"

"Well, each VHS tape has had a silver eyeball sticker on it, which is manufactured at a small company in Minneapolis called Prize Promos. A group of video enthusiasts here in the Cities, who call themselves the Beholder's Club, are the only ones who have bought it." He looks around, noticing no one is within earshot, then says in a low voice, "On each body, the killer has carved an eyeball into their chest, postmortem, and sealed it with a clear lacquer."

"Were you given a profile?"

Kolin nods. "FBI profilers say the killer is a male in his mid-"

"Skip that. Remember what a profile is, Raynes: given the facts of the case, when compared with similar cases, this is the most likely candidate of who the killer is. But when you're dealing with a killer who doesn't quite fit the books, like this one, profiles can cloud your judgment."

Jim waves a waitress over and orders another Coors for himself. "Want anything, Raynes? It's on me."

Kolin shakes his head.

Jim hands her a five and says, "Give him a large glass of ice water. He's had a tough day."

"Thanks, you got it," the waitress says, then leaves to get their drinks.

"Tell me something, Raynes: do you think it's a coincidence that your daughter was abducted this morning?"

"A coincidence?" Kolin asks. He peers outside, studying the cars more than usual and praying one of them to be a brown van.

_The_ brown van.

"Why would it?"

Jim slams his fist on the table. "Come on, Raynes," he barks. "I thought you were smarter than this. Don't prove me wrong. I _hate_ to be wrong." He lifts out a pack of Camels from his coat pocket, then stops, looks around, and puts it away. He sighs. "Okay, the day you arrived back from Quantico, not only was there an abduction, you received a VHS tape. And every tape you've received since then has also been addressed to you and you only. Hell, one was even dropped off at your house. Given the eyeball stickers and the eyeball carvings, there must be something the killer wants you to _see_. Now what do you think? Still a coincidence?"

Kolin glances around the sparsely crowded bar. A group of six or seven college guys file in, spouting derogatory comments about the waitresses, the Vikings, and even about the city of Minneapolis in general. "It might not be, I suppose," he finally says.

Jim's eyes narrow. "What would convince you, Raynes, without a shadow of a doubt, that all of this is _not_ a coincidence? That this whole case is centered on revenge?"

"Against who?"

Jim jabs a finger at Kolin.

The waitress comes back with their drinks. As she sets the change beside Jim, he stops her and asks, "Deep fryer working?"

"Of course. What can I get you?"

"Two orders of mozzarella sticks, please." He hands the waitress a twenty. Then, from a chain around his neck, he lifts out a badge and says, "Let me know if you have any problems with them." He cocks his thumb at the college guys. "I can speak to them for you."

"Thanks," she says, beaming. "I'll keep that in mind."

Jim turns back to Kolin. "Revenge is a strong motive. It's driven many people to murder."

"But why me?"

Jim gulps down half of his beer. "Let me tell you a story, a lesson I learned on my first major drug case," he says. "It saved my ass then, and many times since. And it'll save yours now if you want Claudia back."

_That's the first time he's said her name,_ Kolin thinks.

"Quite a few years back," Jim says, "marijuana was the number one drug of choice, but cocaine use was increasing rapidly. This was due in large part to a drug lord known as The Claw. His real name was Reginald Lee Wallace. He was one bad ass black dude, probably the baddest you could ever get. He muscled every major drug dealer in the Metro area until they either left, joined forces, or were killed. He lived in a building on the edge of The Twilight Zone."

The Twilight Zone is a small, seedy section along the west side of Minneapolis.

The waitress soon comes over with two steaming plates of mozzarella sticks. When she hands Jim his change, he says, "Keep it. Are they treating you okay?" He gestures towards the rowdy college crowd.

"For now, yes. I'll make sure they give me some good tips." She smiles.

"Good to hear."

Once she leaves, Jim says, "After almost eight months of solid undercover work, The Claw promoted me into his upper echelon. This was rare, because he almost never let anyone new in that high. But, as you might've guessed, I proved quite trustworthy and valuable. He knew I had connections to law enforcement." He grins. "Just not what kind."

Kolin leans in, taking in every detail. Even though he didn't think he was hungry before, he plants his elbow and swivels arm from plate to mouth, plate to mouth.

"The Claw lived in a top floor apartment, which also served as headquarters. He had a personal assistant, maid, driver, security team, you name it. Meetings of the upper echelon were held in a soundproof room with his personal assistant present. Then, the day before the scheduled mass arrest raid, I noticed something that changed the scope of the whole investigation."

"What?" Kolin asks, a mozzarella stick suspended right in front of his mouth.

Jim leans back and crosses his arms. "Ever heard of the saying that behind every successful man is a great woman?"

"I don't know," Kolin says, shrugging. He finishes the mozzarella stick, then grabs another. And another. And another. "Maybe."

"Next to The Claw, his personal assistant was the most respected person in the room. Everyone called her Miss Charlene. Her real name though was Charlene Lynn, granddaughter of the successful commercial real estate tycoon Bernard Lynn. During meetings, she sat behind The Claw, typing out what I thought were the notes on a miniature laptop. But the weird thing was that after she typed something, The Claw spoke. Not the other way around. I then immediately postponed the raid so I could find out more about this anomaly.

"At the time, the DEA had a device that could break into wireless frequencies and record them. They loaned it to us, and that's how I found out her true role in the operation: she was the head of it, not The Claw. She transmitted orders to a hand-held device The Claw had, which decoded the message to him in Braille. Very clever.

"That was my first assumption, thinking that The Claw was in control. Don't make that same assumption here. Claudia's life depends on it."

Kolin glances around the bar, with more people trickling in and the atmosphere growing wilder. "You think The Video Slayer is . . . is a woman?"

"I ask you again, do you think it's a coincidence that Claudia was abducted this morning? Think hard. Has something happened in your past that resulted in a very bad outcome, something that had occurred during the course of six days?" He leans in. "Possibly in your first days as a cop, before you were even employed by the Minneapolis PD?"

Kolin's mind reels. _But I've never wronged anyone who didn't deserve it. But even with all of the wife beaters and child molesters, dope-heads and drunk drivers, I've never dealt with them alone. I always had help. Other officers. This is something I must've handled personally._

"Okay," Kolin says, nodding. "It's probably not a coincidence. But how do you know it's as far back as you say?"

Jim rests his elbows on the table and says, "Because this type of operation requires _years_ of planning."

"But why a woman?"

"When you've discovered the victims, they've all been fully clothed with no evidence of sexual assault."

Jim bolts over to the group of college guys, whose intense level of rowdiness has caused many others in the bar to take notice. He confronts the one who's the most vocal. Moments later, the noise level emanating from the group barrels down to a whisper, and he rejoins Kolin.

"Doesn't that seem a bit odd for a psychopath?" Jim asks, reentering the conversation as if he never even left. "If the motive isn't sexual, what else would it be?"

The streets outside are now fully illuminated by the amber-hued street lamps and the fluorescent lights shining from still-open stores.

Kolin reminisces about their first conversation, back in his office, and how he felt ready to pass out from the thick cloud of cigarette smoke that lingered around like flies on a carcass. Then, he realizes Jim hasn't lit a single cigarette in here, despite the new law banning smoking in bars and restaurants.

"You said way back. How far?"

"I already told you." Jim glances at his watch, then stands, leaving a half-full plate of mozzarella sticks. "I have to go."

Kolin grabs Jim's jacket and says, "Wait! Please. You've gotta help me."

"I have." Jim peels Kolin's hands off with ease. He dumps the remaining sticks onto Kolin's plate. "Eat these. I hate things going to waste."

"But-"

"Don't interrupt me, Raynes. I'm only going to say this once. Check out the newspaper archives. I already told you when. I suggest going to a library, as they're less apt to throw them away. Okay, I've done enough." He pokes a finger into Kolin's chest. "Be the best I know you can be and end this fucking thing right now."

He then walks outside, and disappears into the night.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Kolin walks back to the Expedition, struggling to remember his early days at the Minneapolis PD. The rigorous training camp was brutal, an intense mixture of PT, firearms, and classroom work.

There were some women in the class. Even a female defensive tactics instructor. She was built like a linebacker too. She even egged a few of us on, to see if we'd fight back, but I never did.

He stops.

Could it be her? She certainly fits the build. No, it can't be. I never did anything to her, especially to deserve this psychopathic level of revenge.

He resumes walking. When he reaches the parking ramp, he recalls the names of the four women in his training class along with the instructor.

"Two didn't make it past the second week though. And for the others, they would've only had access to the Minneapolis PD's files on the house watches. Not Anoka's or Edina's or anywhere else's. So it can't be any of them. It has to be someone else. God, but who?"

"What was that, son?" an elderly man, sitting in the parking ramp booth, asks.

"Oh, sorry," Kolin says. "Just talking to myself."

"Nothing wrong with that. Say, only cars are allowed to go up here. You'll have to take the stairs over-"

Kolin flashes his badge.

"Sorry, son. Go on ahead."

Kolin continues up the ramp, brainstorming where he should start first: the office, a library, or . . .

"Damn shame about that little girl this morning," the man says.

Kolin pauses in mid-stride. "Pardon?" he asks, turning around.

"That little girl this morning. The one who was abducted. Damn shame. You working on it? Yeah, I'm sure every cop for miles around is working on it to some degree. You know, it's not like the good old days when all you had to worry about was some drunk guy in a bar who wanted to fight everyone. And it was usually over a woman too. A night in jail always fixed 'em right up. I was a cop in a small town north of here. Glade. You probably never heard of it. I retired from there about fifteen years ago when the city council abolished the PD and contracted their public safety services with the county sheriff. I didn't mind. I had my twenty-five in. If I remember right, the sheriff hired a part-timer, some kid straight out of college. First day on the job, he ended up with a death case. A little girl, it was. Damn shame. Her parents eventually split up, but there were rumors that the father had something to do with his girl's death. I reckon it's still unsolved to this day. Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble on like that. Good luck, son. I hope you get that bastard."

"Me too," Kolin says, then trudges on up the ramp.

* * *

Once the cop is out of sight, Walter pulls out his Smartphone. He accesses the web browser, then scrolls down to WLOK.

The anchor is updating the public in the search for Claudia Raynes.

He pulls the phone up and adjusts his glasses when they show a photo of the family.

"I'll be damned," he says, recognizing the father as being the cop he just talked to minutes ago.

A Ford Expedition pulls up alongside him. The driver holds out a five and says, "I do know where Glade is. I'm sorry you lost your job then. You may not believe this, but I was the part-timer the sheriff hired."

"Wow, what a small world. So you remember that little girl?"

The driver nods. "How could I forget? She disappears, then almost a week later we find her dead body. Doesn't surprise me her parents split up. I always did suspect the father. There just wasn't enough proof." He extends his hand out further, almost to the point where he could drop it inside the booth.

Making no move to take it, Walter activates the lift feature on the gate, snaps a salute to the driver, and says, "It's on me, son. Godspeed."

* * *

_Well, it looks like Simon is here,_ Kolin thinks.

Simon's laptop bag is on his desk, but there's no laptop is sight. He glances over at the conference rooms. They're all dark.

He grabs the new cell, surprised the department would spring for the latest Motorola android. Once it's programmed, he calls home and gives a censored update to his wife.

"What are Claudia's chances?" Anna asks. "Tell it to me straight. I know how all the others have turned out, but if there's something new, please just tell me. Even if it's hopeless. _Please_."

Kolin hangs his head, sighs, and says, "I may have something new. I don't want to give you a false hope or anything, but it's . . . it's definitely new. A direction we haven't thought of. No, honey, I have to go. I'll call you soon when I know more. I love you."

"I love you too, but-"

He disconnects. He slips the phone into his pocket.

It rings.

"Anna, please. I can't get into this right now."

He takes it back out. The number looks surprisingly familiar, but it's neither the house phone nor Anna's cell. Since he never activated the back-up feature on his old phone, it'll take some time to get all of his contacts back.

"Hello?"

"Kolin?"

"Yes, this is he."

"My God, Kolin, I've been calling both your desk and your cell for the past day or so. Where've you been? Never mind that, you have a lot going on. Sorry to hear about your daughter. Look, I went through those lists you gave me and I might know who The Video Slayer is."

His heart races at the mere mention of The Video Slayer, despite his lack of knowledge as to the caller's identity. "Who is this?" Kolin asks.

"Kolin, it's me. Bernie."

"Oh, Bernie!" Kolin exclaims. "God, I'm sorry-"

"Don't be. Listen, I may know who it is. It's strange too, because she's a part-time janitor, but her name appeared on all of those reporter lists. I even matched her signature with the one on her application, just to be sure. She didn't even try to hide it."

"Her?" Kolin asks, thinking about his conversation with Dope Jim.

"Yeah, her," Bernie says. "She's tough too. Built like a brick shithouse, if a woman ever could be. Her name is Marie Holter. All we have for an address is a PO Box here in Minneapolis, which is where we mail her check. The cell number listed on the application, however, is disconnected. She's off today. In fact, when I dug into it a little, I found out she either had the day off or she called in sick every time a girl had been abducted. _Every single time._ I'm e-mailing both her schedule and her Personnel record to you."

Kolin searches through the previous paperwork from WLOK until he finds the employee list. There she is: Marie Holter, custodian, part-time.

"Thanks, Bernie. I owe you one."

"Just remember my exclusive when this is all over and your little girl is safe."

Kolin smiles. "You'll be the first call I make."

"No, no, no. Kolin, my man, you call your wife first. I'll be second."

"You got it, buddy." He hangs up, then searches for Marie Holter in the Minneapolis Times archives website. He finds thousands of references to either Marie or Holter, just not both. He retrieves the latest e-mail from Bernie—for once noticing all of the unread e-mails from him and wondering if he had the answer to the killer all along—then logs onto the Minnesota DMV database. Since there's no middle name listed on her application, he searches by date of birth. No matches.

"Let's just search for all of the Marie Holters. How many could there be?"

But when he hits ENTER, the list scrolls on and on and on.

"You've got to be kidding?"

He decides the best route is to print the entire list and eliminate them by hand, one-by-one. Some would be obvious to cross off—albeit he's met a few senior ladies who could challenge him to an arm wrestling contest and would win—then chooses not to.

"Jim said this killer doesn't fit the profile. Well, let's get out there."

He runs over to the elevator. As the doors slide open, he hears a voice behind him. "Where do you think you're going? Back to Stinky's Pub?"

Kolin turns. "I was. How'd you know that? I thought you were still at the BCA."

"I've been in the conference room, going over Scott's video," Simon says, jogging up to him. "I think we got a break in the case."

"Yeah," Kolin says, holding up the list of Marie Holters.

"It's a woman!" they both exclaim simultaneously.

* * *

Kolin follows Simon to one of the conference rooms, which is dark save for the dim glow of the laptop screen. On it is a man, tied and gagged, with lacerations slashed along his chest, arms, and abdomen. The tip of a butcher knife protrudes along the bottom right corner. "Man, that guy looks familiar."

"Scott was the manager of the 7-11 where Kyle Hammer worked at," Simon says. "Maybe that's where you know him from."

Kolin shakes his head. "I don't think so. It'll come to me. What have you got?"

"This is just a clip of the entire video. If you want to see that, I can show you. For most of the video, the killer is way to the side. But here in this clip, the killer makes the mistake of moving through the screen and we can see the side profile." The killer stabs Scott in the stomach, then shifts right across the screen and proceeds to slash at his genitals. The pain and terror in Scott's face is unnerving.

"Holy shit," Kolin gasps, wincing.

"Every time I watch this part, I feel for him. Now, let me go back a little and pause it."

When he does, pausing right when the killer is in the center of the screen, he gestures at a set of two small bulges in the upper portion of the killer's chest. "You know what that is?" he asks.

"Tits," Kolin says, nodding. "Dope Jim was right."

Simon's brows turn into a V. "What does Dope Jim have to do with this?"

Kolin folds his hands together, then says, "I just spoke with Bernie over at WLOK. Remember that female janitor who ratted out Dexter Grant?"

"Yeah."

Kolin points at the screen and says, "That's her."
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

"How many Marie Holters are there in Minnesota?" asks Simon.

"Eighty-one," Kolin says. "Fifty-eight of which live in or around the Metro area. None of their dates of birth match up with the suspect—that is, if the date of birth she listed on her WLOK application is correct. Oh, a few are a month or so apart from hers, and one is exactly a year younger, but when I compared her WLOK photo ID to the entire eighty-one, none look anything like her.

"Now, speaking of WLOK, on her employment application, the only previous work history she listed was a housewife. That's it. For education, she listed a high school in Minneapolis, who, by the way, have absolutely no record of her—then again, Holter wouldn't be her maiden name, so that can be understandable. But she had no references and her only emergency contact was a Jane Smith. The phone number she listed for Jane goes to a Perkins restaurant in Fridley. They've had four Jane's who've worked there over the past few years, but no Jane Smith. And no Marie Holter either. Everything on her application leads nowhere."

"Just like all of Kyle Hammer's," says Simon.

"I thought of that too," says Kolin. He sips his lukewarm coffee.

"I'll bet WLOK didn't do any kind of background check because it was only for a part-time gig."

"You're right, they didn't," Kolin says, giving a slight Bobblehead nod. "The HR manager told me the only thing he remembered from her interview was that she came out of an abusive marriage and just wanted to start an honest life for herself. He felt sorry for her and said it reminded him of his own mother. He didn't know the education and emergency contact were bogus though. He said, 'I figured if she spent years cleaning up other people's messes, being a janitor here should be a walk in the park.' He hired her right on the spot."

* * *

The Internet archives of the Minneapolis Times don't go back to his starting date at the Minneapolis PD—they're about ten years too short. Taking Dope Jim's advice, Kolin decides to see which library would house such archives.

There are dozens of libraries scattered throughout the Twin Cities Metro area—many of which are in Minneapolis and St. Paul. He drives up to the two that are close to VCU headquarters, only to find them dark and closed.

While sitting in the parking lot of a library in St. Paul—one of the older ones, he guesses, judging from the stone pillars lining the front and the intricately-cut brickwork around the windows—he searches on his cell's web browser. "There's bound to be a library open late," he says to himself, scrolling down the list. "Convenience stores are open late, so why would a library be out of the question?"

This sparks memories of his college days. Even though he wasn't one to spend hours on end perusing the stacks, he did spend a few late nights there researching essay assignments. "I'm sure the U of M's library is probably open late. Not sure if they'd let anyone in from John Q. Public though. Let's use that as a last resort." He keeps scrolling down, the clicks on the next page of results.

After calling half of the other libraries and receiving no answer, a rusty, white Ford Festiva pulls into the parking lot. The driver parks in front, ignoring the handicapped sign. As the headlights extinguish, a slightly overweight man steps out, carrying an Igloo cooler and a thick rolled-up newspaper.

Kolin jogs around the shrubs and up the steps towards him. "Excuse me, sir," he says. "You work here?"

The man yelps and whirls around, nearly tripping. "Don't hurt me," he says, dropping the cooler and newspaper—the latter, it turns out, is three instead of one. He holds his trembling hands up. "I'll give you all the money I have. It's not much. Just take-"

"I'm a cop," Kolin says, displaying his badge. He picks up the cooler, and hands it over to the guy. "You work here?"

The man nods, sighing relief. "I'm the janitor."

"I need a huge favor. Does the library here keep any archives of the Minneapolis Times?" Kolin tells him how far back he wishes to go, praying the man says yes.

"We should," the man says, gathering up his newspapers. "We carry a lot of the major newspapers, including most from around here. You can come inside and look, if you want. Just make sure you're gone before seven. The head librarian is squeamish about anyone other than me being here at night."

"No problem. Hopefully I won't be here too long."

"Jerry Woolworth," the man says, tucking the newspapers under his arm and extending a hand.

Kolin shakes it and introduces himself.

Jerry shifts back. "I thought you looked familiar. I'm sorry to hear about your daughter." He unlocks the front door. "I got four myself. Daughters, I mean. My third is around your daughter's age. Claudia's her name, right?"

"Yes."

Jerry turns on a few of the lights, locks the door behind them, and says, "Melinda and I were gonna name our oldest Claudia, after my wife's grandmother, but my sister-in-law beat us to the punch. So we named her Cynthia instead."
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Claudia Raynes opens her eyes.

When she first awakened hours ago in her kidnapper's presence—on the floor, in the back of a van, with her hands secured behind with a plastic binding digging into her wrists—she screamed for help.

"Quiet!" a sharp voice shot out like a bullet.

That alone didn't cause her to keep quiet, however, for she could hear people just outside. Judging from the trees she could see through the tinted back windows, they were sitting idle, like along an alley or a side road. But when she heard the racking of a pistol, she knew he meant business.

She tried sitting up then but the binding was also secured to the floor. She laid her head back, watching the clouds and telephone wires soon fly by overhead. Several times she heard police sirens— _were they for me?_ —and wanted to sit up, only to be reminded of her restrictions.

The van finally stopped—the last stretch with the tires crunching and popping on a gravel road, after hearing the long, low monotonous hum of the highway. The rear door whipped open. The kidnapper then leaned in and smacked her, and all went black. Again.

The kidnapper, still dressed in the same black garb, carries a tray now into the small, candlelit room. On it is a bowl of soup and a glass of milk. He puts a straw in the milk, and holds up to her mouth. Once she's done drinking, he does the same with the chicken noodle soup.

"Why am I here?" Claudia finally asks once the noodles have been scooped up and shoved into her mouth. She peers up at the black facemask. Dark eyes stare back at her, unblinking.

The plastic bindings have now been replaced with leather ones, securing herself to a small bed—she judges that if she rolled over she wouldn't be able to make one complete turn before crashing to the floor. "What do you want with me?"

He sets the tray down, then unfolds a piece of paper. He holds it out to her. It reads:

NEED TO

PEE OR POOP?

"Where's the bathroom?" she asks, then the notion of peeing and pooping confirms what she thought earlier: there is a rank smell in this room. Rank, yet faint, along with an equally-faint odor of bleach.

Smells like someone peed and pooped in the bed.

Claudia contemplates telling him that her father's a cop and that he won't press charges if he lets her go, but she has a feeling this guy may kill her over that knowledge. It's one of the few perks of being a cop's kid.

She even debates telling him that her mother makes a lot of money, which may lead him to call her parents about a ransom. And even that could turn out badly.

_Just like Charles Lindbergh,_ she thinks. She read a chapter about him in her history book last year, the bulk regarding his famous flight across the Atlantic in 1927. But what fascinated her most was what happened five years later, what would become known as the Crime of the Century when his 20-month old son was kidnapped by a German immigrant.

Visions of the ladder propped up next to the upstairs window, as well as the decomposed remains of the child, pop into her mind now.

He leaves the room, and soon returns carrying an oval-shaped metal pan with a groove on one end. Tilted her way, it resembles a toilet seat.

"I would have to go in that?"

He nods. He holds up the sign again, inching it a little closer as if she didn't understand it clearly the first time.

She shakes her head. "No."

He turns and leaves the room.

"Why am I here? Can you tell me that?"

The doorway ahead of her, albeit open and filled with immense darkness, remains such. After a few minutes pass and he still doesn't return, she starts working at the leather bindings, twisting her wrists this way and that. Despite their tightness, her left hand is slightly looser than her right, yet not enough to work her hand free.

If only I could spit on it, it might be enough for me to slip out.

She glances around the room, working at producing a mouthful of saliva. There are a dozen or so candles lit on either side of the bed, all at varying heights. At least two are nearing their bottoms. On one other occasion, the kidnapper replaced a few of the shorter candles with newer ones.

He comes back into the room now, but instead of candles, he's holding a red handkerchief end-to-end. He flips it around until it becomes a narrow band, then pulls it taut.

Her mouth immediately goes dry. "Please don't. I promise I won't talk anymore. Please please please. I just want to know why I'm here."

Chuckling, he ties the handkerchief tightly around her mouth. Claudia closes her eyes and prays her father rescues her soon.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"Do you want microfiche or the physical newspapers?" Jerry asks, leading Kolin down to the lower level. Even though the atmosphere may have a similar quietness when compared to the daytime, there is still something mysterious about it now as every third aisle is lit up. On the main level, the lack of inside fluorescent lighting encourages the amber streetlights to fill in the gaps. Down here, however, the off-white walls offer no such encouragement and only add to the mystery.

"They actually store real ones here?" asks Kolin. "Doesn't that take up a lot of space?"

"It does. Now, if you wanted to go back twenty years or more, all we have is microfiche. But for the dates in which you're looking for, we should have both."

"Would it be a bother to look at the real papers?"

Jerry beams. "Not at all. That's the way I prefer reading them. Well, I have to say though, that may be changing. My wife got me one of those Kindle-things for my birthday last month. I can subscribe to a bunch of newspapers on there. I haven't. Yet. I have a few though. I get this kid-in-a-candy-store feeling when I see what I can get, but I don't want to go overboard. If you would've asked me two, three years ago if I thought newspapers should be read on those electronic doohickeys, I would've said you were crazy. But they're like a digital paperboy."

They come to a door marked NEWSPAPER ARCHIVES. Below this is a small sign that reads:

HUMIDITY-CONTROLLED

DO NOT KEEP OPEN

"You'll have to bring them out here to look through," Jerry says, cocking a thumb back at the dark ocean of tables behind them. "Don't worry. I'll snap on a few more lights. The only thing I ask is that you don't cut out any of the articles."

* * *

Kolin lines up four months of Minneapolis Times issues along the lengths of three tables. He scans the headlines. Nothing sparks his memory of anything he was involved with.

Especially alone.

"I wonder if I should go back a few more weeks. Or even a month."

But when he does, the newspapers overflowing so much that he has to include a fourth table, he still doesn't recall any of the headlines.

"Maybe it wasn't quite the main headline, but somewhere on the front page," he says, rubbing his chin.

He starts back at the beginning, thoroughly scanning each front page, and even flipping to the next one _just in case_. But when he comes to the end again, he draws another blank. He presses his palms vice-like against his temples.

"Tired?" asks Jerry, wheeling a chrome Hoover canister vacuum behind him.

Kolin nods. "Where's the restroom?"

"Just around the corner from the front door," Jerry says. "Can't miss it."

Kolin stops for a quick drink from a fountain just outside the restrooms, then heads inside. The lights are already on. The hefty odor of bleach assaults him.

He closes his eyes and splashes cold water on his face. He hangs his head, letting the water drip off into the sink.

"Simon and I have to find her," he mutters, choking back a few tears. "God, where is she?"

Kolin met Simon on the first day of the Introduction To Criminal Justice class their freshman year at Bemidji State. Kolin was running late, for when he awoke, it was three minutes to nine and class started at the top of the hour.

As he slipped into the lecture hall at ten after—wasting an entire minute contemplating whether or not to even go—he hoped to find a seat in the last row.

No such luck. All were filled.

_Damn, I should've skipped,_ he thought.

The professor, Dr. Russell Koop, noticed Kolin enter and immediately stopped his lecture. "Good morning, Mr. Tardy," Dr. Koop said. Over a hundred faces turned towards him, a mixture of guys in baseball caps and women in ponytails—even some of the latter wore caps too. "There's an empty chair right up here." The professor pointed to the front row. "And as you make your way down, please enlighten us all as to why you are so tardy on your first day. Did you not think today was very important?"

"Just overslept, sir," Kolin said, taking the steps one at a time. He saw a few lone seats scattered here and there, but didn't dare sit at any of them. "Sorry, won't happen again."

"An absolutely wonderful excuse, I'm sure. What are your plans for the future? What do you aspire to be in the criminal justice field?"

"An . . . an FBI agent."

The professor smirked. "The elite of the elite. And what do you think your commanding officer will say when you are late for a briefing and your only excuse is that you were too lazy to wake up to your alarm clock? Let me give you a little advice, young man: keep your options open for a stock boy position at the local grocery store."

A murmur of giggling rippled throughout the room and Kolin felt a line of sweat perspiring along the back of his neck. He loathed being in front. He always found it difficult to concentrate, for he felt like everyone was staring at him.

And in this case that was true—at least until the lecture resumed, then other people were equally humiliated. Especially those in the back row, whom he seemed to call Those Who Think Hiding In The Last Row Will Exclude You From Class Participation.

_Maybe sitting in front isn't so bad_.

Once class was dismissed, the guy next to him leaned over and said, "As you can see, Dr. Koop treats all the freshmen like dirt. Must be his way of weeding out those who are lukewarm about working in this field." He extended a hand. "Simon Templeton."

"Kolin Raynes. AKA Mr. Tardy."

They shook hands.

When Kolin comes back down to the newspaper-filled tables, Jerry is looking down at them, running a finger along each row. "These related to The Video Slayer?" he asks.

"They're supposed to. How, I don't know."

"Anything I can help with? I read at least three newspapers a day, and I seem to have this God-given knack at remembering even the most mundane articles."

Kolin crosses his arms and says, "It's a bit complicated."

There are many types of people he's run into throughout his law enforcement career, and the most annoying is the _wanna-be_ : this group, which seems to be growing due to TV shows like _CSI_ and _Criminal Minds_ , is all-too helpful, and at times can hinder an investigation by distracting a professional crime analysis with an amateur one.

"I understand," says Jerry. "Especially since it involves your daughter. My Dad and two older brothers are cops. Dad's retired though. He was with the State Patrol. My brother Zack is with the State Patrol, and Pete works for St. Cloud PD. I even have two uncles who are cops up in Duluth and a nephew with the Secret Service. Rumor has it he's on security detail for the President."

"Impressive," Kolin says. He doesn't want to encourage him too much, for wanna-be's are known for talking non-stop about cop stuff, as if it's meant to impress him. "And you didn't follow in their footsteps?"

"They were born to be cops," Jerry says, grinning. "I was too much of a bookworm. And a pacifist. Sure I can't help out? Mum's the word, whatever we discuss. I'm very trustworthy."

Deciding that it wouldn't harm anything to get another mind working on this, even if it's from a wanna-be, Kolin gives an abbreviated version of the case, including his supposed involvement in the perpetrator's revenge.

"And this drug officer didn't mention what you should be looking for?" asks Jerry. "Pardon me for saying, but what an asshole."

Kolin grins. "That's usually the consensus with everyone who crosses his path."

"Mr. Raynes-"

"Please, call me Kolin."

"Okay. Kolin, I know you want to find Claudia and all, but let me think on this tonight. My mind works better when I'm cleaning. Do you have a number where I can reach you?"

Kolin hands him his card.

"I'll call if I think of anything," Jerry says. "If I don't, just come back here tomorrow night, same time, and we'll revisit this."
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

" _Unbelievable!"_ Kolin hisses, slamming the phone receiver down. He digs his fingers into his temples, hoping a deep cranial mining expedition will relieve the stress this case is causing him. "She called in sick again today."

"Were we able to trace it?"

Kolin slowly shakes his head. "The call was thirty-two seconds long."

Simon swivels in his chair to face his friend. "That's enough for a trace," he says. "All that stuff in the movies about having to wait two or so minutes is bullshit. You know that."

"She also used an AT&T calling card."

"Which can still be traced," Simon says, leaning forward in his chair. His cell rings. Making no move to answer it, he sips his coffee. "Just the wife. Go on."

Kolin releases his temples, then sighs. "Not only was the call made on a calling card," he says, "the phone she used was a cell purchased at a Verizon mall kiosk . . . in Bemidji."

Simon nearly drops his coffee cup. "You're kidding?"

"Wish I was. It's one of these no-contract cells. The only way to use it is by purchasing minutes on prepaid Verizon calling cards. The cell was purchased at the beginning of the summer, and had never even been used until today. And for only the thirty-two seconds."

"Let me get this straight: she made a call on a cell, where you have to purchase minutes on a prepaid card, and she also used a regular calling card?"

Kolin nods.

"What the hell. For any normal person that would be double the stupidity. But Marie is far from normal. And stupid. Verizon still needs a name on those, don't they?"

"I'm not finished," Kolin says. "Yes, you're right about the name. Even though there's no formal contract with credit approvals and such, a simple form is still filled out to prove a cell had been sold. They just need some basic info." He opens an e-mail attachment he received minutes ago. The PDF has Verizon's logo along the top. He scrolls down to the signature line. "The signature on it is spot-on for _our_ Marie Holter. But the form is for a Marie Holter living up in Red Lake Falls."

"Where's that?"

"According to Google, it's about a hundred miles from the Canadian border. It's this town of around a thousand or so people."

"Is that where she lives?"

" _This_ Marie Holter, whose name and address is on the contract, is nineteen," Kolin says, pointing at the screen. "Also, according to the DMV, she's four eleven and weighs two hundred and thirty-five pounds. I can have the sheriff up in that county check her out, but I think it'd be a complete waste of time."

"Were we able to triangulate the call anyway?" he asks.

"That's probably the one positive point in all this." Kolin pulls up a map of Minnesota on Google. He zooms in on the Twin Cities, then scrolls up a little. "The only thing we can ascertain is that she was north of the Cities at the time of the call. Because of the lack of cell towers in some of the more remote areas, we could only bounce it off of one tower in northern Anoka County."

"So she lives north."

Kolin shrugs. "Keep in mind, that's where she called from. She's been smart up to this point, so I'd be surprised if she called from her home."

"Has anyone called the number back?"

"That's why I slammed the phone down. She shut the phone off. Completely. Unless she powers it back up, we'll never be able to get another trace on it. I've alerted Verizon to call me if she does. They've put a remote tracker on it."

"We need to issue a press release and hold a media conference," says Simon. "Someone's bound to know her."

Kolin rubs his eyes. "I don't know," he says. "I just don't want anything to happen to Claudia, you know. In case Marie freaks out and finds out we know who she is."

"You can't do this alone," Simon says, leaning over. He places a hand on Kolin's shoulder. "Someone out there has to know her. Nobody lives in a bubble. Remember the Unabomber? He lived like a hermit, except he befriended the local librarian. Come on, Kolin. Let's do it. I've already written the press release. All I have to do is send it off. I can handle the media conference too."

Kolin nods. "Okay, let's do it." He picks up his cell.

* * *

"I just got Simon's e-mail," Bernie Ping says, the phone receiver cradled along his shoulder. He opens the document attachment and quickly reads it. "Perfect. We'll air this right away. Might be a little bad press, with us working alongside a psychopath and all, but we'll weather the storm. Oh, I'm not sure you heard, but she called in sick again today. Okay, good, you were notified. Did HR also tell you she quit? Yup, effective immediately. She thanked us for giving her a job, and then said something about an illness forcing her to be home more. Yeah, that was it. Sorry, buddy. Call me if you need anything else."

Bernie forwards the release to his production assistant, then runs to the newsroom, where the local sports coverage is postponed for a Breaking News Headline.

* * *

"I'm going home," Simon says, glancing down at his watch. It's almost midnight. For the past several hours, since the press release and media conference were aired, the phones at VCU have been ablaze with callers.

But none had the _feel_ of the real deal, just a too-helpful public tossing leads around one could eliminate on face value.

"I'll be in by six," Kolin says.

"Me too. I'll bring the donuts."

When they get off the elevators and start heading towards their vehicles, Kolin stops. He checks his cell. No voicemail messages or missed calls.

"What's wrong?" Simon asks.

"I just . . . did we get a call tonight from a Jerry Woolworth?"

"I have no idea. I must've talked to a hundred people today. Why? Who's Jerry Woolworth? He work at Verizon? God, I can't believe Marie called in a second time to quit. You think it was an oversight of her's?"

"Maybe she didn't want to be on the phone very long each time. We know traces can be done quickly, but she might not."

Shrugging, Simon says, "Very true. Triangulation still showed north from the same tower in Anoka County, but there was also a fractional trace along another tower which brought her near a town called Glade."

"And there's nothing up there," Kolin says. "I used to work up in Glade, remember? Jerry Woolworth is a janitor who works at a library in St. Paul. I met him last night when I was going through some old newspapers."

"Do you want to go back and see if he called?"

"I'll check it out in the morning," Kolin says, shaking his head. He unlocks his Expedition. _Jerry said he'd call if he found anything. And if he didn't, he wanted to meet again._ "We still have time."
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Jerry Woolworth shuts off the vacuum, having completed the stacks on the ground floor. He glances at his watch. _Thirty minutes ahead of schedule._ Sighing, he starts reeling the cord back in place.

A brief flash of headlights passes by the front window, which he knows could be someone driving along the avenue, not necessarily from someone pulling into the parking lot.

As he wheels the vacuum over to the stairs, he hears a pounding from the front door.

In all of his years of service here, he considers himself lucky that he's only had to call the cops a handful of times. Usually it's a homeless guy wanting a warm place to stay or a group of kids out creating havoc. The latter is the main reason he drives an old Ford Festiva instead of their newer Honda Civic. Despite the almost quarter of a million miles on the odometer, if someone wants to steal it he could easily replace it with another car of equal worth.

When he peeks over at the front, he's relieved at whom he sees. He unlocks it and says, "I didn't know if you were gonna show up tonight. I figured you'd be busy since you found out who it is."

"Yeah, I actually knew who it was yesterday when we spoke," Kolin Raynes says. "The trouble I had was finding her—that's the reason I came here. Sorry I didn't tell you yesterday. I just wanted to keep the fact that I knew who the killer was under wraps. I was waiting for tonight to see if you knew anything."

"I would've called earlier, but since we agreed to revisit this here, I knew you'd show up. Besides, you need to see it for yourself anyway."

"You found something?" asks Kolin, stopping mid-stride within the threshold.

Jerry waves him inside and says, "I'll show you."

* * *

The tables Kolin filled yesterday with several months of the Minneapolis Times has now been whittled down to less than a dozen issues, with another newspaper—this one much thinner, with a more generic font and lack of colored photos—set off to the side.

Jerry picks up the first Times issue and says, "That drug cop was right on the money. What you failed to know was the section of the newspaper you should've been looking in. State, national, and international news are typically found in Section A, unless the local is really important—like the I-35W bride collapsing, perhaps. And _that_ you would've remembered. The local news, on the other hand, is in Section B." He opens to that section. "I wouldn't necessarily say this qualifies as local, as it's far north of Anoka, but it's close enough. I almost missed it because it's on the second page, under the fold."

Kolin studies the date. _That was near the beginning of the papers I already laid out,_ he thinks _. God, I almost had it._

"This small article here," Jerry says, pointing at the bottom left-hand corner, "mentions a thirteen-year-old girl who went missing from a rural farming community. Before you were with the Minneapolis PD, did you work part-time somewhere?"

"Yeah. Glade County Sheriff's Department. I only had the job for a few months before the Minneapolis PD hired me though. Why?"

Jerry taps his finger on the article and says, "This happened in Glade. It says here that a part-time deputy was the first one on the scene, and even organized the initial search party. Do you remember the girl's parents, Scott and Marie Sandberg?"

"Scott . . . Scott Sandberg? Can't be the same Scott Sandberg we just found murdered, could it?" _Maybe that's why he seemed so familiar to me._

Jerry shrugs and says, "Could be."

"Yeah, I remember that case," says Kolin. "How could I forget? They called 911 right when my first shift started. And I mean my _very_ first shift too. I only had one day of training and then I was given a badge, gun, and uniform."

Setting his cell onto the table, Kolin peruses each newspaper. In the sixth issue, the article was moved to Section A, page four, when her murdered body was discovered. The rest of the issues covered the continued investigation.

Kolin looks up and says, "Okay, if our Scott Sandberg and her father are one in the same, who happened to the girl's mother Marie?"

Jerry picks up the lone paper set off to the side. "This is the Glade Inquirer," he says. "I occasionally browse through other newspapers, because sometimes there are more interesting stories in them that the _big_ newspapers don't feel are important. Don't ask me how I remembered this, since it's five years old and is in the courtroom news. The Lord has blessed me with a great memory." He flips to one of the last pages. "Here, take a look."

The courtroom news is above the fold, with three people pleading guilty: two for speeding and one for a DWI. He doesn't recognize any of the names. Then, he reads the other courtroom proceedings, of which there are two: one is a bankruptcy hearing for someone with the last name of Dunham and the other is a dissolution of marriage hearing for Scott and Marie Sandberg.

"I'm sure their daughter's murder must've torn them apart," Kolin says. "I always suspected Scott had something to do with it though, but could never prove it. I wonder if she found out anything? No, I'm sure if she had he'd be sitting in prison right now. But this was only five years ago. Trisha was murdered long before that."

"Earlier today, you named a possible suspect, right?"

"Yeah, Marie Holter."

"And _Marie_ also murdered _Scott_ Sandberg?" Jerry asks.

A chill runs along Kolin's spine.

Could Marie's maiden name have been Holter?

He goes back to the Times paper when they discovered Trisha's body. He notes the date she disappeared and the date she was found.

_Six days. It took us six days to find Trisha. The same six days used in these murders! How could I be so stupid not to see that? And the triangulation on the cell calls pointed towards Glade too. That's where Marie has to be. And Claudia! I need to get to Glade. Tonight._ He feels along his back, at his Glock secured in a concealed holster. _I might need some extra firepower first. A shotgun, at least. I'll have to stop at home._

Kolin glances up at Jerry and asks, "How in the world did you ever remember this, about them getting a divorce? And to make the connection between the two after so many years had passed?"

Jerry grins. "Like I said, the Lord has blessed me with a fantastic memory. If you actually look at the Glade Inquirer, there's a story on the front page about a girl going missing from a nearby county. Her grandparents lived in Glade, so the reporter interviewed them. The headline was what intrigued me the most: _Missing Teen Has Local Ties_. I probably wouldn't have picked up the paper otherwise."

"You're amazing."

"Nope," Jerry says, leaning back against a table. "Doctors and teachers are amazing. Scientists researching for cures to our many diseases are amazing. Dreamers who can start billion-dollar companies in garages are amazing. Just because I read the newspaper everyday and have a great memory doesn't qualify me as amazing."

"You are in my book." Kolin looks down at the newspapers one last time, then starts gathering them together.

"I can do that for you," Jerry says, moving to stack them back in order—first carefully tucking each issue's contents neatly together and then putting them face-down onto the table.

"With all of these papers here," Kolin asks, "why do you bring your own?"

"What do you mean?"

"I remember you carrying a pile of newspapers yesterday. Why do you bring your own when you have all the issues you want here?"

"Good question," Jerry says, tucking the last one in place. He grins. "Habit, I guess. I didn't used to do that. Remember me asking you not to cut out any articles? Not everyone follows that rule."

"Do you want a job?"

"I've got one, thanks."

"Not quite what I meant," Kolin says. "I could talk with our captain about setting something up. We could use you and your great memory."

"I appreciate the offer, Kolin, but I enjoy what I'm doing here very much, even if it's not making me rich and famous."

Kolin takes out his keys, then sorts through until he finds the one for his Expedition. He knows he has at least three-quarters of a tank. _Plenty to get me where I need to go._

Jerry reaches over and shakes Kolin's hand. "Good luck. And if you ever need me again, I'm here most nights. If not, I'm in the phonebook."
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Deputy Philip Gust—vying to be Sheriff Gust when Dean Ross Jr. retires next year—cracks open the window of his Crown Vic and lights up a Winston.

With less than four hours left of his shift, he parks alongside a tarred county road south of Glade. This road goes straight north from Anoka, and is a popular shortcut for many residing in towns to the north, like Mora, in lieu of traveling on the interstate farther to the east.

He spots three cars from the south. He doesn't bother activating the radar, for he can tell they're going between sixty and sixty-two. He usually doesn't pull anyone over unless they're going at least sixty-five—ten miles over the posted limit. Depending on his mood and the weather, however, he may even wait until seventy.

Minutes later, he sees another car, this time from the north. He guesses this is someone going to work—probably running a little behind too, judging from the higher than normal rate of speed. When it's close enough, he activates the radar: sixty-four. He turns it off.

Not quite fast enough.

Two more come from the south. The one from behind passes the first, then continues to accelerate. He smiles, gauges the right time to activate the radar, and then does so when he feels the car is close to eighty.

Seventy-eight. Good guess.

He locks the reading, turns on his lightbar, and pulls over the vehicle.

After issuing the guy a speeding citation, Philip notices that it's midnight. One of his favorite radio programs starts at this time: a syndicated late-night AM talk show called _Coast to Coast._ The show covers a variety of odd topics, from UFOs to Bigfoot to the latest conspiracy theories. But first, as it's the top of the hour, he patiently wades through the news.

"Turning to events closer to home, investigators from the Minneapolis Police Department have named a possible suspect as the serial killer known as The Video Slayer," the news announcer says.

"About time" Philips says, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. "I hope they find that cop's kid."

"Marie Holter, age forty-two, has been employed at WLOK TV in Minneapolis as a part-time janitor. Her current whereabouts are unknown at this time and Metro area residents are urged to call with any information leading to her arrest. Investigators add that Holter is also a possible suspect in the brutal slaying of a Minneapolis man named Scott Sandberg."

"Scott Sandberg?" Philip strokes his goatee, then stamps out his Winston. "Can't be the same Scott Sandberg who used to live around here, is it? I know he and Marie—oh, my God!" He digs underneath his seat, and pulls out a Glade County plat book. "Marie's maiden name was Holter."

He runs a finger along the various townships until he recognizes the area where the Sandberg's used to live. He taps on the spot. "That's right. Orville Janz owns it now. Must've bought it after their divorce. Shit, it has to be him." He activates the radio. "Fifty-nine oh four to fifty-nine hundred."

He gets the number for the Minneapolis PD from his dispatcher. He starts to dial it on his cell, but disconnects.

"But what do I have? Nothing yet."

He puts the car in DRIVE, but keeps his foot on the brake. He stares out across the field next to him, out into the inky darkness and above the heads of the nearby sunflowers, drumming the steering wheel with his fingertips.

"Scott and Marie also owned a cabin. A hunting cabin. I think it was her father's. It wasn't too far from the farm either. Maybe three or four miles."

He carefully scans the township map where their farm was located, then branches out into the neighboring townships.

"Come on, Gust. It's gotta be around here somewhere. And if I can find it and save that kid, I'll have the election in the bag."

* * *

The kidnapper walks into the candle-lit room, carrying a video camera the size of a large cereal box. Claudia's Dad used to have one like this, back when she was younger. She remembers several Christmases and birthdays where he'd set it up in the corner and pan around to catch as much of the action as possible.

"What's that for?" Claudia asks, glad to finally be able to speak after having the gag removed an hour or so ago.

He looks over at her, peering through the holes in the facemask, and chuckles. He secures the camera to a tripod in the far corner. He then puts a VCR tape into the side of it, and leaves the room.

_Fine, don't answer me,_ Claudia thinks.

Once several minutes elapse and she feels confident he's not going to walk back into the room, she continues to work at freeing her left wrist.

* * *

Philip slams the plat book down onto the passenger's seat and shoves the accelerator to the floor. The tires grind into the gravel along the shoulder and briefly scream as he lurches out onto the asphalt, the engine roaring with immense power.

"If you're there, Marie, I'll put a cap in your ass for sure!"

He speeds along for several miles, soon turning onto a gravel road. He flies past Sandberg's old farm and fields on either side eventually give way to a dense wooded terrain.

He turns onto a narrow trail, the grass taller than the hood of his car—he could've taken gravel to his destination but this route cuts off a good chunk from his travels. Trees crowd along the left side, their branches occasionally slapping his side-view mirror. He doesn't dare move over though, for there is a steep drop-off leading down to a creek running along the right side of the trail.

At least once a year he has to come out here and help fish out a vehicle. It's not a pretty sight either, as most usually get trapped inside and are not discovered right away. The creek, despite being only thirty or so yards wide, is quite deep—enough to swallow a car whole.

Or a full-size pickup.

And I'd sure hate to add a squad car to it. I know Dean has tried to get a guardrail erected along here for years, but has never really pushed it with the county commissioners. Aside from updating much of our equipment, that is one of the first things I'll do as sheriff. Lord knows how many times I've had people ask me about it.

Once back onto a main road, albeit still gravel, he soon comes to a wooden gate on his left. Beyond it is a trail leading off into the woods. A NO TRESPASSING sign is posted beside it.

He consults the plat book again.

"According to this, Clint Holter still owns the property. She must not have had the ownership updated since he's been dead for probably ten or more years."

He parks the squad halfway into the ditch. He grabs his flashlight and shotgun, racking a shell into the latter.

* * *

Glade County Sheriff's dispatcher Michelle Harms dog-ears the page in her Danielle Steel book, and answers the phone.

After gathering the necessary information, she hangs up and says over the radio: "Fifty-nine hundred to fifty-nine oh four." After about fifteen seconds elapse and she gets no response, she activates the radio again. "Fifty-nine hundred to fifty-nine oh four."

A voice over the radio crackles, "Fifty . . . four."

"Philip, I just got a call about a possible fifty-six on Country Road seven," Michelle says, "approximately three miles west of Glade, heading towards town. Complainant was not able to read the twenty-eight, but described it as a dark-colored SUV. He said the vehicle was all over the road and almost smashed into a row of mailboxes. What's your twenty?"

"T . . . four," Philip says, the radio crackling even worse. "I'm . . . portable . . . man township."

Michelle shakes her head and says, "Fifty-nine oh four, I am not able to copy you. Please repeat your status and twenty."

"Statesman . . . on portable. Invest . . . minutes."

She looks up at the county map posted in front of her—an enlarged version laminated and tacked onto the wall. Her gaze trails over to Statesman township, near the northeastern corner of the county with Glade a few miles west of dead center.

"What the heck is he doing up there?"

She judges the distance between Statesman and where the drunk driver is.

"If the drunk continues through town, Philip might be able to meet up with him. If he doesn't take too long."

She fingers the phone receiver. The only other officer to call in is the Sheriff. Not that she hasn't woken him up before— _just one of the perks of making the big bucks._

"I'll wait," she says, then activates the radio. "Ten-four."

She then goes back to her book.

"Why do I have this feeling I'm in for an interesting night?"

* * *

Philip climbs over the gate.

He has to be careful here, for he's potentially breaking dozens of basic Constitutional rights. His only recourse is his perceived threat to a little girl's life. If he can articulate that it was necessary to charge onto the property without a warrant, he should be okay. All he needs is to establish that Marie is here with the cop's daughter and delaying her rescue would result in immediate harm.

He sneaks along the trail, flashing his light ahead every so often to make sure he's still on track.

It doesn't take long before he sees a cabin up ahead, with squares of lights cascading through the front windows. He stops at the edge of the woods. There is a vast yard surrounding the homestead, lit more from the moon than the cabin's interior lights. Seeing no movement inside, he shines the flashlight on a van parked in front of the cabin. It's an old Ford Econoline, brown in color. The license plate reads: 687KYM.

"Christ, I remember all of the hoopla over an old brown van," he whispers, then shuts off the light. He takes out his cell phone. "That has to be it."

He dials the office. When he doesn't hear any connecting sounds, he looks closer at the display.

The words NO SERVICE flashes back at him.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Under normal circumstances, Kolin would call and ask the Glade County Sheriff's Department to see if they knew Marie Holter still lived in the area and would then ask them to intervene—this would be proper jurisdictional manners, an honor of each one's pissing ground. Not this time. If she planned this elaborate scheme to get _his_ attention, then by God he's going to grant her request.

Personally.

Then again, she made it personal when she abducted Claudia.

Not knowing what he'll need up in Glade in the way of firepower, he decides to stop at home to add to his stockpile. Not that he owns a truckload of guns, but he has more than his department-issued .40-caliber Glock.

He pulls into the driveway. All of the lights are off in the house.

_Hopefully Anna stays asleep,_ he thinks. _Not that I don't want to give her a little hope tonight that I may be coming home with Claudia. Lord knows she could use a healthy dose of hope. It's just that if everything turns out bad, I don't want her last sight of me to be me tossing some guns into the back of the Expedition._

He slips through the back door. Amidst all of the tools and lawn equipment is a six-foot tall metal safe, tucked in the back corner, with an electronic keypad along the front. He punches in the five-digit combination. From inside he hears a faint hum and then the door swings freely open.

His wish one day is to fill this with hoards of guns—it's supposed to be able to fit up to fifty—but today it houses only three: a Benelli twelve-gauge shotgun with a tactical grip, a Ruger .243 bolt-action rifle, and a Beretta 9mm handgun.

The shotgun and rifle are already housed in a two-gun case, propped up on one end and angled to fit inside. He knows this is redundant, having a case inside of a locked safe—Simon has joked about it on several occasions—but it's easier to keep them in a case anyway if he ever needs to grab them and go.

Like now.

Down the road, however, he'll have to forgo the case when he adds to his collection.

He lifts the case out and sets it on the floor. He opens it to see if he left any ammunition inside. Sure enough, he spies two boxes of shotgun shells and two full magazines for the rifle. He doesn't really care about the rifle, as its used mainly for deer hunting, and would leave it behind if both firearms aren't already married in the same case—it would just take too many precious seconds to remove. Besides, he has one of those _what the hell_ moments and concludes it won't harm anything to bring it along.

He closes up the case. Then, he takes out the Beretta from a small shelf along the side. It already has a full magazine. Hanging inside the door is a leather shoulder holster. He straps it on, then secures the Beretta inside it, along with an extra clip.

He peers inside the empty safe for a moment. Empty for guns but not for ammunition: he counts at least four boxes of 9mm and two boxes of twelve-gauge.

Am I going to need more? No. God help me, if I do.

He closes the safe, and engages the lock.

Minutes later he's back out onto the road. He soon passes through the northern edge of the Metro area, the vast city lights blazing behind him like a sunset while the darkness ahead looms before him like a tunnel. He only hopes he can still find the Sandberg's farm. He doesn't remember it being very difficult to find years ago. It's just that so much time has elapsed and so much could've changed.

As the miles click away, he can't help but think about Trisha Sandberg's murder.

_We didn't have any suspects, except for Scott,_ he thinks _. And he had an alibi. God, we must've interviewed dozens upon dozens of people, but nothing ever panned out. Nothing even close. Too bad Trisha wasn't found right away. It was like the perfect murder. Almost_ _like The Video Slayer at first. Hell, it was perfect until just a few days ago. But why did Marie target me? Why not the sheriff or the other deputies? I was just a part-timer._

He frowns, gripping the steering wheel tighter with both hands.

I guess I'll make a point of asking her, if I get a chance.

As the road drones on, with very little traffic keeping him company, he passes by a few convenience stores, urging him to come inside and at least grab a coffee or a bottle of Mountain Dew. Instead, he accelerates past the legal limit and presses onward.

"Daddy's coming, sweetheart."

* * *

Simon awakens with a start. He peers over at the clock: 1:47 AM.

He slides out of bed, careful not to wake Bonnie, and heads to his basement office—it's a corner of the storage room, really, instead of a swank office with a big leather chair and a large oak monstrosity for a desk. His laptop sits atop an old card table and the only seat is a metal folding chair. Beside him are shelves of canned goods, boxes of cereal and Hamburger Helper, and a 24-roll package of Charmin toilet paper.

The latter, of which, he can now use as a foot rest if he so desires.

"Who the hell was that guy Kolin was talking about? It sounded like the name of a store or something. Wall . . . Well . . . Wool—Woolworth. Yeah, that's it."

He paces around the confined space.

"Kolin was researching newspaper archives. I wonder if he found something. I know he said it could wait until morning, but . . . no, there's just something nagging me about it."

He punches the speed-dial number for Kolin's cell.

After the fifth ring, he almost disconnects when a voice answers, whom he doesn't recognize as being Kolin's.

"I'm sorry, I must've dialed the wrong-"

He looks at the phone display. He _did_ press the correct speed-dial number. He takes a few deep breaths. "W-Who is this?" Simon asks.

"Jerry."

Simon sits behind his desk. Normally, this act would jolt him awake—sitting his warm butt on cold metal—but he's already fully alert. "Woolworth?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

Simon introduces himself, then says, "I'm working on The Video Slayer case with Kolin Raynes. This is his phone I've called. Have you seen him tonight?"

"Yeah, Kolin was here a little bit ago," Jerry says, "but left in quite a hurry. I was showing him what I found in some old newspapers about Marie. You know, your suspect."

"You said he _was_ there. Where's he now?"

"Probably heading up to Glade, would be my guess. Took off about . . . oh, thirty minutes ago, I'd say. He left so fast he forgot his cell phone. I didn't even notice it on the table until you called."

"Glade?" Simon asks, knowing that's where Kolin worked at so many years ago. "What's up there?"

"That's where his little girl is. Or, at least, where that Marie used to live with her husband Scott. Well, ex-husband. Sandberg was his last name."

Simon bolts off the chair and charges up the stairs. "You're at a library?" he asks.

As soon as Jerry tells him where, Simon says, "I'll be right there."

* * *

Before tonight, Kolin never expected to see a road sign bearing the words GLADE COUNTY ever again.

But here it is.

Now where was their farm?

He looks around at the inky darkness, broken only by a handful of lighted homesteads along the horizon. None of them look familiar.

Maybe I should check with the sheriff's dispatcher and just say that I'm looking for an old friend. Otherwise, I'll be out here forever.

He searches around for his cell, doesn't find it in any of his pockets or along the dash or even in the cup holder, so he pulls over. He turns on the interior lights and frantically searches between the seats, next to the seat belt, along the floor, and even underneath them all, swiping his hand back and forth, finding only a few crushed bottles of Mountain Dew and empty M&M and Snickers wrappers.

Then, he suddenly realizes exactly where his cell is. He slams a backhand into the passenger's seat, for he doesn't even remember grabbing it when he left the library.

"Shit!"
CHAPTER FIFTY

With Mildred finally falling asleep in the recliner, Orville Janz saunters out to the pole barn for some peace and quiet. Not that tinkering on his old John Deere tractor—the one his Pa taught him how to drive when he was a young lad—will be quiet. But it will be peaceful. The day after tomorrow, a guy from St. Cloud is coming to look at it, and if he can get it running it'll be worth a lot more than the hunk of steel it is now.

An hour later, he says a little prayer and turns on the ignition. The old tractor sputters and spurts, then roars to life. Not perfectly, but it should get him a few extra dollars in his pocket. Not that it'll pay for a Caribbean cruise, but it should get him a few more tanks of gas as well as that dress Mildred's been nagging to get.

Then again, the dress is about thirty to forty years too late. She swears it's "sitting right in the window of Al's Clothes." Al's has been closed for decades now. Two separate businesses—a bakery and a hardware store—have run in the spot since then, and about ten years ago the building and the two next to it were leveled to build a low-income housing unit.

Her memory isn't all that's failing. Her mood has grown much worse in the past year and she's even been waking up quite regularly in the middle of the night, demanding that their sons—all grown and with families of their own—need to clean their rooms.

When Orville turns off the John Deere, he hears a gunshot to the north—not a .22, mind you, but a big bore. A _very_ big bore. If he had to harbor a guess, he'd say it's either a fifty-caliber, which is useless around here unless elephants started roaming the countryside, or a shotgun slug.

He's heard so many gunshots in his seventy-two-year life the number is likely to be in the thousands, but when he hears them at this early hour, he knows it's usually from a poacher.

"Should I call Tyler?" he asks himself. He digs out his cell phone from his shirt pocket. He flips it open, then scrolls down to the local game warden's number. "Sounded like it was up by Novak's place." He listens for a second shot, to pinpoint more of an accurate area, but it never comes. "Don't think it was them though. They're pretty straight-laced as far as hunting rules are concerned. Also, I think it was a little more west of their place." He sighs. "Not much over there either. I'm sure if I wake Tyler's ass up, whoever it is will be long gone by the time he gets there. Oh, well."

He flips his phone shut, turns off the lights, and heads back inside.

* * *

To Claudia, the gunshot sounds like an explosion.

A door slams shut somewhere above her head, and heavy footsteps move across the ceiling from right to left.

The place soon falls silent, and all she hears now are her labored breathing and rapidly thumping heart. She then works at her left wrist, compressing her thumb as much as possible to see if that would allow her to slip free.

Hurry Daddy!

* * *

Simon peers through the rearview mirror, the blazing lights from the Twin Cities looking like a sunset.

He dials a number he looked up before.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I have a question," he says. "I'm on I-35 right now and I need to get to Glade. What exit off of the Interstate would I take to get there? Or are there any signs that you know of showing me the way?"

"If you're really heading to Glade," the Sheriff's dispatcher says, "the easiest way is to take our County Road 2. It goes straight north of Anoka, right into town. Most people take that instead of using the Interstate. I don't believe there are any signs that way telling you how to get here. We're just not that big."

"I don't have time to get over to Anoka," Simon says. "I'd rather stay on the Interstate."

"Okay, no problem. Do you have a pen handy?"

He opens his notebook, and flips it to an blank page. He turns on the passenger's side reading light. "Okay, I'm ready," he says.

He jots down the directions, his steady driving allowing the car to veer no closer than a foot from either the yellow center line or the white roadway line. Afterwards, he thanks her and asks, "How do I get to your office? I need to find a residence out in your county, and I think it'd be easier if I looked at a map there."
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

With the exception of a new elementary school and about a dozen newer homes, all on the east side of town—this is as far as he goes, so he's sure there's more changes in the rest of it—Glade is still very much the same when Kolin left it many years ago.

He parks in front of a Cenex convenience store—this was around back in the day, but now they have updated pumps to accommodate credit cards and there's also a digital Minnesota lottery display in the front window showing the current jackpots. It's dark inside, save for the pale fluorescent lights emitting from the coolers near the back.

That much is the same. They were never open late back then either.

He envisions the route he took out to the Sandberg's farm the day Trisha disappeared.

"But when they divorced, would Marie have kept the farm? Somehow I remember it being in Scott's family. But if he moved down to the Cities . . ."

Something else about that week now disturbs him—just the fact that he's back in Glade now jogging his memory. He drove out to the farm several times, to either give them an update or gather the search party— _those were the days without cell phones, which is hard to imagine now_ —with one exception: the day Trisha's body was discovered.

"They were both at a cabin in the woods. It wasn't too far from the farm, if I remember right. A little tricky to get to though. I went there once to tell them a body had been found and that I needed them to identify it, even though we all knew it had to be Trisha." He frowns. "Now that I think of it, they were usually right there with us, searching, but for some reason they stayed away that day."

He looks around at the parking lot, the dumpster standing guard along the edge. Then, from behind the store, a lone white-tailed deer—a doe—steps out. She stops, regards Kolin for a moment, her ears rotating this way and that, then continues onward towards the road. Immediately afterwards, three smaller deer follow right behind her.

A chill runs down Kolin's spine.

"My God, they knew where she was. They knew we were close. How could we be so stupid? Scott _did_ do something to her. But why did Marie cover up for him? Why go through all this?"

Kolin pulls out of the parking lot and starts heading back east now.

"I got the call about Trisha at . . . three minutes after eight, and I was out at the residence . . . about ten after. And that's without knowing where I was going. That'd be about five or six miles."

He stomps onto the accelerator.

Four miles east of Glade, he quickly decelerates when he spots a cemetery on his right. Along the corner of it is a flimsy mesh gate, which swings back and forth in the mild breeze.

"That's it," he says, snapping his fingers. "I remember having to turn left at the cemetery here."

* * *

A mile up the road, Kolin sees a farmhouse lit by a pale orange yardlight.

The one-story rambler looks the same as it did years ago, except it was shabby white back then instead of the newer gray vinyl siding it now bears—there's also a wheelchair ramp erected along the side, which wasn't there before. Parked in the yard are a maroon Ford Taurus, a gray Dodge Durango, and a rusty blue-and-white Ford pick-up.

But no brown van.

"Hold it," he says. "I think the Sandberg's owned a brown van. I remember it sitting back by the barn when I first pulled in. Hell, it's gotta be the same one. Maybe that's why Marie stole it to abduct Claudia. She thought I'd remember it."

He drives into the yard. He zips up his jacket, concealing his shoulder holster in case Marie _is_ inside and the ORVILLE AND MILDRED JANZ painted on the side of the mailbox is a ruse.

After knocking on the front door, it doesn't take more than fifteen seconds before the porch light turns on and an elderly man steps out. "Can I help you, son?" he asks, flipping his red suspenders over his broad shoulders. He eases the door shut.

Kolin apologizes for waking him at this early hour, then says, "I'm looking for a high school buddy of mine. Scott Sandberg. I thought he lived here."

"If you went to school with Scott," Orville Janz says, "then you should know he quit in the tenth grade and joined his daddy here on the farm. Then, when he was about nineteen or twenty, his daddy died from a heart attack and the place was all his. That is, until I bought it about five years ago when he and his wife got divorced and he moved down to the Cities. You _really_ looking for him, officer? I'm sorry to hear about your daughter."

Kolin steps back and asks, "Oh, you actually recognize me?"

"Yup," Orville says. "When I'm not out in the field or fixing whatever machinery is down, I watch the news. WLOK gets great coverage out here."

Kolin makes a mental note to tell Bernie about his greatest Glade County fan.

"Orville!" a female voice shrieks from inside. "Tell Patrick to quit playing outside! He needs to clean his room! Troy and Spencer aren't going to do it for him!"

Sighing, Orville dips his head back inside and says, "Okay, Mildred, I'll tell him."

"You better!"

He shuts the door.

"Who's Patrick?" asks Kolin.

"Our oldest son," Orville says. "In her mind, he's ten. In real life, he's thirty-eight, married, and has twin girls. Mildred's uh . . . not well. Hasn't been for a while, but lately it's growing worse."

"I'm sorry," Kolin says. He glances around. "Do you know where Marie and Scott had a cabin?"

"Sure do," Orville says. "Marie's old man built it years ago. It's not far from here. This have to do with your daughter?"

Nodding, Kolin says, "We have evidence to believe that Marie is The Video Slayer."

Orville's eyes grow wide. "Goddamn," he says, rubbing his chin. "I thought she looked familiar when they showed her picture on TV—oh, sure, her maiden name was Holter. God, I should've thought of that. Never did like her much. She had this violent streak, which rarely came out but God help you if it did. Patrick dated her once. And I mean _once_. He accidentally spilled his soda onto her lap and she damn near tore him a new one. Took him a long time before he'd ask anyone else out. Here, follow me." He walks Kolin out to the road, then gives him a detailed route to the cabin.

"Thanks," Kolin says, shaking his hand. "I owe you one."

"You know," Orville says, crossing his arms, "it may be nothing, but a little bit ago I was out in the barn when I heard a gunshot. It was a big one too, not a .22 or anything. It might've been near that cabin, but I can't swear to it."

"Just one shot?"

"Yup. Thought it was a poacher at the time. I was gonna call the game warden, but figured they'd be long gone by the time he got there."

"How long ago was this?"

Orville looks down at his watch. "Oh, I'd say about twenty minutes ago. You caught me just as I was settling down to bed."

"A night owl, huh?"

"Didn't used to be. But now, with . . . her condition," he says, gesturing back to the house, "that's all changed. Good luck."
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Aside from being housed in a separate building, most law enforcement offices are built like fortresses, with steel doors, electronic keypads, security cameras, and bullet-proof glass protecting personnel from any potential dangers.

The Glade County Sheriff's Department, on the other hand, is tucked away in a basement corner of the county courthouse, alongside the offices of the county extension, treasurer, social services, and auditor, and a plastic sliding window is all that separates the office staff from the public.

Simon Templeton raps lightly on the window—the sound still echoing in the deserted hallway—and a pudgy woman with Coke-bottle glasses yelps and drops her Danielle Steel book onto the floor. "Good Lord, you gave me a fright," she says, with one hand planted over her chest, then slides open the window. "Didn't see you coming." She gestures to the round mirror behind Simon's right shoulder, angled down and showing a distorted view of the hallway and the door to his left.

"Sorry about that," he says.

"It's okay," she says, taking a few deep breaths. She picks up her book, flips a few pages until she finds the spot where she last read, and dog-ears the page. "Can I help you?"

"I called before about finding someone who lived out in the county," he says, folding his hands in front of him along the window sill. He guesses the dispatching radio is right underneath him, for there is a small microphone erected just beneath his hands.

The woman pushes up her glasses and says, "Yeah, I remember. Been a weird night so far, let me tell you. Who are you trying to find?"

He'd like to probe further into her definition of _weird_ , to see if it links up with his own, but he doesn't. Yet. "Marie Sandberg."

"Would you have her number?" she asks. "I could look it up that way in our computer."

Thinking that if this hadn't been a bogus deception and he _did_ have her number, he could just call her and ask for directions instead of involving the local fuzz. "Sorry, no," he says.

"No problem." Michelle Harms turns to a computer behind her—the aging monitor is a CRT-style, instead of a flat-screen. Judging from the monochrome colors on the display, it's probably a _very_ old CRT at best.

_I'll bet they don't even have internet access,_ he thinks.

She searches for the name in the computer, and, what feels like a full minute later, gets zero results.

"She got divorced a few years ago," he says, "so she might be going by her maiden name." He decides to test her on how informed she is in regards to the press release given earlier. He's looking for any type of reaction, a squinting of the eyes or a tilting up of the head. Anything to divulge she had heard the suspect's name from somewhere. "Try Marie Holter."

No such reaction. He could've been asking for Jane Smith, for all he knows.

After she finds nothing under Marie Holter in the database, he asks, "Could you try searching by just her last name, in case she's living with a relative?"

"She a high school sweetheart of yours?" Michelle asks, cracking a smile.

He shakes his head, appalled at the thought of being romantically-linked to the serial killer—not that this lady would know that. "I haven't talked to her in years," he says, "but last week she called me out of the blue and wanted to talk. In person. It seemed pretty urgent too. I would've come earlier, but I just got done with work. Problem is, she gave me directions and her number, and I washed the jeans that note was in. I should've just put her number in my phone right away."

She chuckles. "My husband did that when I first met him. After his Mom washed his jeans, all Kevin could remember were two of the last four numbers. He must've made about a hundred calls before he found me. Been married seventeen years now. No children on account of his low sperm count, but that's okay. Kids are expensive and I ain't getting rich here. Are you friends with her on Facebook? You could just message her."

"Ah, she's not on Facebook."

She jolts back in her chair, as if she just heard that George Clooney is coming to visit her. "Not on Facebook? I thought everyone was on Facebook. If she was, you'd have to find a computer with internet. We don't get internet in here. Too expensive, they say."

She finds three Holter residences in the entire county: Martin and Jackie, Louis, and Clint.

Simon scans the names. "I see that Martin and Jackie, and also this Louis Holter all live in Glade. Tamarack Avenue and Willow Drive are in town, right?"

"Yeah, Tamarack is a few blocks away. Willow is over on the south side."

"Where is Clint's place, with that rural route address? Is that out in the country? I remember her saying she lived out of town."

"You're right, it is. We're just starting to make a big switch over to this 9-1-1 mapping system, so all the roads will soon be marked as a street or avenue. They say it'll be easier to find houses and such. But, until then, let's look at the plat book." She pulls it out from next to the radio. When she pages through and finds the location, she scratches her head. "That's weird. Clint lives in Statesman Township."

_That's the second time she's used that word tonight._ "Why is that so weird?"

"I have a deputy out on portable in Statesman," she says. She glances over at the clock, then down at her radio log. "Not sure where though. He's been out for quite a while too. I've tried to get him on the radio a few times. I know their radios don't work very good out there, but I should've heard from him by now. If this is where she lives, you might as well leave your cell phone off. There is absolutely no coverage out there."

"And your deputy didn't say what he was doing?"

"No. I even had someone call in a drunk driver. That wasn't you who called me, was it?"

Simon shakes his head.

"Didn't think so. That was around the time when Philip went out, about . . . two hours ago. Thought I'd ask though." She then draws him a crude map leading him out to the Clint Holter residence.

"Thanks," says Simon, wondering if he should tell her the truth. Chances are good the deputy heard the press release and was checking out the very same place where he's heading—and with the amount of time elapsed, the deputy may well have encountered something he wasn't ready for.

Like Marie.

"Just remember what I said about that one road," Michelle says. "Be very careful."

"I will."

* * *

Simon turns on the passenger's side reading light and props the map up on the steering wheel. He punches the accelerator. The Glade city lights shrink back into the horizon behind him.

He zigzags across the countryside—the route seemed much easier when the dispatcher first wrote it down but now is not so certain.

He eventually comes at an intersection and stops, with the road ahead and to his right being gravel. He looks around. No houses are nearby and the dark of night makes him feel isolated, as if he's caught in a blizzard—something he's done often enough here in Minnesota. To his left, partially obscured by tall grasses, is a trail, unmarked but recently traveled upon.

By Kolin?

By a local?

Both, perhaps?

This is the trail the dispatcher warned me about.

"It's narrow," she said to him, "but it's the quickest way to get to where you want to go. Otherwise it'll take you five or six miles just to get over to the road near where Clint lives. Be extra careful though. There's a steep drop-off along the right side that goes straight down to a deep creek. And I mean straight down. Once a year or so, we have someone who drives off into it. Most never make it out. Last one we had was nasty: a carload of five teens, all drunk and stoned. Only one survived. A girl. Not even sure how she did it." She shook her head. "Anyway, the Sheriff has tried to get the county board to build a guardrail there, and thought that tragedy would do it. No go. I'll bet if those kids were part of the football team or something, they would've. But the ones who died were . . . oh, this isn't real nice to say, but they were . . . outsiders."

For the first quarter-mile, the trail is smooth. He then accelerates, the anticipation of finally ending this killing spree driving him onward. He concentrates hard on staying in the ruts, making sure he doesn't veer too far to the right.

"Jesus, how long is this road?"

He balances a hand on top of the steering wheel and brings the map up.

Just then, a deer leaps out in front of him. Simon jerks the steering wheel to the right, missing much of its body but clipping its head. He soon realizes his critical mistake as the car starts soaring straight down, his stomach feeling like it lurches up into his throat. He locks his arms and legs, all sensation in his extremities escaping into his head and chest.

He soon strikes the creek and the front end is swallowed within the water. There, the car stands vertical for a fraction of a second, Simon dangling in his seatbelt, until he feels the back end slowly falls forward, tipping him upside-down.

"Shit! Here we go!"

He plants his feet on the dash, and braces himself with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the ceiling. The cell phones, which had fallen onto the bottom of the windshield, now scatter onto the ceiling as the car is now engulfed in complete darkness.

Simon tries to release the seatbelt, but is unable to, no matter how hard he presses on the button. He then unholsters his Ruger, and fires along the width of the belt, up near the side by the door. Three shots rip the belt enough to break it loose—the shots both blinding and deafening inside this automotive coffin—and he lands on the ceiling, which is now an inch or two deep with water.

He feels around for the cells, and finds them amongst the other scattered debris: pop bottles, training manuals held in three-ring binders, and miscellaneous tool kits.

The car thumps against the bottom of the creek.

Simon hears a cracking sound. Luckily, he's able to take one last breath before the rush of frigid water breaks open the side window and fills the interior, shoving him towards the back. Forcing himself to keep from exhaling, he grips both cells and his pistol—a feat not easily achieved, he realizes, when his instincts order him to drop what he has and swim the hell out of here. When the water finally calms, his lungs just starting to burn, he claws his way out through the broken window.

He quickly bursts through the top of the water, gasping for breath. Keeping the cells and pistol above the water as much as possible, he backstrokes over to the side of the creek. Once there, he finds the incline too steep, so he tosses the phones and sidearm up onto the trail.

After three failed attempts that resulted in him pulling out a large clump of grass and landing back into the water, he achieves victory. His body screams for rest—his ears ringing madly from the gunshots, and he prays they're not permanently damaged—but knows if he doesn't move the effects of hypothermia will quickly overtake him.

Need to move, need to move . . .

He prays his small Mag-lite flashlight still attached to his belt works. He pushes the ON button and a bright beam of light illuminates the trail before him. Twenty yards back is the body of a white-tailed deer, its head twisted back at a fatal angle.

"Now where's the cells and gun?"

He scours the ground, kicking this patch of grass and that, and soon finds what he's looking for. He doesn't know if they're any use to him, but if there's a slim chance, he'd rather they be in his possession than out here in the middle of nowhere.

"Okay," he says, wondering if he should strip off his clothes and at least ring them out. "The road can't be too far away. If I remember right, I turn left—oh, shit, the map!" He shines the light down to the creek, bubbles churning up in the water.

He turns off the light and closes his eyes, envisioning the confusing layout of roads and trails leading to his destination. Even though he paid close attention to what she was drawing, the dispatcher spent an awful amount of time warning him about _this_ road, and he guesses that may have distracted him enough to forget about how far away the cabin was from this point.

"I think I was almost there. But where from here?"

Then, it gradually comes to him, his mental map showing him each turn and road. It's not crystal, but it's clear enough for him to brave moving onward.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Kolin's heart trembles when he spies the Glade County Sheriff's squad parked alongside the road, still idling, across from a gated path leading into the woods.

"So, I'm not the only one checking up on her."

He wonders how long the deputy has been here. He peeks inside. The shotgun is missing. He scrolls down to the last entry on the patrol log. The deputy, Philip Gust, stopped here close to an hour ago— _right in line with Orville's timeline on the gunshot_. In the narrative section, Gust wrote: "Marie Sandberg, possible murder suspect from the Cities. Checking out old Clint Holter cabin. Statesman TWP."

He turns off the engine.

With his Benelli shotgun strapped across his back, he scales over the gate. He then turns on a penlight. There are boot and tire tracks in the dirt. Both appear fresh.

He jogs along the trail, not daring to use anything but the dim light from the quarter moon as his guide. He soon notices a faint light peering through the trees up ahead. The closer he gets, the more box-like the lights appear, then he spies the gabled silhouette of a cabin.

He eases into the open yard, which is roughly half the size of a football field, and rams his foot into something that's both soft yet strangely solid. He has an eerie feeling he knows what this is. Risking the use of his light, he cups his hand around the end of it and turns it on.

At his feet is a dead body, dressed in deputy browns. The top-half of the head is blown away. He carefully turns the body over. Underneath the starred badge is a nametag: P. Gust.

He then realizes if the deputy was shot in the head at this time of night, Marie is not only an expert marksman, she'd have to be in possession of a scope with night-vision capabilities. And with Kolin kneeling out here in the open . . .

He quickly sidesteps around the deputy, keeping the three parked vehicles between him and the cabin, and charges up behind a van—he has second thoughts about going back and at least retrieving the deputy's pistol and shotgun, then decides against it, for it might put him back in the line of fire.

I hope I don't regret that.

He cups his hand around the light and turns it on. The license plate reads: 687KYM.

That's the one!

Along the front of the cabin is a large picture window. He crouches and rushes on over to it. Keeping to the left, near the front door, he slowly lifts his head like a periscope and peers inside.

A slime-green couch, with a brown afghan draped over it, lies along the far wall. A pair of lamps stands on either side, cascading a parchment-like color across the room. An old Zenith TV with a bunny-ear antenna sits on a small table in the corner. To the left is a hallway leading to the back of the cabin.

He sneaks around to the door, mounting a small set of steps situated along the side of a deck that covers an area no bigger than his bed at home. Then, something strikes him as odd. Especially for such a remote residence. He's been on many house raids before where, despite the poor living conditions, there is a very healthy dog guarding the place.

If there was one, I would've heard it by now.

Counting himself lucky—but not completely dismissing the fact that one could still be lurking nearby—he peers through the small panes situated diagonally across the top third of the entrance.

He hears a door open inside, and a stocky woman with brown hair, cropped short, dressed in an oversized flannel shirt, steps out from a room just to the left of the front door. There is something warrior-like about how she moves: commanding, focused, and purposeful. He imagines her dressed all in black, and concludes she's a dead ringer for the UNSUB they've been looking for since the beginning.

I wonder where Claudia is.

Fingering the trigger of the Benelli, Kolin resists the urge to barge inside and shoot Marie dead.

She marches down the hall, into one of the back rooms, and soon returns, this time carrying a shotgun with a large scope mounted on it. Once into the living room, she hits a switch, turning off all of the cabin lights.

Then, from along the roofline, halogen lights spark to life, illuminating the entire perimeter.

The sudden, intense brightness blinds Kolin as he searches for a place to hide. His best option is to get behind one of the vehicles, but the thirty to forty feet of open space to get there may prove fatal.

As he leaps over the railing—his immediate plan is to stay as close to the house of possible—the front picture window shatters outward and a shotgun slug rips into the deck where he stood moments ago.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Sheriff Dean Ross Jr. grabs his cell from the nightstand, his ringtone playing the theme song from the TV show Cops: _Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna-_

"Hello?"

"Sorry to bother you, sir," Michelle Harms says, "but I just got a call from a guy who ran into the ditch just west of Glade on seventeen. He was able to drive out, but hit a culvert and needs an accident report for his insurance company. Philip is the only one on right now, but he's out on portable in Statesman Township and isn't answering his radio or his cell. He's been out there for close to four hours ago now too, and his shift is almost done."

Dean sits up and rubs his eyes. "Most of that area has always been a dead zone for radios and cell phones. Who comes on in the morning?"

"Nobody until five in the afternoon. George is on vacation and Chad still has the flu. That's why I called you."

He sighs and glances at the clock. _Just one of the perks of being the head honcho,_ he thinks. _Even for a mere forty-two grand a year._

"Okay," he says. "I'll take care of it."

A half-hour later, he clears the accident scene, ascertaining that the guy is neither drunk nor seriously hurt—just a mild case of falling asleep at the wheel. He could still cite the guy for careless driving, but knows it isn't worth the hassle.

He then bypasses the office, and heads east towards Statesman Township.

But where in Statesman could Philip be?

Statesman is not only a dead zone for cell phones and radios, it's also a dead zone for people. There are only a handful of homesteads, all along the southern edge, with a few hunting cabins scattered here and there along the rest of it. The bulk of the area is a dense woods, a hunter's paradise. About the only time he ever goes out there is when-

"No!" he barks, gripping the steering wheel tighter and punching the accelerator down even more. "Hickory Creek."

He then frowns, letting off on the gas.

"He couldn't have fallen in though. He told Michelle he was out on portable. And if he found something in the creek, he would've radioed in by now."

* * *

Dean slams on the brakes. Ahead of him along the trail, angling towards the creek, are a fresh pair of indentations in the grass and the body of a deer—a small white-tailed buck, possibly a six-pointer. Its head is snapped back and one of its dead eyes shines back at him in his headlights.

He contacts Michelle over the radio. "Call Squared-Edge Towing," he says. "Tell Chuck we have another vehicle in the drink over on Hickory Trail."

"Oh, no," Michelle says. "I hope it isn't this guy I sent out there tonight."

He stares down at the radio, at the pale orange display and the letters GCSO. "What guy?"

"He was down here a few hours ago looking for someone. A Marie . . . Sandberg, I think it was. Well, it was Sandberg at first but then said she might be going by her maiden name, which is Holter. He said she might be living at Clint's place."

"Clint's been dead for many years," he says. "But he did have a cabin out in the woods. Been out to it once or twice. Kinda confusing on how to get to it without a good map. What was the guy's name?"

"I . . . I think it was Simon. I don't think he ever said a last name though."

Dean puts the squad in PARK.

"I'll be out checking on the vehicle," he says to Michelle. He looks out east, knowing that in an hour or so the first traces of the new dawn will be upon him. "Tell Chuck if he can get out here before daylight I'll treat him to breakfast at Fran's."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Little did Philip Gust and Kolin Raynes know that Marie watched their entire trek from the front gate to the cabin, for not only does she have hundreds of proximity sensors situated around her entire property, it is also monitored by a closed-circuit camera security system.

So, by the time Philip got to the edge of the yard, she was already waiting for him. The night-vision scope was temporarily hindered when he shined the flashlight on the van, and she hoped he wouldn't swing the light over to see her—if he did, she'd just sight underneath the scope, right along the barrel, and aim for the light.

She knew it would only take one shot. Even though she grew up hunting, in recent years she had taken professional sharpshooting courses to advance her skills. The slugs were a bit overkill, even for a headshot—she could've easily done the job with a .30-30 or a .280—but rifle shots have a tendency to carry their sound over several miles, and she didn't want some nosy farmer calling the Sheriff on a suspicious gun call.

When she saw the press release by the Minneapolis PD earlier today, it was just a matter of time before someone would point a finger in her direction. She'd been going by her maiden name for the past five years, but people around here aren't likely to forget that she was a Sandberg and once married to a Scott.

Then, all of her meticulous planning struck gold when she saw the Ford Expedition park behind the deputy's squad and she recognized the man who stepped out from it. A man whom she hadn't spoken to in years.

Now they'll finally get a chance to do it again, and to put something to rest that's been brewing for well over a decade.

* * *

Kolin huddles by the corner of the cabin as Marie fires two more shots, raining chunks of wood down upon him.

Knowing how exposed he is with these lights on, he fires at the one along the corner above him, darkening the deck. Then, he places a shot right along the top of the picture window, in the hopes of driving her back into the cabin.

He quickly leaps up the stairs, and, not bothering to turn the knob, kicks the door in.

His initial reaction is an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He has stood in this very same entrance one other time. The bare wood-paneled walls, the tan shag carpeting, even the TV and lamps haven't changed. He remembers folding his hands in front of him as he told Scott and Marie Sandberg that a body of a girl had been found.

"I'll need you to identify it," Kolin said.

Scott sat on the couch—this same slime-green one with the brown afghan—holding a can of Old Milwaukee. Marie stood by the threshold of the kitchen, drying a plate. Her motions never faltered when he told them the news.

_Like they were expecting it,_ he now thinks.

"Marie," a voice had moaned from the back, and she nearly dropped the plate.

"Coming, Dad," she said, then rushed on by Kolin and down the hallway to the back of the cabin.

"Her Dad has cancer," Scott said. "Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma." He leaned forward, took a gulp of beer, and whispered, "He's not expected to make it to Christmas. Just don't tell her I said that. She still thinks he can recover. The docs at Mayo are miracle workers, but even they've said his time is drawing to an end."

"Is that why you're out here today?" Kolin asked.

Scott nodded. "This is like our home-away-from-home. This is her father's place, really. He used to live in town, but saved up the dough and bought this long ago. There's about four hundred acres on this whole property. He loves to go hunting. Deer, bear, birds, you name it. We've helped fix up the place by putting in electricity, indoor plumbing, well water. We got bids to put in a basement, but we'll wait until after he passes to do that."

Kolin directs the Benelli from the hallway to the kitchen on the other side of the living room and vice versa, but sees no sign of Marie—at first, he wishes he hadn't blasted the corner light because the exteriors offer a partial illumination inside, but notices where he's standing is darker, so it might work out in his favor.

"Marie Holter!" Kolin exclaims. "This is the police! We have you surrounded! Give yourself up and you won't get hurt!"

"You're a liar, Kolin," Marie says, her calm, icy voice coming from the end of the hallway. But where? The hallway continues to the right and there's also a room in the left corner. "You're all alone. I saw you park behind that deputy's squad. Did you like what I did to him?"

"That's murder, Marie."

"I call it self-defense. He didn't even have a warrant."

He's about to argue that the deputy didn't need a warrant, but figures it'd be foolish to start arguing with her at a time like this.

As her silhouette appears just around the corner, he fires, using the long wall to ricochet the buckshot back at her. She screams and leaps back.

Next to the entrance is a walk-in closet— _I don't remember this here before_. Coats and other winter attire line one side while the other has shirts and sweaters. The floor is bare, except for two large totes along the back wall.

"You should see what I'm gonna do with your daughter, Kolin!" she exclaims, standing by the corner door.

Before he can fire again, she aims a pistol at him and places three quick shots above his head, forcing him inside the closet.

"Jesus," he gasps. He has one shell left. "Gotta make this count."

He waits several seconds before slipping back out, the shotgun aimed down the hallway. His instincts tell him to charge in, using the elements of shock and awe to bring Marie down, but he has two problems with that: he has no back-up and he's not wearing a bullet-proof vest if it all turns sour. Instead, he inches stealthily forward.

"Daddy?" a soft voice says, coming from the corner room.

He feels a tightness in his chest. He lowers the shotgun. "Claudia?"

"Not quite!" Marie exclaims, bursting through the door. She shines a light in his eyes and fires, the round grazing across his right shoulder. Upon instinct, he fires his final shotgun round, striking the door jamb, just as Marie ducks back.

Kolin drops the shotgun and examines his shoulder. His shirt is ripped, but that's all.

Goddamn that was lucky!

He takes out his Beretta and charges into the bedroom, ignoring his earlier reservations. Seeing nobody, he drops and peeks underneath the bed, only to find it stuffed with clothes. The only other option is the closet. Expecting to also find it full, he is shocked by its vast emptiness.

Where the hell did she go? I was never back here before, so all this is new to me. I wonder if they ever built that basement.

He heads back out into the hallway, then pauses in mid-stride. He sets his foot down, this time harder than usual. It doesn't occur to him until just now that there seems to be a hollowness to the floor, an echoing that seems to come from below.

Could Marie be down there somewhere, down a trap door or something?

He plants his feet—stomping them in place—and leans back against the wall across from the corner bedroom. Then, the oddest thing happens: he hears a faint clicking sound and a section of the wall springs out. He whips it open and flashes his light inside.

But before he can examine this new room, a gunshot from behind and a searing pain across his left shoulder forces him to duck inside.

He scrambles over to the edge of the door, holding the Beretta with one hand—his strong hand, but it's still one-handed. His other arm burns, warm blood sliding down past his elbow.

Then, the exterior lights are extinguished, bathing the interior of the cabin in _complete_ darkness.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Kolin kneels next to the door, wincing from the pain in his shoulder, and fires into the hallway. Using the muzzle flash to his advantage, he spies Marie just inside the bedroom and adjusts his aim for his next shot, but she slips away before he can make a connection.

"Give it up, Marie!" He finds his penlight and turns it on, aiming it towards the bedroom. His left shoulder throbs. "Stop this now and you won't get hurt! You have my word!"

Surprisingly, Marie appears, holding the shotgun by the barrel over her head. "Don't shoot," she says. "I give up. You can have your daughter back. She's in that room behind you."

As Kolin turns to look back over his shoulder, she throws the shotgun at him, end-over-end, and slips back inside the bedroom.

That bitch!

He bats the shotgun against the wall and rushes in after her . . . only to find the room empty. He stands within the threshold, counting off ten or so minutes, but she makes no reappearance.

Frustrated, he heads back to the room he discovered concealed by the hidden door.

On one side is a film projector, with a movie reel loaded roughly halfway through, and a tattered dark brown recliner beside it. Across from these is a movie screen large enough to fill much of the wall.

He flips the power switch on the projector. It whirls to life, flashing black-and-white images on the screen.

The film is devoid of sound. In it, a group of girls are huddled around a birthday cake decorated with roses.

The cake reads:

HAPPY

14TH

BIRTHDAY

MARIE!

Kolin glances back towards the door, sees no one, and then goes back to the film.

An older woman cuts the cake into squares. A girl wearing a BIRTHDAY GIRL hat points at a large flower in the corner—obviously wanting the largest quantity of available frosting. And, judging from her solid rectangular build, she's been gulping down her fair share of sweets for quite some time. The woman nods, cuts the desired piece, and sets it on a plate.

But before the birthday girl can grab it, another girl snatches it away and starts to devour it, frosting plastered around her mouth—to Kolin, it reminds him of the movie _A Christmas Story_ when Ralphie's mother convinced her youngest son to eat his mashed potatoes like a little piggy.

The birthday girl slams her fists against the table, knocking a line of glasses onto the floor. The woman drops the knife and puts her hands up to her mouth.

Then, the birthday girl does something that gives Kolin pause: she grabs the thieving girl by the shirt with one hand and the cake-cutting knife with the other. But before any serious harm can be done, the person holding the camera puts a calm hand on Marie's shoulder.

She looks up and immediately drops the knife.

Kolin glances back over his shoulder.

Marie, with the discarded shotgun in her hands, runs back to the bedroom. He quickly follows her, but when he levels his Beretta into the closet, he discovers that the room is empty. Again.

"How can that be?"

He kneels beside the closet, gritting his teeth from the pain in his shoulder. He pushes on the walls, finding them solid, then pushes down onto the tan-colored shag carpet. Along the back, a square hatch appears, opening downward. He aims both the gun and the light into the depths, and catches a heavy odor of plywood and cedar.

Looks like they got around to building that basement.

About three feet below him is a landing, with a pile of oversized pillows on top. Along the side is a short ladder. A small TV is secured next to it, showing the interior of the bedroom from a surveillance camera set up facing the bedroom door.

Leading out from here is a hallway, about two-feet wide, constructed from sheets and planks of unpainted wood. It zigzags like a maze. Confined spaces typically don't bother him, but each time he comes to a corner or a T-intersection, he envisions Marie hiding somewhere, ready to blow his head off.

"Please don't hurt me," a familiar voice cries out, reverberating throughout the basement. "Please let me go. Please. I want my Daddy!"

Claudia!

He wipes the tears swelling in his eyes. He takes a deep breath and stalks up to the next corner. She sounds _so_ close.

"Please let me go. _Please_."

Before him is a long, narrow hallway, seeming to go the entire length of the cabin from the back to the front. He turns off the penlight. Flickering candlelight illuminates the walls on the far end.

Daddy's coming, honey!

He rushes down its length as best as he's able to, given that much of the way he has to angle his body to keep from getting stuck. He soon comes to a room lit with candles. Marie stands at the foot of a bed, a butcher knife raised above her head.

"Marie! Stop!"

Kolin wastes no time in firing the remaining 9mm rounds in the clip into her back. He then drops the empty and slams in the other full one, thumbing the release to insert the first round. He starts to squeeze the trigger-

"Please let me go," Claudia pleads, her voice still coming from the candlelit room. "I want to see my Mommy and Daddy. Please, please, please."

Marie hasn't moved, the butcher knife still ready to strike.

What the hell is this?

Releasing his finger, Kolin eases into the room.

Standing before the empty bed is a mannequin, the base secured by a pair of cement blocks. Its back is shredded from the 9mm rounds. In the far corner is a TV/VCR combo, the picture showing a close-up of his daughter's tear-filled face.

"Please let me go. Please."

Here in this room, the smell of wood is replaced by a stench of bleach. But not just bleach. He catches a whiff of something far more foul.

He turns off the TV.

Then, from the main floor above him, he hears a scream.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Next to the room where at least a half-dozen girls have perished, Kolin notices a wooden ladder leading up towards a door in the ceiling. He climbs it, and discovers that it leads up behind an oak desk in a small room. The desk is bare. There is a bookshelf along the left and right walls, filled with paperbacks of various true crime books.

Ann Rule sure made a fortune here.

He turns off the flashlight, and eases out into the hallway. He senses movement just around the corner by the living room. He presses his back against the wall, levels his Beretta, and-

Just then, the interior lights snap on. The sudden illumination blinds and disorientates him. Claudia is standing on the far side of the living room, a bedsheet tied around her body like a mummy, secured by a series of leather belts. Her mouth is gagged. She punches her chin towards the closet behind him.

He whirls around just as Marie Holter kicks the Beretta out of his hands and follows up with a spinning kick to his abdomen, slamming him against the wall. Before he can charge back at her, she spins and kicks again, this time connecting with the side of his head.

Dazed, he blocks a flurry of kicks and strikes, trying desperately to get the upper hand, albeit failing miserably. Then, as sudden as the attack started, it stops. Marie points his Beretta at him.

In a flash, while standing this close to her, he remembers the weird dream he had while in the hospital, recovering from the injuries sustained in the car explosion. Near the end of the dream, he faced the killer close up, the dark silhouette taking shape-

It was Marie I saw! I'm sure of it!

"Sit on the couch, Kolin Raynes," she says, her tone calm.

He complies, his ribs and forearms aching from the brief round of hand-to-hand combat. The wound in his left shoulder must've broke open, blood now sliding down his arm. He puts a hand over it.

"Good boy," she says. "Now cross your legs, Indian-style, and sit on your hands."

"What do you want?" Kolin asks, slowly crossing his legs. He doesn't want to move his hand away from the wound just yet. He doesn't feel any torn flesh. The bullet must've just gazed him enough to break the skin. Satisfied he isn't going to bleed to death, he moves his hands down along the small of his back, then underneath him. "Why did you kill all those girls? It wasn't going to bring Trisha back, you know."

Marie retrieves her shotgun from the closet. "Of course not," she says, pacing in front of the smashed-out picture window. "But I had to guarantee that you'd take me seriously." She leans against the windowsill, the crisp morning air chilling the room. She tosses the Beretta out the open window. "Do you have any other weapons?"

Kolin shakes his head.

"I wish I could believe you. Open your jacket. Very slowly. Left hand only."

Wincing from the pain, he shows her the empty shoulder holster. She orders him to sit on his hands again as she comes over, places the end of the shotgun barrel under his chin, and feels along his ankles, hips, and the small of his back.

"Good boy," she says, finding them all bare. "Thank you for telling me the truth." She resumes her seat on the windowsill. She takes out a Smartphone, punches a few buttons, and studies the screen. "We probably don't have much time before your friends arrive, so let's get right to it. Tell me how you went about this case, starting when you arrived back from Quantico."

"Why?" asks Kolin.

Marie raises the shotgun, aiming it at Claudia. "Because I want to know."

"Okay, okay, okay."

He starts talking about his first day, even mentioning that he was looking forward to having dinner with his family at King Chester's, in the hopes that he can appeal to Marie's motherly side.

_If she even has one,_ he thinks.

"Why the codes?" he soon asks. "I mean, the ones on the return addresses and such? Why even tell us where those girls were at?"

Marie smirks. "Not yet," she says. "You first, Kolin Raynes. Then me."

"What do you mean?"

"My story. You didn't honestly think I lured you out here for nothing, did you? I have a story to tell too. One that will put your mind at ease about solving your first case."

"My first case?" he asks, shifting his buttocks when he feels them falling asleep. His right hand is sticky, the blood on it starting to dry. "You mean, my first case with VCU? The Video Slayer-"

"No!" Marie exclaims, leaping to her feet. "I'm talking about my daughter Trisha. Her murder is still unsolved. A cold case, mind you. Did you know that? But not for much longer."
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Kolin yawns, watching the inky black horizon turn to a deep violet. "Then I saw the courtroom news article on your divorce and . . . well, that's when I knew where you might be."

"You didn't think The Video Slayer was a woman, did you?" asks Marie.

"It never even occurred to us."

She smirks, eyeing her Smartphone. "Well, I guess it's my turn. Where to begin? After our divorce, Scott moved to the Cities, and I, of course, moved in here. I then joined a YMCA in Anoka and started training."

"For what?" he asks, then realizes he already knows the answer.

It's the reason why I'm sitting here with my hands under my ass and my left shoulder throbbing like hell.

"For this," she says, pointing the shotgun stock at Claudia. "Besides weight lifting and running, I also took Tae Kwon Do lessons. I trained hard and rose through the ranks very quickly. I even took several advanced firearms classes. And when that wasn't enough, I took a month-long bodyguard training course over in Aspen, Colorado. I graduated number-one in my class. I must've had twenty to thirty job offers. Someone from the Secret Service was even interested in me.

"I've also read countless true crime books as well as books on profiling serial killers—my favorites are the ones written by the guy who inspired the _Silence of the Lambs_ writer. I've even watched every episode of _Criminal Minds_. That show is a great way to learn about profiling. I knew what you cops would be looking for. That's how I settled on the eyeballs. I thought it would be a dead give-away, wanting you to _see_ something, but . . . I guess I was more clever than you."

"Was each girl chosen ahead of time or was it random?" he asks.

"Any girl would do," she says, then glances at Claudia. "Except with your daughter. She was the only one I chose to take. For all the others, I just studied the area and planned out every possible escape route."

Kolin stretches out one of his legs. They feel like lumps of Jell-O.

Marie lifts a shotgun shell from one of her jean pockets, tips it so he can see the top, and asks, "Do you know what this is?"

He nods, taking in the hunk of exposed lead. "A shotgun slug."

She loads the slug into the shotgun and adds two more in such rapid succession that she'd give a military drill sergeant pause.

He tucks his leg back in, stretches out the other one, and resumes his cross-legged posture.

She lowers the shotgun and says, "Let's get on with it. The reason I led you here is because I want you to know the truth of what really happened to my daughter Trisha. The case is still considered open, but no one's been investigating it for quite some time."

He leans forward and asks, "You mean, you know what happened to her? Why didn't you say something?"

"The Sheriff didn't believe me."

"I don't understand. Why wouldn't he believe you?"

"Like you care." She leans the shotgun against the windowsill.

"Marie, I've always thought there was something odd about Trisha's case, but I could never figure it out," he says. "It's bugged me for years. Tell me what happened to her. Please."

She sighs. "The trouble is, and I didn't know it at the time, but my testimony never would've made it to trial," she says. "It's privileged."

"Wait," he says, holding his hands out, his right one dark with dried blood. "What's privileged?" He stretches out both legs this time. The throbbing in his left shoulder has lessened, almost to the point where he forgets about it.

Marie snaps the shotgun up to her shoulder, aiming it right at his head.

"The only privileged testimonies are from lawyers, doctors, mental health counselors, and clergy," he says, ignoring Marie's aggressive stance. He runs his hands up and down his legs.

"You missed one," she says. "One that hits _much_ closer to home. Spousal testimony." She frowns when Kolin doesn't resume his submissive posture, and instead aims the shotgun at Claudia. "I'm not clueless as to what you're doing, Kolin Raynes. Cross your legs and sit on your hands. Now! And if you move from that position again, your daughter's brains will be splattered all over the wall. If you don't believe me, go ahead and test me. I've killed dozens. One more won't make a difference."

Dozens?

He quickly folds his legs back and sits on his hands.

"Good boy." She lowers the shotgun and paces in front of him. "Let me tell you a story. There's a man. Adam is his name. He likes little girls. A lot. Preferably ones in their early teens. Quite often, he parks next to a school, where he takes pictures of the cuter girls so he can _use_ their images later on in the privacy of his home. Then, one day his urges grow so intense that pictures alone don't satisfy him. Adam kidnaps a fourteen-year-old girl, locks her up in a small cabin in the woods, and uses her to fulfill all of his demented fantasies."

_Trisha was also fourteen when she was killed_ , he thinks.

"One day, Scott's wife suspects that he's having an affair, so she trails him out to the cabin and discovers his disgusting secret. But when she tells the police, they don't believe her. Do you know why?"

"I don't think they wouldn't believe her," he says, struggling to keep his hands in place. _I'll bet she didn't realize she used Scott's name in her story just now._ "They'd check out the cabin. All cops would. Especially for something that severe."

"Not around here they wouldn't."

"Of course they would. It's in our nature to be inquisitive. Did the wife show them where the cabin was? Besides, what does this have to do with why I'm here? Why Claudia's here, for that matter?"

"Think, Kolin Raynes," she says, narrowing her gaze at him. "What was the first puzzle piece you found that turned your scope in my direction? You didn't tell me before, but I know there was something. What was it? Tell me."

"Let's go back to why you think your testimony was privileged," he says. "And why you think the cops wouldn't have investigated-"

"No!" Marie stares at Claudia, drumming her fingers against the shotgun slide. "The puzzle piece. Tell me. Then I'll tell you. Quid pro pro, they call it."

_Close enough,_ he thinks. _To hell if I'm going to correct her._

Kolin ponders for a minute about how it came about, what finally directed him to Marie. It was nothing short of miraculous, his conversation with Dope Jim and Jerry Woolworth leading the charge, although he certainly can't exclude Simon's chat with Sylvia Barstad. All of it fit so perfectly, like the same order of the universe that brought Kolin and Anna together that one chilly February night back in college also brought him the knowledge behind the killings.

With the sun coming up even more, he can now see the box-like silhouette of a vehicle sitting in the front yard.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

"When you abducted Claudia," says Kolin, "you used Scott's brown van. It wasn't from a complete stranger. Did you own that van when Trisha was murdered?"

Marie's eyes light up. "I knew you'd remember it. I just knew it."

_I didn't until I pulled into their old driveway,_ he thinks. "Sorry to sound ignorant, but why did you kill him now? You two got divorced years ago."

She glares over at him, her eyes wide and her mouth twisted down. Her hands start turning white around the knuckles.

"Look," he says, "you planned this whole scheme to get me involved, so don't get pissed at me when I ask a question. Did Scott do something to Trisha? And if he did, why wait to kill him?"

"I told everyone during our divorce hearing what he had done. But the judge said it was slander and that Scott could sue me. He didn't though. He knew the truth."

She starts pacing again.

"This whole thing could've been prevented when I first came to the house," he says, raising his voice. "There's no reason why all of those families should've suffered because of your incompetence."

"When I was a little girl, my Dad filmed everything on an old movie camera," she says.

"I don't give a shit what your Dad-"

"Saturday nights were always our family film night," she continues. "We'd curl up on the couch with a big bowl of popcorn. We'd watch films from way back, like the day I was born, the day I took my first step, my first day of school, birthday parties, and so on. Oh, I loved them all."

"Even your fourteenth birthday?" Kolin asks, the edge in his voice sharpening. "I saw your little film of horrors in that room back there. You almost killed someone, and all for a _fucking piece of goddamned cake_!"

"When VHS video cameras first came onto the market, I had to get one," she says, the rhythm of her pace never wavering. "Scott was furious. They were over a thousand bucks a piece and we were already behind on bills. Hmm, I think I used our car fund to pay for it too." She smirks. "Had to keep the van then, which is kinda ironic. Anyway, with my new camera, I recorded Trisha's birth, and every special moment since then, including . . . including the day she died."

"You got Trisha's murder on tape?" Kolin asks, leaning forward.

Marie stops in the middle of the room. "I'd show you," she says, "but I don't trust you to go down to see it. Besides, there isn't enough time. Your friends will be here soon." She studies her Smartphone, then sets it on top of the TV.

"Then what's the point behind all of this?" he asks. "If Scott did something to Trisha, no one would blame you for what you did to him. They'd call you heroic. Every battered women's shelter across this country would be singing your praises." Tears fill his eyes. "If you recorded Trisha's murder, why didn't you say something when I first came to the house?"

"You don't know what it was like living with Scott. He would've killed me. Kolin Raynes, you were the only one I knew who was smart enough to bring Trisha's murderer to justice. I used the six-day pattern to represent the six days from when Trisha died to when she was found. Between that and the eyeballs, I knew it was all just a matter of time before you figured it out. When the school year ended, I wanted to see how close you could get, so I stopped."

"That's why," he says, eyeing the bland gray carpeting. He shakes his head. "We thought the killer either had a seasonal job, like a teacher, or was even a cop. Most police departments have notoriously weird work schedules."

"Working part-time was a great cover that way, to work days that I wanted to work and call in sick on the others," she says. "WLOK also gave me access to talk with people who thought I was a reporter. I interviewed actors at the Chanhassen Theater about disguises. I even learned a lot about jacking cars and getting into people's houses undetected from ex-cons looking to make a few bucks." She walks up to him. She leans in close. "I've even been in your house. Very late at night. One time, one of your other girls even woke up and saw me. She called me Daddy. But I shushed her up and slipped out."

Kolin breaks into a cold sweat. He recalls a few times when he sensed someone was in his house— _the microwave incident, for one_ , he thinks.

"I never intended to take your daughter. Honestly. But you just weren't as smart as I thought, so I had to do something drastic. I knew if I took her, you'd stop at nothing to find her. Then, my plan took an unexpected twist when I stopped at a 7-11 in Minneapolis and saw my ex-husband for the first time in many years."

"Wait!" He frowns. "You mean, you didn't know where Scott was?"

She shakes her head. "After the divorce was finalized, we severed ties. Completely. We didn't have any other kids, so that made it easier to stay apart." She giggles. "The dumb shit didn't even recognize me. I was good at disguises. Hell, he didn't even recognize my voice. We went out for drinks that night, then went up to his apartment. I killed him the same way I killed Kyle."

This immediately sparks a memory for Kolin.

Another tumbler in the lock clicks into place.

After Dr. Janice York performed the autopsy on Scott Sandberg, she said to Kolin, "It's the same style of blade used in all of the other victims. Possibly a butcher knife, judging from the shape of the blade."

She uncovered the body, folding the sheet down to the ankles. The pale skin bore a crisscrossed patchwork of lacerations—Kolin swore there wasn't a single area where he could place a hand without touching one.

"There's an obvious feel of rage with this one," she said. "That other male victim, Mr. Hammer, was like this too. I'd guess their deaths served a different purpose than the girls. If it weren't for the eyeball carvings though, there'd be nothing linking them together. You could have two different killers here. But there is one thing." Dr. York gestured to Scott's mutilated genitals, which were virtually indistinguishable. " _That's_ personal, Kolin."

"Which leads me to believe the killer may have known Scott, and he must've done something to absolutely _piss_ the killer off."

Marie's Smartphone vibrates. She peeks at it. "Hmm, where did he park? Okay, your friend will be here shortly, so let's hurry and do this up right. He'll find you and your daughter dead, then he'll search the house and find the evidence that solves Trisha's murder."

"Why?" Kolin asks. He has a strong urge to charge at her, tackle her through the window, but knows he'll never succeed. For one, his legs feel like useless lumps. Second, even if he hadn't been sitting in such an awkward posture all this time, he's pretty sure she'd kick his ass. Again. "These killings have to stop, Marie. Too much blood has already been shed. Turn yourself in. I'll help protect you. You have my word."

"Turn myself in?" she asks in sudden awe. "Are you crazy? I can't do that." She raises the shotgun to her shoulder, swinging it in Claudia's direction. "Your death will be the last, Kolin Raynes. I promise. Unless . . . someone gets in my way." She glances out through the broken picture window.

"If you kill us, everyone will think you murdered Trisha, no matter what evidence they find."

She lowers the shotgun slightly. "You're wrong. You haven't seen the video. It doesn't lie."

"You're the one who's wrong, Marie. Spousal privilege doesn't apply when it comes to crimes against one's child. Without me, you'll be blamed for Trisha's murder, simply because you did _nothing_ with the evidence. And both Kyle and Scott will be honored as helpless victims."

Marie's eyes look like they're stuck in a pinball machine, shifting back and forth from Claudia to Kolin, Kolin to Claudia. "You're . . . you're l-lying," she says, her hands quivering.

"I have absolutely nothing to gain by lying," he says, slipping his left hand down into the couch, behind the cushions. "If you don't believe me, just ask any cop. They'll tell you the same exact thing."

"Liar!" she exclaims, then lifts the shotgun again.

He whips his hand out, holding onto the blade of a butcher knife—the same one he found in the basement and the same one used to murder a half-dozen girls—and throws it at her.

Throwing a knife is difficult without much practice, all due to simple physics: the rotation speed of the knife and the speed of the knife being hurled at the target, all in conjunction with the distance between the two points. The last time Kolin threw a knife was when he was twelve and got a jackknife for his birthday. He'd throw it at an old stump in the backyard for a few hours. If he was lucky, one or two throws out of every ten resulted in the knife sticking into the wood.

Instead of striking her right in the neck like he hoped, the blade handle bonks her along the cheek.

Startled, Marie turns towards him, then spies the butcher knife that dropped at her feet.

"If you insist," she says. "The shotgun slug would've been less painful on your daughter, but that's your choice." She picks up the knife, her thumb caressing the handle. "One more, old friend."

"Stop this, Marie!"

She points the shotgun at him. "You get the slug. That much I'll do for you." She then turns to Claudia and lifts the butcher knife.
CHAPTER SIXTY

Kolin hears a gunshot. Oddly enough, instead of the deep-throated boom of a shotgun, it's the sharp bang of a high-powered rifle.

What the hell!

Marie staggers. There is a gaping exit wound in the center of her chest, blood staining both the front of her shirt and the carpet before her. She falls to her knees and drops the knife, the shotgun clinging to her fingertips.

He rolls onto his side. From within the couch, he pulls out his Glock .40, still secure in its holster—the second item he hid just before she searched him for weapons.

She looks down at the wound. "Bastard," she gasps, then swings the shotgun up towards Claudia.

"No!" Kolin yells, whipping off the holster in one solid motion.

* * *

The front door swings open.

Simon Templeton walks inside, carrying Kolin's deer hunting rifle, his clothes damp. He gestures down at the bloody mass on the floor that once was a cold-blooded killer. "Nice shooting."

"You too," Kolin says. Then, he remembers what Marie said before about a friend coming. Prior to that moment, she said _friends._

With his shoulder only slightly aching now, he circles around over to her Smartphone, still sitting on top of the TV. He pushes a button and the screen lights up, showing him a surveillance shot of the gate: the Glade County Sheriff's squad, Kolin's Expedition, and a second squad behind his, this one with the headlights on. He's about to say something, but pauses when he notices Simon's wet attire. "What happened to you?"

"Huh?" Simon asks, a little too loudly for how close they are. He looks down at his clothes. "Oh, this? Thought it was a good night to go for a swim. What have you got?"

They both watch an officer in a white uniform, with his revolver drawn and a shotgun slung across his back, scaling the gate. When he reaches the edge of the yard and stands over the dead deputy, Simon steps outside, flashes his VCU badge, and says, "We're with the Minneapolis PD. Come inside. It's all over."

The officer holsters his sidearm. Once inside, he takes in the grisly scene. "Is that Marie?"

Immediately recognizing the officer, Kolin says, "Sure is. I don't know if you remember me or not, Sheriff-"

"Of course I remember you, Kolin. How could I forget? I'm glad your daughter is safe. I'm sure I'll get my ass chewed by the media for this, with a serial killer living right under our noses and all."

"Nobody knew it was her," says Kolin. "Or even where she lived. She was very clever about eluding us."

Sheriff Ross crosses his arms. "I was going to retire by next year's election, but I might have to postpone that since Philip is gone." He hangs his head. "Oh, Shelly's going to be devastated. He and his wife have twin sons and a daughter. Thought I'd go my entire career without having to tell someone their loved one was killed in the line of duty." He glances inside the entryway closet. "Where's that trapdoor lead?"

"Oh, yeah, this cabin has a weird basement," Kolin says. "It's like a maze down—trapdoor? Where?" He doesn't recall seeing anything in there before except clothes and totes.

The Sheriff points.

Propped open in the center of the closet floor is a trapdoor. Kolin turns on his penlight and descends a wooden ladder, with Dean following close behind.

"Might want to get that shoulder looked at," Dean says.

"I think it's okay," Kolin says. "Slug just grazed me."

"Better safe than sorry though."

The basement room is narrow, stretching along the entire front side of the cabin. It appears to be completely separate from the rest of the basement.

_Although, knowing Marie, she probably has a doorway hidden somewhere,_ Kolin thinks.

Shelves upon shelves of VHS tapes, DVDs, and miniature film reels line one of the long walls, while the short wall at the far end is entirely devoted to Kolin. Newspaper clippings and surveillance photos overlap each other in much the same manner a teenage girl would do with pictures of her favorite heartthrobs. Although some of the photos are recent, most are from his early days at the Minneapolis PD, given the style of uniform.

These were taken well more than five years ago. She must've started long before the divorce.

On the other long wall are several fold-out road maps of the Metro area, with colored aerial Google Map photos situated beside them. Escape routes, body dumps, and abduction locations are highlighted in various colors.

"Well, if that isn't premeditation, I don't know what is," says Sheriff Ross.

Behind the ladder is a desk with a laptop on it, displaying a rolling view of the property from various surveillance cameras.

"Kolin, look at this," Sheriff Ross says. He points to a TV/VCR combo on a long shelf above the desk. A VHS tape stands on end, off to the side, with a silver eyeball sticker affixed to the label area. There is a yellow note stuck to it that reads:

PLAY ME, SHERIFF

AS YOU CAN SEE,

IT WAS NOT MY FAULT.

MARIE HOLTER (SANDBERG)

With a chill clawing down his spine, Kolin slides the tape into the VCR.

Let the mystery be solved.

* * *

Simon sits next to Claudia on the outside steps and digs out the two cell phones. He pushes the POWER button on his own cell. Nothing lights up.

Doesn't surprise me. It's a few years old, and they've certainly made improvements since then. Kolin's, I believe, has been advertised as being virtually indestructible.

He then holds out Kolin's cell, whispers a little prayer, and pushes POWER. After a moment's hesitation, it turns on.

All right. We're in business. I gotta get me one of these.

He hangs his head though when the signal strength registers absolutely no bars. He knew this before, in talking with the Sheriff's dispatcher, but seeing it in reality now gives him a weighted feeling. "Sorry, Claudia, we'll have to wait until we're closer to home so you can call your Mom. The cell coverage out here is really poor."

"Okay."

At least this is what he thinks she says. His ears are still ringing madly, all due to his shooting incident in the river.

God, I hope I don't have to wear a hearing aid or anything after this.

"I'm going to look around inside," says Simon, straining not to speak too loud. "You gonna be okay out here by yourself?"

She conjures up a little smile and nods.

Simon pats her on the shoulder. "You're very brave," he says, this time a bit louder than necessary.

He looks around the back corner bedroom, taking note of the heavy damage the firearm rounds did to the floor, door, and walls. In a room across from it, a film projector runs, the finished reel slapping its end around in a rhythmic _whap-whap-whap_.

He turns off the projector, bathing the room in instant darkness, but not before noticing a flash of something along the wall across from the big screen. He shines his Mag-lite on it.

Two large black-and-white photos hang from the wall: one of a man and woman, possibly in their early twenties, in the usual wedding garb; the other is of the same man but _much_ older, standing on the deck of the cabin. Hung up beneath them are various displays of military medals.

Below all this is a small table with a brass canister on it. Along with the canister is a funeral announcement for a Clint Alvin Holter, with a date of death roughly fifteen years ago.

He flashes the light around the room. The rest of it is bare.

No shrine for her Mom, I guess.

Just down the hall from here is a bathroom, with the usual shower stall, toilet, and sink, all in elbow-knocking room from each other. He opens the medicine cabinet.

_Holy shit_.

All four shelves are crammed full with various prescription bottles, the labels bearing either antipsychotic or depression medications.

* * *

Kolin and the Sheriff climb back up out of the trapdoor.

"Looks like we solved one really cold case," Kolin says to Simon. "But there's possibly even more." He briefly re-caps his conversation with Marie. "Marie finally caught Scott's molestation on tape while Trisha walked home from a sleep-over at a friend's house. Marie then confronted him. Scott freaked and drew out a hunting knife. Marie tried to disarm him, but while they wrestled around with it, they stabbed Trisha."

"And she never told anyone she got the killing on tape?" Simon asks.

Sheriff Ross crosses his arms and says, "She told me once that Scott had something to do with it, but wouldn't elaborate on how, just that she knew. She never said anything about a video. On a hunch though, I did interview Scott, using her accusation as a lead. He became quite hostile, almost to the point where he was gonna ask for a lawyer. She even blurted it out during their divorce hearing. The judge told her that, without any physical proof, what she said could be construed as slander. If she would've showed me that video downstairs, it would've been a slam dunk case and Scott would still be sitting in Stillwater. But I'll be honest, at the time I really didn't think her accusations merited much weight."

"Why is that?" asks Kolin.

"Marie has had a long history of mental illness. Paranoid schizophrenia, manic-depression, you name it. Her doctor told me about her accusations as well. He said he had to report it, because it was a heinous crime and not covered under any confidentiality clause. He also said that her severe mental illness may have caused her to believe it and for me to take it with a grain of salt. Well, oddly enough, it appears she _was_ telling the truth."

"What other cases would there be besides that one and The Video Slayer?" asks Simon.

"There are seven photo albums down there," Sheriff Ross says. "Inside are surveillance photos of children. Lots of them."

"And none are The Video Slayer's," Kolin says. "Besides, Marie also told me that she's killed dozens."

"They look familiar too," Dean continues. "Like ones who have been reported missing in neighboring counties over the years. I'll have to look into it more to be sure."

"There are also hundreds of videos down there," Kolin says. "VHS tapes and DVDs. Even some old film reels, but those are more likely from her father."

Sheriff Ross says, "This whole property may have to be scanned too, in case she used the woods as a body dump. If you don't mind my asking, Kolin, would you be able to help me with all of this, coordinating it with the BCA?"

"I'll have to clear it with my boss," Kolin says, "but I really would. Even if I have to take some time off to do it."

"Count me in too," says Simon.

Sheriff Ross sighs, hanging his head slightly. "Thanks. Even though she's dead, I still want this done right. It'll mean closure for a lot of anxious families."

"Dad?" Claudia asks.

Kolin peers around Simon, over at his daughter standing in the doorway. "Yes, dear?"

"Can we go home? I wanna see Mom."
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Kolin turns onto the Interstate. His cell rings. He wonders if it's Anna again, wanting to hear her daughter's voice—or even her husband's—but recognizes the number as coming from VCU.

"The boss?" asks Simon.

"Yup."

"Kolin," Captain Mack says. "The Sheriff up there in Glade just called me. He said you did a great job, for an overqualified college twerp. Those last words were from him, quote unquote. He also said that you and Simon want to assist him, that there may be a lot more to Marie Holter than just The Video Slayer."

"Yes, sir, it appears that way."

"That's fine with me, as long as you manage your time well and understand we have a backlog of cases to get to. I'm very glad your daughter is safe and sound."

"Thank you, sir," Kolin says. "Can you do a favor for me? There's a janitor who works at a library over in St. Paul. His name is Jerry Woolworth. He was instrumental in finding out where Marie lived and what her connection was to me. He didn't want to be recognized, but he needs a commendation or something. I couldn't have done this without both him and Jim Brandt over in Dope."

"Jim Brandt, huh?"

"Kind of a long story, sir. I'll tell you later."

"Yeah, I'd be interested to hear about that one. I'll take care of those for you."

"Oh, I'm not sure if the Sheriff told you or not, but Simon was involved in a crash and totaled the car. His cell phone went with it."

"Yeah," Captain Mack says, "he told me that too. Not the cell phone part, just the car. No problem. Consider it done. Before I forget, I have another case for you and Simon to work on today when you get back."

Kolin glances at his partner in the back seat, donning a fresh pair of clothes easily fit for someone fifty or so pounds heavier. They found a large stash of clothes in the corner bedroom, beneath the bed, undoubtedly owned by Marie's father. "Sorry, sir," Kolin says. "We're both taking the day off. I think we deserve it, under the circumstances. We'll start on it first thing tomorrow. Today, I'm taking my family and Simon's family out to King Chester's."

He disconnects without waiting for a response.

"Dad?"

He peers over at Claudia. "Yes, dear?"

"Um . . . can we go somewhere else? I'm . . . I think I'm getting to be a little too old for King Chester's."

Nodding, he says, "Of course."

His phone pings.

He has two e-mails.

He prays one isn't from Captain Mack, scolding him for hanging up. They aren't. The first one is from Dexter Grant—AKA the Twin Cities Crime Blogger.

"You get something from Dexter?" asks Simon.

"Good guess. Boy, he's relentless. I heard he's already got a book deal in the works. I'll e-mail him as soon as I get back home."

The other e-mail is from Dope Jim. He opens it. _You're one of the privileged now,_ it reads. Below that is a number: his cell.

Kolin grasps Claudia's hand, rubbing his thumb against her wrist, noting the heavy gouge made by the restraints.

Give it a few days and they'll start to fade.

Then, he lets go, inching his hand away.

Suddenly, he lifts his cell and punches in a number.

"What's wrong?" Claudia asks.

"Nothing. I just remembered a promise I made to someone." When the person on the other end answers, he asks, "Bernie, are you ready for your exclusive?"
AFTERWORD

"VIEWS FROM THE OUTHOUSE"

The mind is still a largely uncharted territory, despite the long road of scholars who have studied it, even as far back as ancient cultures. And the mysteries surrounding mental illness are no exception.

The _ah-ha!_ moment I encountered in this book came about when I had a chance encounter with someone whom everyone would call _strange_ or _crazy._ I then got the idea that what if their delusionary thoughts—or a portion of them—were real? When I hinged this upon my antagonist, Marie Holter/Sandberg, this story finally clicked into place, like tumblers in a lock. Near the end I added a comment from the Sheriff that Marie was, in fact, telling the truth about her husband.

In the summer of 1996, upon graduating from Bemidji State University, I attended a seven-week law enforcement skills training program in Hibbing, Minnesota. One day, I sat in a crime scene processing class, waiting for the instructor to cue up a video, when a thought came to mind: _What if a serial killer videotaped his murders and then sent that video to the cops? But not just any cop._ One _cop in particular_. A chill ran through me. I scribbled out a page worth of notes, undoubtedly with classmates wondering what in the hell I was writing because the instructor wasn't even lecturing yet—the instructor might've wondered this too, but I'll never know.

Those notes sat tucked away for another three or four years—I already had one completed novel by then and I wrote two more since, all within the horror genre—before the serial killer thriller _Beholder's Eye_ became a reality.

I don't outline my stories ahead of time, aside from a few scribblings in a notebook as I mentioned before. This is so I don't forget anything (because I most certainly will, I shit you not). For myself—and I stress _myself—_ I view meticulous outlining as a complete fucking waste of time. If I spent my time writing one, I might as well just write the damn book. And you know the weird thing? My stories _always_ seem to come together in the end. But if outlining is your thing . . . GO FORTH AND CONQUER!

Remember that _ah-ha!_ moment I mentioned earlier? That didn't come about in the original scribblings or even in the first draft. It came about on one of my editing marathons. Outlining, in this case, may have helped—the Strict Outliners out there would certainly argue that it would. Recently, I read an article by Dean Koontz where he said his writing finally took off when he _didn't_ outline, when he let the story grow organically.

But, please, do whatever works for you. If it's not working, try something new, whether it be outlining or discovery writing or a combination of the two or even if you have to wear your lucky red shoes, with only the left shoe tied. Just do the work. Get to it. As author Mur Lafferty tells writers: "It's okay to suck (at your writing)." If you need to write crap, then write crap. Get it out of your system. But sit your butt in the chair and pound out the words.

Between the few years following the completion of the first draft and when I started editing _Beholder's Eye_ , beheading videos were posted by terrorists all over the Internet, with Nick Berg's being at the top of the list—I briefly thought of adding a dedication to Berg and the others who had their unfortunate fates broadcasted to the world as a way of honoring their memory, then decided it might be in poor taste and disregarded it. Even though this book was not influenced of those videos, it was still chilling to witness what impact those terrifying images had on the public—even on myself!

When this book was first written, digital video cameras were new and expensive. Not so nowadays. I'm still waiting to find one in a box of Cracker Jacks. Many times, I thought about changing the VHS video camera used in this book to a digital one—because I'm sure a great many of the younger folks reading this had to jump onto Wikipedia to find out what these machines were—but in the end I resisted the change, for it kept with the reminiscent nature of why the serial killings occurred in the first place.

For over a decade, I worked as a cop in a small county in Northwestern Minnesota. But just because it was small didn't mean it was immune to violent crimes. In February 2009, a cop in a neighboring county was shot several times in the head and abdomen—by the grace of God he hung on for eighteen months before joining Our Heavenly Father. In the aftermath of the shooting, there was much debate about the dangerousness of cops riding alone in these rural communities. I'm sure it all comes down to funding: given the lower tax revenue, it isn't monetarily sound to have cops ride together and be able to handle all of the mundane calls of duty in a timely and efficient manner. Want another small town example? Travel back to November 1957 and head on over to Plainfield, Wisconsin, a town of less than a thousand, and ask about an odd-ball bachelor named Ed Gein.

I wish we could talk more, but dark clouds are rolling in and someone is anxiously knocking on the outhouse door.

Happy reading!

Mark S. R. Peterson

July 2013

Red Lake Falls, Minnesota

Views From The Outhouse Blog

Twin Cities Crime Blogger Blog

Food for thought: wouldn't it be funny if everyone brought the same thing to a potluck?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mark S. R. Peterson is an author of thriller, horror, fantasy, and science fiction. He frequently blogs at Views From The Outhouse and can also be found on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads. His main website is Mark S. R. Peterson.com and can be reached at marksrpeterson@gmail.com. He currently lives in northwestern Minnesota, and is a loving father and husband.

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